Sharpies in all colors of the rainbow.
A cold, bubbly soda to sip at through the hours.
Inside jokes between friends.
Thoughtless doodles of lines forming an intricate design.
Knowing that you can do something.
Making a fool of yourself.
Pleasant silence between friends-that-are-siblings.
Understanding the joke.
The pounding of shower water against your back.
Vibrations from the speakers playing music way too loudly.
Straight-edge punk.
Trusting in others.
Fog, low to the ground.
Really bad horror movies.
Realizing you were just smiling unconsciously.
The Kitten Treatment.
A work of art with emotional value.
Goosebumps when you hear an inspirational song.
Early morning meditation.
Feeling at peace with the world.
The fleeting joy of reading a fanfiction.
Sharing a viewpoint.
Standing at the top of a mountain, alone.
Assigning theme songs.
Rhyming and reasoning.
Rhythm and syncopation.
The urge to dance.
Laughing with others.
Reading of love.
...These are a few of my favorite things,
like warm summer-winters
and green-kissed life springs.
Like seeing yourself
scattered love-letter flings,
or awe in the fearsome
war nature's love brings.
As wedding bells toll
so Seraph ere sings,
as surely light spreads
so birds take to their wings.
And lost evermore in these words shall I be,
but simple pleasures return and set our souls free.
Wednesday, February 20, 2008
Friday, February 8, 2008
Chapter Ten: Agree to agree to disagree to agree.
Repeat until it makes sense, over and over and over like waves. Waves across what I liked enough to show to you in a moment of love, moment of bonding, breakingdownthesewallstoreachandunderstandyou...
Across The Universe.
You know what? I had hoped, stupidly maybe, that you might've ended up liking this movie. That you might see the same things in it that I do.
Instead, you say that it blatantly supports drug culture and only represents a small fraction of the population in the U.S. during the Vietnam war. "Where's the story?" you ask.
Where's the story? What do you mean where's the story? Did you fall asleep? Were you not paying attention as it told the story of a brit looking for his father and found something more, of the good girl who just wants peace, of the lesbian that wants to be accepted, of a guitarist and a singer who lose what they had and find each other? Why is that not a story?
And why is it that I cannot say these things to your face? I go from shock to speechlessness to anger to disbelief to hurt to helplessness. What help is there for those who cannot help what they know they help, they cannot, they don't know?
"It's a love story," Mom says a little disbelievingly to you.
"Love isn't a story," you reply, a little scathingly I think. I can't tell 'cause I'm trying not to cry. "Love is an event."
I don't hear anymore because I'm already gone, gone from the room and the next one over and moving as far as possible towards my refuge with tears and a face that scrunches itself unpleasantly when truly upset.
And I don't even know why what you said hurt so much, or why it feels like my hope has been crushed.
Why are you unable to accept something at face value? Why can't something be wonderful just because it is? Why is it you can't see the theme and the plot and separation and happy ending? Why does it have to present some higher statement? Why do you have to make derogatory comments on what I like? Why is it that you say that the only worthful, useful, meaningful part of the movie is when the moment is broken and her hope and trust and naiveté gone?
"I thought it was the other side that dropped the bombs."
You're fighting. I can hear. For once, I don't want to sit in the hallway and listen quietly. But it doesn't matter, because now you're both screaming and I can hear every goddamn fucking word. Can't you go somewhere else? Can't you agree to disagree? Just for once?
Now there is quiet, quiet but no crickets or birds or sound but the clacking of the keys and my heart, clacking through my heart to the keyboard to the screen to the internet of people who exist in reality. Now there are dried tears on my face and I can tell because when I blink I can feel the dried salt on my skin.
But I don't want your anger. Please?
Let me take you down 'cause I'm going to strawberry fields.
Let me take you down 'cause I'm going to strawberry fields.
Let me take you down 'cause I'm going to strawberry fields.
Across The Universe, directed by Julie Taymor, musically produced/composed by Elliot Goldenthal. Sony Pictures, Revolution Studios, Colombia Pictures.
Across The Universe.
You know what? I had hoped, stupidly maybe, that you might've ended up liking this movie. That you might see the same things in it that I do.
Instead, you say that it blatantly supports drug culture and only represents a small fraction of the population in the U.S. during the Vietnam war. "Where's the story?" you ask.
Where's the story? What do you mean where's the story? Did you fall asleep? Were you not paying attention as it told the story of a brit looking for his father and found something more, of the good girl who just wants peace, of the lesbian that wants to be accepted, of a guitarist and a singer who lose what they had and find each other? Why is that not a story?
And why is it that I cannot say these things to your face? I go from shock to speechlessness to anger to disbelief to hurt to helplessness. What help is there for those who cannot help what they know they help, they cannot, they don't know?
"It's a love story," Mom says a little disbelievingly to you.
"Love isn't a story," you reply, a little scathingly I think. I can't tell 'cause I'm trying not to cry. "Love is an event."
I don't hear anymore because I'm already gone, gone from the room and the next one over and moving as far as possible towards my refuge with tears and a face that scrunches itself unpleasantly when truly upset.
And I don't even know why what you said hurt so much, or why it feels like my hope has been crushed.
Why are you unable to accept something at face value? Why can't something be wonderful just because it is? Why is it you can't see the theme and the plot and separation and happy ending? Why does it have to present some higher statement? Why do you have to make derogatory comments on what I like? Why is it that you say that the only worthful, useful, meaningful part of the movie is when the moment is broken and her hope and trust and naiveté gone?
"I thought it was the other side that dropped the bombs."
You're fighting. I can hear. For once, I don't want to sit in the hallway and listen quietly. But it doesn't matter, because now you're both screaming and I can hear every goddamn fucking word. Can't you go somewhere else? Can't you agree to disagree? Just for once?
Now there is quiet, quiet but no crickets or birds or sound but the clacking of the keys and my heart, clacking through my heart to the keyboard to the screen to the internet of people who exist in reality. Now there are dried tears on my face and I can tell because when I blink I can feel the dried salt on my skin.
But I don't want your anger. Please?
Let me take you down 'cause I'm going to strawberry fields.
Let me take you down 'cause I'm going to strawberry fields.
Let me take you down 'cause I'm going to strawberry fields.
Across The Universe, directed by Julie Taymor, musically produced/composed by Elliot Goldenthal. Sony Pictures, Revolution Studios, Colombia Pictures.
Sunday, February 3, 2008
Chapter Nine: Tamper with my Brain.
5.30 in the morning really wasn't a good time for thinking about difficult topics, I mused. My eyes crossed and began to slowly close without me even noticing, but I soon jerked them back open and attempted a half-hearted glare at the bottle that sat not two feet away from me. I failed.
I liked my medicine, I really did. It helped. When I took it I actually felt the drive to complete things, all sorts of things. Things that normally I'd pass over in favor of more interesting (to me) pursuits. I actually completed my homework on a daily basis, and felt the energy necessary to attempt to write something, even when nothing came.
It was the side effects I wasn't so fond of. Appetite suppression caused by dry mouth? I'll pass. My stomach would grumble demandingly all day long, but every time I looked at food I had no urge to eat, not unless a soda or some water was offered to take sips of as I ate in order to get rid of the "dry mouth". There was also the constant talking; starting at about ten in the morning, I couldn't stop having conversations, and my mouth would run ahead of my mind by miles per minute.
The worst of all was the... depression? No. It wasn't depression. It was more of a lack of outward emotional displays. While I could talk and listen better than ever, the smiles that I remember used to be so frequent had almost dried up. Where was my laughter, the one that people knew? Where were the spouts of giggles when my mind thought of something hilarious, and everyone else would be left asking, 'What? What? What's so funny?' Where was the old me?
That was why I didn't like my medicine. I liked the new me, but I didn't want to lose the old me. I didn't want to let go of the late nights that were later than any before, or the attacks of 'Fangirl Epilepsy', as I liked to call it, that had me running into my brother's room giggling and babbling like an idiot before shaking my head until it rung.
It was then that an equally disturbing notion reached me. What if... people actually liked the new me better?
Sighing, I wiped away the unshed tears that had gathered in my eyes and popped open the small container. Removing one blue-and-red capsule, I swallowed it dry and replaced the cap. It didn't matter, did it? In the end, it was my education and motivation and completion of work that mattered most. Even if the cost was me.
Now, I was glad I had dyed that indigo stripe in my hair. It was a reminder of who I was, who I would have to pretend to be... for now.
After all, Mom said the side effects weren't supposed to last forever.
I liked my medicine, I really did. It helped. When I took it I actually felt the drive to complete things, all sorts of things. Things that normally I'd pass over in favor of more interesting (to me) pursuits. I actually completed my homework on a daily basis, and felt the energy necessary to attempt to write something, even when nothing came.
It was the side effects I wasn't so fond of. Appetite suppression caused by dry mouth? I'll pass. My stomach would grumble demandingly all day long, but every time I looked at food I had no urge to eat, not unless a soda or some water was offered to take sips of as I ate in order to get rid of the "dry mouth". There was also the constant talking; starting at about ten in the morning, I couldn't stop having conversations, and my mouth would run ahead of my mind by miles per minute.
The worst of all was the... depression? No. It wasn't depression. It was more of a lack of outward emotional displays. While I could talk and listen better than ever, the smiles that I remember used to be so frequent had almost dried up. Where was my laughter, the one that people knew? Where were the spouts of giggles when my mind thought of something hilarious, and everyone else would be left asking, 'What? What? What's so funny?' Where was the old me?
That was why I didn't like my medicine. I liked the new me, but I didn't want to lose the old me. I didn't want to let go of the late nights that were later than any before, or the attacks of 'Fangirl Epilepsy', as I liked to call it, that had me running into my brother's room giggling and babbling like an idiot before shaking my head until it rung.
It was then that an equally disturbing notion reached me. What if... people actually liked the new me better?
Sighing, I wiped away the unshed tears that had gathered in my eyes and popped open the small container. Removing one blue-and-red capsule, I swallowed it dry and replaced the cap. It didn't matter, did it? In the end, it was my education and motivation and completion of work that mattered most. Even if the cost was me.
Now, I was glad I had dyed that indigo stripe in my hair. It was a reminder of who I was, who I would have to pretend to be... for now.
After all, Mom said the side effects weren't supposed to last forever.
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