Lean on Me is on TV right now. Such a good movie. Like Amadeus. Totally different, but yeah. I could watch Amadeus right now. Over and over again.
——
You know what should be invented within the next 10 years? A device that has a radar, which would be able to detect when a person is being obscenely overbearing – and upon finding these obscene levels of overbearingness, releases some sort of miniature punishment to discipline the offender at hand, maybe a small jet of steaming water, or a large glove set to slap a cheek.
I really need one of these, primarily to use it against me. I can’t help but feel, during different social situations, that I’m being incredibly annoying and/or idiotic, and people around me are only putting up with me out of pity or perhaps amusement.
Why do I obsessively take note of what occurs between myself and other people, in real time, and reflect upon these interactions over and over again while bashing my head against a wall? I shouldn’t be so critical of myself. This is something I have to work through. Nothing new.
Really, just a little pinch and I’ll bite my tongue. I’ll change the subject. I’ll go into the other room.
——
Time to forget and move into the week to come.
Filed under: Uncategorized
Being sick sure has its perks – it gives you a lot of free time and makes you wonder about things you don’t usually think about, or makes you dream strange, bizarre dreams. I don’t remember what I dreamed about last night, but it made me toss and turn and was a constant sort of dream – it reoccurred throughout the night/morning, and I figure it was only a fever dream. In between loud snorts (trying to exhale through my plugged-up nose), I’d be caught somewhere, and there would be lots of numbers and letters, and green and brown, and then … nothing. I don’t know how I woke up.
I end up writing oddly, and I sort of like my writing when I’m sick. It’s so much more jumbled and crazy and a little more free.
I remember the time I was high.
No, not that kind of high.
Not the kind of high you hear about on the news at ten and think, “I’m glad my Jenny doesn’t do that” but then you glance over and your husband or wife gives you an apprehensive look when your eyes meet and you suddenly say, “Dear God.”
No, not that kind of high.
I had a cold. It was a nasty sort of cold—I’d name him Rasputin if I had the chance or lunacy—and I remember going out with friends one evening to a mall I didn’t particularly care for. I don’t know why I went. It wasn’t as if they loved me, really—liked, sure. But no one invited me to MALLS. But I was sick, and I thought I told them so, but I went with them anyway. I don’t think I was miserable, But when you remember a happy memory, the kind you’d give your life for to relive it again, you smile. You smile that smile of goodness, truthness, essence. And you remember, let out a giggle. Snort. Excuse yourself.
I don’t smile when I think of my visit to the mall with my apparent friends. I remember arches. I remember wide arches, orange, with big clocks on them. I remember a girl in a group who wore black with spiked collars and long socks and dark boots who had purple hair, no, magenta, and a glow in the dark backpack she had, or something on her that glowed in the dark and made her pop out of the group like a large, teenaged, hipster firefly. I staggered behind my friends. They were talking, gawking at boys, talking some more.
It’s obviously unfinished, but I remember I wrote that down somewhere while I was doped up on DayQuil (or an appreciated substitute). Writing when sick becomes less inhibited. It’s as if you’re drunk, but instead you’re high on cough drops and orange juice and maybe some chicken noodle soup, and you don’t throw up (unless you’re sick with a stomach bug), you sneeze and blow your nose and probably go to the bathroom at least once every hour because of all of the fluids running through you constantly.
It’s so different when sick.
The pink-eyed girl sat up
Sat up in her bed with
A ring of crumpled
Soggy
And hot
Tissues surrounding her
They seemed to trap her
In her sickness
In her sorrow
Congested and angry
Drowsy and torn
She feels the fan above her
Soft, man-made wind
Waft against her fiery skin
Fever has settled in for a brief vacation
She thought of Barbados. Far, distant
Dreamy, dream-like
She wondered if sand is as good as hot tea
Or crashing cerulean waves as good as chicken soup
She hears her own voice when
she speaks, but it’s stuck
inside
her head. Brutal, annoying—the
inner reveries cannot escape.
They only do so in harsh, heart-stopping
Sneezes
The ring gets larger. Bulkier.
It disgusts her.
She prays for Lysol. She curses when
it does not appear.
A stack of books sits beside her
She’s plowing through, for she’s stuck there
And the written word is her only companion –
Though she’s contagious,
the authors, gone, won’t catch anything.
– July 27, 2007
But whether you’re sick or not, all art needs work. Nothing is ever perfect.
For the first time, a dish from The Cheesecake Factory has left me rather sick. I feel nauseous and know I will never, ever order the Spicy Chipotle Chicken Pasta ever again. Thing is, I love spicy food. Can’t get enough of it. Though the dish had a bite to it, I don’t think it was the spiciness that did me in, but rather, the asparagus. Now, normally, I wouldn’t eat asparagus, but I don’t mind it if it’s just a topping. I ate it, but I think the flavor of asparagus permeated through the sauce, which gave the plate an overall odd taste. Ugh, I can’t think about it now. Next time I go to TCF, I’m making it up to my stomach with my favorite dish–Bang Bang Chicken & Shrimp. Stick to what I know is good.
Today I went to an Episcopal mass for Palm Sunday (Alex was singing in the choir) and I’ll sum that up tomorrow, after I get some rest and recover from aspargusitis. I stopped by a nice bookstore today and picked up The Faith of a Writer: Life, Craft, Art. I’m going to read some more tonight, because one of the chapters really opened my eyes today. I need to read more of JCO’s books, honestly. I have a feeling she’s going to be one of my favorite writers.
It’s so difficult to say who my favorite writer is. Many have influenced me as a writer and as a person, but I can never narrow one down. I know I’m not alone in this.
Ow. Okay, I’m done. Never again…
Filed under: Uncategorized
I know I’m not pretentious for reading The New York Times. But sometimes I feel like I am. Though I can admit it’s refreshing to read it every once in a while. Today I managed to get a copy and I read about the Spitzer scandal. It was great finding errors in the printed article. Even The Times isn’t perfect.
Back to pretentiousness – what counts as pretentiousness, anyway? Is it a specific attitude or does it involve a variety of certain actions?
No doubt I have met my fair share of those part of The Pretentious. In fact, I deal with one person who embodies this attitude on a semi-daily basis. Whenever there’s a conversation, he’ll take control, making sure he has the final word. What’s worse is, I realized the fact too late; I thought for a while he was simply overbearing, but now … Lord, help me. It’s a shame, too. This person is obviously very intelligent. But intelligence does not need to be revealed through holier-than-thou airs. The most necessary solution involves observed tact.
When it gets to a certain point, I’ll let this person know, point-blank, “Excuse me, but you’re acting very pretentious and I (and whoever else who may be with me can see) do not appreciate it.”
I don’t know. I hope he gets the hint soon enough. It’s so … grating!
… I’m sure that subject line got your attention, whoever you are.
So last night I attended a seminar/event/thing made of awesome caleld “I [Heart] Female Orgasm,” and by jove, was it hilarious! The two hosts, Marshall and Dorian, they were very funny and had great chemistry. They actually began the event, “Well, we’re actually a couple, so we bring in a LOT of experience to these lectures…” That really set the mood for the event. Very frank, but not personal. The group (women, actually – the guys were later separated for their own session) told stories about the first time they masturbated, euphemisms for specifically female masturbation (“strumming the banjo,” “petting the pussy cat,” and “paddling the pink canoe” came up) and techniques/tips/ways to help a woman achieve orgasm.
Sounds interesting, yes?
It’s funny. I grew up in a primarily Roman Catholic setting for most of my life, if not all of it. Less than 25% of my life was spent in public school, where there was no prayer or mention of the Bible. I’m not saying this was a bad thing – sometimes I wish I attended public school instead. But I think all the years I had in school, public or parochial, they shaped who I am today … and that includes my sexuality. My old high school never went so far to say, “DON’T MASTURBATE! IT’S EVIL!” I’m sure the Roman Catholic Church has its own philosophy regarding that sort of thing, but I was raised knowing it was completely normal and natural. It’s advocated by many health professionals.
Of course, too much of a good thing is bad. People need to know their limits.
I encourage anyone to go out there and become informed! It’s a great opportunity to find time to talk about such “taboo” topics. The atmosphere was so friendly at this seminar.
Want more info? I [Heart] Female Orgasm.
All right, no more sex talk. Hmm … how about I give five seconds to how awesome Microsoft Word 2008 for Mac is?
LOOK!
Grrr, click it.
The “Recent Documents” window gives me the directories my notes are in, just in case they have the same title! Awesome indeed!
All right, I’m done now. I’m might go out for sushi with Alex and a friend of mine, so I’ll be back tomorrow, hopefully.
I am absolutely exhausted. I just spent the last hour or so writing and submitting a scholarship application essay. I actually included my poetry within the essay, which was a bit of a change of pace, but I hope the reviewers can read who I am through my poems. The essay was for one of those small online applications, so we’ll see what happens. It’s worth $1000. I need every penny if I’m going to dorm this fall.
I’m very nervous about that. Looking at the housing options I applied for, I’m going to need about $4000+ by August. Part of me wishes I never applied for dorms, but I know I have to get out of my house in order for me to succeed in school. My family, as much as I love them, drives me up the wall and since I don’t have a license, it’s difficult for me to take required courses because of the times offered (late a night). If I dorm, I won’t need to worry about getting home at midnight. I can just mosey on back to my room on campus.
I have seven more scholarships to apply to within the next month or so. This week, three applications are due for scholarships offered by the Student Government Association. They total to $1250, which would be a great dent in the debt I need to chip away for the dorms. Thing is, one of them ($500) is only offered to two people (one from their respective campus). I know the odds are pretty slim that I’ll get it, but it’s worth a shot. I’ve already gone through the trouble of getting recommendation letters, editing my resume, and writing a letter to the reviewers. I only hope I get some money.
Every little bit helps.
Okay, folks … since insomnia has struck, I think I’ll write for a little while. All right, so I look a little crazy here. But posts become instantly more exciting with pictures, so here you go. This is me being crazy. I don’t usually have straight hair, but it comes out nice when it is. But I do know how to rock curly hair sometimes. And it can get insanely curly. Thing is, it tends to frizz out pretty quickly, so I have to be careful when I manage it. Ah, and as you can see here, I have pink glasses. At least once a month, someone notices, “Oh my God! Your glasses are PINK!” I’m due for new ones, though … I can’t wait to pick out a new pair.
What else … oh, yes! I like to cook. A lot. One of the main reasons why I’m dorming in the fall is because I would have my own kitchen (to share with other roommates, yes, but the odds of college students who cook on campus seems minimal). This here is a slice of a quesadilla I made my for a picnic with co-workers (school newspapers for the win!). These were pretty much devoured in relatively quickly, but they were a huge hassle to make. Then again, I shouldn’t have made these at 8 in the morning … nothing like the smell of hot oil to wake ya up!
Another one of my dishes I cooked. Seared pork tenderloin with onions and mushrooms. It was the first dish I tried with my formerly brand new cast iron skillet from Logic (best o’the best, I tell ya), and my GOD, this was delicious. The pork had a tinge of pink on the inside, and very juicy. I think I garnished this with some fresh rosemary too. After I got this skillet I bought Cookwise by Shirley Corriher, which is a great read. I was inspired to cook for myself and to learn how to cook by this wonderful blue-eyed Southern man:
Ain’t he dreamy? (sigh) … oh, hello? Sorry. Ahem. OK, so Alton Brown of Good Eats and Feasting on Asphalt fame is probably the most anal cook to ever exist. But still! I own two of his books and find them very easy to read, understand, and fun to flip through. My favorite page is the diagram of the pig with its cuts clearly labeled.
Since I was supposed to be in bed a while ago, I’ll end this post with one of my four dogs, acting like a Nazi in his sleep. (Just see for yourself!):
Good night!
A side note on Daylight Savings Time: I could not get out of bed ’til about 12:30 or so. Once I realized I lost an hour I couldn’t get back to sleep. I was supposed to go to church today to hear my boyfriend sing at a choir, and I woke up at 7, but I was so tired that I called him and said I couldn’t go. He wasn’t offended. I always get out of whack when it comes to DST.
Now, back to the real purpose of this blog post.
A particular fear consumed me yesterday–I was looking for internships all day and suddenly felt disconcerted. What job am I going to have after I graduate? I don’t really know exactly what I want to do. As an English major, I can see there are plenty of options, but I have no idea what to pursue. I don’t think I can become involved with animation, a silly dream of mine I’ve had since I was a little kid (I’d draw storyboards) because I do not have nor will not pursue an art degree. I took Drawing I last summer and I liked it, but my true love is really cartooning. I don’t wish to separate cartoons from art–that wouldn’t be fair–but I didn’t have the patience for the “fundamentals.” I’d rather leap off into the world of the zany. I’ve thought about authoring a graphic novel, but I know I don’t have enough skill to execute such a project.
I’ve always had an issue with what to pursue in a career. I have varied interests but not enough passion to allow myself to fall into one of them.
I also feel I’m not motivated enough to take part in the internships available. Alex (the aforementioned boyfriend) says this isn’t the case. Okay, fine, I can become a little cutthroat when it comes to assignments and papers, but a job is a different thing. Most of them are 9-5 sort of deals, which I’ve never had experience in. I suppose I feel an increased amount of pressure because a close friend of mine is doing an internship this summer. She’s in the same year as I am, but I feel I’ve fallen behind. I know I shouldn’t compare myself to other people, even more so my friends, but I don’t want to be left in the dust or revealed to be unaccomplished.
Back to the question (or Avenue Q, if you’re so inclined), The Big Question that has floated around for eons: what is my purpose? What am I supposed to do with my talents? What company am I supposed to work with? Is it possible to go back to a childhood dream? Is it too late to think, maybe I can?
As a writer, I know I don’t write enough; I only have scraps of poetry and nothing really of note to take and create into something bigger. I don’t have experience with stage plays or script-writing, though I have materials to help me. I rehash the same ideas to no avail.
As a cartoonist, I’m certainly unpolished and lack depth. I feel stagnant when I draw the same images. I feel I’m not funny enough. I can’t take a class in comedy, can I? (I bet there are many out there, I just need to look.)
It’s like I’m stuck behind big iron gates and I’m peering in to see the Big Guys: Viacom, Disney. The companies that have shaped my existence through their products and programs. Am I worthy enough to work with them or even more so – change what’s within?
Filed under: Uncategorized
I’ve been slowly returning to poetry these past couple of days. I don’t know how I’ve managed to do this because I’ve been so busy, but somehow I find myself scrawling verses in extra blue book pages or unused napkins.
This one’s a work in progress, echoing my recent post about Sylvia Plath:
She begs for her father
As a child does for candy
But with much more sincerity and hungry urgency—
And without the tantrums of the toddler who tells her mother of a toy
Broken or unused, too colorful for her tastes
She is stuck within a pen
Perhaps lined with plastic and foam
Or large lion cubs with sparkling eyes and no teeth
That playfully paw at the surrounding nets
She is begging, begging for him
Trying to find her pacifier
So she can chew and suckle until she goes to sleep
He doesn’t come home:
He remains at the chalkboard,
Dusting off his powdered hands against his lightly checkered slacks
Ignoring the sighs of his lovely wife
Whom he hasn’t seen in three years
But I find myself stuck. The words chug along and pour, until suddenly something makes them halt; they’re stopped up somewhere, and I don’t have any Drain-O. A grimier sort of writer’s block.
Here’s another; it needs some work.
I want to dream of numbers I cannot ignore
Binary, perhaps, with a code embedded
containing purpose,
slight mystery—
Series of ovals and sticks in careful sequence,
kindly referring me to how it all works.
My brain is a computer, indeed.
(Everyone says that, the best, strongest computer in the world)
And it works out all the puzzles and is vulnerable to those mighty black Trojans
Haunting
Discouraging
Sinking deeply within the soulful programming and causing chaos
It can crash, over and over, and I’ll see blue
01001001
00100000
01101100
01101111
01110110
01100101
00100000
01111001
01101111
01110101
But what is error
And what is the message?
Total crap! But it felt good to get something out. I feel stagnant when I don’t write and foolish for calling myself a writer. I need to do a lot more work if I can ever succeed.
Here’s one of my more polished poems. I wrote it about a boy I liked for a while. He was nice, perhaps too nice for me.
The engine’s hum rises and falls as the bus speeds up and slows down.
It passes by trees, by statues, by people, and by more trees.
It passes passersby, along with those standing with transfers in hand
as they wait for their rides to and from home.
And it passes your stop.
You’re not there.
(Why?)
I guess I’m late.
I wish you were here to fill this empty seat
and keep me company on this cold, loud, lumbering bus.
The scenery is not enough.
It’s you and your backpack, it’s huge, like a worry—
you keep it at your feet to make room for us,
putting up with our cramped space for sitting for our journey.
It’s the newspaper you clutch tightly, rolled up—literary sushi—while you straighten out the wrinkles from your striped shirt.
It’s the subtle rings of fatigue beneath your eyes that only I seem to notice—
shadows taking away from those warm brown irises I wish to…
Oh, who cares about eyes?
(Well, I do.)
(Yours.)
I’m so happy I could I see your eyes,
your eyes as they skim through the sad reports you need to know about,
those details you must take note of
for your next debate in the square.
(… I wish to kiss them.)
There, I said it! (No, no, I didn’t.)
(If only.)
I wish I had said it with you here, next to me, on this lumbering old cold bus—
But I have this terrible awkward nervous feeling.
Would you smile?
Or would you grin?
Rereading it doesn’t make me as uncomfortable as before. I mean, poetry is poetry. It drifts and undergoes constant metamorphoses through interpretation and social context. Who knows what people will think of it 20 years from now? (Oh, God, 20 years from now. I don’t want to think about it.)
Writing makes me uncomfortable. I wonder if it will ever do me any good; I constantly wonder whether it would get me anywhere, of it’s just a silly pastime taken to… pass time. It makes no difference, I think. I’ve never whored myself enough for anyone to care about what I write. The drawings are certainly known, sure. I’m The Cartoonist (but never The Illustrator). So the energies that should have gone to my writings go into the quick, the colorful, the instant. Not really anything else.
Where will I be in 20 years? I don’t want to think about it.
Filed under: Uncategorized
Scholarship applications are awfully, awfully tedious.
That’s about it.
I sincerely hope I manage to get these done before the deadline (March 14). How did I manage to find out about these applications last night? It’s a good thing I did; I need to try and get as much money as I can to help alleviate costs for dorms this upcoming fall. Excitement! Woe! Panic!
Maybe I should start playing the Lotto more often … or at least buy some scratch-off tickets.
In order to not have this blog turn into a journal (there’s a difference, dontchaknow)––
Riddle me this! Is it worth it to purchase lottery tickets/scratch-off games on a weekly basis?
