My blog posts come in floods and droughts. Sometimes I'll write three huge posts a day, then I'll go a week without thinking of anything to say. Today, I have a lot to say. I guess writing in general has been on my mind.
Thursday, December 23, 2010
Procrastination. And some thoughts.
This is just going to be a blogpost full of random thoughts while I put off college apps.
Saturday, December 18, 2010
Assigned Blog Post #7: Oh dear. WRITING.
I am not particularly good at maintaining focus on the purpose of things. For instance, I realized today after reading Professor Cross' email that a lot of my blog posts don't have anything to do with writing. THIS IS A PROBLEM. fuhhhhhhh. Also, I need to read The Writing Life. I read a little bit of it....but I need to admit, I kind of disagreed with a lot. Maybe this is why I haven't been reading it....
Thursday, December 16, 2010
oops, I like social experimentation?
sorry, my mistake, let me correct myself: I LOVE SOCIAL EXPERIMENTATION.
Is the way i just said it looking a bit obnoxious? good. But really I don't think I've said anything particularly wrong.
Is the way i just said it looking a bit obnoxious? good. But really I don't think I've said anything particularly wrong.
Thursday, December 9, 2010
Saturday, December 4, 2010
songs, beer, and a letter
I’ve been listening to itunes for the last several hours, and suddenly I realized something. Why are all songs practically about love? ALLL of them.
Okay, not all of them. Ke$ha sings about beer.
But still. A lot of songs are about love. Or maybe it’s just the songs I listen to…..o.0 Or maybe it’s just Koreans plus Taylor Swift…..Or maybe….nah. Anyways, I just thought it was weird that all Koreans plus Taylor Swift just sing about love. How do they think of sooooo many ways to say much of the same thing?!!? It goes to show that the way things are said matter big time. Even with the same basic message, I think some songs are just dumb, while others are super kinda extremely clever. And I never seem to get tired of listening to the same messages of hopefulness or heartbreak or whatever if they’re just phrased differently. A new song feels new because it demonstrates the same message as that of another song in a completely different manner. Writing lyrics seems like hard business. Especially when there’s rhyming and syllable counting involved.
Anyways, I felt like writing another random thing that has nothing to do with anything I just said. Again, it’s another semi-stream-of-consciousness deal, so forgive me if it makes your eyes bleed, I really didn’t mean for that to happen, sorry, sorry:
Dear Sailor Moon,
"Who is your hero?" my college application asks.
You come to mind.
This is a really big problem.
Tuesday, November 30, 2010
halp, html does not love me
I am quite convinced that html hates me, actually.
On one hand....I finished another picture with my tablet! YAYYYYYYYYY this picture has been bugging me for ages because i've always been
intending to do it...while not actually doing it. BUT the snow day decided to happen, and I got to put off homework even mooooooore than usual.
ON THE OTHER HANDDD
I can't figure out all this stupid html crap blah blah blah and i don't get how to make it the background scale itself according to the screen size/browser size.
Somebody help me please? ._.
I already tried googling, I don't understand ;_;
....yeah.
Sunday, November 28, 2010
Post Story Depression
I think I have a severe case of Post Story Depression.
Whenever I finish a story, I find myself getting seriously disappointed, bored, and overall dissatisfied with myself.
Whenever I finish a story, I find myself getting seriously disappointed, bored, and overall dissatisfied with myself.
why Mom can't go to Costco alone
There's a reason why I can't let my mom go to Costco alone. I decided to represent this with a short dialogue. This is the kind of dialogue that goes between me and my mom ALL THE TIME, translated into English from Konglish. unless she is angering at me, of course.
Mom: These are the right bars, right?
Me: uh….no.…I said NatureValley Bars. These are ZBars.
Mom: WHATTT
Me: …That’s why I told you to buy the bars when I’m there. Or to call me.
Mom: I did call you. You didn’t pick up.
Me: …you called my cell phone. I can’t hear that. We also have a home phone.
Mom: ……………………..whatever. I’m returning them the next time I go to Costco.
Me: No, I’ll just eat them instead or something.
Mom: No, I’m returning them.
Me: It’s fine, I’ll eat them.
Mom: NUUUUUUUUUUU I NEED TO RETURN THEM.
Me: But I’m hungr—
Mom: NUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUU.
....in addition to the ZBars, my mom brought home bell peppers (as I predicted), two boxes of apples (as I predicted), 5 jumbo lint rollers, bananas, and chocolate for our neighbors. She also bought a pair of headphones I wasn't supposed to see and a box of pomegranates! Good job, Mom, the pomegranates were unexpected. :)
A Scarlet Letter?!?!? No.......i tricked you.
Just a random letter to myself in the ridiculous hours of the morning.
colorless junk
November 27, 2010 12:16AM
Right now, I’ve been looking at the empty personal message box open on my messenger application. It kind of makes me sit and wonder. Especially since my mind is just looking to be distracted right now.
How do I feel?
Wednesday, November 24, 2010
uhm. what? double rainbows? not really.
I'm currently supposed to be working on college apps. But I never seem to be able to think of anything relevant unless it's due in 5 minutes.
....and it's not due in 5 minutes. So.
I haven't written anything for a while. I just feel like I don't really have anything to say. Actually, I do have things to say. I'm just being super lazy. It's hibernation season. All this winter and snow makes me feel extra slow.
But after listening to the same song on repeat 42 (43 now...) times, I've decided I really should write something. Even if it's not for college apps. So I'm just going to write a random story, regardless of how terribly it turns out. It's half stream of consciousness, since I'm just going to write it as random ideas pop into my head. Okay?
Even if you're not okay with it, too bad. I really need to get writing. And I feel sort of snobby right now. Sorry.
....and it's not due in 5 minutes. So.
I haven't written anything for a while. I just feel like I don't really have anything to say. Actually, I do have things to say. I'm just being super lazy. It's hibernation season. All this winter and snow makes me feel extra slow.
But after listening to the same song on repeat 42 (43 now...) times, I've decided I really should write something. Even if it's not for college apps. So I'm just going to write a random story, regardless of how terribly it turns out. It's half stream of consciousness, since I'm just going to write it as random ideas pop into my head. Okay?
Even if you're not okay with it, too bad. I really need to get writing. And I feel sort of snobby right now. Sorry.
Wednesday, November 17, 2010
rust, anyone?
Rust makes me think of being disappointed. It's like a shiny nail that's turned all brown and is falling apart gradually (chemistry students, unite!). It's like you expect a beautiful carmine sort of flower, and once it blooms you find out it's been half chewed by aphids and whatnot and is in the process of decaying. It's like picking out an awesome apple at QFC (people don't seem to pick apples off of trees nowadays...) and turning it over to see an ugly, ugly bruise. Rust is upsetting.
Monday, November 15, 2010
AHA! ~Just a Cool, Stone Blue.
So! I've reached some decisions regarding how I'm going to tackle my brain-drought.
I've been looking around on the internet and getting some ideas...
This whole time, I've been avoiding writing any stories for quite a while, in order to "save" any ideas that occur to me by chance so I could use it for my short story later, and I don't think it's getting me anywhere.
Therefore, I'm going to do exactly the opposite and try to write as many stories as possible :)
Also, I like how some blogs are themed, so I think I'm going to focus each of my stories on a color, or at least associate my story in some way with a color, since there's an infinite number of colors, and I think colors say a lot. And i guess my stories will just be like 300-500 words or something....
This new way of thinking seems to be working. I thought of it last night, and this morning I got my first story idea in a long time (although it was sorta random) by the time I was brushing my teeth! so basically as soon as I woke up :)
So here is my first practice story? And hopefully by the time my short story is actually
Saturday, November 13, 2010
GUYS. We're ALL Prism flavored!
I was surfing the interwebs when all of a sudden I saw an ad. For 5 gum.
I'm still feeling sorta blah creativity-wise, but i've just been getting over it by doing chem homework, and seeing this ad just made me feel a lot better.
But really. Who thought of that name? What do prisms have to do, in any way, with watermelons? or electric ones, for that matter? How do people make those associations?
It kind of makes me think of those ridiculous internet/magazine quizzes. like, Which celebrity are you? What is yo' animal? Who is yo' Twilight love match? (wow, ew).
...If you're mostly A's, you're THIS. If you're mostly B's, you're THAT. If you're mostly C's, you're NEITHER, and consequently very-very, very very very very VERY unacceptably lame. You should change yourself so you're either mostly A's or mostly B's, got it?
But it's not just those quizzes. People in general, I think, have the tendency to try and label themselves under certain categories. It's supposed to refrect yo' chaaaaractaaar and sho' yu de weeeei. Even at camps, I've heard random questions like, If you were a FRUIT (just imagine you were!) what FRUIT would you be?....or maybe you are actually a VE-GE-TA-BLE?!?!? If your name was a CITY, what CITY would you want? Rrrrrromantic, like Paris? Byoootiful, like Bellevue? Sketchy, like Las Vegas (i see what you did there, buddy)?
It's not exactly a bad thing to want to put a label on things, I guess. But I also think it obscures things. It makes people focus on a single aspect of something, rather than looking at the whole. If we looked at things holistically, there'd be no way for us to label ourselves like that. There would be no words. But, I think, there would be stories.
From what I've read of the workshop stories, so many of the characters are so filled out, so real, so 3D. And it's not from direct description. It's from their experiences that I witness in the stories written about them, and sooner or later, while I'm reading the story, I feel like I'm almost reading a huge character sketch every time, because I get to know the character so well! But if you asked me to describe the character, I wouldn't be able to find the right words at all. The feelings that the stories evoke......they're somethin' else. No words to describe the thoughts and sympathy they grow, Prism flavored or not.
Prism flavored.....an electric watermelon.
I'm still feeling sorta blah creativity-wise, but i've just been getting over it by doing chem homework, and seeing this ad just made me feel a lot better.
But really. Who thought of that name? What do prisms have to do, in any way, with watermelons? or electric ones, for that matter? How do people make those associations?
It kind of makes me think of those ridiculous internet/magazine quizzes. like, Which celebrity are you? What is yo' animal? Who is yo' Twilight love match? (wow, ew).
...If you're mostly A's, you're THIS. If you're mostly B's, you're THAT. If you're mostly C's, you're NEITHER, and consequently very-very, very very very very VERY unacceptably lame. You should change yourself so you're either mostly A's or mostly B's, got it?
But it's not just those quizzes. People in general, I think, have the tendency to try and label themselves under certain categories. It's supposed to refrect yo' chaaaaractaaar and sho' yu de weeeei. Even at camps, I've heard random questions like, If you were a FRUIT (just imagine you were!) what FRUIT would you be?....or maybe you are actually a VE-GE-TA-BLE?!?!? If your name was a CITY, what CITY would you want? Rrrrrromantic, like Paris? Byoootiful, like Bellevue? Sketchy, like Las Vegas (i see what you did there, buddy)?
It's not exactly a bad thing to want to put a label on things, I guess. But I also think it obscures things. It makes people focus on a single aspect of something, rather than looking at the whole. If we looked at things holistically, there'd be no way for us to label ourselves like that. There would be no words. But, I think, there would be stories.
From what I've read of the workshop stories, so many of the characters are so filled out, so real, so 3D. And it's not from direct description. It's from their experiences that I witness in the stories written about them, and sooner or later, while I'm reading the story, I feel like I'm almost reading a huge character sketch every time, because I get to know the character so well! But if you asked me to describe the character, I wouldn't be able to find the right words at all. The feelings that the stories evoke......they're somethin' else. No words to describe the thoughts and sympathy they grow, Prism flavored or not.
Running Dry
I'm starting to freak out, which is stupid, considering I have about two months (A LITTLE LESS, ACTUALLY, OMGGGG) to write my story. Stupid, stupid. And really I shouldn't be worrying about my nonexistent, far off story because I should actually be worrying about my UW app, which I haven't started, despite the fact that it's due the day after tomorrow. Anyways, I always seem to be worrying about dumb things, in a dumb order of importance.
Sometimes, I even manage to worry a little about my inability to set my priorities straight! Brilliant, eh? I know. I'm a brilliant kid, and you're jealous. -.- just kidding.
I'm in a really blah sort of state right now. My whole life is blah, college apps are blah, and my short story has accomplished the amazing feat of being blah without even existing.
But seriously, I have NO IDEA what I'm doing with my story, and I am quite, quite quite quite concernnned that I'm going to be this blank by the time January rrrrrrolls around and my story is DUE. ICK. These stories I've been reading for workshop are BRILLIANT so yeah, I feel especially clueless now. It's amazing how unique people's ideas are, how their stories are fiction, yet so them. How does that happen? How do bits and pieces of ourselves sneak in, slip in and pop up in random parts of our stories?
So anyways....I'm going to start writing random ideas, bits and pieces, NOW. TODAY. TODAY IS THE DAY......for what? I have no idea about that, either. But the brainstorm needs to start brewing ASAP. Right now I admit it's a bit of a noob-tropical storm out in the middle of whatever the lamest ocean is (which do YOU think the lamest ocean is? ha).
So. Don't read this next part, if anyone was reading this in the first place.This is my storm-in-the-making. And hopefully, if my creativity-drought ends, by January I can make it something that can reckon with the likes of Poseidon (I wish).
Some things I want in my story.....mabes:
So far, I've only been able to make decisions on what I don't want to write. I don't want a love story, or a story placed in the country, or one with many characters or dialogue. I'm looking for something simple and maybe slightly strange in my messed-up, upside-down mind. I'm thinking I still need a longgggggggg while before I can sort things out.
....Therefore, WEBASSIGN GO T_T
Sometimes, I even manage to worry a little about my inability to set my priorities straight! Brilliant, eh? I know. I'm a brilliant kid, and you're jealous. -.- just kidding.
I'm in a really blah sort of state right now. My whole life is blah, college apps are blah, and my short story has accomplished the amazing feat of being blah without even existing.
But seriously, I have NO IDEA what I'm doing with my story, and I am quite, quite quite quite concernnned that I'm going to be this blank by the time January rrrrrrolls around and my story is DUE. ICK. These stories I've been reading for workshop are BRILLIANT so yeah, I feel especially clueless now. It's amazing how unique people's ideas are, how their stories are fiction, yet so them. How does that happen? How do bits and pieces of ourselves sneak in, slip in and pop up in random parts of our stories?
So anyways....I'm going to start writing random ideas, bits and pieces, NOW. TODAY. TODAY IS THE DAY......for what? I have no idea about that, either. But the brainstorm needs to start brewing ASAP. Right now I admit it's a bit of a noob-tropical storm out in the middle of whatever the lamest ocean is (which do YOU think the lamest ocean is? ha).
So. Don't read this next part, if anyone was reading this in the first place.This is my storm-in-the-making. And hopefully, if my creativity-drought ends, by January I can make it something that can reckon with the likes of Poseidon (I wish).
Some things I want in my story.....mabes:
- weird quirks. People can be so strange.
- Fortune cookies
- Food in general?
- Those faces I always seem to imagine when I see car headlights...
- colors?
- superheroes?
- letters?
- I can't decide if I want a happy ending or a sad one. both of them seem difficult.
- Setting: our everyday world? a high rise? the city? a park? a single room? a door? a not-door (window)? a desk?
- a dentist
- A single, yellow canine in an otherwise white and flawless smile
- markers
So far, I've only been able to make decisions on what I don't want to write. I don't want a love story, or a story placed in the country, or one with many characters or dialogue. I'm looking for something simple and maybe slightly strange in my messed-up, upside-down mind. I'm thinking I still need a longgggggggg while before I can sort things out.
....Therefore, WEBASSIGN GO T_T
Monday, November 8, 2010
My friend Jesus.
So...just now, as my mom walked by, I took out my planner and it opened up to a page with two random Buddhas and a Jesus drawn on it. Needless to say, my mom was quite surprised and slightly (very very very very) offended. Luckily, my experience as an Asian child helped me to save myself by letting her know instantly that I certainly didn't put them there.
Anyways, that close-call reminded me of something. My mother's reaction, I must admit, was similar to how I first freaked out when my friend drew Jesus on my planner during school earlier today. This sort of thing goes to show that the freak-out-factor is genetic. I think it's weird how whenever I go to Church (sorry if some people don't like religion-y things), I get told that God should be like my best friend, my dad, my teacher, ....everything. Even though I'm sure that is a very encompassing and good idea, to be honest I can't quite imagine myself saying, "'Sup God," or "Oh hey there, it's the Holy Spirit," or "Holaaaaaaaa.....Jesus." I feel like to revere something, I somehow need to get sort of distant to it: Jesus is amazing y'all, but DON'T YOU DARE TOUCH A HAIR OF HIS HOLY HEAD. IT'S NOT ALLOWED.
I remember this one time I came back from Church when I was about seven, and I was kinda excited 'cuz that was the first time I heard God was supposed to....be my best friend?
So I remember sort of staying up that night at until 12 and just sitting in the dark (this is way back in the old days when 12 was LATE for me)....trying to talk to God. Up till that point, when I prayed, I'd just recited standard stuff. It was the same everyday. So this whole conversational thing was new, and weird. And after struggling for about half an hour, I decided I was being ridiculous and went to sleep.
So what is it that makes people avoid stuff like that? Why is it bad to "talk to God," or Jesus, or the Holy Spirit, or whatever floats your boat, for that matter? For me, I feel like there's a taboo. I'm supposed to be super well-behaved talking to someone like, God, have my best attitude, and my brightest smile, and he's supposed to know that everythings going wonderfully. The world is great.
But then, that doesn't quite fit either, does it? It feels so unnatural, so dishonest. Which it is, I guess. So I kinda just felt like writing a thing about Jesus, in a less....not in a less reverent way, but in a less awkward way. In a more honest, blunt way. I'm not quite sure if it's still what I'm looking for, but hopefully, I've gotten somewhere since my seven-year-old problems.
I know a guy named Jesus. He's an old friend. I've known him just about since I was born. He's super smart and he tells good stories, while being the perfect listener. He gets what you're talking about instantly, and he doesn't judge you. So basically, he's an overall awesome and nice guy. But there's a problem. It's not his problem. It's my problem.
He listens even when he knows I'm lying. I know I shouldn't take advantage of that. But thinking about people like Jesus makes me feel like crap. If I were honest I'd probably complain all the time, or freak about something completely irrelevant and unimportant, or talk about a bunch of ordinary, bland topics that he hears about just about a million times a day.
And another thing. I haven't seen him in a long time. Talking to him was awkward, so I guess I quit being his friend over a period of several years. I used to go over every week, I swear, but I'm a busy kid. One week I was busy being sick after staying up three nights in a row, and the next week my mom was sick, and then my dog was sick, I had a birthday party to go to, I had a huge project, I procrastinated on homework, I felt tired, I didn't really know anyone at his house anymore, I couldn't wake up early enough, I forgot about it.
I'm a heathen, I know.....So do you think he'll still be friends with me?
I hope so.
He's a smart guy who can understand. I want his good stories to make me smart, too. And the way he listens makes me wish I talked using a little less words, with a little more honesty.
Anyways, that close-call reminded me of something. My mother's reaction, I must admit, was similar to how I first freaked out when my friend drew Jesus on my planner during school earlier today. This sort of thing goes to show that the freak-out-factor is genetic. I think it's weird how whenever I go to Church (sorry if some people don't like religion-y things), I get told that God should be like my best friend, my dad, my teacher, ....everything. Even though I'm sure that is a very encompassing and good idea, to be honest I can't quite imagine myself saying, "'Sup God," or "Oh hey there, it's the Holy Spirit," or "Holaaaaaaaa.....Jesus." I feel like to revere something, I somehow need to get sort of distant to it: Jesus is amazing y'all, but DON'T YOU DARE TOUCH A HAIR OF HIS HOLY HEAD. IT'S NOT ALLOWED.
I remember this one time I came back from Church when I was about seven, and I was kinda excited 'cuz that was the first time I heard God was supposed to....be my best friend?
So I remember sort of staying up that night at until 12 and just sitting in the dark (this is way back in the old days when 12 was LATE for me)....trying to talk to God. Up till that point, when I prayed, I'd just recited standard stuff. It was the same everyday. So this whole conversational thing was new, and weird. And after struggling for about half an hour, I decided I was being ridiculous and went to sleep.
So what is it that makes people avoid stuff like that? Why is it bad to "talk to God," or Jesus, or the Holy Spirit, or whatever floats your boat, for that matter? For me, I feel like there's a taboo. I'm supposed to be super well-behaved talking to someone like, God, have my best attitude, and my brightest smile, and he's supposed to know that everythings going wonderfully. The world is great.
But then, that doesn't quite fit either, does it? It feels so unnatural, so dishonest. Which it is, I guess. So I kinda just felt like writing a thing about Jesus, in a less....not in a less reverent way, but in a less awkward way. In a more honest, blunt way. I'm not quite sure if it's still what I'm looking for, but hopefully, I've gotten somewhere since my seven-year-old problems.
I know a guy named Jesus. He's an old friend. I've known him just about since I was born. He's super smart and he tells good stories, while being the perfect listener. He gets what you're talking about instantly, and he doesn't judge you. So basically, he's an overall awesome and nice guy. But there's a problem. It's not his problem. It's my problem.
He listens even when he knows I'm lying. I know I shouldn't take advantage of that. But thinking about people like Jesus makes me feel like crap. If I were honest I'd probably complain all the time, or freak about something completely irrelevant and unimportant, or talk about a bunch of ordinary, bland topics that he hears about just about a million times a day.
And another thing. I haven't seen him in a long time. Talking to him was awkward, so I guess I quit being his friend over a period of several years. I used to go over every week, I swear, but I'm a busy kid. One week I was busy being sick after staying up three nights in a row, and the next week my mom was sick, and then my dog was sick, I had a birthday party to go to, I had a huge project, I procrastinated on homework, I felt tired, I didn't really know anyone at his house anymore, I couldn't wake up early enough, I forgot about it.
I'm a heathen, I know.....So do you think he'll still be friends with me?
I hope so.
He's a smart guy who can understand. I want his good stories to make me smart, too. And the way he listens makes me wish I talked using a little less words, with a little more honesty.
Saturday, November 6, 2010
Bloodtypes EVERYWHERE
My mom and I have weird conversations during dinner. Yesterday, she was telling me about guessing one's personality based on bloodtypes. Although I was skeptical, suddenly I was seeing bloodtypes all over the place, guessing bloodtypes, and trying to figure out what I was (because sadly, even doctor's daughters don't know their bloodtypes sometimes -_-. My dad can be so fail sometimes).
I'm still not quite sure if I believe what my mom said. I don't totally disbelieve it, either--I've inherited superstition and a dislike of skepticism >.<
Anyways, I think I'm an A. therefore, A's FTW.
yeah. that was completely objective.
Okay. I admit guessing personality by bloodtype is ridiculous, but I don't want to eliminate the possibility. What if it's tied to some other ridiculous gene that communicates a person's sensitivity, thought processes, extro/introversion, etc?
Huh. I don't like that idea either, now that I think of it. I don't like the idea that personality depends on genetics. I'd really just like to believe that people have complete free will, that there's no factors that determine who someone is, that all of it is just innate, and that we're all in full control. I just want to think that there's a little bit of magic involved in how a person works, that there's something special that distinguishes a human from a dead, empty carcass--not just that one's alive and the other's not, but that there's a soul in one, and not in the other. I like hoping that afterwards, there's something that all people can look forward to and hope for, that life doesn't just end here, that the magic that makes a living person's eyes glow with meaning doesn't just crumble away once the sense of alertness leaves ones eyes, and the eyes grow dull and thoughtless.
How did a ramble on bloodtypes end up like this? I'm always so unfocused and shooting off on weird tangents.
....it must mean I'm bloodtype A.
jk. :)
I'm still not quite sure if I believe what my mom said. I don't totally disbelieve it, either--I've inherited superstition and a dislike of skepticism >.<
Anyways, I think I'm an A. therefore, A's FTW.
yeah. that was completely objective.
Okay. I admit guessing personality by bloodtype is ridiculous, but I don't want to eliminate the possibility. What if it's tied to some other ridiculous gene that communicates a person's sensitivity, thought processes, extro/introversion, etc?
Huh. I don't like that idea either, now that I think of it. I don't like the idea that personality depends on genetics. I'd really just like to believe that people have complete free will, that there's no factors that determine who someone is, that all of it is just innate, and that we're all in full control. I just want to think that there's a little bit of magic involved in how a person works, that there's something special that distinguishes a human from a dead, empty carcass--not just that one's alive and the other's not, but that there's a soul in one, and not in the other. I like hoping that afterwards, there's something that all people can look forward to and hope for, that life doesn't just end here, that the magic that makes a living person's eyes glow with meaning doesn't just crumble away once the sense of alertness leaves ones eyes, and the eyes grow dull and thoughtless.
How did a ramble on bloodtypes end up like this? I'm always so unfocused and shooting off on weird tangents.
....it must mean I'm bloodtype A.
jk. :)
Tuesday, November 2, 2010
Simply sincere
I've been thinking about writing in general recently, especially since the beginning of the short story workshops has been freaking me out. I have absolutely NOOOOO idea what I'm going to write about, how I'm going to go about writing it, and when I'm going to start writing it. I'm just at a stasis right now. I can't think of anything to write about when I sit myself down in front of the computer and try to write. I can't just sit in front of a screen and come up with ideas. I just get random thoughts throughout the day, and I try to tuck them in a little pocket in my mind for use later, or I repeat it to myself over and over in my head until I can find paper and a pencil to write with. Usually, I forget what it was that I was so enthusiastic about getting down, and then I have to wait until the next time an idea decides to pop into my mind.
This all led me to think that writing really should be a sincere, natural sort of thing. It can't be forced, there's no formula involved in making a good piece of writing. I always feel like when I write I need to have something meaningful in the words I use, or the subjects I talk about, and then I get super self-conscious and fail miserably. But I had a conversation with one of my friends today, and as I read her messages in the chat box it really hit me what a sincere voice she has. I enjoy talking to her because the way she expresses herself is so candid, honest, and open. It invites conversation and reminds me of weird things--like fresh apples waiting to be eaten, or a blank sheet of paper waiting to be written on. She says things that wait to be discussed, thought about, and enjoyed.
Things can be enjoyed even if they're conversational. They're just nice in their simplicity. A complex topic can be presented in a simple voice, and everything becomes all the more striking, more forward, more memorable. I want to write like that eventually. Hopefully, with time I'll become completely comfortable about writing in my voice, with no bells and whistles attached.
This all led me to think that writing really should be a sincere, natural sort of thing. It can't be forced, there's no formula involved in making a good piece of writing. I always feel like when I write I need to have something meaningful in the words I use, or the subjects I talk about, and then I get super self-conscious and fail miserably. But I had a conversation with one of my friends today, and as I read her messages in the chat box it really hit me what a sincere voice she has. I enjoy talking to her because the way she expresses herself is so candid, honest, and open. It invites conversation and reminds me of weird things--like fresh apples waiting to be eaten, or a blank sheet of paper waiting to be written on. She says things that wait to be discussed, thought about, and enjoyed.
Things can be enjoyed even if they're conversational. They're just nice in their simplicity. A complex topic can be presented in a simple voice, and everything becomes all the more striking, more forward, more memorable. I want to write like that eventually. Hopefully, with time I'll become completely comfortable about writing in my voice, with no bells and whistles attached.
Sunday, October 31, 2010
Sorry.
Just a random thing I felt like writing....I've been really preoccupied by the concept of growing up lately....It seems like the more I think about it, the faster time goes. So I try not to think about it, but that's like trying not to think about something when someone commands you not to. It just doesn't work.
Sorry. She was sorry. Sorry that when she looked in the mirror, she saw someone older than she expected. In her mind's eye, she saw her five-year-old self, puzzled and hurt by the neglect she was showing to the setting world of her childhood.
But it was inevitable. The days--they just slipped, she couldn't help it, they just got away from her, leaked out of her tightly cupped hands. She wanted to find the source, use one hand to stopper time, wherever it began, and use her other hand to reach out to the girl of her past, the girl being left behind, the girl being locked away--alone in a world of magic, vibrant colors, and childish secrets meant to be whispered into attentive ears, not brokenly mumbled into empty air. But she was too far gone, the time was too late.
There once was a time she was sure who she was, when some magic, and dreams, and her faith was enough. There once was a day she hoped she'd become a hero like in the cartoons she'd so devotedly watched, when she thought she'd rise up and unfold her wings. But she grew and changed, the world changed, time was moving, moving along, pushing and nudging her towards new dreams, more realistic and cold hopes, more logical and precise wishes. It nudged so far into cold and rationality that that the dreams, hopes, and wishes soon became "goals"--stony pellets and shells that encased her soft, glittering, childish heart. Goals closed her eyes with exhaustion when years ago she'd spent her nights intently staring at the ceiling sprinkled with glow-in-the-dark stars from Toys-R-Us. Back then, the ceiling had been the whole galaxy and beyond.
Sorry. She was so sorry. Sorry to her reflection, sorry for hating that awkward girl in the mirror. Sorry to the past, sorry for locking it away. And sorry to herself, because she was stuck, in between. Between the child who had to be forgotten in order to survive the new obstacles time brought, and the adult she feared becoming--the adult who embodied dullness, faithlessness, and utter cynicism.
Sorry. She was sorry. Sorry that when she looked in the mirror, she saw someone older than she expected. In her mind's eye, she saw her five-year-old self, puzzled and hurt by the neglect she was showing to the setting world of her childhood.
But it was inevitable. The days--they just slipped, she couldn't help it, they just got away from her, leaked out of her tightly cupped hands. She wanted to find the source, use one hand to stopper time, wherever it began, and use her other hand to reach out to the girl of her past, the girl being left behind, the girl being locked away--alone in a world of magic, vibrant colors, and childish secrets meant to be whispered into attentive ears, not brokenly mumbled into empty air. But she was too far gone, the time was too late.
There once was a time she was sure who she was, when some magic, and dreams, and her faith was enough. There once was a day she hoped she'd become a hero like in the cartoons she'd so devotedly watched, when she thought she'd rise up and unfold her wings. But she grew and changed, the world changed, time was moving, moving along, pushing and nudging her towards new dreams, more realistic and cold hopes, more logical and precise wishes. It nudged so far into cold and rationality that that the dreams, hopes, and wishes soon became "goals"--stony pellets and shells that encased her soft, glittering, childish heart. Goals closed her eyes with exhaustion when years ago she'd spent her nights intently staring at the ceiling sprinkled with glow-in-the-dark stars from Toys-R-Us. Back then, the ceiling had been the whole galaxy and beyond.
Sorry. She was so sorry. Sorry to her reflection, sorry for hating that awkward girl in the mirror. Sorry to the past, sorry for locking it away. And sorry to herself, because she was stuck, in between. Between the child who had to be forgotten in order to survive the new obstacles time brought, and the adult she feared becoming--the adult who embodied dullness, faithlessness, and utter cynicism.
Friday, October 29, 2010
You don't know me.
Something just occurred to me, and I wanted to get it down.
Do most people feel as if their parents know them? While I've been doing college application essays, and other people have been doing the same, I feel like that issue has been coming up a lot....
At first, I wrote an essay that I thought would turn out well...I sat down and said, I"M WRITING MY COLLEGE ESSAY....STARTING NOW. My mom read it and hated it. She was like, it doesn't sound like you.
I must admit, I ended up agreeing with her, but at first I got super pissed about it and it ended up being a two-week long argument. She said my essay was too negative, dark, and unappealing. I responded by saying, "Well clearly you don't know me then. But I know myself, and I know I'm in this essay, and if you don't like me this way, that's too bad." But she won the argument, and I edited the essay over, and over, and over again to make it "positive" until I realized I'd edited myself out completely, and I was trying to write in the voice of a stranger. The idea I'd had, the idea I'd been enthusiastic about for months, the idea I'd anticipated writing eagerly, became ugly, and later I couldn't stand it.
So I scrapped it, eventually. And I was super upset, so I was writing about how I was upset about that....and then that became my new college essay.....@_@ super circular and ironic. And after that, I wrote two more essays, and as of yet the three essays all feel like me, I think. I hope.
My mom likes these better. But still, there are times when she points at a line and says, THIS ISN"T YOU, and I say HOW WOULD YOU KNOW. This whole back and forth process has been stressing me out. It made me wonder if I was abnormal or unreasonable, if I was the only one having these huge arguments.
But then I heard a lot of people talking about the same things, and it made me think that the college essay really is a sort of pressure cooker. People get pushed by everyone else on all sides--do this, do that, take that out, I don't like this, you should be that. So it's critical to truthful, good writing to be honest to yourself. Follow intuition. If it feels wrong for you, it's because it is wrong for you. It doesn't matter if you don't know exactly, explicitly, precisely who you are. Somehow, if there's something that clicks, even if you don't know what, you should follow through with it. An essay about yourself should be something that you can smile about, not something that you hate. It should be something easy to write, not something that you worry about or something that makes you feel insecure.
People don't, people can't, know all about you. People can't know all about me. The writer needs to take control, because they're the only ones who can easily, naturally, beautifully lay themselves out on the paper.
Do most people feel as if their parents know them? While I've been doing college application essays, and other people have been doing the same, I feel like that issue has been coming up a lot....
At first, I wrote an essay that I thought would turn out well...I sat down and said, I"M WRITING MY COLLEGE ESSAY....STARTING NOW. My mom read it and hated it. She was like, it doesn't sound like you.
I must admit, I ended up agreeing with her, but at first I got super pissed about it and it ended up being a two-week long argument. She said my essay was too negative, dark, and unappealing. I responded by saying, "Well clearly you don't know me then. But I know myself, and I know I'm in this essay, and if you don't like me this way, that's too bad." But she won the argument, and I edited the essay over, and over, and over again to make it "positive" until I realized I'd edited myself out completely, and I was trying to write in the voice of a stranger. The idea I'd had, the idea I'd been enthusiastic about for months, the idea I'd anticipated writing eagerly, became ugly, and later I couldn't stand it.
So I scrapped it, eventually. And I was super upset, so I was writing about how I was upset about that....and then that became my new college essay.....@_@ super circular and ironic. And after that, I wrote two more essays, and as of yet the three essays all feel like me, I think. I hope.
My mom likes these better. But still, there are times when she points at a line and says, THIS ISN"T YOU, and I say HOW WOULD YOU KNOW. This whole back and forth process has been stressing me out. It made me wonder if I was abnormal or unreasonable, if I was the only one having these huge arguments.
But then I heard a lot of people talking about the same things, and it made me think that the college essay really is a sort of pressure cooker. People get pushed by everyone else on all sides--do this, do that, take that out, I don't like this, you should be that. So it's critical to truthful, good writing to be honest to yourself. Follow intuition. If it feels wrong for you, it's because it is wrong for you. It doesn't matter if you don't know exactly, explicitly, precisely who you are. Somehow, if there's something that clicks, even if you don't know what, you should follow through with it. An essay about yourself should be something that you can smile about, not something that you hate. It should be something easy to write, not something that you worry about or something that makes you feel insecure.
People don't, people can't, know all about you. People can't know all about me. The writer needs to take control, because they're the only ones who can easily, naturally, beautifully lay themselves out on the paper.
Thursday, October 28, 2010
Heffalumps and Woozles.
I was having a conversation with David Cannon about Halloween, which turned into a conversation about Pooh Bear.
And then i got a link to a video that forever changed my perspective on pooh bear. And Heffalumps and Woozles, for that matter.
...I don't remember Winnie the Pooh being this scary. I wonder if I never noticed because at the time I was five. I watched a Sailor Moon episode and realized all of the bad guys are complete creepers, too.
How do children not notice such creepy things? Maybe my mind has just been corrupted.
I also worry and wonder who made this video.
Nevertheless, I think I can forgive the Pooh Bear team for this mind-freak, Pooh Bear's still awesome because I still have a million Pooh Bears attached to my back pack.
And then i got a link to a video that forever changed my perspective on pooh bear. And Heffalumps and Woozles, for that matter.
...I don't remember Winnie the Pooh being this scary. I wonder if I never noticed because at the time I was five. I watched a Sailor Moon episode and realized all of the bad guys are complete creepers, too.
How do children not notice such creepy things? Maybe my mind has just been corrupted.
I also worry and wonder who made this video.
Nevertheless, I think I can forgive the Pooh Bear team for this mind-freak, Pooh Bear's still awesome because I still have a million Pooh Bears attached to my back pack.
Wednesday, October 27, 2010
Video Games...in My Sleep? AHJDSJLASASJDKL
I don't really like blogging about how life's been going and all that crap, I feel like blogs should be more for like...thoughts? or particular topics that's the central focus of the whollllllle blog, but what do I know? Also, i'm a hypocrite. And if you tell me you're not, you're a hypocrite too....(ummm that sounds circular...but I hope that made sense).
Anyways, I realized how sadly college has already been eating my life from a dream I had last night!
Warning: I have weird dreams.
I've been really interested in the concept of lucid dreaming lately. This link basically lays out the gist of what lucid dreaming is, and how people practice it! I really want to be able to dream lucidly....it kinda makes me feel like...I'd be playing a video game, except I'd be IN THE VIDEOGAME.....IN MY SLEEP. People can do whatever they imagine in lucid dreams, the sky's the limit!...literally. If you want to fly, you can fly, instantly. Because you're aware that you're dreaming, and you can control everything you want, however much you want.
...Maybe it's unrealistic that I'm hoping to use lucid dreaming to do the impossible.
Too bad.
So...I've been practicing strategies to lucid dream. Basically, this consists of me spending random moments of the day feeling stupid while I look at a wall and try to change it's color with the force of my mind. It's like using a totem in Inception, just less cool. If the wall changes color, OMG YOU'RE ACTUALLY DREAMING AND NOW YOU KNOW. If the wall doesn't change color, you should stop. You're awake, and looking at the wall with so much focus makes you look like a dork.
~So if this becomes a habit, it increases the chance that you'll look at a wall while you're asleep/dreaming and that you'll try to change it's color while you're asleep. Which is what I did last night!!! and the wall REALLY changed color from yellow to green and purple and I freaked out in my sleep, because I realized I was dreaminggggg.
Apparently people unpracticed in lucid dreaming are super stupid when they're dreaming. In my dream, my mom, who has been yelling at me about college apps for what feels like forever (why so azn, mom?), was STILL YELLING at me about them. SO then, my brilliant dream-self reasoned that since my mom was still freaking about college apps, and not being nice or letting me do whatever (aka play video games, watch TV, fly, walk on the walls, etc), I was actually AWAKE. Yes, I convinced myself that somehow, even though the wall just changed color, my mother's anger proved that I'd been imagining the color change, and that I was actually awake. So I literally forgot that I was dreaming. T_T
My dreams SUCK.
They're either completely lame and boring, or I'm always being chased by zombies and trying to kill them with a black baseball bat I got in second grade that I keep in my closet. And then the zombies come attack me and overwhelm me, and I die, because my mom's too busy cooking the rice or calculating taxes or rearranging the furniture to help me.
...why does this happen?!?! I must say I really, really hope dreams are NOT a reflection of a person's life at all....
Anyways, I realized how sadly college has already been eating my life from a dream I had last night!
Warning: I have weird dreams.
I've been really interested in the concept of lucid dreaming lately. This link basically lays out the gist of what lucid dreaming is, and how people practice it! I really want to be able to dream lucidly....it kinda makes me feel like...I'd be playing a video game, except I'd be IN THE VIDEOGAME.....IN MY SLEEP. People can do whatever they imagine in lucid dreams, the sky's the limit!...literally. If you want to fly, you can fly, instantly. Because you're aware that you're dreaming, and you can control everything you want, however much you want.
...Maybe it's unrealistic that I'm hoping to use lucid dreaming to do the impossible.
Too bad.
So...I've been practicing strategies to lucid dream. Basically, this consists of me spending random moments of the day feeling stupid while I look at a wall and try to change it's color with the force of my mind. It's like using a totem in Inception, just less cool. If the wall changes color, OMG YOU'RE ACTUALLY DREAMING AND NOW YOU KNOW. If the wall doesn't change color, you should stop. You're awake, and looking at the wall with so much focus makes you look like a dork.
~So if this becomes a habit, it increases the chance that you'll look at a wall while you're asleep/dreaming and that you'll try to change it's color while you're asleep. Which is what I did last night!!! and the wall REALLY changed color from yellow to green and purple and I freaked out in my sleep, because I realized I was dreaminggggg.
Apparently people unpracticed in lucid dreaming are super stupid when they're dreaming. In my dream, my mom, who has been yelling at me about college apps for what feels like forever (why so azn, mom?), was STILL YELLING at me about them. SO then, my brilliant dream-self reasoned that since my mom was still freaking about college apps, and not being nice or letting me do whatever (aka play video games, watch TV, fly, walk on the walls, etc), I was actually AWAKE. Yes, I convinced myself that somehow, even though the wall just changed color, my mother's anger proved that I'd been imagining the color change, and that I was actually awake. So I literally forgot that I was dreaming. T_T
My dreams SUCK.
They're either completely lame and boring, or I'm always being chased by zombies and trying to kill them with a black baseball bat I got in second grade that I keep in my closet. And then the zombies come attack me and overwhelm me, and I die, because my mom's too busy cooking the rice or calculating taxes or rearranging the furniture to help me.
...why does this happen?!?! I must say I really, really hope dreams are NOT a reflection of a person's life at all....
Assigned Blog Post #6: You should keep on blogging :)
I've really gotten to love this blogging thing....at first, it was hard to start writing, but the internet really does make it easier for people to express themselves, although, they actually SHOULD be expressing themselves all the more in real life :)
Sometimes, I write, and I just know I'm not getting anywhere. I forget what I'm even writing about, and the post bugs me because I just know there wasn't any heart or real care in it. It becomes internet junk, it's just there to take up space and waste words. Other times, I get frustrated because I write so much slower than I think, and I might post two, three, FOUR posts a day....so I'm really jealous of the super consistent writers I've seen while blog surfing. And so many people seem to have only good blog posts. Each post is so carefully measured out and pristine, they capture something special, each post becomes precious, so I really enjoy reading every single one of their posts.
In particular, I've really liked this blog, it's practically my favorite. I think I especially liked it because not only is the writing unique, but I also think I see a new side of the author I didn't expect!! My favorite part of the blogs is when I read a blog and I'm surprised to see who the author is, and they become all the more awesome and interesting to get to know :).
The blog I linked has a lot of interesting details, a lot of the writing assignments, as well as pictures and opinions posted for fun. Super cool.
So yeah! I'm glad that these blogs were assigned, and I really (unrealistically) wish everyone kept blogging after this class was over. It's amazing to see all these snippets of people you thought you knew--to find that they're actually so much more.
Sometimes, I write, and I just know I'm not getting anywhere. I forget what I'm even writing about, and the post bugs me because I just know there wasn't any heart or real care in it. It becomes internet junk, it's just there to take up space and waste words. Other times, I get frustrated because I write so much slower than I think, and I might post two, three, FOUR posts a day....so I'm really jealous of the super consistent writers I've seen while blog surfing. And so many people seem to have only good blog posts. Each post is so carefully measured out and pristine, they capture something special, each post becomes precious, so I really enjoy reading every single one of their posts.
In particular, I've really liked this blog, it's practically my favorite. I think I especially liked it because not only is the writing unique, but I also think I see a new side of the author I didn't expect!! My favorite part of the blogs is when I read a blog and I'm surprised to see who the author is, and they become all the more awesome and interesting to get to know :).
The blog I linked has a lot of interesting details, a lot of the writing assignments, as well as pictures and opinions posted for fun. Super cool.
So yeah! I'm glad that these blogs were assigned, and I really (unrealistically) wish everyone kept blogging after this class was over. It's amazing to see all these snippets of people you thought you knew--to find that they're actually so much more.
Tuesday, October 26, 2010
I wish I played videogames.....
....Just saying.
I REALLY WANT TO PLAY TWILIGHT PRINCESS WTF
I noticed over the last few days I'm an incredible dork. I was listening....to the sound track of Twilight Princess because I want that to be the first video game I play!!! And I liked the music a lot.....I think it's because it just gets me in a positive mood, and makes me feel like I'm in the video game, almost.....dorky, I know. But a lot of the time, I love video games, or cartoons, or books, and stories because it gets me out of my life and into a whole new world. Because that's the point of a lot of fantasy, right? It's a good reliever of stress, and gives people a time to just imagine, and be in an ideal world, where they can have ridiculous powers, or be able to believe in magic, or do things they wouldn't be able to achieve in real life...and when I draw, or write random things, it's kind of the same thing...because I make up a whole 'nother place in my head, right?
So I think videogame graphics, or cartoons, etc can be really counted as a true form of art.... For a long time, I kind of looked down on art as an idea. It didn't really compare, I thought, with being something like a doctor. While doctors saved people's lives, artists just made pretty pictures. But that's so incorrect...art is what happens when people express their thoughts, and good artists can bring people into their own worlds, and make people believe in what they believe in, love what they love, and see things how they see things. Doctors save lives in the physical sense, but art saves lives in the mental sense, I think.
But there are times when playing games, or watching a cartoon, or looking at fantastical landscapes and whatnot kind of make me sad. It makes me slightly crestfallen when I look at those sorts of things, and then realize that while in the imaginary world people are off taming dragons, and fighting monsters, or whatever, I need to turn back to my desk and finish my AP Stats, Quiz 5.1.
Oh homework. You thrill me -.-
Or I listen to....like, the Sailor Moon theme song, and I get a flood of memories of wanting to be Sailor Moon when I was little. And then I check the time, and it's 3 in the morning. It makes me wonder if people have the time in their lives to live in two separate ways, two separate places--one life in the mind, far, far away, another life right where gravity holds them down, right side up, stuck to solid ground that seems to get...too real sometimes.
And being a child is so much more awesome, when it comes to these things. Children have the wonderful ability, I think, to completely immerse themselves in different worlds. It's so easy to believe things :3. But maybe length of childhood, or the ability for one to control one's childhood doesn't have to be the same for everyone. With practice, consideration, deliberation, and care, it's a skill that can be cultivated over time. Growing up doesn't mean you need to forget how to believe in ridiculous things, even if it's just for a little while.
I REALLY WANT TO PLAY TWILIGHT PRINCESS WTF
I noticed over the last few days I'm an incredible dork. I was listening....to the sound track of Twilight Princess because I want that to be the first video game I play!!! And I liked the music a lot.....I think it's because it just gets me in a positive mood, and makes me feel like I'm in the video game, almost.....dorky, I know. But a lot of the time, I love video games, or cartoons, or books, and stories because it gets me out of my life and into a whole new world. Because that's the point of a lot of fantasy, right? It's a good reliever of stress, and gives people a time to just imagine, and be in an ideal world, where they can have ridiculous powers, or be able to believe in magic, or do things they wouldn't be able to achieve in real life...and when I draw, or write random things, it's kind of the same thing...because I make up a whole 'nother place in my head, right?
So I think videogame graphics, or cartoons, etc can be really counted as a true form of art.... For a long time, I kind of looked down on art as an idea. It didn't really compare, I thought, with being something like a doctor. While doctors saved people's lives, artists just made pretty pictures. But that's so incorrect...art is what happens when people express their thoughts, and good artists can bring people into their own worlds, and make people believe in what they believe in, love what they love, and see things how they see things. Doctors save lives in the physical sense, but art saves lives in the mental sense, I think.
But there are times when playing games, or watching a cartoon, or looking at fantastical landscapes and whatnot kind of make me sad. It makes me slightly crestfallen when I look at those sorts of things, and then realize that while in the imaginary world people are off taming dragons, and fighting monsters, or whatever, I need to turn back to my desk and finish my AP Stats, Quiz 5.1.
Oh homework. You thrill me -.-
Or I listen to....like, the Sailor Moon theme song, and I get a flood of memories of wanting to be Sailor Moon when I was little. And then I check the time, and it's 3 in the morning. It makes me wonder if people have the time in their lives to live in two separate ways, two separate places--one life in the mind, far, far away, another life right where gravity holds them down, right side up, stuck to solid ground that seems to get...too real sometimes.
And being a child is so much more awesome, when it comes to these things. Children have the wonderful ability, I think, to completely immerse themselves in different worlds. It's so easy to believe things :3. But maybe length of childhood, or the ability for one to control one's childhood doesn't have to be the same for everyone. With practice, consideration, deliberation, and care, it's a skill that can be cultivated over time. Growing up doesn't mean you need to forget how to believe in ridiculous things, even if it's just for a little while.
Flashing Back
Flashbacks are weird things. Weird, but cool. And yes, the combination is possible. They sorta-kinda get me thinking about the flashbacks that occur for people in real life....whereas flashbacks in writing are usually for stylistic and informative reasons, how and why do people get flashbacks in their daily lives? Sometimes, I can semi-tell if someone is flashbacking....or at least zoned out and thinking super hard about something. I probs do the same thing. My eyes go all out of focus and when I was little my mom would interrupt to tell me to shut my mouth while I'm thinking. I want to know what triggers such long chains of thought, and why I get grumpy when I have to bring my mind back to focus. Once I start thinking it gets annoying to switch off of that chain of thought, and my mind feels all weird and disoriented...maybe that's just me.....T_T
ANYWAYS those sorts of chains of thought seem to be really linked to flashbacks, I think, or a sense of nostalgia, of retracing something from before. Like when I reread a book (Harry Potter! Ender's Game!) or something....which is possibly why people get more out of rereading books...I think.
I'm going to quit writing. I was thinking about this for a while, and now i've COMPLETELY lost track of what I'm talking about. this is a problem.
Swimmer Flashback:
He reeled back from the sight of the mansion’s emptiness and staggered back down across the driveway and lay himself down on the great expanse of rough, cold concrete. While he lay still, his eyes flickered in every direction as hidden memories flooded his mind.
He stood away, backed from the mansion, as the movers hauled out his tagged furniture. Hard lines gripped his face as he looked around and saw the red price tags everywhere, on everything, everything he no longer owned. He had gotten a phone call that morning from the bank, and when they told him they had taken over his property, he’d slopped his claret of Russian icewine onto his crisp designer shirt. He sighed. Well, there was no time for it now. It was already afternoon, and the movers refused to let him back into the house. He busied himself with drinking as much of his best wine as he could without inebriating himself to the point of passing out. He began to feel woozy, and he barely registered that Lucinda’s shoulder was what was holding him up, and that somewhere in the background one of his daughters was sniffling loudly.
After all the furniture was moved out, the bank representative came over and held his hand out for the keys to the mansion.
Neddy just stared back at him with bleary eyes.
“I can’t give you the keys,” he slurred, “where’s my family supposed to go? You’ve taken my business and my furniture; I can’t give you the house.”
“Sorry, but your business isn’t worth a dime. You’ve got to pay it all back somehow.” The representative gently loosened the keys from his hand, bowed politely to his wife, and walked away.
Neddy turned back to his wife and children. His youngest was still sniveling and wiping her nose.
“Where do we go now?” he asked them. He was lost, reduced to a child, no longer the laughing, confident man in the crisp dress shirt, holding his champagne steadily, firmly.
That night was spent at the Westerhazys’. The next night, at the Halloran’s. Then, the Grahams’, the Bunkers’, the Crosscups’, the Sachs’, Biswangers’, Gilmartins’, and the Clydes—each in rotation, throughout the neighborhood. Eventually, Lucinda had approached him, when they were staying at the Levys’.
“Neddy, dear, I don’t think we can keep this up. We need to find somewhere to stay for a while. You need to work.”
They didn’t, he’d insisted. Their neighbors loved them. They’d be able to stay as long as they needed, and once he got his business back, he’d repay them. Besides, he couldn’t work, he refused to work. Once he started such work, he’d no longer been the right set, and then, they wouldn’t be able to get any help from the neighbors at all.
The officers had found his wife the next morning, mangled body on the side of the highway, twisted from the force of falling such a long way from the bridge above. He was deemed unsuitable for taking care of his daughters, and they’d been moved to a foster home. Somewhere. Far away. He didn’t know exactly where.
Suddenly, Neddy opened his eyes. He’d been dozing on the cement, but it was getting late, and his body was losing valuable heat. Getting up from his cramped position, he shuffled stiffly off. Perhaps the Welchers would house him tonight.
Sunday, October 24, 2010
Where are the heroes?
I just felt like writing today....I was supposed to be doing that flashback assignment, but I always have problems answering the prompt -.-
I guess I have trouble focusing stuff to a predetermined purpose. Some writing just happens instinctively, without direction.
Not sure if I liked how it ended up, but I stuck with it....and now I can't believe I'm posting this.
Ugh.
"In the name of love and justice, we shall punish you!"
Slam. Bam. Alakazam.
With a flood of colors, the magical girl-wonder waved her unicorn scepter and turned the ugly, disproportionate monster to shadow-dust. The screen blacked out quickly, and small white credits began inching up, up, up, in time with the soft music.
She kept watching, eyes staring emptily at the white parade, ear buds gently buzzing against the walls of her ears. She always watched until the credits were done. Even though girl-wonder was no longer in action, beating up the bad guys, and zapping them to another dimension, she still liked the final image that played throughout the closing song, the image of the heroine standing still (for once), peacefully alone on a hill and looking up at a sparkling sky with a bright, fuzzy full moon.
As the music faded out and the screen darkened, she let out a small, singular "Hah!" and popped out the ear buds. Once again, the show had proven to be ridiculous, childish and cheesy, and yet she couldn't stop herself from watching another episode--or another whole season of it, for that matter. She couldn't wean herself off her addiction.
With her ear buds removed, she was once again out, out in reality. She could hear the muffled sounds of her mother, yelling at her dad over the phone, through the walls of her room. Arguing, again. Maybe she needed to watch the next episode while things cooled down. Too late. She'd shut down the computer.
What made her watch these things? These juvenile, unsophisticated, melodramatic TV shows? While others watched TV dramas, or reality TV, what was it that made her turn back to her favorite TV program from when she was five? Had she really not grown during the decade since then? It was getting difficult to watch--the ridiculous plot was painful to listen to, and she kept it an embarrassing secret.
She rubbed her eyes. Perhaps it was the memories. She remembered, years back, sitting in the living room, eyes glued to the TV screen in utter absorption, cheering on girl-wonder through a mouthful of potato chips and sweet Capri Sun. Well then. She had grown up, because watching it now wasn't the same. Now, she watched the exaggerated scenes and listened to unrealistic voice-overs not because she really believed, but because it helped her remember. There was a drawing, entrapping sense of nostalgia. By letting herself be temporarily convinced by the impossibilities, even if just for a second, she became a child again.
But then....it was never complete. She really, truly wasn't five anymore, in any sense. Somewhere in the back of her mind, it was clear that her life would never be as magical or adventurous as what she saw. The Real World ran on a ticking, ticking clock, and dreamers weren't welcome. With her nostalgia came an addictive jealousy. She wished she lived in a world where heroes and villains existed, where it was easy to tell good apart from evil, where goodness always won. She, too, wanted to have magic, and wanted to be surrounded by people with "good dreams,"--by people who had stars implanted in their hearts. She wanted there to be a sovereign force, complete trust in everyone, a pegasus, and a ridiculously perfect moon kingdom ruled by love and justice!
So amateur. So unrealistic. Once the show was over, and the credits rolled, and the music faded out, she was left with just a computer screen, knowing that her heroes only existed in her head, and that really, she had trouble trusting even the people closest to her.
When she was five, she had thought adults were stupid. They were narrow-minded because they lacked faith in magic while somehow, she was sure, magic existed, even if they couldn't see it. She felt it made her open-minded to keep believing, to keep looking. She searched for the secret magic, the hiding mythical creatures, and the dream-life for years. But slowly, the hopes dried up as she grew, as she came closer to being an "adult." Adult. What an ugly, faithless, skeptic word. Being a child, with endless, unstoppable faith and imagination was so much more wonderful and beautiful. As a child, she didn't need to wonder, "Where are the heroes? Where have they gone?" Instead, at five-years-old, she'd known, she'd just known, that the heroes were hiding from forbidden, human eyes, maybe concealed just around the corner, or standing behind her, out of sight. Or, she had thought, perhaps there was a hero inside her, too, waiting to come out once it was time for her to save the world and the galaxy beyond.
Sighing, she leaned back in her chair and closed her eyes in an uncomfortable attempt to fall asleep. The heroes and villains of her five-year-old reality had packed their bags and left long ago. But maybe, just maybe, somewhere they still fought, lived, and hid...somewhere, deep in her dreams.
I guess I have trouble focusing stuff to a predetermined purpose. Some writing just happens instinctively, without direction.
Not sure if I liked how it ended up, but I stuck with it....and now I can't believe I'm posting this.
Ugh.
"In the name of love and justice, we shall punish you!"
Slam. Bam. Alakazam.
With a flood of colors, the magical girl-wonder waved her unicorn scepter and turned the ugly, disproportionate monster to shadow-dust. The screen blacked out quickly, and small white credits began inching up, up, up, in time with the soft music.
She kept watching, eyes staring emptily at the white parade, ear buds gently buzzing against the walls of her ears. She always watched until the credits were done. Even though girl-wonder was no longer in action, beating up the bad guys, and zapping them to another dimension, she still liked the final image that played throughout the closing song, the image of the heroine standing still (for once), peacefully alone on a hill and looking up at a sparkling sky with a bright, fuzzy full moon.
As the music faded out and the screen darkened, she let out a small, singular "Hah!" and popped out the ear buds. Once again, the show had proven to be ridiculous, childish and cheesy, and yet she couldn't stop herself from watching another episode--or another whole season of it, for that matter. She couldn't wean herself off her addiction.
With her ear buds removed, she was once again out, out in reality. She could hear the muffled sounds of her mother, yelling at her dad over the phone, through the walls of her room. Arguing, again. Maybe she needed to watch the next episode while things cooled down. Too late. She'd shut down the computer.
What made her watch these things? These juvenile, unsophisticated, melodramatic TV shows? While others watched TV dramas, or reality TV, what was it that made her turn back to her favorite TV program from when she was five? Had she really not grown during the decade since then? It was getting difficult to watch--the ridiculous plot was painful to listen to, and she kept it an embarrassing secret.
She rubbed her eyes. Perhaps it was the memories. She remembered, years back, sitting in the living room, eyes glued to the TV screen in utter absorption, cheering on girl-wonder through a mouthful of potato chips and sweet Capri Sun. Well then. She had grown up, because watching it now wasn't the same. Now, she watched the exaggerated scenes and listened to unrealistic voice-overs not because she really believed, but because it helped her remember. There was a drawing, entrapping sense of nostalgia. By letting herself be temporarily convinced by the impossibilities, even if just for a second, she became a child again.
But then....it was never complete. She really, truly wasn't five anymore, in any sense. Somewhere in the back of her mind, it was clear that her life would never be as magical or adventurous as what she saw. The Real World ran on a ticking, ticking clock, and dreamers weren't welcome. With her nostalgia came an addictive jealousy. She wished she lived in a world where heroes and villains existed, where it was easy to tell good apart from evil, where goodness always won. She, too, wanted to have magic, and wanted to be surrounded by people with "good dreams,"--by people who had stars implanted in their hearts. She wanted there to be a sovereign force, complete trust in everyone, a pegasus, and a ridiculously perfect moon kingdom ruled by love and justice!
So amateur. So unrealistic. Once the show was over, and the credits rolled, and the music faded out, she was left with just a computer screen, knowing that her heroes only existed in her head, and that really, she had trouble trusting even the people closest to her.
When she was five, she had thought adults were stupid. They were narrow-minded because they lacked faith in magic while somehow, she was sure, magic existed, even if they couldn't see it. She felt it made her open-minded to keep believing, to keep looking. She searched for the secret magic, the hiding mythical creatures, and the dream-life for years. But slowly, the hopes dried up as she grew, as she came closer to being an "adult." Adult. What an ugly, faithless, skeptic word. Being a child, with endless, unstoppable faith and imagination was so much more wonderful and beautiful. As a child, she didn't need to wonder, "Where are the heroes? Where have they gone?" Instead, at five-years-old, she'd known, she'd just known, that the heroes were hiding from forbidden, human eyes, maybe concealed just around the corner, or standing behind her, out of sight. Or, she had thought, perhaps there was a hero inside her, too, waiting to come out once it was time for her to save the world and the galaxy beyond.
Sighing, she leaned back in her chair and closed her eyes in an uncomfortable attempt to fall asleep. The heroes and villains of her five-year-old reality had packed their bags and left long ago. But maybe, just maybe, somewhere they still fought, lived, and hid...somewhere, deep in her dreams.
Thursday, October 21, 2010
Walls
Walls
She likes it the moment she sees it at the Home Depot store. Because it glows vibrant—the perfect mixture of perfect yellow and perfect blue. Or so her nine-year-old self believes. It’s been painted onto a small card, labeled: Pastel Sage. She doesn’t know at the time that sage is a plant. She only knows that a sage is a wise person, and on the car ride home, she wonders why wisdom is green. At home, her mother holds up the card against the wall, giving a nod of assent, and the next week, the frigid white walls of her room thaw to a piquant freshness, albeit one with lingering paint fumes.
The next year, age ten, she sits in a chair in the middle of her room and stares, frustrated, at Pastel Sage, wishing it were Cream, or Soft Orange, some other hue that would conform more to the color of her furnishings. She doesn’t like that the walls are so like her. At school, she too sticks out, unusual and mismatching—different hopes, different ideas, different jokes, different understanding. The only student who wouldn’t be fed into the local middle school when graduation day came. She gets up and hides the walls with posters and drawings, and as she does, she clumsily drives thumbtacks into both the walls and her heart, because she finds playing pretend difficult at school. Other girls want to become princesses, singers, movie stars. Secretly she likes solving word problems for math and aspires to become a scientist.
Some years pass. Over this period of time, she realizes that Pastel Sage is actually four different colors:
Black, with soft green flecks. She sees this color for the first time the night before sixth grade. It’s past midnight and she still can’t sleep. She notices that the light from the lamps outside pokes through holes in the blinds, projecting small, green stars onto the ceiling. She’ll see this color every night from now on. It gives her hope for the future and the courage to dream on.
Cool green. She sees this color the next morning. It’s 6 AM, and her half-asleep stupor dissolves as the bluish tint makes everything almost unreal. Later, she also sees it on rainy days or on cold afternoons, and she likes it for the sense of creativity it gives her. Her room becomes a personal, magical cave, and when she’s down, she turns to it to get a hold of herself again.
Fluorescent, artificial green. She learns to avoid this color. She sees it after late nights awake, typing desperately at the computer. The walls look bright but shallow, washed out, like herself at her most difficult, stressful times, and the “eggshell” finish makes the whole place dull and unreflective. She drags herself through the day afterwards.
Warm green. Once she’s picked herself back up, this is her zesty color of strength, of grabbing the Now. She’s usually the most efficient, most concentrated when it’s like that. Like her walls, she becomes bold, enthusiastic. She sees more and more of it as she grows up, and she learns that it’ll always return, even after the most fluorescent of days.
Twelfth grade. She walks into her room one day and begins filling in the holes the thumbtacks left in her walls. She paints over the scratches, dark fingerprints, and dents. Finally, she begins sticking on a few of her favorite drawings and pictures from her life with poster gum. But one wall she leaves wide and blank. More time needs to pass before she can fill it. Because she sees that the walls she has been living with for years are a canvas—a background on which she expresses herself, her overarching thoughts and emotions. As she stands back to look at her work, warm green floods the room.
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