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One infinite moment

Tonight, I ventured out on a whim to see the National Symphony Orchestra with several members of one of the groups I'm in.

The quality and fullness of the sound made the humidity seem to disappear. It felt like the summer nights of my childhood-- the ones that went on forever and were filled with fireflies and grass colored knees. People covered the lawn-- some listening raptly, others engaged in debate with their friends and others families playing with their children. One family sat in front of me, alternately taking turns dancing with their giggling daughter; rocketing her into the air, turning her, bouncing her up and down. She was having a riot and they looked so happy. For the first moment in my life, I thought "This is something I'll do with my kids. I want them to grow up hearing music being with me.

After some time, I laid down feeling that, while seeing many shadows of the people who had also gathered to hear this music made me feel a part of something, I wanted some solitude.
As I lay there, the grass tickling my bare neck; staring at the sky which was splashed with shades of purple and pink and covered in clouds; the capitol building, though upside down, lighting the background like a large star; the faces trees and people imbued in a soft glow from the street lights behind them; I felt myself completely relax. In that moment I felt complete peace, and in that moment I fell in love with the universe all over again.

The longer the music played the more I felt I understood the famous line from Perks of being a wallflower because, surely, if some perfect, unattainable infinity existed, this was it.
For the last few months, I haven't been able to write. I can't explain it. I still have ideas rolling through my head constantly, but, when I sit down to make them into something more every word seems to flee before me. It reminds me of a spoken word I once listened to. The speaker talked about what it was like to write a poem. She claimed that she could often feel it coming and that she'd have to race to a pen and paper in order to write it down as it burst through her. There was one particular instance she related she was unable to find utensils until the final word of the poem had burst through her. She described herself grabbing the final word and pulling the poem through her backwards-- and thus, it was written that way.

Writing for me isn't nearly so magical. It is often grueling and filled with self-pity and doubt. Occasionally I sit down and find myself completely focused-- usually when I come up with a new concept. Here's the problem: I don't want to come up with a new concept. I'm still in love with my work in progress, even though I've lost my characters. I'm still enamored by how multi-dimensional this world I've miraculously thought up is. Yet, again, so many parts of the world seem fake or unattainable. Sometimes I sit, look back and realize that my world is nothing but a golem. 

So, that's where I've been. Sitting at my computers, feeling dejected, rationalizing reasons why I haven't been able to write: Maybe I've been at the computer for too long. They do say it's bad for you; Maybe I'm just tired and emotionally drained; Oh, I just went through a break up. That's when I realized, if any of my guy friends were there, they'd inform me I was "PMSing" over my story. I was an emotional wreck. Nothing made sense. My characters loved me then they hated me. They made me cry. They were insensitive jerks who thought they could just do whatever the hell they want. They never listened to me! They kept changing and stabbing me in the back.

Well, fine, I'd show them I'd just research sociopathy and androstadieone. I'd create new characters. I'd flesh out the world more and just think conceptually. Who needs them anyway....

Then, inevitably, my strong-willedness would end and I'd run back to them sobbing and begging them to forgive me. I'd profess my undying love for them and tell them they could do whatever the hell they wanted just don't leave me. 

It was a vicious cycle.

I mean I got to such an awful point that convinced myself I couldn't write at all. I looked drearily through my past writing and mourned the death of my dearly departed abilities. I might as well just give up and become an awful YA writer who creates a cardboard cut out female lead. A cardboard female lead who falls in love with a dream boy who she then saves or he saves her. Maybe he'll be a little quirky and dark, but still sensitive.  Yes, this is what I'll reduce myself to. At least it'll sell.

You know what though? That's bullshit.  I've now realized that, since I have no one else to call me out on this, I have to call myself out. I have to force myself to not be a self-righteous prick and check myself (something some of our politicians could learn from). My main characters will be kick ass. They deserve a story and they'll get one. So what if I can't figure out those damn filler scenes or I struggle with a tone. I know I'll get there. I need to stop reading stories and idolizing those writers. They wouldn't understand how to write my characters and how to develop my idea. Their version of prose, quite simply, won't fit.
I know what I'm doing. I just need to trust in myself a little more. I'll get there.

May. 11th, 2012

Friends only, if you please

 Still, I'd like to think I'm a friendly person, so feel free to click the button at the top. I believe it says something like "Add them as a friend", y'know that one.

Finding time for the things that matter

  So, I was standing waiting for the bus last night when a man approached me and asked me if I would be interested in being in a movie. Admittedly, I was quite skeptical, and rightly so. So, I asked him what kind of movie. He informed me it was a political satire and asked me to attend a documentary showing later that night. Unfortunately, I had plans but I wondered: were these plans more important than the opportunity that had just presented itself?  Should I give into curiosity over dependability? How big an opportunity was this, exactly?

  Has anyone ever said to you: "You find time for the things that matter." Recently I've been thinking a lot about that phrase, is it really that simple? Do we always find time for the things that matter? Someone attempted to use this phrase against me when I was unable to attend multiple events they hosted. They thought my repeated absence indicated my utter lack of interest in them. That my choice not to attend was directed at them and that it indicated that they didn't matter to me. Which, first of all, I found to be rather arrogant. Not once did they ask me why I was unable to attend or, perhaps, hazard at the possibility that I was incredibly busy and simply had made plans prior to their last minute, sloppy invitation. 

  At the same time, their passionate outburst gave me pause. Am I really doing everything and I mean, everything I can do in order to achieve my goals? Am I lazy? How many times have I taken up something, momentarily inspired, only to let it fall through? These questions seem so simple: look at your past action and analyze them, use quantitative measures. The truth of the matter is: ', sometimes we are only able to realize what is important, what we want retroactively. Thus, the phrase "learn from our mistakes, but even that isn't so easy because we can't always get what we want and the other side of the coin is sometimes we don't always get what we need either. I've often trod down this path of though. That reality forces us to do things we don't want sometimes, that we need to sacrifice. I still believe these are true but recently I've started to analyze more in depth when it is truly necessary to "sacrifice". When I am truly sacrificing and when I am simply being lazy. 

I have decided to study political science in the hopes of, someday, working with an NGO in international law. The issue with my  studies is that so much of it is finding the right opportunities, being able to judge them and the person offering them quickly and making a decision. Lately I have spent too much time considering various opportunities instead of going for them. Unfortunately, that is easier said than done. I have always let nervousness prevent me from taking opportunities.

To me, my fears seem to highlight the meaning of the quote "The threat is always stronger than the execution." Often times, it isn't the pain that stops of but the fear of pain. In some ways, this is an evolutionary necessity. It prevents us from doing inherently idiotic things. Still, how often have we stopped to ask ourselves: What has it prevented me from doing? On one hand, they say to live life without regrets. In order to do this, I believe that it would be necessary to  simply not think about past actions. We will always have regrets. To an extent, it is those regrets that help us determine what is important, it makes us whole. It changes us as what was important then may not be important now and the tide of events can just as quickly unravel much effort as can one small, seemingly inconsequential move-- like choosing not to attend a documentary. Still, how does one truly determine what is important? Can one?

See? This entry has already become quite convoluted. Whenever I go to conclude an argument on one point, I encounter myriads of other points and the conclusion of the previous thought is lost in them. On one hand there lies a  spur to action on the other a warning to be cautious, to prioritize. Certainly, accepting an offer to be a part of a movie is a great opportunity but at what cost? It is useful for me here to use Chess as an analogy for life: One wrong move often leads to a myriad of mistakes. An action can become habit. At the same time, I have to stop and tell myself: "You ask too many questions. It is only a game. Be yourself and enjoy it."

Don't you love when the  _____ or ______ titles don't make much sense? It's like the author is trying to imply that his/her article or post will be so mind-blowingly complex that you won't understand until after you read it. Sometime's they're right. No connection will be made this time or, at least, I have none planned.

1) How do you explain to someone that a Journal on the internet, shared with complete strangers is still private? I've tried this, apparently, to no avail. In my opinion, it's nice to tell someone about my life who is not physically a part of it. Who will not pass judgments on past actions or emotional blunders; who will offer advice on how to deal with situations or people simply because they are not in the situation and they do not know the people. It's freeing. It's wonderful. He still did not understand. Well, to be fair he understood the concept but disagreed. 

Last night, my boyfriend found this journal. At the time, I thought it was funny. I made it a game (which he consequently cheated in). Either way, he's read it all now. I know it's not much--- but it's something. Now, I'm trying to wrestle with whether or not to make this post itself public so that he can say or Friend's Only. Already, I've changed how I feel about the situation to better convey it to him should he ever read this journal again. (Who knows--he might have been utterly bored by it-- that would be nice). The easy solution here would be to make everything "Friends only" and continue blogging but, is it what I want to do? 

2) He says I need to open up to him more. 

This bugs the hell out of me. Can't he see how much I've opened myself to him? More than I've ever opened up to anyone. Yet he is full of secrets. He tries to bullshit that he isn't but, he is and those secrets make me suspicious. He's good enough at hiding things that I won't find them or if I do find them I can't tell him that I've done so lest he begins to distrust me. It's a terrifying game I've begun to weave. I know this seems unhealthy here and maybe I am a bit but  I have my reasons for my distrust. I know he's not my stepfather and I know that he did not mean some of the things he said, but, the fact is-- he said them (If he reads this anytime soon he'll probably needle me "What were they? What did I say?" because proof is needed for every emotion). Yep, too damn bad they're in my head now. Pretty sure they'll always be. I'm sick of the secrecy. He doesn't act like he has secrets but, c'mon. Sure, some of them I don't need to know, but the secrets that affect me? Those are important ones for me to know. I told him those that relate to him. No more beating around the bush with weak parries to my words. It's time to tell me. 

Writer's Block: Roll the dice

I grew up without any of the common superstitions. In fact, all of my superstitions were made up by yours truly. Yes, I was a strange, imaginative kid. I could remember being a five, six year old recoiling whenever someone I didn't aspire to be like touched me. I felt that by touching me they stole my energy and thus, I lost a little bit of myself in them. Of course, it took a while for me to decide whether or not I liked them so, in some way, I guess this was true. They were stealing my energy. Their very presence was a drain on what I was and what I would become. In some way, they were shaping me. So, to protect myself from what I perceived to be a thief of my personality I had a short ritual of sorts to regain my lost energy. I kept it short for a few reasons- believing that the ritual would be less effective the greater the distance between us and so their stolen energy would remain with them and second because I felt more myself afterwards. It was reassuring that I could control myself, that I had control of who I was to become and over how they affected me.

Anyways, lucky number. When I was younger my friends always had a lucky number, a lucky stuffed animal, a lucky this and a lucky that and, often times, I'd play along knowing full well that if I didn't I would be shunned (Elementary school, vicious time man, vicious). So, I'd say my favorite number was this number or that number-- keeping my fake numbers in mind so I wouldn't cause alarm by changing them later and making sure that if I did change the number between people those people didn't talk with each other (Yes, even as a youngin' I was a strategist. I'm so strange...). Finally, in eighth grade I tried out for a dance team. I had never done any dance other than ballet and I was very nervous. Everyone else seemed to know the owner of the studio while I, the newcomer, stood on the sidelines awkward and wearing the standard Cecchetti black leotard, pink tights and leather Blochs. Everyone else was twirling around with grand smiles in tie-dye cut offs and jazz shoes, moving their hips in ways I felt certain I couldn't. Everything is so precise in ballet and, additionally, I didn't know any of the fancy tricks they knew. I couldn't do a triple pirrouette-- nevermind the fact that they were doing it wrong- leaning back on their weight and hoisting themselves up with their shoulders (surely they would get hurt sometime- I thought.*)
*side note: Cecchetti always purposefully imposes a sense of needed arrogance on its dancers

Soon, my number was called- in groups at first and then in singles. So, I went up to the front mirror, decisively inspecting the large hastily safety pinned to the front of my leotard.  First we went through a set of moves. She showed us twice, we copied. Then, at the end, to my chagrin she asked us to freestyle alone. Sure, I had done a little bit when I was younger-- Mrs. Berstch, my ballet teacher, used to let us dance around holding airy scarves and wearing skirts if we performed particularly well--- but nothing like this. Nothing with mixed dance. I took a deep breath, and stepped out feeling the eyes of the other girls, realizing that they were inspecting me in many ways, sizing up my potential and waited for the music. I don't have much memory of the moves I did, my nerves made everything blurry.

Once I finished, I stood back and watched the other girls in urn. Noting their creativity or lack thereof and calculating my chances of getting on the team. Long story long (get it?), I made it! I'm sure you all could have predicted that as you probably guessed that 5 is my lucky number.

Yep, that's the story. I don't apply it very much but it's a solid answer for when people ask. I guess the only truly "lucky" thing I have is my spoon ring. I made it when I was very little. I tell everyone that I anticipated my hands growing and, therefore, made it big enough for a future self but, the truth is, I just got tired of hammering. Yep, I have a spoon ring that I made. It's pretty cool. Maybe, I'll upload a picture later.

Sorry for the spam guys but, I guess it just feels nice to be back. :D

What is your lucky number?

Looking Back

It always feels difficult to write these types of entries. Reflecting, looking back-- what am I supposed to pick out? Do I address the important events in my life? Well, just because they're important doesn't mean they're particularly interesting, or even relevant. Going along that vein of thought what is interesting, relevant important? 

Either way, I have finished the semester-- thank God-- with mostly A's. One grade, which I will not speak of (no worries, it isn't that horrible- it was just a result of clear professor bias. I hesitate to say that because these sort of complaints often come across as student bitterness; however, I had heard rumors of bias by this professor before. Of course, I dismissed them. Every professor has rumors surrounding them this, of course, does not always indicate truth. In this case it, unfortunately, did. Additionally, this professor is the only  one available for a subject that requires two semesters. Fortunately for me, I am also a member of a program that deals with the same subject. Thus, I have drafted a syllabus and hope to arrange for an independent study (Accepting that the most of the knowledge I gained during last semester was through self-study). Honestly, I am still shocked and part of me wants to think I got the grade I deserved to avoid this conflict, but, no matter how I do the math it doesn't add up. It simply does not make sense. Especially, when another member of the class cheated on every quiz (and not very well, I might add- still averaging below a C) and did absolutely NONE of the homework managed to get an A in the class- simply due to his religion, his heritage and his sex.
  Well, excuse me for taking interest in another culture. I suppose I, as a non-religious female, shouldn't display such interests in the world. The more I think about it, the more angry I feel. The worst part is--- I have little avenue to fight it. Sure, I could press for a re-grade but while I might win this semester (doubtful as he has been a professor for sometime and the department head is quite old and not entirely without bias himself-- the department is rather small and, thus, has adopted a policy of "protecting its own" against perceived outsiders) his vindictiveness (assuming that I cannot get an independent study) would most certainly outshine the wrongs I managed to rectify this semester. Additionally, the bias might appear to be largely hidden as the majority of the people who take his class are native speakers of his language, with a similar background and religion. Naturally, they all get a leg up. Thus, the usual hints of disproportionate grading in terms of failure (or lower grades) is not there- rather he looks like an easy grader (which makes me appear to be even less of a studious class member).

I tend to analyze everything that happens to me in this manner. Perhaps, I am cynical. I've been told this before but I prefer to think I am realistic and cautious. I hesitate to take ineffective actions or act wildly as some of my friends suggested I do. They, feeling empathetic and passionately hurt for me demanded I go and drill the department head with all the anger I rarely display. Conversely, I feel that this wild passion isn't properly used in this case ,rather, it will make me appear to be an embittered individual (as I have said before) looking to get revenge. I dislike this appearance. In fact, this even reflects in my manner of anger (which I, again, rarely display) as a cold, calculated silence. I do not feel that shouting will solve anything in terms of the problem at hand, it will merely act as a catharsis. 

This has consumed my mind in varying degrees for the past week. So, while, I'm not surprised that this is how this entry turned out-- I can, in all honesty, say I did not expect it.

In conclusion- Happy Holidays from yours truly. ^_^ I'm glad this stress is mostly over.

Pictures ahoyCollapse )
I'm scared.
I'm scared because I don't understand you.
I don't understand why you love me.
I don't understand your motives.

I'm nervous.
I'm nervous because I think of how easy it would be to misconstrue what you tell me.
I'm nervous because I'm not sure if I can trust you, if I should.

I'm cautious.
I'm cautious because I don't know if you'll change.
I'm cautious because I've never seen love work before except in movies.
I'm cautious because I've only seen people operate with ulterior motives.

Yet despite this. Despite my confusion. I find myself getting closer and closer to giving myself to you. To letting you know everything. Everything I'm thinking- even if it's stupid- everything I'm hoping, I'm doing. I find myself thinking about you more and more, and you know what? I have no idea what the hell I'm doing. I don't tell people things. That's not something I do. Yet, I find myself telling you things. WTF. What am I doing? You don't want to know those things, or do you? And I'm so tempted to stop myself because what if you're just being nice? So what, you say you love me. So many people say things they don't mean. I hate that you tell me things in such a cryptic manner yet you focus everything upon me. You claim I deflect questions, yet you do the same. Why is it you want to know so much about me? I'm boring- I want to listen to you. I want to know what you're thinking, always.
I don't know why I'm so emotional all of sudden. I don't understand why I care so much. I shouldn't, should I? I've always trusted in myself. Just me. Now I find that not only do I want to trust in you but I can't trust myself around you. It's entirely frustrating and I don't know how to change it. I don't know what's going to happen to me if I just give in. I can barely put my thoughts into understandable words. I can't think straight. I find myself jumping from one thing to the next- but I keep coming back to something.
I love you.
I don't know how not to, how to stop myself, protect myself and I'm not even sure if I want to but

                                                                                               I love you.

It's okay, I forgot I existed too...

I have come to the conclusion that I am completely insane. No, really. I mean, who else would think it would be okay to do what I did this semester?
17 Credits, plus a job as an English tutor (hello, long annoying lesson plans) plus having a lead position in the competitive Model U.N team, plus flagship, plus dance, plus GSP.

I can't right now. I just can't.

At the same time, I don't want to quit any of them because- let's face it, they're insanely fun! Stupid things, being all fun.

So, yes, haven't had much time to blog or read any of your lovely blogs. :( I know, completely terrible. Next semester I'm planning on not killing myself so- hopefully, I'll be able to get to know some of you better!

Thank you for not deleting me!
Recently I've been reading a lot of behavioral pscyhology and neuroscience based books. And, to answer your next possible question of "Why?!", or the other common question I recieve when people surreptiously glance at the cover of the novel I'm ditching them for "Is that for school or something?" To answer those questions: No, and because I wanted to.

If you'd like to know what they are or, even, why you should care- please do continue (No worries, I'll sprinkle some lovely pictures [well, lovely in my opinion] throughout.) . So, a few months ago I met with a neuroscientist to discuss my novel. Yes, I was surprised too. Honestly, how could I think that a neuroscientist would have time to talk to some freshman about a potential project that, more than likely, wouldn't even be completed? 

I suppose why he said yes will forever be one of life's mysteries or, perhaps, you could just ask him. Who knows, maybe he'd answer. The point is though, he said yes the semantics of why he found my letter interesting or, what would happen if I had chosen a different writing style or had described my novel in a different way are relatively unimportant at this point. Frankly, I'm not even sure why I took the time to write all of them- but at this point it woudl take far too much effort to subsequently delete and re-word things. 
Anyways, the purpose of this meeting was to discuss the possibilities, well, not that- I kind of had the 'possibilities' down pact- it was more of the plausiblity of those possibilities with someone who had vast amounts of knowledge. What was mean to be, at least in my mind me questioning him, quickly turned into a non-stop interview of my writing: When did I come with the idea? How? Why? How much do I write? What have I discovered? What did I think about [this] or [that]? I mean, I could not steer this guy back on track. Well, my track. He seemed to have an agenda of his own. 

Still, the talk was tremendously helpful! Through it he successfully allowed me to reach my own conclusions, conclusions that would fit my book. Is it time for a picture break? Should I split this up into two posts, maybe? I haven't even gotten to what I originally planned on talking about. O_O Man, oh man. I'm good at planning. Anyways, I'll keep half my promise. Here's a photo- of me. What a treat.