All hail Beyonce.
Sorry, irrelevent.
Cara stumbled into her apartment, banging the door shut and knocking over the umbrella stand. It made a terrific crash as it hit the floor. Cara put a finger to her lips and shushed it. She yanked off her black pumps- really a very impractical buy- and threw them into a corner, glaring at them when they clattered against the wall.
There is a door that joins her apartment to her neighbor's. For whatever reason. The landlord is fond of telling people tall tales involving pirates or robbers or spies, depending on his mood, but he doesn't know either.
A nice young man lives in the apartment adjacent to Cara's. A very nice, very handsome young man. He and Cara are great chums, although he finds her outlandish and alarmingly direct. He's the quiet type, you see. Talon is a professional athlete, and quite a good one, too. He's tall, dark, and sleekly muscled. Everyone wants him and he knows it. But he's not one for cockiness- oh no, not him. In fact, the extra attention makes him rather uncomfortable. And extra religious.
Only Cara can make him forget his reserve. They're great chums.
This door between their two apartments swings open. The light that floods in saves Cara the trouble of hunting down her own light switch. It was a lost cause in any case.
She stops and blinks owlishly at him.
"Cara?"
"Waaazzzup," Cara salutes him jauntily. Talon steps closer warily.
"Have you been drinking?"
"Yessir. Yes. I have. Yessir," her fingers tug at her hair. The last remaining pin falls out and her wobbling chignon collapses, spitting curls everywhere. They fall in a fragrant wave around her flushed face. Except where somebody got marinara sauce on it. That part's not too fragrant.
Cara teeters over to Talon and jabs a drunken finger into his chest. Twice. Too hard.
"I don't wanna hear about Jesus, kay?" she slurs. Talon frowns down at her. His hand fends off the one trying to drill a hole in his pectoral.
Cara looks up, quip ready, but falters when she sees his face. Don't get me wrong- it's a very nice face, only it currently wears a very strange expression.
"Are you very drunk?" Talon asks quietly.
"Maybe," Cara mutters, fixated with a spot on the linoleum.
"Huh."
"Judge me harder"-irritably-"I dare you."
Then Talon, who never did anything unexpected in his life, quite unexpectedly jerked her against his chest and kissed her roughly. His face was very red. He seemed defiant. Angry, even. Then he let her go.
They started at each other for a moment. Talon's face drained of color as Cara burst into uproarious laughter.
"What's so funny?" he grumbled, suddenly terrified she'd remember in the morning. His face is red again. Cara wraps her arms around him and patronizingly pats his cheek. She's still laughing fit to kill.
"What?"
Cara puts her face near his, her lips inches from his ear.
"I'm not drunk," she whispers.
Talon was choked into silence. Understandable, as he was busy inventing new shades of red for his face to turn.
Monday, December 22, 2014
Sunday, December 21, 2014
Fragment: And the Sky Hid the Sun
I have seen those colors in the sky, yes. Old photographs my grandmother saved, and the canvases she painted. Reds, oranges, streaks of purple and splashes of yellow. Grandmother spoke of them the way she spoke of her friends. Nicer, actually.
"Twice a day," she would say, her withered fingers brushing my cheek. "You could see them twice a day- sunrise and sunset. Dawn and dusk. Beautiful colors."
We still have beautiful colors. Grandmother isn't impressed, but I guess I wouldn't be either, if I had seen the colors in the sky.
Our house is crimson with maroon shutters and grandmother's favorite dress is blue and dark green. But the sky is only gray. I've never seen any other color, except when grandmother asks me to try and picture it differently. Then the leaden skies become streaked through with the red of the fire hydrant outside the library, the purple of the eggplants grandmother loves, the blue of her dress. Or else I see her painting, brush strokes and all.
"Yes, Grandmother," I would say dutifully. "It's beautiful."
"Ah, Lela," a wistful sigh. "If only you could really see it. The light changes too, pink or blue, or green, if a storm's coming."
Grandmother was very old. She could remember the days before the sky hid the sun, when great clouds of ash and pollution blotted out the colors. She had tried so hard, fought so fiercely, to prevent that.
"Those damn money-grubbers!" she'd cry, shaking her gnarled fist. That was perhaps the nicest name she had for them, the unseen giants that dumped awful things into the oceans, and breathed toxic breaths into the air.
A lot of grandmother's friends protested with her. They're all pretty strange too, and not because they're old, either. But in those days, their voice was too small to be heard, and scattered, and so the giants brushed them aside like bugs.
I was sad about that sometimes too. I was sad Grandmother lost her colors and I was sad because I wished I could have seen them. I envied her for having at least the memory.
Grandmother used to write angry letters every Sunday. I guess the government got pretty fed up because they sent her a painting and a snippy note asking her to stop. Now Grandmother writes them two letters a week.
"Unbelievable," she snorted when she saw the painting. "My own painting. Those bureaucrats send me my own goddamn painting and call it even."
It was a lovely piece. The sun was rising from behind some ice-cliffs overlooking the sea. There's a big fish that Grandmother calls a Beluga. I think she forgot the name herself because that's a pretty ridiculous name for a fish. She said that they don't exist anymore. That's pretty sad too. I sometimes forget that Grandmother used to be pretty famous for her paintings. Famous enough for the government to have one of them.
"Twice a day," she would say, her withered fingers brushing my cheek. "You could see them twice a day- sunrise and sunset. Dawn and dusk. Beautiful colors."
We still have beautiful colors. Grandmother isn't impressed, but I guess I wouldn't be either, if I had seen the colors in the sky.
Our house is crimson with maroon shutters and grandmother's favorite dress is blue and dark green. But the sky is only gray. I've never seen any other color, except when grandmother asks me to try and picture it differently. Then the leaden skies become streaked through with the red of the fire hydrant outside the library, the purple of the eggplants grandmother loves, the blue of her dress. Or else I see her painting, brush strokes and all.
"Yes, Grandmother," I would say dutifully. "It's beautiful."
"Ah, Lela," a wistful sigh. "If only you could really see it. The light changes too, pink or blue, or green, if a storm's coming."
Grandmother was very old. She could remember the days before the sky hid the sun, when great clouds of ash and pollution blotted out the colors. She had tried so hard, fought so fiercely, to prevent that.
"Those damn money-grubbers!" she'd cry, shaking her gnarled fist. That was perhaps the nicest name she had for them, the unseen giants that dumped awful things into the oceans, and breathed toxic breaths into the air.
A lot of grandmother's friends protested with her. They're all pretty strange too, and not because they're old, either. But in those days, their voice was too small to be heard, and scattered, and so the giants brushed them aside like bugs.
I was sad about that sometimes too. I was sad Grandmother lost her colors and I was sad because I wished I could have seen them. I envied her for having at least the memory.
Grandmother used to write angry letters every Sunday. I guess the government got pretty fed up because they sent her a painting and a snippy note asking her to stop. Now Grandmother writes them two letters a week.
"Unbelievable," she snorted when she saw the painting. "My own painting. Those bureaucrats send me my own goddamn painting and call it even."
It was a lovely piece. The sun was rising from behind some ice-cliffs overlooking the sea. There's a big fish that Grandmother calls a Beluga. I think she forgot the name herself because that's a pretty ridiculous name for a fish. She said that they don't exist anymore. That's pretty sad too. I sometimes forget that Grandmother used to be pretty famous for her paintings. Famous enough for the government to have one of them.
Saturday, December 6, 2014
Breaking the Spell
The dry spell, that is.
Cold weather is here at last, and with it, rain. Last night I heard the thudding of heavy droplets and the screeching of banshees.
"A Norwegion Spring," my former AP Euro teacher remarked. He held open his classroom door and we peered into the bleak scene, illuminated by grayish light. In swept a gust of cold-smelling air. Yes, cold-smelling. How strange that cold should have a smell.
The last of his students had gone and we tutors sat, shivering and thinking still of Marat and Robespierre and the fall of the Bastille. Fitting.
Strange how cold flourescent lights look when the sun doesn't shine. It reminded me of an old story my grandmother used to tell me, years ago, when I lived with her in China. I think I shall tell it to you now.
Once upon a time there was a little girl whose family was very poor in a land that was very cold. It snowed most of the year there, and the winds cut through layers of clothing and slipped in through cracks in the walls and roofs.
"Where, Grandmother? Where is this land?" But my grandmother would never tell me. She would say something in Russian and move her hands around in the air. Perhaps it was Russia she was speaking of.
Anyways, the Father had to go off to war and so he left behind his pregnant wife and his young son. When the War was over, he didn't come back.
"Which War, Grandmother?" Again, no answer. Sometimes a little Russian mixed into her Chinese, but nothing I could understand.
The Mother had long since given birth to a beautiful baby that grew into a beautiful girl, and the son was grown almost into a man. The Mother was very proud, and although a candle was still lit for the Father every night- left in the window facing the road- the family was loving and strong.
One day their village was besieged with strange creatures. They were as tall as men, but they weren't human. They looked like bears, with fearsome strength and cruelty in their eyes. They burned the fields and stole the livestock, overpowering able bodied men that tried to stand against them. In the end, there weren't enough men left to stop them from taking women and children and looting the houses.
They came to a hut with a burning candle in the window. A boy not quite grown into his gangly legs and big hands rushed out brandishing a farmer's scythe. The creature in front brushed him like he was brushing off a mosquito.
They had heard about the sister. They had come for her. But, not knowing that she liked sometimes to sleep in the stable with horses, they couldn't find her. One raised his staff to strike the Mother for refusing to give her up, when the Brother stabbed him viciously with his scythe. There was a sharp clink, as though the blade encountered metal. The other creatures roared but the leader lowered his weapon and stared at Mother and Son, huddled defiantly before him.
He said something in a harsh, foreign tongue and they left. Not a single thing was taken, save a bird roasting on a spit.
"What kind of bird, Grandmother?"
"Goose."
So except for that goose, they took nothing and disturbed nothing further. But as they filed out into the snow, the barn door creaked open. The moonlight shone silvery on her flaxen hair, her pale skin. Sister and Creature looked at each other in surprise. The humanoid warriors were reverently silent and when their leader beckoned with a clawed hand, she came to him as though in a trance.
There were horses waiting, great big brutes with red eyes and dark hides. Vicious like their masters, they bore them away faster than any horse could run. The Sister disappeared with them.
They took to lighting a candle for her too, although the surviving villagers gave her up as dead. But life went on. Springtime, Summertime, Fall.
The village rebuilt itself, and the dead were properly buried and mourned. The Brother got himself a sweetheart, the cobbler's daughter. She wasn't especially beautiful, but she was a pretty little thing, sweet and kind and merry. Not the icy queenliness of his Sister, but the warm, Springtime breeze of youth.
Sorry that line sounds better in Chinese.
One day, the Brother went hunting. Trudging homeward with his game bag full, he lost his way. He, who knew the terrain better than his Father. Bewildered, he dropped the bag from his shoulder and looked about him.
He came to a frozen lake. Beside it were a number of dwellings like he had never seen before. They were large and squarish, all along the banks of the lake on both sides, forming a U around it. In the center of the lake rose a dark palace.
"What enchantment is this?" He said aloud. Then something heavy hit his head and he fell. The dusky light faded in his eyes.
He awoke somewhere warm. Sitting up and rubbing his eyes like a child, the Brother found himself in the midst of the bear-like creatures. Fear pierced his heart and he stood, reaching for his knife.
Then someone called his name. A young man and woman in furs were seated upon thrones carved from the stump of a tree. The same stump, symbolizing, he later learned, both the intertwining of life in all things and the joining together of King and Queen. The Queen was tall, with silvery cornsilk hair and snowy skin. The torchlight glinted on the gold that circled her brow and she ran to him. He opened his arms and embraced his sister. They laughed and cried and there were many questions.
The Queen stood back and said a command in their tongue. They removed their furs and helmets and to the Brother's surprise, a band of men stood in place of the creatures.
"They're just men," the Queen said quietly. "They were robbers. They robbed a virgin traveling alone, and spilled her blood. It was a goddess from another world and she was furious that they killed an innocent, whose body she had been inhabiting. They are forbidden from living in our World. The Goddess would have killed them, but a Bear God saved them from her wrath and they live in His realm now."
The warriors listened with bowed heads. The Brother looked to the young man sitting in his throne. He was a giant, with a great black beard and cold blue eyes.
"We have lived here since," the King said.
"Why do you still kill?" The Brother asked through clenched teeth. He had not forgotten how many of his village were slain, nor how much was lost.
"To conquer," the King replied. "Our God is one that conquers."
The Queen looked sadly at him. "They have not learned," she whispered. "They will be cursed forever."
"It is a spell," the Brother took her face in his hands. "And there is another one cast over you."
"Yes. I, too, and bound to them."
"Come back with me. We will seek wise men. We will break the spell," he said. But the Queen shook her head.
"I cannot leave now," she said sadly. "And I would leave the spell unbroken." And she kissed her brother one last time and returned to her king, who held her close. The walls vanished and the Brother was standing alone in the forest, game bag at his feet.
"Goodbye," he whispered, and trudged home in the inky twilight.
Cold weather is here at last, and with it, rain. Last night I heard the thudding of heavy droplets and the screeching of banshees.
"A Norwegion Spring," my former AP Euro teacher remarked. He held open his classroom door and we peered into the bleak scene, illuminated by grayish light. In swept a gust of cold-smelling air. Yes, cold-smelling. How strange that cold should have a smell.
The last of his students had gone and we tutors sat, shivering and thinking still of Marat and Robespierre and the fall of the Bastille. Fitting.
Strange how cold flourescent lights look when the sun doesn't shine. It reminded me of an old story my grandmother used to tell me, years ago, when I lived with her in China. I think I shall tell it to you now.
Once upon a time there was a little girl whose family was very poor in a land that was very cold. It snowed most of the year there, and the winds cut through layers of clothing and slipped in through cracks in the walls and roofs.
"Where, Grandmother? Where is this land?" But my grandmother would never tell me. She would say something in Russian and move her hands around in the air. Perhaps it was Russia she was speaking of.
Anyways, the Father had to go off to war and so he left behind his pregnant wife and his young son. When the War was over, he didn't come back.
"Which War, Grandmother?" Again, no answer. Sometimes a little Russian mixed into her Chinese, but nothing I could understand.
The Mother had long since given birth to a beautiful baby that grew into a beautiful girl, and the son was grown almost into a man. The Mother was very proud, and although a candle was still lit for the Father every night- left in the window facing the road- the family was loving and strong.
One day their village was besieged with strange creatures. They were as tall as men, but they weren't human. They looked like bears, with fearsome strength and cruelty in their eyes. They burned the fields and stole the livestock, overpowering able bodied men that tried to stand against them. In the end, there weren't enough men left to stop them from taking women and children and looting the houses.
They came to a hut with a burning candle in the window. A boy not quite grown into his gangly legs and big hands rushed out brandishing a farmer's scythe. The creature in front brushed him like he was brushing off a mosquito.
They had heard about the sister. They had come for her. But, not knowing that she liked sometimes to sleep in the stable with horses, they couldn't find her. One raised his staff to strike the Mother for refusing to give her up, when the Brother stabbed him viciously with his scythe. There was a sharp clink, as though the blade encountered metal. The other creatures roared but the leader lowered his weapon and stared at Mother and Son, huddled defiantly before him.
He said something in a harsh, foreign tongue and they left. Not a single thing was taken, save a bird roasting on a spit.
"What kind of bird, Grandmother?"
"Goose."
So except for that goose, they took nothing and disturbed nothing further. But as they filed out into the snow, the barn door creaked open. The moonlight shone silvery on her flaxen hair, her pale skin. Sister and Creature looked at each other in surprise. The humanoid warriors were reverently silent and when their leader beckoned with a clawed hand, she came to him as though in a trance.
There were horses waiting, great big brutes with red eyes and dark hides. Vicious like their masters, they bore them away faster than any horse could run. The Sister disappeared with them.
They took to lighting a candle for her too, although the surviving villagers gave her up as dead. But life went on. Springtime, Summertime, Fall.
The village rebuilt itself, and the dead were properly buried and mourned. The Brother got himself a sweetheart, the cobbler's daughter. She wasn't especially beautiful, but she was a pretty little thing, sweet and kind and merry. Not the icy queenliness of his Sister, but the warm, Springtime breeze of youth.
Sorry that line sounds better in Chinese.
One day, the Brother went hunting. Trudging homeward with his game bag full, he lost his way. He, who knew the terrain better than his Father. Bewildered, he dropped the bag from his shoulder and looked about him.
He came to a frozen lake. Beside it were a number of dwellings like he had never seen before. They were large and squarish, all along the banks of the lake on both sides, forming a U around it. In the center of the lake rose a dark palace.
"What enchantment is this?" He said aloud. Then something heavy hit his head and he fell. The dusky light faded in his eyes.
He awoke somewhere warm. Sitting up and rubbing his eyes like a child, the Brother found himself in the midst of the bear-like creatures. Fear pierced his heart and he stood, reaching for his knife.
Then someone called his name. A young man and woman in furs were seated upon thrones carved from the stump of a tree. The same stump, symbolizing, he later learned, both the intertwining of life in all things and the joining together of King and Queen. The Queen was tall, with silvery cornsilk hair and snowy skin. The torchlight glinted on the gold that circled her brow and she ran to him. He opened his arms and embraced his sister. They laughed and cried and there were many questions.
The Queen stood back and said a command in their tongue. They removed their furs and helmets and to the Brother's surprise, a band of men stood in place of the creatures.
"They're just men," the Queen said quietly. "They were robbers. They robbed a virgin traveling alone, and spilled her blood. It was a goddess from another world and she was furious that they killed an innocent, whose body she had been inhabiting. They are forbidden from living in our World. The Goddess would have killed them, but a Bear God saved them from her wrath and they live in His realm now."
The warriors listened with bowed heads. The Brother looked to the young man sitting in his throne. He was a giant, with a great black beard and cold blue eyes.
"We have lived here since," the King said.
"Why do you still kill?" The Brother asked through clenched teeth. He had not forgotten how many of his village were slain, nor how much was lost.
"To conquer," the King replied. "Our God is one that conquers."
The Queen looked sadly at him. "They have not learned," she whispered. "They will be cursed forever."
"It is a spell," the Brother took her face in his hands. "And there is another one cast over you."
"Yes. I, too, and bound to them."
"Come back with me. We will seek wise men. We will break the spell," he said. But the Queen shook her head.
"I cannot leave now," she said sadly. "And I would leave the spell unbroken." And she kissed her brother one last time and returned to her king, who held her close. The walls vanished and the Brother was standing alone in the forest, game bag at his feet.
"Goodbye," he whispered, and trudged home in the inky twilight.
Sunday, November 9, 2014
Adventures in Losing Your Kid
"Cynthia!"
My head instinctively turns. A woman in a loose fitting shirt and shorts wades laboriously into the water. Her nut brown hair is tied smoothly back but her hand finds the strand that has come loose. She comes a little closer.
"Sophia!"
Ah. It's an honest mistake, I think, and turn back to my lazy contemplation of the waves lapping around my hips.
"Sophia! Soooophiiiiia!"
The lady's voice begins to sound worried. She looks about her and her ponytail whips around her white neck. When no Sophia materializes, she begins to panic.
"Sophia! Oh, God, Sophia! SOPHIA!"
She's splashing water on those neat gray shorts. Her head turns this way and that. I wonder why no one is helping her. Everyone is suddenly extremely absorbed in whatever they were doing. Picking up a seashell. Adjusting their swimsuit. Staring at the sky.
Her terror is contagious. What if Sophia has wandered off and gotten lost? Or kidnapped? Hit her head and drowned? Run over by a rogue surfer?
The woman stops a man as he walks by, dragging his young son on a boogie board.
"Sophia, my daughter," I hear her explain. "She's ten." The man turns away from her, and lifts his son from the board. He sets him gently on the sand and murmurs something to him, stroking the downy black curls. The son nods obediently and runs off to safety as his father helps the distraught woman look for her Sophia.
I am torn. I am completely engrossed in the scene yet for whatever reason I am reluctant to help. Thankfully, a tiny white figure is trotting from the tide, smiling beautifically and waving.
"Sophia!" Her mother is almost in tears. I straighten and wave to get her attention. When she sees me, I point smilingly to Sophia. The woman stares at me uncomprehendingly for a bizaarely long time. I point more emphatically. Her brow creases but she turns and sees naughty Sophia beaming and waving her eight-year old hand (Because, really, I don't think she could have passed for ten).
"Oh my God!" the woman shrieks, and stumbles to her, admonishing her all the while. Sophia is never, never, never, never ever to go off on her own like that. Not in a million years, does she understand?
There is a drop off in the sand so although the water barely laps at Sophia's skinny ankles, her mother is standing thigh-deep in it. All the same, when she reaches her daughter, she hastily steps up, bends, and throws her arms around her shoulders and buries her face in her neck. I see her entire body shaking. The poor woman is sobbing in full view of everyone. It's okay, though. They're still pretending not to see her.
When she has composed herself, the woman stands, takes Sophia's hand securely in hers and they walk off. I watch them leave for a long time because although the weather is fine, and although it is a Saturday, the beach is relatively empty. I watch them so long that the group of boys messing around on their boogie boards begin to stare curiously at me. Wondering what this stranger is staring at so intently. When I turn to look piercingly at them (sassily pushing my mouth to one side), they duck their heads, abashed, and carry on with their horseplay.
I look again for Sophia and her mother, but find that I have lost them.
My head instinctively turns. A woman in a loose fitting shirt and shorts wades laboriously into the water. Her nut brown hair is tied smoothly back but her hand finds the strand that has come loose. She comes a little closer.
"Sophia!"
Ah. It's an honest mistake, I think, and turn back to my lazy contemplation of the waves lapping around my hips.
"Sophia! Soooophiiiiia!"
The lady's voice begins to sound worried. She looks about her and her ponytail whips around her white neck. When no Sophia materializes, she begins to panic.
"Sophia! Oh, God, Sophia! SOPHIA!"
She's splashing water on those neat gray shorts. Her head turns this way and that. I wonder why no one is helping her. Everyone is suddenly extremely absorbed in whatever they were doing. Picking up a seashell. Adjusting their swimsuit. Staring at the sky.
Her terror is contagious. What if Sophia has wandered off and gotten lost? Or kidnapped? Hit her head and drowned? Run over by a rogue surfer?
The woman stops a man as he walks by, dragging his young son on a boogie board.
"Sophia, my daughter," I hear her explain. "She's ten." The man turns away from her, and lifts his son from the board. He sets him gently on the sand and murmurs something to him, stroking the downy black curls. The son nods obediently and runs off to safety as his father helps the distraught woman look for her Sophia.
I am torn. I am completely engrossed in the scene yet for whatever reason I am reluctant to help. Thankfully, a tiny white figure is trotting from the tide, smiling beautifically and waving.
"Sophia!" Her mother is almost in tears. I straighten and wave to get her attention. When she sees me, I point smilingly to Sophia. The woman stares at me uncomprehendingly for a bizaarely long time. I point more emphatically. Her brow creases but she turns and sees naughty Sophia beaming and waving her eight-year old hand (Because, really, I don't think she could have passed for ten).
"Oh my God!" the woman shrieks, and stumbles to her, admonishing her all the while. Sophia is never, never, never, never ever to go off on her own like that. Not in a million years, does she understand?
There is a drop off in the sand so although the water barely laps at Sophia's skinny ankles, her mother is standing thigh-deep in it. All the same, when she reaches her daughter, she hastily steps up, bends, and throws her arms around her shoulders and buries her face in her neck. I see her entire body shaking. The poor woman is sobbing in full view of everyone. It's okay, though. They're still pretending not to see her.
When she has composed herself, the woman stands, takes Sophia's hand securely in hers and they walk off. I watch them leave for a long time because although the weather is fine, and although it is a Saturday, the beach is relatively empty. I watch them so long that the group of boys messing around on their boogie boards begin to stare curiously at me. Wondering what this stranger is staring at so intently. When I turn to look piercingly at them (sassily pushing my mouth to one side), they duck their heads, abashed, and carry on with their horseplay.
I look again for Sophia and her mother, but find that I have lost them.
Tuesday, October 21, 2014
A Little Gray in the Face
I'm at home, sick with the stomach flu. I haven't been properly sick since the eighth grade. I mean, I've had my share of colds and fevers and "under-the-weather"s but I've been busy being an "adult". That basically means I popped some advil, ate my vitamin C and powered through.
"I have X amount of tests today, and X amounts of responsibilities I simply cannot delegate to someone else."
What a load of crap. Because the really adult thing to do would be to stay at home, avoid spreading the bug to other people, realize that missing a day of school isn't the end of the world, and heal. It's only ever children that play at "being adults" anyway.
Yesterday, halfway through second period, I developed a headache just above my right eyebrow. Then I found that my eyes couldn't focus and I couldn't read the paper in front of me. So I decided to get some fresh air but upon standing, my legs trembled and my head swam. I was more annoyed than anything. Didn't I have finals to study for? Didn't I have to prepare for an interview tomorrow? Didn't I have Lolita to read?
Yes. Yes, I did.
Finally, my friends knocked some sense into my bedraggled head and I wove drunkenly to the nurse. When I collapsed against the first door (first gateway to Hell), the awful artificial scent of "Autumn" assaulted my nostrils. I almost threw up right there. But because I have some kind of superhuman restraint, I staggered on into the nurse's office. I must have looked pretty bad, because she saw me and jumped a little bit.
"Oh dear," she said.
"hmm?" was the best I could manage. Probably not the most reassuring of responses.
After what felt like rigorous interrogation, she led me to a cot and inquired if I should like a blanket. I can't remember what I said, but she patted me on the leg, drew the curtains and left me, blanketless.
Lying on that cot was the singular worst experience of my life. I thought I was going to drown in my own vomit. It felt like my head weighed twice as much as my body. Waves of nausea rolled over me, although I was a reasonable temperature. That was just peachy. At my lowest, and I'm denied the comfort of saying: "ah, and I was racked with chills one moment and flames the next". Typical.
I clutched the blanket and pressed a corner against the offending eyebrow, but to no avail. I tried to drink from the cup the kindly nurse offered me, but somehow forgot how gravity works and succeeded only in pouring the damn thing down my neck.
At some point she called my mother and that horrible woman declared that she wanted to speak to me. Speak to me? Didn't she know I was busy turning into a vegetable?
"Wang Yuxiao (my Chinese name)!" her voice crackled on the phone.
"Hm-m-m-m?"
And the conversation went downhill from there.
My mother and the nurse agreed that I should probably go home and sleep it off. It's like they didn't even care that the devil was trying to steal my soul.
Anyways, a little while later, Sandra appeared with my stuff and agreed to drive me home during lunch. I told her I'd buy her weight in sushi. For whatever reason, she looked more concerned than grateful. When lunchtime rolled around, I tried to airily swing my legs off the cot and stride confidently off.
That isn't what happened.
Instead, I slid off the cot and fell into a crouching position. But Sandra wouldn't even let me appreciate being cat woman and helped me stand. She kept trying to support my arm, ignoring my indignant "I am a grown woman" declarations. She held my backpack for me, and led me out the school gates to the car. The security guard didn't even ask to see my ID card to check if I was allowed off campus. Racist.
When I finally got home, I got into my own, glorious, cushioned bed and fell into a deep slumber. Or would have, if not for the frequent trips to the bathroom. I won't go into the gorey details, but let me just say that I haven't thrown up in years and I think I forgot how. I'm a pretty quick learner, though.
The delusions were nice. I couldn't see anything at one point and I started sobbing because I was absolutely convinced I was dying of a brain tumor. Then I tried to eat a banana but my stomach wasn't having it. That was really heartbreaking. I also tried to tell my mother, when she got home, that I thought I was going bald. She thought that was the funniest thing ever, the heartless wench. She grabbed a handful of my hair and said:
"Bald? You? Look at all this hair? Ha! Ha!"
The Chinese have an awful sense of humor. Really hurtful.
This morning I woke up feeling...well, feeling pretty terrible, actually. But I felt coherent, and I felt purged. Pretty stressed, because I'm at home, blogging.
Jeez my head hurts.
But my mother brewed me a nice pot of coffee before she left so I guess she loves me after all.
"I have X amount of tests today, and X amounts of responsibilities I simply cannot delegate to someone else."
What a load of crap. Because the really adult thing to do would be to stay at home, avoid spreading the bug to other people, realize that missing a day of school isn't the end of the world, and heal. It's only ever children that play at "being adults" anyway.
Yesterday, halfway through second period, I developed a headache just above my right eyebrow. Then I found that my eyes couldn't focus and I couldn't read the paper in front of me. So I decided to get some fresh air but upon standing, my legs trembled and my head swam. I was more annoyed than anything. Didn't I have finals to study for? Didn't I have to prepare for an interview tomorrow? Didn't I have Lolita to read?
Yes. Yes, I did.
Finally, my friends knocked some sense into my bedraggled head and I wove drunkenly to the nurse. When I collapsed against the first door (first gateway to Hell), the awful artificial scent of "Autumn" assaulted my nostrils. I almost threw up right there. But because I have some kind of superhuman restraint, I staggered on into the nurse's office. I must have looked pretty bad, because she saw me and jumped a little bit.
"Oh dear," she said.
"hmm?" was the best I could manage. Probably not the most reassuring of responses.
After what felt like rigorous interrogation, she led me to a cot and inquired if I should like a blanket. I can't remember what I said, but she patted me on the leg, drew the curtains and left me, blanketless.
Lying on that cot was the singular worst experience of my life. I thought I was going to drown in my own vomit. It felt like my head weighed twice as much as my body. Waves of nausea rolled over me, although I was a reasonable temperature. That was just peachy. At my lowest, and I'm denied the comfort of saying: "ah, and I was racked with chills one moment and flames the next". Typical.
I clutched the blanket and pressed a corner against the offending eyebrow, but to no avail. I tried to drink from the cup the kindly nurse offered me, but somehow forgot how gravity works and succeeded only in pouring the damn thing down my neck.
At some point she called my mother and that horrible woman declared that she wanted to speak to me. Speak to me? Didn't she know I was busy turning into a vegetable?
"Wang Yuxiao (my Chinese name)!" her voice crackled on the phone.
"Hm-m-m-m?"
And the conversation went downhill from there.
My mother and the nurse agreed that I should probably go home and sleep it off. It's like they didn't even care that the devil was trying to steal my soul.
Anyways, a little while later, Sandra appeared with my stuff and agreed to drive me home during lunch. I told her I'd buy her weight in sushi. For whatever reason, she looked more concerned than grateful. When lunchtime rolled around, I tried to airily swing my legs off the cot and stride confidently off.
That isn't what happened.
Instead, I slid off the cot and fell into a crouching position. But Sandra wouldn't even let me appreciate being cat woman and helped me stand. She kept trying to support my arm, ignoring my indignant "I am a grown woman" declarations. She held my backpack for me, and led me out the school gates to the car. The security guard didn't even ask to see my ID card to check if I was allowed off campus. Racist.
When I finally got home, I got into my own, glorious, cushioned bed and fell into a deep slumber. Or would have, if not for the frequent trips to the bathroom. I won't go into the gorey details, but let me just say that I haven't thrown up in years and I think I forgot how. I'm a pretty quick learner, though.
The delusions were nice. I couldn't see anything at one point and I started sobbing because I was absolutely convinced I was dying of a brain tumor. Then I tried to eat a banana but my stomach wasn't having it. That was really heartbreaking. I also tried to tell my mother, when she got home, that I thought I was going bald. She thought that was the funniest thing ever, the heartless wench. She grabbed a handful of my hair and said:
"Bald? You? Look at all this hair? Ha! Ha!"
The Chinese have an awful sense of humor. Really hurtful.
This morning I woke up feeling...well, feeling pretty terrible, actually. But I felt coherent, and I felt purged. Pretty stressed, because I'm at home, blogging.
Jeez my head hurts.
But my mother brewed me a nice pot of coffee before she left so I guess she loves me after all.
Monday, September 15, 2014
We Eat
There are a lot of sports I have a basic knowledge of, but whose intricacies completely escape me. Football is on that list. Top five, probably.
I blame my parents. To this day, I have never watched a single football game with them. They understand it even less than I do. See, we grew up watching swimming and volleyball and gymnastics...you know, sports the Chinese can play. (shots fired)
I find football strangely fascinating. But for the numbers, the helmeted players could be anyone. There's some kind of battle formation whose cold, calculating logic is just beyond the reach of my brain. They have commanders, too, and seargents.
I have always wondered if sports were a way for people to play at war. War with their surroundings, war with their peers, war with with themselves.
So I took on the football spread for yearbook and went just last friday to take pictures at our first home game. I've watched three years' worth of home games from the stands. For three years I've found myself irrationally excited, because I'm sure my subconscious mind understands the game, though my conscious mind may dodder hopelessly around in circles.
But let me tell you this: watching from the stands is so, so different than it is walking up and down the sidelines, weaving in and out of players and other camera people, running this way and that. There's this raw, primitive energy I hadn't expected. Although I can see some of their faces peeping through the openings in their helmets, I don't recognize any of them. Although I'd know them in the halls, in my classrooms, wandering around town, I didn't know them then. They didn't look at me, or anybody else- they saw the team, they saw the field, and they saw the other players.
It was crazy. I've never seen anything like it before.
They didn't even notice the crowd, although they fed off its energy. When the other side scored touchdowns, groans rippled through their ranks. When our side did, they celebrated as brothers, screaming, pumping their arms and jumping on each other.
Toward the end things got a little nasty for us, and the entire team breathed and held their breaths as one man. They shared a single plateful of tension, of bundled nerves and expectation.
At some points, we gave up on taking pictures and simply stood and watched. Watched the battle unfold and the blood spill.
Like I said, it was pretty crazy.
I realize that if you don't go to my school, the title doesn't make a whole lot of sense to you. I don't entirely understand it myself, so I'm not going to try to explain it. It's pretty funny, though, to hear the crowd chant it like a prayer and make as though they're eating, holding imaginary plates and utensils. Whoever knew the minds of teenagers? Freaking nobody. Not even teenagers.
I blame my parents. To this day, I have never watched a single football game with them. They understand it even less than I do. See, we grew up watching swimming and volleyball and gymnastics...you know, sports the Chinese can play. (shots fired)
I find football strangely fascinating. But for the numbers, the helmeted players could be anyone. There's some kind of battle formation whose cold, calculating logic is just beyond the reach of my brain. They have commanders, too, and seargents.
I have always wondered if sports were a way for people to play at war. War with their surroundings, war with their peers, war with with themselves.
So I took on the football spread for yearbook and went just last friday to take pictures at our first home game. I've watched three years' worth of home games from the stands. For three years I've found myself irrationally excited, because I'm sure my subconscious mind understands the game, though my conscious mind may dodder hopelessly around in circles.
But let me tell you this: watching from the stands is so, so different than it is walking up and down the sidelines, weaving in and out of players and other camera people, running this way and that. There's this raw, primitive energy I hadn't expected. Although I can see some of their faces peeping through the openings in their helmets, I don't recognize any of them. Although I'd know them in the halls, in my classrooms, wandering around town, I didn't know them then. They didn't look at me, or anybody else- they saw the team, they saw the field, and they saw the other players.
It was crazy. I've never seen anything like it before.
They didn't even notice the crowd, although they fed off its energy. When the other side scored touchdowns, groans rippled through their ranks. When our side did, they celebrated as brothers, screaming, pumping their arms and jumping on each other.
Toward the end things got a little nasty for us, and the entire team breathed and held their breaths as one man. They shared a single plateful of tension, of bundled nerves and expectation.
At some points, we gave up on taking pictures and simply stood and watched. Watched the battle unfold and the blood spill.
Like I said, it was pretty crazy.
I realize that if you don't go to my school, the title doesn't make a whole lot of sense to you. I don't entirely understand it myself, so I'm not going to try to explain it. It's pretty funny, though, to hear the crowd chant it like a prayer and make as though they're eating, holding imaginary plates and utensils. Whoever knew the minds of teenagers? Freaking nobody. Not even teenagers.
Thursday, September 11, 2014
Waking Up
The sky wept for us on the first day of school. Hordes of indignant girls trudged through the wet hallways, sheltering their carefully styled hair and made up faces. Sandals had been traded for more practical footwear that thudded sullenly as they walked. The schoolyard was shiny with a kind of wet romance.
But it hasn't rained since. The California drought drags on, and the sun is hot on our cheeks.
I miss cold weather. I miss rain. I miss how walking to school in the morning, the wind would blow your hood off and your hair atumble. I miss watching fat waterdroplets roll of my coat and taking it off,safe and snug and dry underneath.
Summer this year is like Summer in Westeros-seemingly endless.
But I'm tired of sweat and soft, balmy perfumes and kicking off the covers at night. I'm tired of the Summer breeze. I weary of the scent of burning pavement. I'm sick of being slow and languid-I'm ready for the speed, the briskness of Fall.
We talked about Speed in my AP Lit class just last week. My teacher showed us a clip of a man named Carl talking about slowing down. Our society, Carl explained, was moving faster at a faster rate and maybe it was time to slow down and just Be. He said that doing things slowly was better: eating, moving, spending time with our children, making love.
But I like to be fast. I like the wind whistling past my cheeks. Last month I would have smiled lazily and said that I liked to be slow, but last month I was a different girl. Now that I am a different girl I need the sun to be a different sun. You feel?
It's too damn hot for tea. For whatever reason, I find this to be supremely insulting.
Someone in that discussion said that to him, being slow meant being able to stop and appreciate the silence and that speed was so noisy. I had to disagree. From my perch on the dusty cushion I sat on, I had to disagree.
Speed is silent. Think of the engine in a really nice car; sometimes it purrs but mostly it doesn't make a sound. You feel its power but sometimes you forget it's there. Speed means rushing by so fast that you can't hear what's around you. The warnings people shout at you as you pass are lost, sounds of laughter and of tears, the rumble of the sea, the clink of breaking glass. All you hear is moving air.
Stillness is noise. When you don't move too fast, you can hear things, everything if you want. The sound a hummingbird makes that would be lost inside a Mercedes. Slowness is nice, too, but I'm not in the mood.
I told you already. I'm tired of being slow. I'm tired of warm mornings and cold watermelon afternoons.
But it hasn't rained since. The California drought drags on, and the sun is hot on our cheeks.
I miss cold weather. I miss rain. I miss how walking to school in the morning, the wind would blow your hood off and your hair atumble. I miss watching fat waterdroplets roll of my coat and taking it off,safe and snug and dry underneath.
Summer this year is like Summer in Westeros-seemingly endless.
But I'm tired of sweat and soft, balmy perfumes and kicking off the covers at night. I'm tired of the Summer breeze. I weary of the scent of burning pavement. I'm sick of being slow and languid-I'm ready for the speed, the briskness of Fall.
We talked about Speed in my AP Lit class just last week. My teacher showed us a clip of a man named Carl talking about slowing down. Our society, Carl explained, was moving faster at a faster rate and maybe it was time to slow down and just Be. He said that doing things slowly was better: eating, moving, spending time with our children, making love.
But I like to be fast. I like the wind whistling past my cheeks. Last month I would have smiled lazily and said that I liked to be slow, but last month I was a different girl. Now that I am a different girl I need the sun to be a different sun. You feel?
It's too damn hot for tea. For whatever reason, I find this to be supremely insulting.
Someone in that discussion said that to him, being slow meant being able to stop and appreciate the silence and that speed was so noisy. I had to disagree. From my perch on the dusty cushion I sat on, I had to disagree.
Speed is silent. Think of the engine in a really nice car; sometimes it purrs but mostly it doesn't make a sound. You feel its power but sometimes you forget it's there. Speed means rushing by so fast that you can't hear what's around you. The warnings people shout at you as you pass are lost, sounds of laughter and of tears, the rumble of the sea, the clink of breaking glass. All you hear is moving air.
Stillness is noise. When you don't move too fast, you can hear things, everything if you want. The sound a hummingbird makes that would be lost inside a Mercedes. Slowness is nice, too, but I'm not in the mood.
I told you already. I'm tired of being slow. I'm tired of warm mornings and cold watermelon afternoons.
Friday, August 1, 2014
The End of an Era
Imagine something you've always done- something you committed to, sacrificed for, and cried over. It's what you identified with, and half the people you know you met through this one thing. Sometimes it seems like your life revolves around it- for good or bad.
It's shaped who you are, how you see the world. You can't outgrow it, even when you stop doing it. Because you can never just leave-it's a community that remembers you long after you try to go. It's a lifestyle that you can't forget.
Volleyball.
Pretty corny, huh?
But I'm finally doing it, finally quitting. I always told myself I would, but this time I know I am because the reason is a "shouldn't" but a "can't". Too many other commitments, and I'm just not brave enough to risk it. Not even for something I think I love. College, you know?
I'm not even going to try to explain to you my reasons. But know that they're solid, and that I had to choose between two paths. The choice itself was simple-I had no future in volleyball. It was something I enjoyed, and it couldn't give me anything more than health, friends, and lessons in discipline and patience.
But it was easy to choose the other option. Not so easy to live with it.
The movements I practiced so diligently, the muscles I so carefully trained are next to meaningless now. It doesn't matter now how high I can (or can't) jump, how quickly I can react to the ball.
What ball? It'll never be the same.
The words I need aren't where I thought they would be. I can't express how like a dance the blocking footwork was, as we traveling along the net during our warmup, how our outstretched arms stretched above the tape and the veins in my wrists looked when they crooked over the top. They looked pretty weird, bluey and all.
Even messing around on the beach or in open gyms, it'll never be the same. That sense of urgency, or purpose, and of team will never again exist. That's what I'll miss most of all.
But I suspect what ties me to a sport I'm too darn short for isn't any of that. I started playing when I was around 12, just before a noticeable dip in the road. Sometimes I would bring my problems with me onto the court, but they never left with me. The ball would smash against the lines I scored into my arm, until I learned to stop putting them there. Then they found their way onto other places. Better to wear your scars on your skin than your heart, I think.
Volleyball wasn't what helped me get better. But it was there. That's how these things are. Sometimes just being there is enough to help.
Watch for my daughter in the olympics 22 years from now.
Haha.
It's shaped who you are, how you see the world. You can't outgrow it, even when you stop doing it. Because you can never just leave-it's a community that remembers you long after you try to go. It's a lifestyle that you can't forget.
Volleyball.
 |
| Jo and I blocking. She's still recruitable ;) |
 |
| SDVBC 17-1, in case you were wondering |
Pretty corny, huh?
But I'm finally doing it, finally quitting. I always told myself I would, but this time I know I am because the reason is a "shouldn't" but a "can't". Too many other commitments, and I'm just not brave enough to risk it. Not even for something I think I love. College, you know?
I'm not even going to try to explain to you my reasons. But know that they're solid, and that I had to choose between two paths. The choice itself was simple-I had no future in volleyball. It was something I enjoyed, and it couldn't give me anything more than health, friends, and lessons in discipline and patience.
But it was easy to choose the other option. Not so easy to live with it.
The movements I practiced so diligently, the muscles I so carefully trained are next to meaningless now. It doesn't matter now how high I can (or can't) jump, how quickly I can react to the ball.
What ball? It'll never be the same.
The words I need aren't where I thought they would be. I can't express how like a dance the blocking footwork was, as we traveling along the net during our warmup, how our outstretched arms stretched above the tape and the veins in my wrists looked when they crooked over the top. They looked pretty weird, bluey and all.
Even messing around on the beach or in open gyms, it'll never be the same. That sense of urgency, or purpose, and of team will never again exist. That's what I'll miss most of all.
But I suspect what ties me to a sport I'm too darn short for isn't any of that. I started playing when I was around 12, just before a noticeable dip in the road. Sometimes I would bring my problems with me onto the court, but they never left with me. The ball would smash against the lines I scored into my arm, until I learned to stop putting them there. Then they found their way onto other places. Better to wear your scars on your skin than your heart, I think.
Volleyball wasn't what helped me get better. But it was there. That's how these things are. Sometimes just being there is enough to help.
Watch for my daughter in the olympics 22 years from now.
Haha.
The Best Place That's Not My Bed
The driveway to my friend Maria's house is almost always completely obscured by cars and shoes coming, and shoes going.
The house that Mama Horan built. Not with hammers and wooden planks and plaster, but with smiles and hugs and good Italian cooking.
The front hall is warm, welcoming. The polished floor gleams softly, but don't be fooled-sweep your bare foot along and you will find the ease with which you become a dog hair magnet. It's nobody's fault that Molly is an olympic-level shedder. A gift and a curse, really.
The kitchen is the best room in the whole house, except maybe the garage. It is large but not pretentious, clean but not austere, and exceedingly well-stocked.
The kitchen that Mama Horan built. With pancetta and olive oil and good bread-the scent of brewing tea as it hangs in the air, sweeter and headier than a lady's perfume.
They converted their garage into a den. Large, comfortable couches, a TV, and a fridge. One time I made virgin Sangria and we kept it in there. It made an awful mess whenever we tried to pour it.
Sometimes I like it better than my own house. I like the aura of acceptance here. Every time I leave I say good bye to Mama Horan by bending down to give her a hug. Usually she's lying on the couch in the living room, but I have to bend way over even when she's standing because she's so short. It's very comforting because my mom is way shorter than me too.
Maria told her about my blog and she wanted me to write about her. So here is that post, and may it evoke the same hints of a second home, the same lazy Sunday mood. Perhaps even you, reader, can taste the cheesy mostaccioli, or hear our laughter.
The laughter that Mama Horan shares. In the house that she built.
The house that Mama Horan built. Not with hammers and wooden planks and plaster, but with smiles and hugs and good Italian cooking.
The front hall is warm, welcoming. The polished floor gleams softly, but don't be fooled-sweep your bare foot along and you will find the ease with which you become a dog hair magnet. It's nobody's fault that Molly is an olympic-level shedder. A gift and a curse, really.
The kitchen is the best room in the whole house, except maybe the garage. It is large but not pretentious, clean but not austere, and exceedingly well-stocked.
The kitchen that Mama Horan built. With pancetta and olive oil and good bread-the scent of brewing tea as it hangs in the air, sweeter and headier than a lady's perfume.
They converted their garage into a den. Large, comfortable couches, a TV, and a fridge. One time I made virgin Sangria and we kept it in there. It made an awful mess whenever we tried to pour it.
Sometimes I like it better than my own house. I like the aura of acceptance here. Every time I leave I say good bye to Mama Horan by bending down to give her a hug. Usually she's lying on the couch in the living room, but I have to bend way over even when she's standing because she's so short. It's very comforting because my mom is way shorter than me too.
Maria told her about my blog and she wanted me to write about her. So here is that post, and may it evoke the same hints of a second home, the same lazy Sunday mood. Perhaps even you, reader, can taste the cheesy mostaccioli, or hear our laughter.
The laughter that Mama Horan shares. In the house that she built.
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| Giving Ellen's selfie a run for its money |
Friday, July 18, 2014
The Post Inspired by the Dinguses Making Things Hard for Keanu Reeves
Good morning. It is 2:37 AM and for that reason the following words will probably be strung together in a nonsensical manner. I'll probably be embarassed when I reread them in the morning. Technically it's already morning, but you know what I mean.
God, the unsuspecting civilian is so stupid.
Allow me to explain that statement. I have been on a 90s binge for a while. It started out with your run-of-the-mill romantic comedies, then to anything and everything Keanu Reeves is in. I am currently watching Speed (1994), and basically this crazy guy stashed a bunch of explosives on a bus and told our man, Jack Traven, that the bus will explode if:
1. its speed drops below 50 miles an hour
2. anybody tries to get off
Imagine the mayhem. At one point, they hit traffic and had to drive onto the shoulder. It was pretty epic.
Now, everyone around them was shocked, with reactions ranging from indignation to outrage to aggressive concern (haha). But what really pissed me off-irritated me excruciatingly-was how quick everyone was to jump to conclusions, assume nothing was the matter, aside from some crazy guy jumping onto a moving bus, just casually ruining everybody's day.
No.
This is a guy risking his career-hell, his LIFE-and you 're making his life difficult. Like it isn't difficult enough already. You can't blame the passengers, the people on the bus whose lives are in danger, for breaking down, losing their cool. Understandable. Not ideal, but understandable.
But for God's sake, the news people, the random passerby...
In the words of Dermot Mulroney in The Wedding Date (2005), "there is no such thing as 'out of the blue'". Actually, I'm pretty sure a bunch of other, more credible, people said that too only I can't quite call any to mind. Probably Freud or Einstein or Oprah or something.
But I digress. The point is, what you might be fooled into thinking is something small, something random, is more likely part of something bigger. Something nobody has the time to explain while trying to save a busful of really freaked-out civilians.
Not that the folks on the bus were being so accomodating, but I've never been in a situation like that so I'm in no position to judge. (But really...)
Then I started thinking (never a good idea this late). Imagine all the crazy sh*t people pull, and how others respond. Going too slow on the freeway? Cacophany of honks. Basically, if you were to do anything disruptive or out of the ordinary, humanity is so self-absorbed that people will probably just assume you are going out of your way to ruin their day with your assholery.
Don't get me wrong-you might be. Asshole.
But seeing as we have so many excellent examples of seemingly disturbed individuals making a scene and doing a number of strange, dangerous things in the interest of saving the world or something...you'd think our society would have learned to stop jumping to conclusions.
Now I'm not saying that if someone tries to take your car you should assume that they are the FBI and need your motor vehicle to transport them to the Martian spaceship where they prevent the Martian colonization of Earth and just hand over your Honda. That would not be smart. But I am saying that maybe we as a society should stop jumping to conclusions and assume people around us are just a bunch of inconsiderate assholes when for all we know they could be saving the North American continent from terrorists or something like that.
Wow, all this just so my muddled brain could say :"judge not thy neighbor"?
Just think about it. The crazy lady that cut you off might have a better reason than you for being somewhere sometime. Maybe she's not saving the universe, but maybe she's in labor and has to drive herself because her husband is grappling with jewel thieves in Morocco. Jeez, cut her some slack.
Also, if ever you find yourself on a bus with a bomb, please try to freak out quietly.
Peace. Talk to you guys later.
God, the unsuspecting civilian is so stupid.
Allow me to explain that statement. I have been on a 90s binge for a while. It started out with your run-of-the-mill romantic comedies, then to anything and everything Keanu Reeves is in. I am currently watching Speed (1994), and basically this crazy guy stashed a bunch of explosives on a bus and told our man, Jack Traven, that the bus will explode if:
1. its speed drops below 50 miles an hour
2. anybody tries to get off
Imagine the mayhem. At one point, they hit traffic and had to drive onto the shoulder. It was pretty epic.
Now, everyone around them was shocked, with reactions ranging from indignation to outrage to aggressive concern (haha). But what really pissed me off-irritated me excruciatingly-was how quick everyone was to jump to conclusions, assume nothing was the matter, aside from some crazy guy jumping onto a moving bus, just casually ruining everybody's day.
No.
This is a guy risking his career-hell, his LIFE-and you 're making his life difficult. Like it isn't difficult enough already. You can't blame the passengers, the people on the bus whose lives are in danger, for breaking down, losing their cool. Understandable. Not ideal, but understandable.
But for God's sake, the news people, the random passerby...
In the words of Dermot Mulroney in The Wedding Date (2005), "there is no such thing as 'out of the blue'". Actually, I'm pretty sure a bunch of other, more credible, people said that too only I can't quite call any to mind. Probably Freud or Einstein or Oprah or something.
But I digress. The point is, what you might be fooled into thinking is something small, something random, is more likely part of something bigger. Something nobody has the time to explain while trying to save a busful of really freaked-out civilians.
Not that the folks on the bus were being so accomodating, but I've never been in a situation like that so I'm in no position to judge. (But really...)
 |
| I do not own this Image |
Then I started thinking (never a good idea this late). Imagine all the crazy sh*t people pull, and how others respond. Going too slow on the freeway? Cacophany of honks. Basically, if you were to do anything disruptive or out of the ordinary, humanity is so self-absorbed that people will probably just assume you are going out of your way to ruin their day with your assholery.
Don't get me wrong-you might be. Asshole.
But seeing as we have so many excellent examples of seemingly disturbed individuals making a scene and doing a number of strange, dangerous things in the interest of saving the world or something...you'd think our society would have learned to stop jumping to conclusions.
Now I'm not saying that if someone tries to take your car you should assume that they are the FBI and need your motor vehicle to transport them to the Martian spaceship where they prevent the Martian colonization of Earth and just hand over your Honda. That would not be smart. But I am saying that maybe we as a society should stop jumping to conclusions and assume people around us are just a bunch of inconsiderate assholes when for all we know they could be saving the North American continent from terrorists or something like that.
Wow, all this just so my muddled brain could say :"judge not thy neighbor"?
Just think about it. The crazy lady that cut you off might have a better reason than you for being somewhere sometime. Maybe she's not saving the universe, but maybe she's in labor and has to drive herself because her husband is grappling with jewel thieves in Morocco. Jeez, cut her some slack.
Also, if ever you find yourself on a bus with a bomb, please try to freak out quietly.
Peace. Talk to you guys later.
Wednesday, July 9, 2014
Mineiraço
Its a dark time to be Brazilian.
Or is it?
Since yesterday I have read many articles, chuckled ruefully at a lot of memes, about Brazil's defeat at the hands of Germany. Really, that's putting it kindly. A lot of people gave up on Seleção after Neymar was carried off the field in the narrow win against Colombia but the entire stadium had turned against the players in canary by the game's close. They stood for their conquerers-perhaps ironically-and scorned the conquered, leaving them to bleed on the field.
I'm not Brazilian, so I don't understand their pain. I've only recently started watching the sport, so I try not to join in the discussion over technique or strategy or the future of futebol. But I do have to say this: for a country that proclaims to love the sport and love its players, it is surprisingly disloyal.
Well, not surprisingly. Those fans displayed commendable restraint by not setting the stadium on fire. They have been calling this the Mineiraço, a throwback to the 1950 Maracanazo, when Brazil lost to Uruguay in the finals at home.
So I've already established that I don't know much about the Brazilian identity regarding soccer, and that my understanding of the sport is limited. However, it seems to me that a love means loyalty, applause even when you lose. As an athlete myself, I can tell you that a crowd on your side is another player in the game. A silent crowd will sap your energy, sink you into a depressive, hopeless state. But a crowd that roars your name, that chants for you, that hollers insults to the other side, can pick you up, and make you feel like a god. In dire moments, it can make you believe. When you've forgotten how, it can teach you to be a team again.
The Brazilians left their players for dead after Germany scored four goals in, like, ten minutes. Daunting, sure, but no matter how much you glorify them, those eleven players (plus the ones on the bench, and the one thats out with a broken vertabrae and the one that got himself banned) are human, not gods. And you haven't loved them. You can't just cheer for them when they win and call that love. For them, it was a valiant effort. They just weren't ready, not without their captain, and not without their star player. Coach Scolari had expressed doubts about their emotional stability, and then downplayed it later.
Imagine the pressure, the enormous force dumped upon their shoulders. Playing for glory in their own home. Praying for forgiveness two hours later.
Losing is a part of the game. It's what makes victory even sweeter. It's a lesson learned, a broken heart that strengthens as it heals. You could see the players grow frantic, and then give up. Their legs continued to run, but for them the game was over. And the crowd didn't try to dispute it. Crowds are always like that.
The Brazilians didn't deserve to win. They weren't ready. Germany simply outplayed them-their passing was more accurate, their defense did more than run around, and they knew it.
After the game against Colombia, I joked to my friend that 80% of Brazil's chance of winning the title just broke his vertebrae. Perhaps I wasn't joking. Brazil has a number of great players, but Germany has a great team.
But I still believe in Brazil. I believe they will come back, stronger than before. This has taught them to be wary of relying too much on any one player. It's a dangerous system. Perhaps the same fate will befall Argentina. Perhaps not.
I still believe in Seleção.
Or is it?
Since yesterday I have read many articles, chuckled ruefully at a lot of memes, about Brazil's defeat at the hands of Germany. Really, that's putting it kindly. A lot of people gave up on Seleção after Neymar was carried off the field in the narrow win against Colombia but the entire stadium had turned against the players in canary by the game's close. They stood for their conquerers-perhaps ironically-and scorned the conquered, leaving them to bleed on the field.
I'm not Brazilian, so I don't understand their pain. I've only recently started watching the sport, so I try not to join in the discussion over technique or strategy or the future of futebol. But I do have to say this: for a country that proclaims to love the sport and love its players, it is surprisingly disloyal.
Well, not surprisingly. Those fans displayed commendable restraint by not setting the stadium on fire. They have been calling this the Mineiraço, a throwback to the 1950 Maracanazo, when Brazil lost to Uruguay in the finals at home.
So I've already established that I don't know much about the Brazilian identity regarding soccer, and that my understanding of the sport is limited. However, it seems to me that a love means loyalty, applause even when you lose. As an athlete myself, I can tell you that a crowd on your side is another player in the game. A silent crowd will sap your energy, sink you into a depressive, hopeless state. But a crowd that roars your name, that chants for you, that hollers insults to the other side, can pick you up, and make you feel like a god. In dire moments, it can make you believe. When you've forgotten how, it can teach you to be a team again.
 |
| Where'd y'all go? |
The Brazilians left their players for dead after Germany scored four goals in, like, ten minutes. Daunting, sure, but no matter how much you glorify them, those eleven players (plus the ones on the bench, and the one thats out with a broken vertabrae and the one that got himself banned) are human, not gods. And you haven't loved them. You can't just cheer for them when they win and call that love. For them, it was a valiant effort. They just weren't ready, not without their captain, and not without their star player. Coach Scolari had expressed doubts about their emotional stability, and then downplayed it later.
Imagine the pressure, the enormous force dumped upon their shoulders. Playing for glory in their own home. Praying for forgiveness two hours later.
Losing is a part of the game. It's what makes victory even sweeter. It's a lesson learned, a broken heart that strengthens as it heals. You could see the players grow frantic, and then give up. Their legs continued to run, but for them the game was over. And the crowd didn't try to dispute it. Crowds are always like that.
The Brazilians didn't deserve to win. They weren't ready. Germany simply outplayed them-their passing was more accurate, their defense did more than run around, and they knew it.
After the game against Colombia, I joked to my friend that 80% of Brazil's chance of winning the title just broke his vertebrae. Perhaps I wasn't joking. Brazil has a number of great players, but Germany has a great team.
But I still believe in Brazil. I believe they will come back, stronger than before. This has taught them to be wary of relying too much on any one player. It's a dangerous system. Perhaps the same fate will befall Argentina. Perhaps not.
I still believe in Seleção.
Saturday, July 5, 2014
Vegan Update
The way I approach my diet is actually pretty flexible. I hesitate to really call myself a true vegan, because I deviate from time to time. Until I these past two weeks, that didn't happen very often-maybe once or twice a month, and it was almost never meat.
I love food. I always thought I loved food, but it wasn't until I veered toward the plant-based diet that I realized that before I loved the act of eating, not the food itself. Mindless gluttony, to fill hours of boredom, or to fill spaces in my life, empty voids, cavernous craters in the soul. These things cannot be filled by physical sustenance.
But now I have learned to love my body's fuel. I take pleasure in colors, textures, smells, and cultural-historical significance. I'm kind of a nerd. I'm the chick that makes gazpacho and then reads a bajillion articles about Spanish cuisine for the rest of the afternoon.
I'm not a hipster, okay? Hipster don't read- they engage in interprative dance as a means of communication.
That's the loophole. If it's a culturally significant dish, I will try it-vegan or no. If it is something I used to eat as a very young child, I will take that stroll down memory lane. If I'm traveling with people, I won't go out of my way to be a nuisance.
This system works pretty well for me. I don't break this lifestyle because I have a sugar craving, or "just because". I wouldn't break it for a McRibb but I would for a cut of Argentinean asado. The traditional blend of seasonings and spices, the manner in which it is prepared, are statements of Argentine heritage.
If I turned it down, I would be missing out on a chance to experience another culture in the coolest way possible.
That's my justification. And like I said, it works for me, except that I don't really care for meat anymore. The way it feels in my mouth, the gaminess...its not the same anymore.
But I spent these past two weeks at volleyball tournaments, in Orlando and Houston, respectively. I strayed from the Vegan lifestyle a lot. Especially in Houston, because if the surrounding eateries are any indication, the Texan's dietary staple appears to be barbeque. So I said "To Hell with it!" and went ham (ha!) on their pulled pork.
Well, I'm back home now, and I feel gross. I've been feeling gross. When I was on a stricter Vegan regimen, my body felt lean and powerful. Now it feels puffy and uncomfortably full. Feeling full from large meals of fruits and vegetables and carbs is actually pretty pleasant-but feeling full on pretzels and beef and ice cream is not.
Before these two weeks, I had lost around ten pounds (in the space of 5ish months-very gradual), my skin had cleared, my eyes had gotten lighter and the whites brighter, I slept better, and I had what felt like boundless energy.
Now, I'm all salty and puffy. I have begun to break out, and my eyes seem darker. I keep getting spells of nausea and it's possible I got dumber, too.
But this is how you learn, right? This is definitely not an experience I'd want to repeat, so I won't ever eat that much junk food again. I don't honestly think this happened because I ate meat and dairy-I think its because the manner in which I chose to eat meat and dairy was pretty much the unhealthiest option there was.
Monday, June 16, 2014
For What Ails You
I may still be new to the vegan lifestyle but I've always been into super hipster beverages.
Funny that we, the American youth, think these cultural representations so novel that we turn them into another form of entertainment. What may seem so normal to other nations we have turned into curiosity- the hipster subculture celebrates not the rich heritage, or historical import of such things, but the novelty. As soon as others jump on the band wagon, the novelty is lost and the herd moves on.
But I digress. I was talking about super vegan hipster drinks, remember?
So today I have added Tumeric Tea to my list of exotic drinks I've made/tried. It didn't turn out great, because I searched around for a recipe and, not finding one that suited me exactly, simply went about willy-nilly. That is to say, I sorta made it up as I went along.
It wasn't bad, only I added too much soy milk and it overpowered the tumeric-ginger concentrate. I also think I added too much cinnamon-but now my house smells warm and spicy and gorgeous.
See? You just gotta look at the bright side.
For those of you that aren't familiar with Tumeric Tea, it is also called by any combination of "tumeric", "golden", "tea",and "milk". Tumeric itself is an orange-ish root that somewhat resembles ginger. It is hailed as the Queen of Spices and has been used for centuries for culinary, beauty, and medicinal purposes. Used principally in the East, I know it from the salves and tinctures my grandmother uses to counter inflammation and arthritis. It is said to help prevent colon cancer and cystic fibrosis, as well as a number of other ailments.
But be warned: fresh tumeric is hell to scrub out. It literally stains golden everything it touches. I bet King Midas had tumeric for hands. (haha!)
I guess I'll include the recipe, even though calling it that is a bit of a stretch.
Half a little knob of fresh tumeric
A quarter of a bigger knob of ginger
2 tsp of cinnamon (I would use less)
a pinch and a half of nutmeg
lemon zest
2 cups of water
some kind of sweetener, to taste (I used yellow rock sugar to keep with the Eastern Asian feel)
some kind of milk (I used soy...with an overly liberal hand)
*pro tip!* To skin the ginger and tumeric, use the side of a spoon and hold the knob against the palm of your hand
I threw everything in a pot except the milk and simmered on medium heat for, like, 13 minutes. It smelled pretty divine, if you must know. Anyhow, next I strained it carefully (not really- I made a huge mess) and stirred in an entire batch of soy milk. That's around 4 cups. Huuuuge mistake. The spicy flavor was masked by the taste of soy milk, so please add less of your milk of choice. I think coconut milk would be nice.
I poured the rest into a big bottle and I'm bringing it with me to practice. Just to shake things up, you know?
Funny that we, the American youth, think these cultural representations so novel that we turn them into another form of entertainment. What may seem so normal to other nations we have turned into curiosity- the hipster subculture celebrates not the rich heritage, or historical import of such things, but the novelty. As soon as others jump on the band wagon, the novelty is lost and the herd moves on.
But I digress. I was talking about super vegan hipster drinks, remember?
So today I have added Tumeric Tea to my list of exotic drinks I've made/tried. It didn't turn out great, because I searched around for a recipe and, not finding one that suited me exactly, simply went about willy-nilly. That is to say, I sorta made it up as I went along.
It wasn't bad, only I added too much soy milk and it overpowered the tumeric-ginger concentrate. I also think I added too much cinnamon-but now my house smells warm and spicy and gorgeous.
See? You just gotta look at the bright side.
For those of you that aren't familiar with Tumeric Tea, it is also called by any combination of "tumeric", "golden", "tea",and "milk". Tumeric itself is an orange-ish root that somewhat resembles ginger. It is hailed as the Queen of Spices and has been used for centuries for culinary, beauty, and medicinal purposes. Used principally in the East, I know it from the salves and tinctures my grandmother uses to counter inflammation and arthritis. It is said to help prevent colon cancer and cystic fibrosis, as well as a number of other ailments.
But be warned: fresh tumeric is hell to scrub out. It literally stains golden everything it touches. I bet King Midas had tumeric for hands. (haha!)
I guess I'll include the recipe, even though calling it that is a bit of a stretch.
Half a little knob of fresh tumeric
A quarter of a bigger knob of ginger
2 tsp of cinnamon (I would use less)
a pinch and a half of nutmeg
lemon zest
2 cups of water
some kind of sweetener, to taste (I used yellow rock sugar to keep with the Eastern Asian feel)
some kind of milk (I used soy...with an overly liberal hand)
*pro tip!* To skin the ginger and tumeric, use the side of a spoon and hold the knob against the palm of your hand
I threw everything in a pot except the milk and simmered on medium heat for, like, 13 minutes. It smelled pretty divine, if you must know. Anyhow, next I strained it carefully (not really- I made a huge mess) and stirred in an entire batch of soy milk. That's around 4 cups. Huuuuge mistake. The spicy flavor was masked by the taste of soy milk, so please add less of your milk of choice. I think coconut milk would be nice.
 |
| recently discovered snapchat, so... |
I poured the rest into a big bottle and I'm bringing it with me to practice. Just to shake things up, you know?
Friday, June 13, 2014
Label Not
What is a slut?
She that bares her skin to the sun and wind- is she a slut?
She that gives her body to too many because she is afraid to give her heart- is she a slut?
She that defies the monolithic scream of her peers, society's shriek of judgement...
She that wears jewels and baubles in her face like stars in the nighttime sky...
She that walks with her head high and believes herself beautiful...
Is she a slut?
But what about she that watches these women pass through narrowed eyes, measuring their worth with the length of their hemlines?
What about She that must build her castle upon a mound of hearts she broke?
What about she that prays to a Lord she does not believe, in His halls that she does not revere, so that she may walk above others?
What about she whose unmarked skin masks a soul rent with blackness?
Whose smile is like the heavens themselves opened up.
Whose teachers adore her.
Whose finger wears a shiny ring she believes to hold her honor.
Is she an angel?
She that bares her skin to the sun and wind- is she a slut?
She that gives her body to too many because she is afraid to give her heart- is she a slut?
She that defies the monolithic scream of her peers, society's shriek of judgement...
She that wears jewels and baubles in her face like stars in the nighttime sky...
She that walks with her head high and believes herself beautiful...
Is she a slut?
But what about she that watches these women pass through narrowed eyes, measuring their worth with the length of their hemlines?
What about She that must build her castle upon a mound of hearts she broke?
What about she that prays to a Lord she does not believe, in His halls that she does not revere, so that she may walk above others?
What about she whose unmarked skin masks a soul rent with blackness?
Whose smile is like the heavens themselves opened up.
Whose teachers adore her.
Whose finger wears a shiny ring she believes to hold her honor.
Is she an angel?
Thursday, June 5, 2014
My Own "Cahiers de Doléances"
I'm not a very confrontational person. Really, I'm not. Sure, I spend an awful lot of time thinking up all sorts of comebacks and snappy replies, but I rarely ever say them. I also carry on a lot of imaginary conversations with people I really wish I could just scream at.
So I guess that's enough background. Without further ado, I would like to introduce you to Mr. S. Mr. S is our substitute while our actual AP US History teacher is out on maternity leave.
Lord how I miss her.
In the beginning, I actually liked this guy. I mean, he's the soft, mousy sort, but he seemed genuinely interested in American history, and I took the long-winded lectures as an indication of his passion for teaching. It's pretty hard to hate someone like that-you just get to feeling bad for a guy with suspenders and a pretty sad-looking combover. Anyhow, he seemed nice enough. Well read, too-I enjoyed his lectures on the Vietnam War, and the attack on neutral Cambodia.
This, however, is the tale of how my impression of this Mr. S has changed.
We were reading JD Salinger's Catcher in the Rye, as highschoolers do, and naturally, we were regularly quizzed on each night's reading. By this time, I along with the rest of my long-suffering classmates, was growing increasingly less tolerant of Mr. S' propensity for wasting class time with irrelevent rambling and vague evasions to our questions. In short, I was beginning to see him as less of a boring but essentially well-meaning school teacher and more as a fusspot with unresolved childhood issues that he so often hinted at. Darkly. In class. To a roomful of adolescents.
Now, I have APUSH first period and second period I have art. One day, halfway through coloring pictures of figs, I get this text from my friend. It didn't make a whole lot of sense-something about a pass to the office, and academic dishonesty. After a bunch of "wtf are you saying?" 's and a couple "wait, for real?" 's I finally got the gist of it. Mr. S had called my entire table up to the office for academic dishonesty, because he suspected that we cheated on a couple of 20ish point reading quizzes. My whole table.
But this is highschool-things like this happen. So I stayed calm-or as calm as I was capable under the circumstances-and went directly to Mr. S during lunch. I asked him what was going on. He said he didnt have an answer for me. I said I was told that my entire table got called to the office for academic dishonesty. He said the term "academic dishonesty" was "never specifically mentioned". I asked if I was in trouble, having never recieved a summons myself. He said "I dunno...are you?" I told him I only wanted to know what was going on. He said that it would be ethically...er...wrong for him to disclose what took place between himself and other students. "Hearsay", he called it.
Can you believe this guy? This was over a week ago and although my table was interviewed by himself, the vice principal, and at least one counselor, we all still have zeroes in for 2 quizzes and a notes check. That really kills me. How does one cheat on notes? You literally copy phrases from a book.
No, I'm wrong. What really kills me is that he wont give any of us a straight answer. He never even told me, or openly accused me of anything. He said that our quizzes are still "under review", which is why, with less than a week of school left, we have zeroes puncturing our grades. In response to my request for clarification, he replied, after a brief pause: "That is my final statement". Oh yeah? I'm pretty sure that was your ONLY statement.
I don't mind telling you that even with three zeroes, I still have a pretty level A in the class-the grade doesn't really matter to me that much. What matters is the way this man has been treating all of us. I worked long and hard for this grade-who are you to take it all away without being man enough to tell me so to my face? Who are you to dodge my questions and withhold points? Who gave you the authority to ignore the administration at a school you are not a part of?
My friend is set to be valedictorian. But this dropped her grade to a B-this could jeopordize that. Two of us are no longer passing.
A wise man once said that one can judge the strength of a man's character not by how he treats his superiors, but by how he treats those he percieves to be beneath him. I doubt this is about us anymore. We are only pawns, disposable, to be used as balm for his bruised ego. I'm about 80% sure he has some sort of superiority complex or something.
I don't appreciate being called a cheater. Even worse, I don't appreciate being treated like I don't even deserve being told so. This, Mr. S, speaks volumes more about you than it ever will about any of us.
The whole things makes me boil over. I think of insults and blunt objects I wish I could hurl at his flabby, supercilious face, and I swear I can feel my blood pressure rising.
I had a high enough grade so that I could have failed every single assignment for the rest of the year and maintain an A. Why would I cheat?
Sarah was in line for valedictorian, with a pretty solid A herself. Why would she cheat?
Brynn needs a sparkling record to stay on her cheer squad. Why would she cheat?
Why would we cheat? And for what, a measly collection of homework points?
But forget about that. First, grow up and maybe own up to your own wild accusations and stand before us, eye to eye. Only cowards hide between evasions and lofty airs.
Sorry, but I figured it was about time I went about writing this down. Heck, I think I might email this to my councilor. Depends on how much Mr. S annoys me tomorrow.
So I guess that's enough background. Without further ado, I would like to introduce you to Mr. S. Mr. S is our substitute while our actual AP US History teacher is out on maternity leave.
Lord how I miss her.
In the beginning, I actually liked this guy. I mean, he's the soft, mousy sort, but he seemed genuinely interested in American history, and I took the long-winded lectures as an indication of his passion for teaching. It's pretty hard to hate someone like that-you just get to feeling bad for a guy with suspenders and a pretty sad-looking combover. Anyhow, he seemed nice enough. Well read, too-I enjoyed his lectures on the Vietnam War, and the attack on neutral Cambodia.
This, however, is the tale of how my impression of this Mr. S has changed.
We were reading JD Salinger's Catcher in the Rye, as highschoolers do, and naturally, we were regularly quizzed on each night's reading. By this time, I along with the rest of my long-suffering classmates, was growing increasingly less tolerant of Mr. S' propensity for wasting class time with irrelevent rambling and vague evasions to our questions. In short, I was beginning to see him as less of a boring but essentially well-meaning school teacher and more as a fusspot with unresolved childhood issues that he so often hinted at. Darkly. In class. To a roomful of adolescents.
Now, I have APUSH first period and second period I have art. One day, halfway through coloring pictures of figs, I get this text from my friend. It didn't make a whole lot of sense-something about a pass to the office, and academic dishonesty. After a bunch of "wtf are you saying?" 's and a couple "wait, for real?" 's I finally got the gist of it. Mr. S had called my entire table up to the office for academic dishonesty, because he suspected that we cheated on a couple of 20ish point reading quizzes. My whole table.
But this is highschool-things like this happen. So I stayed calm-or as calm as I was capable under the circumstances-and went directly to Mr. S during lunch. I asked him what was going on. He said he didnt have an answer for me. I said I was told that my entire table got called to the office for academic dishonesty. He said the term "academic dishonesty" was "never specifically mentioned". I asked if I was in trouble, having never recieved a summons myself. He said "I dunno...are you?" I told him I only wanted to know what was going on. He said that it would be ethically...er...wrong for him to disclose what took place between himself and other students. "Hearsay", he called it.
Can you believe this guy? This was over a week ago and although my table was interviewed by himself, the vice principal, and at least one counselor, we all still have zeroes in for 2 quizzes and a notes check. That really kills me. How does one cheat on notes? You literally copy phrases from a book.
No, I'm wrong. What really kills me is that he wont give any of us a straight answer. He never even told me, or openly accused me of anything. He said that our quizzes are still "under review", which is why, with less than a week of school left, we have zeroes puncturing our grades. In response to my request for clarification, he replied, after a brief pause: "That is my final statement". Oh yeah? I'm pretty sure that was your ONLY statement.
I don't mind telling you that even with three zeroes, I still have a pretty level A in the class-the grade doesn't really matter to me that much. What matters is the way this man has been treating all of us. I worked long and hard for this grade-who are you to take it all away without being man enough to tell me so to my face? Who are you to dodge my questions and withhold points? Who gave you the authority to ignore the administration at a school you are not a part of?
My friend is set to be valedictorian. But this dropped her grade to a B-this could jeopordize that. Two of us are no longer passing.
A wise man once said that one can judge the strength of a man's character not by how he treats his superiors, but by how he treats those he percieves to be beneath him. I doubt this is about us anymore. We are only pawns, disposable, to be used as balm for his bruised ego. I'm about 80% sure he has some sort of superiority complex or something.
I don't appreciate being called a cheater. Even worse, I don't appreciate being treated like I don't even deserve being told so. This, Mr. S, speaks volumes more about you than it ever will about any of us.
The whole things makes me boil over. I think of insults and blunt objects I wish I could hurl at his flabby, supercilious face, and I swear I can feel my blood pressure rising.
I had a high enough grade so that I could have failed every single assignment for the rest of the year and maintain an A. Why would I cheat?
Sarah was in line for valedictorian, with a pretty solid A herself. Why would she cheat?
Brynn needs a sparkling record to stay on her cheer squad. Why would she cheat?
Why would we cheat? And for what, a measly collection of homework points?
But forget about that. First, grow up and maybe own up to your own wild accusations and stand before us, eye to eye. Only cowards hide between evasions and lofty airs.
Sorry, but I figured it was about time I went about writing this down. Heck, I think I might email this to my councilor. Depends on how much Mr. S annoys me tomorrow.
Monday, May 26, 2014
It Takes Two to Tango
Blind panic, infinite rage. Perhaps a touch of defiance.
A bee has somehow gotten itself stranded on its back. Its writhes and twitches, buzzing angrily all the while. To itself, or maybe the whole world. Whoever knew the mind of a bee?
As its rocking movements carries it to and fro, its wings and fine yellow hairs catch the sun until it flops back into the shadows of the palm tree. The glint of light is like the wink of candles in clean windows.
A movement-a lizard-rustles among the leaves. It darts closer, then closer, and ever closer to the frantic bee. Cocking its reptilian head to and fro, it edges forward. It leans forward, watching the bee's progress in complete stillness. Its little snout nudges the flicking abdomen.
Bee somehow manages to launch himself 3 feet away from Lizard, although he is still on his back, funnily enough. Poor Bee, I think- Lizard is on the verge of a very tasty supper. And it seems that way, for Lizard dashes over and I can see the his tiny tongue flicker out, quick as a snake's. Bee is doomed to a very neat death.
The two, masked in shadows, continue their deadly dance.
When next I turn to watch their duel, Bee is alone. His movements are slower, heavier, without the force they had. Where is Lizard?
Ah-there he is, sunning himself out by the primroses. He is sprawled on his belly, his long skinny tail twitching like a contented kitten. Cunning-he knows Bee is his. He need only wait for fatigue to take him.
So I turn back to my work, delighting in the sunshine across my bared shoulders. I am fighting a war of my own: a war with Calculus. And like Bee, I have zero chances of winning. ( Haha, hopefully not)
When I look again over my shoulder, Lizard has vanished. Astonished, I look about but there is no sign of him, not in the rustling leaves, nor the sunny patio. Lizard is gone. A moment later, Bee is gone too, and a long skinny tail disappears amongst the brush.
A bee has somehow gotten itself stranded on its back. Its writhes and twitches, buzzing angrily all the while. To itself, or maybe the whole world. Whoever knew the mind of a bee?
As its rocking movements carries it to and fro, its wings and fine yellow hairs catch the sun until it flops back into the shadows of the palm tree. The glint of light is like the wink of candles in clean windows.
A movement-a lizard-rustles among the leaves. It darts closer, then closer, and ever closer to the frantic bee. Cocking its reptilian head to and fro, it edges forward. It leans forward, watching the bee's progress in complete stillness. Its little snout nudges the flicking abdomen.
Bee somehow manages to launch himself 3 feet away from Lizard, although he is still on his back, funnily enough. Poor Bee, I think- Lizard is on the verge of a very tasty supper. And it seems that way, for Lizard dashes over and I can see the his tiny tongue flicker out, quick as a snake's. Bee is doomed to a very neat death.
The two, masked in shadows, continue their deadly dance.
When next I turn to watch their duel, Bee is alone. His movements are slower, heavier, without the force they had. Where is Lizard?
Ah-there he is, sunning himself out by the primroses. He is sprawled on his belly, his long skinny tail twitching like a contented kitten. Cunning-he knows Bee is his. He need only wait for fatigue to take him.
So I turn back to my work, delighting in the sunshine across my bared shoulders. I am fighting a war of my own: a war with Calculus. And like Bee, I have zero chances of winning. ( Haha, hopefully not)
When I look again over my shoulder, Lizard has vanished. Astonished, I look about but there is no sign of him, not in the rustling leaves, nor the sunny patio. Lizard is gone. A moment later, Bee is gone too, and a long skinny tail disappears amongst the brush.
Thursday, May 15, 2014
The Girl With a Pearl Earring, A Review
These past two days I've been walking around with scarves covering my hair, and pearls in my ears, listening to baroque music, and reading up on the Golden Age of the Dutch Republic. Why?
Because I saw Girl With a Pearl Earring, and it has literally changed my life. This hasn't happened since The Godfather. I kid you not, I have watched GWAPE three times in two days, not including obsessive Googling and Youtube-ing. It's even more fascinating to me, because I studied all this last year, in AP Euro and in humanities. Vermeer was one of my favorites-I liked him even better than Rembrandt and almost as much as Nattier.
I thought I'd like to share my thoughts on it (by "share my thoughts" I mean "dispel the obsession"). I am no movie critic, however, so this will all be strictly from a layman's perspective; I shan't try for any brilliant piece of analysis or judgement.
Basically, its based on the fictionalized life of Johannes Vermeer, the creator of the famous Dutch painting, Girl With a Pearl Earring. You know, the one of the light-skinned girl with parted ruby lips and large, wideset eyes. She is wearing, naturally, heavy pearl earrings and a blue and yellow scarf wrapped demurely about her head, which turns to face the viewer. It is although she asks "yes? Did you call?", for although she looks at you, her shoulders are facing away-it is as though we have interrupted her.
That's the girl, Griet-quiet, unrefined, with clear, intelligent eyes and a high forehead. She is the focus of the story, this mysterious woman-child. The movie begins in her home, and we are led through the halls until we come upon the kitchen, where Griet is silently cutting and arranging vegetables. It is with exquisite grace that our Griet slices carrot, beetroot, onion, and arranges them carefully in a bowl. She is called by her mother to her father's side, up the rickety stairs, where she grasps the old man's hands. Her father, we deduce, was formerly a painter. Until, that is, by some tragedy, he had lost his sight and now poor Griet must work as a maid in the house of Johannes Vermeer.
She does so, and befriends an initially stern Tanake, head of the Vermeer household, and meets her mistress, the wonderfully vain and jealous Catharina Vermeer, Madame her mother, and the Vermeer children. Johannes himself is still an enigma, a mysterious figure we know only from the voice that floats through the door.
We catch our first glimpse of Johannes at Catharina's bedside, after the birth of his son. We can see that he is tall and slender, with brown hair that falls to his shoulders, but we must wait until the feast to meet him. That feast celebrates both the birth of his son and the unveiling of his latest work, a commission by Pieter Van Ruijven. We had met Van merely minutes before, when Griet was sent with a note informing the mustachioed patron of the painting's completion. The feast was a success, in more ways than one. Johannes, we notice, is a handsome man and, like Griet, very quiet. Catharina, fashionably pale, with lips of vermillion, sits by Van Ruijven's side, fawning.
Gradually, we fall into the patterns of life here; scrubbing, cooking, shopping at the market...
Good lord, I have forgotten Pieter, the butcher's apprentice? Assistant? Anyhow he works with a butcher and he is smitten with our Griet just as soon as those piercing blue eyes fall on her.
There, I suppose that's enough background. As you have probably guessed, there is a love triangle of sorts between Pieter, Griet, and Johannes. But it's not what you think. It's hard to say if Griet really loves either of the two, and Pieter is the only one whose love we can be sure about.
Griet's sensitivity and natural intelligence and artistic potential endear her to the quiet artist. They are kindred spirits. She grows fascinated with his world-painting, musing, composing. It is difficult to tell, however, if this translates into a fascination with Johannes the man, as opposed to Johannes the painter. With Johannes it is much easier-she is his intellectual equal, and her yearns for her on an intellectual level. She alone understands his work, his passion, and though those, perhaps she understands him. It's not quite lust, and neither have allowed any sort of love to truly grow between them. Probably because of the strict hierarchy of their day, and because of their respective honor codes, as well as that damn Catharina.
Just kidding. I love her-she is so perfectly irritating. She is petulant, sensuous, and empty-headed. Whoever played her deserves all the praise in the world.
But you can see that however impressed Griet is with Johannes, called Jon (Yahn), he is equally so with her. He called for her to fetch him some pigments from the apothecary, and she stands as the man measure them for her, smiling to herself, completely rapt. They talk, and share the pleasure of art, but rarely touch. This makes every brush of fingers, every look, so, so intimate. It is not a forbidden love, but a hushed, unspoken desire.
But of course, things get even more complicated without Pieter. Van Ruijven wants her. He wants her to sit with him in his next commission for Jon. Master Ruijven had caused an uproar some years earlier, when he requested that another of Johannes' maids sit with him: he bedded her, and she bore his child. The very idea enrages Johannes so that when Van asks for Griet, he bolts upright, pushing back his chair with a furious scrape. This can hardly fail to escape the notice of Catharina and her mother, who had long been aware of his growing absorbtion with the out lovely Griet.
A compromise is reached: Johannes will paint a "merry scene" with Van Ruijven, and one of Griet. But, as Madame insists, Catharina must. not. know.
Johannes examines her face, and his face, formerly cold and reserved, is warm. His eyes are tender, and his lips tremble as he instructs her. Later, he asks her to fold back her white cap that hides her hair from the world. Some Dutch girls do not show their hair until marriage. But it is not enough; too much of her face is still hidden, so, naturally, Jon asks her to remove it. Our Griet refuses. Jon sends her to the storeroom to swap her cap for a blue and yellow bit of cloth. We watch as Griet unties the crisp white bonnet and unwinds her coppery hair (she says earlier to Pieter that it is brown, but lez be real). We are not alone in our observation, for the camera cuts to the door, where Johannes stands, half hidden by the door frame. His eyes burn, and his face is unhappy.
Griet's hair falls in curls around her face, softening her cheekbones and her sharp chin. As she turns, her breath catches-she has seen Johannes at last. Slowly, she raises her eyes and they lock gazes. For a moment. Then he turns away and walks off, heels clacking.
Sexual tension at an all time high.
Let's skip to the scene when she pierces her ears. She was reluctant to wear Catharina's pearls, to say the least, but Madame and Johannes insisted.
"You do it" she says, and Jon takes the needle from her wordlessly and holds it in a candle flame. Then, cloth in hand, he steps to her side and kneels down next to her. Resting a hand on one shoulder and steadying the other on the other, he plunges the needle through her earlobe. Griet's body tenses and she gasps, frowning, as a ruby droplet forms and falls. Jon wipes it, and then, in the same motion, rubs away her tear with his thumb. His thumb, as though of its own accord, caresses her check, her lower lip. She turns to look at him. It would be so easy, then, for one to seduce the other, or for any sort of forbidden loving to happen. We expect it. We know it will happen.
Only it doesnt. It's strictly business. The painting is finished in due course and Catharina, naturally, finds out. That was unpleasant.
This is getting too long. I'll revisit this another day, when I am less emotionally drained.
Because I saw Girl With a Pearl Earring, and it has literally changed my life. This hasn't happened since The Godfather. I kid you not, I have watched GWAPE three times in two days, not including obsessive Googling and Youtube-ing. It's even more fascinating to me, because I studied all this last year, in AP Euro and in humanities. Vermeer was one of my favorites-I liked him even better than Rembrandt and almost as much as Nattier.
I thought I'd like to share my thoughts on it (by "share my thoughts" I mean "dispel the obsession"). I am no movie critic, however, so this will all be strictly from a layman's perspective; I shan't try for any brilliant piece of analysis or judgement.
Basically, its based on the fictionalized life of Johannes Vermeer, the creator of the famous Dutch painting, Girl With a Pearl Earring. You know, the one of the light-skinned girl with parted ruby lips and large, wideset eyes. She is wearing, naturally, heavy pearl earrings and a blue and yellow scarf wrapped demurely about her head, which turns to face the viewer. It is although she asks "yes? Did you call?", for although she looks at you, her shoulders are facing away-it is as though we have interrupted her.
 |
| Girl With a Pearl Earring, by Johannes Vermeer, 1665 |
That's the girl, Griet-quiet, unrefined, with clear, intelligent eyes and a high forehead. She is the focus of the story, this mysterious woman-child. The movie begins in her home, and we are led through the halls until we come upon the kitchen, where Griet is silently cutting and arranging vegetables. It is with exquisite grace that our Griet slices carrot, beetroot, onion, and arranges them carefully in a bowl. She is called by her mother to her father's side, up the rickety stairs, where she grasps the old man's hands. Her father, we deduce, was formerly a painter. Until, that is, by some tragedy, he had lost his sight and now poor Griet must work as a maid in the house of Johannes Vermeer.
She does so, and befriends an initially stern Tanake, head of the Vermeer household, and meets her mistress, the wonderfully vain and jealous Catharina Vermeer, Madame her mother, and the Vermeer children. Johannes himself is still an enigma, a mysterious figure we know only from the voice that floats through the door.
We catch our first glimpse of Johannes at Catharina's bedside, after the birth of his son. We can see that he is tall and slender, with brown hair that falls to his shoulders, but we must wait until the feast to meet him. That feast celebrates both the birth of his son and the unveiling of his latest work, a commission by Pieter Van Ruijven. We had met Van merely minutes before, when Griet was sent with a note informing the mustachioed patron of the painting's completion. The feast was a success, in more ways than one. Johannes, we notice, is a handsome man and, like Griet, very quiet. Catharina, fashionably pale, with lips of vermillion, sits by Van Ruijven's side, fawning.
Gradually, we fall into the patterns of life here; scrubbing, cooking, shopping at the market...
Good lord, I have forgotten Pieter, the butcher's apprentice? Assistant? Anyhow he works with a butcher and he is smitten with our Griet just as soon as those piercing blue eyes fall on her.
There, I suppose that's enough background. As you have probably guessed, there is a love triangle of sorts between Pieter, Griet, and Johannes. But it's not what you think. It's hard to say if Griet really loves either of the two, and Pieter is the only one whose love we can be sure about.
Griet's sensitivity and natural intelligence and artistic potential endear her to the quiet artist. They are kindred spirits. She grows fascinated with his world-painting, musing, composing. It is difficult to tell, however, if this translates into a fascination with Johannes the man, as opposed to Johannes the painter. With Johannes it is much easier-she is his intellectual equal, and her yearns for her on an intellectual level. She alone understands his work, his passion, and though those, perhaps she understands him. It's not quite lust, and neither have allowed any sort of love to truly grow between them. Probably because of the strict hierarchy of their day, and because of their respective honor codes, as well as that damn Catharina.
Just kidding. I love her-she is so perfectly irritating. She is petulant, sensuous, and empty-headed. Whoever played her deserves all the praise in the world.
But you can see that however impressed Griet is with Johannes, called Jon (Yahn), he is equally so with her. He called for her to fetch him some pigments from the apothecary, and she stands as the man measure them for her, smiling to herself, completely rapt. They talk, and share the pleasure of art, but rarely touch. This makes every brush of fingers, every look, so, so intimate. It is not a forbidden love, but a hushed, unspoken desire.
But of course, things get even more complicated without Pieter. Van Ruijven wants her. He wants her to sit with him in his next commission for Jon. Master Ruijven had caused an uproar some years earlier, when he requested that another of Johannes' maids sit with him: he bedded her, and she bore his child. The very idea enrages Johannes so that when Van asks for Griet, he bolts upright, pushing back his chair with a furious scrape. This can hardly fail to escape the notice of Catharina and her mother, who had long been aware of his growing absorbtion with the out lovely Griet.
A compromise is reached: Johannes will paint a "merry scene" with Van Ruijven, and one of Griet. But, as Madame insists, Catharina must. not. know.
Johannes examines her face, and his face, formerly cold and reserved, is warm. His eyes are tender, and his lips tremble as he instructs her. Later, he asks her to fold back her white cap that hides her hair from the world. Some Dutch girls do not show their hair until marriage. But it is not enough; too much of her face is still hidden, so, naturally, Jon asks her to remove it. Our Griet refuses. Jon sends her to the storeroom to swap her cap for a blue and yellow bit of cloth. We watch as Griet unties the crisp white bonnet and unwinds her coppery hair (she says earlier to Pieter that it is brown, but lez be real). We are not alone in our observation, for the camera cuts to the door, where Johannes stands, half hidden by the door frame. His eyes burn, and his face is unhappy.
Griet's hair falls in curls around her face, softening her cheekbones and her sharp chin. As she turns, her breath catches-she has seen Johannes at last. Slowly, she raises her eyes and they lock gazes. For a moment. Then he turns away and walks off, heels clacking.
Sexual tension at an all time high.
Let's skip to the scene when she pierces her ears. She was reluctant to wear Catharina's pearls, to say the least, but Madame and Johannes insisted.
"You do it" she says, and Jon takes the needle from her wordlessly and holds it in a candle flame. Then, cloth in hand, he steps to her side and kneels down next to her. Resting a hand on one shoulder and steadying the other on the other, he plunges the needle through her earlobe. Griet's body tenses and she gasps, frowning, as a ruby droplet forms and falls. Jon wipes it, and then, in the same motion, rubs away her tear with his thumb. His thumb, as though of its own accord, caresses her check, her lower lip. She turns to look at him. It would be so easy, then, for one to seduce the other, or for any sort of forbidden loving to happen. We expect it. We know it will happen.
Only it doesnt. It's strictly business. The painting is finished in due course and Catharina, naturally, finds out. That was unpleasant.
This is getting too long. I'll revisit this another day, when I am less emotionally drained.
Tuesday, May 13, 2014
FIRE FIRE FIRE
School let out early today, and so we trudged out of our air-conditioned classrooms into the dry heat. We San Diegans don't often encounter weather like this. In fact, the last time I remember this kind of scorching wind was back when we had those fires, years back.
I walked home, unaccompanied by my friend, who left to meet her mom at Albertsons.
I like this heat, this desert parch. I like the harsh sun and drying wind. But I do not like smoke, nor the wail of sirens. I can no longer see the former, due to the positioning of my house, but above the restless sway of palm trees, the screech of tires and the scream of sirens are ever present.
I have seen smoke a hundred thousand times before, but it seems like I have never before been confronted like this. They said that the fire was far away, and the wind was blowing away from us, but that's not the way it seemed. If you tilted your head back, way back, the smoke made clouds in the cloudless sky. But if you followed the trail of clouds back, they turned angry. They turned blackish and ugly. What surprised me most was the speed that the smoke moved. No sooner had it churned out than it was out, blackening the sky like charcol on paper. You always hear of smoke being described as great, billowing columns, but I tell you now that this was like a production line, only instead of cars or toasters, the factory turned out clouds.
Strange, isn't it?
This weather is definitely fire-friendly. Yet although this fire has appeared to spiral out of control, although it has released tons of ash and carbon dioxide into our dirtied and wearied heavens (by which I mean the ozone), although thousands-if not millions-of dollars of property have been damaged or lost, although people's homes have been stripped of memory and reduced to charred bits, I cannot find myself regretting this incessant, intolerable, heat.
There is, unmistakeably, something nostalgic about this. What exactly I can't say-the memory has been lost and all that it left for me was a wisp, a tendril, a mood. I don't know what. I feel floral curtains waving, and iced tea, collecting water droplets in crystal glasses. Perhaps it is something I have read, a long time ago.
To all that live in my area: stay safe. and hydrated.
As for, me...well, let's just say I'm signing off now, to pack an overnight bag.
I walked home, unaccompanied by my friend, who left to meet her mom at Albertsons.
I like this heat, this desert parch. I like the harsh sun and drying wind. But I do not like smoke, nor the wail of sirens. I can no longer see the former, due to the positioning of my house, but above the restless sway of palm trees, the screech of tires and the scream of sirens are ever present.
I have seen smoke a hundred thousand times before, but it seems like I have never before been confronted like this. They said that the fire was far away, and the wind was blowing away from us, but that's not the way it seemed. If you tilted your head back, way back, the smoke made clouds in the cloudless sky. But if you followed the trail of clouds back, they turned angry. They turned blackish and ugly. What surprised me most was the speed that the smoke moved. No sooner had it churned out than it was out, blackening the sky like charcol on paper. You always hear of smoke being described as great, billowing columns, but I tell you now that this was like a production line, only instead of cars or toasters, the factory turned out clouds.
Strange, isn't it?
This weather is definitely fire-friendly. Yet although this fire has appeared to spiral out of control, although it has released tons of ash and carbon dioxide into our dirtied and wearied heavens (by which I mean the ozone), although thousands-if not millions-of dollars of property have been damaged or lost, although people's homes have been stripped of memory and reduced to charred bits, I cannot find myself regretting this incessant, intolerable, heat.
There is, unmistakeably, something nostalgic about this. What exactly I can't say-the memory has been lost and all that it left for me was a wisp, a tendril, a mood. I don't know what. I feel floral curtains waving, and iced tea, collecting water droplets in crystal glasses. Perhaps it is something I have read, a long time ago.
To all that live in my area: stay safe. and hydrated.
As for, me...well, let's just say I'm signing off now, to pack an overnight bag.
Friday, April 25, 2014
Cold Water
Cold water in the seas, the rivers, and streams
Cold water in the rains at night, in the springtime, the wintertime
Cold water against tired eyes
Cold water in the gutters, clogged with leaves
Cold water from melting snow in mittened hands
I've lived a little too long in a world a little too cruel
So now I've got cold water in my heart
Cold water in the rains at night, in the springtime, the wintertime
Cold water against tired eyes
Cold water in the gutters, clogged with leaves
Cold water from melting snow in mittened hands
I've lived a little too long in a world a little too cruel
So now I've got cold water in my heart
Monday, April 14, 2014
How Can We Measure the Worth of a Stranger?
This past weekend a group of us ran a pet food and coin drive in front of our local Vons, in support of Helen Woodward Animal Center.
For those of you that don't know, Vons is a chain of grocery stores in the US. Maybe in other parts of the world too-I dunno, really.
Anyhow, It was a pretty good experience-humbling to be snubbed by good people with problems and lives of their own, and gratifying to be heeded by good people that cared. Some of them shared their stories along with their nickels and dimes and dollar bills, crisp or faded and wrinkled. Some of them had dogs with them, and some of them bright cheeked children.
But it isn't for them that I write, although they deserve all the thanks in the world.
Halfway through the first day, an older Asian man parked his bicycle across the way from us and entered the store. He came and went for a while, leaning against the wall and smoking a cigarette for a while, and then striding off into the store, or away toward Bertrand's Music store. His face was deeply tanned and leathery, he wore a soldier's camo and sturdy boots. Around his right arm was proudly pinned a yellow sash that read "Philippines". He studied us by turns, but didn't say anything. At first.
Then he came toward us, smiling reproachfully, and said: "How come you guys don't ask me?"
And shame flooded me. Why hadn't we asked him? We had asked almost everyone else that passed by. There was no smile kinder than his, no bearing stronger, prouder. Why hadn't we thought to ask him?
He pulled out a beaten black leather wallet and pulled out two one dollar bills. His weather-beaten, square-tipped fingers carefully smoothed them out and tucked them into our donation box.
Why hadn't we asked him?
He accepted a piece of chocolate, beaming, and left, legs pumping easily on that beaten old bike.
A poor veteran, spat up by Big Brother, and snubbed by the likes of us. Who are we? Sixteen and seventeen year-olds sitting in front of a whistle-stop of a faceless corporation and asking for donations. Who are we to judge his worth? Because in essence, we did just that-we decided for him, without his consent, that he couldn't donate. That our lot wasn't his lot, that our cause couldn't also be his cause.
I can't remember the last time I was so ashamed.
But our thanks were genuine. His smile lost its edge and his eyes disappeared in a sea of creases and wrinkles. After he left, we sat in silence for a while.
After he left, we had people come up, twenty dollar bills held at attention, demanding reciepts for tax returns. They left in a huff when they heard that we hadn't any to give.
My own grandfather fought in World War Two. It could have so easily been him. Lord, I hate society for sweeping the valient into shadows. They deserve so much better.
For those of you that don't know, Vons is a chain of grocery stores in the US. Maybe in other parts of the world too-I dunno, really.
Anyhow, It was a pretty good experience-humbling to be snubbed by good people with problems and lives of their own, and gratifying to be heeded by good people that cared. Some of them shared their stories along with their nickels and dimes and dollar bills, crisp or faded and wrinkled. Some of them had dogs with them, and some of them bright cheeked children.
But it isn't for them that I write, although they deserve all the thanks in the world.
Halfway through the first day, an older Asian man parked his bicycle across the way from us and entered the store. He came and went for a while, leaning against the wall and smoking a cigarette for a while, and then striding off into the store, or away toward Bertrand's Music store. His face was deeply tanned and leathery, he wore a soldier's camo and sturdy boots. Around his right arm was proudly pinned a yellow sash that read "Philippines". He studied us by turns, but didn't say anything. At first.
Then he came toward us, smiling reproachfully, and said: "How come you guys don't ask me?"
And shame flooded me. Why hadn't we asked him? We had asked almost everyone else that passed by. There was no smile kinder than his, no bearing stronger, prouder. Why hadn't we thought to ask him?
He pulled out a beaten black leather wallet and pulled out two one dollar bills. His weather-beaten, square-tipped fingers carefully smoothed them out and tucked them into our donation box.
Why hadn't we asked him?
He accepted a piece of chocolate, beaming, and left, legs pumping easily on that beaten old bike.
A poor veteran, spat up by Big Brother, and snubbed by the likes of us. Who are we? Sixteen and seventeen year-olds sitting in front of a whistle-stop of a faceless corporation and asking for donations. Who are we to judge his worth? Because in essence, we did just that-we decided for him, without his consent, that he couldn't donate. That our lot wasn't his lot, that our cause couldn't also be his cause.
I can't remember the last time I was so ashamed.
But our thanks were genuine. His smile lost its edge and his eyes disappeared in a sea of creases and wrinkles. After he left, we sat in silence for a while.
After he left, we had people come up, twenty dollar bills held at attention, demanding reciepts for tax returns. They left in a huff when they heard that we hadn't any to give.
My own grandfather fought in World War Two. It could have so easily been him. Lord, I hate society for sweeping the valient into shadows. They deserve so much better.
Thursday, April 10, 2014
You're Grounded
The strangest thing. I have been sitting here, on dirt, for a while and before that, I was standing on it. It's like I'm absorbing power through my bare feet.
I've heard the word "grounding" thrown around before. In a physics class last year, in the videos of raw vegan foodies, on the lips of the random hippie that comes wandering my way. Just kidding. There aren't very many hippies where I live-either that or they're all in hiding from the rest of us ignoramuses. Haha.
But I admit that I don't know a while lot about the subject. My basic understanding tells me this: contacting the earth-the GROUND-with uncovered skin is beneficial, the idea being that as industrialization and urbanization pulled the human race forward. the opportunities we've had for communicating thusly with Mother Earth have dwindled. I can't tell you if there's any actual merit to this, as I have done zero research. I'm not a scientist-heck, I'm not known for my stellar common sense either-but I think I'm cabable of describing how it feels.
Feels great.
I stood, earlier, and drank my papaya-strawberry-banana smoothie, and looked out into my backyard. It's a nice lot, just patchy here, and overgrown there. Still mostly green, though. I was standing in what used to be covered in grass but is now mostly dried, crusted-over dirt with a sprinkling of clover and crab grass.
Then, when my smoothie ran out, a whole blenderful of the stuff, I brought out a mason ar full of nettle tea. You know, those big glass jars that come holding those "Classico" pasta sauces.
What? I'm not made of money, you know.
And by now that sun had come out again. The crumbly dirt beneat the soles of my feet and between my toes, in my hands, the sun warming the spot bettween my shoulder blades, and my arms, my face, my neck...
I am not a scientist, therefore I cannot assess the scientific benefits of grounding. I cannot even guarentee that I'm doing it right (again, zero research). But as a human being, I am more than qualified to judge the spiritual benefits.
I feel tranquil, like I've considered every burden I've ever had to carry and made peace. I feel strong, like I am unbreakable. I feel brave, like I'll never be afraid again. Above all, I feel healthy, and glad because of it. It's not like I was any less healthy before I took my sandals off and danced like a five year old on a patch of dirt, but it's like now I'm able to appreciate it. Now I'm aware of the human potential, the power in my limbs, the beauty of youth. Even greater than that, the beauty of vitality.
So now, gladly, I sip at my nettles and wiggle my toes in the dusty earth. My lungs expand with great breathes of warm, Spring air.
I guess I don't really give a hoot what scientists have to say; I don't care what Google might have told me, had I looked. There must be something to grounding yourself because at least you're removing yourself from iPhones, microwaves, etc. I think I'll be coming out here a lot more often, because now I feel regretful that I have to go.
If I get ringworm, though, I'm gonna be super pissed.
I've heard the word "grounding" thrown around before. In a physics class last year, in the videos of raw vegan foodies, on the lips of the random hippie that comes wandering my way. Just kidding. There aren't very many hippies where I live-either that or they're all in hiding from the rest of us ignoramuses. Haha.
But I admit that I don't know a while lot about the subject. My basic understanding tells me this: contacting the earth-the GROUND-with uncovered skin is beneficial, the idea being that as industrialization and urbanization pulled the human race forward. the opportunities we've had for communicating thusly with Mother Earth have dwindled. I can't tell you if there's any actual merit to this, as I have done zero research. I'm not a scientist-heck, I'm not known for my stellar common sense either-but I think I'm cabable of describing how it feels.
Feels great.
I stood, earlier, and drank my papaya-strawberry-banana smoothie, and looked out into my backyard. It's a nice lot, just patchy here, and overgrown there. Still mostly green, though. I was standing in what used to be covered in grass but is now mostly dried, crusted-over dirt with a sprinkling of clover and crab grass.
Then, when my smoothie ran out, a whole blenderful of the stuff, I brought out a mason ar full of nettle tea. You know, those big glass jars that come holding those "Classico" pasta sauces.
What? I'm not made of money, you know.
And by now that sun had come out again. The crumbly dirt beneat the soles of my feet and between my toes, in my hands, the sun warming the spot bettween my shoulder blades, and my arms, my face, my neck...
I am not a scientist, therefore I cannot assess the scientific benefits of grounding. I cannot even guarentee that I'm doing it right (again, zero research). But as a human being, I am more than qualified to judge the spiritual benefits.
I feel tranquil, like I've considered every burden I've ever had to carry and made peace. I feel strong, like I am unbreakable. I feel brave, like I'll never be afraid again. Above all, I feel healthy, and glad because of it. It's not like I was any less healthy before I took my sandals off and danced like a five year old on a patch of dirt, but it's like now I'm able to appreciate it. Now I'm aware of the human potential, the power in my limbs, the beauty of youth. Even greater than that, the beauty of vitality.
So now, gladly, I sip at my nettles and wiggle my toes in the dusty earth. My lungs expand with great breathes of warm, Spring air.
I guess I don't really give a hoot what scientists have to say; I don't care what Google might have told me, had I looked. There must be something to grounding yourself because at least you're removing yourself from iPhones, microwaves, etc. I think I'll be coming out here a lot more often, because now I feel regretful that I have to go.
If I get ringworm, though, I'm gonna be super pissed.
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