Impressionism

I saw this painting in San Francisco's de Young Museum the day before I left for Duke. It's Monet's The Magpie. Of course, this image doesn't do the actual painting justice -- when you look at it up close, it's amazing how Monet used all those different shades of purple and blue to create the illusion of snow.

The exhibit was titled "The Birth of Impressionism" and started off with many classical-style paintings -- heroes and heroines from historical epics or mythology, usually nude, posing in a formal manner. When the exhibit began to transition to the softened blurs characteristic of the Impressionism movement, at first I thought, Well it looks like we're starting to lose the techniques of the old masters -- and by that I mean, my mother (the Art Education Ph.D) has told me in the past that today people don't pay with the same technique employed by the Renaissance greats -- da Vinci and Vermeer, for example. (Not quite sure if Vermeer counts as Renaissance... don't quote me on that one.)

But as you go through the exhibit, you start to notice just how much movement is in those impressionist paintings. I like to look at the painting and imagine what kind of story I can come up with just by looking at the painting. With the impressionist paintings, it's literally like those Eyewitness documentaries, where you zoom into a painting on the wall and immediately you're peering into some video. Why is that woman standing on the swing? Who is that man standing next to her with his back turned towards me? Did he buy her that dress with the blue bows?


I haven't had the time to write lately, but that doesn't mean I've shut down my imagination.

Cool

Old song, but I still like it. Perfect cocktail of bittersweetness.

Alright, I'm back in school. Will be updating a lot less.

Ciao,
Sophelia

Girl in Heels

"Pretty girl is suffering
While he confesses everything
Pretty soon she'll figure out
What his intentions were about."

-- "Pretty Girl" by Sugarcult

Pygmalion

Pygmalion off'ring, first approach'd the shrine,
And then with pray'rs implor'd the Pow'rs divine:
Almighty Gods, if all we mortals want,
If all we can require, be yours to grant;
Make this fair statue mine, he wou'd have said,
But chang'd his words for shame; and only pray'd,
Give me the likeness of my iv'ry maid.

-- translated from Ovid's Metamorphoses, Book X

--

There is a song of yours. I listen to it at least once every day, whether in the stillness when the dawn has barely breathed its first breath or late in the night as the murmuring darkness tucks the covers over me. I listen to that voice of yours wash over me like holy water, the words rolling off your tongue like a trickling waterfall of the finest wine.

I think that’s how I first fell in love with you. The first time I heard this song, I thought your voice was the only thing on this Earth that could nurse a broken heart back to life.

--

Back then, I'd always laughed when my classmates complained about being sent to their room. My room was my haven, my four-walled bubble, impervious to the sound of broken glass, of slammed doors, of venomous cursing, or worse -- of fuming silence. I'd lie there on my daisy-dotted bedspread, pretending not to hear the warring voices downstairs as each barbed accusation rang in my ears like the bellows of a gong announcing the arrival of imminent doom. I'd used to worry if this time would finally be the last -- the beaming faces in those family pictures would become a relic, an endless slideshow of fragmented memories flashing past like a ghastly carousel, until the years would pass by and all that's left would be the sliver of a Cheshire smile.

But that night, all I could think of was how much happier everyone would have been if they had never married -- even at the expense of my existence.

I should have never been born.

I hated the noise, but I hated silence even more. Silence was an inhaled breath, a point of no return. Silence was two strangers in the same house, a fleeting glance over the morning newspaper with no flicker of emotion or recognition, two lives intersecting at one precise moment only to diverge infinitely evermore. I needed something -- anything -- to block out the screams and swallow the silence whole.

That night when your song came on the radio and I heard you for the first time, the static of the airwaves buzzed like insects hovering over a dying animal that had drawn its final breath. The sounds of destruction had crept in from under the door, rattling the pictures on the wall, but all I could hear in that moment was the sound of your voice, kissing my tangled crown of hair and bandaging my festering wounds with lyrical lines and melodic motifs that seemed as if they had been written for me and me alone.

--

I kept a picture of you in both of my rooms. The one where you cradle the guitar in your arms -- I'd glance up at you as I'd throw myself across the bed after spending twenty minutes walking home from school each day. On the weekends, you'd be there waiting for me with your tousled hair and teasing grin on that magazine cover I'd stolen from the dentist's magazine racks. My life was now defined in terms of two's but the sight of you on my bedroom wall almost made it feel like one again.

I'd greet you each morning with a smile, confiding in you my hopes and dreams for the day. At night, I'd whisper to you my confessions and my greatest fears. You knew all my secrets. I'd lie there under the covers in the night, glancing at the face illuminated by moonlight as you sang to me from my bedside stereo. I listened to all of your songs, but it was that one -- your voice so deep I felt myself drowning in you every time -- that always reverberated in my head right before I'd close my eyes and surrender to sleep.

--

"Why won't you go out with me?"

He had a mouth that reminded me of an overstretched rubber band, drooping at the corners while the rest seemed to hang limply around his teeth. His voice was low and husky like yours, except he spoke in a grating mumble that would have been incapable of articulating a string of lyrics in one swooning legato. I shook my head and pressed my sweating palms against the fabric of my skirt, afraid to look up at the faces staring down in taunting derision.

"C'mon, why don't you answer me? You think you're too good for me, is that it? I'm not good enough for you, huh?"

Someone else laughed. "Of course you're not. Don't you know? She's obsessed with that singer -- the one who came out with that big hit almost four years ago. Remember it?"

"Oh!" Another voice exclaimed loudly, "The one that was on the radio all the time, and they used it in all those commercials -- God, that was ages ago! What the hell happened to him?"

"Shut up, you fish heads." He knelt down beside the bench where I sat, leering like a predator licking its lips at its cowering prey. "I've heard some funny things about you, Evie. They say ever since your parents divorced, you haven't been the same. You don't let anyone touch you." I froze as I felt his hand creep onto my thigh.

"Such a shame, isn't it?" I shut my eyes but the low, guttural voice wouldn't go away. He must have felt my fear bristling underneath the fabric of the skirt, for he grew bolder and I felt the incriminating trail of fingerprints ascend. "A girl like you, running away from all guys as if they were dogs."

I shuddered as he leaned into me. "It'd make sense if you were a lesbian," he murmured. "But that's not right, is it? 'Cause you fucking worship that guy. Lilian went to your mom's house for a project last year -- she said your wall was covered with his pictures, and the only thing you ever played on your stereo were his songs."

My eyes snapped open; I tried to stand but he laughed and held me down like a lead anchor. "It's true, isn't it? Tell me, do you pray to him every night before you go to bed? Is that his picture in your locket? Do you wear him around your neck like a fucking cross?" A chorus of laughter erupted before me, but the only thing I could hear was the roar of my own silence.

--

They were dogs, all of them. Ravenous, fanged, slobbering creatures ravaging for a piece of meat.

Except him.

They were right, weren't they? I was sick in my delusions. I'd never see you standing before my eyes, hear you say my name as if it were the most beautiful word in the English language. I'd never be able to touch you with my bare hands, prove to myself that you were more than a mirage in this lifeless desert.

But I could see him standing across the quad, his face grinning when he'd managed to catch my eye. I could hear him call out my name like a declaration, a love letter encompassed in two syllables. I could feel my heart pounding in my chest when he pulled me against him, the lurching of my stomach when he swept the hair out of my face with a casual brush of the fingertips, the electric jolt shooting through my body when he pressed his lips against mine.

I'd fallen so many times in the past and you were always there to lift me up again. But this time, I didn't reach out to take your hand.

--

It hurts so much.

I'm so sorry. I was stupid. I'd clouded my head with swollen, ripened illusions of love and fulfillment, but as soon as I'd gotten close, the mirage vanished before my eyes. He left me in the middle of that wasteland, sucked dry to the point that not even vultures would have anything to scavenge from my bleached-white bones. I have nothing... no, I am nothing. I can't eat, I can't sleep, I haven't stepped outside my room in nearly a week.

Is this my penance? My punishment?

Your songs have been on replay, blurring the days into one unending soundtrack. Your morphine voice is the only antidote to my excruciating pain.

Forgive me. I won't ever lose sight of you again.

I'm sorry.

--

For the longest time, I doubted its existence.

What is love? I can't see it. I see manufactured sweets wrapped in pink tin foil, mass-produced paper cards in red and white hues, bouquets of flowers grown and raised by strangers those fawning lovers never met. I can't feel it. I feel the static in the air, the unspoken tension between two people who once promised to love one another until death do them part. He told me he could show me what it was. In a way, he did. He humiliated me, bruised me, stripped me of everything until I was left with nothing.

But that's not true. Because he couldn't take you away.

In the stillness of the night, your voice is the lullaby that cradles the newborn stars. You've never left me, even in those moments when I turned my back on you. When I woke up that morning to find my life had split into two; when I dreaded going to school because I knew they were waiting for me with their unrelenting jeers; when he used me, then tossed me aside without a second glance; when I was stressed about exams; when I was tired; when I was lonely -- in my highs and in my lows, you've never abandoned me.

I'm not afraid anymore.

It exists. All I have to do is close my eyes and listen.

I can hear it. The purest form of love.

--

It felt as if I was underwater. All the sounds were blended together the way my watercolors used to swirl round and round until you couldn't tell the paint apart from the water. Even the nurses in their white caps, the doctors with their bizarre instruments -- they seemed to form one monstrous ripple of color, darting in and out of sight.

The pain in my head wouldn't go away. It was as if the inside of my skull was plated in slate and a horrid little creature was dragging its claws against it, ten squealing talons of chalk. Before, the pain had at least been tolerable, but now all I wanted to do is crack my head open and rip the creature to shreds with my own two hands.

I remember crawling into the bathroom in the middle of the night. It was a Saturday night -- I was at my father's house. I couldn't sleep -- my head was throbbing, I was nauseated to the point that the flickering of the bathroom lights made me sick. I'd barely made it to the toilet when everything poured out my mouth. I must have fainted then, because the next thing I knew, people I had never met were bending over me, asking me all these questions I couldn't comprehend, when all I wanted was somebody to turn off those damn red and blue lights that wouldn't stop blinking in my face. I threw up again.

The only thing I can remember after that is the image of my mother and father standing beside my bed. I couldn't remember the last time I'd seen them standing in the same room together like that, his arm around her like a life ring, her eyes clouded with tears she'd once been too proud to show in front of him.

Am I going to die? The mistake that should never happened, retracted sixteen years too late?

--

I once hated silence. Silence was the beginning of the end, a question with no answer, a white room with no furnishings, extending on into infinity.

When I opened my eyes, the first thing I saw was the attending nurse, whose eyes widened in shock when she noticed I'd been staring wordlessly at her. I watched her frantic gestures as she beckoned somebody into the room. Moments later, the doctor came in, followed by my mother and father whose faces were flooded with a swirling mix of relief and exuberance. They crowded all around me, all their mouths opening and closing like gasping fish.

I could hear nothing.

They tell me, through written words and signed gestures, that I was lucky to have survived. They call me a fighter, a warrior, a miracle. At least you didn't end up like Helen Keller. At least you're still alive.

There is a song of yours. I used to listen to it at least once a day, whether in the stillness of the dawn as the world drew its first breath, or in the murmuring darkness as the world exhaled in a calming sigh. I can't hear your voice anymore. I used to wonder if in exchange for my life, I had no choice but to let you go.

I lie there on my daisy-dotted bedspread, imagining the chatter of the television downstairs as my parents are curled up together on the couch, watching the movie they'd rented together the night before. I look up at the picture of you on my wall, and when I close my eyes, I swear I can hear the sound of your voice, kissing my tangled crown of hair and unwinding the bandages that have held me together all these years, those lyrical lines and melodic motifs falling away, revealing bare, unblemished skin.

You're still here.

------------------------------------------------------
A/N: Took me three days to write this, and still not at all happy with it. Last line feels like a cop-out. Will return to this sometime in the future.

Daylight

I dreamt of you again.

As I sit in the morning light picking at the fragments of a dream, the jagged pieces come together and form a cohesive whole. I can see the whole picture, but there’s only one remaining piece that doesn’t belong, the one thing that doesn’t make any sense to me -- why you’ve been haunting me in my dreams yet again.

I was in Honduras again, with its green sloping hills and grey stormy skies, their kisses shrouded by the cover of stratus clouds. Many people were there, on mission trips to deliver Christ, on school-sponsored brigades to bring food, water, medications to the people. I wasn’t with my Duke brigade. I don’t know why I was there. I don’t know why so many people I’ve known were there either.

There was a girl in my brigade that I became friends with. I don’t remember her well, save that she had ebony hair, fair skin, and the facial features of a girl with mixed ancestry – presumably some Spanish and some kind of Asian. She became my closest friend there, and although I, like many others there, found her rather unusual in her behavior, I wanted nothing more than a friend. I was terrified of being alone.

We did everything together. We ate side-by-side, slept on the same bunk bed, volunteered at the stations. But something about us wasn’t quite right. It began to make my stomach churn, but I couldn’t ignore or avoid her. I’d already promised to myself that I would never use such underhanded tactics to cover up my own misanthropic tendencies. I continued to smile as she remained glued to my side.

It wasn’t long before I noticed the strange looks people shot in my direction, the covert whispers that would suddenly cease whenever I entered the room. People began to avoid me, and I grew paranoid of laughter, immediately wary of whether or not I was the subject of their mirth. In my paranoia, I couldn’t function. I couldn’t eat, I couldn’t sleep – my mind was on the verge of a breakdown.

One day, I suddenly remembered that you were staying in one of the buildings near the marketplace. I told my friend I’d catch up with her later, and I ran hurriedly to the ramshackle building with the mustard yellow roof and fading clay red walls.

You sat there by that rotting wooden table, playing a game of cards with another boy I knew I’d met once before. You were wearing that button-up shirt I’d seen you wear so many times, and you turned to look at me as if you’d already been expecting me.

“Sophelia? Funny to see you here. You know, we were just talking about that rumor that’s been going around that you’re a lesbian shacking it up with that girl who’s not quite right in the head.”

I broke down then. You watched me quietly as I made a fool of myself before you yet again, but this time you gestured towards the seat opposite to you and told me to sit. Your friend poured me a glass of water, nodded knowingly at you and left.

“Talk.”

I told you everything then. In that moment, I gave you more words than I’d ever spoken to you in my life. You didn’t interrupt me, not when your friends came in and joined us around the table, casually listening in and interjecting here and there. During dinner back at the brigade compound, you and I sat at the end of the table, impervious to the chatter of others. We weren’t even the same brigade, but you didn’t care. You stayed by my side, fending off the bemused stares of onlookers and muting the chattering gossips with our own conversations.

I’m awake now. I don’t understand. You were never there. I’d deluded myself for so long. Why does my subconscious still think of you as someone who would even give a damn about how I was feeling?

No, I don’t want to remember you. I don’t ever want to see you again. Every time you reappear, all those memories come roaring out of Pandora’s Box and then I see Hope lying at the bottom. And for a minute, I actually think it could have happened. If I’d spoken first, if we could have bantered in real life like we once did in Arial size 12 on the computer screen, everything would be different. I wouldn’t still be here, writing another pathetic post about how I can’t let this shit go.

Not-so-Cinderella Story

For reasons neither of us remember, today my mother told me the not-quite-Cinderella rags-to-riches story of Wendi Deng, the third wife of Rupert Murdoch -- you know, the guy who basically owns all of US journalism. That's probably why I'd never heard of this story until today.

The story began in China when the teenage Wendi met a guy nearly thirty years older than her, Jake Cherry, who persuaded his wife Joyce to sponsor Wendi so that she could go to college in the States. And so, Wendi attended one of the California State Universities and was at the top of her class -- BUT it turns out she ended up having an affair with Mr. Cherry. The Cherrys divorced, and Wendi and Jake married -- but four months later they separated after Jake Cherry discovered that Wendi was seeing another man in his mid-twenties. Supposedly, Wendi told him that she couldn't see him other than as a father figure, but another article I read speculated that Mr. Cherry's salary couldn't support her through graduate school.

In any case, the divorce wasn't finalized until two years later -- just long enough so that Wendi could get her green card. She ended up going to Yale for business school, and eventually she met some important people who got her a job at one of those news stations under News Corp. Another article mentioned how she'd perfected the role of the innocent Chinese girl and managed to step on her colleagues in order to climb her way up -- and she'd always make herself noticed by the top executives. Inevitably, she caught the attention of Murdoch -- and she ended up being his translator for business deals in Asia. Eventually, Murdoch divorced his wife of 31 years and soon after the divorce was finalized, Murdoch and Wendi were married.

The other thing my mother told me that the articles I'd read this afternoon didn't talk as much about was the fact that Wendi had managed to bear two daughters for Murdoch -- despite their age difference and the fact that Murdoch had contracted prostate cancer about a year before their first daughter was born. Supposedly, each of Deng's daughters will each get a piece of the Murdoch inheritance worth about 100 million dollars.

In any case, you're not going to find this story on Wikipedia. My own journalistic curiosity compelled me to look up Wendi Deng on the Internet, and the Wikipedia article was completely wiped clean of any potentially damaging information. The story I've basically summed up is the result of reading a ton of articles this afternoon -- especially one interesting one that focused on Wikiscanner and how it can track the changes corporations make to Wikipedia entries -- including the entry on Wendi Deng.

As much as I am disgusted by what she's done -- destroyed a marriage, tossed countless people aside in order to reach her own goals -- I am still admittedly awed by how she managed to do it. Don't you worry -- my moral conscience would never let me do anything of that sort, and besides, I'm the last person you'd expect to seduce anybody. But the relentlessness with which she climbed her way to the top is astounding; I can only imagine if she hadn't trampled on so many people along the way, think of what kind of Cinderella story she could have achieved -- one that people everywhere would be hailing as another example of the American dream. Instead, you've got a story that almost nobody has heard of because all major media outlets are afraid of making enemies with Murdoch.

Well. C'est la vie américaine.

Three Book Reports

I've been meaning to do this sooner... but I've been in the middle of two other projects. One is related to EP, which I'll probably reveal sooner or later. The other one is a personal project for a friend that I can't say too much about.

Anyways. To make up for the lack of books I've read during the last school year, I've been devouring books this summer as I sit on the train to work in the morning. Though I keep up with blogs about YA, it's been awhile since I've actually read any YA books -- both because I have no time and because I feel somewhat embarrassed about reading those books. But I still consider myself a young adult, so whatever.

And now, allow me to present three books I've read in the last week -- and my thoughts about them.

1. The Disreputable History of Frankie Landau-Banks

Basic Premise: A girl named Frankie enters her sophomore year at one of those prestigious boarding schools known to funnel students into the Ivy Leagues, and it seems like she's starting to catch the attention of guys. Now she's snagged the senior guy she's had a crush on for a long time, she's a part of his rowdy group of friends, and life is all fine and dandy, right?

BUZZ. Turns out there's an all-boys secret society on campus -- one that her father used to be a member of -- and now Frankie's annoyed because she's tired of being treated like a helpless girl by her boyfriend and his friends, and because she'd never be allowed to join the secret society she's discovered just because she didn't come with a male package.

Thus, Frankie orchestrates a series of events that prove just how much everyone has underestimated her.

My Thoughts: If there's a dictionary definition for "kickass", there needs to be a footnote that says "See FRANKIE LANDAU-BANKS." Kudos to Lockhart for creating a character who stands up for herself and still shows the same vulnerability you'd expect from a girl her age. Frankie is very unique in her own way (e.g. her fascination with neglected positives) with a refreshing self-confidence, but at the same time she's normal enough that you can relate to her. For instance, it'd be easy to characterize her simply as being bitter about her boyfriend's inherent misogyny, but Lockhart doesn't brush past the fact that all in all, Frankie is infatuated with him just like any other girl dating the guy of her dreams would be.

What drives me nuts (in a good way) about this book is the relationship between Frankie and Alpha, her boyfriend's good friend and the leader of the secret society. They would have been a MUCH better match than Frankie and Matthew. I don't want to give anything away, but AUGHHHHHH. I think life always has those what-if questions, so I guess kudos to the book for being realistic.

Verdict: Highly recommended for those who like their female protagonists with a backbone and a brain.

2. Fairest

Basic Premise: From the same world as Ella Enchanted, Fairest is a Snow White retelling that follows the story of Aza, Areida's sister who is considered ugly by Ayorthian standards but possesses one of the most beautiful voices in the kingdom. The daughter of an innkeeper, Aza soon finds herself coerced into obeying the demands of the new Ayorthian queen, who is determined to be the fairest one of all. Aza soon learns that the queen possesses an enchanted mirror from the fairy Lucinda that is the key to her power, and it is soon up to Aza to save the kingdom.

My thoughts: It is no secret that Ella Enchanted is one of my favorite books of all time, nor should it be a surprise that I love fairy tale retellings. Therefore, I snatched up this book immediately when I saw it in the library the other day.

To be fair, this book was inevitably compared in my mind to Ella Enchanted, so perhaps it would fare better with someone who had never read Ella Enchanted before. However, it was way too easy to compare this book to Ella Enchanted. Aza was sweet, but not as engaging as Ella, whose humor and spunk made her easy to love. As for Aza's prince, I couldn't make up my mind whether Ijori was too one-dimensional (unlike Char), or too much like Char. Both are kind princes with a gentle sense of humor -- but I don't know if it's because I've read Ella Enchanted at least fifty times, but Char is so much more real to me. Maybe Ella Enchanted was more focused on the love story between Char and Ella, but Fairest didn't seem to have as developed of a love story with Ijori and Aza.

What I did like was how Gail Carson Levine incorporated the enchanted mirror into her story about beauty. It's a great idea, but I wonder if it could have been executed more cleanly. While Ella's Cinderella story of obedience is so intricately linked with her love for Char, Aza's Snow White story wasn't as tightly wound.

Verdict: Summer fling -- for a long term romance, read Ella Enchanted instead.

3. Pretty Dead
Basic Premise: Charlotte is a vampire -- beautiful body, beautiful house, beautiful clothes, beautiful things -- but she's lonely and she's been undead for almost a century. After her human friend Emily commits suicide, Charlotte finds herself drawn to the boy Emily had been dating, Jared. To make things more complicated, Charlotte's first love -- the one who turned her into a vampire in the first place -- reappears in her life once again. Charlotte becomes entangled in a dark bargain that may give her what she's wanted for so long -- a chance to be human again.

My Thoughts: I've made it well-known that my writing is heavily influenced by Francesca Lia Block. That said, I am not fond of all of her books -- in fact, there are some that I do not particularly like at all. While I am very fond of Wasteland, The Rose and the Beast, Ecstasia, and Missing Angel Juan, I could never reread some of the other novels, like the rest of the Weetzie Bat series. (Actually, after rereading White Oleander this summer, I've realized that my writing is heavily influenced by Janet Fitch as well -- so it was quite strange when I reread the book for the first time in years and realized, "Damn. How could you forget?")

Anyways. Regardless, I still try to read all of Francesca Lia Block's books when I can, because usually the imagery is still beautifully poetic -- it's usually the storyline I have an issue with.

In the case of Pretty Dead, I was already skeptical of the "vampire" aspect -- ever since Twilight, I've been extremely cynical of vampire stories. Turns out Charlotte didn't bother me as much as I expected. After all, it's from the vampire's perspective -- and SHE wants to be a HUMAN, not like Bella and her desire to be a vampire.

I think what's preventing me from "favoriting" this Francesca Lia Block book, however, goes back to my personal tastes regarding her books. While my Block favorites have an underlying theme retold in a uniquely dark way, many of other ones may have lots of flowery imagery but no real sense of a moving theme. Ecstasia, for example, describes a world where beauty is absolutely desired, to the point that the ugly and aging are hidden underground as they wait to die. What does this say about our own society? Missing Angel Juan is at its heart a story about a girl who clings too closely to her boyfriend that she's suffocating his freedom. While Pretty Dead touched on human life and what we really need versus what we want, the story was too predictable and felt like insubstantial fluff to me afterward.

Verdict: There are both better vampire stories and better Francesca Lia Block novels out there. But it's a good, short read for an hour's train ride if you're up for it.

Next on my reading list: a shift towards the literary classics -- Love in the Time of Cholera and Rebbecca. We'll see how far I get this week.

Honduras

Already, it's been almost a week since I returned from Honduras that the memory is already seeping away to the corners of my mind, but I'm going to try my best to recall everything that happened in that week.

For those of you not in the know, last week I spent a week in Honduras participating in a medical and dental brigade, where we set up free mobile clinics at a different village each day. Among the various stations we set up there, on different days I was involved with taking the blood pressure of incoming patients, aiding a public health demonstration to the villagers, assisting a dentist with extractions, shadowing a doctor, and preparing prescription orders in our makeshift pharmacy.

The biggest question that remained lodged in my head over the course of the trip was the same question I kept asking myself when I was in Taiwan last summer. What, if circumstances had been different, would my life have been like if I had grown up here? ("Here" refers to the villages, not the cities -- BIG DIFFERENCE.)

1. I would already be married -- with children. One of the most striking things I noticed, especially on the first day when I had access to patient information as I recorded their blood pressure, was the discrepancy between how old I perceived the women to be and how old they actually were. I'd see a mother struggling to control two rowdy kids while nursing a child, and my mind would automatically place her in the mid-twenties. But then I'd check her papers and realize that she was only two years older than me. It makes me wonder if my aversion to romance would have manifested if I'd grown up in a place where I'd be expected to bear children as a teenager.

2. I would have many cavities -- and most likely require multiple tooth extractions. One of my favorite jobs during the week was assisting with extractions in the dental clinic. The dentist who mentored me was a good-humored Honduran whose face structure reminded me of Eric Bana -- except add maybe ten years.

No, this isn't why I liked assisting with extractions. I swear. Oh, shut up.

I'd always regarded brushing your teeth every morning and night as obvious and unavoidable as peeing after you wake up each morning, but that notion was soon dispelled after I noticed that every mouth I was peering into was inevitably riddled with cavities. Some were so bad that the tooth infections were oozing nasty-smelling pus.

I had a lot of fun playing the assistant, which included handing him all of the tools (flag elevators, straight elevators, different numbered pliers, syringes of Novocaine) and preparing gauze. But of course, I felt the patients pain -- I had four molars and part of my gum removed for braces and two wisdom teeth removed last year. I've had my share of dental experiences, and let me tell you that the worst part is when the anesthesia wears off and you're bedridden in pain. Those days, I would lie on the couch all day watching movies while my mother would switch my ice pack every so often and make me soup that I didn't feel like eating. After watching twenty or so patients come and go during my shift, I had little doubt that they would not be doing the same when they returned home.

3. I would have a minimal concept of hygiene. My brigade was fortunate enough to stay in one of the former Presidential homes -- a beautiful place in the middle of nowhere with plenty of mosquitoes and, lucky for us, indoor plumbing. I will never complain about dorm bathrooms again -- not when I've been to a place where I would dread going to the bathrooms, which were swarming with all sorts of critter crawlers. I'd learned after my trip to Taiwan last summer that the United States can proudly boast of having the most powerful toilets in the world, and so in Honduras I'd typically find myself walking into a bathroom to find the toilet either filled with poop that wouldn't flush down or toilet paper that a fellow brigader had forgotten to throw in the wastebasket instead of the toilet. Apparently, we were also extremely lucky to have hot water in the showers -- so I will refrain from complaining about how I stripped for dozens of crickets and moths each night.

Another thing I'd picked up last year in Taiwan was that Northern California has the best tap water. My area has always been very proud of that fact -- I'd learned in elementary school that we get our water from rainwater that has been naturally filtered through the earth and collected underground. Honduras, on the other hand, has a problem with parasites in the water; in fact, many of the villagers complained about parasites in their stomach. We were warned ahead of time not to sing in the shower, lest we swallow a mouthful of water and come up with a nasty case of diarrhea.

The other thing I noticed from working in the villages was the difference in cleanliness compared to the States, particularly as I observed the children. I witnessed one child picking a Cheeto out of the trash can when he thought none of us were looking. There was trash everywhere, as littering was quite commonplace.

4. I would not have a pet dog -- in the sense that I have in the States. I don't know how much I've talked about my dog on this blog, but Matisse is well-known in the neighborhood for being the pampered "youngest child" of my parents. Matisse sleeps in my parents' bed and is very finicky about his food (many times he will not eat unless he is hand-fed by my mother, and even then he wants to eat the same meat that we eat). Occasionally, my brother and I like to wonder how our "little brother" would have been like if he had been a human (probably a sweet little Mama's boy that all the older women love).

There were stray dogs EVERYWHERE in Honduras. Starved to the point that you could see the protrusion of their rib cages through their skin, these dogs would wander around looking for food and all were visibly frightened by humans. I'd heard from others that the children would abuse the dogs, and it was obvious that many of the dogs suffered various parasites and diseases. I distinctly recall one dog whose appearance made everyone recoil in disgust -- one of its eyes was an opaque pink and incredibly swollen. I felt so sorry for these dogs, but I was afraid to touch them -- and then I'd recall Matisse at home napping on blankets like a prince and realize that he's living even better than some of the villagers themselves.

5. I would not enjoy the luxury of creating art. Life in the village is centered around family, and as a female, I would have most likely been expected to bear children and raise them to adulthood. As much as I complain about studying and grades, I would have none of that if I had been raising children since I was thirteen. So much of my self-confidence stems from my ability to write, but what would I be if I didn't have that skill? The villagers have little use for literature and cinema -- as someone bluntly put it, sex is a main source of entertainment for the men, who deliberately get their wives pregnant before they leave the village for long-term work so that their wives don't have affairs while they're gone.

All in all, I am now even more acutely aware of how fortunate I am to have been born to the family that I have, and how I gripe and complain about some of the most trivial things. I don't know if I'll go back again next summer -- if I do, I should probably learn some more Spanish (it is REALLY difficult not being able to speak the language there) -- but Honduras, though less wealthy than the States, is really a beautiful place.

Primera

For those of you who have found me again, welcome back. There are a ton of things I've been wanting to blog about, but since I've been back from my trip I was immediately swamped with work at my internship -- so you will have to patient as I attempt to scrounge up the time to write in these last few weeks of summer.

First order of business -- housekeeping!

As you can see, this blog looks noticeably different -- most prominently, the title at the top that had previously remained unchanged for four years. I'm not madly in love with the title -- "Echolalia" -- right now, but chances are that this will remain the title for a good number of years.

Another thing that has changed, though it may not be immediately noticeable -- I have thoroughly gone through all of the previous Heart & Crossbones posts and removed the ones that may pose as incriminating evidence in the future.

Just kidding. Actually, what I've done is removed any post that bad-mouthed somebody who could still be identified despite my tendency to use "code" names on the Internet. You'll notice that an entire summer's worth of posts has now disappeared -- though only a few of them were particularly bitchy, I have removed all of the letters I wrote while I was at Stanford High School Summer College. Several other noticeable posts, including the infamous "Anatomy of a Train Wreck" that got me into deep shit with a friend, have also been removed.

There are multiple reasons for this -- but the main reason is that in the near future, it is highly likely that I will link this blog publicly to my non-Sophelia identity. When that happens, I would rather not have acquaintances scour through my writing and realize to their shock and horror that I ranted about them a few years back.

But wait a minute -- SOPHELIA IS MAKING THIS BLOG PUBLIC NOW?? SOPHELIA, WHO USED TO GO ON AND ON ABOUT THE VALUE OF PRIVACY AND WHATNOT?

Four years ago, I started Heart & Crossbones with the intent of keeping it as an online diary. Yet gradually, some of my friends began to find their way to my blog, while others stumbled upon my writing by accident, and over time I began giving out my blog url a little more liberally.

The thing I've realized is, as much as I have the tendency to pour my heart, blood, and guts all over the Internet, it hasn't necessarily made me more vulnerable. For the longest time, I'd been afraid of people knowing my private thoughts -- and it wasn't until this summer, when a friend at Duke stumbled across my blog and later told me that she'd read nearly two years' worth of posts in one night and felt as if she knew me so much better -- that's when I realized, those who have been reading my stuff for so long -- they're the ones who actually know me the best. And so far as I know, they're the ones I can trust.

Sophelia Lee is more than just a pen name or a pseudonym. It's the dark side of the moon that never sees the light of the sun. Except maybe now.

As for blog content, I will probably focus a little more on my writing progress than I did before. But otherwise, it will all be the same -- Idol Worship, vignettes, sarcastic movie reviews, and the occasional confessional posts. Que sera sera.

There a lot of things I'd still like to blog about -- Honduras, book reviews, writing -- but I intend to do them as separate posts. Sorry for the delay -- but you'll hear from me again soon.

-- Sophelia