this is my year
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Cheesy Mexican Street Corn Chicken Wraps
3 months ago
Sunday, December 05, 2004
The buzz has begun again as it has every year, arriving with the changing leaves of the numerable deciduous trees on our campus: college applications. As an insider looking around, I’ve noticed the pressure mounting for quite some time; for about as long as we’ve been in high school. It’s a frightening process: trying to condense four years of your academic and extracurricular achievement on an 8 1/2x 11 sheet of paper; and even worse, trying to sum up your intellectual, personal, and social being in 500 words or less. Perhaps what makes us most nervous is the fact that we might not be who those college admissions officers want us to be, that maybe we’ve wasted our years in high school taking the wrong classes, joining the wrong sports, or focusing on the wrong subjects. There are countless things wrong with the application process- from the unbalanced emphasis of test scores over personality to the limitations we put on ourselves trying to be the “well-rounded” student we hope they’re looking for. It is in this twisted form of prostitution that we try to sell ourselves, wrapped up in the perfect package, ready and willing to be molded into the leaders of tomorrow. But what if we’re leaders now? What if all this talk about needing to be chosen is just another way of learning to choose ourselves over everything else; what if it’s about putting ourselves first, and not allowing a letter to determine just how worthy we are of greatness. Regardless of where you start, more important is the journey you take to end up where you want to be. College is just part of that journey, part of our never-ending quest to make a difference; and while it may change our lives, may alter our futures, may even change us as people, it is only as big and bad as we make it. College is like any other test- it can make us or break us. But it cannot measure how capable we are of fulfilling our potential. It’s alright if an admission’s officer doesn’t see it, as long as you do.
Love is in the Air
J. Covarrubias
With the cold air of winter comes the sweet warmth of hot chocolate, wearing scarves, and holding hands. As the seasons change once again, we begin to experience what we as Southern Californians rarely see: winter. Rejoicing in the perfect weather to actually wear out pea coats and scarves, enjoying the beginnings of holiday celebrations, and realizing what forty degree weather feels like while wearing flip flops, the students of the RH seem to welcome the cold weather with great affability and enthusiasm. Yet it is significant that as the weather cools, friendships warm up. Recently it has become overwhelmingly noticeable to see our Regents walking two by two. Perhaps it is in the ritualistic hibernation of wintertime that finding someone to keep warm with becomes just a natural solution to keep warm. Some blame the flood of new relationships on the holidays, which are notoriously known to incite cheer and friendliness, while others see it as a “domino effect” on the populace, with one relationship provoking the next and so forth. Walking through the senior quad at lunch, however, the effect seems undeniably to be a result of “love, actually.” It has been likened to a lottery, in which during the springtime the names are thrown into a hat, and shaken through summer and fall, until just the right breeze moves in, and an unlikely person moves just an inch closer to keep warm.
You might wonder why clichéd high school romance should make this issues column, and I guess it is my place to explain the logic behind the madness, but I think Nietzsche phrased it just right when he said, “There is always some madness in love, but there is also some reason in madness.” The truth is, the friendships and relationships that grow and blossom through high school seem to capture the instance in which the wind rustling in the leaves and the warm breath from a sigh can dissolve all reason to grow up and yet give proof that we have. Having a reason to come to school, besides the thrilling adventure of a calculus test, makes each day all the more meaningful. As students, we are often so wrapped up into the ideals of teenage angst and the overpowering thought of destruction accompanying a “B” that we fail to see past ourselves for a second. The reason behind the madness is ultimately the fact that we start caring about someone else for a second. It is not in the “give a little, get a lot” kind of way, but in the give a little, feel better about yourself kind of way that we make it through the cold winters.
The Beatles knew it best when they said “all you need is love.” For us seniors, life seems to move to the beat of the newest Outkast song; so fast you forget the lyrics. Through the momentous last months of our winter in high school, I propose we stir to the rhythm of oldies, the classics, the ones you catch yourself singing in the shower. Perhaps the tune may not be about someone in particular for you, but it will remind you to love the time of year when love is in the air.
J. Covarrubias
With the cold air of winter comes the sweet warmth of hot chocolate, wearing scarves, and holding hands. As the seasons change once again, we begin to experience what we as Southern Californians rarely see: winter. Rejoicing in the perfect weather to actually wear out pea coats and scarves, enjoying the beginnings of holiday celebrations, and realizing what forty degree weather feels like while wearing flip flops, the students of the RH seem to welcome the cold weather with great affability and enthusiasm. Yet it is significant that as the weather cools, friendships warm up. Recently it has become overwhelmingly noticeable to see our Regents walking two by two. Perhaps it is in the ritualistic hibernation of wintertime that finding someone to keep warm with becomes just a natural solution to keep warm. Some blame the flood of new relationships on the holidays, which are notoriously known to incite cheer and friendliness, while others see it as a “domino effect” on the populace, with one relationship provoking the next and so forth. Walking through the senior quad at lunch, however, the effect seems undeniably to be a result of “love, actually.” It has been likened to a lottery, in which during the springtime the names are thrown into a hat, and shaken through summer and fall, until just the right breeze moves in, and an unlikely person moves just an inch closer to keep warm.
You might wonder why clichéd high school romance should make this issues column, and I guess it is my place to explain the logic behind the madness, but I think Nietzsche phrased it just right when he said, “There is always some madness in love, but there is also some reason in madness.” The truth is, the friendships and relationships that grow and blossom through high school seem to capture the instance in which the wind rustling in the leaves and the warm breath from a sigh can dissolve all reason to grow up and yet give proof that we have. Having a reason to come to school, besides the thrilling adventure of a calculus test, makes each day all the more meaningful. As students, we are often so wrapped up into the ideals of teenage angst and the overpowering thought of destruction accompanying a “B” that we fail to see past ourselves for a second. The reason behind the madness is ultimately the fact that we start caring about someone else for a second. It is not in the “give a little, get a lot” kind of way, but in the give a little, feel better about yourself kind of way that we make it through the cold winters.
The Beatles knew it best when they said “all you need is love.” For us seniors, life seems to move to the beat of the newest Outkast song; so fast you forget the lyrics. Through the momentous last months of our winter in high school, I propose we stir to the rhythm of oldies, the classics, the ones you catch yourself singing in the shower. Perhaps the tune may not be about someone in particular for you, but it will remind you to love the time of year when love is in the air.
A few years ago my parents changed the locks of our front door. I don’t know whether it was out of a sense of safety or for piece of mind, but what I do know is that they didn’t tell me about it. After a couple of weeks of frustration trying to get in with the wrong key, I finally took a hint and asked my parents about it, and with an ease and nonchalance, they handed me the new key, wondering why I hadn’t asked them for one earlier.
For years I’ve come home on my own; with two parents working overtime all the time, I’ve always gotten a lot of time to myself. I’ve always entered the house with my own set of keys.
So when they changed the locks, I added a new key to my chain. It looks identical to the old one, so they’re impossible to tell apart. I know I should just take the old key out of the chain altogether- I’m sure it would be much easier. But I don’t. And so everyday for the past 3 years I’ve tried to open the door using the guess and check method. And the first key I pick is always the wrong key- and my gut always tells me it’s the wrong key. But I try it anyway. And every time I finally open the door I laugh at myself, and wonder why I don’t just listen to my gut, but then I think, at least I can hear it; that’s progress.
For years I’ve come home on my own; with two parents working overtime all the time, I’ve always gotten a lot of time to myself. I’ve always entered the house with my own set of keys.
So when they changed the locks, I added a new key to my chain. It looks identical to the old one, so they’re impossible to tell apart. I know I should just take the old key out of the chain altogether- I’m sure it would be much easier. But I don’t. And so everyday for the past 3 years I’ve tried to open the door using the guess and check method. And the first key I pick is always the wrong key- and my gut always tells me it’s the wrong key. But I try it anyway. And every time I finally open the door I laugh at myself, and wonder why I don’t just listen to my gut, but then I think, at least I can hear it; that’s progress.
Sunday, November 07, 2004
so this my crack at 100 grand....
"How does your American Dream compare to that of your parents?"
For as long as I can remember, my father and I have congregated at the same place every morning- the bathroom. As I brushed and he shaved, we would take turns using the sink, never actually acknowledging one another, but always knowing the other’s presence by the humming of our respective tunes. Mine changed throughout the years; beginning as a school song or lullaby, it graduated to the newest Spice Girl number by the tender age of nine, and now varies from Broadway showtunes to top 40 hits. My father’s music choices have varied as well; I remember him humming old, unfamiliar Indian film songs, sometimes a smattering of newer numbers, and occasionally a recognizable tune that I could sing along to.
It’s no surprise that we start each morning the same way; music is a big part of our family- my dad is a musician and singer; his devotion to the tabla has played an instrumental role in how I was brought up. I’ve kept up the classical music tradition by my immersion in Bharatanatyam, a classical form of Indian dance.
My dad came to America when he was twenty-one and through a series of (chance, fateful, random) meetings and opportunities, wound up with a stable career and healthy family. He took a chance by coming to America- hopping from state to state, he worked hard at school and engineering, yet he continued to play for audiences across the country. As a young man, my father wanted nothing more than to perform, but he carried in his suitcase a greater sense of obligation and responsibility to the roots he had left in India and the seeds he would embed in this land of opportunity- and I don’t blame him; as the first in his family to come to this unfamiliar world of purple mountain majesties, to think of the pressure he felt is almost as overwhelming as the prospect of doing what he did. My dad put his dreams aside because he thought that if he could establish new roots in America, the ones he loved would have a shot at greatness, and that would make his sacrifice worthwhile.
So I know he understands when I tell him I want to perform. Despite the social stigma that the occupation of “actor” carries in our well-meaning, traditional Indian culture, he knows it’s in my blood. When I consider it, our dreams aren’t so different at all; it’s only a matter of circumstance. The twinkle in my eye is only a reflection of the stars I reach for- and I can’t help but have this feeling that he’s seen those stars before, he’s reached for them and that now, more than ever, his dream is for me to make mine a reality.
So when he joins me in singing a Rod Stewart classic, or when I try to keep up with a folk song in Gujarati, our native tongue, I hear more than just two raspy morning-breath voices. I hear music.
is it worth $100,000? please feel free to comment.
"How does your American Dream compare to that of your parents?"
For as long as I can remember, my father and I have congregated at the same place every morning- the bathroom. As I brushed and he shaved, we would take turns using the sink, never actually acknowledging one another, but always knowing the other’s presence by the humming of our respective tunes. Mine changed throughout the years; beginning as a school song or lullaby, it graduated to the newest Spice Girl number by the tender age of nine, and now varies from Broadway showtunes to top 40 hits. My father’s music choices have varied as well; I remember him humming old, unfamiliar Indian film songs, sometimes a smattering of newer numbers, and occasionally a recognizable tune that I could sing along to.
It’s no surprise that we start each morning the same way; music is a big part of our family- my dad is a musician and singer; his devotion to the tabla has played an instrumental role in how I was brought up. I’ve kept up the classical music tradition by my immersion in Bharatanatyam, a classical form of Indian dance.
My dad came to America when he was twenty-one and through a series of (chance, fateful, random) meetings and opportunities, wound up with a stable career and healthy family. He took a chance by coming to America- hopping from state to state, he worked hard at school and engineering, yet he continued to play for audiences across the country. As a young man, my father wanted nothing more than to perform, but he carried in his suitcase a greater sense of obligation and responsibility to the roots he had left in India and the seeds he would embed in this land of opportunity- and I don’t blame him; as the first in his family to come to this unfamiliar world of purple mountain majesties, to think of the pressure he felt is almost as overwhelming as the prospect of doing what he did. My dad put his dreams aside because he thought that if he could establish new roots in America, the ones he loved would have a shot at greatness, and that would make his sacrifice worthwhile.
So I know he understands when I tell him I want to perform. Despite the social stigma that the occupation of “actor” carries in our well-meaning, traditional Indian culture, he knows it’s in my blood. When I consider it, our dreams aren’t so different at all; it’s only a matter of circumstance. The twinkle in my eye is only a reflection of the stars I reach for- and I can’t help but have this feeling that he’s seen those stars before, he’s reached for them and that now, more than ever, his dream is for me to make mine a reality.
So when he joins me in singing a Rod Stewart classic, or when I try to keep up with a folk song in Gujarati, our native tongue, I hear more than just two raspy morning-breath voices. I hear music.
is it worth $100,000? please feel free to comment.
Saturday, October 30, 2004
Thursday, October 21, 2004
tomorrow im going to the place that i've been infatuated with for as long as i can remember. if it's possible, i feel like it's the place that i was supposed to live in. i know, it's populous- hell, crowded- for a reason: broadway, saks, the rockettes- what's not to love? but i feel like its different that i've known since i was eleven that will live there someday. it's weird but, i feel like a part of me is in the core of that big apple... or maybe its the other way around
Friday, October 15, 2004
ok, i enabled the comment thing on my blog. i'm not quite sure why; maybe it's out of curiosity or sheer hubris, i dunno. nevertheless, comment if you feel the need- if you have something to say, that is. if not, don't bother, you can post comments on my livejournal for frivolous matters. i think im a blog snob, maybe it's because i was a blog reader before anything else, and the blogs i read were really really good blogs... they were written by writers, you know? so i only blog when its important and when i mean it. so please, only comment if you mean it. you can join my elitist blog regime
Wednesday, October 13, 2004
from a mixed media piece by david wojnarowicz (read it aloud) :
"When I put my hands on your body on your flesh I feel the history of that body. Not just the beginning of its forming in that distant lake but all the way beyond its ending. I feel the warmth and texture and simultaneously I see the flesh unwrap from the layers of fat and disappear. I see the fat disappear from the muscle. I see the muscle disappearing from around the organs and detaching itself from the bones. I see the organs gradually fade into transparency leaving a gloaming skeleton gleaming like ivory that slowly revolves until it becomes dust. I am consumed in the sense of your weight the way your flesh occupies momentary space the fullness of it beneath my palms. I am amazed at how perfectly your body fits to the curves of my hands. If I could attach our blood vessels so we could become each other I would. If I could attach our blood vessels in order to anchor you to the earth to this present time to me I would. If I could open up your body and slip inside your skin and look out your eyes and forever have my lips fused with yours I would. It makes me weep to feel the history of your flesh beneath my hands in a time of so much loss. It makes me weep to feel the movement of your flesh beneath my palms as you twist and turn over to one side to create a series of gestures to reach up around my neck to draw me nearer. All these memories will be lost in time like tears in the rain." - David Wojnarowicz [The Estate Project]
-brilliant
"When I put my hands on your body on your flesh I feel the history of that body. Not just the beginning of its forming in that distant lake but all the way beyond its ending. I feel the warmth and texture and simultaneously I see the flesh unwrap from the layers of fat and disappear. I see the fat disappear from the muscle. I see the muscle disappearing from around the organs and detaching itself from the bones. I see the organs gradually fade into transparency leaving a gloaming skeleton gleaming like ivory that slowly revolves until it becomes dust. I am consumed in the sense of your weight the way your flesh occupies momentary space the fullness of it beneath my palms. I am amazed at how perfectly your body fits to the curves of my hands. If I could attach our blood vessels so we could become each other I would. If I could attach our blood vessels in order to anchor you to the earth to this present time to me I would. If I could open up your body and slip inside your skin and look out your eyes and forever have my lips fused with yours I would. It makes me weep to feel the history of your flesh beneath my hands in a time of so much loss. It makes me weep to feel the movement of your flesh beneath my palms as you twist and turn over to one side to create a series of gestures to reach up around my neck to draw me nearer. All these memories will be lost in time like tears in the rain." - David Wojnarowicz [The Estate Project]
-brilliant
Sunday, September 12, 2004
i'm lucky to be who i am, and i'm grateful for it. because while i don't always like my surroundings or the place i am physically, i always manage to stay in a healthy state of mind. i'm glad i havent compromised myself or my goals and opinions. i love me. and i think that'll keep me from screwing myself over.
Sunday, September 05, 2004
Monday, August 30, 2004
i'm really enjoying this not having much to do stuff... i keep thinking im forgetting something. and lately i've been thinking about things that evoke really specific feelings but then i lose the thought and am left with the feelings, which range from one extreme to the other, but still manage to make me feel the way i feel when someone's just told me a really secretive secret and i kind of cant help but smile and not worry about what it is that im forgetting, because, really, it doesn't matter what it is, its just how it feels, right?
that was one sentence. now you know its foram talking, lest you forget.
that was one sentence. now you know its foram talking, lest you forget.
Tuesday, August 24, 2004
Last night my brother called me to tell me a little something and ask me where I was, like he normally did at home; it was the question that i most frequently hung up on him for. Anyway,
I made a list of the things I miss (which I will absolutely deny if brought up in conversation):
not having any towels in the bathroom (because he uses everyone's towels...which is just too gross to really put into words)
hearing the rumble of his running up the stairs and then the thunder that soon followed when he would fall down them after tripping over his feet
of course, the loud music that always kept me up at night, and the clatter in the kitchen at two in the morning (while he made himself a midnight snack
the fact that he was always awake in the middle of the night when I got home late, so instead of fiddling with my key to open the front door, I could just tap on his window and ask him to let me in.
that stupid whistle that i'd always hoped he'd grow out of.
So thats my list of the little things so far. those stupid little things that make me laugh and manage to put tears in my eyes. those things that'll probably drive me crazy again when he comes home to visit.
I made a list of the things I miss (which I will absolutely deny if brought up in conversation):
not having any towels in the bathroom (because he uses everyone's towels...which is just too gross to really put into words)
hearing the rumble of his running up the stairs and then the thunder that soon followed when he would fall down them after tripping over his feet
of course, the loud music that always kept me up at night, and the clatter in the kitchen at two in the morning (while he made himself a midnight snack
the fact that he was always awake in the middle of the night when I got home late, so instead of fiddling with my key to open the front door, I could just tap on his window and ask him to let me in.
that stupid whistle that i'd always hoped he'd grow out of.
So thats my list of the little things so far. those stupid little things that make me laugh and manage to put tears in my eyes. those things that'll probably drive me crazy again when he comes home to visit.
Sunday, August 01, 2004
Thursday, July 15, 2004
today is my dad's 52nd birthday, and we're celebrating it the same way we've done for years... having the extended family over for dinner and the live musical entertainment of my dad, uncle, and aunt. both my father and uncle are classically trained musicians, dad on tabla and uncle on harmonium, and my aunt is a trained singer. so when they play together, sparks fly. they sing the old old indian songs that they've sung all my life, songs that they grew up with, and re-created for me to grow up with. i close my eyes and listen, and sometimes secretly sing along in my mind, and sometimes, i get a lump in my throat because the next thing i know, i feel fireworks in my stomach, and i feel nothing but love. and, every year, my clandestine emotions that stay deeply seeded in my thoughts for the other 364 days , pop to the surface, and spark my dreams all over again.
Wednesday, July 14, 2004
... a lot of people say that loneliness is the worst feeling in the world, but i find something exciting about it. when i feel truly lonely, i sometimes get this rush of hope, this feeling of expectation, this sense of optimism... as if i'm bursting with so much love and passion and friendship that i'm just so ready and willing to give and receive. i don't know, call it masochism, tragic optimism, whatever. i think that that's why when love does come around, in all forms, i'll able to really appreciate it and hold on to it.
Thursday, July 08, 2004
my teacher's teacher has come from india for the summer so i've been dancing everyday for the past two weeks. i love it. i've learned two new incredible dances -- and painful. so painful. but i love every second of it. it's indescribable watching sarma sir (my teacher's teacher) choreograph. it's as if he closes his eyes and zooms out of everything and under his breath he hums the melody and on his fingers counts the beats and weaves them together into the most complex combinations... its crazy. it's so inspiring. i love this
Saturday, June 26, 2004
Wednesday, June 09, 2004
"My Fatal Flaw
The more things change, the more they stay the same. I'm not sure who the first person was who said that. Probably Shakespeare. Or maybe Sting. But at the moment, it's the sentence that best explains my tragic flaw: my inability to change.
I don't think I'm alone in this. The more I get to know other people, the more I realize it's kind of everyone's flaw. Staying exactly the same for as long as possible, standing perfectly still... It feels safer somehow. And if you are suffering, at least the pain is familiar. Because if you took that leap of faith, went outside the box, did something unexpected... Who knows what other pain might be out there, waiting for you. Chances are it could be even worse.
So you maintain the status quo. Choose the road already traveled and it doesn't seem that bad. Not as far as flaws go. You're not a drug addict. You're not killing anyone... Except maybe yourself a little.
When we finally do change, I don't think it happens like an earthquake or an explosion, where all of a sudden we're a different person. I think it's smaller than that. The kind of thing most people wouldn't even notice unless they looked at us really close. Which, thank God, they never do.
But you notice it. Inside you that change feels like a world of difference. And you hope this is it. This is the person you get to be forever... that you'll never have to change again. "
i didn't write it, but i wish i had
anyway, i can identify
The more things change, the more they stay the same. I'm not sure who the first person was who said that. Probably Shakespeare. Or maybe Sting. But at the moment, it's the sentence that best explains my tragic flaw: my inability to change.
I don't think I'm alone in this. The more I get to know other people, the more I realize it's kind of everyone's flaw. Staying exactly the same for as long as possible, standing perfectly still... It feels safer somehow. And if you are suffering, at least the pain is familiar. Because if you took that leap of faith, went outside the box, did something unexpected... Who knows what other pain might be out there, waiting for you. Chances are it could be even worse.
So you maintain the status quo. Choose the road already traveled and it doesn't seem that bad. Not as far as flaws go. You're not a drug addict. You're not killing anyone... Except maybe yourself a little.
When we finally do change, I don't think it happens like an earthquake or an explosion, where all of a sudden we're a different person. I think it's smaller than that. The kind of thing most people wouldn't even notice unless they looked at us really close. Which, thank God, they never do.
But you notice it. Inside you that change feels like a world of difference. And you hope this is it. This is the person you get to be forever... that you'll never have to change again. "
i didn't write it, but i wish i had
anyway, i can identify
Thursday, May 27, 2004
Love and Genes Can Beat Poverty -Study
Wed May 26, 6:15 AM ET Add Science - Reuters to My Yahoo!
LONDON (Reuters) - Love and genes can overcome even the most abject poverty, according to a study into the effects of environmental factors on child development.
The study of 1,116 mothers and their five-year-old same-sex twins in poor households in England and Wales found that poverty did not have to be a life sentence and the right combination of parental care and genetics could triumph over adversity.
"Children in our study experienced more than just poverty as measured by family income level, Julia Kim-Cohen of the Institute of Psychiatry at King's College in London wrote in the May issue of the journal Child Development.
"Living in the poorest neighborhoods, their homes were rated as being overcrowded, damp or in disrepair," she added.
The study differentiated between twins sharing all the same genes and those sharing only half.
It showed that genetic makeup does play a role in the ability of children to rise above their poverty and not suffer behavioral or cognitive setbacks, but it was not the whole answer.
"The warmth, mental stimulation and interest that parents pay toward their young children can make a big difference in their children's lives," Kim-Cohen said.
Fellow researcher Terrie Moffitt said they only studied mothers because in many of the poorest households the father was absent, so trying to look at both parents in families where the father was still present would have skewed the study.
"The main point of the research is that neither genes nor poverty can determine a child's fate," Kim-Cohen said.
.... fascinating... just how many mothers with five-year old twins living in poverty are there in England and Wales? (around 1,600, i guess)
Wed May 26, 6:15 AM ET Add Science - Reuters to My Yahoo!
LONDON (Reuters) - Love and genes can overcome even the most abject poverty, according to a study into the effects of environmental factors on child development.
The study of 1,116 mothers and their five-year-old same-sex twins in poor households in England and Wales found that poverty did not have to be a life sentence and the right combination of parental care and genetics could triumph over adversity.
"Children in our study experienced more than just poverty as measured by family income level, Julia Kim-Cohen of the Institute of Psychiatry at King's College in London wrote in the May issue of the journal Child Development.
"Living in the poorest neighborhoods, their homes were rated as being overcrowded, damp or in disrepair," she added.
The study differentiated between twins sharing all the same genes and those sharing only half.
It showed that genetic makeup does play a role in the ability of children to rise above their poverty and not suffer behavioral or cognitive setbacks, but it was not the whole answer.
"The warmth, mental stimulation and interest that parents pay toward their young children can make a big difference in their children's lives," Kim-Cohen said.
Fellow researcher Terrie Moffitt said they only studied mothers because in many of the poorest households the father was absent, so trying to look at both parents in families where the father was still present would have skewed the study.
"The main point of the research is that neither genes nor poverty can determine a child's fate," Kim-Cohen said.
.... fascinating... just how many mothers with five-year old twins living in poverty are there in England and Wales? (around 1,600, i guess)
Saturday, May 22, 2004
The Essay I’ll Never Send
I am not a genius. In fact, I’m far from it. I’m even, dare I say it, a drama kid. I hope you’re sitting down for this one. For most of my life I’ve been labeled as “gifted” by teachers and administrators because of what I think is one of the greatest stunts ever pulled. You see, my brother is an intelligent bastard. I say this in the most admiring, caring, little-sister way. Because my brother’s impeccable ability to not only grasp information, but to use this knowledge to his advantage in argument (which is one of his greatest hobbies) not only accidentally labeled me as one of his kind (simply because we are of the same kin), but supported this suspicion (for my brother would fight to the death if I were considered incapable in any way by anyone other than himself.)
My parents are smart cookies. And I guess, scientifically, hereditarily, logically, they produced smart offspring. But like I said, I’m really not as intelligent as everyone thinks I am. But here I am, selling myself to you like so many others, wrapped up neat and clean in a little package ready to be opened. I am who you are looking for: Driven, Motivated, Determined, and Redundant. It is in this twisted form of prostitution that we all await your Judgment, the way we have been taught to await it; with the knowledge that your decision will significantly alter our futures.
Well-- let –me--tell -- you Mr. Undergraduate Admissions Honcho, as well qualified and perceptive as you may be, this is one future you can’t change. Because I’ve got one thing that you really can’t see on a transcript, or even on paper for that matter. I’ve got the thing that separates the gifted in life from the gifted on paper. I’ve got It. I can feel it in my veins, pumping through my blood; I can see it in my reflection; I can hear it in my head. I’ve got that one indescribable, incomparable, irreplaceable quality that no one can actually put their finger on. And I have every intention of being famous. I’ll win a Nobel Peace Prize, or an Academy Award-- or maybe both. You’re kids will know my name- your kids’ kids will know my name. And I will do great things in the world- you can bet on it. How’s that for Gifted?
I am not a genius. In fact, I’m far from it. I’m even, dare I say it, a drama kid. I hope you’re sitting down for this one. For most of my life I’ve been labeled as “gifted” by teachers and administrators because of what I think is one of the greatest stunts ever pulled. You see, my brother is an intelligent bastard. I say this in the most admiring, caring, little-sister way. Because my brother’s impeccable ability to not only grasp information, but to use this knowledge to his advantage in argument (which is one of his greatest hobbies) not only accidentally labeled me as one of his kind (simply because we are of the same kin), but supported this suspicion (for my brother would fight to the death if I were considered incapable in any way by anyone other than himself.)
My parents are smart cookies. And I guess, scientifically, hereditarily, logically, they produced smart offspring. But like I said, I’m really not as intelligent as everyone thinks I am. But here I am, selling myself to you like so many others, wrapped up neat and clean in a little package ready to be opened. I am who you are looking for: Driven, Motivated, Determined, and Redundant. It is in this twisted form of prostitution that we all await your Judgment, the way we have been taught to await it; with the knowledge that your decision will significantly alter our futures.
Well-- let –me--tell -- you Mr. Undergraduate Admissions Honcho, as well qualified and perceptive as you may be, this is one future you can’t change. Because I’ve got one thing that you really can’t see on a transcript, or even on paper for that matter. I’ve got the thing that separates the gifted in life from the gifted on paper. I’ve got It. I can feel it in my veins, pumping through my blood; I can see it in my reflection; I can hear it in my head. I’ve got that one indescribable, incomparable, irreplaceable quality that no one can actually put their finger on. And I have every intention of being famous. I’ll win a Nobel Peace Prize, or an Academy Award-- or maybe both. You’re kids will know my name- your kids’ kids will know my name. And I will do great things in the world- you can bet on it. How’s that for Gifted?
Thursday, May 20, 2004
I have a tendency to frighten people. Not intentionally, of course. And not in the Oh-my-god-look-at-that-thing-growing-out-of-her-head sort of way, but rather in the Oh-good-god-what’s-wrong-with-her sense. You see, I’m a rather excitable person, and in my mere 5-foot-1 frame, I can easily be mistaken for a rampant dwarf. While most people would consider this flamboyancy a negative trait, I find it to be the single most enhancing aspect of my life. I don’t use the term “enhancing” loosely; I mean it in the very sense of the word. I mean that I derive more pleasure from a plastic spoon than most do from a full-length feature film. I often talk to myself in my own quirky banter, pausing only to nod hello to a friend or say “excusez-moi” to an imposing trashcan. And yes, though it earns me awkward stares and muffled giggles, it never seems to make me think twice about myself-- because that’s who I am.
So, who am I? I must be pretty safe in my own skin to be able to receive such reactions. The answer is nonexistent, largely because I really don’t know who I am quite yet, nor who I’m going to be for that matter; but this makes more sense for a 16-year-old someone than for a 40-year-old someone pushing mid-life crisis. In an age where catharsis is as close by as your nearest plastic surgeon, “finding yourself” has become a staple in everyone’s diet. But what I’ve found after years of Oprah and MTV is that we are not just made up of a conglomeration of places and people and experiences, we are made of clay: malleable and ever-mutating clay. This mutability has created some of the most brilliant minds and the most innovative people- the ones who took advantage of their constantly changing personas. I guess that’s where the acceptance should be; not of who you are, but of the truth that you might not be the same person tomorrow. And maybe that’s what makes life so exciting; that you can get to know yourself a little bit more everyday, and just when you think you know who you are, you can surprise yourself. It keeps life from getting boring- and that’s one thing I refuse to be: boring.
So I continue to walk with myself, not ignoring the varied reactions from passers-by but rather acknowledging them with a smile. I’m just getting to know myself before everything changes; it’s only a matter of time.
So, who am I? I must be pretty safe in my own skin to be able to receive such reactions. The answer is nonexistent, largely because I really don’t know who I am quite yet, nor who I’m going to be for that matter; but this makes more sense for a 16-year-old someone than for a 40-year-old someone pushing mid-life crisis. In an age where catharsis is as close by as your nearest plastic surgeon, “finding yourself” has become a staple in everyone’s diet. But what I’ve found after years of Oprah and MTV is that we are not just made up of a conglomeration of places and people and experiences, we are made of clay: malleable and ever-mutating clay. This mutability has created some of the most brilliant minds and the most innovative people- the ones who took advantage of their constantly changing personas. I guess that’s where the acceptance should be; not of who you are, but of the truth that you might not be the same person tomorrow. And maybe that’s what makes life so exciting; that you can get to know yourself a little bit more everyday, and just when you think you know who you are, you can surprise yourself. It keeps life from getting boring- and that’s one thing I refuse to be: boring.
So I continue to walk with myself, not ignoring the varied reactions from passers-by but rather acknowledging them with a smile. I’m just getting to know myself before everything changes; it’s only a matter of time.
Wednesday, May 12, 2004
June On The West Coast
by Bright Eyes
Album : Letting off the Happiness
I spent a week drinking the sunlight of Winnetka, California
Where they understand the weight of human hearts
You see, sorrow gets too heavy and joy it tends to hold you
With the fear that it eventually departs
And the truth is I’ve been dreaming of some tired tranquil place
Where the weather won’t get trapped inside my bones
And if all the years of searching find one sympathetic face
Then it's there I'll plant these seeds and make my home
I spent a day dreaming of dying in Mesa, Arizona
Where all the green of life had turned to ash
And I felt I was on fire, with the things I could have told you
I just assumed that you eventually would ask
And I wouldn’t have to bring up my so badly broken heart
And all those months I just wanted to sleep
And though spring, it did come slowly, I guess it did its part
My heart has thawed and continues to beat
And I visited my brother on the outskirts of Olympia
Where the forest and the water become one
And we talked about our childhood
like a dream we were convinced of
That perfect, peaceful street that we came from
And I know he heard me strumming all those sad and simple chords
As I sat inside my room so long ago
And it hurts that he’s still shaking from those secrets that were told
By a car closed up too tight and a heart turned cold
And I went to San Diego, and the birthplace of the summer
And watched the ocean dance under the moon
There was a girl I knew there, one more potential lover
I guess that something’s gotta happen soon
Cause I know I can’t keep living in this dead or dying dream
As I walked along the beach and drank with her
I thought about my true love, the one I really need
With eyes that burn so bright, they make me pure
They make me pure, they make me pure
I long to be with you
They make me pure, they make me pure
I long to be with you
by Bright Eyes
Album : Letting off the Happiness
I spent a week drinking the sunlight of Winnetka, California
Where they understand the weight of human hearts
You see, sorrow gets too heavy and joy it tends to hold you
With the fear that it eventually departs
And the truth is I’ve been dreaming of some tired tranquil place
Where the weather won’t get trapped inside my bones
And if all the years of searching find one sympathetic face
Then it's there I'll plant these seeds and make my home
I spent a day dreaming of dying in Mesa, Arizona
Where all the green of life had turned to ash
And I felt I was on fire, with the things I could have told you
I just assumed that you eventually would ask
And I wouldn’t have to bring up my so badly broken heart
And all those months I just wanted to sleep
And though spring, it did come slowly, I guess it did its part
My heart has thawed and continues to beat
And I visited my brother on the outskirts of Olympia
Where the forest and the water become one
And we talked about our childhood
like a dream we were convinced of
That perfect, peaceful street that we came from
And I know he heard me strumming all those sad and simple chords
As I sat inside my room so long ago
And it hurts that he’s still shaking from those secrets that were told
By a car closed up too tight and a heart turned cold
And I went to San Diego, and the birthplace of the summer
And watched the ocean dance under the moon
There was a girl I knew there, one more potential lover
I guess that something’s gotta happen soon
Cause I know I can’t keep living in this dead or dying dream
As I walked along the beach and drank with her
I thought about my true love, the one I really need
With eyes that burn so bright, they make me pure
They make me pure, they make me pure
I long to be with you
They make me pure, they make me pure
I long to be with you
Monday, May 10, 2004
When I was fourteen, I slept alone on a North Dakota football field under the cold stars on an early spring night. Fall progresses early in the Red River Valley, and I happened to hit a night when frost formed in the grass. A skunk trailed a plume of steam across the forty-yard line near moonrise. I tucked the top of my sleeping bag over my head and was just dozing off when the skunk walked onto me with simple authority.
Its ripe odor must have dissipated in the frozen earth of its winterlong hibernation, because it didn't smell all that bad, or perhaps it was just that I took shallow breaths in numb surprise. I felt him—her, whatever—pause on the side of my hip and turn around twice before evidently deciding I was a good place to sleep. At the back of my knees, on the quilting of my sleeping bag, it trod out a spot for itself and then, with a serene little groan, curled up and lay perfectly still. That made two of us. I was wildly awake, trying to forget the sharpness and number of skunk teeth, trying not to think of the high percentage of skunks with rabies, or the reason that on camping trips my father always kept a hatchet underneath his pillow.
Inside the bag, I felt as if I might smother. Carefully, making only the slightest of rustles, I drew the bag away from my face and took a deep breath of the night air, enriched with skunk, but clear and watery and cold. It wasn't so bad, and the skunk didn't stir at all, so I watched the moon—caught that night in an envelope of silk, a mist—pass over my sleeping field of teenage guts and glory. The grass in spring that has lain beneath the snow harbors a sere dust both old and fresh. I smelled that newness beneath the rank tone of my bag-mate—the stiff fragrance of damp earth and the thick pungency of newly manured fields a mile or two away—along with my sleeping bag's smell, slightly mildewed, forever smoky. The skunk settled even closer and began to breathe rapidly; its feet jerked a little like a dog's. I sank against the earth, and fell asleep too.
Of what easily tipped cans, what molten sludge, what dogs in yards on chains, what leftover macaroni casseroles, what cellar holes, crawl spaces, burrows taken from meek woodchucks, of what miracles of garbage did my skunk dream? Or did it, since we can't be sure, dream the plot of Moby-Dick, how to properly age parmesan, or how to restore the brick-walled, tumbledown creamery that was its home? We don't know about the dreams of any other biota, and even much about our own. If dreams are an actual dimension, as some assert, then the usual rules of life by which we abide do not apply. In that place, skunks may certainly dream themselves into the vests of stockbrokers. Perhaps that night the skunk and I dreamed each other's thoughts or are still dreaming them. To paraphrase the problem of the Chinese sage, I may be a woman who has dreamed herself a skunk, or a skunk still dreaming that she is a woman.
Skunks don't mind each other's vile perfume. Obviously, they find each other more than tolerable. And even I, who have been in the presence of a direct skunk hit, wouldn't classify their weapon as mere smell. It is more on the order of a reality-enhancing experience. It's not so pleasant as standing in a grove of old-growth red cedars, or on a lyrical moonshed plain, or watching trout rise to the shadow of your hand on the placid surface of an alpine lake. When the skunk lets go, you're surrounded by skunk presence: inhabited, owned, involved with something you can only describe as powerfully there.
I woke at dawn, stunned into that sprayed state of being. The dog that had approached me was rolling in the grass, half-addled, sprayed too. The skunk was gone. I abandoned my sleeping bag and started home. Up Eighth Street, past the tiny blue and pink houses, past my grade school, past all the addresses where I had baby-sat, I walked in my own strange wind. The streets were wide and empty; I met no one—not a dog, not a squirrel, not even an early robin. Perhaps they had all scattered before me, blocks away. I had gone out to sleep on the football field because I was afflicted with a sadness I had to dramatize. Mood swings had begun, hormones, feverish and brutal. They were nothing to me now. My emotions had seemed vast, dark, and sickeningly private. But they were minor, mere wisps, compared to skunk.
~ Louise Erdrich
Its ripe odor must have dissipated in the frozen earth of its winterlong hibernation, because it didn't smell all that bad, or perhaps it was just that I took shallow breaths in numb surprise. I felt him—her, whatever—pause on the side of my hip and turn around twice before evidently deciding I was a good place to sleep. At the back of my knees, on the quilting of my sleeping bag, it trod out a spot for itself and then, with a serene little groan, curled up and lay perfectly still. That made two of us. I was wildly awake, trying to forget the sharpness and number of skunk teeth, trying not to think of the high percentage of skunks with rabies, or the reason that on camping trips my father always kept a hatchet underneath his pillow.
Inside the bag, I felt as if I might smother. Carefully, making only the slightest of rustles, I drew the bag away from my face and took a deep breath of the night air, enriched with skunk, but clear and watery and cold. It wasn't so bad, and the skunk didn't stir at all, so I watched the moon—caught that night in an envelope of silk, a mist—pass over my sleeping field of teenage guts and glory. The grass in spring that has lain beneath the snow harbors a sere dust both old and fresh. I smelled that newness beneath the rank tone of my bag-mate—the stiff fragrance of damp earth and the thick pungency of newly manured fields a mile or two away—along with my sleeping bag's smell, slightly mildewed, forever smoky. The skunk settled even closer and began to breathe rapidly; its feet jerked a little like a dog's. I sank against the earth, and fell asleep too.
Of what easily tipped cans, what molten sludge, what dogs in yards on chains, what leftover macaroni casseroles, what cellar holes, crawl spaces, burrows taken from meek woodchucks, of what miracles of garbage did my skunk dream? Or did it, since we can't be sure, dream the plot of Moby-Dick, how to properly age parmesan, or how to restore the brick-walled, tumbledown creamery that was its home? We don't know about the dreams of any other biota, and even much about our own. If dreams are an actual dimension, as some assert, then the usual rules of life by which we abide do not apply. In that place, skunks may certainly dream themselves into the vests of stockbrokers. Perhaps that night the skunk and I dreamed each other's thoughts or are still dreaming them. To paraphrase the problem of the Chinese sage, I may be a woman who has dreamed herself a skunk, or a skunk still dreaming that she is a woman.
Skunks don't mind each other's vile perfume. Obviously, they find each other more than tolerable. And even I, who have been in the presence of a direct skunk hit, wouldn't classify their weapon as mere smell. It is more on the order of a reality-enhancing experience. It's not so pleasant as standing in a grove of old-growth red cedars, or on a lyrical moonshed plain, or watching trout rise to the shadow of your hand on the placid surface of an alpine lake. When the skunk lets go, you're surrounded by skunk presence: inhabited, owned, involved with something you can only describe as powerfully there.
I woke at dawn, stunned into that sprayed state of being. The dog that had approached me was rolling in the grass, half-addled, sprayed too. The skunk was gone. I abandoned my sleeping bag and started home. Up Eighth Street, past the tiny blue and pink houses, past my grade school, past all the addresses where I had baby-sat, I walked in my own strange wind. The streets were wide and empty; I met no one—not a dog, not a squirrel, not even an early robin. Perhaps they had all scattered before me, blocks away. I had gone out to sleep on the football field because I was afflicted with a sadness I had to dramatize. Mood swings had begun, hormones, feverish and brutal. They were nothing to me now. My emotions had seemed vast, dark, and sickeningly private. But they were minor, mere wisps, compared to skunk.
~ Louise Erdrich
Jill's mom brought me back an English-Tagalog translation book from the Phillipines and it is the coolest thing. i can say all sorts of things like...
"kailangang aregluhing panibago ang karburador."
"the carburetor needs readjusting"
and
"Walang bagong aklat si Pedro"
"Pedro does not have a new book."
"kailangang aregluhing panibago ang karburador."
"the carburetor needs readjusting"
and
"Walang bagong aklat si Pedro"
"Pedro does not have a new book."
Friday, April 30, 2004
last night i had my dance class and it was wonderful. it was one of those classes that i have once in a while where i leave with butterflies in my stomach. the dance im learning is so beautiful, its not difficult to learn it because it goes so well with the music, its hard to believe that one came before the other, it feels like they were created together, for eachother. its amazing.
i remember watching senior dancers when i was 9 years old in awe. i used to hope to dance like them, i still do. its so weird and surprising to feel close to something like that. its amazing.
i remember watching senior dancers when i was 9 years old in awe. i used to hope to dance like them, i still do. its so weird and surprising to feel close to something like that. its amazing.
Sunday, April 25, 2004
Half a mile from home, at the farther edge of the woods, where the land was highest, a great pine-tree stood, the last of its generation. Whether it was left for a boundary mark, or for what reason, no one could say; the woodchoppers who had felled its mates were dead and gone long ago, and a whole forest of sturdy trees, pines and oaks and maples, had grown again. But the stately head of this old pine towered above them all and made a landmark for sea and shore miles and miles away. Sylvia knew it well. She had always believed that whoever climbed to the top of it could see the ocean; and the little girl had often laid her hand on the great rough trunk and looked up wistfully at those dark boughs that the wind always stirred, no matter how hot and still the air might be below.
There was the huge tree asleep yet in the paling moonlight, and small and silly Sylvia began with utmost bravery to mount to the top of it, with tingling, eager blood coursing the channels of her whole frame, with her bare feet and fingers, that pinched and held like bird's claws to the monstrous ladder reaching up, up, almost to the sky itself. First she must mount the white oak tree that grew alongside, where she was almost lost among the dark branches and the green leaves heavy and wet with dew; a bird fluttered off its nest, and a red squirrel ran to and fro and scolded pettishly at the harmless housebreaker. Sylvia felt her way easily. She had often climbed there, and knew that higher still one of the oak's upper branches chafed against the pine trunk, just where its lower boughs were set close together. There, when she made the dangerous pass from one tree to the other, the great enterprise would really begin.
She crept out along the swaying oak limb at last, and took the daring step across into the old pine-tree. The way was harder than she thought; she must reach far and hold fast, the sharp dry twigs caught and held her and scratched her like angry talons, the pitch made her thin little fingers clumsy and stiff as she went round and round the tree's great stem, higher and higher upward. The sparrows and robins in the woods below were beginning to wake and twitter to the dawn, yet it seemed much lighter there aloft in the pine-tree, and the child knew that she must hurry if her project were to be of any use.
The tree seemed to lengthen itself out as she went up, and to reach farther and farther upward. It was like a great main-mast to the voyaging earth; it must truly have been amazed that morning through all its ponderous frame as it felt this determined spark of human spirit creeping and climbing its way from higher branch to branch. Who knows how steadily the least twigs held themselves to advantage this light, weak creature on her way! The old pine must have loved his new dependent. More than all the hawks, and bats, and moths, and even the sweet-voiced thrushes, was the brave, beating heart of the solitary gray-eyed child. And the tree stood still and held away the winds that June morning while the dawn grew bright in the east.
Sylvia's face was like a pale star, if one had seen it from the ground, when the last thorny bough was past, and she stood trembling and tired but wholly triumphant, high in the tree-top. Yes, there was the sea with the dawning sun making a golden dazzle over it, and toward that glorious east flew two hawks with slow-moving pinions. How low they looked in the air from that height when before one had only seen them far up, and dark against the blue sky. Their gray feathers were as soft as moths; they seemed only a little way from the tree, and Sylvia felt as if she too could go flying away among the clouds. Westward, the woodlands and farms reached miles and miles into the distance; here and there were church steeples, and white villages; truly it was a vast and awesome world.
~ Sarah Orne Jewett
There was the huge tree asleep yet in the paling moonlight, and small and silly Sylvia began with utmost bravery to mount to the top of it, with tingling, eager blood coursing the channels of her whole frame, with her bare feet and fingers, that pinched and held like bird's claws to the monstrous ladder reaching up, up, almost to the sky itself. First she must mount the white oak tree that grew alongside, where she was almost lost among the dark branches and the green leaves heavy and wet with dew; a bird fluttered off its nest, and a red squirrel ran to and fro and scolded pettishly at the harmless housebreaker. Sylvia felt her way easily. She had often climbed there, and knew that higher still one of the oak's upper branches chafed against the pine trunk, just where its lower boughs were set close together. There, when she made the dangerous pass from one tree to the other, the great enterprise would really begin.
She crept out along the swaying oak limb at last, and took the daring step across into the old pine-tree. The way was harder than she thought; she must reach far and hold fast, the sharp dry twigs caught and held her and scratched her like angry talons, the pitch made her thin little fingers clumsy and stiff as she went round and round the tree's great stem, higher and higher upward. The sparrows and robins in the woods below were beginning to wake and twitter to the dawn, yet it seemed much lighter there aloft in the pine-tree, and the child knew that she must hurry if her project were to be of any use.
The tree seemed to lengthen itself out as she went up, and to reach farther and farther upward. It was like a great main-mast to the voyaging earth; it must truly have been amazed that morning through all its ponderous frame as it felt this determined spark of human spirit creeping and climbing its way from higher branch to branch. Who knows how steadily the least twigs held themselves to advantage this light, weak creature on her way! The old pine must have loved his new dependent. More than all the hawks, and bats, and moths, and even the sweet-voiced thrushes, was the brave, beating heart of the solitary gray-eyed child. And the tree stood still and held away the winds that June morning while the dawn grew bright in the east.
Sylvia's face was like a pale star, if one had seen it from the ground, when the last thorny bough was past, and she stood trembling and tired but wholly triumphant, high in the tree-top. Yes, there was the sea with the dawning sun making a golden dazzle over it, and toward that glorious east flew two hawks with slow-moving pinions. How low they looked in the air from that height when before one had only seen them far up, and dark against the blue sky. Their gray feathers were as soft as moths; they seemed only a little way from the tree, and Sylvia felt as if she too could go flying away among the clouds. Westward, the woodlands and farms reached miles and miles into the distance; here and there were church steeples, and white villages; truly it was a vast and awesome world.
~ Sarah Orne Jewett
Saturday, April 24, 2004
So yesterday my brother officially decided that he's going to go to berkeley. i fully support his decision... such a great school, in such a wonderful area... with an urban outfitters so close by! how can you go wrong!?everythngs going to be really really quiet without him though. its gonna be weird
Thursday, April 15, 2004
today i had my first official swim mete as an individual swimmer. i swam the 50 free and 100 free and placed 2nd and 1st, respectively. it was so exciting. im very happy about it. its kind of weird because these past weeks ive been so bothered by swimming and ive been resisting the idea of quitting (which i wont let myself do) and ive been dealing with a couple of mean girls on the team. i wish i could say that ive been trying my hardest but i havent and now i think im ready to swim like hell.
Wednesday, March 17, 2004
today my brother and i decided to take two separate routes home (something we never do) because he wanted to go to mcdonalds and i wanted to go to sav-on. i always take forever in sav-on because i get so caught up with the sales and the shampoo and the chapstick and the candy that it takes me far too long to get out of the store. when i got home i expected to arrive after my brother, because he does know how to go through those fast food lines fairly quickly, and i did. i went to my room and as i was putting away my newly acquired chapstick and mentos i heard my brother screaming my name. i responded, kind of startled by the worry in his voice, and i he came to me so relieved and told me that he thought i had been abducted and was getting ready to go look for me. he told me that he said to himself, "the last time i ever see my little sister she's wearing jeans and an orange shirt!" i smiled and said, "i'm wearing purple."
Tuesday, March 16, 2004
these past few days have been so sad, im trying really hard to not think about the past or the future, which is really unlike me. there seems to be a permanent lump in my throat that when i try to clear away, makes tears spring up to my eyes. its kind of stupid and impossible to try to make up for all the years that we ignored eachother and hated eachother and physically abused eachother. and i really dont want to because all of that only makes me smile. i have such a good brother and he loves me and he tells me and i know it. i said it before and i really do mean it- after all these years that ive been waiting for his departure from home, im more excited about his arrival into the world.
Monday, March 08, 2004
my dad just walked in chuckling to himself and said to me (in between fits of laughter):
"you know, i'm watching this 'seventh heaven' show on tv... (choked up in laughter)... and theres some guy who... who... thinks hes... nap-p-p-olean! (with a big grin)... oh man, i just think... there's someone writing this stuff, and this is darn good writing. darn good writing"
oh boy. i cant find one thing in that that isnt funny.
"you know, i'm watching this 'seventh heaven' show on tv... (choked up in laughter)... and theres some guy who... who... thinks hes... nap-p-p-olean! (with a big grin)... oh man, i just think... there's someone writing this stuff, and this is darn good writing. darn good writing"
oh boy. i cant find one thing in that that isnt funny.
Thursday, February 26, 2004
today my brother and i were riding home in the car:
"foram? time?"
"brother, 7:18"
"temperature?"
puzzled, "approximately 67 degrees"
"forecast?" "partly cloudy with a chance of rain" (speaking for me)
"no, partly sunny"
"ah, the optimist's forecast, i see."
well, it was funny. i guess you just had to be there
"foram? time?"
"brother, 7:18"
"temperature?"
puzzled, "approximately 67 degrees"
"forecast?" "partly cloudy with a chance of rain" (speaking for me)
"no, partly sunny"
"ah, the optimist's forecast, i see."
well, it was funny. i guess you just had to be there
Monday, February 02, 2004
i think im really lucky to have the friends i have. my parents always said that im lucky that i have the ability to choose good friends, but in reality, theyre the ones that choose me. whenever i go to hillary's concerts, gill tells me what a good friend i am. i never really know what to say; i dont do go because i think that its my duty or anything, i do it because i love her. after all these traumatic, divine, seemingly endless years, i still love her. because really, she's grown into me; which seems so bizarre because i dont know how many times we have stood at different ends of an issue. but the beautiful thing is, although we are such different people, she always has a way of making me feel whole. i feel so whole that it brings me to tears. the support that comes from me is something earned, something deserved. i guess my love is something that i've always had for her, and she me. innate love that will never change, because now it runs deeper than friendship, it runs through the vessels in my body. its so ridiculous and naive when i look back on my papers from school with our initials written above the "B.F.F", i still laugh at it and shake my head in shame. but while so many childhood friendships fade from years of distance, i feel like ours really can last forever. it's already been almost decade, so hell, we're already on our way there.
Saturday, January 17, 2004
I am so glad to hear that marsha mason is still alive. i dont know why, but for some reason i thought that she was dead and i remember telling so many people that i was really upset that she died, and i really was. but i just found out that she, in fact, is not dead. and im really glad and relieved. i told my dad she was dead, too, and i have to take that back soon because he was good friends with her (in his college days when he was in his prime)
Thursday, January 08, 2004
Did you know that for the first nine years of his life, Eric Clapton thought his mother was his sister? and that he had a love triangle with George Harrison and George Harrison's wife? and that he lost 3 of his closest friends in a helicopter accident? and that he wrote the song "Tears in Heaven" (which i recently decided is my favorite song ever) for his son who died when he fell out of a 49 story building? and that he is the only person to ever be inducted into the rock n roll hall of fame three times? i am in awe of this man.
Monday, January 05, 2004
i remember when we shared a room. my bed was closer to the door so everyone would throw their crap on it. i would scold them and throw it onto my brother's, and we'd end up in another one of our fights. our arguments were more than just arguments, they were spectacles. all-out brawls around the house complete with fists and high kicks. they ended up either with both of us in tears or (more later on) fits of laughter. when he moved downstairs, i finally got the privacy i had been waiting for. no more crap on my bed and freedom to decorate as i pleased. for the first two years we barely even saw one another, we practically had separate floors. when people asked me if we got along, i told them that i actually never really saw him. which was the truth. and really, i dont see anything unusual about it, even now. it kept peace among the household. when i entered school with him, anonymity was impossible. our resemblence and obvious relation was undeniable. i was the Little Sister, the one thing i had dreaded. of course, it had its benefits, he being popular (in good and bad ways) in school sort of helped me make friends. but my greatest fear was living in his shadow. now that he's going away to college, for the first time im honestly beginning to wish the best for him. and god i dont know what it is, maybe its all the people around me leaving or maybe its that whole senior thing "oh, this is the last time i'll...blah blah" or maybe its being surrounded by all this nostalgia but whatever it is, i cant help but think that after all these years of restlessly anticipating my brother's departure, im more excited about his arrival into the world.
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