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.
Showing posts with label nameless. Show all posts
Showing posts with label nameless. Show all posts
Thursday, December 16, 2010
Thursday, December 9, 2010
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.
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.
Saturday, September 25, 2010
No-Name.
This next post is what I wrote for the character-yearning assignment. To be honest, I didn't really want to post this. Something about it isn't right...but I can't figure out which part to fix. I've been tinkering here and there, and the wrong-ness just gets worse and worse.
So why did I post it?
I think I feel a certain responsibility to post everything I write for this course onto my writing blog.....Cause not everyone's checking this blog right?!? 0.0....anyways, it's like, I owe it to the blog to not let the flow of posts stutter and stop...so here it is.
No-Name
Janie’s mother wants her to scrap her college essay. She says it’s too dark, uncreative, and untruthful. It is not the Janie she knows, she is sure.
But who is Janie? She is certainly not the same person as Jane Doe, who goes to school and has friends (she hopes), and laughs, and jokes, and fools around. Jane Doe lives outside and doesn’t know how to frown. She has the depth of a paper plate and the contentedness of an ignorant child.
Janie spends her time at home. Sometimes she is laughing with her mother and smiling with a wordless happiness, other times not. Other times she is fighting and saying cruel things. But Janie’s mother sees no reason for Janie to be truly unhappy. She has had unbelievable luck in life. This consists of plenty to eat, a warm home, and a robust moral education. And Jane Doe, of whom Janie’s mother is also aware, has also had unbelievable luck, this time consisting of a busy social life, abundant resources, and robust academics. Between Janie and Jane Doe, Janie’s mother asserts, nothing is amiss.
But there is also She. Janie’s mother doesn’t know who this is.
She. As in, “She who knows not what her name is,” or “She who answers to Janie and Jane Doe, but feels strange in both names, when She takes the time to think about it.” So let us refer to She as No-Name, for the time being.
No-Name is always confused and never knows what to do. She has much too many dreams, and each dream is a much-too-big dream. No-Name sits up late at night, criss-cross-apple-sauced and straight-backed in her bed, thinking. Listening, to the ticking of her clock and her own breathing. She listens steadily as Time circles her, very close, but never near enough for her to catch in her clumsy hands, so the hours always slip-slide-slip and tick-tock-tick away. No-Name dreams even when she’s awake, and she can be ridiculously foolish. She cries and laughs at the same time. She is all feeling and intuition, so there are no order to her thoughts, yet she continues to think and think, until she slips into a deep, dreamless sleep—which annoys her because she likes dreaming, regardless of whether it’s nightmare or fairytale. Perhaps No-Name doesn’t dream in her sleep because she dreams too much when she’s awake. Because she is already a shadow, insubstantial and invisible, when she is awake.
So when No-Name is asleep, she is gone. Non-existent. She returns in the morning when her body wakes up. But she doesn’t stay for long. If people saw No-Name, they would laugh, which is why she never leaves her room. Her captivity is an inevitable phenomenon, she thinks. She is a blundering, illogical, emotional mess. While her mind is quick, her heart lacks defenses. Her heart is an egg with no shell. There’s just that thin, clear membrane surrounding the core—the yolk—and when you poke it, if you dare poke it, it will surely pop, and the yellow will flood out, into the whites, utterly vulnerable and lost.
When No-Name finds herself looking at the Name blanks on her assignments and school forms, she doesn’t know how to sign them. She doesn’t know how to sign the cards and letters that she writes. Janie? Jane Doe? She feels like not signing, or signing as someone else, though she doesn’t yet know who that “someone else” is.
No-Name is rewriting her college essay. She goes through the trouble of scrapping the first because Janie’s mother is right. Her essay is too dark, uncreative, untruthful. But No-Name does not want to write as the Janie her mother knows. She wants to write an essay about herself, truly. An essay that will place her securely on the paper. But how does one truthfully write about oneself? How can one form words when one is a chaotic splatter of ink on a Rorschach test? How does one grab one’s dreams and lay them bare on so fragile a medium?—A medium that can be water-logged, ripped, shredded, burned.
In the end, the name at the top of the paper will be Jane Doe, and the person written into the essay will be Janie. As she writes, No-Name suspects she will fail to leave the confines of her room yet again. Yet again, she sits safe and unhappy in the quiet.
Saturday, September 4, 2010
First Post :D
....not really sure what I'm doing....but here goes--
I didn't really know what to name my blog. :) That's one reason why it's titled the way it is, but it's not the only or most significant reason. I think having my blog called "Nameless" is fitting in some aspects. I think it's the sort of quality I want to achieve with my writing. In writing, every individual word that the writer selects is full of meaning, right? A single word can be intensely powerful, but limited at the same time because words are designed to convey specific concepts, objects, perceptions, etc--which is why word choice is so important in the first place. Depending on the words used, the whole flavor of a sentence changes.
I think it's difficult to learn how to use something so concentrated in a completely professional, subtle way. A lot of the time, I have problems saying exactly what I want to say. The feelings are up in my head, but how do I know precisely what words to use? What's the secret recipe--the perfect combination of words--for something that clearly exists in my head, but is nameless at the same time?
Good writers are remarkable because they bring something that's nameless to light. They figure out the secret recipe, and all of a sudden the light comes flooding into the reader's mind. The reader understands the entirety of the thought the author was seeking to communicate.
Right now, I stumble over my words a lot. I'm often at a loss for words....:) especially when I'm talking and I can't edit what I'm writing, like I'm doing now. I'm still not sure if the first part of my blog makes any sense, because ironically, the "logic" and thought I'm trying to convey is still sort of nameless itself. I don't know how to phrase it, and the ideas are sort of going all over the place.
....
Despite the difficulty, I do like writing. Or at least that's what I think. I'm not much of a creative writer--I've never done much of that. But I enjoy journaling, and the idea of keeping a blog for class made me pretty excited, since I've been continuously putting off writing in my journal after school started. I feel kind of dorky and cliche for saying this, but words fascinate me! Thousands, millions, bajillions of words are spoken a day, so people often take them for granted. Really, though, when I think about words carefully and slowly, like when I'm writing, I start seeing how remarkable they actually are. It's magical how some words seem to convey their meanings just by the way they sound, or how they feel when they're spoken. These aspects, I guess, are what make writing a legitimate art.
One frustrating thing about writing though--it's almost impossible for anyone to write as fast as they think. When I get an idea I end up writing furiously, but I'm always left with the feeling I left out about half of what I originally planned on writing. And in the meantime, my mind is still making up more things that I'm probably going to forget in the next few seconds.
I can't really tell while I'm writing in the "new post" box, but I'm thinking this is a long post. :D
I didn't really know what to name my blog. :) That's one reason why it's titled the way it is, but it's not the only or most significant reason. I think having my blog called "Nameless" is fitting in some aspects. I think it's the sort of quality I want to achieve with my writing. In writing, every individual word that the writer selects is full of meaning, right? A single word can be intensely powerful, but limited at the same time because words are designed to convey specific concepts, objects, perceptions, etc--which is why word choice is so important in the first place. Depending on the words used, the whole flavor of a sentence changes.
I think it's difficult to learn how to use something so concentrated in a completely professional, subtle way. A lot of the time, I have problems saying exactly what I want to say. The feelings are up in my head, but how do I know precisely what words to use? What's the secret recipe--the perfect combination of words--for something that clearly exists in my head, but is nameless at the same time?
Good writers are remarkable because they bring something that's nameless to light. They figure out the secret recipe, and all of a sudden the light comes flooding into the reader's mind. The reader understands the entirety of the thought the author was seeking to communicate.
Right now, I stumble over my words a lot. I'm often at a loss for words....:) especially when I'm talking and I can't edit what I'm writing, like I'm doing now. I'm still not sure if the first part of my blog makes any sense, because ironically, the "logic" and thought I'm trying to convey is still sort of nameless itself. I don't know how to phrase it, and the ideas are sort of going all over the place.
....
Despite the difficulty, I do like writing. Or at least that's what I think. I'm not much of a creative writer--I've never done much of that. But I enjoy journaling, and the idea of keeping a blog for class made me pretty excited, since I've been continuously putting off writing in my journal after school started. I feel kind of dorky and cliche for saying this, but words fascinate me! Thousands, millions, bajillions of words are spoken a day, so people often take them for granted. Really, though, when I think about words carefully and slowly, like when I'm writing, I start seeing how remarkable they actually are. It's magical how some words seem to convey their meanings just by the way they sound, or how they feel when they're spoken. These aspects, I guess, are what make writing a legitimate art.
One frustrating thing about writing though--it's almost impossible for anyone to write as fast as they think. When I get an idea I end up writing furiously, but I'm always left with the feeling I left out about half of what I originally planned on writing. And in the meantime, my mind is still making up more things that I'm probably going to forget in the next few seconds.
I can't really tell while I'm writing in the "new post" box, but I'm thinking this is a long post. :D
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