Sotto Voce

It wasn't the hair
the eyes
the lips

But the voice
I drowned in.

The ocean won't bring it back.

Echolalia

Friday night. My neighbor called, asking if I was interested in listening to a J-rock concert Sunday night. I had never heard of An Cafe, but here's what I figured:

1) I have only been to one concert (excluding classical music recitals) in my entire life.

2) At that one concert, I was stuck with balcony seats nowhere near the stage.

3) There was no assigned seat printed on the An Cafe ticket.

4) Who wouldn't accept a free ticket?

In a way, I treated the excursion as a sort of "research project." I've written about fictional concerts but never actually had the experience of being at the foot of the stage and looking up at the band. With the concert I went to last December, I pretty much sat and watched the gigantic screens on either sides of the stage.

At first, I was a little unnerved by all the cosplayers and Gothic Lolitas waiting in line outside the Civic Auditorium, but after awhile, I pretty much felt right at home. Some people are weirded out by those towering platform shoes and zippered face masks; if my life was a cartoon, my eyes were sparkling with Bambi-like awe.

My neighbor C, her friend E, and I were nearly at the entrance of the auditorium when a corpulent coordinator (whose face reminded me of a plump tomato with pale patches of blight) informed us that cameras were not allowed inside the auditorium. Thus, the three of us (and nearly everybody in line) spent the rest of the time trying to figure out the best way to smuggle a camera inside. After watching a "security guard" pat down a male conert-goer at the "checkpoint" in front of the auditorium doors, I attempted to stick my camera into my back pocket, basing off of the assumption that male security guards would not pat down a teenage girl's butt. Unfortunately, due to a fear of crushing objects with my body weight, I have never stuck anything in the back pockets in my entire life and ended up looking like a dog trying to chase its own tail.

E was the first one to be checked by the grouchy security guy; unfortunately, he quickly discovered her camera and ordered her to return to the end of the long winding line. C had been smart enough to hide hers in her shorts pocket and safely entered the auditorium. Upon checking the contents of my bag, Mr. Grouch seemed to feel a strangely rectangular lump in my bag. Fortunately for me, he did not discover the hidden pocket and thus I entered the gates of hell without a scratch.

Instead of climbing upstairs and sitting in a balcony seat like the countless wimps in the auditorium, I was instantly magnetized towards the stage. C and I gathered around the stage with the other psychotic souls dolled up in the most awesome attire. The opening act involved a violin/cello duo that played various J-rock/J-pop songs that I am not particularly familiar with.

Just to set the record straight, I am not one of those anime maniacs who call each other by their "Japanese" names and run around singing the theme songs of every anime they know -- in Japanese. Now, those people drive me nuts.

Anyways, the violin/cello duo played well, but it was not a particularly invigorating set. I had previously held the notion beforehand that opening acts were supposed to get the adrenaline of the audience flowing, but instead, I felt more like curling up on the ground and dozing off with a string rendition of Utada Hikaru's Hikari lulling in the background.

When An Cafe finally appeared onstage, the whole crowd at the foot of the stage began to mosh. I was fairly excited and somewhat apprehensive at first because I had no clue what to do when trapped within a moshing crowd. Fortunately, the music of An Cafe isn't exactly heavy metal, so I guess it didn't really count as moshing. And sure, the blond guy in front of me really needed some deodorant, but the smell of sweat and body odor aside, it was liberating being part of the crowd. Unlike my usually reserved self, my concert-going alter ego was jumping up and down and screaming off the top of her lungs even though she had no idea what the hell the singer was singing.

Despite the excruciating body heat and crowdedness (anyone with claustrophobia probably would have suffered paroxysms), I soldiered on through the night and eventually made it to about the third row of the crowd. I could actually see the singer, Miku, and the bassist, Kanon, fairly clearly. I think the proximity of it all would have been more impacting if it had been, say, a Yeah Yeah Yeahs concert, but nevertheless, it was definitely an eye-opening and ear-splitting experience.

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RIP Joshua

Crazy World

I think I'll always be an OLIVIA fan, but seriously, I'm hooked on Anna Tsuchiya. Who else can rock this song in a princess tiara without looking silly?

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I was sitting on the steps by the classroom walls people-watching with Rogue during lunch today, when she suddenly asked the question, "If you were a complete stranger to this school, and you were looking objectively at these people, what would your first impression of what they're like be?"

The first person we both looked at was S. I was the first one to speak.

"Based on his hair, I would automatically think he's cool."

"Same. Then I'd see him with..."

He turned to look at us at this point, and we both burst out laughing, because we knew exactly what the other was thinking. Quickly, we averted his narrowing gaze and included him into our new game. We began going down the list of our friends. At first glance, we decided we would never peg J as the brainiac genius type, especially with her double piercings. G was pretty much on target: sweet but naive; the only thing you couldn't tell at first glance was her excitability and fearsome road rage. JC was tougher to pin down; but after observing her quite bluntly for some time, we decided she was pretty much what she looked like: sweet and cheerful. With C, S insisted she looked angry, but Ariel and I informed him he was just biased. Truthfully, I didn't think you could read C quite as simply -- her appearance wasn't enough to merit any judgments.

When it came to Rogue and I, it was much harder to be objective. "Based on that shirt you're wearing [a black t-shirt with a gothic looking fairy] and your haircut [inverted bob], if you had another set of piercings I would guess you were a kickass girl," she said. I snorted, then looked at her for a long time. "I don't know. Sometimes you look really tough, but then you start laughing like crazy and screw up that first impression."

What started out as a simple question became my obsession of the day. During APUSH, S, Jeyco, and I wasted the majority of the period playing the same game. I don't know how exciting it sounds in words, but when you play it with close friends, it is hilarious. At one point, S was trying to point at his ex (who was sitting behind him across the aisle) "through" him. The effect was that he looked like was pointing towards his chest. Having teased him ever since we first met in third grade, I pounced at the chance. "Oh S. I had no idea she was still in your heart."

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Somehow the conversation meandered off in a different direction.

S: Do I look like the type of guy who would cry.

Jeyco + Me: [immediately] Yes.

S: Damn it!

Jeyco: Well, not exactly sobbing. Like those hot Korean drama actors who have manly cries.

Me + Steven: MANLY CRY?

Suddenly, a passionate debate arose in our corner of the history room as we started debating over what was a "manly cry." Does the man flex his bulging guns as he wipes his tears away? Does his voice growl Boooohooo as he sniffles? Somehow, "manly cry" seems to be an oxymoron.

Anyway, the sense of friendship and unity really made my day today. Although the teachers complained about taking out fourth period for a spirit rally, in truth I think our school really needed that. Sadly, other than during my tennis season, I have never really felt proud of my school. The campus is ugly compared to other nearby schools, and some of the students are complete jerks. Nevertheless, when the juniors and seniors sat in the gym cheering and screaming as the junior "spirit leaders" were knighted by the seniors as their successors, I loved the roaring feeling of the crowd. It is the same adrenaline rush I loved when I won the deciding match for the tennis team in Fresno, when I watch the Sharks on TV fight for the Stanley Cup (unfortunately, they dash my hopes every year), when I went to a non-classical music concert for the first time last December. It's this energy of being in a excited crowd that makes me feel alive.

Similarly, there is something to be said about friends you can act ridiculous with or confide in. In the past, I always felt there was something wrong with me because I didn't have a best friend. Today though, when we were cracking up over the Hester Prynne analogy I came up with during APUSH, I realized what I already had was exceptional.

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I've often entertained the idea of "living in a drama." At first, I'd imagine I was the lead character, but after awhile, I realized my life is too ennuyeuse to attract any viewers whatsoever. Instead, I settled on the idea that I would be one of those quirky supporting characters, though I had yet to decide who would be in the starring roles.

Today, I decided that if my life were indeed a part of a live-action drama, the story arc would center around the current angsty love triangle between S, C, and the dense senior. At first glance, I thought it was flawless. After watching S and C together for nearly the entire night at Junior Prom, I was convinced that this was the golden couple you admired and envied in the movies. What other high school guy would carry a girl bridal style, carry her shoes for her, or massage her sore feet afterwards-- not to mention the countless other things I have seen at school? But as the ecstasy of what I learned today began to dissipate, I began to see the countless fault lines in the situation. I won't publicize it on here, but suddenly my Happily Ever After fantasy didn't seem quite so tangible anymore.

What A said was her first impression of me interested me very deeply. I am innately curious about what people think of me, but at the same time I don't want to know. Many people who saw prom pictures of me told me how pretty I looked. There are some people who get comments like that every day -- and usually, it's the truth. For me, however, I didn't know what to think. I cannot remember a single time before then (except once, but it was extremely awkward) when the word "pretty" and I were ever associated. Thus, I was very surprised to hear those compliments, but at the same time, I started wondering if people toss out those comments any time somebody dresses up for prom.

I probably sound incredibly insecure about my appearance -- I am, in a way. I don't get depressed over something so trivial, but with all the attractive people I've hung out with, it's not something I am confident about. You might see me in my silkscreen graphic tees, skinny jeans, Ren lock necklace, and butterfly and dragon rings, and think: Wow! She looks kickass! In all honesty, I dress similary to Anna Tsuchiya in hoping that somehow my first impression will have a little more punch.

Le soir doux-amer

A and W's corsage and boutonniere

Sarabande in 3/4 time:

1/4
It is a strange thing to dress up. It is even stranger to look at pictures of yourself and realize you are the one wearing the cosmetics and formal attire. Combine that with eating an expensive dinner down at Santana Row, and now you feel like a member of high society.

Beauty and she are not well acquainted. She knows she is not beautiful. Simply, she is not disfigured to the point of ugliness and not jolie enough to be memorable. Her face is a characterless terrain. So when the make-up has been done and she turns to the mirror, she does not connect herself to the girl in the mirror. It is a strange thing. She knows she can look jolie if she spends the time to change into beautiful clothes and apply the smoke around her eyes.

And she thinks this to herself as she scrambles to Jesyka's bathroom in order to wipe of all the make-up and change into a T-shirt and shorts as fast as humanly possible the instant she steps into the house. Comfort trumps beauty.

2/4
It is really funny and sad at the same time when a prude goes to a dance. She will dance unhibited with her girl friends, because with a girl there is none of the awkward sexual tension. When her friends begin freaking with their dates and grind her into a corner, she will promptly bolt and hang out with her fellow stags on the elevated floor. Which is fun but undeniably lame.

She has a strange relationship towards the opposite sex. There are a few that she is good friends with without being constantly aware that they are male. But other than those remote few, she is very uncomfortable with the others. There are the girls who have no second thoughts about dancing racily with guys they have no interest in. She, on the other hand, feels sick at the very thought. Without any sentiment of passion, it is just disgusting. Which cleanly sums up why she ended up going stag.

3/4
It is lame (but maybe not uncommon) when said prude has more fun at the afterparty than at the actual dance. The four or so hours spent rocking out to the Xbox 360 Rock Band zip past even faster than the three hours scuttling around the dancefloor in high heels. She hands the microphone to her friend J, who is lame in a different way. (Who in her right mind would bring a laptop to an afterparty so she can work?) Sadly, J cannot even hit the microphone on beat, and so she grabs the microphone and starts belting Are You Gonna Be My Girl? by Jet -- which she doesn't even like but can at least sing. She also attempts playing the drums, but eventually goes onto sing Say It Ain't So by Weezer, Welcome Home by Coheed and Cambria, When You Were Young by The Killers, Reptilia by The Strokes, and The Electric Version by The New Pornographers, not to mention all the other songs the others sang when it wasn't her turn.

The funny thing is, a year ago, she never would have sang anywhere in public. She had always told everyone she "sang like a frog." Why the change? The pathetic truth is, she became obsessed with Nana Osaki. Nana was ambitious and confident, an edgy beauty and a singer -- everything that she was not.

So she cut her hair short and never let it grow long again. The same year, she got her ears pierced. Most importantly, she began to sing. It was a gradual change. At first, she would sing alone in the car very softly when no one was around to listen. Her voice was terrible at first, but over time, her control over her voice improved dramatically. When nobody was home, she would turn her boom box up and sing without restraint. Finally, she reached the point where she would turn the volume of her stereo up and sing at a normal volume even if people were home. Hier soir was the first time she had enough confidence in her voice to sing for others.

C'était un soir doux-amer.

A Note by the Window

This is just to say

the glass shattered

as I crashed through

your window

Perhaps consider

leaving it this way

as I tend to break

fragile things

With love,

Your Superman

Ghost Bride

It's much simpler in terms of black and white, love and hate. Anger is easy. Returning to the gray area is the challenge.

I am ambivalent about Saturday. Having never cared for dressing up, I can't say my feelings have changed. So for approximately six hours or so, I will be strapped into a piece of brown and blue fabric and have ritual paints marked across my face. (My hair is short and styled unevenly, with one side longer than the other, so fortunately I won't be subject to scorching irons.) Then I will be coralled with the rest of my comrades into a dining facility before being herded into a building next to an institute for disabled children, where we will engage in the rituals required for those "coming-of-age" who have survived junior year.

Actually, I am more excited about the thing at JC's. I'm not a dancer, but I have no problem with playing the Wii.

I think the only reason prom has any significant impact on me whatsoever is that it feels like a closing ceremony to this turbulent year. The surreal thing is how I spent probably ninety percent of the year clunking my head on the desk in distress, and when I actually look up, time's almost up. I think about all the goals I had in mind at the beginning of the year; very few of them actually happened. But I don't think I mind so much.

I've never been religious, but somehow I've developed the mindset this year that things happen with a purpose. I don't believe in some otherworld deity dictating what happens. But from an artistic perspective, if I find myself dealing with conflict, I latch onto the belief that I was meant to experience the anger or hurt. You can't say you have lived your life to the fullest if you have never felt the wounded wrenching feeling that swallows your entire body whole.

For a long time, I wondered why everything seemed to go wrong during that turbulent month of April.

The tournesol dream was inaccurate. I am the one who needs to forgive.

Dystopia

You don't remember my name
I don't really care
can we play the game your way?
can I really lose control?

this is what you see when you look in my direction: incandescent corsets draw eyes tight like wires. this is how it feels, calling out but no one even hears the signals that we send over the air. when you say my name, i want to split it from your lips and hide like whispers in the rain. when you say my name,

Just once in my life
I think it'd be nice
just to lose control - just once
with all the pretty flowers in the dust

i want to stop it in your lungs and collect all of your blood to put in the radio. is this how it feels when you don't even fit into your own skin? and it's getting tighter, every day I'm getting smaller. if i keep holding my breath i'm going to disappear. there's nowhere to hide. they stole the love from our lives to put the sex on the radio.

Mary had a lamb
his eyes as black as coal
if we play very quiet, my lamb
Mary never has to know.

if i keep holding my breath, all of this will fade away. if you keep driving we'll be lying in the wreck, changing the shape, folding like an envelope to keep each other in. shattered glass, broken looks and mascara gets washed away by windshield wiper blades. that's where we hide the love and lies

If I cut you down to a thing I can use

I fear there will be nothing good left of you.

and sex, on the radio.

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"Signals Over the Air" - Thursday

"Lose Control" - Evanescence