Not only Chem., but P.E. too. In their last year ‘together’, she had never paid particular attention to his physical abilities, and so she didn’t know how to compare to what she saw and could conclude, in this class of the now.
He was much into sports, now. Maybe he had always enjoyed them, but now not only was he happy, he was good at them. All. Not that she knew about Hockey or Tennis, but she could make assumptions.
And so he was different. Tremendously, in a physical way, but then again, socially too.
He hadn’t said hi, on Friday. Just some kind of lame smile, that seemed more a surprised frown, because of its lack of kindness. Had he seen something in her that suddenly he didn’t like? Hair, eyes, clothes? Did he suddenly hate her? What was he thinking?
Then, she felt like hitting herself as he passed, heading to the soccer field to run or something. She even had to convince herself to not stare in…awe? Why would she like to know what others were thinking? She had sufficient problems and confusion with her own thoughts already.
Someone came out of the gym door, and she was disappointed and suddenly stressed. She had prayed to not see her in any of her classes, but the office and scheduling were not in favour ,and nor were they perfect.
She approached and Kat saw the usual flaws. Long pink nails, hair so messy and so full of highlights, tight t-shirt so ironic to her gigantic curves, and her legs looking short compared to the sweats she was wearing. Walking with too much moderation, as if she was going to ruin something special that she didn’t have, if she were to move too fast. Her music on full volume, listening to something she’d wished she’d sing in some kind of lame Talent Show, in the near future.
Kat rolled her eyes and hoped for her not to notice, and felt stupid. It had been like two years of the same thing. As shy and complicated as she was, Kat planned things to say and never actually said them, because she was scared they might harm others.. Now, with this girl, she hated her, really. It was a horrible thing to say, since she was her friend and everything, but Kat had just gotten so tired of her. It was mostly because of her I-act-like-a-spoiled-but-I’m-not-one stubbornness, and her I’ve-met-worst-and-much-younger-alcoholics addiction, that she got tired of her.
She forced a smile, but was way too sad and stressed. Other than the fact that it was Monday, and an extremely bad day, the one person she truly hated and one person she truly didn’t know what to think about were in her P.E. class. Her sweat pants were too short, and so she had to leave her jeans.
“Kath!!! Kath!!!! Hon, I haven’t seen you in ages!” Veronica was excited and accelerated her speed, and hugged Kat way to hard. “How was your summer??” she asked seeming to be interested.
“You know. Basket, family, ocean. What about you?” she asked back, and yes, she wasn’t really interested. “Sucked so much. It was most of the time with my family. I was able to attend some parties, and passed out. You just couldn’t really think about how much beer can college guys chug. It’s amazing. I was like, how does he do that?”
How? Why the hell, is that so amazing?, Kat asked herself. Passing out, something she wasn’t willing to experience. It had been a tough day, but as tough as to want to pass out? Not possible.
“Parties, huh? Awesome.” she nodded and smiled, and her mouth hurt so much. Veronica then started telling her about some of the ‘beer-chuggers’ she had made, and almost got laid by. Okay, she didn’t say anything. But Kat felt witty enough as to guess.
She was bothered enough, by her babble. She was even more bothered—though she didn’t thought it possible—when Veronica decided to change the subject.
“Enough about me. What about you? Not your summer. Like, what about him and…you know…?”
Friday, February 29, 2008
Thursday, February 28, 2008
Arrival (Part 1)
“It’s complicated.” she said and left the jerk behind. Well, it was. And people had to learn to shut up and mind their own business, really. It was as if their lives were too pathetic, and so they have to become interested in others’ lives.
But she thought about it; her life was not as interesting. The thing everyone was ‘worrying’ about was something that had happened, like a thousand years ago. They were kids and they really didn’t know what they wanted and what they were doing. Unaware and ignorant kids. Usually, Kat was reprehended by her mom, whenever she criticized herself. And she did that often. It wasn’t going to end in suicide, though. She had self-control.
Sometimes she wished she’d have control over some others too.
She entered the class, and sat down. The bell rang. George sat down next to her. “Sup?” he asked simply, taking his stuff out, same as Kat. “Bad day.” Kat said in mid-sigh.
Not that her coffee had spilled on her dress, or something. She didn’t even drink coffee, because she hated caffeine and believe it didn’t really work. She didn’t even wore a dress to school. She couldn’t have woken up from the wrong side of the bed, because she was left-handed.
Turned out bad day, in school. She liked school definitely. Not that she was a nerd—okay, maybe she was—but the environment, it was good. Comfy, in a way, until today, definitely.
“What happened?” he asked. She didn’t know whether he was interested about what she felt, really, and so she kept concise. “Him.” She knew he would want a better explanation. But, later, definitely. That pronoun struck HER hard, anyway.
Him. It was last week, Friday. Who knew your whole Junior year could be ruined in just its second day, or third. Because it was certainly ruined, somehow, when someone opened the door, in Chem., and he entered cautiously.
She remembered how she felt, though she didn’t really want to. Clueless, because she didn’t know what to think or what to feel at first. Maybe it wasn’t even true. Maybe it was she sleeping and dreaming. But, she had to admit it. She had never fallen asleep in school before, and she had never drank so much alcohol as to have illusions—these kinds of illusions.
Whatever was standing on the door, and walking quite human-like towards the teacher, he had changed. Logically, he was much taller, and while she secretly thought about his age, she thought too when had been the last time she’d seen him. The 7th grade.
Coward, she thought, as she felt shivers and embarrassment spread through her body. Her face, it was hot, so she was turning red. Let nobody see, she thought. And so she lowered her head, and worked as a hypocrite. But she kept thinking about him.
She did her best to look around her desk, and see whether it was possible for him to sit next to her. All were full. That was good, right? Or did she want for him to sit next to her?
At first, she was certainly mad. Why didn’t she know he was back? Like, why the dramatic entrance in Chem.? She had the answer, unfortunately. After he went, in the 7th grade, they never really talked. Not that they couldn’t, they just didn’t want it. She felt sad and ashamed of herself. He once had been such a close friend of hers. And now, she felt, as he walked directly past her to the back, they were something worst than enemies—than the horrible couple they once had been.
Horrible might have been overreacting a bit. Not that anything seriously bad had happened. The goddamned 7th grade. Kids turned 13, and so they enter this new so-chaotic period in their lives, were they felt at the top of the world, and truly the only price they are winning is the one dealing with annoyance.
You’ve changed, Kat had to remind herself often. She certainly would have to keep it in mind, whenever she gathered enough guts and reasons to talk to him.
Then again, weekend was over, and nothing had turned out as planned. She was nervous and was certainly avoiding him, and everything to do WITH him. Then again, everything related to him expect he himself was not doing a good job avoiding her. She had suddenly become a magnet of what she hated the most. He was like banging against her at most unexpected moments in the hall, just that it was never him directly. Just some news or gossip or anything.
Did she hate him? How is it that you hated a person that you hadn’t talk to in…3 years? He had changed, certainly. But then again, what did she know? Maybe he still had that same….attitude of his. That bothered her so much. Which attitude?
She remembered. She had been molested by his form of being, but then again, she was loving it deeply. 3 years ago, she thought they were just perfect for each other. His challenging attitude, hers just the same, so unbeatable. Now she recalled with shame all these corny thoughts. It was like, what the hell had she been smoking?
But she thought about it; her life was not as interesting. The thing everyone was ‘worrying’ about was something that had happened, like a thousand years ago. They were kids and they really didn’t know what they wanted and what they were doing. Unaware and ignorant kids. Usually, Kat was reprehended by her mom, whenever she criticized herself. And she did that often. It wasn’t going to end in suicide, though. She had self-control.
Sometimes she wished she’d have control over some others too.
She entered the class, and sat down. The bell rang. George sat down next to her. “Sup?” he asked simply, taking his stuff out, same as Kat. “Bad day.” Kat said in mid-sigh.
Not that her coffee had spilled on her dress, or something. She didn’t even drink coffee, because she hated caffeine and believe it didn’t really work. She didn’t even wore a dress to school. She couldn’t have woken up from the wrong side of the bed, because she was left-handed.
Turned out bad day, in school. She liked school definitely. Not that she was a nerd—okay, maybe she was—but the environment, it was good. Comfy, in a way, until today, definitely.
“What happened?” he asked. She didn’t know whether he was interested about what she felt, really, and so she kept concise. “Him.” She knew he would want a better explanation. But, later, definitely. That pronoun struck HER hard, anyway.
Him. It was last week, Friday. Who knew your whole Junior year could be ruined in just its second day, or third. Because it was certainly ruined, somehow, when someone opened the door, in Chem., and he entered cautiously.
She remembered how she felt, though she didn’t really want to. Clueless, because she didn’t know what to think or what to feel at first. Maybe it wasn’t even true. Maybe it was she sleeping and dreaming. But, she had to admit it. She had never fallen asleep in school before, and she had never drank so much alcohol as to have illusions—these kinds of illusions.
Whatever was standing on the door, and walking quite human-like towards the teacher, he had changed. Logically, he was much taller, and while she secretly thought about his age, she thought too when had been the last time she’d seen him. The 7th grade.
Coward, she thought, as she felt shivers and embarrassment spread through her body. Her face, it was hot, so she was turning red. Let nobody see, she thought. And so she lowered her head, and worked as a hypocrite. But she kept thinking about him.
She did her best to look around her desk, and see whether it was possible for him to sit next to her. All were full. That was good, right? Or did she want for him to sit next to her?
At first, she was certainly mad. Why didn’t she know he was back? Like, why the dramatic entrance in Chem.? She had the answer, unfortunately. After he went, in the 7th grade, they never really talked. Not that they couldn’t, they just didn’t want it. She felt sad and ashamed of herself. He once had been such a close friend of hers. And now, she felt, as he walked directly past her to the back, they were something worst than enemies—than the horrible couple they once had been.
Horrible might have been overreacting a bit. Not that anything seriously bad had happened. The goddamned 7th grade. Kids turned 13, and so they enter this new so-chaotic period in their lives, were they felt at the top of the world, and truly the only price they are winning is the one dealing with annoyance.
You’ve changed, Kat had to remind herself often. She certainly would have to keep it in mind, whenever she gathered enough guts and reasons to talk to him.
Then again, weekend was over, and nothing had turned out as planned. She was nervous and was certainly avoiding him, and everything to do WITH him. Then again, everything related to him expect he himself was not doing a good job avoiding her. She had suddenly become a magnet of what she hated the most. He was like banging against her at most unexpected moments in the hall, just that it was never him directly. Just some news or gossip or anything.
Did she hate him? How is it that you hated a person that you hadn’t talk to in…3 years? He had changed, certainly. But then again, what did she know? Maybe he still had that same….attitude of his. That bothered her so much. Which attitude?
She remembered. She had been molested by his form of being, but then again, she was loving it deeply. 3 years ago, she thought they were just perfect for each other. His challenging attitude, hers just the same, so unbeatable. Now she recalled with shame all these corny thoughts. It was like, what the hell had she been smoking?
Wednesday, February 27, 2008
Liar (Poem)
The car is not here yet.
And so I wait, and the rain comes.
No sign of prompt gentlemen,
No yellow sign of Taxis.
No so-loud sound of buses,
No foolish people walking.
it’s only me.
Never had I seen
the streetlight shine so down,
or the busy cars,
to stop their mourn;
no cars at all.
The sound is small,
droplets of the cold,
dropping to a mould
in the floor.
I interrupt,
I’m not part of Nature.
Never had I been,
but today, different from another,
to be—I wasn’t as keen.
Liar.
And I wait.
The water of my eyes,
warm and painful.
The rain, I wish it’d clean,
this world so full of lies,
harm, so dull,
but it calmly falls.
I call,
it’s despair, no more.
I walk my path,
water’s galore,
No light I have,
I feel so sore;
liar.
And so I wait, and the rain comes.
No sign of prompt gentlemen,
No yellow sign of Taxis.
No so-loud sound of buses,
No foolish people walking.
it’s only me.
Never had I seen
the streetlight shine so down,
or the busy cars,
to stop their mourn;
no cars at all.
The sound is small,
droplets of the cold,
dropping to a mould
in the floor.
I interrupt,
I’m not part of Nature.
Never had I been,
but today, different from another,
to be—I wasn’t as keen.
Liar.
And I wait.
The water of my eyes,
warm and painful.
The rain, I wish it’d clean,
this world so full of lies,
harm, so dull,
but it calmly falls.
I call,
it’s despair, no more.
I walk my path,
water’s galore,
No light I have,
I feel so sore;
liar.
Tuesday, February 26, 2008
To Look Nice (Part 2)
I am not aware of the time it took for my hair to be ready. If ready is what we call hair staying in place, but willing to go somewhere. Like a child being obliged to stay inside on a sunny day. Something that requires a lot of devotion and determination. And I never thought my hair wanted to go anywhere.
I will not ever fix my hair again. I say t o myself; an indirect favour. Uncle’s wedding and you’re done. There are signs, that my head start hurting at any moment, but I pray. For what is a head ache wedding? I think optimistically as I have done so little times in my past life. The hair is better with the dress, and it won’t get frizzy.
I stand up, and so I am directed to a nearby table. I look at the mirrors as I walk, and I laugh silently and miserably about the combination between my too-sophisticated hair and last-minute pre-marriage sweat suit.
I bit my nails and so I’m ashamed as soon as another lady grabs my hands coldly and gingerly. She has highlights, unlike the first one, as it much taller. I feel her hand firm against mine. Too much ladies, and all of them are the same. What should I care about them? They work here and that’s what they do. I wonder, if they believe for them to be living monotonous lives. I wonder if, maybe, any one of them would like to, go to space someday or something. Then again, I live a monotonous live as well, and this marriage is an exception. I don’t even want to go to space.
I think of some made-up story to tell her about my nails, but it is all too fast, unlike my slow mind. She looks kind of disappointed and I feel left-out; I would’ve thought for her to already be used to nervous nail-eater teenagers. But apparently I’m one in a million.
Yes, I bite them, I add. I don’t eat them. No, I didn’t want to be that much different. There are much delights to eat and enjoy in life, compared to those. Then again, why do I bite them?
There is a box filled with utensils right there in the table, and so there is not much space. I am way to warm, but notice sadly how is it that I can’t take of my jacket. The back of my head feels as if I had just banged against one of the mirrors or something. The box so next to me is filled with things and for some I couldn’t find a logical reasons why they were there in the first place. Like some of them were just too big to do something to my nails.
I sarcastically call a silent prayer, as I scan the so much colours and possibilities of nail polish. I pray for some people; who would ever use that one, or that one?, I ask myself, and contradict myself again: sometimes people are just different from others. Some people, and most, like to keep themselves pretty and attractive. Unlike you, who would rather have frizzy hair to not feel and exaggerated pain.
It seemed as if the place wanted to please all people very much. Other than the millions of colours and polishes, there were cart-chairs for the little kids, and a wannabe T.V. The place is small, and long. It was the first time I’ve ever been in it, but my mother had said it was okay. There are no windows, expect for that one just meters away from the busy street, filled with buses and much noise. They people, too distracted in their cells, or heads to notice the place. What am I doing here?
The lady gives me much time to think and feel even miserable, and my nails look the same, and I don’t know if that’s bad or good. Seemed like a waste of time. But I am done. I can’t touch anything, and so I stand and walk around and my hands are in a position that makes me look like a notorious duck. My mom is still fixing her hair. She looks at me and smiles. She was being honest. The problem is that mothers believe their children to be so lovely, not matter how truly ugly they are. I just needed to ask more people. The monotonous ladies, they’d say yes for the money, and my sister…she was just smaller.
So I smile back, and head to the entrance, to sit near my sister and try to watch T.V. As soon as I turn back, my mom calls me a bit excited. Like if she had forgotten something, or had just realized something very funny about me. My hair?
She has forgotten of something indeed. Not that I would care.
“Wait! Waxing might be necessary, too.”
I didn’t know words could hurt as much, and I am even too afraid to cry.
I am a chicken, I admit. I wonder whether this admittance and truthfulness might change my mom’s mind. But it’s most improvable. After all, it is my uncle, her brother. His marriage. To be CHICKEN, it wasn’t an option.
This time I must walk all they way towards the end. I smell the boiling mixture, of sticky bad-prepared too-dark honey. I sigh. For my uncle.
I will not ever fix my hair again. I say t o myself; an indirect favour. Uncle’s wedding and you’re done. There are signs, that my head start hurting at any moment, but I pray. For what is a head ache wedding? I think optimistically as I have done so little times in my past life. The hair is better with the dress, and it won’t get frizzy.
I stand up, and so I am directed to a nearby table. I look at the mirrors as I walk, and I laugh silently and miserably about the combination between my too-sophisticated hair and last-minute pre-marriage sweat suit.
I bit my nails and so I’m ashamed as soon as another lady grabs my hands coldly and gingerly. She has highlights, unlike the first one, as it much taller. I feel her hand firm against mine. Too much ladies, and all of them are the same. What should I care about them? They work here and that’s what they do. I wonder, if they believe for them to be living monotonous lives. I wonder if, maybe, any one of them would like to, go to space someday or something. Then again, I live a monotonous live as well, and this marriage is an exception. I don’t even want to go to space.
I think of some made-up story to tell her about my nails, but it is all too fast, unlike my slow mind. She looks kind of disappointed and I feel left-out; I would’ve thought for her to already be used to nervous nail-eater teenagers. But apparently I’m one in a million.
Yes, I bite them, I add. I don’t eat them. No, I didn’t want to be that much different. There are much delights to eat and enjoy in life, compared to those. Then again, why do I bite them?
There is a box filled with utensils right there in the table, and so there is not much space. I am way to warm, but notice sadly how is it that I can’t take of my jacket. The back of my head feels as if I had just banged against one of the mirrors or something. The box so next to me is filled with things and for some I couldn’t find a logical reasons why they were there in the first place. Like some of them were just too big to do something to my nails.
I sarcastically call a silent prayer, as I scan the so much colours and possibilities of nail polish. I pray for some people; who would ever use that one, or that one?, I ask myself, and contradict myself again: sometimes people are just different from others. Some people, and most, like to keep themselves pretty and attractive. Unlike you, who would rather have frizzy hair to not feel and exaggerated pain.
It seemed as if the place wanted to please all people very much. Other than the millions of colours and polishes, there were cart-chairs for the little kids, and a wannabe T.V. The place is small, and long. It was the first time I’ve ever been in it, but my mother had said it was okay. There are no windows, expect for that one just meters away from the busy street, filled with buses and much noise. They people, too distracted in their cells, or heads to notice the place. What am I doing here?
The lady gives me much time to think and feel even miserable, and my nails look the same, and I don’t know if that’s bad or good. Seemed like a waste of time. But I am done. I can’t touch anything, and so I stand and walk around and my hands are in a position that makes me look like a notorious duck. My mom is still fixing her hair. She looks at me and smiles. She was being honest. The problem is that mothers believe their children to be so lovely, not matter how truly ugly they are. I just needed to ask more people. The monotonous ladies, they’d say yes for the money, and my sister…she was just smaller.
So I smile back, and head to the entrance, to sit near my sister and try to watch T.V. As soon as I turn back, my mom calls me a bit excited. Like if she had forgotten something, or had just realized something very funny about me. My hair?
She has forgotten of something indeed. Not that I would care.
“Wait! Waxing might be necessary, too.”
I didn’t know words could hurt as much, and I am even too afraid to cry.
I am a chicken, I admit. I wonder whether this admittance and truthfulness might change my mom’s mind. But it’s most improvable. After all, it is my uncle, her brother. His marriage. To be CHICKEN, it wasn’t an option.
This time I must walk all they way towards the end. I smell the boiling mixture, of sticky bad-prepared too-dark honey. I sigh. For my uncle.
Monday, February 25, 2008
To Look Nice (Part 1)
We enter the place, and I feel immediately sticky, and non-belonging. Like if I had just entered a cave filled with sleeping bears. Their snores had been replaced by the harsh and non-connecting sound of the hairdryers, though. The tension is strong, and I feel that in any moment, I would be grabbed by someone and pulled over to the fixing of doom.
And all this sacrifice for my uncle. Thank you, I say sarcastically, but then I reprehend myself. It’s for a good purpose; I’ll get my hair done, and my nails too, and then it’s over. No orgy. Seriously, I could be like lost in the jungle, or something. I’m complaining over nothing. Whiny you.
My sister has already sat down and established herself like a proper nomad, and she is now drawing on some paper she brought. Mom walks to one of the ladies, and they talk, and she seats down, and her hair is wet. She has started.
I don’t realize I am still standing up, till a short lady comes and calls me. Apparently it’s my turn as well. Fun. I am suddenly jealous of my sister, whose still sitting on the small chair, drawing her brains out.
First, I must wet my hair. The water is cold, and the lady’s nails too long. I prey hard for my head not to hurt, and I try to relax. Water is turned down. Shampoo time. Though I can’t see, I can feel for the colour to be something totally childish and inappropriate, and the odour is strong and I close my nostrils as fast as possible, to avoid dizziness.
When the washing is over, I get up, and the lady brings me a vine-coloured towel, that doesn’t adapt to my head that good. The cold water drips on my shoulders and the droplets rush against my back. I stand straight. I walk towards the chair I’m signalled to.
Once I’m seating down, I look upfront. In the mirror, it’s very weird me, with a pink shirt and the towel. In the desk, there are all sorts of things. Hair pins, brushes, certainly unneeded creams and sprays that increase global warming.
The sound is making me dizzy. I study the colour of my assigned hairdryer; yellow, like the shampoo. It has many buttons, and it’s scary. There is one big red button, as in ‘Do not Touch’. The lady does whatsoever and the thing burst to miserable life.
Though I can’t move my head, I do, and look around. I feel left out, certainly. Back in the bear cave. Around me there is more ladies, and surprisingly some men, and they are attacking the clients’ hair, and the clients don’t seem to care. Monotonous. But they are brave too. I must move my head, or else I swear I’ll get burned. I am offered a drink, but I say no, to not be nice. I am offered a magazine, but I brought my own book, supposedly. I read books, anyway.
And all this sacrifice for my uncle. Thank you, I say sarcastically, but then I reprehend myself. It’s for a good purpose; I’ll get my hair done, and my nails too, and then it’s over. No orgy. Seriously, I could be like lost in the jungle, or something. I’m complaining over nothing. Whiny you.
My sister has already sat down and established herself like a proper nomad, and she is now drawing on some paper she brought. Mom walks to one of the ladies, and they talk, and she seats down, and her hair is wet. She has started.
I don’t realize I am still standing up, till a short lady comes and calls me. Apparently it’s my turn as well. Fun. I am suddenly jealous of my sister, whose still sitting on the small chair, drawing her brains out.
First, I must wet my hair. The water is cold, and the lady’s nails too long. I prey hard for my head not to hurt, and I try to relax. Water is turned down. Shampoo time. Though I can’t see, I can feel for the colour to be something totally childish and inappropriate, and the odour is strong and I close my nostrils as fast as possible, to avoid dizziness.
When the washing is over, I get up, and the lady brings me a vine-coloured towel, that doesn’t adapt to my head that good. The cold water drips on my shoulders and the droplets rush against my back. I stand straight. I walk towards the chair I’m signalled to.
Once I’m seating down, I look upfront. In the mirror, it’s very weird me, with a pink shirt and the towel. In the desk, there are all sorts of things. Hair pins, brushes, certainly unneeded creams and sprays that increase global warming.
The sound is making me dizzy. I study the colour of my assigned hairdryer; yellow, like the shampoo. It has many buttons, and it’s scary. There is one big red button, as in ‘Do not Touch’. The lady does whatsoever and the thing burst to miserable life.
Though I can’t move my head, I do, and look around. I feel left out, certainly. Back in the bear cave. Around me there is more ladies, and surprisingly some men, and they are attacking the clients’ hair, and the clients don’t seem to care. Monotonous. But they are brave too. I must move my head, or else I swear I’ll get burned. I am offered a drink, but I say no, to not be nice. I am offered a magazine, but I brought my own book, supposedly. I read books, anyway.
Friday, February 22, 2008
At the Door (Part 3)
His face turned into a weird expression. I couldn’t even see, whether he was mad or confused. So I let him speak. “What makes you think I’m doing this because I don’t wanna be a loser? What if it’s for fun?”
“Fun? What do you know about fun? Anyway, it’s a bet, isn’t it?” I tried to roll my eyes, and pretend to be a total teenager. For a moment I thought that I was wanting to flirt with the guy, but then, it sounded more as if it was abuse. So I stopped and came back to my too-mature-to-be-liked self.
“Much more than you think, I guess. I accepted this bet because I thought it was fun.”
He was a teenager, and he was believing himself to know much more than me. Probably one of the reasons why I never was interested in having kids. He was a man, or soon to be one, and so I made the logical connections: they feel they know better than you.
“Certainly no, if you call it fun, to go around Girl Scouting in front of people’s doors.”
I sounded mean, that I knew. But then again, this was kind of fun, I had to admit. It’s not every day that you encounter a teenage boy dressed in funny clothes, in your front door. “So, what do you like to do, to have fun?” he said in a intimidating tone, and maybe I would’ve been intimidated if this had happened when I was 4 years old. Then again, people in those times were too lame and monotonous to even make a relationship between the term ‘Girl Scout’ and ‘boy’. God, was I old. How long ago?
Fun. I admit myself to not be much of a social person. Like one of those weirdos that much that prefers seating and reading by the fire than talking or partying with people. Problem was, that this place was too hot for a fire, and that, well, the people were as ‘social’ as me. In my past, there were only two things: jump rope, and ball. So much fun.
“None of your business.” I snapped. Which for the witty, it might have sounded something similar to I am too old to have fun and I don’t do anything fun and I don’t want to tell you about it. I prayed hard for the guy to be stupid. But then again, I didn’t so much.
He didn’t gave up. “Well, I believe we have a very different concept of fun, don’t we.” he stood in a position and he looked—or tried to look—demeaning. But who was he to demean me? The New Generation?
“Yes, we do.” I said quietly. I narrowed my eyes and tried the ‘demeaning thing’ myself. He was sort of smiling. I appreciated this; “Hey, I know we hate each other and everything, but any other teenager would’ve gone running already, laughing his butt off at the crazy lady. You’re a different case. You still want to sell those cookies?” He nodded, but didn’t seem as interested in selling those, as any other Girl Scout would have.
I thought about something crazy. “You drink tea? Or maybe you are just too good for it?” I couldn’t believe myself at first, that I was gesturing him to come in. Mom and Ms. Gibbs would’ve laughed if someone told them that someday I would be gesturing a male to come in my house. I admit I was never interested. Not that I was interested in…females, just that I liked to…live alone and not wake up because of hard snoring, or intense deodorant odour. Or burned wannabe pancakes. I could take care of myself.
“I like tea. I believe though I’m too good to hang out with a 40 year old.”
So, kids these days have good comebacks. “Watch it kiddo, it’s 35.” I teased. It was more around 40, whatsoever. Was I really that old? “I’m sorry mom.” he teased back and came inside.
“Fun? What do you know about fun? Anyway, it’s a bet, isn’t it?” I tried to roll my eyes, and pretend to be a total teenager. For a moment I thought that I was wanting to flirt with the guy, but then, it sounded more as if it was abuse. So I stopped and came back to my too-mature-to-be-liked self.
“Much more than you think, I guess. I accepted this bet because I thought it was fun.”
He was a teenager, and he was believing himself to know much more than me. Probably one of the reasons why I never was interested in having kids. He was a man, or soon to be one, and so I made the logical connections: they feel they know better than you.
“Certainly no, if you call it fun, to go around Girl Scouting in front of people’s doors.”
I sounded mean, that I knew. But then again, this was kind of fun, I had to admit. It’s not every day that you encounter a teenage boy dressed in funny clothes, in your front door. “So, what do you like to do, to have fun?” he said in a intimidating tone, and maybe I would’ve been intimidated if this had happened when I was 4 years old. Then again, people in those times were too lame and monotonous to even make a relationship between the term ‘Girl Scout’ and ‘boy’. God, was I old. How long ago?
Fun. I admit myself to not be much of a social person. Like one of those weirdos that much that prefers seating and reading by the fire than talking or partying with people. Problem was, that this place was too hot for a fire, and that, well, the people were as ‘social’ as me. In my past, there were only two things: jump rope, and ball. So much fun.
“None of your business.” I snapped. Which for the witty, it might have sounded something similar to I am too old to have fun and I don’t do anything fun and I don’t want to tell you about it. I prayed hard for the guy to be stupid. But then again, I didn’t so much.
He didn’t gave up. “Well, I believe we have a very different concept of fun, don’t we.” he stood in a position and he looked—or tried to look—demeaning. But who was he to demean me? The New Generation?
“Yes, we do.” I said quietly. I narrowed my eyes and tried the ‘demeaning thing’ myself. He was sort of smiling. I appreciated this; “Hey, I know we hate each other and everything, but any other teenager would’ve gone running already, laughing his butt off at the crazy lady. You’re a different case. You still want to sell those cookies?” He nodded, but didn’t seem as interested in selling those, as any other Girl Scout would have.
I thought about something crazy. “You drink tea? Or maybe you are just too good for it?” I couldn’t believe myself at first, that I was gesturing him to come in. Mom and Ms. Gibbs would’ve laughed if someone told them that someday I would be gesturing a male to come in my house. I admit I was never interested. Not that I was interested in…females, just that I liked to…live alone and not wake up because of hard snoring, or intense deodorant odour. Or burned wannabe pancakes. I could take care of myself.
“I like tea. I believe though I’m too good to hang out with a 40 year old.”
So, kids these days have good comebacks. “Watch it kiddo, it’s 35.” I teased. It was more around 40, whatsoever. Was I really that old? “I’m sorry mom.” he teased back and came inside.
Thursday, February 21, 2008
Amid Gloom and Jungle (In Class)
The climate had first bothered me, but now it was really affecting me. The humidity and unstableness of the place were an influence, too. The ecosystem itself was something amazing, and there was so much green and variety, and it was beautiful. But its niceness was gone after being in it for about…what was it? My stupidity amazed me. Okay, maybe it wasn’t that I was stupid. Maybe it was reasonable to start forgetting about your past when the present and the near future completely suck. And I had been stuck in the present long enough to believe my past to be some sort of dream.
And so as I made progress through the jungle—or I hoped to—I tried hard enough to ignore everything that was molesting me. But the humidity made my clothes stick to my body with such pressure and determination, and the heat was something like I’ve never felt before.
I didn’t have to anyway. I used to live in the city, where the weather was everything but warm and sticky. If it ever annoyed me, was because it was certainly too cold. Not that that worried me too much. If you’re cold, you might as well stick around in your house and drink hot chocolate and sleep like a bear till cold’s over. Now, that’s something you can’t do with the heat. Unless you’re valiant enough to take off your clothes in whichever place you happen to be, when heat strikes.
I looked around. There wasn’t anyone around that I was aware of, and so I could take my clothes off…just that I didn’t want. It’s not my fault that I’ve been living all my life clad and I’ve gotten used to it. Not my fault either that I didn’t want to feel all Tarzan-like.
All my life. I sat down on a nearby trunk, and tried to feel its texture as if it were a welcoming and comforting first class airplane seat or something. I tried to ignore its roughness, and the fact that trunks are home to more than a thousand bugs each. Relax, Relax. Anyway, I believe I don’t deserve the life I got. Why did I get did? Bad luck, I guess. Cause I wasn’t and bad. I’m still not that bad. I went to church on Sundays, and I did social work whenever I was asked to. I think I’m pretty average. Compared to the rest of the world, there are billions of people that give a damn of charity or the less fortunate. I cared, and I thought about them. Hell, I did. I was never, too, a great consumer. I placed my socks and shirts in the same drawer, and I never brought crackers or gum just because I felt like. I did my own laundry, and people said I smelled funny.
I never did marry anyone. But that is more of a personal choice, rather than a reason to punish someone. Who would’ve wanted to punish me? I was never mean to anyone, except to the people that tried to steal my lunch in the Elementary School. I think about them. What’s of their lives? What have they been up to? Robbers, I say. Because all their money, they ate it. And so, if robbers, why aren’t they punished?
Women, maybe. The women who were secretly in love with me. Who? I laugh a little. The women that ‘loved’ me, maybe they wanted to punish me, because I didn’t marry any of them. As if they cared. They all liked someone else. They were probably married already to that someone how’s karma hadn’t been as badass as mine.
Suddenly, I remember. 14 years. And so I depress myself being logical. In 14 years, millions of babies were born, and infants became notorious teenagers. People died. Someone whose determination is infinite might have been able to cure cancer. Maybe there were people living in Mars already. Maybe humanity had discovered some other long lost place, or invented a bug repellent that actually worked. Perhaps carrots and cows had become extinct, and now people had to find other ways in which they could eat calcium. New elements might have been discovered, and in places were density is not as abundant as in the jungle, maybe, just maybe, gravity had decreased. In 14 years, it was probable that Global Warming had done sufficient effect on Miami, flooding half of it. Maybe California was known as Lake California. Maybe, my sister had found a man that she loved.
No, she didn’t. I’m glad I remember my sister. I admit she was the one, her face, who encouraged all this. The escape, the force, energy and determination I had needed. She had guided until now. But, for the instant present, I was seating on the comfy trunk, trying to find warmth and happiness within my messed head.
The last time I saw her, she as 19. She was totally reckless, and didn’t even try to play hard to get, because she was. Studies were 3rd on the list, just beneath party and list-making. I remembered I was mad at her because I was studying and the odor of a burned surprise birthday cake had filled in the house. It was my birthday, and yes, I had an exam the next day. Talking about bad-timing, of either my stupid teacher, or my mom. She got even angrier, and said that she was trying so hard, and that I was being mean to her. She wasn’t the best cook, and everything she did was too lastly. Last time I checked, customs and history didn’t make salty birthday cakes.
I think about it now. I’m too old and wasted-up to cry in despair. But I think. How I would like for my life and death and resurrection to smell of that cake, rather than be filled with never-ending solitude—and godamn heat.
Heat was good when we were in the beach, in vacations, and she would chase me around with some hideous creature at hand. Surprisingly, she was manlier that I was, because I never dared to touch one of those. I want to, now. She seldom cried and felt sad, but when she did, it was something similar to like the end of the world. She would bang her head—against her pillow, thank god, but tears flushed down her face for a long time. Unlike me, because I felt sad many times, yet I never dried as much as she did. It was certainly more of an inner thing going on.
The day that happened, we walked towards campus, and she headed up faster, because she had seen a group of her friends, and she wanted to chat. I lit a cigarette, and kept going at my own pace, looking nowhere interesting. Then, a car stopped beside me on the sidewalk, and I was something, and I didn’t remember what. Next thing I know I am in the jungle, laying on the floor, feeling insects crawling all over me, in such an uncomfortable position. I seat up, and there are people around me. Their clothes are ripped off, or almost, but the gloom in their faces is what I care about the most. It makes me feel hopeless. I only need to glance at the small house beside me, with men in green uniforms inside it, laughing, to realize where I am.
Traffic around college was never abundant, and I’m glad I remember. It probably was the reason why it was so easy for that car to stop and attack someone. Because there usually wasn’t much spectators around.
And so as I made progress through the jungle—or I hoped to—I tried hard enough to ignore everything that was molesting me. But the humidity made my clothes stick to my body with such pressure and determination, and the heat was something like I’ve never felt before.
I didn’t have to anyway. I used to live in the city, where the weather was everything but warm and sticky. If it ever annoyed me, was because it was certainly too cold. Not that that worried me too much. If you’re cold, you might as well stick around in your house and drink hot chocolate and sleep like a bear till cold’s over. Now, that’s something you can’t do with the heat. Unless you’re valiant enough to take off your clothes in whichever place you happen to be, when heat strikes.
I looked around. There wasn’t anyone around that I was aware of, and so I could take my clothes off…just that I didn’t want. It’s not my fault that I’ve been living all my life clad and I’ve gotten used to it. Not my fault either that I didn’t want to feel all Tarzan-like.
All my life. I sat down on a nearby trunk, and tried to feel its texture as if it were a welcoming and comforting first class airplane seat or something. I tried to ignore its roughness, and the fact that trunks are home to more than a thousand bugs each. Relax, Relax. Anyway, I believe I don’t deserve the life I got. Why did I get did? Bad luck, I guess. Cause I wasn’t and bad. I’m still not that bad. I went to church on Sundays, and I did social work whenever I was asked to. I think I’m pretty average. Compared to the rest of the world, there are billions of people that give a damn of charity or the less fortunate. I cared, and I thought about them. Hell, I did. I was never, too, a great consumer. I placed my socks and shirts in the same drawer, and I never brought crackers or gum just because I felt like. I did my own laundry, and people said I smelled funny.
I never did marry anyone. But that is more of a personal choice, rather than a reason to punish someone. Who would’ve wanted to punish me? I was never mean to anyone, except to the people that tried to steal my lunch in the Elementary School. I think about them. What’s of their lives? What have they been up to? Robbers, I say. Because all their money, they ate it. And so, if robbers, why aren’t they punished?
Women, maybe. The women who were secretly in love with me. Who? I laugh a little. The women that ‘loved’ me, maybe they wanted to punish me, because I didn’t marry any of them. As if they cared. They all liked someone else. They were probably married already to that someone how’s karma hadn’t been as badass as mine.
Suddenly, I remember. 14 years. And so I depress myself being logical. In 14 years, millions of babies were born, and infants became notorious teenagers. People died. Someone whose determination is infinite might have been able to cure cancer. Maybe there were people living in Mars already. Maybe humanity had discovered some other long lost place, or invented a bug repellent that actually worked. Perhaps carrots and cows had become extinct, and now people had to find other ways in which they could eat calcium. New elements might have been discovered, and in places were density is not as abundant as in the jungle, maybe, just maybe, gravity had decreased. In 14 years, it was probable that Global Warming had done sufficient effect on Miami, flooding half of it. Maybe California was known as Lake California. Maybe, my sister had found a man that she loved.
No, she didn’t. I’m glad I remember my sister. I admit she was the one, her face, who encouraged all this. The escape, the force, energy and determination I had needed. She had guided until now. But, for the instant present, I was seating on the comfy trunk, trying to find warmth and happiness within my messed head.
The last time I saw her, she as 19. She was totally reckless, and didn’t even try to play hard to get, because she was. Studies were 3rd on the list, just beneath party and list-making. I remembered I was mad at her because I was studying and the odor of a burned surprise birthday cake had filled in the house. It was my birthday, and yes, I had an exam the next day. Talking about bad-timing, of either my stupid teacher, or my mom. She got even angrier, and said that she was trying so hard, and that I was being mean to her. She wasn’t the best cook, and everything she did was too lastly. Last time I checked, customs and history didn’t make salty birthday cakes.
I think about it now. I’m too old and wasted-up to cry in despair. But I think. How I would like for my life and death and resurrection to smell of that cake, rather than be filled with never-ending solitude—and godamn heat.
Heat was good when we were in the beach, in vacations, and she would chase me around with some hideous creature at hand. Surprisingly, she was manlier that I was, because I never dared to touch one of those. I want to, now. She seldom cried and felt sad, but when she did, it was something similar to like the end of the world. She would bang her head—against her pillow, thank god, but tears flushed down her face for a long time. Unlike me, because I felt sad many times, yet I never dried as much as she did. It was certainly more of an inner thing going on.
The day that happened, we walked towards campus, and she headed up faster, because she had seen a group of her friends, and she wanted to chat. I lit a cigarette, and kept going at my own pace, looking nowhere interesting. Then, a car stopped beside me on the sidewalk, and I was something, and I didn’t remember what. Next thing I know I am in the jungle, laying on the floor, feeling insects crawling all over me, in such an uncomfortable position. I seat up, and there are people around me. Their clothes are ripped off, or almost, but the gloom in their faces is what I care about the most. It makes me feel hopeless. I only need to glance at the small house beside me, with men in green uniforms inside it, laughing, to realize where I am.
Traffic around college was never abundant, and I’m glad I remember. It probably was the reason why it was so easy for that car to stop and attack someone. Because there usually wasn’t much spectators around.
Wednesday, February 20, 2008
At the Door (Part 2)
“So, em, hey, good morning.” he said simply. No. Actually, he was nervous. It looked as if it had taken a lot of time, for him to build this sentence. “Good Morning.” I said back. Congratulations, I thought of saying. You have been able to say hi. Now, keep the conversation going and explain, please and thank you.
More silence. But he moved around a little, in that same position. Though I wasn’t much of a patient person, I waited. My hands started sweating, and it felt like years. I felt like if I was about to blurt something, anytime.
The pins in his shirt were shining right into my eye, like if he wanted to make me uncomfortable. I wondered if the cookies were melt-proof. They looked okay. Though I didn’t really want to, I fixated on his face. His eyes were blue and small and his nose was both pointy, but round. He was thin, or his face was. It looked like if he never had tried on of those cookies. Like all he did was cook and sell them, but never try them. Did he even cook them?
“I—I just wanted to see if you were, like interested in buying some of these. For funds and stuff.” he said. He beamed a bit. Like if he was seductive or something. I rolled my eyes. What funds and stuff did a teenager have? And why would he want to cover these funds by selling cookies? Weren’t there more decent things that a guy to do for money?
“Hey, you’re like 15 years old and you’re selling cookies in those.” I was referring to his clothes. “What is up?” I blurted out. I had to. I’m usually not mean but might get desperate until I have my answers. It’s like he hadn’t realize, that is was just weird for him to wear girly stuff and walk around normal people’s houses. Say, mine.
I hoped, then, I hadn’t hurt the kid. Then again, I was being mean to a teenager, not a Girl Scout. He chuckled nervously. “Yeah, about that…well, it’s a bet.” he said reasonably. As if it was self-explanatory. “A bet?” I asked. I didn’t know whether I was interested, but I did wanted to know why had he ended up in my door—and not Ms. Gibbs.
“That I have to go sell cookies, like an embarrassing bet?” Now he was thinking I was sort of stupid. “Yes, yes, I know what you mean. Why do you do it? It’s not like you have to.” I was logical. Well, he didn’t have to. Not like his life depended on selling cookies. It was not implied or written or anything in his destiny. And those teenager games, like Truth or Dare, it was all just pathetic. They felt they had to, unless you were like a loser.
“You know, I would much rather be like a loser than hang around this neighbourhood in funny clothes. What is it that kids do for status these days?” This last bit I said to myself. I thought about my past. God, had I really been that stupid? I hoped not.
More silence. But he moved around a little, in that same position. Though I wasn’t much of a patient person, I waited. My hands started sweating, and it felt like years. I felt like if I was about to blurt something, anytime.
The pins in his shirt were shining right into my eye, like if he wanted to make me uncomfortable. I wondered if the cookies were melt-proof. They looked okay. Though I didn’t really want to, I fixated on his face. His eyes were blue and small and his nose was both pointy, but round. He was thin, or his face was. It looked like if he never had tried on of those cookies. Like all he did was cook and sell them, but never try them. Did he even cook them?
“I—I just wanted to see if you were, like interested in buying some of these. For funds and stuff.” he said. He beamed a bit. Like if he was seductive or something. I rolled my eyes. What funds and stuff did a teenager have? And why would he want to cover these funds by selling cookies? Weren’t there more decent things that a guy to do for money?
“Hey, you’re like 15 years old and you’re selling cookies in those.” I was referring to his clothes. “What is up?” I blurted out. I had to. I’m usually not mean but might get desperate until I have my answers. It’s like he hadn’t realize, that is was just weird for him to wear girly stuff and walk around normal people’s houses. Say, mine.
I hoped, then, I hadn’t hurt the kid. Then again, I was being mean to a teenager, not a Girl Scout. He chuckled nervously. “Yeah, about that…well, it’s a bet.” he said reasonably. As if it was self-explanatory. “A bet?” I asked. I didn’t know whether I was interested, but I did wanted to know why had he ended up in my door—and not Ms. Gibbs.
“That I have to go sell cookies, like an embarrassing bet?” Now he was thinking I was sort of stupid. “Yes, yes, I know what you mean. Why do you do it? It’s not like you have to.” I was logical. Well, he didn’t have to. Not like his life depended on selling cookies. It was not implied or written or anything in his destiny. And those teenager games, like Truth or Dare, it was all just pathetic. They felt they had to, unless you were like a loser.
“You know, I would much rather be like a loser than hang around this neighbourhood in funny clothes. What is it that kids do for status these days?” This last bit I said to myself. I thought about my past. God, had I really been that stupid? I hoped not.
Tuesday, February 19, 2008
At the Door (Part 1)
I opened the door, and hoped for it not to be Ms. Gibbs. She used to knock on the door all the time, and she would walk all the way from her house, at the end of the block, to my house, so I could open her jar of pickles or something. She chose me because unlike most of the people there, I was actually nice, and preferred to hide my emotions than being mean to people.
But no Ms. Gibbs today, no. It wasn’t the cat either, who would accidentally crashed against the door following some dumb butterfly or delicious bird. Today, there was a man standing at the door.
He wasn’t so much a man, though. He looked more like a teenager, because his hair was not yet ugly and white, and because he seemed nervous and embarrassed. Why would he?
Ah, probably because he was dressed up bizarrely. Believe it or not, this guy was wearing something similar to a Girl Scouts’ outfit. No, maybe he was wearing one of those things. It was pathetic enough, and it wasn’t even pink. But there was an unnecessary hat un top of his head, and he had pins all over the uniform. Proud to be a Girl Scout.
His hairy legs didn’t look fantastic with those tiny short of his, and he was just missing an allergy to look absolutely gross. The laces of his preppy and shiny boots were untied, what made him looked clumsy, even when standing still. His posture didn’t help, either. The socks were a darker brown than the rest of the uniform, and one was up straight while the other was rugged at the bottom, covering the boot’s neck.
Other than the fact that he didn’t have a squirrel resting on his shoulder, he was holding a tray. It was nothing fancy, nothing that would’ve been stolen from his mom, or anything. But there were cookies in the tray.
Handmade? Unfortunately, not many Girl Scouts have visited my front porch, and so I haven’t learned to distinguish between a handmade cookie and a ‘real’ one. Not like the odor was fascinating; I wasn’t hungry, and so I didn’t feel any urge to eat one of those. They looked burned and hard to chew, and the supposed decoration un top was rotting them instead. No, thank you.
I tried to laugh. Or at least tried to think that this was funny. But, no. It was weird. This probably only happens to me, I thought. What does he want? Should I get my money…? Maybe, it was all one big laugh, because, what normal teenage BOY dresses up in THIS outfit and knocks on doors and hopes to make a profit out of it…? But maybe, he wasn’t looking for money. Maybe he wasn’t normal. Maybe he had problems. For a crazy second, I felt sorry for him, and wanted to be nice and take him inside and be some kind of wannabe psychologist.
I was messing up my mind, and finally stopped when Girl Scout dude said something.
But no Ms. Gibbs today, no. It wasn’t the cat either, who would accidentally crashed against the door following some dumb butterfly or delicious bird. Today, there was a man standing at the door.
He wasn’t so much a man, though. He looked more like a teenager, because his hair was not yet ugly and white, and because he seemed nervous and embarrassed. Why would he?
Ah, probably because he was dressed up bizarrely. Believe it or not, this guy was wearing something similar to a Girl Scouts’ outfit. No, maybe he was wearing one of those things. It was pathetic enough, and it wasn’t even pink. But there was an unnecessary hat un top of his head, and he had pins all over the uniform. Proud to be a Girl Scout.
His hairy legs didn’t look fantastic with those tiny short of his, and he was just missing an allergy to look absolutely gross. The laces of his preppy and shiny boots were untied, what made him looked clumsy, even when standing still. His posture didn’t help, either. The socks were a darker brown than the rest of the uniform, and one was up straight while the other was rugged at the bottom, covering the boot’s neck.
Other than the fact that he didn’t have a squirrel resting on his shoulder, he was holding a tray. It was nothing fancy, nothing that would’ve been stolen from his mom, or anything. But there were cookies in the tray.
Handmade? Unfortunately, not many Girl Scouts have visited my front porch, and so I haven’t learned to distinguish between a handmade cookie and a ‘real’ one. Not like the odor was fascinating; I wasn’t hungry, and so I didn’t feel any urge to eat one of those. They looked burned and hard to chew, and the supposed decoration un top was rotting them instead. No, thank you.
I tried to laugh. Or at least tried to think that this was funny. But, no. It was weird. This probably only happens to me, I thought. What does he want? Should I get my money…? Maybe, it was all one big laugh, because, what normal teenage BOY dresses up in THIS outfit and knocks on doors and hopes to make a profit out of it…? But maybe, he wasn’t looking for money. Maybe he wasn’t normal. Maybe he had problems. For a crazy second, I felt sorry for him, and wanted to be nice and take him inside and be some kind of wannabe psychologist.
I was messing up my mind, and finally stopped when Girl Scout dude said something.
Monday, February 18, 2008
Almonds in my Hand (Poem)
Thought they’d come in handy,
but hardly—
he was so into whatever else
that nor would his favourite treat
make him stop that babble,
telling me—I am dead meat.
Yet I think it wasn’t all in vain,
the sweat and treat sustained,
since what they say,
the ones maybe sane,
that you learn something everyday,
and that day—or night I learned
that anger was preferred,
leaving almonds—behind.
While he spoke in rage and anger,
the treat—each time greater,
found a sweet appeal towards my hands,
and a new-born sweat.
Cause melting jovially away,
were the almonds in my hand
and I’d be glad—or mad,
that never did I hear,
some kind of biased paper
headline, news or TV maker
too keen
to name
almonds healthy to your skin.
but hardly—
he was so into whatever else
that nor would his favourite treat
make him stop that babble,
telling me—I am dead meat.
Yet I think it wasn’t all in vain,
the sweat and treat sustained,
since what they say,
the ones maybe sane,
that you learn something everyday,
and that day—or night I learned
that anger was preferred,
leaving almonds—behind.
While he spoke in rage and anger,
the treat—each time greater,
found a sweet appeal towards my hands,
and a new-born sweat.
Cause melting jovially away,
were the almonds in my hand
and I’d be glad—or mad,
that never did I hear,
some kind of biased paper
headline, news or TV maker
too keen
to name
almonds healthy to your skin.
Friday, February 15, 2008
Music and Bugs (Part 3)
“Catching a Beatle requires a lot of determination and intelligence.", she pretended to read. "First, the individual must be sure that he is capable of comitting a crime, such as calling a famous singer his property, and prohibiting him freedom. Hey, are you sure you wanna do it? I mean I didn’t know you were such a fan.” She laughed to herself. This was fun, the torturing-someone-else game in revenge.
She knew the guy never actually meant whatever he said, anyway. It was all one big laugh, or something. Now, she was the one enjoying life. “Hey—please—just damn look.” he said with ease and looked for something handy under the bed. But she started doing something that he would’ve liked a couple of seconds ago, that now was only stressing.
“We all live in the Yellow Submarine, Yellow Submarine….” she sand softly, but loud enough for him to hear. She giggled a couple of times, and kept working, while he banged his head hard with a corner of his bed. Enough.
He approached her with anger and head ache, and placed both of his hands in her head, and made her turn around. She turned around immediately. He was going to sya something loud and frustrated, but it was too late.
“A bug, see??!?!! A Beeeeetle. One big, amazing—” Bug, that was flying away. That had stood and maintained long enough at his window, but had had enough, and now was flying away, and they didn’t even try to catch it.
As it took out his wings and ascended from the window border, he started shutting up, and thought that convincing her was not as important anymore. It mattered more that their only chance of getting a decent grade was flying away from them, after they had had so much time to just think and grab it.
She had a chance to look at its size, and kept gazing at it while he fled away. Minutes passed. He finally noticed his hands were still covering her cheeks and ears, and so he removed them. They both were glancing at the window, so speechless.
It was awkward. But deep inside, he knew he had been right since the beginning, and now she was the one fooled. Not that he cared too much about his grades, or anything. Not as much as she did, at least.
He threw himself on his bed and glanced around. He saw how she opened her mouth, but just couldn’t speak. “Why the hell didn’t you, like…catch it?” she said with difficulty, and he was amazed at all the anger she was willing to hide.
“But I told you. How was I supposed to know how to catch it? What if it was like poisonous or somethin’?” Truth was, he didn’t really care, if the bug was dangerous or not. “I just read it! Common beetles are not poisonous!! Weren’t you like listening to me?” She was still annoyed. “No, sorry, I was too occupied admiring its grandness.” He couldn’t help but laugh a bit. Gotcha, fool.
“And so why didn’t you catch it??? It was like a one in a million bug, retard! And I ask again, were the hell are we going to get beetles?” she sighed harshly, and sat down on the chair. She rolled her eyes, and looked as if she was going to nag her head against the desk soon enough. He stood up calmly, whatsoever, and walked towards her, and placed his hand gently on her shoulder. “Hey, Let it Be.”
She knew the guy never actually meant whatever he said, anyway. It was all one big laugh, or something. Now, she was the one enjoying life. “Hey—please—just damn look.” he said with ease and looked for something handy under the bed. But she started doing something that he would’ve liked a couple of seconds ago, that now was only stressing.
“We all live in the Yellow Submarine, Yellow Submarine….” she sand softly, but loud enough for him to hear. She giggled a couple of times, and kept working, while he banged his head hard with a corner of his bed. Enough.
He approached her with anger and head ache, and placed both of his hands in her head, and made her turn around. She turned around immediately. He was going to sya something loud and frustrated, but it was too late.
“A bug, see??!?!! A Beeeeetle. One big, amazing—” Bug, that was flying away. That had stood and maintained long enough at his window, but had had enough, and now was flying away, and they didn’t even try to catch it.
As it took out his wings and ascended from the window border, he started shutting up, and thought that convincing her was not as important anymore. It mattered more that their only chance of getting a decent grade was flying away from them, after they had had so much time to just think and grab it.
She had a chance to look at its size, and kept gazing at it while he fled away. Minutes passed. He finally noticed his hands were still covering her cheeks and ears, and so he removed them. They both were glancing at the window, so speechless.
It was awkward. But deep inside, he knew he had been right since the beginning, and now she was the one fooled. Not that he cared too much about his grades, or anything. Not as much as she did, at least.
He threw himself on his bed and glanced around. He saw how she opened her mouth, but just couldn’t speak. “Why the hell didn’t you, like…catch it?” she said with difficulty, and he was amazed at all the anger she was willing to hide.
“But I told you. How was I supposed to know how to catch it? What if it was like poisonous or somethin’?” Truth was, he didn’t really care, if the bug was dangerous or not. “I just read it! Common beetles are not poisonous!! Weren’t you like listening to me?” She was still annoyed. “No, sorry, I was too occupied admiring its grandness.” He couldn’t help but laugh a bit. Gotcha, fool.
“And so why didn’t you catch it??? It was like a one in a million bug, retard! And I ask again, were the hell are we going to get beetles?” she sighed harshly, and sat down on the chair. She rolled her eyes, and looked as if she was going to nag her head against the desk soon enough. He stood up calmly, whatsoever, and walked towards her, and placed his hand gently on her shoulder. “Hey, Let it Be.”
Thursday, February 14, 2008
Story (In class, part 2)
Perhaps I was already falling asleep. Maybe it wasn’t true. Maybe the girl that was stepping out of the car was Gilda approaching me, or something. But this girl had blond hair, unlike my sister. She was fast, and angry. She headed to the back of the car, and opened the trunk, took out her bag, surprisingly not as big, and closed it with rage. She screamed at the driver, something that I couldn’t understand. All I knew was that she was mad, and that she had stopped in front of my house, and she was going to stay here.
They shouted some more at each other; the driver was a man, and his age seemed similar to the girl. They were just a bit older than my sister Gilda. I pictured it: Gilda could’ve been the one driving the car.
The guy said something else and then, left. He actually left her behind. Now there was someone standing in my front yard—if you consider it to be a yard—, looking at me. The expression I first saw in her eyes, worry. That was probably because of the fact that she had just been left here, in the middle of nowhere. I didn’t know was it is that she was going to think about this place, cause to be honest, not many people plan on visiting us. My mom and dad rarely speak about their families, and so we have only our neighbors and ourselves.
I was instantly worried, too. We had no space, time, or food for another person, especially someone like her. I had a chance to see her better, once she was standing up, out of the car. Other than her long and blond hair, she looked different than all of us, like the first person I’ve ever seen with light-colored eyes. She was sweating, and so I could conclude that from where she came from, the climate was not as hot as this place.
She started walking towards the entrance, where I was. She stopped, and looked at me again. I didn’t know what was it that I was supposed to say. We might not even speak the same language, anyway. So I waited, trying to seem patient, but I was actually holding my breath and thinking about mom and dad. Why would they think about this?
“I’m sorry for that.” She spoke, and I was surprised I understood her. Looking so different, and yet speaking the same as us. It was a start. I nodded, and looked down.
“I just couldn’t stand another second in that car with him.” Him. The other guy, the driver. What had he done? Yet I still had no sufficient strength and confidence to ask her this. “So I told him to stop a couple of times before he really did. And he didn’t know what I was doing. I actually don’t, either.” She sighed, and smiled nervously.
Neither do I, I thought, and tried to smile. “What are you going to do?” I asked with delicacy. Personally, I didn’t want her to stay here. I didn’t want her to disturb my family, and I certainly didn’t want—think my parents wouldn’t, either—another mouth to feed.
She chuckled, and looked down. “I don’t want to go back, that’s for sure.” She said. But it didn’t help. “You’re focusing on the plans you have for your future. You know, there isn’t going to be a future if you don’t think about the present.”
*The first part of this story is written in my notebook.
They shouted some more at each other; the driver was a man, and his age seemed similar to the girl. They were just a bit older than my sister Gilda. I pictured it: Gilda could’ve been the one driving the car.
The guy said something else and then, left. He actually left her behind. Now there was someone standing in my front yard—if you consider it to be a yard—, looking at me. The expression I first saw in her eyes, worry. That was probably because of the fact that she had just been left here, in the middle of nowhere. I didn’t know was it is that she was going to think about this place, cause to be honest, not many people plan on visiting us. My mom and dad rarely speak about their families, and so we have only our neighbors and ourselves.
I was instantly worried, too. We had no space, time, or food for another person, especially someone like her. I had a chance to see her better, once she was standing up, out of the car. Other than her long and blond hair, she looked different than all of us, like the first person I’ve ever seen with light-colored eyes. She was sweating, and so I could conclude that from where she came from, the climate was not as hot as this place.
She started walking towards the entrance, where I was. She stopped, and looked at me again. I didn’t know what was it that I was supposed to say. We might not even speak the same language, anyway. So I waited, trying to seem patient, but I was actually holding my breath and thinking about mom and dad. Why would they think about this?
“I’m sorry for that.” She spoke, and I was surprised I understood her. Looking so different, and yet speaking the same as us. It was a start. I nodded, and looked down.
“I just couldn’t stand another second in that car with him.” Him. The other guy, the driver. What had he done? Yet I still had no sufficient strength and confidence to ask her this. “So I told him to stop a couple of times before he really did. And he didn’t know what I was doing. I actually don’t, either.” She sighed, and smiled nervously.
Neither do I, I thought, and tried to smile. “What are you going to do?” I asked with delicacy. Personally, I didn’t want her to stay here. I didn’t want her to disturb my family, and I certainly didn’t want—think my parents wouldn’t, either—another mouth to feed.
She chuckled, and looked down. “I don’t want to go back, that’s for sure.” She said. But it didn’t help. “You’re focusing on the plans you have for your future. You know, there isn’t going to be a future if you don’t think about the present.”
*The first part of this story is written in my notebook.
Wednesday, February 13, 2008
Music and Bugs (Part 2)
“Beetles are mostly found in areas of humidity, and look for places where it’s peaceful, where sounds and noise are not abundant. Therefore, they are mostly scarce in the city, or environments in which there is much movement and activeness.
"Beetles live in nests composed of minimum a thousand of them, and they work together, similar to bees. Their behaviour is greatly affected by the climate, which…”
He was distracted. What did he care about bugs, anyway? They weren’t in the city. That was good. None of them would crawl up his bed in the night, or anything.
Back to Beatles; He thought were he had left his iPod last, and thought whether she would get mad, if he kneeled down, to look under the bed.
“Where the hell are we going to get beetles? They don’t even live near the cities…!” she complained, but nothing did call his attention. She sighed, and kept reading. If only she realized how she was talking to herself, badly. Beatles. He needed their music, now that they had gotten into the subject. Patience, patience. He would look under the bed as soon as she was over. But she wasn’t over soon enough. When he was about to do it, something happened. He turned his head towards the window.
Standing calmly at its border, was a bug—a beetle. If it was not for the size, it would’ve looked similar to a rhinoceros, for the fact that it had two giant and long sticks just stuck into its head. Its legs were long and it moved with moderation, as if he was temping them…catch me, catch me...It was the colours of a black or brown mess, and there were tiny little hairs on its shell.
Its size… big enough for it be noticed, specially by someone like me, he thought. He stared at the bug for another while. Amazing, amazing.
She was still reading, looking at the computer, giving her back to the window. She hadn’t seen it. “Hey, um…I just found a beetle. It’s just here, by the window.” Somehow he wasn’t excited. The bug was pretty and all, but something just make him stand there—sit there—without doing anything.
“What, the CD of number 1 hits? Yeah it’s fun. If only it helped...” she sounded annoyed and typed something. He definitely didn’t like sarcasm. “No, I swear, it’s an actual beetle! My God, just turn around!” he said. Okay, he had to do something. If these bugs weren’t found in the city, well, this was…a miracle. How could he catch it?
“Thanks, no. Not in the mood to observe wannabe Ringo Star dance around in your front yard.” She wanted to stress him out, and maybe she was doing it. Ha, she thought, how does it feel?
“God dammit! Beetle as in double e! We need to catch it! How do you catch a beetle?” he stood up violently and looked through his mess for something handy. An old sock, a useless jar, anything.
"Beetles live in nests composed of minimum a thousand of them, and they work together, similar to bees. Their behaviour is greatly affected by the climate, which…”
He was distracted. What did he care about bugs, anyway? They weren’t in the city. That was good. None of them would crawl up his bed in the night, or anything.
Back to Beatles; He thought were he had left his iPod last, and thought whether she would get mad, if he kneeled down, to look under the bed.
“Where the hell are we going to get beetles? They don’t even live near the cities…!” she complained, but nothing did call his attention. She sighed, and kept reading. If only she realized how she was talking to herself, badly. Beatles. He needed their music, now that they had gotten into the subject. Patience, patience. He would look under the bed as soon as she was over. But she wasn’t over soon enough. When he was about to do it, something happened. He turned his head towards the window.
Standing calmly at its border, was a bug—a beetle. If it was not for the size, it would’ve looked similar to a rhinoceros, for the fact that it had two giant and long sticks just stuck into its head. Its legs were long and it moved with moderation, as if he was temping them…catch me, catch me...It was the colours of a black or brown mess, and there were tiny little hairs on its shell.
Its size… big enough for it be noticed, specially by someone like me, he thought. He stared at the bug for another while. Amazing, amazing.
She was still reading, looking at the computer, giving her back to the window. She hadn’t seen it. “Hey, um…I just found a beetle. It’s just here, by the window.” Somehow he wasn’t excited. The bug was pretty and all, but something just make him stand there—sit there—without doing anything.
“What, the CD of number 1 hits? Yeah it’s fun. If only it helped...” she sounded annoyed and typed something. He definitely didn’t like sarcasm. “No, I swear, it’s an actual beetle! My God, just turn around!” he said. Okay, he had to do something. If these bugs weren’t found in the city, well, this was…a miracle. How could he catch it?
“Thanks, no. Not in the mood to observe wannabe Ringo Star dance around in your front yard.” She wanted to stress him out, and maybe she was doing it. Ha, she thought, how does it feel?
“God dammit! Beetle as in double e! We need to catch it! How do you catch a beetle?” he stood up violently and looked through his mess for something handy. An old sock, a useless jar, anything.
Tuesday, February 12, 2008
Music and Bugs (Part 1)
“It’s with double e, not ea, you dumb ass…” she pointed out, and she sounded as if it was the 5th time he had been doing this mistake. But it wasn’t.
Dude. She was like his conscience. She corrected him and made him look stupid every chance she could. That was…not cool.
“Be-a-tles are much better anyway.” He said rolling his eyes and correcting the Type-O. It was Google search and millions of Beatles fan clubs and images of themselves and all their albums popped up, and they estimated it was sure going to be like that for another 10 pages. And supposedly they had to be searching for be-e-tles.
They both had to admit, though, this was much better than a million pictures of bugs. Music, in this case, was incorrect, but would always be cooler.
“Yeah, I like them too…not that we liking them is gonna stop us from making an insect collection, though.” Not only was she his conscious, but she could also read his mind. What the hell?
He typed again. And they got what they wanted. Bugs.
She started copying some notes on where to find these beetles, and who to catch them, and he started humming Yellow Submarine. She was writing, and the humming soon became stressful. She raised her head, threw her pen nowhere, and looked, demeaning, at him.
“Hey, it’s enough torture, being stuck with you in this project. Shut up, please.” She breathed. She looked for the pen. She wrote down some nonsense, and sighed. She had to say it. “It’s not their best song anyway.”
He raised his head, once fixated on the dirt in his nails, and smiled. So, it had been stupid. But she was interested too. She couldn’t help it. It were The Beatles, after all. “Oh yeah?” he said mischievously. She nodded and tried her best to look mature, and as if completely ignoring his words. “My personal favourite is 'Eleanor Ribgy'.” he said, a little too loud. Perhaps this was good to call her attention.
“It’s RIGBY! Dude, what’s up with your spelling? It’s like you have no logic at all.” She opened her eyes, and tried really hard not to release the pen from her hand—again. “I know! I was jokin’, anyway. You know what I like too? ‘The Logical Song’. It’s awesome.” He enunciated the ‘logical’ much more than he had too. “Yeah, Supertramp is kind of cool.” she agreed. She had to. What would she gain if she argued with this jerk again? Whatever, she thought. She continued the project.
While he was busy on something else, she browsed. “Hey, pay attention. I’m gonna read a bit.” she commanded. She hoped she sounded intimidating, because she really wanted to make him work. What had he done, anyway? Mention music and bands, and no nature or insects at all.
Dude. She was like his conscience. She corrected him and made him look stupid every chance she could. That was…not cool.
“Be-a-tles are much better anyway.” He said rolling his eyes and correcting the Type-O. It was Google search and millions of Beatles fan clubs and images of themselves and all their albums popped up, and they estimated it was sure going to be like that for another 10 pages. And supposedly they had to be searching for be-e-tles.
They both had to admit, though, this was much better than a million pictures of bugs. Music, in this case, was incorrect, but would always be cooler.
“Yeah, I like them too…not that we liking them is gonna stop us from making an insect collection, though.” Not only was she his conscious, but she could also read his mind. What the hell?
He typed again. And they got what they wanted. Bugs.
She started copying some notes on where to find these beetles, and who to catch them, and he started humming Yellow Submarine. She was writing, and the humming soon became stressful. She raised her head, threw her pen nowhere, and looked, demeaning, at him.
“Hey, it’s enough torture, being stuck with you in this project. Shut up, please.” She breathed. She looked for the pen. She wrote down some nonsense, and sighed. She had to say it. “It’s not their best song anyway.”
He raised his head, once fixated on the dirt in his nails, and smiled. So, it had been stupid. But she was interested too. She couldn’t help it. It were The Beatles, after all. “Oh yeah?” he said mischievously. She nodded and tried her best to look mature, and as if completely ignoring his words. “My personal favourite is 'Eleanor Ribgy'.” he said, a little too loud. Perhaps this was good to call her attention.
“It’s RIGBY! Dude, what’s up with your spelling? It’s like you have no logic at all.” She opened her eyes, and tried really hard not to release the pen from her hand—again. “I know! I was jokin’, anyway. You know what I like too? ‘The Logical Song’. It’s awesome.” He enunciated the ‘logical’ much more than he had too. “Yeah, Supertramp is kind of cool.” she agreed. She had to. What would she gain if she argued with this jerk again? Whatever, she thought. She continued the project.
While he was busy on something else, she browsed. “Hey, pay attention. I’m gonna read a bit.” she commanded. She hoped she sounded intimidating, because she really wanted to make him work. What had he done, anyway? Mention music and bands, and no nature or insects at all.
Monday, February 11, 2008
Sick as a Dog
It was cold, so dark, and the sky was clear. Surprisingly, I didn’t have the desire to sleep yet, so I just laid down, in my small house, and looked anywhere.
I noticed again, the sky was just to clear. So perfect, like I’d never seen it before. I wish I could go up there. But, impossible, I answered myself again. How was I supposed to triumph in this world, to do great things, when my ‘masters’ think of me as a complete idiot?
They give us balls and bones to use and play with, but they just don’t realize, we want more. We could do more. Everything they did and will do and have done. We could do it all.
And so I thought, and tried to number the stars, and imagined that suddenly I lived in a different world, that suddenly we had as many privileges as they had, and that it was easy for me, and for anyone that wanted, to get up there.
The front door opening, with its casual creek took away my fantasy, and out came him. He called my name. Tom, Tom…!
What the hell? It was the middle of the night…! So abusive…! If they would just listen to me, understand that I was tired, and yes, I needed my own time too.
And so I decided the night was way too beautiful, and ignored my master whatsoever. He called a couple of times. Ignore. I wondered, whether he would venture out into the cold, and actually look for me, and oblige me to get up. I hope he wouldn’t, and prayed for the night to get colder. Why was he calling? Had he any peaky visitor, who pretending to be amused, wanted to see my tricks?
I wasn’t any clown either. Tricks, ha. Talking about humiliation.
Or else he wanted to feed me, and I wondered which was worse, between being starved, or just over-nourished, or something. You can look for food when you’re hungry, you could bark whether you are starving. But, what can you do, when they keep filling your plate with filthy…supposed ‘dog-food’?
I gave in some effort, to ignore his voice, and prayed for steps inexistent. Then, something happened, and I stood up.
Shooting star. Right there, a second ago. I felt my heart beating. The star…where, where?
First time in my life I’ve ever had the chance to see. I remember, once we were at some place, and the kids were telling me to bark and play with the ball. And so I heard the adults outside being amused, and say shooting star at some point. And I tried to run to the door, but not only was it closed, my tail was being pulled by the kids. How they loved me…how I didn’t.
But this time I had seen it. I had to see it again, to observe it. I thanked God, for I didn’t have a chain, and ran.
I heard his voice, the one I was leaving behind, and I thought…screw them. 9 years of total control and power, and now it was time for my mini-revolution. Time to do my things, the way I wanted. Time of being capable.
I jumped the fence, and onto the road, and searched everywhere, and my legs were giving me as much strength, such an amount of energy that never had I felt, received. My body wanted it. So did my spirit. And I kept running.
It suddenly shinned again, far ahead. Faster, faster, almost there. See it, see it…again.
I was suddenly aghast. But I needed to see it again, just had to. And it shined, brighter, and brighter, and I saw it so big, and my amazement and excitement were immeasurable. And I didn’t stop, didn’t think, not even when the car—was finally so close to me.
I noticed again, the sky was just to clear. So perfect, like I’d never seen it before. I wish I could go up there. But, impossible, I answered myself again. How was I supposed to triumph in this world, to do great things, when my ‘masters’ think of me as a complete idiot?
They give us balls and bones to use and play with, but they just don’t realize, we want more. We could do more. Everything they did and will do and have done. We could do it all.
And so I thought, and tried to number the stars, and imagined that suddenly I lived in a different world, that suddenly we had as many privileges as they had, and that it was easy for me, and for anyone that wanted, to get up there.
The front door opening, with its casual creek took away my fantasy, and out came him. He called my name. Tom, Tom…!
What the hell? It was the middle of the night…! So abusive…! If they would just listen to me, understand that I was tired, and yes, I needed my own time too.
And so I decided the night was way too beautiful, and ignored my master whatsoever. He called a couple of times. Ignore. I wondered, whether he would venture out into the cold, and actually look for me, and oblige me to get up. I hope he wouldn’t, and prayed for the night to get colder. Why was he calling? Had he any peaky visitor, who pretending to be amused, wanted to see my tricks?
I wasn’t any clown either. Tricks, ha. Talking about humiliation.
Or else he wanted to feed me, and I wondered which was worse, between being starved, or just over-nourished, or something. You can look for food when you’re hungry, you could bark whether you are starving. But, what can you do, when they keep filling your plate with filthy…supposed ‘dog-food’?
I gave in some effort, to ignore his voice, and prayed for steps inexistent. Then, something happened, and I stood up.
Shooting star. Right there, a second ago. I felt my heart beating. The star…where, where?
First time in my life I’ve ever had the chance to see. I remember, once we were at some place, and the kids were telling me to bark and play with the ball. And so I heard the adults outside being amused, and say shooting star at some point. And I tried to run to the door, but not only was it closed, my tail was being pulled by the kids. How they loved me…how I didn’t.
But this time I had seen it. I had to see it again, to observe it. I thanked God, for I didn’t have a chain, and ran.
I heard his voice, the one I was leaving behind, and I thought…screw them. 9 years of total control and power, and now it was time for my mini-revolution. Time to do my things, the way I wanted. Time of being capable.
I jumped the fence, and onto the road, and searched everywhere, and my legs were giving me as much strength, such an amount of energy that never had I felt, received. My body wanted it. So did my spirit. And I kept running.
It suddenly shinned again, far ahead. Faster, faster, almost there. See it, see it…again.
I was suddenly aghast. But I needed to see it again, just had to. And it shined, brighter, and brighter, and I saw it so big, and my amazement and excitement were immeasurable. And I didn’t stop, didn’t think, not even when the car—was finally so close to me.
Friday, February 8, 2008
To Write...
It was 7th grade, when I really started to write, just for fun. My biggest influence, what made me change my mind and begin a new 'period' in my life, I’d say was my friend, Livia. She moved to Brazil in mid 7th grade, but she and I loved to draw comics and invent fictional stuff since the 5th grade, when we met.
I write mostly short stories, and they change depending on what I read. Surprisingly, I like to write in English, more than I do in Spanish.
Though I do want to become a writer of some kind in my future, I’m not sure if it is right to consider myself a writer today. I’m still a Freshmen, and have a lot of time to think about what I really want to be in my future. Besides, you don’t need to be a writer to write. Biologists write, and so do Politicians, and Engineers.
I use my writing and stories as some type of excuse. When I feel sad or empty, or simply ‘out’ of the world, I sit down and write, write about what I would like my life to be. This happens when I read too. I like to get lost in my mind thinking about what I read or write, rather that what I am living. I admit that this kind of makes me a coward, since I look for ways in which I can escape from reality, rather than confront it. So that’s why I like to write about myself as I am, about my experiences.
During the 7th and 8th grade, I was convinced I did want to become a writer. But now, in my Freshmen year I’ve been obliged to explore other options, and I’ve let myself be influenced by them. Like I said before, I am influenced by what I read, and I’ve been reading stuff to do with philosophy, too. So, that is another of interests. I like to ponder over concepts, and won’t feel satisfied until I understand them well enough.
Becoming a writer, I guess it is different from the majority of careers or professions; there are no rules to writing. You can write about whatever you feel like, seriously. About your dog, about the world, about marshmallows…
Everyone can become a writer. There is no ‘special skill’ required to write or anything. It is true, we must learn Math because we are definitely going to be using Math in our future, and same thing with Science. But most people don’t realize that we live of writing. It’s not like we breathe words, or anything, but we communicate, and yes, I guess this is some sort of writing…which is a sound, rather than written. But it is guaranteed that to do Math and study Science we must read…and write. If Science is all about analyzing, then we must take notes.
I am not discriminating other careers or anything. I believe everything we learn is important, and will serve us somehow, someday, and writing and reading are definitely included. I’d say writing is also beneficial, because you can get yourself to talk and write about things you wouldn’t just think about. When you start writing, you open a door, and each time, more doors open, giving you so much stuff to write about.
It is indeed amazing what you can get out of paper, and pencil.
I write mostly short stories, and they change depending on what I read. Surprisingly, I like to write in English, more than I do in Spanish.
Though I do want to become a writer of some kind in my future, I’m not sure if it is right to consider myself a writer today. I’m still a Freshmen, and have a lot of time to think about what I really want to be in my future. Besides, you don’t need to be a writer to write. Biologists write, and so do Politicians, and Engineers.
I use my writing and stories as some type of excuse. When I feel sad or empty, or simply ‘out’ of the world, I sit down and write, write about what I would like my life to be. This happens when I read too. I like to get lost in my mind thinking about what I read or write, rather that what I am living. I admit that this kind of makes me a coward, since I look for ways in which I can escape from reality, rather than confront it. So that’s why I like to write about myself as I am, about my experiences.
During the 7th and 8th grade, I was convinced I did want to become a writer. But now, in my Freshmen year I’ve been obliged to explore other options, and I’ve let myself be influenced by them. Like I said before, I am influenced by what I read, and I’ve been reading stuff to do with philosophy, too. So, that is another of interests. I like to ponder over concepts, and won’t feel satisfied until I understand them well enough.
Becoming a writer, I guess it is different from the majority of careers or professions; there are no rules to writing. You can write about whatever you feel like, seriously. About your dog, about the world, about marshmallows…
Everyone can become a writer. There is no ‘special skill’ required to write or anything. It is true, we must learn Math because we are definitely going to be using Math in our future, and same thing with Science. But most people don’t realize that we live of writing. It’s not like we breathe words, or anything, but we communicate, and yes, I guess this is some sort of writing…which is a sound, rather than written. But it is guaranteed that to do Math and study Science we must read…and write. If Science is all about analyzing, then we must take notes.
I am not discriminating other careers or anything. I believe everything we learn is important, and will serve us somehow, someday, and writing and reading are definitely included. I’d say writing is also beneficial, because you can get yourself to talk and write about things you wouldn’t just think about. When you start writing, you open a door, and each time, more doors open, giving you so much stuff to write about.
It is indeed amazing what you can get out of paper, and pencil.
Answers of Blog Article
A. What is the difference between a blog and a book?
In a book, you can’t leave comments about what you like or don’t, and you are only reading one text at the time. Instead, a blog allows you and gives you so many options, more blogs, link to keep on searching, like opening doors. Also, a book has to be more precise, has to be finished. It has to talk about firm details, and have support. Blogs don’t have to.
B. At the beginning, when the blogs were created, people used them to tell people (they weren’t referring to a certain public either) about their personal opinion. Then, when the ‘blog boom’ came, people (many) now were aware that they were already included in the ‘world of Internet’, and wanted to let themselves we known. Links were used, to connect websites with their blogs, so people browsing Internet have a higher chance to ‘finishing’ in their own blog.
This is the reason why today, blogs tend to focus on only one topic, and therefore, sort of serve as an informative source, for people.
C. Although most books contain information that might be helpful to someone, somehow, blogs (which are not necessarily created to inform) are easier to read. In most cases, the vocabulary and word choice used is much easier, because as blogs, they don’t have to be made formal. It’s more like an online diary, were the owner can post everything he/she wants.
D. Owners of blogs are not willing to inform anyone, teach anyone, in most cases. They might tend to leave posts incomplete, or use bad spelling and symbols that are not ‘allowed’ in proper writing. They are not aware about who visits their blog, but think that only their friends or people he/she knows will. The truth is, absolutely everyone can visit a blog, as long as he/she has access to Internet, or Google.
E. Personally, I wouldn’t have a blog of my own. In the past, we created a website with some of my friends, and soon, none of us posted or edited the website. That’s what would happen to my blog. I’m not much of a rigid person, and therefore would forget to post and update my blog.
But, if I ever do create a blog of my own, it would certainly have to do with writings, because, talking about my life in the Internet, though I may sound paranoid, it might be dangerous, and I have lots of writings already that maybe, just maybe, some people would like to read…Then again, we are creating this blog to write and post writings. And so, the name of my blog (the one I have) is certainly creative writings.
Intro
This is my second blog, and different from my first one, I'm going to be using for Creative Writing, rather than for English. In here, we are supposed to post 500 words per day, and we can write about anything we have in mind.
If you'd like to know more about me as a writer, you may read my journal entry, that focuses on my relationship with Writing.
If you'd like to know more about me as a writer, you may read my journal entry, that focuses on my relationship with Writing.
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