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[01 Dec 2004|06:15pm] |
God.
I had a terrible day dream a few moments ago. I was sitting facing my classmates, and we all had mail in front of us. Because the actual mail was wrapped in advertisements, I couldn't see the letters inside. I started ripping into my pile, my classmates did the same. People in the back started shrieking, happily shrieking. Crying and shrieking in joy: they'd been accepted to universities they'd spent years dreaming of. I kept digging, but my pile seemed bottomless. There were just a bunch of bills for my father, and painfully thin envelopes.
And then I though, why does it matter?
Why is it so terribly important that I receive that damned envelope?
Why must it be that envelope with the graceful blue writing leisurely tracing its top?
Is my life really within that letter? Are my dreams? My future?
Yes
Is it terrible?
A group circled around a table, a group that has looked over every female overachiever in the country, every girl who has started her own business, competed nationally in a rare sport, held leadership positions at their schools... will be looking at me.
A group circled around a table, tired and disheveled, will decide which envelope to send me. They will decide the dimensions of the envelope. They will decide the dimensions of my life.
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[23 Nov 2004|10:25pm] |
This made my day because it's me in 2 years :)
A student upon returning home for Thanksgiving posted the following in her journal:
"Okay so I'm just letting you all know that I will neither be hot nor stylish when I get home. A lot of times girls come home from college and suddenly know how to dress, but I forgot. My fashion died. So please don't make me go anywhere too nice because all I have are ugly clothes. Sorry. My hair is shit, and I didn't go to college and get hot. Let's pretend that my personality has doubled in sparkliness, and act interested when I talk about Apartheid and field hockey and religion and pepper my sentances with Russian and such. Thanks, guys."
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[21 Nov 2004|11:19pm] |
I thought that with the days of break, Thanksgiving, I'd regain some feeling in my body. Of course, I've most unhappily found that it isn't school that's making me feel this way, but who I am.
I began to feel lethargic right after I didn't make finals at Long Beach's speech and debate tournament- I had won second at the tournament overall the past 2 years. I think I shrugged it off at the time because I didn't want to feel bad. Since then, then being several months ago, I've been in a stoop, something resembling a depression. At the tournament, Jon got 1st in impromptu, and another novice got 2nd. Speech and debate was mine. It was the only place I had ever really succeeded. I was MVP and best individual event last year, I went to state twice.
I have trouble finishing my homework. I think about it, yes, but only start it at 10 o'clock, and end up going to bed at 1- my homework unfinished, and a sick feeling in my stomach. Despite these, ambivalent. Even more disturbing, I can't sit through my classes. I used to love class. I used to love school.
I had my life planned out in 7th grade. I was going to be original and amazing and rich and everyone would respect and be awed by me. I didn't need friends, I needed followers. I though power meant happiness. I thought power was the key to a happy life. Now I see that power, followers, respect, awe, make the leader lonely. Terribly, terribly lonely. The worst part is in this loneliness, no one can confort- because you're too much a figure of intimidation. You're too repellant. Any they're afraid of you, and amazed by you, and that means that you can only let them down.
I am school board representative. I am parent teacher association representative. I am school site representative. I have made my own fencing business. I am a full-IB candidate. I am in charge of two direct patient care departments at Tri-City Hospital. I tutor girls at Girls Inc. I take $10 from the parents of every child I spend an hour tutoring. I am horribly, and completely alone.
It will never give up. I was thinking today: even if this storm does pass, and I go to college- I don't think anyone could ever be in a longterm relationship with me. I've one of those people who's entertaining in spurts, but like a girl I tutor said: "You're a tough to get along with." I can't live with me, so I certainly don't expect anyone else to.
I don't need any more goddamn verbal reassurance. I need a hug. I need to cry, because I'm scared, and I'm vulnerable- although no one else sees it. And it's hard to try to lead, and even harder to change who you are.
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| The Successful Over-achiever |
[18 Nov 2004|09:57pm] |
So, I failed
In green ink
Nicer than red
I suppose
This impossible
mess of numbers
that the girl behind me
Whines about
Though her errors
are small
and her scores are much higher
than
mine
ever will (or have)
been
Quit asking
God damned questions
In your high, forgivable voice
Because it makes me
more jealous
Than my stomach
Full from my recent binging
sick, and acidic
Can handle
We smile
in the hallway
But I hate you.
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| Updated Speech : Whose Dream |
[30 Oct 2004|10:44pm] |
It was more of a promise than it was an understanding between that rusted prestige and my eyes. I should, I could, I will be, for you. For a grasp of well-manicured pasture, decadence blended into each well-furnished drawing room. I would submit. I would sacrifice. I would alter. I would become.
It didn’t matter how foul the rat smelled, I was smitten, the way a child is with a biting puppy. It can snap at them, pee all over the floor, and ruin all of their shoes, but it’s still a puppy, and it’s soooooo cuteeeeee.
[Intro]
With the masses speaking of the fatality in skipping one of life’s essential steps, adolescents often feel held at gunpoint to continue on the worn, up-hill path towards the Everest of success. Once they’ve grappled up the rigid slope, they will, no doubt, glance over their shoulder to scan their journey. A glimpse at their scaled path may push them forward, or cause them to question their original motivation to climb in the original piece, “Whose Dream.”
[/Intro]
I was handed my ID card, and assigned a number. I sat with surprising comfort upon a plastic chair as those deemed important spoke to me about what four years would make me. As they described the mature young woman I would become, I snuggled into the soft plastic below me, pleased in my youth, and naïve in my pleasure.
I let the months pass. Soon enough, I was a mature young woman, my head filled with the lofty ideals imposed by 3 years of high school. For a moment, my new position didn’t register. I had begun only a few weeks ago, days even. I remembered the tests I had taken, the scores I had debated.
But now, I was a Senior, terrified in my uncertainty, and quite uncomfortable in my plastic chair. The projected words on the screen read, “College: What’s Your Destination?” My able friend smiled, Harvard on his lips. The girl beside him nodded, adding Northwestern. I bobbed my head along, but had nothing to add.
Yes, like all the others, I was waiting for that collegiate school bus to come and whisk me off to that academic paradise, fill me up with awareness and knee-high in snow. To meet the glossy brochure friends who somehow understand, accept and cherish you. To sit captivated under a warm overhead light, like the girl on page 9.
But I didn’t know why…
I got my first, fourth little disappointment today, another anchor on my future. An office below the “Ivy League” with my name super-glued like gum to hair. Settle for above average, settle for housekeeper, settle for the middle-class blue collar, unoriginal lawyer’s smart wife with the 1.5 kids and the blue window shutters and the loveliest garden you ever did see. I saw his eyes today, as he gagged on my condemnation. The deprecation he’d created, he’d computed, he’d accepted, I’d rejected. I lost the hope I’d built with leaves and sticks, the mess I called my tree, the one I swore on higher beings was stable.
And from this I’m supposed to reap a future.
As if, from this I’ll surpass and gain praise, from this belittlement I’ll triumph. So the fourth, the fifth, maybe the sixth will make me realize, make me hover a flash lit novel about bubbles in Styrofoam cups and fat men who must have done drugs who discovered a mess I’ll never think twice of! Yes, it’s still surviving, taking the shape of remorse, as the cork in my throat that keeps pushing closer to my lungs, waiting for the cords to snap, for the stillness after the buzzing on the broken television screen.
The Bright future down the drain, and the Big idiot of a husband, since daddy always said that the wealthy handsome always marry the sweet intellectuals. Bye to the inevitable college shock, the kind that you get when you see UC-Anything on a resume, the kind that you can’t help but approve no matter how low the experience, because you know they made it, like you always wanted to make it, and you respect that, ‘cause you worship their transcripts, the portfolio of their essence. Their clearly conniving, yet beautifully inspirational drive. Their triangular matrix of perfection.
And it never is enough. 5 hours. 5 hours under a fluorescent light to receive a C+. You know what he called me? Mediocre. Average, fine, standard, fine, normal, I’ll settle, typical, just jolly. But mediocre. Does it sting your ear as it does mine? “Aren’t you trying?” Yes! Yes father, 5 hours! Five hours for a C+! Five hours!
Five hours to feel like there’s drain at the bottom of each foot, and my… everything is running out of me, leaving a dense carcass of pointless mass. Yes- I want to sleep. My dreams, my every-thought, my writing, my images, everything centers on sleep. There is no greater seduction than the leaden eyelids which gently, gently, gently nudge me towards destructive slumber. If I exit my life now, if I walk towards the glowing green of the stage, I’m going to fall off.
Having completed three hours of testing each day for the past week and a half, I rewarded myself with the pleasure of falling into sleep. She approached me, a painted doll, a smile glowing through her head, her hand outstretched, welcoming my handshake, confidence in her voice, “You are, aren’t you?” A laugh, common… suddenly, expected. Familiar. “You are, you will be.”
I am the shoes that scrape sand from fields to pavement. I am the second row, center seat. I am… whatever you dictate, so long as I am part of you. I am, I will be. Please, let me be.
Here it was, and something was missing. That… shine that bounced off my eyes in the photographs. Here it was dulled over, painted with frost telling of another long winter. Suddenly, I didn’t understand. Here was this haven, this impermeable bubble, this was the home I had slaved to be let into. This was my dream come true. But where was that gloss? Yes, girls were indeed sitting on the lawn discussing the uncanny similarities between The Great Gatsby and This Side of Paradise, but for the sake of a term paper. Yes, there were still some pretty leaves from autumn no doubt colored by an infant’s paintbrush, but where was that… thing? Where was what made me strive, what drove me to cut my sleeping time in half to finish an awful novel? Where was my intellectual paradise?
The envelope is fat, what else could it mean? I’ve been accepted. Accepted. I know that I’ve let someone down as the terrible wax ball solidifies in my throat. This was my puppy. This was the cute puppy I had spend 13 years showing I was responsible enough for. This was a purebred. But… I couldn’t go… I can’t go!
Yes… I sent my deposit in…
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| Floored. |
[15 Oct 2004|03:12am] |
The most gorgeous, sexy, and painfully sad song I have ever heard.
Come here
Stand in front of the light
Stand still
so I can see your sillouette
I hope
You have got all night
'cause I'm not done looking
No,
I'm not done looking at you-
Yet
Ani Difranco - Overlap
Download it, buy it. You may agree.
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[28 Sep 2004|09:49pm] |
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Deleted for pride's sake.
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[20 Sep 2004|09:04pm] |
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"The only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones who never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn, like fabulous yellow roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars and in the middle you see the blue centerlight pop and everybody goes "Awww!" --Jack Kerouac
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| Studying for Selflessness |
[12 Sep 2004|01:34pm] |
This is my speech for S&D, feel free to tell me what you life, and dislike. It's dense, but is it good? Title and introduction suggestions would be appreciated.
(crouch, filling scholarship out) Now, you may be wondering why me, a Caucasian, female, middle-class, mediocre student is applying for the prestigious Ghetto Scholars Award. Well… that is a valid question. I recognize that the scholarship is typically for male valedictorian students of African American dissent. I see from you website, which is very nice, that all are from impoverished families on the outskirts of Minnesota. However… however…
INTRODUCTION
It was more of a promise than it was an understanding between that rusted prestige and my eyes. I should, I could, I will be, for you. For a grasp of well-manicured pasture, decadence blended into each well-furnished drawing room. I would submit. I would sacrifice. I would alter. I would become.
(snap, talking to boy, future) You know what I’m talking about, though, don’t you? I mean, you invest your life into this. You sweat, your tears, your blood? Can you understand what this means? Can you understand what this letter will make me? John, don’t look at me like that.
(snap back to scholarship) My goals are lofty, and youthfully idealistic, however I recognize the work required in achieving them. The knowledge that I will spend the next 10 years of my life at an institution excites me. The prospect of understanding more about those and that which surrounds me inspires me to continue the quest I believe will be eternal within my lifetime. I will further my education because it is my duty to myself, and to those who have invested in me.
(snap to audience)
I got my first, fourth little disappointment today, another anchor on my future. An office below the “Ivy League” with my name super-glued like gum to hair. Settle for above average, settle for housekeeper, settle for the middle-class blue collar, unoriginal lawyer’s smart wife with the 1.5 kids and the blue window shutters and the loveliest garden you ever did see. I saw his eyes today, as he gagged on my condemnation. The deprecation he’d created, he’d computed, he’d accepted, I’d rejected. I lost the hope I’d built with leaves and sticks, the mess I called my tree, the one I swore on higher beings was stable. And from this I’m supposed to reap a future.
Like, from this I’ll surpass and gain praise, from this belittlement I’ll triumph. Maybe the curvy, above average, just below the cut, pat on the back, you sure took one for the team, nice try, will inspire me to be more spectacular. Yes, it’s still surviving, taking the shape of remorse, as the cork in my throat that keeps pushing closer to my lungs, waiting for the cords to snap, for the stillness after the buzzing on the broken television screen.
So the fourth, the fifth, maybe the sixth will make me realize, make me hover a flash lit novel about bubbles in Styrofoam cups and fat men who must have done drugs who discovered a mess I’ll never think twice of! The Bright future down the drain, and the Big idiot of a husband, since daddy always said that the wealthy handsome always marry the sweet intellectuals. Bye to the inevitable college shock, the kind that you get when you see UC-Anything on a resume, the kind that you can’t help but approve no matter how low the experience, because you know they made it, like you always wanted to make it, and you respect that, ‘cause you worship their transcripts, the portfolio of their essence. Their clearly conniving, yet beautifully inspirational drive. Their triangular matrix of perfection.
It never is enough. 5 hours. 5 hours under a fluorescent light to receive a C+. You know what he called me? Mediocre. Average, fine, standard, fine, normal, I’ll settle, typical, just jolly. But mediocre. Does it sting your ear as it does mine? “Aren’t you trying?” Yes! Yes father, 5 hours! Five hours for a C+! Five hours!
(snap, audience) I feel like there’s drain at the bottom of each foot, and my… everything is running out of me, leaving a dense carcass of pointless mass. Yes- I want to sleep. My dreams, my every-thought, my writing, my images, everything centers on sleep. There is no greater seduction than the leaden eyelids which gently, gently, gently nudge me towards destructive slumber. If I exit my life now, if I walk towards the glowing green of the stage, I’m going to fall off.
(snap, inner) I’m waiting for that collegiate school bus to come and whisk me off to that academic paradise, fill me up with awareness and knee-high in snow. To meet the glossy brochure friends who understand, accept and cherish me. To sit captivated under a warm but not hot overhead light, like the girl on page 9.
(snap, to John) John, can you remember when you were my age? I know what you were, John, the entire school did, you’ve told me. But what about you, John, did you know?
(snap, testing, audience) I remembered my birthday today as my head pounded with foreign voices of words I had once known so well and now could hardly recognize. I got so caught up in my memories of candy laden twisted candles, that I forgot about my maps, my books, my obligations. But as silence replaced the voices, my mind filed neatly back onto the straight lines in the sick, unnatural silence of a theater hall converted into a testing dungeon where scraping pencils gnaw at papers that decide their fates.
(snap, to audience) As I fell into sleep, I paged through a glossy brochure in my mind. She approached me, a painted doll, a smile glowing through her head, her hand outstretched, welcoming my handshake, confidence in her voice, “You are, aren’t you?” A laugh, common… suddenly, expected. Familiar. “You are, you will be.”
I am the shoes that scrape sand from fields to pavement. I am the second row, center seat. I am… whatever you dictate, so long as I am part of you. I am, I will be. Please, let me be.
(snap, inner monologue-ish)I know that I’ve let someone down as the terrible wax ball solidifies in my throat. My parents, my utopia, myself.
(snap, after school visit)Here it was, and something was missing. That… shine that bounced off my eyes in the photographs. Here it was dulled over, painted with frost telling of another long winter. Suddenly, I didn’t understand. Here was this haven, this impermeable bubble, this was the home I had slaved to be let into. This was my dream come true. But where was that gloss? Yes, girls were indeed sitting on the lawn discussing the seminaries between The Great Gatsby and This Side of Paradise, but for the sake of a term paper. Yes, there were still some pretty leaves from autumn no doubt colored by an infant’s paintbrush, but where was that… thing? Where was what made me strive, what drove me to cut my sleeping time in half to finish an awful novel? Where was my intellectual paradise?
(snap to John) The envelope is fat, what else could it mean? I’ve been accepted, John. Accepted.
It isn’t the money. We have enough, that’s not the problem. You know, mom and dad would find it. They’d mortgage the house. They told me they would. But I can’t go. I’d be fulfilling everyone, I know John. I know, I know. Just like you did. You were a good son, but what about me? John? John..? Yes… I sent my money in…
(snap, directly to audience, deadpan)Hands caress a photo of a woman lost in time,
A chained watched dangles from her naval pocket,
But the hands never seem to move,
Although the hours runs, as the seconds world.
She peruses it carefully, following it faithfully,
Assuming the next beat is her last.
So, in a day, years pass, and the photo gathers dust,
And she cries for the time she has,
And all the time she’s lost weeping.
But she tiptoes after the image of the girl who’s lost in time,
Assuming her posture.
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[10 Aug 2004|11:32pm] |
What a summer.
After spending most of it in the company of strangers, but strangers who value me, I've found that friends are no more than strangers who know you more and thereby value you less.
But I'd still choose a friend over a stranger any day.
Rancho will have a book club. It will be the greatest book club... at Rancho. And everyone should join. It will meet once ever two weeks. We will read lovely novels and speak about them. It will be interesting, and exciting, and fulfilling. Hopefully it'll be more than just me and the other co-founder/co-president Cassandra. We will see.
Speech and Debate. How many people have a recruited this month alone? This young man at the hospital wasn't even safe from my "recruiting grasps." Maybe I convinced him to add a class. I'd image that to be quite an accomplishment for anyone. If he adds Speech, my life is fulfilled- I can die happy.
Anyway, I'm working on a new OPP, but this time I'm going to keep it from hitting so close to home. I'm pulling from old writing, and stuff I've written on note cards all summer. When I'm done, I'll be sure to post it. It will be about a young woman (it just worked out that way) who's preparing/applying to college. She's essencially obsessed with the process, and the image of a better future. Maybe it doesn't hit that far away from home.
If you have a suggestion about a contrasting, but building concept (ei. mixing a roller coaster story with the academic obsession story- blending), give me a comment. The speech should be done by Wednesday of next week. Also, feel free to call me, if you have my phone number. I've finally conquered my fear of phones, and I need some speech material. Anyone who'd be kind enough to depress, or excite me (and I mean this in a big way, you can't just tell me that I'm stupid, although mediocre might work), specifically in email (obliviouslane@hotmail.com) or on the phone, would really add to my speech. Intense emotions really help artwork if they can be channeled.
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[14 May 2004|09:40pm] |
Today, while reflecting on my 'new life,' the one replacing that of my pre-sophomore days, I am sadly dissatisfied. I have lost more than I have won. I have gained little more than a few more B's on my transcript, a bad acquaintance with the school councilor, and a dramatic loss of "real" friendship. In its place, I have been given some disappointment from teachers who claim I have potential, screaming from councilor, and people who smile and wave at me every five minutes to make sure I don't hate them.
Today I found out yet another person thinks I hate them. Why has this terrible plague come about? The one that makes everyone assume I dislike them just because I have a terrible sense of humor I can't turn off?
And a better question: why does it seem that people think I'm always angry? That in itself frustrates me. To clear this all up, I do not hate anyone. I do not get/stay angry for long periods of time. I, like most other human beings, become angry for significant reasons, things that matter to me.
I fall back on my being dramatic, or passionate, but really, it's just a character flaw that those who are forced to surround me must understand.
Kris, a boy in my class, is in my lit. group, he doesn't come, or bring his work. Does this piss me off? God yes. Does it make me angry? It depends what your definition of the word is.
To me anger is a strong desire to take revenge. Think about it, it works.
Meg says that I think everyone hates me. If this is so, what are my reasons? Is this belief due to, as it typically is, a low self-esteem, or awareness?
I believe that I'm capable of "greatness" but restrained by 3 things: my tongue, my person, and my legs.
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[04 May 2004|07:17pm] |
I have maps pined on my wall to remind me of a future route I always chose to follow. Its path is traced in red ink to remind me of the urgency and caution required for my journey. I have three bookshelves in my room- two for pleasure, one for pain. I always set my school books on the latter, my magazines on the second, and keep my childhood stories on the first. Alongside my ironed maps, and my matching shelves I have a poster with spring colors bursting from a glossy frame. It is so large, so consuming, I look at it and think it's already June. I remembered my birthday today as my head pounded with foreign voices of words I had once known so well and now could hardly recognize. I got so caught up in my memories of candy laden twisted candles, that I forgot about my maps. By the time silence had replaced the voices, my pencil was frantically dashing, coloring circles in the image of yet another lost birthday.
I know that I've let someone down as the awful wax ball solidifies in my throat, my maps, my bookshelves, my eternal spring.
But the voices start up again, and my mind files neatly back onto the straight lines in the sick, unnatural silence of a theater hall where scraping pencils gnaw at papers that decide their fates.
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[04 May 2004|07:17pm] |
I have maps pined on my wall to remind me of a future route I always chose to follow. Its path is traced in red ink to remind me of the urgency and caution required for my journey. I have three bookselves in my room- two for pleasure, one for pain. I always set my school books on the latter, my magazines on the second, and keep my childhood stories on the first. Alongside my ironed maps, and my matching shelves I have a poster with spring colors bursting from a glossy frame. It is so large, so consuming, I look at it and think it's already June. I remembered my birthday today as my head pounded with foreign voices of words I had once known so well and now could hardly recognize. I got so caught up in my memories of candy ladden twisted candles, that I forgot about my maps. By the time silence had replaced the voices, my pencil was frantically dashing, coloring circles in the image of yet another lost birthday.
I know that I've let someone down as the awful wax ball solidifies in my throat, my maps, my bookshelves, my eternal spring.
But the voices start up again, and my mind files neatly back onto the straight lines in the sick, unnatural silence of a theater hall where scraping pencils gnaw at papers that decide their fates.
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[16 Mar 2004|11:43pm] |
Russian classics = Sheer official boredom
-Ayn Rand
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[12 Mar 2004|10:56pm] |
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They ask for bread and we give them contraceptives. -Malcolm Muggeridge
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[21 Feb 2004|10:28pm] |
He hung the flag with a reminiscent grin,
Taking care not to let its corners touch the ground,
That the earth of its land would tarnish
Its mass-produced stripes
His son stood by his side
Together they praised fervently,
And sat talking of war horror stories
Over cold beers
They eyed the house adjoining theirs,
Its pale stucco,
Set within
Well trimmed trees
And laughed as the foreigner
Disappeared behind closed curtains
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[21 Feb 2004|10:08pm] |
He cocked the rifle
And leaned its backing on his shoulder
The young man
Sturdy
Even now
The dirt flaked at his shoes long washed
As his eyes narrowed on the barrel
She squirmed slightly at his presence
His faded print
Mocking nature
When her father awoke,
The man had gone
He brushed from the floor
The crumpled remains
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[21 Feb 2004|09:53pm] |
Through the layer of frost
The men push
They pull their feet
From soft
Ground
Untangle
From wires
Dance
Towards the bony structure
Of mangled wire
Pertruding limbs
A call is set
Through hollowed hands
Cast
Upon the silent frost
Settling like fog
Upon the
fleshy mounds.
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[19 Feb 2004|10:36pm] |
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My sister's going to college :)
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[18 Feb 2004|09:00pm] |
"A little soldier and a clear voice, and if anyone were to caress him he would hardly understand, this soldier with the big boots and the shut heart who marches because he is wearing big boots."
Pg. 95 All Quiet on the Western Front
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