Yellow

In August, employees at the bar Changes, in Seattle, had to break up a karaoke-night attack by a woman on a man who was singing the Coldplay song "Yellow." The woman had shouted, "Oh, no, not that song. I can't stand that song." She charged the stage, screamed at the man and shoved him (and it eventually took four men to hold her for the police). [Seattle Post-Intelligencer, 8-9-07]

...X...

Love me, or Love me not. As if you had a choice.

The clock strikes midnight but the dress doesn't disintegrate into rags, the limousines don't swell into ripened gourds, and the chauffeurs don't scurry away on the paws of mice. The prince doesn't need to chase after the girl, not when they are lying on side by side on a bed of daisies watching the planes masquerade among the stars. Look at the stars, he says. Look how they shine for you.

The smoke trails from her lips as she exhales. The cigarette glows like a sneer in the darkness.

But of course, it's all in my head. You don't know me. You never did. I burn for you in degrees of Kelvin, but a billion miles away, you raise your head towards the sky and see yet another celestial speck trying her hardest to stand out against the starry night. One in a million. One in a billion. And even with everything you do when I am around, there is no indication that you notice the burning agony of the star at all.

The dimness of the room makes her feel nauseous. She wants to throw up. Expel the garbage inside.

I did not know how to react when you came along, a person born anew with confidence interwoven into his sinews and rebellion embedded in his skin like an unclean wound. But that was when you still acknowledged me, wasn't it? There is a ball of dust and particles, yes you can see that. Yes, you see the chemical reaction -- memories of the slightest looks in her direction, the fleeting conversations -- a nuclear fusion exploding in bursts of tormented passion, jolts of light. But you cannot feel. I wrote a song for you once. There was a lonely architect who built and sculpted an entire labyrinth crafted from vignettes and poetry. The foolish architect buried her heart at the center of the maze. Perhaps the hero will come; perhaps he will slay the Minotaur clawing away at her insides. Relieve her from the dread of knowing but not knowing.

Her drink remains untouched. She'd briefly entertained the cliched notion of "drowning her sorrows away" but that would have been foolish. She'd only be in a worse mood later.

But you are not a star, transfixed in one place as the others pass on by. No one waits in this world. And now, all the things you do mean nothing more than our lives here on this planet. We come and go; we live and die. Your skin -- unblemished and polished like marble -- will one day disintegrate at the slightest touch. Your skin and bones, formed of stardust, will return to their former selves and turn into something beautiful.

The singer steps off the stage amidst good-natured applause. He had been decent. None of the nasal whining, none of the raspy growling that reminded her of a dying, feral animal clawing for its last breath.

You turn your back to me. And yet you know, you know I love you so. You know I love you so.

She pays no attention as another man steps into the spotlight. Her head feels like shit. She should have gone back home, perhaps done something productive. She stands up, preparing to leave, when the familiar chords envelop the room and slither around her throat. She cannot breathe.

I still remember. You were there that one night. I hadn't expected you to see you in my house at all. Last I heard, you were oceans away on the other side of the world. And here you are, sitting on the carpet with my brother's guitar cradled in your arms. And that melody, those lyrics, those chords. I still remember.

"OH, NO, NOT THAT SONG. I CAN'T STAND THAT SONG."

I would have swam across, I would have jumped across the ocean for you. But what could I have done? There was nothing to do that could change your mind. They never told me how long you would be gone. I had assumed you were never coming back.

She claws her way to the stage. Anything to turn the music off. Anything to prevent the repressed memories from bubbling back to the surface. Her body no longer functions consciously as she unleashes years of anger and frustration in a torrent of violence, like a wounded animal snapping and snarling in self-defense.

Maybe if I drew a line. If I drew a line for you separating me and you, would you look at me in the eye again? Cut along the dotted line and split my heart in two. Whatever it takes, anything to bring you back to me -- I would have done it all for you.

She is blind. Something hot, something wet clings to her eyes, and she cannot see. She hears shouts and cries -- who is making all the noise? Who is the one screaming, wailing as if being burned alive?

For you, I'd bleed myself dry.
For you, I'd bleed myself dry.

She feels heavy pressure on her arms, attempting to pin her down and hold her still. She tries to break free, but each time, they pin her down even tighter, until she can no longer move.

It's true.
Look how they shine for you
Look how they shine for you
Look how they shine
Look how they shine for you
Look how they shine for you
Look how they shine

The sirens finally cease their wailing. As they drag her out of the building, she looks up into the sky. The stars -- hundreds, thousands, millions, billions, trillions of them -- all look exactly the same to us on this earth. One will die; another will take its place. Dispensable. Forgettable.

Hey you. Tell me, what happens to a star when it dies? Will it incinerate everything around in a colossal explosion?

Or will it silently collapse in on itself, a victim of its own flame -- burning and burning until it has burned itself out?

Look at the stars
Look how they shine for you
And all the things you do.

House of Cards

After discussing college essays with C this afternoon, I was curious enough to reread my Common Application essay when I returned home.

In retrospect, next time I am not even going to bother looking at my application again after I have turned it in.

There were no glaring mistakes, but while I was reading it, I kept thinking to myself, "Oh, I should have developed this more," or "Oh, I should have cut this sentence out." I should have known better, really -- I already know I am a perfectionist, so why bother setting myself up for more stress when I have already turned it in?

On another note, I am becoming such a slacker. This cannot be a good thing. I am going to die when I have to start all over again in college.

About a week ago, Rogue and her mother brought me to volunteer at this monastery up in a hill about a half-hour away from where we live. It was Elders' Day, which meant the nuns and other volunteers at the monastery organized a sort of banquet for at least a hundred elderly people. As someone who grew up without churches and temples, I was completely lost.

Nevertheless, it was there that I realized how little interaction I have with the elderly. My maternal grandmother and paternal grandparents do not live in the United States -- in fact, none of my relatives live in the United States. My neighborhood is fairly young. I do not volunteer in nursing homes or senior centers.

At one point, I had to help lead an elderly woman to the restroom. I waited nearly thirty minutes (granted, the line was long) before she finally reappeared for me to lead her back to the main hall. I think that was the first time mortality truly dawned on me. I take going to the bathroom in less than five minutes for granted. I take being able to walk swiftly across fifty yards for granted. There are so many things I take for granted now that will be gone in half a century.

I may be a dreamer now. I dream of getting into Stanford. I dream of becoming a doctor. I dream of writing and publishing, of making it big in the literary world. I dream of meeting that somebody who I would be willing to die for.

What is my nightmare? To wake up one morning when I am eighty and discover that my castle of hopes is nothing but a collapsed house of cards.

Je me souviens

You know, now that I think about it, my guess is that more than fifty percent of the posts on this blog could simply be copied and pasted onto my college apps as my personal statement.

I really am narcissistic.

Browsing through the old folders on my computer, I came across the short stories I wrote for the eighth grade end-of-the-year portfolio and the vignettes I wrote for the House on Mango Street project. Now that I've reread my old work, I realize my style was very much an imitation of Francesca Lia Block. They're not terrible, but I'm not particularly proud about them, because they're not very original.

For the vignette project, three vignettes were required: one about your name, one about a physical characteristic in your family, and one about your house. The one about my house is not very interesting, and I would rather not divulge my name here. Interestingly enough, the characteristic I chose to write about was voice. I really do have a strange fascination with voices; but then again, there's not much you can say about my family's eyes. Haha.

I'll put up the voice vignette for now. I realized I haven't written a vignette in awhile. I've got a new idea I want to try out... which I'll do as soon as I turn in my early action college app tonight. Hopefully.

-------------------------------------

Voice

They look right through you, as if they can see right through your skin and see your bones. Sometimes, they don’t even need to look. Listen. They’ll know who you are.

You can go and thank your voice for that.

Dad’s is like March. Sometimes abrasive and cutting, so shut your eyes and brace the gale. But then, sometimes he’ll crack a joke, and then you exhale because you know that now it’s calm like spring inside his clockwork mindset. He’s funny like that.

Mom is the debater. Clear, annunciated, always the exact diction. Almost like those glaring jungle green signs that leer over the freeways, only her signpost warns “It’s My Way Or The Highway.” No one in the family wins an argument against her.

Brother’s mouth is too big for his head. Incessant chatter of random nothings; his mouth is merely the amplifier for the thoughts mucking about in his mind. Out it comes, in the juvenile little voice of his, chippering away until it is like the constant ticking of the clock you barely notice. But he’s the youngest; he doesn’t want to be ignored.

Who am I? Nobody knows; no one can see through me. They don’t hear my voice. I know when to shut up. Sometimes I shut up too often. Maybe you think you’ll see the little smile hiding on my lips. You’ll see the corners twitch in irritation. Maybe.

If I am silent.

Politik

http://www.mercurynews.com/news/ci_10664224?nclick_check=1

I really do have better things to do than to read the useless bickering under the comment feature of Internet articles. But I don't know quite why I keep reading them anyway.

I am not fond of the Mercury News and never will be. As it turns out, the dominant package on the front page of today's newspaper featured a review of last night's presidential debate, tossed in with quotes and analysis from various high school students on debate teams. A couple of them turned out to be from my school -- people I know fairly well, as a mater of fact.

As an editor-in-chief of the journalism staff at my school, I've had enough experience with journalism to understand the crucial importance of controlling bias and credibility in articles. I actually read the student quotes (accompanied with student mug shots) before even bothering to read the article. In general, the students ruled Barack Obama as the winner of last night's debate. Of course, in order to show a somewhat fair representation, there were a couple of pro-McCain quotes as well, and plus, to my surprise they included C's sister -- even though she is my brother's age and I doubt she has been the champion of any debate tournament yet.

So I saw the paper copy on my kitchen table this afternoon and thought, "Well, good for them!" I didn't give the article a second thought until I spontaneously decided to look up the article online.

That's when I decided to read the comment board.

I swear, some of those comments irked me to no end. Those who commented were presumably adults, and they spewed out comments along the lines of "SJMN is complete liberal leftist bull[bleep], deliberately picking out high school students who can't even pay mortgages or vote to assess these debates. What a joke." Funnily enough, pretty much all of them were McCain/Palin supporters.

To set the record straight, I do not like the SJMN, so I am not defending them. I am defending my classmates.

FIRST OF ALL: You adults are the one who got us in this mess. Oh wait, who voted for eight years of Bush? Do you really expect of any of us to believe that you really know so much more about what's the best way to go?

AND BY THE WAY: These aren't just high schoolers. I don't know about the other kids, but I know for a fact that A, T, and B all debate at a national level. And for those who still don't understand what I'm trying to get at: these students all spend hours preparing cases and keeping up with current events in order to compete at the level that they are at. Do you really think they are simply just following Mommy and Daddy's lead? A, T, and B are all National Merit Semifinalists, T is one crazy Einstein who got 5's on all eight AP tests he took last year, and these three are all probably planning to pursue political science at some top notch university next fall. Somehow, I'm not quite convinced that the ones who left those comments truly understand who the hell they are dealing with.

ALSO: What the hell is so despicable about reporting the analyses of these high schoolers? Shouldn't you be optimistic -- Hey! These kids actually care about national issues! Besides, although they cannot vote for this election, has anyone stopped to think that at this crucial moment in American history, whatever choice YOU make is going to affect this entire generation indefinitely? Shouldn't they be able to have a say as well, since it seems like nobody cares about what these "children" think?

To be quite honest, I am not fond of either Obama or McCain. I don't think either of them have an answer to this screwed up economy, and Palin scares the beejezus out of me. I think after college, I'll just move to France or China for good. Oh and by the way, I hate AP Literature.

Diablo

On my college forms, I write that I want to pursue biology and possibly medicine in the future. But frankly, nothing about my resume seems to back up what I say. I don't volunteer at the hospital; I ended up not interning at the brain trauma center and went to Stanford instead; I haven't cloned a rat in my garage or synthesized a new protein that will be used to treat pancreatic cancer.

A certain someone's mother has repeatedly made certain remarks to my mother, hinting that I should not pursue biology because the field is too competitive, and that I should pursue humanities instead since I write so well. It really is a thinly veiled attempt to discourage me; her own kid seems to be heading down the same path and to be honest, that person doesn't seem to be any more likely to survive in the "competitive field" than me.

Despite the fact that perhaps I don't exactly have a riveting passion for science (as evidenced by how I'm using my time right now when I have piles of chemistry homework to do), I know for sure that I would not be happy majoring in English either. Well, for one thing, AP Literature has pretty much killed high school English for me. Plus, I'm the type of person who needs some sort of job security or will otherwise be worried perpetually.

So yes, it isn't just my parents pushing me to do something practical. I don't want to be manning the counter at a downtown diner or cleaning after big business executives, barely scrimping enough money away to support myself while working as a free-lance writer on the side. I'm living very comfortably right now, and I would like to stay this way. And don't even bother trying to argue that marrying someone rich will solve money problems -- that kind of talk irritates me the most.

So why do I have a picture of Diablo Cody on this post?

Everyone has their own ridiculous only-when-pigs-fly daydream. I haven't watched Juno yet (which I will do... sometime before I graduate), but I have heard about Diablo Cody quite a bit. For me, she represents something like Gatsby's green light -- a distant optimism. Obviously I like to write, but one of my favorite things to do is to create stories. Sometimes, it's fun to think about what could happen (especially since in two decades, I'll probably be thinking about what could have happened). Diablo Cody was discovered when an agent came across her blog. Granted, her blog was about working as a stripper, but here is the thing: I doubt she ever seriously thought she would become an Academy Award-winning screenwriter one day.

And who knows? If the talent is there, with a bit of luck, anything can happen. In fact, sometimes you don't even really need talent, come to think of it. I apologize in advance to any Twilight fans reading this, but seriously, Stephenie Meyer is not a talented writer. From my perspective, the reason her books became so popular was because the concept of Edward and kinky love with a vampire appeals to those hopeless romantics out there. Even then, I stil think that concept could have been executed in a smarter way. But whatever. I am not going to even poke around with the vampirexhuman romance cliche.

So does it simply come down to luck? Probably. So what? I'll continue working for the stereotypical stable future that has been laid down before. And I'll keep writing, so that if luck ever turns in my favor, I will have something to show for it.

R.I.P.

saw it coming and still
it ripped me to shreds

i can believe it i
just don't want to

need you like a
bad habit defenseless
dependent and

alone.