eve

I feel the court beneath my feet and I remember.

My hair is short again, like it was back then. My body has whittled back down to a number on the scale I haven't seen since those years. My feet bounce with muscle memory, and I can hear my Barricades squeak against the hard court. There are a lot of things that are coming back to me all at once, but suddenly I remember what it'd been like to play on that center court by the bleachers. I remember what it'd been like when everyone who walked past on their way to the football field and track would turn to stare, as if you were a magnificent tiger on display. I remember how a classmate told me I'd scared her, because she'd never imagined someone like me could growl and scream with such ferocity.

I lacked self-confidence then. I wasn't the smartest, and there were scores of prettier, cuter, extroverted girls out there. But on that court, I had something none of them had. With the racket in my hand, I could almost believe I could fly.

Inamorata

Months ago, I'd downloaded Inamorata by Megan Chance--a free book that I'd completely forgotten about. As I looked through my Kindle for a book to read on the plane, I had no recollection of the book summary--or even what had compelled me to download the book in the first place.

I haven't gone back to read the Amazon summary that must have initially hooked my interest, but Inamorata possesses certain qualities that I can easily see would have drawn my attention. For starters, it has a darker paranormal element--not the sort that triggered the Twilight paranormal romance craze years ago, but more menacing and nightmarish. Moreover, the story takes place in late 1800s Venice and centers around the artist/writer/musician culture in Europe at that time--including allusions to famous artists and writers of the past.

I don't want to get too specific about what this book is about, but as I tend to write these book report posts to digest what I've read, there are certain elements I want to stew over.

The aspect of this book that really struck me (and may not impact others the same way) was its premise that many of the "greats"--Schumann, Byron, Canaletto--traded their souls to a succubus for fame. The succubus would become a powerful muse, and these men would produce their greatest masterpiece--the magnum opus that would immortalize their legacy, that people would remember them for in years to come--and then succumb to madness in turn.

Anyone who creates probably shares the same desire to some extent--to be immortalized in their work. The question that the book raises is, how far would you go to achieve that end? Would you make that pact with the succubus, knowing that you will produce your greatest work and then waste away in madness after?

By the time I finished the book, the sky had already begun to darken outside. The clouds over the Las Vegas desert were streaked a brilliant, bloody red as the last vestiges of daylight slinked away for cover behind the mountains. For a long time, I gazed out the airplane window and absently admired the colors. I don't know what I would do if faced with the temptation of immortalized fame, but I do know one thing. I know the madness that only a muse can induce. I still remember what happens when your creativity proliferates uncontrollably under the fever of inspiration, infected by the singular source of all your greatest highs and lows.

The year is coming to an end, and my bones can already feel the changes looming in the horizon. December has always been a time of retrospection. I've lost track of how many years have passed since the genesis of Heart & Crossbones, and I couldn't be bothered to calculate them now. But the sun is setting now. I haven't felt the same cancerous madness in years, and a part of me believes that I will never experience it again. But there are others in my life now--perhaps ones who will eventually inspire my words. As I stand on the precipice, I wonder if it is time to fall. I wonder if the sun has finally set on You.

I Don't Know What Progress Report I'm On Anymore

A little more than a week until I go back to California.

I can't wait.

I have come to the conclusion that in my world, school breaks are bad news. I'm sure there are people who come back from these breaks fully recharged, but ever since Thanksgiving Break, I have been suffering from a severe case of DGAF and motivating myself to study has been a Herculean task.

A couple of things to stew over:

During one of my procrastination moments, I compiled all of the chapters of the revised EP draft I'd written so far and put them into one PDF document, so I could read it on my phone at any odd moments. Probably not the brightest idea, given my rule for not going back to revise anything until after a full draft is complete.....

....because ughhhhh, so much work to be done. On one hand, I was impressed by how much I'd churned out in the past year (over 70,000 words, over 250 pages in a PDF). On the other hand, some parts were really bad. Maybe not Fifty Shades level of atrocity, but... still nothing I'd want anyone else to read. The first half of Act I was really obviously a case of holy-pomelo-i-haven't-written-anything-in-YEARS-what-do-i-dooooooo flailing, and the first half of Act II is majorly saggy in terms of pacing. Which might be good, because this draft is gonna need major liposuction to trim down the word count anyways. Also, Act I will need a ton of reworking, because I need to nail down a lot of the details from Rory's side of things in order to revise how much detail I want to reveal in each of the interviews.

But before I can get around to doing any of the above, I need to finish Act III.

And before I can get around to that, I need to slog through this cardiovascular block and make it to winter break alive....bahhhh.

The second thing I was going to bring up.... basically, a classmate of mine asked me out to dinner. It took me by surprise, because 1) the text came out of nowhere, 2) I don't think I'm misunderstanding the implications behind his request, but my initial reaction was pretty much..... huh? You mean me?

I'd rather not get into the details of this whole situation, but basically I left that text hanging there for an hour because I didn't quite know how to respond. On one hand, I've been around this person enough to observe his behavior, and from what I've been able to discern, he is a good person -- well-mannered, polite, hard-working, selfless, and just very nice. On the other hand... I hadn't really been looking at that person in that way.

I read some article the other day about how the so-called "spark" or "chemistry" or whatever doesn't actually mean anything in the long-run; that it's just neuronal responses that wear off over time and don't actually predict how well two people will fare together. But regardless, I'd never felt that "spark" or whatever with this person--our conversations are almost diplomatic, as if we'd never made it out of the small-talk stage (a stage that I am very uncomfortable in, fyi). And unfortunately, I can't help but compare this situation to other ones where I did feel that spark -- usually people with whom I would engage in good-natured teasing or banter.

In the end, I took a friend's advice and said I was busy on the day he suggested, but that I was open to figuring something out after our exam (essentially after winter break, which gives me almost a month to sort my thoughts). I mean, why not, right? One dinner doesn't mean anything. It's not a binding contract for anything, you skittish ninny. But we all know that I have a tendency to protect myself preemptively.

Once, I was talking to M about how much I love being independent, and the thought of having to chain my life to someone else's makes me skittish. Her response was along the lines of, "Eventually, you're gonna meet someone whom you'll want to be chained to."

At this moment, this is not someone I am willing to give up my independence for. But whatever, I have three weeks to not think about this. We'll just have to see what happens in January.

Things I Did During Thanksgiving Break

1. Lazed around and took photos in City Garden all morning. See previous post.
2. Watched 21 Jump Street and 22 Jump Street back-to-back at a friend's house and realized just how many of the jokes I missed when I watched 22 Jump Street earlier this year without ever having seen 21 Jump Street.
3. Skyped three friends for almost a total of five hours. Essentially caught up on all the drama going on in other people's lives. Per usual, I didn't really have anything exciting to contribute.
4. Made three dozen Portuguese egg tarts for a potluck. Caught up on Jane the Virgin while doing so. (By the way, the show's premise seems really ridiculous BUT TRUST ME... IT'S ACTUALLY PRETTY FUNNY. And it features a Latina heroine, so yay for diversity!)
5. Played two rounds of Mafia at the aforementioned potluck. I screwed myself over in the first round when I inadvertently revealed that I was the cop, but made an epic victory when I was one of four mafia in the following round. Though the Godfather was killed off, he'd chosen an excellent team: Asian Jesus was the loud-talker who was put out a great performance as one of the civilians; E was the soothing voice of reason secretly diverting the conversation; I was the silent one who, should Asian Jesus or E attract too much attention and draw suspicion, would remain unnoticed and slowly pick off the victims as I outlived the others.
6.  By the way, the egg tarts were a hit.
7. Finally watched Season 2 of Legend of Korra. Will likely not watch Season 3 and 4 until they are free on Amazon Prime, because I am too lazy to look up that stuff elsewhere.
8. Visited Abita Brewery with some classmates. Favorite part of that trip was probably driving across the Lake Pontchartrain Causeway. I'm not sure if it is still the longest bridge in the world, but driving across it feels like you're zipping across the ocean.
9. Finished writing Chapter 17 and 19 of EP. (I went out of order and wrote Chapter 18 a while back.) Chapter 20 is a short one, so I am essentially almost done with Act II. Act III will be a tricky one, because it'll mainly be about Rory's fall -- which I haven't completely fleshed out in my head -- but at this point I'm gonna pants it and see where that takes me.
10. Got a head-start on schoolwork on my "Lazy Sunday," which also involved trying out a potato soup recipe with my leftover heavy cream from the egg tarts and watching If I Stay, which I'd been meaning to watch since August. If I Stay, by the way, was good but not great -- the film didn't quite tug at me the same way The Fault in Our Stars movie did, even though I was bigger fan of the book If I Stay than the book The Fault in Our Stars. But it did remind me of how much I loved reading If I Stay and Where She Went.
11. Last but not least, I got to watch this lady perform live:

This was the first small-venue concert I ever went to, so I don't have much to compare this experience to... but I thought FKA Twigs was amazing.

In typical Sophelia fashion, I was starting to feel antsy before the show because I was worried about parking and, well, pretty much everything. The show was at the Republic, this nightclub in downtown. I Googled all sorts of things about how early you're supposed to get to a show, where to park near the Republic, what you should wear, etc. The doors opened at 8 and the show started at 9. My roommate said that since I was going alone, I should probably just go at 8:30. But I was way too antsy to be hanging around the house, so I ended up leaving my house at 7:30. Parking was a bitch, like I'd been expecting, but in the end I got there early enough to get pretty close to the stage.

I was on the left side of the stage, near a group of tall kids whom I would have guessed were 18-year-olds. They smoked like crazy. I'm pretty sure I smelled of cigarette smoke after the concert. I also smelled the scent of pot later in the night, and it made me want to gag. I essentially people-listened/watched for almost an hour and admired the room. The Republic has two floors, and I would have liked watching from the balcony, except I decided that I wanted to experience being on the floor "for research purposes."

Boots was the opener for the show. He wasn't bad, but in retrospect he didn't leave much of an impression on me once FKA Twigs took the stage.

The show started with "Preface," a chorale-influenced piece in which she chants over and over again: "I love another, and thus I hate myself." Her entrance gave me the chills. She was wearing this gold cloaklet with the hood drawn over her head and a long flowing skirt with two slits and black spandex underneath, and in the darkness, her hooded figure lent to the whole cathedral-esque feel.

FKA Twigs, I think, is one of those artists you can't fully appreciate until you see her live. She's famous for her dancing, which I've seen described in online reviews as "skeletal." It's mesmerizing to watch her move. But you can't discount her voice either. It's surprisingly high and ethereal. She didn't impress me as much with "Two Weeks" -- which is one of my favorite songs of hers to listen to -- but  "Give Up," "Hide," and "Pendulum" were great, from what I recall.

In many ways this concert was for "research purposes" -- and I did get plenty of that. But it was also an interesting experience going to a small concert by myself and getting lost in the crowd. Hanging around in downtown New Orleans at night isn't exactly the safest thing to do, but it was worth the risk.

All in all, I'd been dying to get out of the city for Thanksgiving Break -- even went so far as contemplated spending 300 dollars to fly to Miami -- but in the end, it was a good decision to stay in NOLA for the break. I spent a lot of downtime catching up with myself, which I think I needed more than anything.

November Dreamer

City Park, New Orleans

On Wednesday morning, I went with a friend to City Park in New Orleans. It was the first time I'd been there since my mother and I went to see the New Orleans Museum of Art when I first moved down there in July. That morning, we walked around the sculpture garden and sat by the lake, talking about absolutely nothing and everything. The sunlight was warm, and the skies were blue that morning. I felt like a cat, ready to curl up in a ball and doze off for the rest of the day.

It has become more and more apparent to me that I live as if I were in the midst of dreaming. I go to classes, I study, I socialize, but the core of my being isn't here. I escape from the banality of the present, because my mind is fixated on the idea that there is something greater for me out there. I keep dreaming of the day that I finish writing that goddamn story--because when you've become obsessed with an idea for eight years, it becomes inextricable from your being. You think that your gift was bestowed upon you so that you could give it back to the world.

Then, there is also the issue of my solitude. As we sat under the veils of Spanish moss draped across oak branches, I tried explaining to my friend, though I doubt she understood me. Most people don't. They ask me if I don't ever get lonely, but what they don't realize is that from time to time, I do. What pushes me through is the same blind faith in the future -- that there is something greater out there. I bide my time. I wait. And that when the time comes, I will know it in my gut.

Whiplash

I can't remember what I've already mentioned on this blog previously in terms of what's happened in my life, but fair-warning -- this will be a bit of a rambling post.

In late August, two days before my first exam, my car was hit by a bus. I wasn't in the car when it happened that Sunday morning -- in fact, I didn't find out until I came out of the school building in the evening after studying all day. In many ways, I was lucky. I wasn't injured. My car could still run. The police had come and written up an accident report. I had the bus company's insurance information. Accidents are common in New Orleans, and more often than not, you'll end up in a hit-and-run or the person who hits you has no insurance. Despite knowing all this, when I got back to my room, I burst into tears, out of sheer stress and frustration.

It took me two months to finally track down my police accident report. Last Friday, my car was finally fixed. I'd driven my newly repaired car for less than a week when it was hit again this evening.

I was in the car this time. I'm starting to feel the effects of whiplash in my neck and shoulders. But for the most part, I'm not injured. My rear-ended car is covered with duct tape now but it still runs. I got the other person's insurance information and already filed a claim by the time I drove away from the accident site. Again, I was sort of lucky despite being unlucky. Half glass empty, half glass full. But as soon as I parked the car in front of my house, all the frustration I'd been bottling up erupted in a cryfest yet again.

Crying is a stress-reliever for me, and almost necessary for me to feel better and move on with my life. But there were a couple revelations I had in the last few hours since this accident. I've mentioned before about how I consider myself spiritual but not religious. I don't prescribe to one particular organized religion. But since college, I've come to believe that everything happens the way it's meant to happen. That there is some higher order that brings certain things into your life and takes certain things away. Some have told me they think it's a defeatist attitude, but I disagree. To me, it's a way of keeping myself mentally at peace with the outcome, because no matter what happens, you can't change the past. You can only move forward.

Even before I adopted this mindset, I was spiritual in the sense that as a young girl, I always wished to be closely attuned with the "other." I'm a logic-driven person for the most part, but I have always been curious about things such as dream interpretation, tarot, fortunes, and such. Not because I necessarily believe these things will script my future, but because I feel that paying attention can lead you to new insights you never would have noticed otherwise. This desire to seek "signs" has also aligned itself nicely with my belief of a higher order.

This same evening, I also discovered that this young man in my hometown who'd been missing since Halloween was found dead. I'd seen the missing person flyers around my newsfeed, but today was the first time I realized that one of my Facebook friends was his fraternity little brother. The man was only 3 years older than me. Moreover, before I'd driven home from school, I'd just come out of my End of Life elective where we'd discussed our last wishes -- what sort of procedures we'd want at the end of life (e.g. "Don't let me become a vegetable.") and what we'd want happen to our body (e.g. burial, cremation, donation, etc.). I'd already had the discussion with my parents before, but I'd never really thought about what I'd want for myself. It's hard to think of it seriously, because when you're young and healthy, you feel like you have so much life ahead of you.

When you're in your twenties, you don't think you could die any moment. You're so busy planning out your future career and future families that you don't think about how tenuous this present moment is. The fact that my car has been hit twice in less than three months--neither of which was my fault, but simply cases of being in the wrong place at the wrong time--is a wake-up call. Because who knows? Because third time's the charm, right? The next time my car gets hit, maybe I won't be so lucky. I read a quote somewhere once. I can't remember who said it or the exact wording, but the gist of it has stuck with me ever since. Most people don't truly live until they realize they're dying.

Halloween Cinderella

I almost didn't go out for Halloween last night.

We studied until 8 PM. Spitfire had been craving fried chicken for days, so we piled up in Asian Jesus's car and headed over to Raisin' Kanes on St. Charles. As we consumed our greased piles of soul food, the conversation somehow led to the topic that had left me fuming mad at him almost two weeks ago.

He'd already given me his spiel. Now his roommate Asian Jesus was trying to articulate why he hated hook-up culture. Spitfire and I listened, patiently, commenting and objecting here and there.

Spitfire and I are older than the boys. Only by one year in my case, and three years in hers. I understood their arguments, for I choose not to participate in the hook-up culture either.

I think you're the type to put your eggs in as few baskets as possible. But you'll put a lot of eggs in.

That's how a friend described me, and in many ways, it is true.

So, I agreed with Asian Jesus when he talked about his tendency to treat relationships with such seriousness and intensity, that the idea of casual engagement of heart and body for one night with no strings attached was impossible for him. But once again, I still felt a hollow apathy about hook-up culture -- in that, I really don't care if other people choose to hook-up. As long as people don't try to force me into their culture, I'm willing to accept theirs.

I tried explaining this to my mother a week ago, and her words were eerily echoed by Asian Jesus last night. Do people who engage in hook-up culture treat their relationships more lightly than others like me, him, and Asian Jesus who choose not to? What will happen if you end up dating someone who's been part of that culture?

Perhaps I am naive and obstinate, but I want to believe that whoever I choose to date will like me enough that his loyalty to me will speak for itself, regardless of how he may have behaved when he was single. Perhaps I don't feel that the ability to separate the emotional and the physical is mutually exclusive from the ability to be faithful.

But what do I know? I have been single all my life. I watch people around me make mistakes and learn from them. But it's been an objective, detached education.

After dinner, I went back to my house. Both my roommates were gone for the night. It was only 9 PM, and I'd been planning to stay-in and study, but suddenly I was overcome with an acute feeling of being very very lame.

I didn't have a fairy godmother. I barely even did my make-up, since I was worried about getting to the club before my classmates dispersed. I put on my blonde wig, tucked it under a bear-eared beanie, paired a varsity jacket with a band tee, and drove to Downtown in my rental Ford Charger. Afraid of the traffic around Frenchmen, I parked my car by the hospital and walked for half an hour to my destination.

It was a chilly night -- the coldest I've experienced since moving here. I stuffed my hands in my pockets and walked briskly down the glitzy Canal Street. The marquee lights from Saenger Theater reminded me of that other fateful October night in New York City, except this time I was alone and thrilled by this feeling of absolute freedom.

There's something to be said about experiencing Halloween in downtown New Orleans sober. Canal and Decatur were packed with costumed partygoers, dolled up and decked out in an eccentric mix of outfits. My newfound blondness and dramatic change in appearance gave me a heightened sense of confidence amidst the momentary blips of terror. Two boys followed me momentarily, calling out and asking why I was walking so fast. At another point, someone purposely reached out to hit me on the shoulder as I walked down the sidewalks of Decatur. I didn't cuss out at them, but the very idea that I could and totally get away with it felt liberating.

In the dark haze and smoke of the club, the packed bodies pressed all around me made me feel feverish. I took off my varsity jacket and wandered through the crowd. The reactions from my friends at the club amused me to no end. I would tap them on the shoulder, and their faces would contort in guarded bewilderment until a flash of recognition would light across their eyes. "SOPHELIA!! HOLY SHIT, YOUR HAIR! I TOTALLY DIDN'T RECOGNIZE YOU!"

I was there for maybe three hours. It felt shorter than that. It was fun, but as I came home and peeled off my guise, I came to realize something. There's an immeasurable thrill in stepping into another skin for one night and feeling the freedom to act unlike yourself. But I would have been just as happy hanging out with Spitfire, Asian Jesus, and him for the rest of the night, discussing our philosophies over soul food and sweet tea, in my boyishly short black hair and school sweatshirt, in my own skin.

this is the last song you will hear

Though I shouldn't be procrastinating, there were some things on my mind that I felt the need to jot down for a bit.

Halloween is around the corner. I don't normally dress up (and haven't really made much an effort in years), but in New Orleans it seems Halloween is a big deal. My friends have come up with all sorts of elaborate costume ideas. Mine is a bit more nebulous.

You see, I've always had a fascination with identity. And one of the fantasies I've always had is being able to walk around in a different skin, so to speak. To appear so unrecognizable that you are no longer shackled to your "identity" or what people expect from you. As long as you wear this "separate skin" you can do whatever want, be anything you want.

Sound familiar? Yeah, because it's the whole principle behind Charlotte and the mask of the Ecstasian Phantom.

In an impulsive move, I bought a wig. I made sure I found one that didn't look too cheap but didn't make me feel guilty about the price. Long, curly blonde hair. I'd always wondered how I'd look with blonde hair, but for practical reasons I'd never dyed my hair. I haven't decided what I'll wear with the wig, but all I really care about is being unrecognizable.

The first time I put on that wig, I was sort of appalled. What was this weird hair color doing around my face? It looked awful. But after some adjusting, including adding a cap, the weird thing is that I started getting used to the look. Not only that, the vibe I give off with curly blonde hair is completely different from my normal appearance. Sassy, wild, fun-loving... things NOT typically ascribed to me.

We'll see what happens on Friday.

The other thing I wanted to mull over...

For a good chunk of my life, I wondered why most of my friends were girls. It sounds like a strange question, but given my personality, it seemed a bit odd. The stereotypical adjectives people use to describe dudes -- chill, no drama, cool -- have often been ascribed to me. Eventually, I came to the conclusion that I naturally gravitated towards girls, because my self-defense mechanism didn't want to deal with the potential pitfalls of navigating the romantic aspect with boys I had no interest in.

Interestingly enough, my anatomy lab group here turned out to be a majority of boys. There are six of us, four boys and two girls. Funnily enough, all four boys have blonde hair and blue eyes. What surprised me the most -- just how well we all get along together. We behave very much like a pack of siblings with very different personalities. And to support my earlier theory, it probably also helps that three of the four guys have long-distance long-term girlfriends and the fourth guy is gay. I adore my group much in the way that I imagine Blue Sargent loves her Raven Boys. (Though, unlike Blue, I have the added benefit of having another girl in my group who can stand in female solidarity.)

It got me thinking, though, about the core of friendship I'd been trying to sketch out in detail for the past year. Yes, I'm going to ramble about EP again, so close the window if you're done here.

I'd always had some problems characterizing the central male friendships in EP, namely because I didn't have much experience in my own life I could draw from. There's three aspects to the dynamic that I had to consider: (1) how the boys (Rhys, Patrick, Leo) were before Rory ever joined the band; (2) how the dynamic changes once it became three boys + Rory (especially if Rory started dating Rhys); and (3) how the dynamic changes again post-Rory and Charlotte enters the picture, two years later.

I'm not necessarily going to base my characters off of my friends, but in my current writing drought, I've been doing a lot of real-life observation and fishing for material, and I've thought a lot about what kind of personalities can coexist so harmoniously together. The only other time in my life I can think of where a group of friends has gelled together so well was the summer after I graduated from high school, when I was teaching English in Taiwan. To this day, I'm still in touch with most of them.

Anyways, back to my anatomy group. I do have to say... one thing I didn't realize was just how raunchy slang I am oblivious to. You know, the kind of stuff you have to look up on Urban Dictionary to figure out... This is something you pick up on real fast when you hang out with a bunch of boys.

And on a final note... I had another morbid dream a few days ago. I dreamed that I was dying, and as my breaths were growing shallower, I had to pick the last song I would listen to in my life. I picked "Wading" by Jhene Aiko. I still don't know exactly why I picked that song.

hide

I love this video. Excited to see her perform in November.

revised

sometimes, you are such a brat that i really question my judgment.

Life After Life

I wrote about my grandmother's passing a couple of weeks ago. My mother sent me an e-mail describing what happened. I can't really do it much more justice, so I decided to copy the story in its entirety.

------

"When Grandma was in critical condition, her eyes were open the whole time. It seemed that she still could sense what was happening in the room. But, with the oxygen mask tight on her face and the machine pumping hard constantly, it really looked painful.  

Four days later, the most difficult part was when your father's siblings had to decide whether to send her to ICU or not.  That was on Sunday.

Three days later, Grandma was moved to the hospice room.  Her lung infection got worse. She was slipping away. But, somehow her eyelids were still open, even though her eyesight was no longer focusing on anything.

Everyone had gradually accepted the reality, except Grandpa. He sat by her bedside and still kept telling her, 'Be brave, hold on...'

Finally around 5:30 pm, your uncles and aunt all had arrived the hospital room and surround the bed.  Your father's two older cousins consulted with Grandpa outside the room for quite a while. Grandpa came in, sat by the bedside, and he started saying the same phrase : '你要堅強. (Be brave, be strong.)'  One of the cousins touched his back to remind him...  

Suddenly, Grandpa said: 'I really don't want to let you go, but now I have to. Let's get together again in our next life.' After he was saying these words, Grandma closed her eyes and the heart beat stopped.  

Even though we all have seen their quarrels over the years, at the end, the last scene made it a love story."

until we bleed

So we're bound to linger on 

We drink the fatal drop 

Then love until we bleed 

Then fall apart in parts 

it took us 3 hours yesterday. 1 hour to cut open her skull. 1 hour to open up her spinal column. 1 hour just to remove the brain from her head, spinal cord swishing from the back like a ponytail.

i've held a heart in my hands. but only literally speaking, that is. we talk of romantic hyperboles and make references to the Aztecs and their ritual sacrifices, but cupped inside my hands, the heart doesn't feel so monumental. a hollowed mass of muscle fibers and vessels, it weighs lighter than a tennis ball.

there are no hackneyed honeyed words, no dramatic tales of historical intrigue that describe the feel of a brain in one's hands. it sinks into your palms, heavy as a locked chest; you feel the weight and heft of its contents but you can only speculate what is hidden inside. who was this person, what kind of life did she live, what memories were mapped into the ridges and crevices. it's the closest i've ever felt to her--this cadaver whose body we've cut open and examined for weeks.

some of these days, i don't know who i am anymore. my last two exam grades were average, and when your whole life has been revolving around exams, it's hard not to place your value on numbers. i feel painfully ordinary, especially when i don't write. i want to stand out but i want to hide. they gossip here like buzzards, circling for a carcass to scavenge. i am the girl with the bow in her short cropped hair, the girl in black boots. i don't want to be known as the girl who kept dancing at the block party with that one guy who was maybe drunk and oh look what do you think is happening here ho ho ho (what a ho).

i've been thinking about the heart a lot these days. well, literally too, but i mean that in the figurative sense. i think about how long it takes for a person to fall and wonder if i've somehow shut down the part of my brain that surrenders itself to the heart's stupidity. i can see the mental pro/con bullet points under the boy's name and wonder why my gut is silent now. i felt nothing when his hands were at my waist and his fingers were laced in mine. i think of all the avoided gazes and prickling blushes and unsent digital love letters from those forsaken teenage years and wonder if, at age 23, i've lost the ability to let myself bleed.

Now we're bound to linger on

We drink the fatal drop

Then love until we bleed

Then fall apart in parts 

-- "Until We Bleed" by Kleerup ft. Lykke Li

Wading

Thought I was wading
Thought I was wading for you
I have been waiting
I will be waiting
Till I turn blue

-- "Wading" by Jhené Aiko

On another Jhene Aiko fix. Her newest album Souled Out is on loop as I study for my second exam.

5:50

I barely felt it when I saw the words on the computer screen. But slowly it started trickling. It seeped into the crevices, coating my insides until I felt as if my intestines were made of lead, growing heavier and heavier with each passing minute.

Eight years ago, when my mother's father passed away from a heart attack, I'd woken up in the night with a gushing nosebleed. As I read my mother's e-mail, I tried to think of what I'd been doing when it was 5:50 PM in Taiwan.

4:50 AM in New Orleans. I'd been sound asleep. A dreamless night.

I didn't cry for my mother's father then. This time, I didn't cry for my father's mother either. When you are the child of immigrant parents whose families still live in their homeland, there's a distance you can't cross even when you're physically by their side. They've seen all your other cousins grow up before their eyes, but they can count the number of times you've flown to visit on one hand. You, with your muscled athletic frame and tanned skin, so unlike your Taiwanese cousins with their slender limbs and snow-white skin, can only communicate with them in simple sentences and blank stares.

I was never close to my father's mother. In personality, she was the complete opposite of the women in my mother's family. Given how my mother raised me, I couldn't relate to my father's mother much either. I'd heard my mother complain about her mother-in-law before, but it'd been especially frequent a few years ago when my grandmother required a liver transplant. Long story short, family drama had ensued. From that point on, my grandmother wasn't just a kindly faraway entity who always made toast with sunny-side-up eggs and ham in the morning or whose days revolved around preparing dinner. In the aftermath of the drama surrounding the liver transplant, I saw her as a human being unable to confront her own mortality, to nearly irrational ends.

Unlike the suddenness of my mother's father, I knew my father's mother was fading away. The first e-mail from my mother came over the weekend, reporting that she was in critical condition from a lung infection. The second e-mail came a day later, saying she'd been placed on a ventilator. I was in a strange place emotionally through all this. I went to my classes, I studied in my room, I lived life as normal, wondering when the next e-mail would come.

I recognize the heaviness as sadness. But I wonder about that trace of guilt nestled within it -- and why I feel as if I should have loved her in spite of her faults.

Sunset

I saw you again; it felt like we had never met.
It's like the sun set in your eyes and never wanted to rise.
And what have you done with the one I love?
When I look into your eyes, I see no surprise.
 
I always thought it was a shame,
That we have to play these games.
It felt like you really knew me.
Now it feels like you see through me.

 -- "Sunset" by The XX

A close friend of mine called me last night. Her voice has a natural airy lilt that I've imagined the Daisy-Buchanan-esque socialites converse in as they sip their jewel-toned cocktails. Fluttery, rising upwards at the ends like kite tails. Someone who didn't understand English wouldn't have had the faintest idea that was she was calmly talking about her break-up with her boyfriend.

I'd chronicled the relationship since the earliest days. They met last year as first-year medical students, sharing a common interest in climbing. I saw the magnets coming together long before she was willing to admit the truth out loud. I still remember the exact date when she texted me that they had finally, officially put a label onto what they had. Boyfriend and Girlfriend.

Just a little under a year later, it's over. 

Night of the Hunter

Honest to God, I will break your heart

Tear you to pieces and rip you apart

-- "Night of the Hunter" by 30 Seconds to Mars

When you've kept the walls up for 23 years, you become very discerning about who you let in.

It scares me a bit to wonder how I appear to these people who really know nothing about me. Am I shy, intimidating, aloof, friendly? One girl I went Walmart shopping with asked me if I painted, and when I asked her why, she qualified it by saying I "looked artistic." I suppose she came to that conclusion either by the style of clothes I wear or by the photos on my Facebook profile. Artistic is a quality I will gladly take, but I wonder what else people have gleaned from my exterior appearances.

The girl who has become my exercise buddy here has become a popular target of affections, though she may not realize it yet. She is aware that I heard through the grapevine about a second year med student who kissed her at the block party, but she doesn't know about the classmate who's developed a crush on her. I've already begun collecting other people's secrets, and so far, I've been able to keep everything to myself.

The classmate with the crush doesn't realize I have heard about his affections for that girl. As a result, there's a strange subtext I can't ignore whenever we talk. Compared to the rest of my classmates, I talk to him very often. We joke with each other frequently. But is he using me to get closer to that girl? If that's the case, I can't help but feel a bit peeved.

It's a bit taxing, having to keep track of all of these threads and make sure you don't let things spill over. But we all know I live for drama. Other people's drama. Never mine.

Fall For Your Type, Remix

I know I've already posted the lyrics for two Angel Haze songs, but I am addicted to her stuff right now. She has some interesting remix covers of songs from all other genres (e.g. Castle on a Cloud, Same Love, Summertime Sadness, etc.) but what I really like about her are her lyrics. She chooses some really interesting words and phrases for her rhymes.

(Also, I personally think her flow is better than Iggy Azalea's...)

Below are the lyrics for her version of "Fall For Your Type," the Jamie Foxx/Drake song I've posted about before on this blog. I find her lyrics sooooooo much more interesting than Drake's for this song. 

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

 

you are an ocean's breeze, i am the tidal wave.

you are every paragraph, i am just a title page.

you have the heart i hold exactly where you desire it.

it's all so effortless, like what you did to acquire it.

each time i find it harder just to keep my composure.

i'm trying to show you all of me like indecent exposure.

i'll be the gun, you be my holster.

i need your love. i need you closer.

seems like forever when only an hour's passed.

we fallin' slower than grains of salt in an hourglass.

emotions running wild, you are who tames them.

my only means for tranquility; you my sanctum.

and if i could, i'd take your eyes and blend them in with the stars

so whenever we ain't together, i still see them from afar.

but that's insane, i'd do whatever to just to feel you.

even all of that don't come close to what i will do.

they say love holds the power to

fulfill you, heal you, kill you, hurt and abuse you

take away from you used to

i try to paint a picture like a canvas plane

to try to put words together like a Scrabble game.

i said i wouldn't stop until i said what i needed to, right?

alright, let's go.

look, i pour my heart out in an effort just to win you

and modify my actions solely so they won't offend you.

i mean, i would wrestle time even if it get rewinded.

everything you looking for in me is where you find it.

so you can stop your searching, baby.

i know you hurting, baby.

your self-esteem so low sometimes that you feel worthless, baby.

okay. you hide it well, but you know i can tell.

i see right through that bullshit that you be tryin' to sell.

so let it drop, let it fall, let it blow with the wind.

i told you once, told you twice, and imma tell you once again

that i'll be here. yes, i'll be here.

and if love is blind then my mental's clear.

and all we have is time and good intentions.

fuck your brake, fuck your suspension.

put your foot on that gas until you don't see your past.

yeah, i said drive until your vision blurred.

and let my voice tell our story; spoken words.

fuck 'em. let them hate me where they never was.

and fucking Shakespeare couldn't have wrote a better love.

but people tell me that i'm trippin' and i say you different.

and when they ask me how

i can't provide a description; you don't need one.

i will disconnect them all, like a broken joint.

just to prove i only see you like a focal point.

i know that distances may cause some complications.

but you make me feel good, fucked up, exonerated.

still, i wonder what you like beneath the shackles that you wearing.

i been longing to release you from a load that's overbearing.

tell me, are you protected by a guard, boo?

or could i blow and make it fall like cards do?

and i ain't interested 'til it involves you.

you got your doors locked and i just saw through.

you reached a height of loneliness 'cause we all do,

but everything that goes up gotta fall too.

Lament

"Everyone cares when it's too late."

The above is a quote I found yesterday on the Tumblr page of someone who killed himself weeks after publishing that post.

Before I go any further, I should probably backtrack and explain how I got there.

Yesterday afternoon, I'd just about snapped. I had sat through four consecutive lectures on spinal cords and radiographic anatomy, and as I drove myself home from school, I was overcome with a severe case of DGAF -- Done Giving a Fuck.

When I got home, I indulged on two snack-sized bags of Flaming Hot Cheetos, which temporarily made me happier but quickly sent me spiraling downward in fatty-guilt. I decided to browse the Internet, and somehow, I ended up on a forum site about Nana. There was no news about Ai Yazawa's health status, and I read some threads with people discussing how much they'd cried when Ren was killed off, or deliberating whether or not Nana and Ren were ideal for each other. It brought back memories of how Ren's death affected me in high school (yes, a fictional character can do that to you), and I played Anna Tsuchiya's "Kuroi Namida" to indulge in my somber mood. While on this forum site, I somehow stumbled across the name "FrankWolf" and looked him up on Google.

That's how I came across that Tumblr. That's how I learned about the young man who was known for his androgynous beauty in cosplay. That's how I read in a Yahoo Answers response that he had endured constant cyberbullying from people who spewed vitriol about his feminine looks and his cosplay hobby, until he could bear it no longer and took his own life.

Later that evening, I was at the gym with a friend, quizzing each other on anatomy while on the elliptical machines. While we were talking, I happened to glance up at the TVs on the wall and was shocked to see the same headline on CNN, Fox News, and ABC News. Robin Williams was found dead, presumably by suicide.

I can't remember how many of Robin Williams' movies I've seen. I recall him most clearly as the Genie in Aladdin and the English teacher in Dead Poets Society (O Captain, my Captain), but I can't claim that he had a significant impact on my life. Still, I was stunned to learned that he had been battling depression. It had never crossed my mind that someone like him could be struggling with depression, but then again, I should have already known that what people show on the outside often doesn't correlate with what's going on inside.

Today, I read an article with anecdotes about people's own battles with addiction and depression. Pieces of those stories reminded me of myself. I don't consider myself clinically depressed, but there are those moments when I lose complete motivation and feel as if I'm staring down into an abyss. That's how I felt yesterday afternoon. I'd already been feeling lonely about my lack of close friendships here, and as I sat in that lecture room and saw a whole year of memorizing body parts ahead of me, it all suddenly became too much for me to handle.

Today, I tried to turn things around. I let myself work on EP for an hour and a half after class before starting my studying. I studied for an hour at a time before giving myself a short break. I found this video during one of those breaks. It gave me some perspective and a much-needed kick in the rear. Whoever's out there, I hope it helps you too.

Deep Sea Diver

So, instead of sailing I live like a human parachute
The more I'm falling the further I am compared to you
It's like I'm stuck in the air, while you're pale and blue
Chasing clouds and hoping they lead a trail to you
See, we were deep sea divers
And I was focused on survival
And death does you part when you're focused on its rival
Defibrillator love, I'm just focused on revival

You could, you could put your hands in mine
And we'll walk through the sands in the sand of time
Until we paint the end of this love scene
Until I'm laid to rest in your blood stream

Until I hear the strings of your heart playing
Until I hear the things you are not saying
Until I find out what it really means
And hopefully it's everything it really seems

-- "Deep Sea Diver" by Angel Haze

And So It Begins

Today was my second day of class as a medical student. I can't believe it's only been two days. I already feel like I've been here forever.

Firstly, HOLY POMELO SO MUCH STUFF TO LEARN. We're on our first anatomy block, which also includes some embryology, which so far has been a pile of mumbo jumbo to me. On the plus side, however, these lecture classes are reminiscent of that organismal diversity I took at Duke where they literally threw mountains of information at you, and you had to memorize as much as possible. I got an A in that class without much stress, so hopefully the studying tricks I had for that class translate here.

We had our first anatomy lab today, so my hands have been reeking of formaldehyde all afternoon. I'd seen cadavers before today, but not gonna lie, I was still a little worried about how I'd feel about actually cutting the body. It really wasn't that bad. I wish I got to do more, but my lab group only had one scalpel.

On the social front, I'm still sort of flailing around. I've made friends here and there, but I haven't really grouped up or joined a clique yet -- which is probably a good thing in the long-run, but still stress-inducing when you walk in somewhere and don't know where to sit.

Also, I have a confession to make -- some recent conversations with multiple people made me very self-conscious of the fact that my friend-groups in high school and college haven't been very... shall we say, diverse? Unfortunately, that little detail has permeated my brain.

All in all, too early to give really any interesting or juicy updates. I'll probably be too busy to write much anymore. But you know me -- I like being kept busy, so hopefully I'll still be this upbeat a few weeks down the line when I have my first exam. Womp womp. 

Book Report: Second Helpings

My first day of orientation is tomorrow morning, which means I should probably go to bed, considering how I've been averaging nine hours of sleep these days...

My female roommate seems to be much more of a social butterfly than I am -- she's pretty much out at bars every night this past week. She's invited me to tag along a couple of times, but today and yesterday I pretty much just stayed in and had my "alone" time. At age 23, I really should stop caring about what other people think of me, but I can't help but wonder if she thinks I'm a hermit.

Part of the problem is that I've heard soooo many older med students here talk about how awesome my roommates are, and how I'm so lucky to be living with them. And it's true -- they're great. But it's putting all the pressure on me to be awesome enough to be part of this trio...

Anyways, today I drove downtown to run some errands. For starters, I've been deathly afraid of draining my car battery, so I haven't really been using the A/C in my car, which resulted in me literally soaking my shirt through with sweat. It was disgusting. I also was so stressed out about trying to find parking downtown that I forgot about an unprotected left turn and got majorly honked at.

But the good thing about today is that I ventured over to the New Orleans Public Library and got my library card. It's not a very fancy library--I've gotten so used to self-checkout stations at Duke and my home libraries in California that it was very strange handing my books over to the circulation desk and see the lady judging my book selection. But this library has lots of YA books I've been dying to get my hands on.

What sucks though is that adults aren't supposed to hang out on the second floor (where they keep all the YA books) because it's supposed to be an environment for youths. So the lady at the 2nd floor desk had to ask me how old I was and give me the spiel, and then I politely responded that I was only going to browse through the shelves and not plunk myself down next to the teenage young'uns.

Anyways, I found Megan Mccaferty's Second Helpings, which I've been waiting to read for a while now, ever since I finished Sloppy Firsts. So I stayed in tonight and read the whole thing.

Second Helpings by Megan Mccafferty

Okay, before I start... I've realized that reading books like this rubs off on me. It was the same thing with Saving Francesca -- after I read something with a very strong witty narrative voice, it affects the way I write. I just looked at that giant slab of mumbo-jumbo at the top of this post and did a double-take.

Anyways. I'm going to drop spoilers left and right, so please disregard if you plan on reading this book with virgin eyes.

So, I had quite an internal debate with myself about whether or not I liked Sloppy Firsts or Second Helpings better. Second Helpings was a bit off-key for me in the beginning, because Jessica came across as a lot whinier and unfunny than I recalled in Sloppy Firsts. The whole part about her summer camp I just wanted to skip past, because damn it, I wanted to read about Marcus Flutie. But on the other hand, this book had WAY more Marcus Flutie, which is pretty much the main reason why I picked up this book in the first place, considering how things ended in Sloppy Firsts. Also, we saw way more of Jessica's grandmother, who I totally imagined as Betty White because she's just that awesome.

In the end, I think I'm going to have to give it to Sloppy Firsts. For some reason, I feel like I laughed out loud more times with the first book, which also had a stronger narrative arc. Plus with this one, there were quite a few times when I wanted to shake Jessica and be like, "If you're so desperate to lose your V-card, why are you still dating Len Levy if he's so insistent on abstinence and you obviously are still in love with Marcus Flutie?!" I also didn't really sa-WOON over the scene where Marcus Flutie and Jessica finally get their shit together. I mean, I totally fist-pumped when they finally figured out their feelings and whatnot, because I've been shipping them since Day 1, but it takes A LOT for me to be impressed by love song lyrics/poetry. Sorry, Marcus Flutie -- I like you a lot, but your poems don't do it for me.

(Though I wonder if it'll be different if I'm ever on the receiving end of these things. I read somewhere today that Angelina Jolie and Brad Pitt, who are currently working on different continents, write handwritten letters to each other. I make fun of my ex-roommate's romantic boyfriend fantasies all the time, but I have to admit that I used to tell myself I'd be super impressed with someone who knew how to write an actual letter to me... kinda like how Koala said she'd be super impressed with someone who gives her his jacket when she's cold. Are we at an equivalent level of pathetique here? Actually, don't answer that.)

Anyways, I'm not going to read the rest of the Jessica Darling series. Why? Some credible sources have told me not to bother with Jessica's college and post-grad years. Kind of like how I've taken other people's advice not to read Mockingjay or Allegiant, I will just stop myself here unless I find myself incredibly bored one day and decide to see for myself. I can imagine if the series goes up to five books, Jessica and Marcus are bound to break-up at some point, and I'd rather just imagine every thing is fine and dandy when we close the pages on their high school graduation.

Okay, I need to go to bed. Toodleloo.

Delirium and Death

God, New Orleans is hot.

I've slowly been settling into my new place. On Tuesday, I will finally have a mattress to sleep on! In the meantime, I've been sleeping on the couch in the living room. Which is okay in the sense that I can sleep pretty much anywhere, but the couch is right next to the front door, which means that I notice whenever my male roommate runs off to his rotations early in the morning.

I have a tendency to wake up earlier if I'm expecting something. So for some inane reason, I naturally woke up at like 5:30 am because I was expecting him to be up rummaging around in the kitchen. And then I realized I was hallucinating sounds, so I tried to go back to sleep, but then he came out of his room at like 6:30 am, and then I feigned sleep until he left. Then I drifted in and out of sleep for like the next three hours as my female roommate came in and out of the kitchen.

All this in-and-out sleep confused my poor brain.

The Anathema has appeared in the night numerous times, but last night was the first time I'd ever dreamed that he was dead. How he died, I can't remember. The only thing I distinctly recall was a conversation with his grief-stricken mother, who was collecting copies of every edition of The Fault in Our Stars in his honor, including some special edition narrated from Hazel's father's point of view (shut up--it made complete sense in my subconsciousness). I should have recognized this was a dream as soon as this ludicrous conversation appeared, but in the midst of it all, I felt a lot of strange, real emotions about this revelation that the Anathema was dead. When I finally woke up, I realized the truth: nothing would change, because in a way, the Anathema is already dead to me.

I lay there on the couch at 5 in the morning, pondering about this. I'm not a fervent believer in the occult, but I do harbor an amused fondness for "weird" things like dream symbolism and tarot cards. I'd told Rogue just a few days ago about the time I visited a witch's house in Durham, and how my professor had drawn the Death Card when we did tarot readings. The Death card is not necessarily a bad card. It symbolizes rebirth, transition, and the start of something new. And in light of the fact that I've just moved to a new place and will start classes in a week...

But the most striking to me is that the Anathema was the one who died. Because on my last day in California, my mother told me that even my father--of all people--had told my mother, "Tell our daughter to hurry up and find a boyfriend. Can't you teach her how to get a man or something?"

God, now even my father is concerned about the fact that I've been single all my life? I was mortified.

People have asked before why I didn't find anyone in college. As if I could control someone's feelings in return. The boat runs two ways. There were interested people I didn't feel anything for, and when I started seeing the signs, I kept my distance. There were others I had a shallow interest in, but not enough for me to do much about it, especially when these people usually had their sights set elsewhere. My answer was always that I didn't find anyone interesting, but I've come to the conclusion that my brain has been culpable.

The Anathema is not a real person. The Anathema is a concept that I became so emotionally invested in, that in the aftermath, I became afraid of feeling something that intense ever again. In reaction to four years of anger, sadness, self-loathing, and small bits of euphoria, I essentially numbed myself for four years after.

Is this the end of the Anathema's reign? Who knows. Thanks to the delirium of drifting in-and-out of sleep, for a while I became very confused about whether or not the Anathema had actually died in real life and even logged onto Facebook to check. In short, I need some caffeine.

Parental Units

I don't talk much about my family on this blog, but it's occurred to me in the recent years that there is a wealth of stories in this untapped area. I tell most of these stories verbally to friends for amusement, but the only time I've really ever written any of this down has been for class.

One time, in Professor Hijuelos' class, we had to pick three personal photographs and write an essay related to those photographs. I ended up choosing three different ones and writing vignettes related to each. Turned out the most interesting one to my classmates was my parents' wedding photo. I described in great detail our living room mantel, in particular: lots of Lego sculptures of pop culture icons, such as Ronald McDonald and Yoda. When I went into the story of my parents' wedding photograph, I talked about how they met at a Pizza Hut, and how they didn't really have a wedding or honeymoon--they invited a friend to take pictures at the courthouse and then invited aforementioned friend out to dinner at Pizza Hut afterwards.

My classmates ate this shit up, I kid you not. They started pondering about the implications of first-generation immigrant frugality and the celebration of American consumerism on the fireplace mantle, the symbol of the hearth and home. The only thing I'd ever thought about our Yoda Lego statue was how my father had proudly brought that statue home when Target threw a promotional event for when the Star Wars Episode 1 first came out to see who could guess the correct number of bricks, and I wondered what proportion of the ballots came from our house. (Including my cousins and grandparents who were visiting that summer, and we probably each filled out like 5 ballots per person... yeah.)

Speaking of Target, just today, I went with my mother there to buy some things. Among the other household necessities, she picked out four gift cards and asked the cashier to put 10 dollars on each. Why, you may ask? Because my dad collects Target gift cards, which most people may not realize often come with nifty toys (like balsa wood airplanes or Pez dispensers) and slick designs. He buys gift cards, and then uses those gift cards to buy more gift cards, essentially cycling money through an endless string of Target gift cards without actually buying anything.

Anyways, why am I writing about this? Just now, I got into another argument with my mother, which was really more of an aftershock related to the fight we had before about my editing fees. I mentioned in my previous post about how she has a tendency to pull unrelated crimes out of the ether, but good golly, her attempt today was absolutely egregious. It was infuriating. But if you're curious about how my mind works, it goes like this:

1. THIS MAKES ME SO [fill in emotion here].
2. I need to convey this in writing. / How can I use this for my own writing?

I was planning to rant about it, to get it out my system, but then I realized: A) I've already talked about this before and I don't want to sound like a broken record; B) I hate whiners and don't want to become one; C) Negativity is not good for the soul.

So I decided to try writing about something more light-hearted instead. And still ended up coming back to it in the end. Sigh.

Pacific Summer Blues

I'd been wanting to drive down to Big Sur for a while now, ever since I wrote Sea, Land, Sky for my Fairytales and Contemporary Retellings class. I couldn't remember the last time I'd been on that coastline--we'd gone camping near Julia Pfeiffer Burns State Park when I was little, but all the camping trips from past summers have sort of melted into a blur, so I couldn't remember anything with much clarity. To research for my short story, I had to rely on Google Images and Wikipedia articles in order to capture the Northern California coastline where the fictional water horses dwell.

So when S contacted me about making a day trip down the coast, I readily agreed. We made no set plans for a destination, other than to drive down Highway 1 and stop whenever something caught our eye. Two things came out of this trip. One, I'd been fearful of finding out that I'd completely butchered my descriptions in the short story. Turns out the setting was perfect. The cliffs, the beaches, the clear water, the forests and ranches--I could picture the story unfolding all around this area. Even the rearing waves, dark with tumbling kelp, reminded me of horses.

Two, I can't believe I'm lucky enough to have grown up in Northern California. While I was in Europe, I kept thinking, Why doesn't the States have gorgeous architecture like this? Why is everything so beautiful here? Yesterday, I realized that there's beauty all around in the States--you just have to get off your lazy ass and get out of the city to find it.

Monterey, Fisherman's Wharf

Carmel, Garrapata State Park

Carmel, Garrapata State Park

Carmel, Garrapata State Park

Big Sur

Big Sur, Julia Pfeiffer Burns State Park

Big Sur, Julia Pfeiffer Burns State Park

Progress Report No.10

This post will be less writing-specific and more about what's going on with my life, though writing has been a huge chunk of it these days.

I have one week left in California before I head back to New Orleans. Everyone's been asking me if I'm excited or nervous or whatnot, but truthfully? I'm kind of dreading it. I'm dreading getting to my house and finding out that my car battery died while I was gone. I had issues with it before I left, and I even had a dream last night about trying to start my car. I'm dreading all the small-talk I'll have to do with new people to make new friends, because even though I've gotten A LOT better at small-talking, it doesn't mean I've gotten over my dislike for it. I'm dreading having to go to class and study again, because a part of me is scared that this is going to be like college freshman year all over again. (And trust me, I do NOT want that shit show to happen again.)

I got into an argument with my mother earlier this week. In hindsight, it was kind of stupid. The thing with my mother is that she usually presents well-meaning advice with a loud angry voice, which ends up making me defensive, which then pisses her off, which escalates into her roaring and me crying silently and not saying anything. And then we don't talk for the rest of the day.

She was harping on the fact that I edit a lot of friends' writing without expecting anything in return. It's not really one specific friend or anything, so I don't mean to single anyone out, but the truth is that I've done this a lot, especially with school assignments and college apps. So I think her well-intended point was that I should start thinking about setting some sort of fee-based system (since time is money, blah blah blah), but I got defensive and said I don't want to charge friends and I've never charged anyone so I don't feel comfortable starting that now. And then she got really angry, and reminded me about one person who e-mailed me out of the blue asking if I could look over their grant application (which I did), and she was like, IS THAT PERSON A FRIEND? YOU CALL THAT A FRIEND? WHAT KIND OF A FRIEND IS THAT? THAT'S CALLED BEING USED. And then, as my mother is wont to do, she started pulling out all sorts of other crimes from the ether, like my grades could have better in college, or my study habits are terrible, and then... she said, "You have time for it because you make time for it. You like editing. Your first love was always English. You wouldn't have taken all those science classes if you didn't have to."

And I dunno, that really hit me in an uncomfortable way. Because let's say society was reversed and humanities were so much more valued than science, and people made jokes about biology majors working at Starbucks.... I don't think I would have taken such a science-heavy curriculum. And this happens just as I'm about to embark on the fun times that is medical school....

In other news, since the last progress report in mid-June, I've written three chapters in the last month. Last night, I finally finished Ch. 16, which turned out to be a whopper... over 7,000 words. I wrote around half of it in one day, and it sucked the life out of me. I'm not an emotional person (I didn't cry reading or watching The Fault in Our Stars, though I felt something), but by the time I finished writing the last scene in Ch.16 (let's just say it takes place at a cemetery), I was drained and just wanted to go to bed.

Also, sort of related (sorry for the jumpiness) -- I was at Graydyl's place last weekend, and she had me watch a bunch of episodes from season 1 of Hemlock Grove. There was a character in there who would constantly say something like, "I aim to be a writer, so I want to understand people's motivations." GAHHHHHHH SHE WAS SO ANNOYING. Am I like this?? Graydyl kept teasing me with, "Is that what you think too, writer?" If I ever come across like this, someone please smack some sense back into me.

Book Report: Saving Francesca

 Saving Francesca by Melina Marchetta

I reviewed Melina Marchetta's most famous book, Jellicoe Road, last year. I liked it a lot, but now that I've read Saving Francesca, I have to say Melina Marchetta is one of my favorite YA writers. Her writing isn't lusciously poetic like Laini Taylor or Francesca Lia Block, but her characters always make me wish I could be their friends too.

Saving Francesca is about a 17-year-old girl of Italian heritage at a private Catholic, former all-boys' school that recently opened its doors to girls. Instead of the typical trope that paints this situation like a teenage girl's paradise, Francesca ends up dealing with a bunch of stinky, gross, sexist boys and hangs out with the few other girls that she doesn't really get along with. Meanwhile, her mother has suddenly succumbed to a bout of acute depression, and her family struggles with this situation as her mother seems to get worse and worse. 

This book reminded me of Megan McCaffrey's Sloppy Firsts, in the sense that it's focused on realistic, everyday life. Some people might find this boring, but I usually don't have any problems with slice-of-life stories--especially if the narrators are as hilarious as Sloppy Firsts' Jessica Darling or Francesca Spinelli. (I'll admit I laughed out loud multiple times in this book.) The plot of Saving Francesca isn't wildly dramatic, but all of the characters are wildly interesting. Francesca was sarcastically funny (if sometimes boneheaded, like your typical teenager), but her friends and family members were also great. I liked most of these side characters, but my favorite was definitely Jimmy Hallier, one of the crude boys that Francesca meets in detention. He is a riot.

"We get to Annandale and he takes out a cigarette and offers one to me.

'I try not to indulge. It's a filthy habit,' I tell him.

'I love that word filthy. I love the way you force it out of your mouth like it's some kind of vermin you want to get rid of.'

'You've had vermin in your mouth?'"

Besides the characters, I also really liked how the Italian cultural aspects were woven into the story. One of my complaints about Eleanor and Park was that I felt that there was too much of an emphasis on Park's race and so much untapped potential in exploring Park's culture, especially in a dual-heritage home. There's a brief part in the book where Francesca stays at her nonna's house and her nonna hosts the Rosary. There's a little backstory about how William Trombal (Francesca's love interest)'s grandmother stole her nonna's famous S biscuit recipe, and they've been fighting ever since. William Trombal's grandmother brings a batch of those S biscuits, and so Francesca decides to take action:

"So during the Glorious Mysteries, I put them in the bin, wrap up the garbage bag, and take it outside. I know the Virgin Mary will understand. The Jews are a lot like the Italians, so I'm sure there were jealousy issues between her and the other women of Nazareth."

I wasn't a big fan of Will Trombal--he wasn't as interesting as Jimmy or Thomas Mackee, the other boy that ends up playing a role in this story. So the romance part didn't really do much for me, but if you're at all interested in YA contemporary and have patience for naive and stubborn heroines (who will eventually learn her lesson, obviously), this book is worth checking out.

And now, I'll end with a final quote related to the gross but kind of endearing Thomas Mackee:

"For a moment I can't help thinking how decent he is--that there's some hope for him beyond the obnoxious image he displays. Maybe deep down he is a sensitive guy, who sees us as real people with real issues. I want to say something nice. Some kind of thanks. I stand there, rehearsing it in my mind.

'Oh my God,' he says, 'Did you see that girl's tits?"

Maybe not today."