The 1970s

     Even as a young child I had an obsessive personality.  Not that I had OCD, as far as I know, but I did tend to latch onto something and obsess over it.  I remember being captivated by  The Last of the Mohicans in the fifth grade.  I used to dream about it at night and sometimes imagine myself in the film.  I even used to scrawl my favorite scenes onto paper with carefully sharpened color pencils.  The Last of the Mohicans made me interested in Native American culture and history, which I think is the first time that dry, dead thing called history called my name.  
   In the seventh grade I discovered a band called Led Zeppelin.  Instant fanaticism.  I memorized their songs, watched live concert footage and interviews on YouTube, drew them over and over again, and shed tears over John Bonham's untimely death. By the way, I never make fun of One Directioners; It would make me a hypocrite.  
   It's impossible to listen to the music of Led Zeppelin, that unique mix of relentless, primal call, that heavy, heavy beat, and that golden Sunday feeling, without falling beneath their spell.  Even temporarily, although mine was hardly that.  It is also impossible to listen to them without discovering their contemporaries: Aerosmith, the Beatles, Grateful Dead, Steve Miller Band, Bob Seger, and so many others.  In an imitation of my idols, I began to wear my hair long, and parted down the center; I developed a healthy fear for "the man" and scorned popular culture.  I wasn't being a hipster-those hadn't been spawned yet.
   I used to fall into pensive moods and contemplate how much the world sucked, mostly because it was 2009 and not 1972.   Looking back, I remember why, but what escapes memory is the exact feeling of nostalgia, that my twelve-year-old-self used to have.  Whenever I picture the '70s, the image is still grainy, the color still like an episode of the original Charlie's Angels .  
     Different eras emit a certain atmosphere, and the '70's make me feel a sense of laziness, of change, and of a strangely elegant awkwardness.  It's incredible that the music alone could communicate that to me, that the decade after the  '60's baby boom and the turmoil of the Cold War  could make itself heard.  Even before I read about all that in history books, I could feel the uncertainty, the outrage, that came with the mass consumerism and search for individuality.  That isn't something that can be learned in a school.  
   I would lie awake at night and image myself as a hippie in the '70s.  I would imagine that I wore wear bell bottoms and boots, saved money from my after school job to buy Led Zeppelin records, and protested the Ohio shootings.  I think that I would have hung that iconic poster of Farrah Fawcett-Majors in her red swimsuit up somewhere in my room.  

   Sometimes I felt such a sense of loss and of nostalgia that it would bring tears to my eyes.  My Mother has walked into my room, astonished at my crying more times than I'd care to admit.  So many great and significant things happened in the '70s, but the what seems to be forgotten by nearly everyone is the intrigue of every day living. I wouldn't know, but I can't believe that growing up then is the same as growing up now.
                   

"Catch the wind, see ya spin, sail away, seize the day" ~Led Zeppelin

Trying Something New

     Sometimes we have to step outside of our comfort zones.  We have to risk failure and embarrassment with the vague hope that our endeavors won't come to that.  I've always been an avid reader, and an almost equally avid writer.  Just for my own sake, of course.  But my mother has been proclaiming my genius to her friends since the day I handed her a Mother's Day card, still wet with Elmer's Glue and tears of frustration, as most mothers are apt to do.  Lately she and my father have both been after me to try to publish a book.  Naturally I was irritated, because who would want to publish a piece of garbage written by someone like me? But after my hormonal rage subsided, I actually began to play around with the idea of submitting something online.  Why not?  If anything, at least it'll give me something to add to my college applications.  
     There are a bunch of self-publishing ebook sites online.  I think I may want to try and publish one, just so that I can say that I have, and just so that my parents will stop harping.
     I have decided that I want to try to write a historical fiction, set in the Viking Age ( lord, I love vikings!).  I have already started writing, based off some general research and what I already know.  My favorite story is with the legendary Ragnar Lodbrok and his wife, Amazon and shield maiden Lagertha.  Actually, more specifically, my favorite stories of the Sagas deal with Ragnar's greatest son (at least, I think so), Ivar the Boneless.  
     Some themes I really wanted to explore include the clash of the old pagan gods and Christianity, the not-quite-oppressive attitudes toward women, as well as glory in battle and death.  Did you know that for their time, Norse women were pretty well respected and comparatively independent?  They could choose their own husbands and could choose to divorce them as well. 
     My main character (hopefully it's obvious) is a female that seeks to identify herself not with her gender but with the warriors and has been brought up in an environment that is both christian and Pagan.  I hope to show her lack of understanding towards Christianity in general, as it was a relatively new movement at the time.  Also, I once heard a critic say that a truly great author has "a wide array of 'voices' that they can assume at will", and I wanted to try to develop another "voice".  It was pretty challenging.


       So, here is what I have so far:

     The home is the sphere where a woman many reign supreme.  At least, where the care of such sundry items as the wash or children are concerned.  My mother passed such divine knowledge unto me, in the year of our lord, 912, before the Almighty saw fit to send that which plagues us, even now.  My mother taught me things a woman ought to know, even as she lie expiring upon her straw pallet.  She had only me, and although a child still, I was old enough at least to send her off with a dog at her feet and her sword in her hand.  A longship we had no longer, and even if we had, I would not have been strong enough to defend it from thieves.  
    When the greatest of the shield maidens that served the great Lagertha had descended beyond even the powers of Ineata, wisewoman of the village, I closed my eyes and laid my brow against my mother's wasted arm.  I prayed to the gods, old and new, that she may be allowed into the Halls of Valhalla, although she had not died in battle. 
   I knew not the name of the man that sired me, but my mother told me once, a long time ago, that he had not come with the wave upon waves of Christians, clad in their rough woolen smocks and shaven heads.  I would have gone to him, if I could have.  If i knew where he was, or even who he was.  I would ask him to learn me in the arts of the Ulfberht; I would ask him to help me become a shield maiden like my mother, most trusted warrior of Lagertha, wife of Ragnar Lodbrok.  
    My mother had not wished a raider and warrior's life for her daughter.  Had I not been born beautiful, it is likely I would have had my way.  Instead, for all my wit, I was cursed with a fair face.  I was raised not to fight, but to bear fighters.  My glories could come only from my sons.  
    A beautiful woman cannot be taken seriously, and an ugly woman cannot be trusted.  This I understood only upon reaching my fourteenth summer.  The pain in my flesh almost rivaled the pain of being alone, bereft of a mother.  This second pain I inflicted upon muself, for a woman scarred, at least, is neither beautiful nor ugly. 

This is sort of like a prologue.  This second part (below) is some time in the future, after she has found her father and become a warrior.  It also takes place just after Aella of Northumbria captures Ragnar Lodbrok.  BTW, the switch from past to present tense was intentional.

   There is an uproar in Ragnar Lodbrok's great halls tonight.  It is because Ragnar, strongest and hardiest of men, has been taken by a man that can be no man.  What man hides behind stone walls and cannot bear to do his own killing?  Here in the North, such a man is below even a dog.  
  There is talk that this is the punishment of the new god.  But I look across the dusky firelight into the faces of Ragnar's sons and I cannot believe that a birthling god would dar cross such giants of men.  
   "Aella.  Aella."  the halls writhe with hatred, swelling beneath the chants of the Coward's name. Bjorn Ironside spits at his imagined foe and roars for blood.  His brothers join their voices to his, mingling with Thor's thunder outside.  The rain, always rain, cannot wash away such blood, such hate.  Only more blood can wipe clean the wrath of Odin, and of Bjorn.  The crowds call for the Coward's death, for Ragnar is much loved here.  
   I stand and cast aside my cloak, scratchy in the heat of the firepits.  I can feel the eyes of men, tracing, appraising.  They must wonder at a woman dressed in a man's leathers.  Those that know me look away as soon as they realize where their eyes have wandered.  The chicken-livered look away beneath my gaze, fearful of my ravaged face.  Now there is only one man whose eyes boldly fix themselves upon my.  A rose blossoms between his eyes before he even has time to blink.  I yank my dagger out of his skull and bury it to the hilt in the soil beneath the rushes on the floor.  When I pull it out, it has been cleanse by the earth.  
    "Yngnah!" Bjorn bellows, thrusting a tree-like arm heavenward.  His eyes glint with humor, beneath his murderous rage.  "Sister-not, I see your anger tonight.  Do you not wish also to avenge Ragnar-king?  Will you join our Great Heathen Army?"  His query is directed to me, but is met by Ragnar's people with thunderous approval.  I kneel before him.  
     "I will fight."The hall erupts.  Lagertha rises, shakes free her fame golden locks, and kneels beside me. 
     "I will fight."  Our twin oaths bind us, our wrath unites us.  I notice that Ivar, wisest of Ragnar's sons, celebrates not with his brothers, but with his horn.  Lo, his eyes are filled with the same hate, the same fury as Bjorn, as Ubba, as Halfdan, and even as Lagertha.  But his glitter with an ice colder than the midnight sun.

BTW, that last part was a Led Zeppelin reference, for anyone that cares.
I'm starting to ship Yngnah and Ivar, but I really want Yngnah to stay single.   We'll see.  I would really appreciate feedback, so please comment on this.  Does this make sense? Should I use less adjectives?  Is it interesting?

      

ACIS Trip 2015 (For the senior class of 2015)

     First of all, I would like to congratulate you at least for your curiosity, if not your desire to see the world.  Like I said in that really, really, excruciatingly embarrassing video I uploaded to YouTube, I was fortunate enough to be chosen to be 2015's student ambassador.  If you haven't and would like to, here it is:

       This is a great experience for so many reasons.  First of all, we'll all be going off on our separate paths to that elusive place called college! Going out and seeing how the other side of the world lives is an excellent way to broaden our minds and better equip us to handle the long and twisted road ahead.  It'll teach us to stop stressing over the little things and maybe even appreciate a more active lifestyle.  All of the things we learned in the classroom will be right in front of us! It blows my mind to even think about.  
    Something I didn't mention in the video is the possibility of a Facebook page.  Of course, that means that I'll have to make a Facebook page first, but we all have to make our sacrifices, I suppose.  Please tell your parents and your friends about it.  If you have a friend who might be interested but did not have either Mr. Casas or Ms. Tanaka as a teacher, let me know.  Or, if you would prefer to talk directly to Mr. Casas, his email is in the description box of the video above.
   If you do choose to go on this trip (as you should),please keep in mind that we will be guests in another country.  Please remember to be respectful of not only the natives' local treasures and museums, but also their privacy and customs.  Just as a general rule, most people outside of America and maybe the UK don't wear very short shorts, or crop tops, or anything like that.  It's not really a big deal, but let's not perpetuate any stereotypes about America, yes?  
     The legal drinking age in most of Europe is 16, and we will be given the privilege of a glass of wine or beer per dinner.  However the limit is one, and no drunkenness will be tolerated.  The point is to experience another country's culture a different way, not to overindulge.  Keep that in mind.  
     Also, there is a strict policy on showering and deodorant.  As in, if you don't use both in liberal doses, Casas may or may not throw you into a nearby lake.  Just kidding, but smelling bad is rude, when you have to share a hotel room and bus.  
    ACIS website:
  http://www.acis.com/trips/itinerary/program/PSM

   

“The World is a Book and Those Who Do Not Travel Read Only One Page.” -Augustine of Hippo

       In the old days, if a family was wealthy, its sons would be sent on a tour to transform them into sophisticated and cultured gentlemen.  This "Grand Tour" was popular mostly from the mid 1600s to the 1840s, until the advent of the train.  The purpose of  a trip like that was for recreation, education, and perspective.  Not to mention that many young men stopped in Venice, a city famed at the time for its art as well as discreet courtesans of exceeding beauty and refinement.  
       Personally, I think it's a stinking shame that we don't do that anymore.  And I think it's an even bigger, even stinkier shame that no one seems to "beweep their outcast state" (Shakespeare anyone?).  
      What really irritates me( even though it's not my buisness to care) is when some people act superior when I bring this sort of thing up, seeing as they've been places I haven't.  That in itself is mostly okay, because if our places were switched, I'd probably be gloating too.  But what isn't okay is when I ask for stories of Paris, or Budapest, or Prague, or Seoul, and they have nothing meaningful to say.  Oh, sure, they'll mention their surprise at finding a McDonald's so far away from home, or that the shopping was great.  Yeah, the Eiffel Tower's huge.  Looks nice at night.  Really? Come on...
      I said in an earlier post that schools and parents should emphasize the importance of learning world history in addition to the history of whatever country you're from.  I also mentioned the value of art, all kinds of art.  Because without such knowledge, it isn't hard to see how people might be satisfied with the occasional  watered down visit peppered with tourist traps.  How can  anyone appreciate beauty until they've seen the Slovenian Alps in autumn? What is the grandeur of anything compared to that of the Roman Colosseum, collapsing beneath Time?  As an American born to Chinese immigrants, visiting China breaks my heart, and to see the polarization between the well-off (not necessarily rich, only financially comfortable) and the impoverished is shocking.  A person cannot  hope to live a full and cultured life without being tested by  poverty, corruption, beauty, and history.  
      

Farmhouse at the foot of the Carpathian Mountains, Romania

Johannesburg, South Africa

Abruzzi, Italy

Russian State Library in Moscow, Russia

      
Stupidity is not a sin, but ignorance ought to be.  Thanks for reading,

~Cynthia~

Crepe De Chine

      Since the dawn of time, humans have anointed themselves with a myriad of fragrances.  As we evolved, so did our preferences and techniques, as new ingredients were either discovered or invented and the methods for harnessing the essence of nature grew in sophistication.  Yet our primal tendencies still dictate our preferences.   
     I am a member of that vast consumer monolith fragrance industries throw their wares at.  I wear body splashes, but adore eau de parfum's and toilette's.  I cannot be alone in this, nor could I be the only one to have delved into history to claim some pretty special finds.  There's something about a perfume from halcyon days that is just so ineffably glamorous-a certain savoir faire that I miss in the scents of today.  Don't misunderstand me; I wear Emma Watson's Midnight Rose (released in 2011 for Lancome) all the time.  It's only that the story that Midnight Rose tells has had far less time to evolve and grow than the story told by, say, Cuir de Russe (Chanel).  Sadly, I have only ever owned a smidgeon of the stuff, and it's long since gone.  It's just so interesting to hold in your hands something formulated in a different era, that speaks a different language, and who bats its wily eyelashes at a different class of people. The country, the region, the type of perfume, the year it was made all translates into the pale golden liquid we dab on our pulse points.  
     I wanted specifically to talk about F. Millot's Crepe de Chine.  Sadly, the original has been discontinued years ago,with the exception of the vintage mints floating around somewhere.  You could probably hunt one up on Ebay or something, but I'll warn you right now that it'll be mad expensive, not to mention risky.  Luckily, there is this wonderful house (perfume brands are usually referred to as "houses") called "Long Lost Perfumes".  It is wholly dedicated to replicated vintage perfumes that are no longer with us.  It has in its collection Crepe de Chine, My Sin, Bakir, and Ecussion, just to name a few.  I plan on getting a couple more, too.  Anyways, it's impossible and even ridiculous to expect them to smell the same as, or as evocative as their namesakes, but it's definitely something that I believe is worth owning.  For my sixteenth birthday, my darling mother bought me Crepe de Chine, as well as Elizabeth Taylor's Diamonds and Emeralds.  
      I like to think of perfumes like these-you know, the older classics-as something akin to a very fine wine.  It's an acquired taste, if you will.  My first impression of Crepe de Chine was that it smelled all musty and grandmother-y.  It was too sharp, too powdery, too strong.  I was infuriated to think that I might possibly despise it! So I sprayed it every night and forced myself to smell it, thinking that I might grow to like it.  Well, I did, and I'm glad, because it's opened my eyes (or my nostrils?) to a wide range of other older scents.  To give you an idea of how old this formulation is, C.d.C was release in 1925.  Obviously living now means that a chypre like this would seem foreign to me.  But, as Yesterday's Perfume points out," Smelling Crepe de Chine is like meeting a beautiful, funny woman with a Ph.D in linguistics who also happens to speak seven languages, knows how to cook, has a way with children and small animals, composes haunting tunes on the guitar, and smiles at everyone."


That's exactly right.  When I smell it and close my eyes, I picture someone like the elegantly defiant flapper, Louise Brooks.  I see her in her dressing room between filming, sitting at her vanity before an art deco mirror lit by bare yellow bulbs.  I see her adjusting her slip beneath her sheer dress, smoothing down her inky hair, and gazing complacently at her reflection from heavily lidded eyes.  All this while smoking a cigarette (how scandalous!) and drinking a mint julep (THE quintessential drink of the jazz age, even with Prohibition).  Just before Louise leaves to finish her last take, almost as an afterthought, she reaches our and takes up a sparkling bottle filled with a clear, honey colored liquid.  It's paper label reads:" Francis Millot. Crepe de Chine. 1925"  She unstoppers the bottle and dabs the glass applicator behind one ear, just where her bluntly shorn hair meets her earlobe, and then behind the other.  When she leaves, pearls dangling insolently, she leaves a trail of lilac and patchouli.  


Oh, how I love the Roaring Twenties!

Louise Brooks

“Most beautiful dumb girls think they are smart and get away with it, because other people, on the whole, aren't much smarter.”


“The great art of films does not consist of descriptive movement of face and body, but in the movements of thought and soul transmitted in a kind of intense isolation.”

“If I ever bore you, it'll be with a knife.”

“A well dressed woman, even though her purse is painfully empty, can conquer the world.”


      ~Louise Brooks~

Kay versus Apollonia

     I couldn't decide what color I should assign the post about the greatest movie ever (The Godfather, 1972).  But then I thought, what better color than the absence of color?  So, this post gets Badass Black.
     The Godfather tells the story of a family that had clawed its way to power, as so many families have throughout history, in the years after WW2.  The story is also told through a Sicilian lens; everything anybody says, thinks, or does is influenced by their roots in pastoral Sicily.  The movie focuses on Michael Corleone, the youngest member of the Corleone clan who at first does not appear to share the same lust for power, the same ruthlessness, the same lack of scruples.  The film chronicles the events in his journey that ultimately cumulate in his ascension as don, upon the death of his father.  The book by Mario Puzo, however, is much less selective.  If the question were book versus movie, I'd be hard-pressed for an answer, because the books leaves less ends open, and takes up the threads of so many different story lines.  It's complexity is delicious, really.  But I still think that I would choose the movie because it IS such a great movie, for so many, many reasons.  
      1) Al Pacino/ Marlon Brando
      2) the action scenes
      3) the script
      4) it's easier to relate to than the book

     A lot of books are so beautifully written, with such stunningly brilliant rhetoric that it makes you overlook the fact that it's all a lot of hooey.  What I mean is that there is no message, no moral, no point.  It really was as if the author was only looking to show off his  fine education.  The Godfather is waaaay on the other side of the spectrum.  The prose itself is largely unimpressive, although the dialogue is riveting.  But the story, with its multitudes of complexities and characters, is enough to earn its place in history.  The writing isn't bad, only somewhat raw, a little ordinary.  
    I saw the movie first, when I was in the eighth grade.  The first thing I thought when the credits rolled was "God, I hate Kay".  It's true;I still hate Kay.  But later I had heard (in the comments of fan videos on YouTube) that she was okay in the book. I concede that, but I still prefer Apollonia.  In fact, this topic for me has become one of such internal debate that that's what I titled this post.
    In both the movie and the book, Apollonia is depicted as simple, rural, and alluring.  She is is from the same village as the Vito Andolini, who later assumed the name and role of Don Vito Corleone, after that village.  I like how Francis Coppola took some creative license in Apollonia's character.  It was very sneaky, the way he expanded it.  The learning of English, the sassy way she tells Michael "posso parlare inglese! Monday, Tuesday, Turrrsday, Wezday....".  Then, both book and movie depict her desire to be an ''American Wife", her desire to learn to drive.  All this characterizes her as intelligent and with the desire to learn and share Michael's world. The book emphasizes her role as "the thunderbolt" that hits Michael and as an object of sexuality far more than the movie does. 
    Kay is too two-dimensional in the movie.  She's still a b!tch in the book, but she's got her reasons.  She is strong, she is passionate, she is loving, and she is fiercely devoted to the Corleones. 
  

All in all, this lot sounded much better in my brain, but hey! At least a semblance of it is out there. 
"A man that doesn't spend time with his family isn't a real man" (The Godfather Francis Coppola).

Feelin' Turquoise

       I believe very strongly in the science behind things altogether too romantic for something so boring and stuffy.  For example, love and attraction.  I like to view both on a molecular level.  But still, there are somethings that I cannot simplify thus.  
      Sometimes I feel lower than indigo, but usually I'm a more cheerful turquoise.  I also like to call it feeling "pleasantly melancholy".  Ever feel like that? Like a sort of depression that's sweeter and clearer than a brook, or like the languidness that gracefully settles over your every expression, gesture, and thought?  Me, too.  To be honest, I don't hate it because I fancy that it makes me throw myself into my work so as to hide a heart broken from all the sorrows the beautifully cruel world throws at a sixteen-year-old girl.  Don't laugh; I'm sure you know what I'm talking about.  It's the sort of feeling you get when something so beautiful makes you want to just die.  
       Imagine the norsemen, stranded in the middle of the north sea, having been unable to outrun the first freeze of Winter.  Imagine their wonder at the crystalline ice that dooms them, that ensnares their longship beyond any hope of escape.  Imagine how they must marvel at nature's cold, austere glory.  Such glory must have touched even the most hardened of the vikings'  hearts.  That is, for the split second before they realized their fate.  That split second is perhaps the best metaphor I can give for how I sometimes feel.  Don't get me wrong, there are times when I wish that I did not live among the race of men, and the realization that I must navigate a path in such a world threatens to crush me.  There are even times when I wish not to live.  But let it be known that however much I revere death, I have no love for the process of dying;  I revere life so much more.  
     However, sometimes I feel less than myself, like a stranger.  This stranger that inhabits my body doesn't feel, she doesn't want, and she doesn't do anything.  I hate that more than anything.  Sometimes I feel less than human, actually, because what sets human beings apart from beasts is the complexity of our emotions.  But I owe a thousand thanks, now, to my dear friends and roomates whose real names I shall not divulge.  I'll call them instead by their nicknames .  You see, there was a big volleyball festival (tournament) in Phoenix, Arizona a couple of weeks ago.  It's typically a week long and Summer happens to be the hardest for me, in terms of...this.  By the last day, I it felt like breathing was akin to drawing fire through my veins, if you will permit me my overly dramatic turn of phrase.  S. Tanaka was never able to break me of that habit, unfortunately.  So, upon our return to our room, I rushed ahead and locked myself in our bathroom.  I allowed myself twenty seconds to come apart at the seams, albeit in silence.  When a little bit of that which corrodes a little girl's heart had spilled onto the tiles, I gave myself twenty seconds to regain my composure.  Then I stepped out and pretended like nothing had happened; in fact, I even flushed the toilet.  But after a few minutes, one asked me why my eyes were so red.  Her worries I dismissed with a flippant wave of my hand.  But another's could not be so easily dissuaded and beneath her clear gaze I crumbled.  I lost my cool.  I confided too many things to them.  I do not regret that now. My thanks to them, to Mo, to Teagan, and to livvy.  
      They helped me to realize that my first duty is to myself.  It does not do to save the hearts of others at the cost of mine (again, sorry...I hope you don't think I'm looking to sound like the heroic martyr...I'm really not).  Then, too, I've been doing too much apologizing.  I see now that people aren't made to please others.  Finally, this stranger that has come so close to conquering me cannot do so without my permission.  I am strong, I don't have to be passive.  
     Friends are great, but great friends are even better.  Never shut them out, and never try to hide yourself from the world.  The world is bigger than you are and you emotions will eat away your insides until one day you'll realize that you have no more emotions to squirrel away.  This last lesson was taught to me by my good friend, who shall be called "lardy" (it has nothing to do with her size...she's quite petite, actually), but sometimes it takes a while to truly learn things that we already know.  


Thanks for listening, internet.

 “A friend is someone who knows all about you and still loves you.”
― Elbert Hubbard