The actual post wasn't supposed to rant like that. That was pretty weird. The actual post was about my attempt this year to think about costume wearing.
Seeing as I don't have a job, and my family isn't exactly qualifying for the Obama tax, I decided that I would look into my closet and attempt to see what was going on that could possibly be a Halloween costume. Keep in mind, I've never gone dressed as anything. Every time I wanted to, I would fall ill. So that sucked. This time, I decided, be prepared, check it out early. I rifled through the clothes.
I spotted it, that last relic of innocence, my Girl Scout uniform. The last time that I recall wearing it was in 6th grade. Wow, that was a while ago. I figured, why not try it out? It'll be a little tight, but whatever.
What I hadn't counted on was the fact that I must have been all of 4' 6" and 90 pounds five years ago. My god. The skirt was a size 10 in children. I am a size 2 in women. Well, I attempted it anyway. I squeezed myself like toothpaste, sucked my breath in and prayed. The skirt literally just passed my butt. I thanked God for small mercies, but I realized there was no way I could leave my house without being a harlot. Even leggings would not help here. I would be a slut. And this is high school we're talking about. I don't do slut. Sluts don't do me. I attempted to tug it down a little. There, a little better. Then, I realized that I could not zip it shut, and if I wanted to wear it, I would have half of my damn body looking like it was falling out. So that wasn't working out. At all. Jesus Christ.
It made me think of some of the things that I still try to get away with in my life, things that are clearly too tight. My bedtime of whenever is not working out. I am so tired all the time. My teacher was staring into my eyes and talking to me, and I was still falling asleep, while looking at him. That was no good at all.
The moral is: You can't try to do the same old things for completely new situations. (You just can't be a Girl Scout again Olivia!)
Monday, October 27, 2008
A Public Service Announcement: Why Not to Go on Halloween.
"What are you wearing for Halloween?"
"I don't really do Halloween."
"Are you sure? This is America, for goodness sakes. You should have by this point! You've missed out on a great American holiday! Haven't you ever trick-or-treated before?"
"Like I said, I don't really do Halloween. So no, that's my answer. No I have not gone trick-or-treating before."
"That's crazy."
"I guess."
This conversation was not the first in this vein. No, this conversation has plagued my entire childhood in the month of October.
Forgive me, my fellow Americans, but I am not very into the Halloween spirit. Halloween has no significance to me. There is no spirit for me to contact, no Druid to follow. I'm not into scary things. I don't like walking around my neighborhood at night when I know that rapists probably lie in wait with chloroform just waiting to pounce. My family isn't very big, so it's not like I'm going to go trick-or-treating with my mom. We don't even have a candy bowl. We know better. That brings loud and noisy children. And eggs. Lots of them. And a waste of money.
Herein lies the crux of my issue: Halloween, at least for me, is one of the most pointless holidays that ever existed to take your money. You have a party. You don't get a holiday. You take your children around at unsafe hours of the night. You spend hundreds of dollars on costumes and candy, unless your party is for adults, and then why not spend hundreds more on alcoholic beverages? Sure. Why not?
What do I get out of this equation? Me + my money= Going to one party looking like a skank to get myself felt up by inebriated lunkheads and not remembering much but a flash of lights and smoke machine. WHOO. I love Halloween.
I know, a lot of people are tut-tutting. Personally, I think that Halloween is one of those of holidays meant for people to get drunk on a weekend for a good reason. It masquerades as a child holiday, but really? Playing dress-up can be done at home, or better yet, throw a dress-up party instead of taking your child into the unknown darkness of night.
During 1975-1996, from 4 p.m. through 10 p.m. on October 31, a total of 89 deaths occurred among pedestrians aged 5-14 years, compared with 8846 on all other evenings. Overall, among children aged 5-14 years, an average of four deaths occurred on Halloween during these hours each year, compared with an average of one death during these hours on every other day of the year.
That's dangerous. So I guess my suggestion is don't do it. Although I can see how it can be fun for kids, I have this weird lack of sense of infallibility. My first thought is "how can this situation go wrong?" And it can. SO fast.
That was my public service announcement for the day. That will be all.
"I don't really do Halloween."
"Are you sure? This is America, for goodness sakes. You should have by this point! You've missed out on a great American holiday! Haven't you ever trick-or-treated before?"
"Like I said, I don't really do Halloween. So no, that's my answer. No I have not gone trick-or-treating before."
"That's crazy."
"I guess."
This conversation was not the first in this vein. No, this conversation has plagued my entire childhood in the month of October.
Forgive me, my fellow Americans, but I am not very into the Halloween spirit. Halloween has no significance to me. There is no spirit for me to contact, no Druid to follow. I'm not into scary things. I don't like walking around my neighborhood at night when I know that rapists probably lie in wait with chloroform just waiting to pounce. My family isn't very big, so it's not like I'm going to go trick-or-treating with my mom. We don't even have a candy bowl. We know better. That brings loud and noisy children. And eggs. Lots of them. And a waste of money.
Herein lies the crux of my issue: Halloween, at least for me, is one of the most pointless holidays that ever existed to take your money. You have a party. You don't get a holiday. You take your children around at unsafe hours of the night. You spend hundreds of dollars on costumes and candy, unless your party is for adults, and then why not spend hundreds more on alcoholic beverages? Sure. Why not?
What do I get out of this equation? Me + my money= Going to one party looking like a skank to get myself felt up by inebriated lunkheads and not remembering much but a flash of lights and smoke machine. WHOO. I love Halloween.
I know, a lot of people are tut-tutting. Personally, I think that Halloween is one of those of holidays meant for people to get drunk on a weekend for a good reason. It masquerades as a child holiday, but really? Playing dress-up can be done at home, or better yet, throw a dress-up party instead of taking your child into the unknown darkness of night.
During 1975-1996, from 4 p.m. through 10 p.m. on October 31, a total of 89 deaths occurred among pedestrians aged 5-14 years, compared with 8846 on all other evenings. Overall, among children aged 5-14 years, an average of four deaths occurred on Halloween during these hours each year, compared with an average of one death during these hours on every other day of the year.
That's dangerous. So I guess my suggestion is don't do it. Although I can see how it can be fun for kids, I have this weird lack of sense of infallibility. My first thought is "how can this situation go wrong?" And it can. SO fast.
That was my public service announcement for the day. That will be all.
Sunday, October 26, 2008
Foliage Epiphany
Today I swept leaves.
Usually this would not be cause for a celebration on blogspot, but today was different.
I had an epiphany.
It was really exciting.
I suddenly understood the order of things in my life, and in life in general. I began to spin a metaphor as I swept the leaves. Sweeping leaves is like writing an essay, or doing anything orderly in general. First, you start by choosing where you want to begin sweeping, much like you choose what you want to write about. You narrow down the spot from say, the yard, to the front yard right in front of the house in particular. That's your thesis. So at first, there's just so many leaves all over the place that you end up kinda sweeping from everywhere, because there's just so much mess you can't quite figure out what system you're going to use to do the job right. That's your rough draft, you know, the spewing of your ideas onto a piece of paper. Then, when you see what is working and what is not, you can decide where to begin. You begin closest to the curb, sweeping the leaves onto the street because there are just some leaves that are NOT going to get picked up. You're not Superman. Similarly, you decide that some of the crap you just plopped on that paper isn't worth writing about at all. OK, so now that you've done that, you can begin to form the clumps that you know you're going to pick up. Say hello to your body paragraph outline. Hello.
Right. So now that you've done that, you check meticulously to make sure you haven't left five leaves astray in one place. That's bad form. You decide, do I want to sweep this to the curb, or is this close enough to my clump that I don't have to put in too much effort and can safely pick it up? Now that you've decided how much work you're willing to do to either put it in the clump or kick it to the curb, you begin pickup. As with anything you do where something can fall out, i.e. your dustpan, you bring your garbage bag close. You carefully pick up as many leaves as you can without losing the majority, and easily empty it into your garbage bag. Welcome to the end of your body paragraphs, and also your conclusion. How much can you say without being redundant? How much can you say without being precise or succinct? Great, you've made some decisions. Sometimes, you'll bite off more than you can chew, which just means that you'll have much more to clean up and more time to waste. If you're sweeping and it's a nice day and you're not pressured, this is fine. But when you see the rain clouds of your deadline coming, you'd better get it as correctly as you can the first time.
Right then. You've picked it all up. You give it the once-over. It seems okay. You go up and down the parameters of the area. You see a couple of leaves that could easily be thrown to the curb. You do so. You are glad now. Everything is neat. You give it it the twice-over. How could you have missed that humongous leaf right there! You pick it up with your hands and move it to the curb. You get down and dirty. It's cool though, now it looks really neat. You see that there are a couple of really small leaves that are sort of looking at you and staring you down. You ignore them, because you can't get everything. Besides, more leaves are bound to fall. You'll save it for next time.
During your cleanup, people have been walking by. What do you do? You say "Good morning." And they say "Good morning." And everything is well and good, because sometimes you have to take a break when your hand is getting too itchy to hold a broom or to type any more words on the keyboard. You stop, but only for a little while. You must keep your momentum. You must see your project through. And then, you invite people to look at your handiwork. Because it looked damn good until the wind blew again and you had another deadline.
Usually this would not be cause for a celebration on blogspot, but today was different.
I had an epiphany.
It was really exciting.
I suddenly understood the order of things in my life, and in life in general. I began to spin a metaphor as I swept the leaves. Sweeping leaves is like writing an essay, or doing anything orderly in general. First, you start by choosing where you want to begin sweeping, much like you choose what you want to write about. You narrow down the spot from say, the yard, to the front yard right in front of the house in particular. That's your thesis. So at first, there's just so many leaves all over the place that you end up kinda sweeping from everywhere, because there's just so much mess you can't quite figure out what system you're going to use to do the job right. That's your rough draft, you know, the spewing of your ideas onto a piece of paper. Then, when you see what is working and what is not, you can decide where to begin. You begin closest to the curb, sweeping the leaves onto the street because there are just some leaves that are NOT going to get picked up. You're not Superman. Similarly, you decide that some of the crap you just plopped on that paper isn't worth writing about at all. OK, so now that you've done that, you can begin to form the clumps that you know you're going to pick up. Say hello to your body paragraph outline. Hello.
Right. So now that you've done that, you check meticulously to make sure you haven't left five leaves astray in one place. That's bad form. You decide, do I want to sweep this to the curb, or is this close enough to my clump that I don't have to put in too much effort and can safely pick it up? Now that you've decided how much work you're willing to do to either put it in the clump or kick it to the curb, you begin pickup. As with anything you do where something can fall out, i.e. your dustpan, you bring your garbage bag close. You carefully pick up as many leaves as you can without losing the majority, and easily empty it into your garbage bag. Welcome to the end of your body paragraphs, and also your conclusion. How much can you say without being redundant? How much can you say without being precise or succinct? Great, you've made some decisions. Sometimes, you'll bite off more than you can chew, which just means that you'll have much more to clean up and more time to waste. If you're sweeping and it's a nice day and you're not pressured, this is fine. But when you see the rain clouds of your deadline coming, you'd better get it as correctly as you can the first time.
Right then. You've picked it all up. You give it the once-over. It seems okay. You go up and down the parameters of the area. You see a couple of leaves that could easily be thrown to the curb. You do so. You are glad now. Everything is neat. You give it it the twice-over. How could you have missed that humongous leaf right there! You pick it up with your hands and move it to the curb. You get down and dirty. It's cool though, now it looks really neat. You see that there are a couple of really small leaves that are sort of looking at you and staring you down. You ignore them, because you can't get everything. Besides, more leaves are bound to fall. You'll save it for next time.
During your cleanup, people have been walking by. What do you do? You say "Good morning." And they say "Good morning." And everything is well and good, because sometimes you have to take a break when your hand is getting too itchy to hold a broom or to type any more words on the keyboard. You stop, but only for a little while. You must keep your momentum. You must see your project through. And then, you invite people to look at your handiwork. Because it looked damn good until the wind blew again and you had another deadline.
Thursday, October 23, 2008
For you, Tomás...
I didn't show pictures of Myrtle Beach. I feel I should. Here it goes.
This is the Atlantic Beach, the premier "colored beach" of South Carolina. It has white sand.
Yes, Tomás, it has white sand. So lets see if I can post that as well.
Ain't it a beauty? how lovely!
Politics
This was written last week:
I watched the final debate. Strangely, I felt a sense of incompleteness, as if there were so much more to address. I watched in awe as Barack Obama carefully dodged the arrows of nonsense shot by John McCain. It frustrated me that in the debates so little is said that can actually help me understand the two politicians. My family and I are staunch Obama supporters, like many New Yorkers and Black people. However, at school, I try very hard to be open-minded about Republicans. I wonder what Republicans are thinking about McCain. He just doesn't make sense to me. His points often come out of nowhere, usually accusatory instead of informational to the general public. I was so frustrated because I wanted to be able to critique Republicans and their beliefs for myself. McCain would lead me to think that most Republicans are extremely redundant and a little stupid. I don't want to believe that. I believe that Republican views are probably as legitimate as Democratic views. However, I'm never really sure what Republicans believe, so I always feel like I'm judging the whole party on the actions of its current poster boy, though I hear he's generally not popular with Republicans. Do Republicans back him because he's the candidate who won the primary, or because they actually agree with him? I feel that it would not be possible for one to agree with him, because he sounds a little insane. His attacks on Obama are uncalled for, redundant, and never fully explained. He is continuously accusing Obama, hanging on to Obama's blunders as tenaciously as my dog hangs on to a sock, but he stumbles around many important other subjects. I don't know what to think sometimes. I don't try to fool myself and think I'm really all that savvy in terms of political issues, but I'm interested. I try to stay in the loop so to speak. I guess that's that.
I watched the final debate. Strangely, I felt a sense of incompleteness, as if there were so much more to address. I watched in awe as Barack Obama carefully dodged the arrows of nonsense shot by John McCain. It frustrated me that in the debates so little is said that can actually help me understand the two politicians. My family and I are staunch Obama supporters, like many New Yorkers and Black people. However, at school, I try very hard to be open-minded about Republicans. I wonder what Republicans are thinking about McCain. He just doesn't make sense to me. His points often come out of nowhere, usually accusatory instead of informational to the general public. I was so frustrated because I wanted to be able to critique Republicans and their beliefs for myself. McCain would lead me to think that most Republicans are extremely redundant and a little stupid. I don't want to believe that. I believe that Republican views are probably as legitimate as Democratic views. However, I'm never really sure what Republicans believe, so I always feel like I'm judging the whole party on the actions of its current poster boy, though I hear he's generally not popular with Republicans. Do Republicans back him because he's the candidate who won the primary, or because they actually agree with him? I feel that it would not be possible for one to agree with him, because he sounds a little insane. His attacks on Obama are uncalled for, redundant, and never fully explained. He is continuously accusing Obama, hanging on to Obama's blunders as tenaciously as my dog hangs on to a sock, but he stumbles around many important other subjects. I don't know what to think sometimes. I don't try to fool myself and think I'm really all that savvy in terms of political issues, but I'm interested. I try to stay in the loop so to speak. I guess that's that.
Saturday, October 18, 2008
For Good- A Goodbye to Mr. Lawrence
Who can say if I've been changed for the better?
But because I knew you
I have been changed for good
-For Good, From Wicked (Elphaba and Glinda)
John Charles Lawrence was a man that I loved. I still love him, but he really isn't anymore. He died on October 9th of a battle with cancer. A battle which he had for 4 years. And neither I nor my friends knew about it.
I first met John Lawrence in Prep for Prep, being a new member of contingent (not going to tell you). He was the really weird tall white dude who was reading the slang word of the day. Some words included "cheese"- meaning money, "hooptie"- a banged up old car (like all the ones we prep kids rode in), "dime out"- to tattle on someone. It was the funniest part of the prep day, seeing as the rest of the day we were kind of dying from all the excessive homework and strange teachers we faced.
Later, I learned that he was the dean of Prep for Prep, which I had no concept of until a day when I was obnoxiously loud in Latin class with Mr. Howarth. I was misbehaving, and Mr. Howarth threatened to send me to Mr. Lawrence. Because I didn't know who that was, I had no concept of the trouble that meant. I asked Mr. Howarth "who is Mr. Lawrence?". The class giggled at my audacity, and Mr. Howarth grew more and more frustrated, with his little British accented voice becoming higher and higher pitched. I continued to question about this mysterious "Mr. Lawrence". Mr. Howarth took me outside and explained that Mr. Lawrence was the dean of Prep for Prep, and also the man who read the slang word of the day. With a large "oh" and an embarrassed apology, I ran quickly back inside to my classroom.
Mr. Lawrence later became my teacher of Literature and Writing Conference at Prep for Prep. His innovative teaching style and love for us was so obviously apparent. My friends and I all gushed about him, having the best time hanging out with him and going to various things with him, such as the honor roll dinner that Prep held. This man became more than my dean and teacher: he became my friend. His email address, given to us at the beginning of the year, remained on my AIM buddy list for eternity. We chatted occasionally through aim and through emails, since he moved back to Rochester right after my contingent left Prep and his father died. He wanted to make sure he took care of his mother. I now realize that if he had been fighting a battle with cancer, he must have had it then. My god, I wish he were here.
This man has become such a part of me that I assumed he would always be there, although not always reachable. I understood that people were busy living their lives, and I thought that was all. But it wasn't. There was so much more to this man that I still love. So much I didn't get to see, but wish I could have. SO MUCH. I love him so. I just want him back. I don't know what to do without him. As I said to a friend, losing him is akin to my hand just suddenly falling off my arm: what would I do then? I don't know. Although I do have another hand to write with, and one can get a prosthetic. There is no extra John Lawrence. There is none.
Go with God, Mr. Lawrence. I love you and we all love you so much. I hope to see you again in the next life.
Monday, October 13, 2008
ten things
ten things you wish you could say to ten different people right now.
1. I often wonder if we are a farce. you and me. me and you. Somehow, something's up and just about everyone knows, but fuck that because on this little boat of life, maybe we'll be captains together, as a we. I don't hold out much hope for that scenario, but hey, a girl can dream, can't she?
2. You are most likely the most crazy person I have had the misfortune to meet. I know I'm supposed to treat you like my equal, or even give you deference, but I can't take you seriously enough to even treat you like an underling. So you are a non-entity that occasionally pops up with concerns about this and that.
3. I don't understand you. I don't understand how you've survived the world this long. You're just about the kindest person in the world to everyone else but me, i sometimes think, but then you throw me a curve ball with that comment i heard from everyone. You're proud of me, or so I hear. I wish I could hear it from you.
4. I'm convinced I'm not in love with you. That would go against everything that I stand for, and probably everything you stand for. And yet, everyone wants me to 'fess up. I admit that you intrigue me. It's your aura, your mystique, your absolute strangeness at times that keeps me coming back for more. I think I intrigue you too, its just not proper for you to say that to me. I would love to ply your brain for information that I would never know otherwise. I want to get to know you, the real you, and not the snarky bastard you fake for everyone else. I know this porcupine has a soft belly. All you gotta do is show a little skin.
4. Where have you been since you disappeared from my life? I miss your stupidity, your insightful comments that make me think you're some kind of idiot savant. I have to face the truth: I miss you. I didn't realize it, but you really do complete me. You are my other half.
5. I wish you would stop stalking me. I'm a bit creeped out at this point. You show up with your little smirk, your little insults, and I show up afraid. I attempt to laugh it off, really I do. Can't we go back to the past? Please?
6. I'm so surprised that we mesh so well. I guess we were meant to be friends. Preschool was correct. We were best friends once. Why did you turn on me? Occasionally, I think back and actually wonder. But here it seems we're back on the same plain in our sphere of friends, we get them but they don't get us too well. After all these years, we still mesh. I'm glad.
7. You need to get over him. He's not worth your strife, buddy. I should know, and our parents keep warning us about him. I think we should listen instead of trying to make our own way. It seems that everything my mother has foretold has come true. You have been my friend for a very long time in our very short life, and I think that we've gotten to the point where I should be able to tell you the truth.
8. I love you. I am concerned for you. I haven't seen you, really seen you in so long. Is life trying to tear us apart? I would attest to that.
9. God I love you. You make me so happy every week. I look forward to that day with extra joy. May I hug you? I plan to be at your Christmas dinner. But I don't know if you'll appreciate that.
10. I miss you. You have a piece of my soul with you, 760 miles away. I miss your smile, your stupid jokes, your horrible pink/yellow shirt. I know you're growing up, and so am I, but don't go without me!!
nine things about yourself.
1. I love laughing, but it's also a defense mechanism against awkwardness.
2. I'm not always so nice. People find this hard to believe.
3. I'm actually really smart (sounds really hubristic). Sometimes I forget this, especially at such a challenging school.
4. I am whatever you want me to be. I can be whoever you want, within a few boundaries.
5. I have no sense of self. Or if I do it's very small, and based on other's expectations.
6. When I want something done and you're not doing it, I am a bitch.
7. I am one of the most unadventurous people I know.
8. I have crises of self every month.
9. I like most of you who read this. Unless I don't.
eight ways to win your heart.
1. be kind
2. be smart, knowledgeable in something I might not know.
3. be personable, able to talk to me all night.
4. be comfortable with me and yourself.
5. sing to me
6. appreciate my wacky sense of self/humor
7. accept me, but hold me to a high standard.
8. be my friend.
seven things that cross your mind a lot.
1. oh sweet jesus christ
2. shit i'm so fucked...again.
3. is this going to end soon?
4.
5. i am sketchy
6. god i want to sleep.
7. it's just too... something right now.
six things you do before you fall asleep.
1. shower
2. facial stuff
3. check firstclass compulsively
4. pre-comb my hair
5. pack my bag
6. think about the day
five people who mean a lot.
1. Mommy
2. Grandma
3. Hannah B
4. Travis
5. T-bear
four things you're wearing right now.
1. jeans
2. head scarf
3. trick or treat shirt
4. no socks
three songs that you listen to often.
1. heart's desire- juanita bynum
2. sinnerman- nina simone
3. who will love me in winter- van hunt
two things you want to do before you die.
1. really be in love with someone who is in love with me.
2. be a prolific writer
one confession.
i'm in love with the world.
1. I often wonder if we are a farce. you and me. me and you. Somehow, something's up and just about everyone knows, but fuck that because on this little boat of life, maybe we'll be captains together, as a we. I don't hold out much hope for that scenario, but hey, a girl can dream, can't she?
2. You are most likely the most crazy person I have had the misfortune to meet. I know I'm supposed to treat you like my equal, or even give you deference, but I can't take you seriously enough to even treat you like an underling. So you are a non-entity that occasionally pops up with concerns about this and that.
3. I don't understand you. I don't understand how you've survived the world this long. You're just about the kindest person in the world to everyone else but me, i sometimes think, but then you throw me a curve ball with that comment i heard from everyone. You're proud of me, or so I hear. I wish I could hear it from you.
4. I'm convinced I'm not in love with you. That would go against everything that I stand for, and probably everything you stand for. And yet, everyone wants me to 'fess up. I admit that you intrigue me. It's your aura, your mystique, your absolute strangeness at times that keeps me coming back for more. I think I intrigue you too, its just not proper for you to say that to me. I would love to ply your brain for information that I would never know otherwise. I want to get to know you, the real you, and not the snarky bastard you fake for everyone else. I know this porcupine has a soft belly. All you gotta do is show a little skin.
4. Where have you been since you disappeared from my life? I miss your stupidity, your insightful comments that make me think you're some kind of idiot savant. I have to face the truth: I miss you. I didn't realize it, but you really do complete me. You are my other half.
5. I wish you would stop stalking me. I'm a bit creeped out at this point. You show up with your little smirk, your little insults, and I show up afraid. I attempt to laugh it off, really I do. Can't we go back to the past? Please?
6. I'm so surprised that we mesh so well. I guess we were meant to be friends. Preschool was correct. We were best friends once. Why did you turn on me? Occasionally, I think back and actually wonder. But here it seems we're back on the same plain in our sphere of friends, we get them but they don't get us too well. After all these years, we still mesh. I'm glad.
7. You need to get over him. He's not worth your strife, buddy. I should know, and our parents keep warning us about him. I think we should listen instead of trying to make our own way. It seems that everything my mother has foretold has come true. You have been my friend for a very long time in our very short life, and I think that we've gotten to the point where I should be able to tell you the truth.
8. I love you. I am concerned for you. I haven't seen you, really seen you in so long. Is life trying to tear us apart? I would attest to that.
9. God I love you. You make me so happy every week. I look forward to that day with extra joy. May I hug you? I plan to be at your Christmas dinner. But I don't know if you'll appreciate that.
10. I miss you. You have a piece of my soul with you, 760 miles away. I miss your smile, your stupid jokes, your horrible pink/yellow shirt. I know you're growing up, and so am I, but don't go without me!!
nine things about yourself.
1. I love laughing, but it's also a defense mechanism against awkwardness.
2. I'm not always so nice. People find this hard to believe.
3. I'm actually really smart (sounds really hubristic). Sometimes I forget this, especially at such a challenging school.
4. I am whatever you want me to be. I can be whoever you want, within a few boundaries.
5. I have no sense of self. Or if I do it's very small, and based on other's expectations.
6. When I want something done and you're not doing it, I am a bitch.
7. I am one of the most unadventurous people I know.
8. I have crises of self every month.
9. I like most of you who read this. Unless I don't.
eight ways to win your heart.
1. be kind
2. be smart, knowledgeable in something I might not know.
3. be personable, able to talk to me all night.
4. be comfortable with me and yourself.
5. sing to me
6. appreciate my wacky sense of self/humor
7. accept me, but hold me to a high standard.
8. be my friend.
seven things that cross your mind a lot.
1. oh sweet jesus christ
2. shit i'm so fucked...again.
3. is this going to end soon?
4.
5. i am sketchy
6. god i want to sleep.
7. it's just too... something right now.
six things you do before you fall asleep.
1. shower
2. facial stuff
3. check firstclass compulsively
4. pre-comb my hair
5. pack my bag
6. think about the day
five people who mean a lot.
1. Mommy
2. Grandma
3. Hannah B
4. Travis
5. T-bear
four things you're wearing right now.
1. jeans
2. head scarf
3. trick or treat shirt
4. no socks
three songs that you listen to often.
1. heart's desire- juanita bynum
2. sinnerman- nina simone
3. who will love me in winter- van hunt
two things you want to do before you die.
1. really be in love with someone who is in love with me.
2. be a prolific writer
one confession.
i'm in love with the world.
Sunday, October 12, 2008
Writing from my father's Blackberry: it is somewhat difficult as I have to hunt for the keys.Myrtle beach is finally looking up. The sun is finally shining. Now I can see the golf course in its southern beauty.
Yesterday, idylls of picturesque southern belles tricked out in their golf gear flashed before my eyes. "Bitch!" shouted a red faced redneck. I turned around to check if he was pulling an Imus on my nappy head. He was not. Suddenly I remembered the sage words of Thomas March: does Myrtle beach have white sand? I realized that I had no idea.
Today I plan on finding out.
Yesterday, idylls of picturesque southern belles tricked out in their golf gear flashed before my eyes. "Bitch!" shouted a red faced redneck. I turned around to check if he was pulling an Imus on my nappy head. He was not. Suddenly I remembered the sage words of Thomas March: does Myrtle beach have white sand? I realized that I had no idea.
Today I plan on finding out.
Saturday, October 11, 2008
not entirely to blame...
But grant me, just the same,
I'm not entirely to blame
- Billy, Easy to Love, Anything Goes
WELL.
Hello from Myrtle Beach, SC. It is really cold. No joke. SO SO COLD. I can't believe this is the South. Apparently it's nice in Brooklyn right now. *Sigh* Ah well. I'm here on the back porch of our timeshare watching the rain drizzle its way down the golf course which is apparently our whole view. Unfortunately, we cannot drive somewhere else and view something else, as it just so happens that my family had the forethought to have absolutely no forethought. I'm not blaming my mom or my grandma or myself expressly. It's more like I blame the collective us that was clearly too stupid to make good plans. First of all, my grandmother. I blame her first. Why would we want to go to a timeshare in Myrtle Beach? I've spent at least an 1/8 of my life in this area of the South, and take it from me, there is nothing going on down here but retirees going to the K&W Cafeteria, Dillard's and Macy's. Believe me, if something was going on, I would know. In great detail. How it failed. Sentence frag.
(Yes I actually typed sentence frag). OK, I blame my grandma for picking the location and the date. My god, it's Columbus Day Weekend. It's one of those time-old civilian holidays where you laze about your own house, not go visit timeshares! (P.S. I'm not actually angry, it's just I'm cold right now, and that causes me to whine excessively). I also blame her for asking me to book flights and pretending she can't use the Internet when we all know that she used to use it at her old job. That's just plain annoying. This decision also ended up having a disgruntled and clearly stupid-with-tiredness me order our flight tickets. Here is where I turn the blame over to myself. I blame myself for not reading the airport names of where we were leaving from and the airport we will arrive at. It just so happens that one of them is in Queens, and one of them is in Newark on Monday at 11 pm. Because I am that insane. Anywho. I blame my mother for not explaining exactly how ordering tickets on priceline works, because although I am a "kid genius", I do not know how to use things I've never used before. And it takes me a long time to figure things out. Frustration. I blame the hurricane for making my father not be able to stay in the area. But I also blame my father for not doing his stuff during the hurricane. I know he couldn't have done some of them, but he's not getting off scot-free. I blame the world for us not having a rental car. And also for the fact that only one pizza shop delivers out here. And there is no nearby Chinese food. And we're lactose intolerant. What the hell!?
I think I've assigned enough blame. Alright.
There are some good things about this place. It's really serene, since the only thing here is a golf course. The sounds of wildlife are enthralling. I've heard all sorts of special birds this morning. That should be exciting. And also, my mom and grandma are pretty chill, so I'm basically lazing about. Although without food. Definite downside there... Also my father is back in North Carolina. But he will be back soon? I hope.
Tuesday, October 7, 2008
What's in a Name?
My full name is Olivia Khera. So yes, now you can stalk me/find where I live/kill me in my sleep. I learned recently that my mother had intended to name me Khera as my first name, but she allowed someone else to, and then relinquished her claim on the name. It makes me wonder... what would I be like as a Khera? Would I be the same person? Or is it the sheer fact that I am Olivia that makes me me? I have no idea whether or not I would, and I suppose I'll never know...
Fio Maravilha... nos gostamos de voce
As a child, my mother introduced me to Brazilian tropicalia and samba, which I am in love with now. Since my pa forbids me to buy much on Itunes, I have not yet splurged on all the music I'd like to listen to. So that means I'm stuck listening to the same album my mother played me as a baby. Which is not a bad thing, considering that I really really love this album. One of my favorite songs from this album is entitled Fio Maravilha. It's about a famous Brazilian football (soccer) player known as Fio Maravilha. His name was not Fio Maravilha. But I googled that name, and I discovered that it means "wire wonder". I imagine this is an allusion to his super soccer skills. Now, Fio Maravilha's real name is actual the most basic "Latin" name, John the Baptist. When all creativity (and baby books) fail, pious Catholics turn to the names of the most famous saints of all, excepting Jesus. Interestingly enough, they will name a girl Maria, which is pretty blasphemous to me. It's the Virgin mother, for God's sake! Besides the point. And actually, that's not true, but most English-speaking Catholics don't name their kids Jesus. But I did know a Spanish (using the term loosely to mean generally Hispanic) kid whose name was Jesus, although pronounced Hay-soos. No mixup that way for us English speakers. No blasphemy in English, except that this child named Jesus was probably one of the laziest Jesuses I've ever encountered. He wasn't Jesus at all.
I do ramble.
Anyway, this name "wire wonder" is pretty amusing to me, because John the Baptist, Wire Wonder, is currently a pizza guy in California. Yup. Wire Wonder of the world, Bather of Jesus (the not lazy one), and all. A pizza guy. I guess it's the definition of peripeteia (thank you Jee-leong). Reversal of fates. Saint football star turned pizza guy. I guess I really like saying pizza guy. By the way, if you don't believe what I said, google it. Or look at the wikipedia article I've so nicely left for you at the bottom. It is good.
This guy is forever known in this song I really like, forever imprinted in my being as the most amazing man ever, because clearly Jorge Ben Jor is a good judge of character. Clearly Jorge Ben Jor knows what he is talking about, separating the pizza guys from the football stars. But he does not. And neither do I. And neither do you.
It's the beauty of Greek tragedies as well. That we can't tell how things are actually going to turn out. That we have to deal with that, even if what happens is such a huge change from what we were. Just look at Fio. He won a lawsuit against Jorge Ben for using the name, but then ended up letting Jorge use it anyway. He sells pizza and teaches little children to play soccer. So can you, most likely, if you have a talent for coaching. Marvel at that.
João Batista de Sales (born January 19, 1945 in Conselheiro Pena, Minas Gerais), better known as Fio Maravilha, is a former Brazilian football player. In Brazil he played for Flamengo, Paysandu Sport Club, CEUB, Desportiva and São Cristóvão. Later he moved to the United States, where he played for the New York Eagles, the Monte Belo Panthers and San Francisco Mercury.
He is perhaps most famous for the hit single "Fio Maravilha" that was written about him in 1972 by Jorge Ben (later known as Jorge Ben Jor). The musician attended a friendly game between Flamengo and Benfica in the Maracanã stadium. Fio Maravilha was left out of Flamengo's starting lineup by coach Mário Zagallo, but after a chorus of fans demanded that he play, he was brought in as a substitute. After 33 minutes in the second half he scored the goal ("the goal of an angel") that was immortalized in the song:
...driblou o goleiro
Só não entrou com bola e tudo porque teve humildade.
("...he dribbled past the goalkeeper but did not enter the goal with the ball because he had humility.")
As the result of a legal dispute between Jorge Ben and Fio Maravilha the title of the song was later changed to "Filho maravilha". In 2007, Fio gave the musician permission to use the name Fio in the title.
Fio Maravilha currently lives in San Francisco, where he worked as a pizza deliverer. He now coaches youth soccer.
I do ramble.
Anyway, this name "wire wonder" is pretty amusing to me, because John the Baptist, Wire Wonder, is currently a pizza guy in California. Yup. Wire Wonder of the world, Bather of Jesus (the not lazy one), and all. A pizza guy. I guess it's the definition of peripeteia (thank you Jee-leong). Reversal of fates. Saint football star turned pizza guy. I guess I really like saying pizza guy. By the way, if you don't believe what I said, google it. Or look at the wikipedia article I've so nicely left for you at the bottom. It is good.
This guy is forever known in this song I really like, forever imprinted in my being as the most amazing man ever, because clearly Jorge Ben Jor is a good judge of character. Clearly Jorge Ben Jor knows what he is talking about, separating the pizza guys from the football stars. But he does not. And neither do I. And neither do you.
It's the beauty of Greek tragedies as well. That we can't tell how things are actually going to turn out. That we have to deal with that, even if what happens is such a huge change from what we were. Just look at Fio. He won a lawsuit against Jorge Ben for using the name, but then ended up letting Jorge use it anyway. He sells pizza and teaches little children to play soccer. So can you, most likely, if you have a talent for coaching. Marvel at that.
João Batista de Sales (born January 19, 1945 in Conselheiro Pena, Minas Gerais), better known as Fio Maravilha, is a former Brazilian football player. In Brazil he played for Flamengo, Paysandu Sport Club, CEUB, Desportiva and São Cristóvão. Later he moved to the United States, where he played for the New York Eagles, the Monte Belo Panthers and San Francisco Mercury.
He is perhaps most famous for the hit single "Fio Maravilha" that was written about him in 1972 by Jorge Ben (later known as Jorge Ben Jor). The musician attended a friendly game between Flamengo and Benfica in the Maracanã stadium. Fio Maravilha was left out of Flamengo's starting lineup by coach Mário Zagallo, but after a chorus of fans demanded that he play, he was brought in as a substitute. After 33 minutes in the second half he scored the goal ("the goal of an angel") that was immortalized in the song:
...driblou o goleiro
Só não entrou com bola e tudo porque teve humildade.
("...he dribbled past the goalkeeper but did not enter the goal with the ball because he had humility.")
As the result of a legal dispute between Jorge Ben and Fio Maravilha the title of the song was later changed to "Filho maravilha". In 2007, Fio gave the musician permission to use the name Fio in the title.
Fio Maravilha currently lives in San Francisco, where he worked as a pizza deliverer. He now coaches youth soccer.
Monday, October 6, 2008
funny dream..
I dreamed that I went with several school people, of whom I can only remember Kei, to a Usher concert. We were literally in front of the stage. I also ate a glazed doughnut. The only reason I even remember is because this morning when I checked my email, it said that Usher had posted a concert near me. Then, I saw that Haley had brought a bunch of doughnuts, and suddenly, FLASHBACK!! Whoa. Then I saw Kei, and FLASHBACK AGAIN!! She was a little weirded out when I told her what happened, but I think that it's ok. My dreams are so random anyway that I don't take them seriously.
what is this?
I don't know, but I've randomly been forbidden to post. NO idea what has happened. Maybe it was earlier today when I couldn't remember my password and kept attempting to get in.
Sunday, October 5, 2008
On the Grind
And he's on the grind
Please let me know if he's on your mind
Last night, I found myself at a Sweet Sixteen for a friend from elementary school. Her party was a typical party for Brooklyn crowds: resplendent in middle class grandeur, displayed in the ornate design of the gown and the two limousines outside of the hall. The crowd was also typical for a Brooklyn Sweet Sixteen: friends arrived in droves, from every school my friend had ever attended. Adults that my friend's mother had deemed necessary were invitees: old teachers, old aunts, and older matronly women who no one seemed to know. I greeted my girlfriends who I hadn't seen since fourth grade. We talked over food about how our lives had been since we had last seen each other, but as we began to reminisce about grade school, the DJ decided that it was time to dance. He began to play music that we all knew from our parents. We sat back and let the music let us drift to the good times. "Ah", said Jay, "This was the first song I dubbed to ever! That was way back in the day... back when dubbing wasn't so crazy."
We nodded. We bemoaned the madness of children, as if we were old crones at our spinning wheels. The spinning wheels of life were turning for us, but we didn't quite acknowledge its turning. That was fine, I supposed.
The DJ began to play all the current hits. We ran out on the dance floor, howling "That's my song!!" with every intermittent beat that pounded through our bloodstream. We shook our hips, threw off our shoes and displayed our sexual prowess to any and all in view. We, the girls, called the boys to the mating ritual that most likely occurred nightly on that shiny dance floor.They stood, impassive, like bobbleheads, for only their heads moved to crane another look at another girl's posterior going around in circles. They scoped the scene like hawks, whispering to each other, nudging each other, daring each other to make the first move. It was a stalemate between the girls, who had already been gyrating for at least half an hour, and the boys, who seemed physically incapable of coherent movement. Then, the chosen few swooped up their prizes. They seized asses and rutted their way through another hour. They were certain they were dancing. I was not. I sidled up to a friend, looking for the safety in numbers. We, as prey, tend to have to work pretty hard to escape the voracious hunger of a boy's crotch. Strangely, however, no moves were being made. Uncertain in my status as prey, I double-checked by dropping low, while twirling my hips like a hula hoop. There was no attack. There was no attack! Feeling with certainty that I could safely dance in whatever way I pleased, I began to do so. I did so for quite some time without the duress of nether-regional attention. I watched the boys warily, seeing them always standing near, edging their way over to look some more. I decided that these were not true hunters. They were scavengers. Not a falcon, but a buzzard. While a buzzard is completely capable of taking down prey, it chooses not to, waiting until its prey is as good as dead. Being in my prime, I was certain that I would not be taken down by a foolish buzzard. I laughed, kicked my feet as far as my tight restrictive pencil skirt and 2 inch heels allowed and continued to dance. But then, in the lull of an unknown lyric, I was suddenly pillaged. Behind me, without warning, there was something pecking at me. I ignored it, being slightly silly and unseeing by this time. But it was insistent. I wanted to go one way, and this parasite wanted to go another. It was maddening, but I endured, for I figured that this could not last very long. Surely it would only be a couple more minutes before it had gotten what it wanted. I could play dead for that long. But as I stood there, I grew more and more annoyed. This was dancing? This was dry fornication? This felt like rubbing my butt on a rotating piece of sandpaper. For what, this piece of shit, whose name I did not know, didn't want to know, and never learned, to feel some buildup in his penis? I stepped away. His claws were still stuck on my arms, but I dislodged them and continued to walk away. My feet ached with the pain of inflicting needles on an eyeball, as far as I could tell. I changed shoes. Perhaps now I would be safe from the attacks, thought I. Foolish child. Foolish foolish child. Another came, dressed like the devil itself in a black suit with red vest. He grabbed me, but I was quicker, and snatched myself away quickly. "Don't you want to dance?" he asked. "No". Just no. There is no pleasure in this stupidity, and the juvenility of young women in taking pleasure by giving an unknown boy pleasure makes me want to laugh.
Why can't we dance, youth of America? Must we wind ourselves up and down on each other's bodies, adding extra not entirely pleasant friction, and then making faces as if this is pleasant? Surely crumping and breakdancing can lend a helping hand? Could we salsa a little, or waltz a bit? Is that not fun? Am I an alien?
I turned to a friend. An old friend, but also an old enemy. I turned to her, and said "can't we just dance?"She nodded. The camaraderie of pre-k came flooding back. Here was the girl who was where I was, standing on the plateau looking down to the plain, and trying to figure out why the hell no one wanted to climb the steppe to get where we were. We must have seemed crazy then, grinning as we mentally high-fived with our superiority, our realization of other options. We saw the road, but we knew that there was a better road, with less bumps and less itching, that would take us to the blessed Nirvana of dancing, where people of all colors stand around with their sweat rags and water bottles, tired, but having a damned good time. We saw it, but we tried the other road anyway. Just as we suspected, it was gross. And I asked myself, how do these other girls do it?
- Ludacris, Gossip Folks (Missy Elliot)
Last night, I found myself at a Sweet Sixteen for a friend from elementary school. Her party was a typical party for Brooklyn crowds: resplendent in middle class grandeur, displayed in the ornate design of the gown and the two limousines outside of the hall. The crowd was also typical for a Brooklyn Sweet Sixteen: friends arrived in droves, from every school my friend had ever attended. Adults that my friend's mother had deemed necessary were invitees: old teachers, old aunts, and older matronly women who no one seemed to know. I greeted my girlfriends who I hadn't seen since fourth grade. We talked over food about how our lives had been since we had last seen each other, but as we began to reminisce about grade school, the DJ decided that it was time to dance. He began to play music that we all knew from our parents. We sat back and let the music let us drift to the good times. "Ah", said Jay, "This was the first song I dubbed to ever! That was way back in the day... back when dubbing wasn't so crazy."
We nodded. We bemoaned the madness of children, as if we were old crones at our spinning wheels. The spinning wheels of life were turning for us, but we didn't quite acknowledge its turning. That was fine, I supposed.
The DJ began to play all the current hits. We ran out on the dance floor, howling "That's my song!!" with every intermittent beat that pounded through our bloodstream. We shook our hips, threw off our shoes and displayed our sexual prowess to any and all in view. We, the girls, called the boys to the mating ritual that most likely occurred nightly on that shiny dance floor.They stood, impassive, like bobbleheads, for only their heads moved to crane another look at another girl's posterior going around in circles. They scoped the scene like hawks, whispering to each other, nudging each other, daring each other to make the first move. It was a stalemate between the girls, who had already been gyrating for at least half an hour, and the boys, who seemed physically incapable of coherent movement. Then, the chosen few swooped up their prizes. They seized asses and rutted their way through another hour. They were certain they were dancing. I was not. I sidled up to a friend, looking for the safety in numbers. We, as prey, tend to have to work pretty hard to escape the voracious hunger of a boy's crotch. Strangely, however, no moves were being made. Uncertain in my status as prey, I double-checked by dropping low, while twirling my hips like a hula hoop. There was no attack. There was no attack! Feeling with certainty that I could safely dance in whatever way I pleased, I began to do so. I did so for quite some time without the duress of nether-regional attention. I watched the boys warily, seeing them always standing near, edging their way over to look some more. I decided that these were not true hunters. They were scavengers. Not a falcon, but a buzzard. While a buzzard is completely capable of taking down prey, it chooses not to, waiting until its prey is as good as dead. Being in my prime, I was certain that I would not be taken down by a foolish buzzard. I laughed, kicked my feet as far as my tight restrictive pencil skirt and 2 inch heels allowed and continued to dance. But then, in the lull of an unknown lyric, I was suddenly pillaged. Behind me, without warning, there was something pecking at me. I ignored it, being slightly silly and unseeing by this time. But it was insistent. I wanted to go one way, and this parasite wanted to go another. It was maddening, but I endured, for I figured that this could not last very long. Surely it would only be a couple more minutes before it had gotten what it wanted. I could play dead for that long. But as I stood there, I grew more and more annoyed. This was dancing? This was dry fornication? This felt like rubbing my butt on a rotating piece of sandpaper. For what, this piece of shit, whose name I did not know, didn't want to know, and never learned, to feel some buildup in his penis? I stepped away. His claws were still stuck on my arms, but I dislodged them and continued to walk away. My feet ached with the pain of inflicting needles on an eyeball, as far as I could tell. I changed shoes. Perhaps now I would be safe from the attacks, thought I. Foolish child. Foolish foolish child. Another came, dressed like the devil itself in a black suit with red vest. He grabbed me, but I was quicker, and snatched myself away quickly. "Don't you want to dance?" he asked. "No". Just no. There is no pleasure in this stupidity, and the juvenility of young women in taking pleasure by giving an unknown boy pleasure makes me want to laugh.
Why can't we dance, youth of America? Must we wind ourselves up and down on each other's bodies, adding extra not entirely pleasant friction, and then making faces as if this is pleasant? Surely crumping and breakdancing can lend a helping hand? Could we salsa a little, or waltz a bit? Is that not fun? Am I an alien?
I turned to a friend. An old friend, but also an old enemy. I turned to her, and said "can't we just dance?"She nodded. The camaraderie of pre-k came flooding back. Here was the girl who was where I was, standing on the plateau looking down to the plain, and trying to figure out why the hell no one wanted to climb the steppe to get where we were. We must have seemed crazy then, grinning as we mentally high-fived with our superiority, our realization of other options. We saw the road, but we knew that there was a better road, with less bumps and less itching, that would take us to the blessed Nirvana of dancing, where people of all colors stand around with their sweat rags and water bottles, tired, but having a damned good time. We saw it, but we tried the other road anyway. Just as we suspected, it was gross. And I asked myself, how do these other girls do it?
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