pale is so underrated.

competition is overrated.

2006-08-16T21:22:00.000-07:00

I think something is going to happen, something good. I hate this part, though, because now all my insecurities come out from my family, my mistakes, my life in general, and I have to spill them out and hope that nothing is changed and that nothing will make me be viewed differently.

I'm a pretty confident person, I would say. I honestly have gotten to the point where-- for the most part-- I like myself. I think I'm a likeable human being, I think I'm influential, interesting, peculiar to the point of intrigue and not to questionability, and a worthwhile effort. My major insecurities lie in things that I can't control. I hate not having control of a situation, and when it comes to the way my family is or the way my mother does things, I don't have any sort of power. This is going nowhere.

The following is something I wrote a few months ago, but I re-read it sometimes because otherwise, I lose sight of some things.

I love to write. I love to allow my fingers to fly freely over a keyboard and let loose all the thoughts within my disorganized and disgruntled mind, full of overflowing file cabinets and trash bins full of crumpled whims. I would be sure to find happiness in all things if I could write and write and never stop. I would work every day, twelve hours a day, if I could simply release all frustration and joy into a work of art that may, or may not, depending on the day, inspire me or someone else.

And if I could write songs, I would sing them nonstop, and I would sit on a stage and play a guitar -- that is, if I knew how -- and invite you and everyone to watch me pluck through every line. My writing wouldn’t just be descriptions, though; my writing would be just that: a semicolon. Because a semicolon says that there’s so much more that I would like to tell you, but we just don’t have the time nor the energy to review it. And it’s funny that people want to use fewer words to express what they feel today than before, because with a world as ever-changing as ours, there are many more feelings to express.

If I could pass one thing to my children someday, it would be the ability to sit down and read their thoughts, and relay them to a piece of paper. In writing you don’t have to worry about political correctness, or hurting someone’s feelings. Writing is about telling what’s true, and if the truth hurts, then the wounded needs to humble himself. Showing you what’s real is easy when I write. I can show you this world, full of pros and cons, too many to list. I can also show you my life, and the difficulties I’ve faced, the blessings I’ve encountered, and, in the most precious words of young Amy March, “the bearing of the deepest innermost secrets of our souls.”

Freedom is different for everyone; writing is mine. There I go with those semicolons again. What I meant to say is sometimes freedom is painting for one man, and perhaps for another it’s dancing, and that woman on the sidewalk? She loves to sing. She sings lullabies to the invisible children she never got, but always wanted. Not reaching a dream of motherhood shouldn’t keep her from singing her life away. I love to sing, but it doesn’t make me free. There are too many parameters, too many rules. The more I learn about singing, the more I appreciate the untrained voice of the woman on the sidewalk.

My favorite thing in the world-- one of them at least -- is the click of the keys on a typewriter. The classics were written so brilliantly because the authors were able to create them on typewriters, and nothing is more reassuring to a writer than that optimistic tap-click-swoosh of finishing a sentence on a typewriter. And I have to be completely honest here -- keyboards don’t take away the frustration of a long day like that of a typewriter. I wish ours still worked.
Wishing is not as useful as it was when I was younger. Dreaming gives me more hope. Many would argue that the two are synonyms: wishing and dreaming, but I wouldn’t. Dreaming is usually something that’s fairly obtainable, even if it’s unlikely. A retrospective eye would say neither is useful, making and achieving goals are the only way to get somewhere. Thank goodness I’m a writer, and retrospect is not required. But as worthless as the two are: wishing and dreaming, I don’t blame myself or others for partaking in them. I wish I was thinner, prettier, better in school, free-spirited.

I’m so smart. Humility, I have it, but I really am extremely intelligent. What I don’t understand, though, is why my motivation is so miniscule compared to my potential. I’m a loss at chemistry, and I can deal with that. My problem, though, is that I truly believe I was blessed with Ivy League intelligence, but my grades are run-of-the-mill state university. Let me add to that list of wishful thinking: I wish I was a perfectionist. I wish I could paint, I wish I could dance.
I’m glad I can write. Writing is one of those few talents that are actually able to outlive the person. To be of Homer’s prestige, or Thoreau’s influence, or Jefferson’s reputation, any person would die.

Speaking of Thoreau, transcendentalism is worth devoting a lifetime to. Achieving perfection is not completely out of question, after all. Reaching perfection is making harmony: you try all different kinds of notes until you find the right one that blends flawlessly with the melody, not to be overbearing, but to where there’s a balanced union of diversity. That is perfection.
If I reach perfection someday, I’ll be sure to let you know how I did it. I kind of doubt I will, but wouldn’t that be wonderful? Of course, to achieve perfection, I would need to stop wishing for more and allow myself to be happy with what I have.

I wish I could open a school, a minute, humble private school for middle age girls. Middle school is when things go wrong for girls. The focus would be perfecting oneself, and being happy with what you have. I suppose I have a lot of work to do before I teach that. It would be named something thoughtful, and it would be in a big, old house in New England, with a Latin teacher and a History professor, and my girls would learn English and Spanish, Arithmetic and Algebra, even Geometry. We would, ideally, go on trips to places that have changed lives; Auschwitz, the Sacred Grove of Palmyra, the Grand Canyon. I would also teach my girls service, and the importance of doing things for others. They would create art, even if they think that they’re no good. And for those writers like me? They can sit out on the grounds of the school and write on typewriters, creating masterpieces of their own with every click-tap-swoosh.

I’m so thankful I can write. Even if someone someday reads this and thinks it’s the emptiest, meatless three minutes he ever spent, I’m so thankful I can write because I’m not afraid to leave out the semicolons and tell the whole story. The world could use fewer semicolons.

i'm finished.

2006-08-15T12:16:00.000-07:00

Please, remember me
Happily
By the rosebush laughing
With bruises on my chin
The time when
We counted every black car passing
Your house beneath the hill
And up until
Someone caught us in the kitchen
With maps, a mountain range,
A piggy bank
A vision too removed to mention
But

Please, remember me
Fondly
I heard from someone you're still pretty
And then
They went on to say
That the pearly gates
Had some eloquent graffiti
Like 'We'll meet again'
And 'Fuck the man'
And 'Tell my mother not to worry'
And angels with their gray
Handshakes
Were always done in such a hurry
And

Please, remember me
At Halloween
Making fools of all the neighbors
Our faces painted white
By midnight
We'd forgotten one another
And when the morning came
I was ashamed
Only now it seems so silly
That season left the world
And then returned
And now you're lit up by the city
So

Please, remember me
Mistakenly
In the window of the tallest tower call
Then pass us by
But much too high
To see the empty road at happy hour
Leave and resonate
Just like the gates
Around the holy kingdom
With words like 'Lost and Found' and
'Don't Look Down'
And
'Someone Save Temptation'
And

Please, remember me
As in the dream
We had as rug-burned babies
Among the fallen trees
And fast asleep
Aside the lions and the ladies
That called you what you like
And even might
Give a gift for your behavior
A fleeting chance to see
A trapeze
Swing as high as any savior
But

Please, remember me
My misery
And how it lost me all I wanted
Those dogs that love the rain
And chasing trains
The colored birds above there running
In circles round the well
And where it spells
On the wall behind St. Peter's
So bright with cinder gray
And spray paint
'Who the hell can see forever?'
And

Please, remember me
Seldomly
In the car behind the carnival
My hand between your knees
You turn from me
And said 'The trapeze act was wonderful
But never meant to last'
The clown that passed
Saw me just come up with anger
When it filled with circus dogs
The parking lot
Had an element of danger
So

Please, remember me
Finally
And all my uphill clawing
My dear
But if i make
The pearly gates
Do my best to make a drawing
Of God and Lucifer
A boy and girl
An angel kissin on a sinner
A monkey and a man
A marching band
All around the frightened trapeze swingers

Honestly, I don't want to be a senior anymore. ARGS is my comfort zone, and everything outside is unnecessary imagery, much like a Tolkien novel. I could put up with everyone if I could just stay one more year after this. Damn YTI for making me so sentimental and such.

this looked fun

2006-08-13T14:21:00.000-07:00

IF YOUR LIFE WAS A MOVIE, WHAT WOULD THE SOUNDTRACK BE?
So, here's how it works:
1. Open iTunes.
2. Put it on shuffle.
3. Press play.
4. For every question type the song that's playing.
5. When you go to a new question press the next button.
Ready? GO!

Opening Credits: I'm Not Afraid of Anything -- Songs for A New World
Waking Up: Ave Maria - Charlotte Church
Falling In Love: Let Go - Frou Frou
Fight Song: Child Psychology - Black Box Recorder
Breaking Up: Wunderkind - Alanis Morissette. This in no way fits.
Make-up: The Circle Game - Sara Gazarek... not quite...
Life's Okay: Eine Kleine Nachtmusik - Mozart
Mental Breakdown: Back to Before - Ragtime
Driving: That Girl - Lindsay Lohan (i didn't even know i had this song)
Flashbacks: Down to You - Joni Mitchell
Happy Dance: Travelin' Thru - Dolly Parton
Regretting: Blue - Joni Mitchell
Final Battle: I Saw It On Your Keyboard - HelloGoodbye
Death Scene: Tell Her What She Wants to Know - Sam Phillips

Open iTunes to answer the following. Go to your library. Answer, no matter how embarrasing it is.
How many songs?: 1202

Sort by song title:
First Song: 'Til We Reach That Day - Ragtime
Last Song: Yours - Sara Gazarek

Sort by time:
Shortest Song: Waltz ..1 by Sam Phillips
Longest Song: An American in Paris - George Gershwin

Sort by artist:
First Song: Journey to the Past - Aaliyah
Last Song: How Many Times - Zack Hexum

Top Ten Most Played Songs:
1. The Lighthouse's Tale - Nickel Creek
2. In the Arms of an Angel - Sarah McLaughlin (it was a fluke, and will never happen again)
3. Wunderkind by Alanis Morissette
4. Down to the River to Pray - Alison Krauss
5. A Narnia Lullaby - Chronicles of Narnia soundtrack
6. Red Right Ankle - The Decemberists
7. Still Hurting - The Last Five Years
8. Forever Love - Anna Nalick
9. Lullaby - Audra McDonald
10. The Fox - Nickel Creek

First song that comes up on Shuffle: Court and Spark by Joni Mitchell

Search:
"sex", how many songs come up?: 0
"death", how many songs come up?: 3
"life", how many songs come up?: 33
"love", how many songs come up?: 59
"hate", how many songs come up?: 2
"you", how many songs come up?: 169
"me", how many songs come up?: 320
"suicide", how many songs come up?: 0
"down", how many songs come up?: 24
"up", how many songs come up?: 31

primary entry?

2006-08-12T22:41:00.000-07:00

However long this lasts, (it could be months or years, it could be days) I want it to count for something. I haven't 'blogged' in so long... it's nothing like riding a bike, I can't remember how to do so effectively.

Senior year is upon me (in less than a month, but I have a chunk of summer left, thank God) and I have made a transformation so unique and sincere that I don't quite know what to do with myself. The change is subtle to the naked eye, but my hope is that those who are close to me have witnessed it. YTI, my summer program, turned my world upside down. The shame lies in the fact that it's impossible to describe YTI to anyone. The only way I can adequately give someone an idea is to say "it was amazing."

I think the pivotal moment for me was in the first vespers service on Sunday of week one. I sat there thinking of all that I had left at home, overwhelmed by what I was missing, who I was missing, and what lay before me. We were given time to meditate and pray as needed and the freedom to leave whenever we wanted. I stayed there an hour in deep thought about what brought me to this place in Atlanta, GA. I hate the South. I hate hot weather. I hate conservatism. I hate so much that allies itself with Georgia, yet I was here because Rhonda recommended it, and I remembered how much I trusted Rhonda's judgment, so it made it okay.

"The best month of my life," is how I later described it (and still do). I'm still doubting that I actually experienced everything that the sensible part of me knows I did. When I returned home, I expected things to change, and a little bit did. We got a Moe's Southwestern Grill. I was thoroughly pleased. My mom has started another mess of a project that will never be completed and will only make the neighborhood hate us more. The Wawa on Forest Hill Avenue opened. My friends were the same. Amy and Mary Page had a wonderful time in France; they saw Mr. Bean on the street. I felt different, and I've adjusted accordingly so, and I'm happy.

The apprehension I'm feeling right now, though, is far beyond just starting senior year. It's about completing senior year, saying goodbye to the people that two months ago I would have sworn I was 'ready to say my farewells to,' the people who made me who I was when I went to YTI, and still make me the person I am now that I'm back. I still think about how lucky I am to have gone to ARGS. At James River High, I would have suffocated from the heavy concentration of Hollister clothing and Chanel perfumes. I would've wanted to be popular with the wrong people, and I would have spent the entirity of my high school experience feeling the insecurity that I had in middle school and so readily relived when I went to Monacan High for SAT's in May. At ARGS, I can walk around in flannel penguin pajamas and a t-shirt that says "The Vagina Monologues" and no one will question my motives. I can even go barefoot, if I steer clear of the right faculty members. I can start a club, join a club, head a club, be a club. I can bake cookies and bring them to school just because I want to, and no one will get on my case about 'sharing food' due to food allergies and ridiculous shit like that. I can skip class and get away with it. I can have a real friendship with my teachers, as opposed to a formal requirement to say hello and goodbye every day. I can joke and make fun of people, knowing that they understand. And had I gone to James River, my life would have been much... oranger (we all love those Oompa Loompas who fake and bake every other day). I would have had a football team to root for, but in all honesty, I'm perfectly happy with our B Division co-ed soccer team.

And now I'm going to be a senior, and I reign supreme. I looked up to the seniors so much in the past, and now I'm going to have little me's looking up to me in the way that I idolized the classes before me. It's not that I'm looking forward to having carpets unrolled when I enter a hallway, but that I'm looking forward to knowing that the sophomore over there was saying the things I used to say about those elders I admired so much. It's a lot to live up to, but I can screw up a lot and have them not notice.

This was so scattered. I need my Ritalin. I'm bored of writing.