Reverie

There is an interesting phenomenon that occurs everytime I have a vacation from school. Naturally, I sleep more during vacation, but the strange thing is that I dream much more vividly. Another strange thing is that I am the only person I know who regularly has epic dreams - the kind you would see in a movie theater. Maybe it is because my runaway imagination is untameable? Some people look for meaning in their dreams, but frankly, I've given up on any of that. Otherwise, I would spend the entire day waiting to witness a dramatic car chase or murder.

And I feel like writing something morbid today, so pardon the violence.

And yes, I actually did dream this.
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The lines are endless. Sophelia sighs (though she is in no hurry) and waits by the door with her brother. Outside the grocery store, the darkness of the sky smothers the air like smoke. The lights of the parking lot are a sickly gutted yellow. It is a dead night.
A girl stands by the rack beside the cash register, her lips pursed. (Is she amused? Frustrated?) She is tall but waifish, with dull brown hair and dark indigo eyeshadow that drowns her eyes. Her fingers rifle through the junk by the checkout line, and she picks up a single yellow package. (Why does the store sell that kind of feminine hygienic product by the checkout line? And why are those being sold individually?)
Sophelia and her brother follow their parents past the jawlike sliding doors and into the parking lot, with the wobbling shopping cart squealing excruciatingly. The trunk of the minivan opens, a looming mouth fed with plastic-wrapped groceries and cardboard packages.
A distant scream approaches in a crescendo. The waif shrieks as she runs past, chased by a lithe beautiful blonde. The blonde's eyes are glassy and emotionless, like two lifeless diamonds. A sociopathic Chesire smile gleams on her face, not unlike the glint of the knife in her hand.
The waif screams for help, her cheeks streaked with wet indigo drips. A nearby man turns to chase after them, but the blonde only giggles and intensifies her hunt. The knife is hidden under the dark flap of her black winter coat, barely visible to even the sharpest observer. The man gives up his pursuit (possibly from fatigue, or perhaps he does not see the knife and thinks it is only a demented game of tag) and stalks off towards the direction of the grocery store.
The predator and the prey continue the chase around the parking lot. Sophelia climbs into the car and her father shifts the gear to reverse.
"Shouldn't we do something to help her?" Sophelia feels compelled, not because of any attachment towards the waif, but because it seems to be the morally right thing to do.
"How can we fight somebody with a knife? What can we do at this point?" Her parents shrug. "It's only a matter of time before one of them will give up. But which one?"
A blood-curdling scream echoes in the distance.

Nuttiness

Alright, so normally I do not double-post in one day, but after watching M.Yin's spasmic posts (two within the same hour!), I decided to add one more thing. Not the bloody dream - I promise, that will come another day.

To put it bluntly, I am not a fan of dances. But contrary to everyone's moaning and whining about the horrible theme this year, I actually thought the Sadies theme was good. Unlike the 80s theme or superhero theme (come on, how many people actually want to wear tights and undies to a high school dance?), the Perfect Pair theme actually opens a lot up to originality. Creativity gets bonus points, rather than which bone-headed pair that wants to prove how aerodynamic they are in lycra.

So while I was looking at various pictures, I thought: Cool! I had no intention of going to that dance, but there were so many possible pairings I could have suggested to anyone willing to listen. Probably nobody. But a genius is never understood in her own time.

M. Yin, you can stop laughing now.

1. Nana and Ren
Yes, I am a Nana fanatic. But considering forty percent of our student body is Asian, this wouldn't be a bad idea, no? Plus, instead of being something mushy like, I don't know, Cinderella and Prince Charming - you can wear cool clothes and have a slightly twisted (and possibly tragic) love story! [ducks as a horde of deranged romantics chuck their steamy romance novels]

Moving onto an even more depressing duo (and the one that inspired Nana and Ren):

2. Sid and Nancy

Please tell me somebody dressed up as Sid and Nancy. How much more iconic can you get? Sure, they look (and probably are) stoned, but considering a bunch of the kids at school are mixing up with that crap anyway, then they can at least use Sid and Nancy as an excuse.

School Official: Hey, you two seem very suspicious.

Sid/Nancy: Say what? We are Sid and Nacy, you fool! Oooh, look! A butterfly! [skips away gleefully]

3. Jane and Tarzan

Okay, I only included this so people didn't think I had an unhealthy obsession with duos that ultimately meet a tragic end (or maybe it's too late). But if you think about it, it works in a demented way. The girl gets to wear a nice Victorian style dress. Elegant and sophisticated. And hopefully her date is nice and fit like the King of the Jungle so he strut around the dancefloor in his loin cloth so every girl in the room can admire and envy.

Sudden random thought: What was Jane's first reaction to this guy? I doubt it was love at first sight. Assuming he was at least twenty-years-old, Tarzan probably stunk like a twenty-year build-up of bad breath. Unless he chewed on mint leaves every day. Do they have mint plants in the jungle?

Moving on...

4. Abigail and John Adams

Come on, look at the byline! It sums it all up: Love and Liberty. [cue the long drawn-out awwwww] Admit it. You wish you'll end up with a marriage like theirs instead of going through multiple divorces like so many people do these days. Plus the rest of the world will be reading your love letters centuries after you've passed away. How's that for leaving a mark in history? Just don't sweat too much in those clothes, or you'll stink worse than Tarzan.

Have I effectively killed off the notion that I advocate tragic endings?

5. Christine Daae and the Phantom

Besides being a Nana nut, I am also a Phantom of the Opera nut. Who would have thunk?

Well, I was aiming for 10, but this is taking longer than I thought. I should have been doing homework. egah. If you're not like me and have finished all your homework, go read this short news article: http://news.yahoo.com/s/ap/20080328/ap_on_re_us/daughter_s_death_prayer

I have nothing against believing in God, but to the extent where you would refuse to get medical treatment to the point when your daughter dies?

That's just sad.

Slideshow

How sad. I was hoping to write every day, but I don't feel creative at all. I've spent every evening shut up in my room taking notes for biology, and I have been purposely avoiding writing EP. Why? Because it's a train wreck right now, and I don't feel like cleaning it up just yet.

It's been a very up-and-down spring break. I now present a pictoral guide.

I would rather not go into too much detail about what happened, but my mother suggested I should try to lose all the weight I gained during the tennis off-season, and I agreed. Thus I voluntarily subjected myself to near starvation by subsisting on broccoli, cauliflower, cabbage, tofu, strawberries, apples, kiwis, oranges, bananas, and USANA bars and shakes for five days. High glycemic foods such as bread, pasta, and rice were off-limits. Thus I spent about three/four days in an Oscar mood, hallucinating mountains of white rice and chateaus of bread.

With all the pressure, I cracked. I felt like I had too many things to do with hardly any time to do it all. There were also a lot of things that factored up to this point, but by Monday night, I just broke down. It had been awhile since I reached that point of depression - this year, I made a conscious effort of keeping myself positive - so I guess it was about time I had to relieve the tension.

I have spent every day this week at my piano teacher's house playing for at least three hours per day. I think it was a good way to clear the tension, because there was only one thing I could focus on: the music. Obvoiusly, most of the problems have not gone away, but I don't think I am quite so depressed anymore. When Eric (the hairstylist) asked me why I was so tired if I went to sleep so early, I said I felt depressed and went straight to bed, which he responded with, "Depressed?! You're only sixteen!"

Yes, I am melodramatic. And I'm in a pretty decent mood right now, so I don't think I'll write about the bloody dream I had just yet. I'll be happy. I promise.

Ciao, darling.

Ennui

I wonder if there is any way I can include this in my argumentation paper.


Haha. Ouch.

Another strange picture.

This is what happens when you are trying to put off studying for bio.

Claustrophobia

Too close to me.

Looked out the window and could see you.

Losing control.

Visited Olivia this afternoon.

Indulged in cookie dough Haagen-Daz.

Wandered past the gurgling fountains and confetti gardens.

Hugged Olivia good-bye.

Fingered jewel dresses of satin, silk, lace.

Color-drunk with vermillion, chartreuse, garnet, turquoise.

Played dress-up - an overweight doll in a dressing room.

Dieting for five days, only fruits and vegetables.

Listening to a voice singing in earphones.

Chasing the elusive moon in the car.

Wonder what you are up to now.

It was the farthest I could bring myself away from you.

That was what I wanted.

Not-So-Curious George

It is a wealthy suburb in San Jose. It is 2007.

George awakens late in the morning – the result of another long Friday night spent instant messaging with friends halfway around the globe. Contemplating his laziness, George picks up his cell phone from his bedside and places a call to his home phone number. When his mother answers, he brushes aside her usual tirade about the phone bill and asks her what she has served for breakfast.

With the introduction of e-mail, instant messaging, text messaging and the Internet, each individual’s social network can readily spread across continents. Yet inversely, the need for personal contact has diminished at an equally drastic rate.

Unimpressed with the breakfast du jour, George turns on his computer. Checking his e-mail every morning has become as routine as brushing his teeth. The welcome message of his e-mail account seemingly dictates his daily moods; he is exuberant when greeted by 20 new messages, depressed when the page sneers, “No new mail.”

Today however, George hesitantly waits for the website to load. Wanting “a break” from Katie, he had sent his girlfriend an e-mail the previous night, announcing impassively that he wanted to end their relationship, much in the manner one might contact a company to terminate a credit card. Not wanting to hurt the poor girl’s feelings, George opted to hide behind the security of impersonal communication rather than face Katie in person.

If a young suitor of the Victorian Era had caught a glimpse of courtship in the twenty-first century, he would have been appalled by the hasty wooing of today. Thanks to Internet dating services, couples are linked from all parts of the world, oftentimes without having ever met. According to Time magazine, an increasing number of couples stream live videos of their weddings online for family and friends to watch in the comfort of their homes.

Browsing through the news feed of his networking profile, George discovers that his sister Jenny is currently "thrilled that we won the championship last night!" He does not find it strange that he learns more about his sister’s life by reading her profile than by talking to the girl in the neighboring room. His mother disagrees; she insists that he stop holing himself in his room with his computer and experience some genuine human contact.

Human contact? Please. With over 500 friends on his buddy list, George has more than enough contacts in his social network than he knows what to do with.

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An extra credit article I wrote for journalism. Just for you, M. Yin.

Acetaminophen

[I may choose to delete this, because every time I write about myself, somebody is offended.]

Acetaminophen - a crystalline compound used in medicine as a painkiller
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Some things I would like to get off my chest - and what I would like to say to certain people.

1) Before people start accusing me of dramatizing my own life and experiences, let's straighten something out. Despite whatever you may think, you were not the one living my life. Maybe you think that the incident was no big deal, that I just like to blow things out of proportion so I appear significant, like those people who desperately link themselves to the ones who have died just so their stories become important. But you are a complete outsider. You have no idea what it meant to me when I found out what was happening. And as for arbitrarily connecting myself to the story, don't forget that this is my story to tell as well.

And don't forget, I am a writer. I see things in terms of drama.

2) Suspicion is an adaptation for survival. I learned a long time ago that I cannot trust you completely. Anything I tell you is catalogued in your brain, lined up with the rest of your artillery of gossip and hearsay. You pick your battles and know precisely when to use what you have learned as a weapon. I do not hate you - quite the opposite - but I do wish you would stop baiting me. Sometimes, it feels as if you aim to flaunt by revealing the tiniest flash of what you have learned, only to cover it up and deny everything in the same breath.

3) I have removed the link to this site from facebook. I have decided that there are too many people I do not want reading this. Of course, I could always change the option to "registered users" only, but that would be overkill. The link on fictionpress will stay.

4) And you. Just because you have a dick doesn't mean you need to act like one.

Tournesol

I've always found it strange that I always seem to be the one with crazy dreams. I think the only difference may be that I remember dreams better than most people. I will write about one part of the dream I had yesterday, and because I would rather not reveal who appeared in my dream, the names will be completely changed.
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Ivy holds a bouqet of sunflowers, a glow of yellow petals
Brown eyes and green eyelashes
A blushing ingenue.

Howl tells her to make the first move
Win this game of lover's chess
Capture and checkmate, make Ash
Her King.

Meters away Ash stands alone
Hands in pockets as if waiting
For a cryptic love letter
Written in the sky

But when Ivy looms over like
The effervescent sunrise
He slides past her, snubbing
An ashen sunset

I laugh.
I am rude. Poor Ivy.
But I find it terribly funny.
I am terrible.

But why is Ash walking in my direction?
Stop stop stop. Go. away away awaY.
I attempt the slide, the snub,
But you can't fool the master.

Caught like a gasping fish
Wrist ensnared in his fingers
A struggle a fight, let me
Go, but he says,

"I forgive you"

Simply, and walks away.
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What annoys me is that I have not done anything that requires Ash's forgiveness. In fact, Ash should be the one seeking my forgiveness. And I don't care if this was incredibly vague (compared to the last two times I wrote about my dreams, with Murderess and Adam is a Jerk) - if it was too obvious I might as well shoot myself in the foot.

I found a certain someone's blog on blogspot. If you know who Curious Georgette is, then you know who I am referring to. There was one rant on that blog in particular that I would have loved to comment on. But I would rather not let Curious Georgette know about this blog.

The Sun Goes Down

I feel the light betray me.

Suddenly Slowly

I am an origami. The creases fold in.

Inked flowers

Wet with dew, soften.

Cover me, another fold,

Paper sliced

The ink runs like wine.

A silhouette sheet, ghost of anatomical

Perfection.

Churning with wanderlust,

His voice floats like glass, a crypt

Bottled letter.

She nurses confessions in vitro

An embryo in an unborn tangle

Of red veined lace

A desire stirs within you,

Melting like frozen time.

Let the dying

Bells gasp a final elegy

As I watch her fall into

You

Suddenly, slowly.

Time to Indulge in Fan-girlism

As you may have figured out, I am a hardcore OLIVIA fan. Part of the reason has to do with the fact that her voice is unbelievable. I have never heard anyone else hit the high notes quite like her. The way she experiments with style is impressive as well. The only fault I can find is that some of her live performances are very shaky. (The video I posted though, is probably one of her best).

But on the other hand, I think Anna Tsuchiya is one of the best live performers. Yeah, her hair looks a little strange in the video, but just look at her howl at the end of Kuroi Namida!

I was not a big fan of the Nana movies. I will not discuss the casting for Ren and Shin in the first movie (hey, people don't look like flawless Ren and Shin in real life), but I will discuss the music.

A lot of people liked Yuna Ito as Reira. I'll admit she looks the part at some points in the movie, but the music wasn't what I imagined for Trapnest at all. Obviously, that Endless Story ballad was perfect for the little flashback scene with Nana and Ren, so I can't argue too much about that. But Truth?? Another ballad? Obviously, I'm a biased Olivia fan, but I still think Wish was a much better match. It didn't help that in the music video for Truth, Ren looked like he had no idea how to play the guitar. I'm not disputing that Yuna Ito has a good voice, but Reira should have a stunning voice. I'm more impressed with Olivia than I am with Yuna Ito.

Moving onto Mika Nakashima, I'd have to say she certainly looks more like Nana than Anna Tsuchiya. She's also a very good singer. But there are two reasons why I feel Anna Tsuchiya makes the better Nana. One is that Anna's music is almost exactly how I imagine Black Stones sounds like. I liked Glamorous Sky, but it seemed a little too bouncy for Black Stones. As for Hitoiro, I'd have to say I thought it was completely off the mark. Black Stones is a punk band, and fortunately for the anime, most of Anna's music is rock. The second reason is that although Anna Tsuchiya doesn't look like Nana, I feel like she really acts like her. I've watched Mika Nakashima and Anna Tsuchiya's live performances on the Internet, and I'd have to say Anna Tsuchiya has the wild charming stage presence I'd expect Nana to have. I'm assuming it's not her style, but can you even imagine Mika doing that same crazy howl?

Overall, I'd have to give credit to the movies for casting two singers that resemble Nana and Reira fairly accurately. However, I'd have to say I find Olivia and Anna Tsuchiya to be the more accurate representations, in the musical sense. Which is why I suppose those two work so well for the anime, and Nana and Reira work for the movie.

Poppies in July

"Little poppies, little hell flames,
Do you do no harm?

You flicker. I cannot touch you.
I put my hands among the flames. Nothing burns.

And it exhausts me to watch you
Flickering like that, wrinkly and clear red, like the skin of a mouth.

A mouth just bloodied.
Little bloody skirts!

There are fumes that I cannot touch.
Where are your opiates, your nauseous capsules?

If I could bleed, or sleep! --
If my mouth could marry a hurt like that!

Or your liquors seep to me, in this glass capsule,
Dulling and stilling.

But colourless. Colourless."

- Sylvia Plath
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I have been reading the poems in Ariel by Sylvia Plath. I have never been as interested in poetry as I have with other forms of writing, mainly because I do not understand poetry. Nevertheless, she is amazing.

BS

And we wonder why she's so screwed up?

Here Kitty

I'll smile today. I'll bite tomorrow.

I think this video is a pretty good indicator of my personality. I like my share of cute things. I love the little tail, clocking ninety wags a minute. And yet I watched the cat latch onto the puppy with horrified glee.

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I am aware that people like to be around happy people. Obviously, the same applies to myself.

My piano teacher, in particular, is the perfect example. Before I switched over to Sandra, I studied with Mr. _____. I will not comment on his teaching abilities, but regarding the teacher-student relationship, there was nothing, unless you count the weekly routine of me fuming inwardly while he would exaggerate my mistakes by banging on the keys. I cannot blame him for being strict and somewhat bitter, however. He barely survived working in a labor camp during the Cultural Revolution in China. And besides, although he may not have dedicated very much of his effort towards teaching me, I hardly put in the effort either. What we had was simply the symbiotic relationship of a student paying monthly tuition to a teacher so she would have something to complain about every week.

When I met Sandra, I was still Mr. ______'s student, but she taught me something I had never learned in the ten years I had been playing piano. The first time I met her, she was teaching a masterclass at a summer camp. Watching her masterclasses was like watching a comedy - she created stories from the music and would oftentimes share hilarious anecdotes of her experiences. She would laugh about her exhausting hiking attempts in Yosemite or strike a dead-on impression of a Russian pianist - but somehow, she would always connect them back to the music. For the first time, it occurred to me that playing piano could actually be fun.

I have been studying with Sandra for almost a year now, and what is most striking to me about her is her personality. I have never seen her act depressed or tired. Every time I walk into her studio, she always greets me warmly. She has that genuine smile where the eyes seem to smile along in uplifted crescents. I am not naive enough to think she must always behave this way, but when it comes to teaching her students, she always possesses an infectious cheerfulness.

I hit a phase at one point in my teenage years where I constantly felt depressed. I hated mornings. I saw them as another day to possibly screw up. I noticed everything wrong with my life, and I was always wishing I could be somebody else. Meeting Sandra became a turning point in my character. Once I saw how comfortable I could feel around someone so warm and cheerful, I realized how ridiculous I had been behaving. It may sound strange, but I love her, in a sister/mentor sense. She may not realize it, but I look up to her in many ways.

Is it possible to change someone's personality? That is the question I am trying to tackle with Charlotte in The Ecstasian Phantom. I have been making a conscious effort to be more optimistic and warm. When I get up in the morning, I look out my window and wonder what I can look forward to today. Although I do not regard piano with the same exuberant passion, I have gained a new self-confidence in my ability to write.

Paradoxically, I may sound morose and cynical in this blog. But the truth is, while I may be attempting a personality make-over, my affinity for darkly romantic pieces has hardly gone away. Optimism is unnatural for me. I feel the most comfortable when writing darker entries, and while my humorous side is slowly trying to break through its shell, I still look at the last entry I wrote, "Succbus," he says., and cackle with glee. Others may think I am bizarrely morbid, but I am proud to be that way.

"Succubus," he says.

"Crouch on my chest. Suck the life out of me."

I want to be the incubus,

nightmare puppet-master

manipulating your heartstrings.

I want to be in your nightmares,

so close you can lick the sweat off my skin,

so close you can feel my pulse in your veins.

Don't speak.

This is my heartbeat thudding against the bones of your ribcage.

These are my lips cradling the curve of your throat.

We are the eight-limbed spider crawling under the night,

falling and falling

in the bottomless chasm mislabeled as

Love.

Anathema

Tell me where your heart is, before I swallow you whole.

Blanche

It has been awhile since I used a white background - or any background other than black.

It is purely wishful thinking, but I would like to write at least once a week. Get into a habit. It is hard to write once you stop completely, and I need to get back on track.

So...

I am not as cynical or pessimistic as I used to be, I think. When I sit in the backseat on the way to school, I look into the sky with much more optimism. I am much more aware of what I have, rather than what I lack. When I was in middle school, in many ways I hated myself. I wanted to be tough-as-nails, sharp, don't-mess-with-me. In the past years, I have developed a better understanding of myself. I will never be a razor-tongued femme fatale, but I have my own quirks. My sense of humor does not cross through sharp witty comments; it is more ironic, satirical, harder to catch.

Still. There's nothing wrong with morbid things. Or Go-go Yubari.