Affiche d'une fille

Incapable de rester toute seule
Je deteste dormir sans une présence
Les surprises semblent alléger ma solitude
Alors je ramène quelqu'un dans mon lit
Afin de découvrir comment je me sens
Comme un bébé
Portrait d'une femme
Affiche d'une fille

Me satisfaire
Eviter les novices
Ceux qui cherchent à me faire taire
Jusqu'à ce que je rentre avec l'un d'eux
Car je connais la sensation
De chercher le fil d'or
Et de ne jamais le trouver
Qui ne pense qu'à coucher avec une
fille d'affiche

Je sais que tu n'aimes pas ta réalité
Tu sais que je n'aime pas ta réalité
Tu sais que je n'aime pas ma réalité
Personne ne sait ce que c'est

On ne peut pas fabriquer la vérité

-- "Poster of a Girl"
by Metric

Dear Diary

I used to write diaries -- every night, if I wasn't too tired or sleepy. Shamefully, I wrote them principally for two reasons: 1) I thought my older self would enjoy reading my younger self's whining and daydreaming, and, 2) I thought somebody else, be it a future sociologist or my own descendant, would be interested in the records of a child of the nineties.

Now, my diaries remain lined across my shelf, collecting dust. I am afraid to read them. Because I still remember when my world revolved around a single person.

I remember when we read The Diary of Anne Frank back in eighth grade. I doubt she ever thought that someone would read her diary years and years after her death. It is almost disgraceful, really, how I used to amuse myself with the idea that future people would be interested in the nonsense I wrote back then. Anne Frank had a story to tell -- one that gave a face to a tragedy and one that moves people to understand and empathize.

I remember how our class was greatly amused and disturbed by Anne's musings on desire. I felt the same at the time, I suppose. But I think I understand her better now. Clearly, when she was hiding for her life, desire was a luxury thought. Would she have written those thoughts down if she knew people would be reading them all over the world, more than half a century after her death? I wonder.

And I suppose that's what set her apart from me. She bares everything in her diary. With me, it is difficult to know what I am telling and what I am hiding. When you know there is an audience, the filtering tends to be more discriminate.

---------------------------------
Running into another person from my past made me realize something crucial. When they end, either they cannot be erased because the seed was well-nourished to begin with... or they wither away and nothing is left.

I have a feeling that this case of ours is the latter. As fate would have it, the one from the past is of the former.

Remember how I mentioned the music-video-inspired idea I came up with a few weeks ago? Once I finish all my work, the first thing I am going to do is write the three-part short story. It's ironic how I set myself up for this back in my freshman year. That was when I started and discontinued a story titled "Static Valentine." Funny how accurate the name is now, only I'm changing it to "A Static Valentine."

I already know what I plan to do for the first two parts. Still debating on whether or not I want a happy or sad ending. Given my current attitude towards You, I am leaning towards tragic and, most importantly, open-ended. Why? Because I am tired of those clean-cut endings I read about all the time. Life never ends at Happily Ever After. Nor does it end like those soppy tragedies where the girl finds a letter from her lover before he died that reads, "I loved you. I've never stopped." Because people move on after death. How often do people still think of Iris, Elissa, or Marcus? The memory is still there, but it's harder to retrieve after the years pass by.

I am looking forward to this project. The ending is a reflection of what will happen to me by the end of the year. Should something drastically uncharacteristic happen, I may reconsider. But the chances of that are close to zero.

Hades

Mila says she'll take the notes.

After all, they have enough problems on their hands. They've been blinking and rubbing away their eyelids all morning. (See how the skin peels into their palms. Pretty petals with pollenated eyelash stamens.) They drop a strand or two of an explanation, but not nearly enough to draw out a chain long enough to wrap around her throat. Yes darling, your words are safe with me, but don't forget how to breathe.

But I don't want to be safe, Mila thinks as they weave their spider webs in her presence. A trap. Yes, flaunt it. I am Tantalos, one of the damned of the Underworld. Flaunt your bracelets of ruby pomegranates; swing them out of my reach when I turn to grasp them. Isn't this so much fun? Watch the clueless little simpleton flail her arms around like a drowning cat. Into the river Styx you go, my foolish kitten.

The Truth

I don't think I have crazier dreams than anyone else. I think I just remember them better after I wake up than most people.

We were at Normandy. I have never set foot across the Atlantic in my life, but I suppose it would be as beautiful as I imagined. The ocean, the ocean. The beach of blood. A friend of Mme. M owned a chateau that overlooked the sea, and so Mme. brought us to the white sand castle to stay as honored guests. Nearly all the walls were built from panels of glass. It felt as if we were walking through crystals, living inside a glass prism. We were in one of the sun-drenched rooms with a view of the ocean, sprawled across the white sandy carpet with our books and papers.

I wish(ed) you would look at me. But I don't think you ever did.

Oh, did I wake up yet? I don't think this is only a dream.

I ♥ Lists

I want to...

• Beat my record for the Advanced level on Minesweeper (currently 244 seconds)
• Finish writing the three-part short story I started on Saturday (that I may decide to post either on here or on fictionpress).
• Continue experimenting with writing a story in script style.
  

I need to...

• Learn how to use the new washing machine/dryer before my mother leaves tonight
• Start taking notes on Hamlet
• Finish homework for AP Stats
• Study for the AP Stats test tomorrow
• Do the Imaginez exercises online
• Type up the French recipes and compositions
• Work on my Bach English Suite (specifically the Courante and the Gigue)
• Spend at least an hour on both Clementi etudes
• Finish UC essays
• Pick up Senior Project research books from the library
• Brainstorm how the hell I'm going to pull myself up to an A in AP Lit
• Clean up my room
• Figure out how to make crepe batter with the stuff in our house
  
• Practice singing Nel Cor Piu Non Mi Sento (since apparently my brother and I are now taking turns with vocal lessons)
• Figure out how early I have to get up tomorrow morning (VERY EARLY)
• Get off this computer.

K and I are walking from our high school to our middle school because we are slowpokes who won't finish our sculpture project on time unless we visit Mrs. E's room to work after school. On the way, we pass by a young chocolate-brown Boxer dog who is happily sprinting in the bike lane next to us. We say, "Awww, what a cute dog. It looks so happy! Hopefully it won't get run over." I look back over my shoulder and see a distant white SUV at the turning at the stop sign onto the road next to our sidewalk, but the dog is still sprinting happily in the bike lane, so K and I continue walking without much thought.

Approximately ten minutes after K and I have settled into the back art room and started working on our sculptures, EB walks in and tells us that she'd been walking to BHMS from our school when a cute dog ran by and got hit by a car right before her eyes. K and I just look at each other.
-------------------

Earlier today, I was not in a good mood because I had done something incredibly stupid and out of character for someone who is usually pretty observant. Basically, as a result, my AP Lit grade doesn't look like it has a good chance of going up, so I may end up breaking my perfect academic record this year. It's not so much that it'll completely ruin my future -- because I know it won't -- but I would be very disappointed if I'd worked all the way to senior year, and I destroy what I've been working for because of such stupidity and carelessness.

I know that in the long run, your ungraduate school, much less your high school grades, have little impact on how well you do in future careers. But I don't want to get caught up in that trapped method of thinking. That would just be giving me an excuse to succumb to senioritis and stop trying. High school senior year isn't retirement. If I lose all the habits I've attained over the last seventeen years, I'm a dead fish when I reach college. In fact, I think my AP Lit grade is a warning that I'm slipping up. I'm just hoping I'll manage to pull out.

Then again, the episode with the dog just completely turned my head upside down. If I had done something -- tried to talk to the dog, tried to stop it -- I would have stopped it from getting hurt. I don't even know if the dog died, but I get the feeling it probably did. There has never been a point this obvious in my life when I realize just how much of an impact I can make by doing nothing. I even said out loud, "Hopefully the dog doesn't get run over." Why didn't any of us who passed by the dog on the road do anything??

And if a decision that simple could produce such an irreversible outcome, just imagine how fragile this future I'm working for is. AP Lit grades? They don't matter if you're in the hospital in critical condition. You want to be an orthopedic surgeon? Good luck if you're the one lying on the operating table. Someone walking down the expressway might see a swerving car and say, "Gee, that driver must be drunk or something," and then simply continue walking to the bus stop with his burger and fries. Then he hears the sirens moments later, and you've turned out to be the next victim.

The more I try to understand this world, the more ludicrous it seems to get.

Retraction

I took down the previous post I'd written yesterday because in retrospect, I felt I was in no position to discuss the personal affairs of my schoolmates. So consider yourself lucky if you managed to read it before I obliterated the post.

So to compensate for my outraged readers, I have posted several lovely photos of Japanese Spitz puppies. Obviously not as juicy or scandalous as a post titled "Erotomania, Motherhood, and Another Bad Romantic Cliche," but who doesn't like puppies?


There. I hope I am forgiven.

Doll Face

Creeped the shit out of me, but I have to admit, it's pretty ingenious.



One of Bjork's best songs, in my opinion. Chris Cunningham directs some of the most amazing music videos -- each one is a piece of art. Plus, this song probably has some application to the messy Prop. 8 war in California in these turbulent times.

Day & Night

[Day Write]

Late Sunday night, I worked frantically to finish all the homework I had put off to the last minute. As usual. I don't know if my work ethic has taken a slip (as my French teacher has suggested, to my horror and dismay), but it seems that I've gotten into a regular pattern of goofing off the entire day on Saturday and paying the price late Sunday night.

On second thought, I actually did get some things accomplished on Saturday. I finished filling out most of the UC applications; the only thing left is the two essays. If I wasn't such a masochist, I would probably just edit the two essays I wrote last year, but most likely I will end up writing two completely different essays. Frankly, I am not looking forward to those essays at all. I am sick of writing about my weaknesses, my worries, my growth, etc. The UC essays tend to be very straightforward and avert from creative writing. Unfortunately, the only thing I feel like writing now has nothing to do with myself and my self-reflections. Ick.

So where was I? Oh, right. So I was doing my French homework with Sick Puppies' "All the Same" music video playing on Youtube. I was a little bit curious about the band, so I went on Wikipedia and looked them up. Their story is a little interesting, I must say. Vocalist/guiarist Shimon Moore met kickass bassist Emma Anzai in high school and together they co-founded the band. The band has been together for about 11 years now, and even though they've switched through bandmates over the course of years, Shimon and Emma have always stuck together. Not in the romantic sense, but as very close in an almost sibling sense.

So while I was reading their profiles, something struck me. I ended up reading some of their interviews, and it only got me thinking even more. I don't want to reveal what gripped my attention, but I will say that it sparked a pretty awesome idea in my head.

The funny thing about inspiration is that it never comes to you in the same way each time. The idea for EP took many years to take form -- basically it was a bunch of small ideas that collected into one mass over time. With the other long-term piece I have been working on (HTSAH), the idea came up suddenly one day, but initially I left it untouched because I wanted to focus on other things.

But THIS, my friends, was the kind of inspiration that slaps you in the face. I am so psyched about it that I just want to submit myself completely to senioritis and stay at home for the rest of the week.

Just kidding.
------------------------
[Night Write]

So I just ended my high school team tennis career in one of the most regretful, disappointing ways possible.

For some reason, I've been the deciding match for four very momentuous games this season. Personally, I think it's a sign that our team is much weaker this year, but of course I'm not going to say that to my teammates.

So in the end, it came down to two matches: Y's close three-setter and my close three-setter. Y played a good match and it was unfortunate she eventually lost. So basically, the score became tied at 3-3, and once again, I was the deciding match. But in all honesty, my match should never have gone to a third set. I was up the first set 5-2. I don't know what happened. I might have gotten overconfident, lost complete focus, or my out-of-shape fitness began to kick in. Possibly all three, for I ended up losing the set 5-7.

My coach talked to me in the break between the first and second set, so I managed to clear my head. Unfortunately, I think the 7-5 comeack from behind boosted my opponent's spirits immensely. After that first set, the rest of the match was brutally close. That girl lobbed me like none other. Plus, I was fairly fatigued, and the last thing I wanted was to engage in a lob war. Basically, I kept trying to keep the points short, which ultimately resulted in many risky plays. It payed off in the second set though, which I ended up winning 6-3.

By the time we started the third set, the sun had almost set completely. I would play brilliantly for awhile and then lapse into a completely unfocused mess. I was actually winning 3-0 until their sly little coach decided to call for line judges. When my coach informed me that my opponent had called for line judges, I was pretty surprised, because I hadn't made any close calls and she hadn't questioned any of my calls at all.

AS IT TURNS OUT, SHE WASN'T EVEN THE ONE WHO WANTED THE JUDGE! My mother told me later that I had hit this serve that my opponent didn't even touch. Apparently, the serve was out -- but the girl didn't even call it! THE COACH DIDN'T LIKE IT (because obviously, I'm winning by a big margin) SO SHE CALLED THE JUDGES AND TOLD ME THAT "HER PLAYER" HAD CALLED FOR THE LINE JUDGES. I don't want to sound like I'm making excuses, but what she did really halted my momentum. I ended up losing the next three games to tie it at 3-3. The score eventually reached 6-6. I had been winning 6-5, but by then it was so dark that I could barely see the ball. Maybe I should have requested to move to a court with lights then, but at the time I didn't think I had a choice. And since the girl was serving at that point, she had the advantage and ended up tying the score to 6-6.

Well what do you know? That's when the coach informs us that there is an available lighted court approximately a mile away where we can finish our match. Really, how convenient you decide to do this AFTER YOUR PLAYER'S SERVICE GAME!

Long story short, I played a not-so-good tiebreaker and lost the final set 6-7, and thus my team did not advance past the first round of CCS Teams for the first time in my high school tennis career. And yes, my last match on the tennis team turned out to be an epic three-setter that lasted over three hours and left my legs quivering like jelly. But honestly, I do not feel proud of that match at all.

All in all, I am really disappointed in how I failed my team twice as the deciding match -- when we lost to PIedmont Hills -- the first time as far as anyone on the team can remember that the girls' tennis team lost a match in the league -- and tonight. Unlike the loss to PH, I did not cry today. I am too exhausted to maintain feeling pissed at myself.

Maybe I should just stay home for the rest of the week.

Just kidding.

Avarice

In the past, if someone asked me what I wanted for my birthday, I wouldn't know how to respond. Basically, the things I wanted could not be simply wrapped in paper and handed over to me with a big bow on top.

So why -- when our economy is going down the drain and my looming college years are poised to suck thousands of dollars away -- do I suddenly find myself wanting tangiable THINGS??

1. Guitar Hero World Tour -- You can ask anyone in my family. I've been dropping hints about this game like none other.

Brother: For the Leland Bridge performance, I don't know if we can find somebody who will sing Hotel California, since my friend chickened out and doesn't want to do it anymore.
Me: Well, if you buy *GUITAR HERO WORLD TOUR*, you can sing Hotel California and practice the vocals every day!!
Brother: .....

2. Decent MP3 Player -- You know, I don't even care what brand it is, as long as it holds over 1GB and won't break on me after three months.

Here's Sophelia's sad heartbreaking story. In middle school, she carried around a clunky pearly white MP3 that only held 128 MB, which is approximately thirty songs. Then in ninth grade, her kind relatives in Taiwan bought her an iPod shuffle that held 512 MB -- the skinny white shuffle, not the new fruity colored ones that are like the size of my eyeball. She used this MP3 until the end of junior year, when her father bought her a small, magenta 1GB Sansa for approximately ten dollars. Unfortunately, the MP3 player broke in less than three months. Thus, Sophelia was reduced to uploading music onto her cell phone, but once again, disaster struck. The only compatible her cell phone broke, and furthermore, she soon learned that listening to music on her cell phone would drain the battery like a vampire.

And thus, may we present a rare specimen: a teenager with no working portable music player.

No flash photography please.

3. White Vans Slip-ons: Why in the world do I want such impractical shoes?? The canvas rips in about a year, and they're WHITE, for goodness sakes! They'll turn brown and black in less than a month!

Well...

MINE!!!

Curse my fangirlism.

blLAAAAAAAAAAA

I just realized my posts have been very depressing recently. whattt?! what happened to my "white background" resolution??

For some reason or another, I was in a pretty good mood this evening. School sucked more than usual today, but I will not bore you with a tedious laundry list of what I did during each period. I think listening to my brother's singing lesson today (which was hilarious) loosened me up. I should post my mom's videos of his singing lesson on Youtube... but of course, I want to at least live to find out which colleges will accept me, so maybe not. But really. Singing is probably fifty times more difficult than playing the piano. While I can watch my fingers play the keys without even thinking about pitch, with singing you cannot watch your vocal chords and having perfect pitch is essential.

Conveniently forgetting about the rest of my college apps, I cannot wait for the holiday season! On second thought, I cannot wait for late November either. My mother will be flying off to visit the relatives in two weeks, which will probably interesting considering that I can now drive. Plus, the movie Twilight is coming out in about two weeks.

Don't get me wrong. I would like to drill into everyone's skulls that I AM NOT A TWILIGHT FAN, NEVER HAVE BEEN, AND EDWARD CULLEN IS A FRICKIN UNDEAD GLITTERING POPSICLE! WHICH SANE PERSON (besides Bella, who does not count because she is clearly out of her mind with her constant ravings about topaz eyes) WANTS TO FCUK A POPSICLE?! I do, however, want a good laugh sometime, and I am sure Twilight will make me laugh plenty, for all the wrong reasons.

Speaking of dumb movies, I can cheerfuly and shamefully add High School Musical 3 to my list of "Movies I Watched that Killed My Brain Cells." Talk about over the top. If somebody like Troy Bolton pranced around my school and burst into song in the most random places, he'd sooner be accepted to the mental institute than to UC Berkeley. Besides, you call that a high school? Where are the joy rides? The potheads? The swearing? Ha! Do you really expect me to believe none of those happily singing and dancing boys EVER talk about how their girlfriends AHEM?

All I can say is fortunately, I did not spend ten bucks on a movie ticket to watch that lovely piece of utopian high school bull sh!t in a movie theatre. Rogue and I have G to thank for showing us a blurry pirated copy of the film. Which incidentally gave each of us a headache that sent us to bed nearly four hours earlier than usual. I suppose we needed the sleep to purge our systems from the load of crap we had absorbed.

Alright. This was a very strange post. Over and out.

Like Sid + Nancy

My love for this story is about equal in terms of unhealthy obsessiveness to Nana and Ren's possessive romance.

It sounds stupid, but the ink-drawn character of Nana Osaki changed my life. Thanks to her, I cut my hair, I wore miniskirts, I learned the electric guitar, I pierced my ears, and I finally found the confidence to sing. She was tough, ambitious, and loyal -- three qualities I yearned to possess. She has the fortitude to stand up against others and fight for herself, whereas I often find myself simply imagining scenes of retaliation in my mind. She has the ambition and passion that pushes her towards her goal, whereas I am at a complete loss as to what I want out of my future.

Perhaps, I imitate Nana's fashion and physical appearance because I want to be like her.

I will also confess that I had a major obsession with Ren Honjo as well. Tall, short spiky hair (none of that long wispy feminine hair), good-natured, musical. In reality, I would never seriously fall for Ren's type -- the ones who neglect all else but the guitar and fall victim to drugs and alcohol.

Perhaps, I was drawn towards Ren because I had subconsciously adopted Nana's frame of mind.

I hated how both Nana and Ren smoked constantly, but the reality was, I was completely drawn to the dangerous, consuming edge of their love.

Nocturne

A girl's love does not start with the Porsche he drives or the Armani clothes that he wears but when that person starts to look pitiful.

-- from Mana by Vin Lee

This blog is almost two years old. Funny how so little has changed. The entries still lament of unrequited yearning. My running theme, I suppose. I laugh when I wonder if there is anybody else who stupidly clings onto the same obsession for two years. Or if there is anybody else who latches on for two years and refuses to let go.

But two years would be simplifying the story. The story began the first day we met. Even I don't remember how long ago that had been, but to a degree, the fascination has always been there.

In essence, Heart & Crossbones is a love letter that never reached its recipient. It probably never will. Maybe I will tell the story one day when I can look back upon this and laugh.

Or maybe not.
I thought this was hilarious.