We won't get very far flying circles in a jar

We won't get very far flying circles in a jar

It seems like whenever I want to blog, like I'm not really doing anything but there are words running through my head and they need to be blogged, I'm without a computer.  This week I went to New York City and I wanted to write about how much it doesn't make sense to me that people feel the need to take pictures of every famous and/or large painting they see, even if the painting holds no meaning for them.  I've been thinking about writing and personalities and what I'm doing with my life and the direction(s) I'm heading in.

New York City terrifies me and I don't think I could ever live there, but it's the city where Starry Night lives, and so I wish I could visit it every day.

Making islands where no island should go

Making islands where no island should go

Emma and I just watched "Say Anything" and the scene where Lloyd teaches Diane to drive is one of my favorites because it reminds me of summer, not that that makes any sense.  Today I went to my hum conference leader's office, which is in the basement of the oldest building on campus, in this dark corner with a window that's basically ground level so you can see people's shoes walking by, and right now it's nearly midnight but the guy with the really loud voice who lives on my floor is out in the hall talking to someone and I'm not annoyed so much at how loud he's being but at how he's breaking quiet hour.  Like, go to bed, man.

Early this week I read at Poetry Night and it was terrifying and it made me think about how many writers are out there who are other things first, like doctors or teachers or whatever, and could possibly be geniuses with amazing things to say, but just never get the chance or maybe just never say it.

I just said something to them.  Was that rude?  I'm sorry if that was rude.  But they were talking about physics.  Isn't there a certain point each night where it becomes too late to talk about physics?  But maybe here there isn't.  People never stop talking here.  And most of it's interesting.  But I don't like biology.  I'm trying, really.  But I'm just not sure that I can.  

And on that note I'm going to talk to Michael for a few minutes and go to sleep and then wake up and begin my horrible 9-to-5 Friday.

I like that we are kinda strange so won't you stay near

I like that we are kinda strange so won't you stay near

Oh right, okay.  So today I ate French toast for breakfast and went to Target with my mom and bought a bunch of stuff I need for school.  Then I came home and read my daily chapter of The Odyssey and worked on a collage and now I'm listening to Joshua Radin and thinking that I should go to bed soon because I'm meeting Briana for breakfast tomorrow, which means I have to wake up at a decent hour.  I piled up some of my books to take to school and I can already tell that there are too many.  But I don't want to worry about that now.

I've been trying to fix up my 2009 nano even though it's crappy, because I have this thing where I keep telling myself that it's all a learning experience and the only way to get better is to suck for a really, really long time.  I think John Green said something like that once.  I have glue under my fingernails and it feels really bizarre.

That's it for today.  I want to be writing right now.

I'm just a notch in your bedpost but you're just a line in a song

I'm just a notch in your bedpost but you're just a line in a song

Today I got to thinking about how the Draco/Hermione story (or lack thereof, since it's not canon) is basically (basically meaning I am oversimplifying something that can't really be simplified at all since it's interpreted a zillion different ways in a zillion different fan fics) Mr. Darcy and Elizabeth Bennet, with a lot more complications and a lot more cussing.  And that made me think about how all love stories are basically the same story, and that made me think that that's the same thing I've thought a zillion times.  Something else I've done a million times - started reading a Dramione fic, only to abandon it 300 words later because Draco's house elf is named Cue Tip or Ron is cheating on Hermione with Lavendar (seriously?) or Arthur Weasley is Minister of Magic (it's Kingsley Shacklebolt, man, it's gotta be) or Harry is dating Pansy while Ginny sleeps around or Charlie is with Luna, etc etc.

It just amazes me how you can take a character that's been so well-defined and perfected by someone and just totally tear him or her to shreds.  Ginny is not a bitch and Narcissa Malfoy is not a cookie-baking grandma and fan fic writers overuse the word "irrevocably" and constantly use "the witch" as an alternative to "she."  And what is with phrases that sound nice but don't make any sense, like "artless smile" and can we talk about this ridiculous plot where Ginny wants Malfoy and Ron wants Hermione back even though he cheated on her so they're cooking up some scheme to break them up?  And yet, I can't tear my eyes away.

And also I think it's really interesting that in some of these fics there are spells to do things I never would've thought of.  Like magical wedding bands that prevent spouses from cheating on each other.  I'd think that the wizarding community would only use magic to make things easier on themselves, but in some ways, it seems they've made them harder (as in, no electricity or cell phones) and some of the stuff they use is just sort of creepy and kind of totally restricts free will.  Of course, none of it's real anyway, so.

It's realllllly time I get back to school.

Band on the run

Band on the run

So (10 years in the future-ish) if it turns out that I'm a horrible novelist and I have to resign myself to doing something else (although hopefully I'll love whatever it is and it won't feel like resigning), I'm going to write fan fiction.  Because when you're using someone else's characters, you don't have to create them and characterize them.  You're only expanding on what's already been written.  Which is something that I've learned now, as I've basically descended into full-blown fan fiction addiction.  I guess I really shouldn't be surprised.  This is how I get with everything - books, tv shows, even writing, occasionally.  I'm sure it'll subside eventually.

Right now I'm trying to type this using only the pads of my fingers because my nails are wet.  This color is called "calming cocoa" and while it looks brown on my nails, it really does look pinkish in the bottle.  So suffice to say (what a funny expression) I'm feeling kind of deceived by it.  My head is itchy.  When I'm old and rich I'm going to have a hand dryer set-up to dry my nails quickly for me, so I don't have to worry about getting pieces of my hair stuck.

It makes me laugh that Hermione's parents have different names in every piece of fan fiction I've read.  Canon is such a funny thing.  And I don't remember anything about wards in the 7th book either, but they're turning up everywhere.  The same with Astoria Greengrass.

I'm awfully boring tonight, aren't I?

On the back of a motor bike with your arms outstretched trying to take flight

On the back of a motor bike with your arms outstretched trying to take flight

I've been reading this Dramione fan fiction, which I know sounds completely ridiculous.  I've avoided fan fiction since I first learned it existed, but now here I am, reading it, and I can see that there's something to be said for it.  I love the Harry Potter novels, for all that they've given me and what I've taken from them, but they are about Harry Potter.  Harry Potter is the main character, and all the rest propel the story along, getting it to where it needs to be.  And I can't help but think that maybe that sucks a little bit, because there are characters in the Potterverse that are, in my opinion, much more interesting than Potter himself.

And so as I've been reading this, I've been thinking a lot about character development, and how really effing hard it is.  People are so, so complex, and how can you mimic that with just text on a page?  How can you create someone who seems so real that they blur the line between fiction and reality?  Is this the same thing that I wrote about last night?  I really have no idea.  My mind is circling and circling over all the same thoughts and concepts and questions, and I always come to that same conclusion - I really have no idea.

And the other intriguing thing:  in fan fiction, you're not limited to the world of the Potter books, kids' novels - despite the characters growing up themselves.  You're not forced to ignore that they're human, that they're 17, 18 years old and are living in hell and are constantly cussing.  There's an added layer of reality that I haven't felt before.  Does that make any sense?  And there's also an added layer of not-reality, of alternative-reality, of these-two-characters-aren't-canon-but-it-doesn't-matter.  But it's not really reality at all, because none of it's real.  Sometimes it's really easy to forget that, and I think that's maybe a sign of good writing.  Or at least of good storytelling.

I kind of hate that there's a difference.

Karen dit que Paris c'est grand

Karen dit que Paris c'est grand

What if I blogged every day in August, at least until I leave for school?  And I mean substantial posts.  With thoughts about things and more than just lists of daily activities.  So today is August 1st and it's the beginning of my last month at home and so it's the beginning on 23ish posts in a row.

I just finished watching a romcom called "Someone Like You" and it was adorable, like all romantic comedies are, but there always comes a point when I'm watching one of these movies where I have this sort of out-of-body experience where I realize that what's making me so happy, what I'm enjoying so much, is crap spewed out by Hollywood big wigs and Nicholas Sparks and whoever.  And I know that's really cynical, and I guess what I'm saying is that I really enjoy watching relationships develop in movies and novels and such because when you're living your life and forming bonds with people you don't realize you are until one day you look at who you're sitting next to, and suddenly think, how did I become friends with you?

That's how I've been looking at everything lately, and I'm not sure if that's a good thing or a bad thing.  To clarify:  I'm studying everything and everyone and it all seems like something I could write about.  That's the object, isn't it, a really good story?  But the problem is that every time I think of something and begin to write it down, I realize I've seen it played out a million times in bad movies and poorly written novels.  Which begs the question:  if I rewrite Twilight, or the essence of it at least, changing the names and the vampire into a mermaid and whatnot, and if I write it well, as in really effing good, does that make it okay?  Or am I stealing someone's original idea?  Are any ideas really original?  I once had this quote on a post-it not stuck to my computer screen, something about how if you wanted to bake a totally original apple pie you'd have to go back and plant the first apple tree yourself, or something like that.

So everything is just a recycling of old ideas.  I guess my main question here is, if that's true, why are we wasting our time with crap?  Why do I watch so many bad movies and read so many crappy books when there is so much more out there?  Why do we default to what's easiest?  Why do you have to search really hard to find the good books at the bookstore, but the crappy bestsellers (not to generalize that all bestsellers are crappy, because they definitely aren't) are right at the front, on the buy-one-get-one-half-off table?  Why is the bookstore the most crowded when everything is 40% off because the store is closing?  That makes me really sad.  But that's not the point.

The point is:  I want to write a really good book.  But first I have to read and watch and listen and learn everything I can.  So should I be wasting my time with bad romcoms because they're easy to get, or should I work harder to find the good ones?  And more importantly, is there such a thing as a good romcom?  Who came up with that word in the first place?

Run whirlwind run further and further away into the sun

Run whirlwind run further and further away into the sun

My eyes hurt from my contacts and it really doesn't make any sense until I think about it, because I should be able to wear them all day, but if I wear them til 9 pm then that's more than a 12-hour day and I don't really think they're meant for that.  This evening after dinner I took my Sons and Lovers book, which has characters that I hate more than I've ever hated any characters ever, into the living room and read on the couch there, because even though the lights buzz and the windows look out on the street and I'm afraid of passers-by looking spying on me, every time I try to read on my bed I start to fall asleep.  My plant, Ginny VI or whatever number I'm on now, has grown really huge and now I think it's too heavy to stand up on its own, because no matter how much water I give it (and no I'm not overwatering it) it just keeps drooping down over the edge of the pot.  It's like Paul Morel, and it'll never be happy because its heart is too heavy because it's carrying the weight of others and doesn't know how to stop caring about itself so much so it can be happy.  That doesn't make any sense.

I'm reading The Once and Future King because I think King Arthur is someone who I should know a lot about, as I'm becoming one of those people who has something to say about every single book ever, despite not having read any of them.  I really really like it so far, because it's light and delightful and cute and also feels like it contains all the answers to every problem I've ever had and will have.  I wish I could write like that.   

But my heart told my head this time no

But my heart told my head this time no

Today Gilly and I bought Mom a carrot cake for her birthday, which she will have to eat by herself because none of the rest of us like carrot cake.  Tomorrow we're going out to breakfast and to the movies, and it's a four day weekend.  I have so many projects to do, and I'm going to "Macbeth" on Saturday night, and trig is hard and I hate it, but I've been writing a lot lately and it's been distracting me from forthcoming college rejections.  I like the way the pen feels on the paper and I think that's the root of it, it makes me feel accomplished, and I think that's why everything I write by hand is so much better than what I type. 

Me and this blog are growing apart.  I can't finish a post, and I can't sleep through the night. 

I know it's been such a long time

I know it's been such a long time

This is a passage from my "novel" and the grammar is horrible but that's the way I like it.  I've got a lot on my mind right now and I can't get it straight and I don't want it where it can be found by anyone besides myself, so here's this and maybe in 24 hours things will make more sense to me.

I bury myself in your shoulder, losing myself in my tears.  It’s Sunday, lazy Sunday, and we’re sitting on the grass and the wind is blowing my hair and you’re pulling back my hair playing with my hair and you want to fix it all and you say that everything is going to be okay you know it’s going to be okay and I love you I know that I love you but I’m scared because what if you can’t what if I break what if it breaks and it all falls apart and what if it’s so broken so broken that it’s gone it’s hopeless and you can’t fix it?  All that’s still all that’s for sure is right now right here, you and me and the wind and the trees and my heart and yours and I love you.  And even in the uncertain future where it could break it could all fall apart I love you.

   

It's been like a permanent December

It's been like a permanent December

I have been writing unsigned love letters, long soliloquies of the way I wish things were, for years, filling notebooks and word docs and the occasional margin of my math notes, but what it all comes down to is that everything is unsigned, I'm always unsigned, and I disguise myself and my letters and I assume new identity after new identity, but in the end the commonality is that I am not the kind of person whom things happen for naturally, and I am not the kind of person who is tenacious enough to go after what she wants.

So I've been writing this letter to you in my head for a few days, and basically, I like you, there we have it, but you can't ever know, because of who you are and who I wish I wasn't and because of how I knew your name even before I saw your face. I think you're cute and I like your smile, and meanwhile I write blog posts and add another hundred words to my "novel" that I'll never let anyone read again. You barely even know I exist, and that sounds cliche because it is cliche, because I'm a cliched teenage girl with a crush on a boy in a cliche high school, and as much as I can't wait to escape and build a new world for myself next year, I don't have any hopes that things will change for me now, because in the end I'm still me and you're still you, and things are just the way that things are.

Now it's getting late and I'm so damn cold, and I can't help but know that in the end this will fade like most things do, and I will graduate from high school and look around me at these people that I've spent the last four years with, and I'll pray that they've had a better last four years than I have but that I'll have a better future.

Quietly we assume

Quietly we assume

I'm listening to Skye Sweetnam right now, and I still know all the words to all her songs, and I think I may need to find her cd (I'm pretty sure I have the physical cd; hello 2004) and put it in my car.  One of my favorite things about driving to school every day is listening to whatever I want and singing along, which I do even though it bugs my sister, because it's my car and I'm driving and I feel it's my right.  I don't like parking, or other teenage drivers. or clueless parents in the wrong parking lot after school, but I like having my car keys in my bag and knowing that because they're there, I don't have to rely on my mom for a ride home.

It's nearly Chanukah, and despite my general distaste for any and all holidays, I actually like Chanukah, which I think is just because I like latkes and I like the way wrapped presents look before they're opened and I like that's it's weather-appropriate to wear boots every day, even though right now I'm liking my high-tops more and more.  It's not winter break yet but I'm already dreaming about it - there's an exhibition of paintings from the Musée d'Orsay in San Francisco, and I want to go, because the exhibition includes some of my favorite Van Goghs, and I guess I've decided he's my favorite, even though he's everyone's favorite, because I really do love him.  And the MOMA has a whole thing of Paul Klee prints, and Matisse and Braque, and I just really love modern art. 

The more art I see, the more I want to learn about it.  I want to move into an artist's colony and write about artists and their paintbrushes and their thoughts and what color socks they wear, and I want to write a book and take photographs and travel around the world and do something different.  But I can't help but think that isn't that what everyone wants - to do something different?  And if we all want that, then how can any of us actually do it?

Feels like I'm starting again, the last three years were just pretend

Feels like I'm starting again, the last three years were just pretend

Either I've failed my NaNoWriMo novel, or it's failed me, but in any case I think I'm putting it to rest, because as much as I enjoy writing just for the sake of writing, my plot was sloppy and stupid and sappy and in all honesty, I don't know that I'm ever going to like anything that I write as much as I do what I started last November. 

But that will go nowhere too, because I have this huge difficulty balancing my desire to reconcile who I am with how others see me and my desire to reconcile who I am with how I see myself.  So as a result of that, everything I write has some facet of myself in it, just like I find a bit of myself in every novel or play or poem that I read, and so because of that I don't share what I write with anyone.  But I think that's okay, at least for right now.  I'm not afraid of disapproval really, or of criticism, but of misunderstanding, maybe.

I drove to the SAT today.  And then I drove home.  And later I drove to Target to drop off a roll of film, and then I drove home again.  I've loaded four cds into my car and set up my XM presets, and I have my car tissue box and my sunglasses in the cupholder and I guess it just all feels very permanent.  Freeing, and permanent.    

Someday I'll be living in a big old city

Someday I'll be living in a big old city

Thing One:  Trying to explain via college essay this desire to fly despite fear of heights, desire to be Taylor Swift despite fear of crowds, desire to be a ballerina despite total lack of flexibility and beauty and gracefulness.

Thing Two:  Greasy second-day hair that has been touched by guys sitting behind you on a stupid-smelly-bus because they're too bored for their own good; hair that makes your whole body itchy because it needs to be watched but it was too late at night last night when you got home and you just wanted to sleep.

Thing Three:  Writing something that you really like but being too scared to show it to anyone for fear that they might tear it down or question you or misunderstand you.  Being misunderstood.  Being confused for someone else.  Being the one girl in class whose name the teacher doesn't yet know despite the fact that you got 100% on the last test.

Thing Four:  Changing seats in class and sitting in alphabetical order by middle name and trying to explain to someone that your mom spelled your middle name wrong on purpose because she wanted it to be different; considering the fact that she must've been crazy to think your first name wasn't different enough as it is.

Thing Five:  Feeling so connected to a character in a play that when her heart gets broken you're trying so hard not to cry, focusing on Ben Mckenzie's giant arm muscles like every other girl in the room, trying not to cry and hoping no one will ask you why you don't like the play, because you do like it but you can't explain that you are Laura, feel so much like Laura sometime that it hurts to see her so real on stage instead of just in your head when you were reading the script.

Thing Six:  Listening to the new Taylor Swift song three times in a row because it reminds you of what it felt like to be a little kid, what it feels like to feel things so raw, so pure, without logic in the mix. 

Thing Seven:  That back of the throat about-to-cry feeling that you get when you send your mom your failed attempt at a college app essay that probably looks more like a psychological cry for help.  The fear that she'll make you go back to that shrink again, when you know what the problem is, and it's that you can't deal with these people and their masks and their meaningless words and their sagging jeans anymore.

Thing Eight:  Knowing the words to the Taylor Swift song by the fifth time through.  Loving it so much that you're completely overeager for the album to be released now, now, now, so your mom can buy you the special edition with the bonus tracks at Target.

Thing Nine:  Two film cameras from 1975 with two brand-new rolls of film, and nothing to take pictures of, and weather that totally absolutely completely sucks and makes me feel like wearing giant sweaters.

Thing Ten:  Days when my converse don't make me feel good like they should, days when the weather gets me down, days when I use stupid cliches, days when I want it to be February already, days when the only thing that makes me feel like writing is this one Taylor Swift song.

Please don't drive me home tonight

Please don't drive me home tonight

This is the kind of day that makes me wish I had a giant sweater.  I want to put on my giant sweater and ride the train off to Hogwarts, where I will drink hot chocolate because butter beer sounds gross and watch the snow fall.  I'm sure at Hogwarts the weather is consistent and doesn't go from 90 degrees one day to overcast and raining the next.  Also at Hogwarts everyone is British.  Therefore, it is infinitely better than my school. 

So right now I'm sitting here, criss-cross-applesauce, in my pink star-print pajama pants, listening to Michelle Branch and feeling nostalgic for I don't know exactly what.  Can you be nostalgic for something that hasn't happened yet, something that might never happen?  I miss the way it feels to watch "10 Things I Hate About You" and spill popcorn all over the floor and fall asleep on top of my sleeping bag with the tv still on.  I miss looking forward to my 11th birthday and the letter I hoped would come by owl post.  I miss the feeling that things couldn't be any better.

Also, I really want to finish my fricking novel.  Stupid school/college apps/stress/etc.  

The so many territories

The so many territories

I am in a good mood today, knock on wood and bite my tongue.  I finished quite a bit of one of my English assignments, and I got through a full disc of "The OC" with my sister, and Hilary Duff got married last weekend, and I really want to make snickerdoodles.  I'm feeling productive, and I feel like writing not because I'm sad, which is what usually makes me want to write, but because... I don't know, just because.  Also I watched two hours of the Biography channel today, and I can't decide if it or "Covert Affairs" is to be my new addiction.   

The only thing that's bugging me right now is my printer.  I swear it's possessed by a middle-school PE teacher.  It has been attempting to scan its re-alignment sheet for twenty minutes now.  This happens every single time I (or rather my mother) change(s) the ink cartridge.

Tomorrow we are having cinnamon rolls for breakfast, assuming I get out of bed to make them and they haven't been commandeered by my father, who last night thought it would be amusing to relabel the apple pie my mom bought as cherry, provoking near-tears from my sister when she discovered apples when she cut it open.  I think the cinnamon rolls are safe, though; they haven't been baked yet.  My dad tends to steer clear of the oven, just as I tend to steer clear of rambly blog posts that are difficult to conclude.

That was a joke.       

Your sillhouette will charge the view of distant atmosphere

Your sillhouette will charge the view of distant atmosphere

I wrote this last night, lying in bed, not wanting to sleep, not wanting summer to end.

Sometimes I like to pretend that I'm a ballerina, a graceful lightweight fairy of a person who can flit through trees and fields and float on clouds, all the while wearing tulle skirts that swirl in the breeze and handmade slippers with fragile ribbons and crowns reminiscent of queens long forgotten.  But then the wind shifts and then I like to be ee cummings, the man who broke all the rules and made his own, which were:  here's how I see it, not in black and white and in shapes if I want, not by the book but that's fine by me, and which book are we even talking about so keenly anyway?  As ee I am free to use no punctuation never not ever if I don't want to.  But the wind doesn't have to change for me to remeber that I like punctuation for its ability to slow a sentence down or give it no pause at all.  Ee used line breaks and shapes and sparingly a comma to give his work its essence of ee that is the center of him and my desire to be him, or rather to possess his risk-taking rule-breaking je ne sais quoi - the je ne sais quoi that is lighthearted like a ballerina in her fairy skirt, but digging deep, deep down until there's no wind at all and there are no shifts and there is only now and me and this and a lack of else. 

The moon was shining

The moon was shining

I've been thinking about being, and more specifically being in this generation, in this time, in this body, in this world state country city school in which things are this way and that way and not always the way that I or you or anyone or everyone thinks they should be.  Jumbled thoughts, tired eyes, no drivers license.  Not much has changed, or maybe will change, because maybe that's part of the being, this halt, this stickiness. 

Give it up for short-term memory

Give it up for short-term memory

Sometimes I wonder about the kind of people who talk just to talk, who speak just to hear their own voices.  Sometimes I think about changing the world, about saving my words for when they can make the most impact, about misusing commas and colons and conjunctions.  Sometimes I want to fade away like Alaska or JD Salinger or a one-hit wonder, unnoticed but never forgotten, eventually left to rest, undisturbed but still never forgotten.  

Sometimes bombs fall quietly

Sometimes bombs fall quietly

Sometimes I get itchy, antsy, in this internal way, in this what-am-I-doing way, in this way that makes me want to jump up and down on the trampoline in the backyard until in breaks, in this way that makes me wonder if you know me at all, if any of you know me at all. This itch bubbles up in my stomach, tickling me from the inside out, leaving me unsatisfied with every single television channel and unsatisfied, dissatisfied, with every single song in my collection. This itch inspires bad dye jobs and excessive eyebrow plucking and closet cleaning.

And then the itch leaves and it leaves me unsatisfied, dissatisfied still, with this life and this world and this generation, with what is and what can’t be changed and what can never be undone or redone or done at all.