Scherzo No. 1

It surprises and saddens me that I used to be able to play this piece, fully polished and memorized.

Joplin

http://www.cnn.com/2011/US/05/26/severe.weather.child.dead/index.html?hpt=C2

I didn't think twice about the Joplin tornadoes. Until I read some of the stories. The boy with the popular Youtube channel is still missing. There's the grieving woman whose husband sacrificed himself to save her -- "You know, people kept saying he wouldn't have wanted it any other way, but if I could have taken twice as much damage just to have him alive, I would have." And when I saw that video, the one with the father who lost both of his boys...

Once you put faces on a tragedy, that's when it hits you in the gut.

The Lost Answers

Jay Chou's CD is on replay in the kitchen boombox. My mom, in an attempt to teach me Chinese, made me read over a bunch of the Chinese lyrics with her. When she made me read the lyrics for "Orange Jasmine (Qi Li Xiang)", it triggered a flashback to middle school.

I just remembered.

Was it sixth grade when it happened? When word got around to me that you were planning to ask me to marry you? On one knee and all that jazz?

What I still want to know is -- why? Was that your idea of a good joke? I barely talked to you. Hell, I might have even hated your guts at the time, though I'm not entirely sure anymore. I still remember you made the mistake earlier that year of telling someone that I was ugly -- she happened to be my friend, you know. And weren't you in love with that other girl at the time, anyways? Why on earth would you waste your time with me, shoving me under the same spotlight that followed you wherever you went?

I don't really remember what happened that day. I'm pretty sure I probably ran away and hid as soon as I found out.

That's probably the closest I ever got to being the center of gossip.

Here's another unsolved mystery -- who was planning to ask me to Homecoming freshman year? I never found out. I had run into Honeybee one day -- we didn't talk often, but we were pretty good friends back in middle school. She was the one who told me. She wasn't in my inner circle of friends at the time though, which means either everybody knew by that point, or that it was someone she was close to -- which by default would have meant I didn't know him very well.

In truth, maybe it's a good thing whoever it was chickened out. I was still so enamored of the Prince then.

Oh my god, all the memories are flooding back now.

The Prince. I wonder if he knows that I had a crush on him for almost three years. I was so stinking obvious too. The way I kept IMing him all the time. I remember how I was flipping through the Michael's catalog and found "a sign" -- his name and mine on the sample picture for some wedding placecard. How often does my name appear on ANYTHING? I look at those personalized magnets and keychain souvenirs only to laugh and see if they've gotten my name. (It's only happened once.) It had to be a sign. I cut out that little picture and pasted it in my diary. "Prince and Sophelia." Excuse me while I go throw up.

What about when I was in, what, first grade? Magenta and I were such good friends back then -- strange to think of that now, isn't it? Her little brother wanted to marry me. He was still in pre-school. I got tricked into going to their house. When I walked in, their piano, which could be programmed to play by itself, started playing the wedding march. Magenta went down the living room throwing flower petals. Her brother held a ring and wanted to put it on my finger. I hid my face behind my stuffed cat Boots and wanted to cry.

And yes, my thoughts turn to you, too. I've changed, you know. Steel knives, ice shards. I've gotten colder and harder, this diamond that was once a lump of coal, burning all that time just for you. It was the only way I could move on.

I think back to all those lost answers. We'll never know the truth, will we? You're never going to know what I thought of you all those years, and I'm never going to know why you initiated that contact between us and started it all. Maybe if you had never bothered, I wouldn't have hardened like this.

But no. If none of it had never happened, this blog would never have existed.

Film Review: Pirates 4

Call me cray-cray, but I was never a huge fan of the Pirates of the Caribbean series. Yes, I thought the first movie was pretty awesome, but the series pretty much lost me with the second and third movies. If C hadn't wanted to watch the fourth movie this afternoon, I don't think I would have bothered. Johnny Depp as Jack Sparrow is brilliant and all, but once you've already seen him in three movies, there isn't much new to report on. I'll grant that I was assez curieuse about how Penelope Cruz would fare as a replacement for Keira Knightley and Orlando Bloom, but I wasn't exactly eager to shell out $10.50 for a movie ticket.

But now that I have watched the movie, I can tell you exactly what is the best part about the latest installment of Pirates of the Caribbean...

MERMAIDS.

It's been merely three hours since I watched the movie, and honestly, the only part that is still stuck to me the way a song gets stuck in your head is the mermaids. More specifically, the romance between Phillip Swift, the clergyman, and Syrena, the mermaid -- though I have to say, the major scene with the mermaids was pretty cool.

Awww, aren't they cute?

Since the movie came out just days ago, I suppose it would be improper of me to give away any spoilers. I'll just say this -- after Gov. J, C, and I walked out of the movie theater, literally all we kept talking about were Syrena and Phillip. The way the film ends their storyline is slightly ambiguous (happy or tragic? bittersweet?), except after C and I did some major web-surfing in an attempt to decipher what happened, the consensus among the three of us was that it was a happy ending.

What's sad is that the ambiguity probably stems from the fact that the three of us only understood about 75 percent of the "pirate talk," and thus, none of us heard a key piece of information spoken during the mermaid battle scene that would have cleared up the ambiguity. (Subtitles, anyone?? "Pirate" is a language setting on Facebook, after all...) Though if you google "What happened to Syrena and Phillip?", you'll find that many other people had this same problem.

The other major question the three of us had after the film...

Picture this scene: The glass coffin filled with water slips out of grasp and breaks on the jungle ground, causing the mermaid to tumble out along with the water. As she catches for breath, you realize that her mermaid tail is gone, replaced by legs, and that she is stark naked and shivering. The clergyman, seeing her discomfort, strips off his shirt and wraps it around her to keep her warm...

The rest of us: HOLY POMELO, HOW DID A CLERGYMAN GET SO JACKED??

Battle Hymn of the Tiger Mother

The first book at the top of my lengthy summer reading list was the notorious Battle Hymn of the Tiger Mother by Amy Chua.

And oh boy, let me tell you -- reading that book was like reliving my childhood all over again. In the sort of way where you look back and laugh nostalgically, "Oh ho ho ho, those were the days."

The part where Jed confronts Sophia about the teeth marks on the piano keys? Reminded my family of the time I got in trouble for carving "Sophelia Rules!" on the piano lid with an angry face etched next to my declaration.

The part where Lulu is pissed as hell at the Austrian violin teacher? Definitely recalled some high tension incidences with my second piano teacher, Mr. C, where we would both get so mad at each other that I would end up crying after class.

The part with the excerpt from Sophia's essay, "Conquering Juliet"? I played that Prokofiev piece just a few years ago and still remember the hours I spent trying to polish Juliet's voice in that piece.

While I think the book possessed a entertaining and quite readable narrative arc (I can't even imagine how I would write such a funny book about my childhood... or maybe it's only funny to me because I basically lived through it), I wasn't quite sold with the way the book wrapped up. News sources have already hurrahed how the eldest daughter Sophia (who I could relate to fairly well) is headed for Harvard this fall. I suspect Lulu might not reach the same level of success as Sophia, but time will tell.

In the end, I believe I turned out fine. Though I do think that the Chinese style is not for everyone, it worked for me.

The Tortoise and the Hare

In my dream, I held the two pieces of plastic in my hands. In one hand lay the white rabbit. In the other lay the emerald tortoise.

I glanced up to ask him the meaning of this, but he was already gone.

--

I sat on one of the couches pushed aside to clear space for the beer pong tables, checking my e-mail on my phone for the millionth time since I had entered the room. The smell of cheap beer permeated the claustrophobic apartment, punctuated by the clattering of pong balls atop the linoleum floor.

She told me afterwards that I had looked as pissed as hell at the mixer. As BB spoke to me over Skype, I imagined my mother lecturing for me the umpteenth time about body language, how my instinctual habit of crossing my arms made myself intimidating, unapproachable and uninviting.

But I wasn't pissed. I was just tired. It was the same routine -- the girls and boys would compete in throwing little plastic balls into opposing plastic cups, drinking until they flashed in and out of consciousness. There I'd be again, the clear-headed guardian angel who'd swat away the predatory boys, walk the inebriated girls back to the dormitories, clean up their regurgitated messes, and lay them in recovery position before turning off their bedroom lights and trudging back to my own room.

I'd done this so many times that there was nothing to be angry about. It was just the routine.

--

"I don't remember having this conversation with you at all," I said.

Apparently I had told her about "my type." Don't get me wrong. I have never been drunk in my life. This lapse of memory could be simply attributed to old age (having just hit the two-decade mark) or pure absentmindedness.

Supposedly, I had told J that I preferred somebody who did not drink very much. As she told me this, S responded, "Yeah, I can see that."

Oh really?

I am surprised to hear that I had ever said such a thing. After all, S herself is the one I end up taking care of every time we go out. So many of my friends have reached that point of no return that it would seem strange that I would single that out as the characteristic I would look for.

They don't say this to my face, but I know what they're thinking. I'm a frigid prude, a sober fun-sucker. I know my tolerance is not too shabby, but I don't know my limit -- I have never had the desire to find out. The shot of Bacardi tasted disgusting. The two shots of Malibu did nothing for me. Amongst the toxic haze of college Bacchanalian revelry, my mind is as clear as the summer sky.

How many of my friends have lost their first kisses in the smog? It happened to S just a week ago. She'd been pushed into the arms of a guy at a nightclub by the beach. They'd started dancing, both just a little drunk. The first kiss was a surprise, but chaste. The second involved tongue. He held her hand for the rest of the night. I could tell, when she had returned to campus and recounted the story to me, that she had hopes for this new acquaintance.

That was until Y told us that this was the same guy in her hall during sophomore year who would bang his screeching girlfriend every day between 2-4 pm without fail. Nobody talked about him again after that.

--

Everyone knows the story of the tortoise and the hare. Slow and steady wins the race.

But does it really? We are running in this race, but I don't know where the finish line lies. "If you don't hurry up, all the good ones will be taken." "Don't forget, your biological clock is ticking." What am I racing against? All the other members of my sex? Is it better to be the hare -- sprinting out from the gate, running headlong into the fray and coming against obstacle after obstacle, risking heartbreak after heartbreak? Or is it better to be the tortoise -- ambling along the path cleared by the others before her, at the risk of reaching the finish line in last place?

Here's the thing about the tortoise. The tortoise has seen everything that has happened to the hare. The tortoise has seen the sleepless nights, the loss of appetite, the avoidance of gazes, the disintegration of a love that had once pledged to be eternal. But the tortoise has also seen the exchanged looks that speak in unwritten poetry, the tint of rose on a blushing cheek, the crescent of a smile that could move the tides.

And so the tortoise marches on.

California King Bed

I just realized I've been posting a lot of Youtube videos recently...

This song surprised me pleasantly. I am a sucker for a good power ballad with a nice guitar riff, and I never thought Rihanna would sing in one. The cinematography is awesome in this video, and HOLY SMOKES HOW ON EARTH CAN SOMEBODY BE SO FLIPPING GORGEOUS.

Forget about "California Gurls" -- this is MY California song for the 21st century thus far. CALI PRIDE YO.

Reblogged

Source: http://themonicabird.com/post/3273155431/date-a-girl-who-reads-date-a-girl-who-spends-her

"Date a girl who reads. Date a girl who spends her money on books instead of clothes. She has problems with closet space because she has too many books. Date a girl who has a list of books she wants to read, who has had a library card since she was twelve.

Find a girl who reads. You’ll know that she does because she will always have an unread book in her bag.She’s the one lovingly looking over the shelves in the bookstore, the one who quietly cries out when she finds the book she wants. You see the weird chick sniffing the pages of an old book in a second hand book shop? That’s the reader. They can never resist smelling the pages, especially when they are yellow.

She’s the girl reading while waiting in that coffee shop down the street. If you take a peek at her mug, the non-dairy creamer is floating on top because she’s kind of engrossed already. Lost in a world of the author’s making. Sit down. She might give you a glare, as most girls who read do not like to be interrupted. Ask her if she likes the book.

Buy her another cup of coffee.

Let her know what you really think of Murakami. See if she got through the first chapter of Fellowship. Understand that if she says she understood James Joyce’s Ulysses she’s just saying that to sound intelligent. Ask her if she loves Alice or she would like to be Alice.

It’s easy to date a girl who reads. Give her books for her birthday, for Christmas and for anniversaries. Give her the gift of words, in poetry, in song. Give her Neruda, Pound, Sexton, Cummings. Let her know that you understand that words are love. Understand that she knows the difference between books and reality but by god, she’s going to try to make her life a little like her favorite book. It will never be your fault if she does.

She has to give it a shot somehow.

Lie to her. If she understands syntax, she will understand your need to lie. Behind words are other things: motivation, value, nuance, dialogue. It will not be the end of the world.

Fail her. Because a girl who reads knows that failure always leads up to the climax. Because girls who understand that all things will come to end. That you can always write a sequel. That you can begin again and again and still be the hero. That life is meant to have a villain or two.

Why be frightened of everything that you are not? Girls who read understand that people, like characters, develop. Except in the Twilightseries.

If you find a girl who reads, keep her close. When you find her up at 2 AM clutching a book to her chest and weeping, make her a cup of tea and hold her. You may lose her for a couple of hours but she will always come back to you. She’ll talk as if the characters in the book are real, because for a while, they always are.

You will propose on a hot air balloon. Or during a rock concert. Or very casually next time she’s sick. Over Skype.

You will smile so hard you will wonder why your heart hasn’t burst and bled out all over your chest yet. You will write the story of your lives, have kids with strange names and even stranger tastes. She will introduce your children to the Cat in the Hat and Aslan, maybe in the same day. You will walk the winters of your old age together and she will recite Keats under her breath while you shake the snow off your boots.

Date a girl who reads because you deserve it. You deserve a girl who can give you the most colorful life imaginable. If you can only give her monotony, and stale hours and half-baked proposals, then you’re better off alone. If you want the world and the worlds beyond it, date a girl who reads.

Or better yet, date a girl who writes."

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I feel like some of the above is purely fanciful, but you know what? Whoever wrote that is totally right about the presents part. I don't understand why people say I'm so hard to shop for -- just buy me some books!!

Serenade

Guys, if you ever meet a girl who won't look your way...

... pick up an acoustic guitar and learn this song.

If I had to pick any love song, it would be this one.

It's understated.

You don't need to say the L-word to make someone feel it.