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(March 27th, 2007. 10:04pm.)
I have this weird, stabbing pain in my heart.
That can't possibly be a good thing, right? And I'm entirely exhausted from getting a total of twelve hours sleep in the past 96 hours. Plus, being back in school just takes your soul right out of you, so there's also that. But I'm not complaining - spending half of the weekend with three of my favorite people was worth the lack of sleep. I wish distance wasn't so restraining.
Class on Monday was a bitch to get up for, but the first two hours were all kinds of fun. We made a group effort to complain about how discouraged we are by the pessimistic outlooks a lot of the visiting guest writers had on the industry. It was disheartening, discouraging, etc. I was kind of bummed out. But then Jeff said this great thing: "Nothing worthwhile in life is every gonna be easy." Immediately I began to journal about what it is I'm going to Columbia for, what it is I want to get out of the program and what I have so far. The discussion kept going, and I kept listening, but I was in my own world by. Then, this quote furthered into other aspects of my life which I wrote about excessively for a good four or so pages. It was intense.
Today in Megan's class, John McNally came in to answer questions about his book The Book of Ralph, which I highly recommend to EVERYONE because it's just so fun and so well-written. It was awesome and an honor to have his process and such at our disposal. He answered a lot of questions, gave some good insight, and overall was a great, quiet man. It's amazing to think of the success he has or is about to have and yet he was still so modest and kind as to come in and answer to a bunch of young, aspiring writers. He wasn't condescending or anything, not that I expected him to be, but that just gives me oodles and oodles of hope.
I'm almost done reading Hubert Selby Jr.'s Last Exit to Brooklyn and I did enjoy it. What I'm more excited about is starting Less Than Zero by Bret Easton Ellis, especially because this kid Chris in my CRW class did a presentation on him today and he seems like such a fucking rich asshole but I might enjoy all the drug references and stuff. Haha.
I just realized I still have Science of Nutrition homework to do. Oops! I think it's due at midnight. Crap. This is me leaving.
Oh, and PS, for your own entertainment (Harry Potter fans):
(March 22th, 2007. 10:42pm.)
What'd you learn tonight?
I've realized recently that being a writer does not merely mean getting journals for Christmas, your birthday, etc., but also that everyone thinks you know everything about every book ever written. And on top of that, you should know every published author in the entire universe. Or every article related to writers/writing. Why am I ranting about this? I don't know. The last week that was deemed Story Week at my school was in the papers and I got at least one phone call every day about it and it's still continuing. My god. I go to the school, people! I'm not completely blinded by society.
Today at work, Marian, this old witch of a woman, explained two entire series to me as though I cared.
This is a tiny update. I have a lot of cleaning to do. And laundry. And just general shit. Friends from up north are coming down tomorrow for the weekend!
(March 13th, 2007. 8:52pm.)
I don't really like Coke Zero.
Seriously. Why make a Coke Zero when there's already a Diet Coke? Wtf?
I don't even know where to start. Yesterday I went to the Story Week event with part-time faculty readings and the first person I see upon walking in is Joe Meno. I nearly had a heart attack and had to turn and warn Matt immediately. Sad to say how fangirl I got. It's a little embarrassing, really. Got to listen to a few people read, like Mort Castle which was pretty fucking sweet. Then Matt and I went out into the lobby to eat lunch and once everyone kind of congregated in the room we overheard some really odd and hilarious comments from Meno. I was still all fangirl. I don't think that will ever end. Especially after hearing him just today say to someone, referring to himself in the third person, "Joe Meno is gonna kick your ass!" Oh lord.
On that note, today was the undergraduate open mic where I was one of thirty to read. First public reading. I thought I was going to die and regretted signing up after every individual reader before me (and that's twenty people, folks, as I was twenty-one on the list). Not only was it my first read at a podium of my own work, outside of a classroom, but Megan was there, Jo and Agnes came (thankyouthankyouthankyou), a number of upper-level undergraduates were there, and front and center? Joe fucking Meno. Imagine your current biggest influence listening to you read your own shit. Just imagine that for a second. No, seriously. Sit back, take a deep breath and consider it. In anything you do, who is your biggest influence, and what would you feel/do if that person was five feet from you while you did what you would like to think you do best? Thought about it? Powerful shit, eh? I was shaking like hell. I tried to keep it slow paced, loud enough to be heard, and pronounced. I stumbled only once according to Jo, though I think I did it twice or more, just less noticably. I heard at least a scatter of laughter when it was necessary. I made sure I looked up and didn't stare directly at the page, though I didn't look directly AT anyone. Basically, from the moment my name was called to the moment my ass was back in my chair, and probably three minutes after that, I blocked everything out. I was shaking like a leaf. I think Desiree leaned forward and asked if I'd been nervous, and I think I quickly told her, "Yes, look how bad I'm shaking" and raised my hand to prove it. But I'm not sure if that's exactly how it went. And I was so happy at the end to see Annie, my tutor, and her friend CJ clapping enthusiastically. Apparently CJ told Annie that she was acting like a proud mother. Insert awwwhs here! So yeah, I guess I did okay. It was a good experience though, just doing it.
Moving on. My sister somehow talked my mom into letting her get the other side of her lip pierced for this "speech project." Die, Paige. Anyway, here's the video recording of it just for kicks:
Also, I wanted to talk about Jodi for a second. I don't know if I posted about this, and I don't think I did, but there's an online obituary type thing that was set up for her and it is here. Also, I have to tell this story that my aunt just told me over the phone. Jodi's best friend, Sonny, was outside playing with her kids this morning (two young boys). Randomly, she felt the presence of Jodi and so she thought to herself, "Jodi, if you are here, let me reach down and pick a four-leaf clover." And she did. In a yard where she, being spiritual and believing four-leaf clovers bring good luck, has never found one before - there one was. She kept it and pressed it and all of that, then e-mailed my Aunt the story who forwarded it to my mom's e-mail address, but because she knows I'm into that kind of thing, she called to discuss it.
This spring break, I am going to write write write and read read read. I promise myself that. I need to kill this shit. Stop fucking around. But until then, I have to face a Science of Nutrition mid-term tomorrow - a class I've neglected what with the hustle&bustle life has been consisting of lately. We'll see how that all goes.
(March 11th, 2007. 9:16pm.)
I have a feeling tonight will be a long one.
I felt productive today. Got my ass out of bed around 9:30am and headed directly for the gym. Came home to eat a meal and take my brother to his hockey practice where I enjoyed myself a can of Diet Rockstar and read a portion of Love Medicine for class tomorrow. When I got home, I finished the rest of the assigned reading for that class specifically (Fiction 2). I did the homework assignment for my ridiculously pointless Science of Nutrition general education class and decided it would be best if I tried to tackle the chapter on vitamins for the week. I spent two hours taking four pages of notes off of the notes from the lecture of my professor and then went to take the quiz. Upon hitting, "Take this quiz" I was re-directed to the page where I would have gone if I'd hit, "Submit for grading." And thus, I was graded. A great big 0/25. I have five chances to take the quiz and pass, but the scores are averaged together. So, even though I ended up taking it THREE MORE TIMES (I can normally do it in one straight shot but I was one point away the first two times which has never happened before!!) and it still averages out to a 13/25. So really, I'm not sure what to do about that. It got me extremely flustered and pissed off and raging, really, so I hope he can do something about that. Since, you know, I HAVE to go to class this week. Which will be the first time since week two of this semester. Why, you ask? Because the class is rather pointless to me, it's a waste of time to commute downtown for, etc etc. And yet, I go on his portion of the website and find that he's decided to give us a midterm. Lucky us. That ruined my week, to be perfectly honest. But back on track, after all of that, I ate dinner, bathed, went to Jewel, and here I am right now.
Which leads me to this scene: sitting here at my computer, pointlessly updating my website instead of finishing the writing assignment for Jeff's class tomorrow. I cannot, for the life of me, work out the rest of the scene. The lead up is all right, which reminds me of something else I'll hit on in just a second. But now that I am where I am, I have nowhere else to go! My brain just isn't functioning! I got a cup of grapes and sat down. I got up and got a glass of water, then sat down. I stared at the cursor, blinking away, two spaces after the last punctuation mark. Taunting. I stood up and put the kettle on, then couldn't decide which flavor tea I felt like; cranberry apple or regular Canadian Nestle? So I made both. I split a packet of Equal between them and now they sit to my left, my glass of water in between the two. I've eaten a Pink Lady apple and half a cup of Total cereal. But have I written? No. I've fucked around with my iTunes, switching it when Nirvana comes on shuffle and lulling my head back to think and concentrate when The Appleseed Cast plays. Writing? Not touched. I've checked myspace, facebook, yahoo!mail, my buddylist to see who might be online now that wasn't two minutes before, read the daily Cyanide and Happiness as well as the recent Post Secret and refreshed a message board or two several times each. I'm running out of things to do, and so I find myself here, venting about how I cannot write, yet wasting time writing absolutely nothing at all. And I thought this whole making-tea-but-not-writing thing was just talk.
Now, as for the thing I mentioned I'd hit on in a second? I'm hitting on it right now. As far as I know, Megan is going to have us read publicly in front of a crowd of people, who knows how big, on Tuesday. This will be my first reading EVER. Am I nervous? You fucking bet. Two full pages to read aloud, to shake through and fight a quivering voice through and hope that people react the way I want them to. I haven't had to do this outside of a classroom setting thus far in my college experience and I'm not sure how I'm going to react. Vomit, fainting, wet armpits and clammy hands are all possibilities. Also, jumping from a window in the building, getting "lost" between the fiction building where class starts and the film building where the reading will be, losing my voice mysteriously mid-class session, walking out into on-coming traffic all seem to have a bittersweet sound to them. Wish me luck. Or come, if you live in the city. Contact page, e-mail/message me for information.
And we'll all float on okay...
So when I woke up this morning, I found a picture of Ira Glass staring up at me from my kitchen table. Apparently my mom had seen it in the mix of newspaper things and recognized him from the reading I forced her to come to back in early February and saved it for me. So NOW she's highly interested. HA! *scoffs a little then moves on* Yes, so, I have yet to read the article, though I meant to bring it with me to Liam's hockey practice. I will read it tomorrow though, on the commute most likely. If I remember, I'll make mention of my thoughts on it later.
HEY! How could I forget? Spring finally hit Chicago. I'm sure it will be taken away from us quite quickly, but until then, I am PLEASED AS PEACH. The past few days have been spent driving around with my windows down, sunglasses on, and yes, I even pulled out the old "Tell All Your Friends" by Taking Back Sunday. Heelllooo! Best summer CD ever?! And yes, I will defend that statement until death do us part (the CD and myself, that is) because I will never, ever tire of the feeling it gives me in the wonderful summer air (or, shall I say, touch of spring air?) and it hasn't gone away in all these years.
And that reminds me that work was, gasp, bearable yesterday! All nearly nine hours of it! I kind of prefer doing sales. At least, I'll tell you that if you ask me for the next couple of shifts until it becomes second nature and I start to grow tired of it and begin to hate it just as much as I hated floorstocking the damn store. A job is a job is a job. But hey, more hours = more money, right? Right. And I am in dire need of that, but who isn't? I had a good time with the people at my counter, too, and what got me all happy was the fact that one of the women, Karen, made the daily schedule and purposely put is together the way it was. That means that she chose me! And I love her and all, so that made me happy. It was a fun handful of hours to be honest, even if the section we were in (glass) was the hottest in the entire store, thanks to the windows and the sun beating in as well as the crazy amount of customers that seemed to come in herds.
I really should get to writing. My treat for completing at least one of the three assignments I have yet to do was to finish watching Stranger Than Fiction because what I saw before I fell asleep two nights ago was quite amusing and well done. It doesn't look at though that's going to happen if I plan on getting even an hour of sleep tonight. I am a horrible, horrible procrastinator. And I wonder why I'm so stressed out all the time! HAHA!
By the way, I'm not feeling this cranberry apple tea.
(March 9th, 2007. 3:56pm.)
So little time, yet so much of it is wasted.
It just strikes me as amazing. I'm talking about my ability to find an hour, maybe two have gone by while I sit online doing absolutely nothing. I put off updating this place because it will be too "time consuming" and I have "too much to do" like read Last Exit to Brooklyn, American Psycho, Love Medicine, or The Book of Ralph as well as write. I complain about how going to the gym takes about two hours out of my day and how can I possibly fit everything in? But yet, what do I do instead? Absolutely nothing. I boggle my own damn mind.
I've been spending a lot of time this past week watching Six Feet Under because I still had to finish seasons four and five. Now that I have about eight or nine episodes left, I'm feeling rather nostalgic already. I can't imagine how I'll feel after this apparent WHAMMY of a finale because I'll have lost a love, virtually. Not having new episodes to look forward to is a sad, sad thing. The show is so damn inspiring for me. If you haven't watched it, rent the first season or check it out at the library, or shit, just go out and buy it. I gaurantee you that you'll get hooked and want to watch the whole thing. The entire series just gets me so riled up. Especially Claire, the youngest daughter who is an artist that no one seems to understand and who always gets mixed up with all the wrong boys. Everything she says and does is just, well, me. Does that make me a cliche? I haven't really decided yet. But for instance, Claire has this discussion where she's talking about how she's been going through a tough time and hasn's picked up her camera in forever, her medium. Her friend at the bar tells her that that's the best time to work. Claire says she's afraid that everything she does is shit. Her friend says something about what's the worst that can happen? Someone'll make fun of you? And holy shit. You know? Yeah. Not to mention there's this scene where Claire is dancing by herself at a party and they're playing N.E.R.D. and, I mean, c'mon!
Anyway, a few tears will be shed once I'm done with the series. That is all.
Moving on. I'm really obsessed right now with this band called Cute Is What We Aim For. LAUGH AWAY FOR THOSE THAT KNOW. Honestly, they're one of those bands that just... anyone could do it as long as they have some kind of musical talent. The lyrics are cliche and simple and overused, the riffs and music is catchy but nothing special, and yet I find myself listening to them all the time. Especially with the relatively nice weather us Chicago kids have been having lately! I have to listen to thoughtless, upbeat music because that's just what the weather calls for!
Don't even say anything. Oh, and randomness, but I didn't realize Jack Marin was in the band and almost threw a shitfit. What memories.
Tonight I will spend reading and hopefully writing, but probably will waste it away watching movies and such. Have a good weekend.
(March 3rd, 2007. 11:36pm.)
May your organs fail before your dreams fail you...
I haven't updated in forever. I haven't done anything in forever. No writing, no reading, nothing. I have hours of homework I should do and I haven't done it. I'm unorganized. I'm living for everyone else. It's not fun and I'm getting sick from being so damn tired all the time.
But tonight was a much needed break. The Matches (the most amazing band ever and I will argue this to the death okaaee?) were in town. And, as they have been lately, their show was kick-ass. It's amazing to look at how they were back in the Bottom Lounge days, circa 2002ish, and then at how far they've come in their performance techniques and abilities. They put on a fucking SHOW, man. But, with good shit comes success. To try and simply say HI to them after the show - which used to be half-hour long hang sessions at LEAST - is impossible now. Jo and I decided to just wave and tell Shawn a quick, "Good show!" but instead were bombarded by millions of younger fans, pushing and shoving to get near him. So finally, Jo catches his attention and he ignores everyone else for a second just to grab hold of us over the heads of a few other kids. A few seconds later, we're by Jon who does a very similar thing as he's engulfed by crazed fans. On the way out, Matt stops in his stride to ask us how we were, etc. It always feels good to know they still care about the fans. Justin, as per usual lately, was MIA.
But, back to the show. Fucking amazing. My throat hurts from singing along, my calves hurt from bouncing around (and for other reasons I will touch on shortly) and my head hurts from my side-standing moshing. MOSHPITS ARE NOT WHAT THEY USED TO BE. I'll leave it at that. And, as I've said before, I hate couples at concerts. Especially twelve-year-olds. Or the really old men who are super creepy. Yeah.
As for the calves hurting: I joined a gym on Friday. Now let me tell you a quick backstory that goes like this: I CANNOT SAY NO. So, with the intention of ONLY getting a gym membership on Friday, I got suckered into buying personal training. Until, of course, I got home and realized it was $870 for 15 weeks, one session per week. Uhm, HELL TO THE NAH. So all the shit I had to go through to get rid of that was ridiculous, but whatever, let's focus on the positive points. I joined a gym! And I've gone both Friday night and this morning and will go tomorrow and hopefully continue this until I am, gasp, THIN.
I had a lot more to say, but I am exhausted. I don't know how I'm going to get everything done in time that needs doing. Right now I have begun my post-Matches depression which will carry on for, hm, could be anywhere from a day to a week. We'll see.
Ooooh, life.
(February 25th, 2007. 9:28pm.)
'Cause the hardest part of this is...
I haven't updated since Friday morning because I just didn't know what to say or do. She's gone. She made it longer than the five/six hours they had predicted, but at 1am Saturday morning in Denver, my cousin passed away from a cancer that showed no symptoms just four and a half weeks ago. My dad is leaving tomorrow to be with my mom in Denver for two days, to go to the service, etc. It hasn't really hit me yet. I've been trying not to think about it but either way, I still cannot focus on what I should.
I've done about 60% of what is due tomorrow. I don't want to use all of what's going on as an excuse, because it's not, but I just have not had the heart, ability, or time to sit down and read through a story, let alone outline and parody it.
As I imagined, having the relatives here have been slightly more helpful and loads more stressful. This weekend has consisted of doing exactly everything I wouldn't want to do, like go to my brother's hockey practices and games, go to the Wolves games, go grocery shopping WITH people (as though any of these activities really need me in the mix?) and I really just want to chill and breathe and not hate my life.
This is a short update because I've got nothing to say, really. Well, I have a million things to say but no way to form any words correctly. All I know is that every time my life is engulfed in hockey, I hate my parents for never putting me into it as a child. I could have been good. I love the sport enough. This is just a random rant.
Sigh.
(February 23th, 2007. 9:33am.)
...
This always has and always will be the one painting Kurt Halsey has done that defines my life. Especially at this particular time.
As for an update on Jodi: she made it through the night & that's all I know. My mom called me upon landing at the airport in Denver and promised me updates when she got to the hospital. I slept less than two hours last night and had to take my mom to the airport at 4am. I let her borrow my favorite scarf for good luck. If, in fact, my cousin does pass away (which is more a certainty than a possibility), my mom expects my dad to fly out on Monday to help her and my Aunt get through it all.
Thus, my great A&U, and dad's parents are coming in, as I've mentioned before. They are staying for an uncertain amount of time and, although helpful, it could get annoying and stressful. But I'm counting my blessings at the fact that they are dropping everything up in Canada to come down and help us out and I love that my family is like that. On that note, I'm also highly appreciative of the friends who have and continue to show support because I do need it whether I act like it or not, and I love you all for it. You know who you are.
On a brighter note, my friend Matt celebrated a birthday yesterday. Everyone needs to click on his name and find out just how talented the fucker is. :)
Sad but true: these boys are keeping me really fucking entertained in light of the situation. For those that don't know, they're two semi-ridiculous boys about my age who got signed for being stupid on youtube. Congrats, asshats, for owning at life. You've got one up on Tucker Max though, and that is I actually like you. So yes, go laugh at their antics, youtube search "Smosh" and check 'em out. Specifically, though, the one I linked to because who in their right minds DOESN'T love Denny's? Okay, maybe it's just me and my friends and extended no-longer-friends list. BUT WHATEVER. Tell me what you think and we can try to have an intellectual conversation about these guys.
I'm off to have breakfast with my neighbor as a, I don't know, release I suppose? She's a good woman. Like a second grandmother most of the time. Only thing is, I'm not really up for eating. I kind of feel like shit.
And, my sister is home again. I picked her up before the day even began. I'm getting even more worried and fuck life, basically.
(February 22th, 2007. 9:06pm.)
That was a short "two months."
This update is going to start out on a sour note but I'll try to make it lighter if you choose to continue reading this whole entry. Just a warning.
This morning, I pick my mother up from the airport. The second she steps foot into the house we get a phone call that my cousin, Jodi, is bleeding to death and they can't stop it and she has approximately six hours to live. I was a mess all morning and my mom's been a wreck all day, crying and trying to get everything figured out and cleaning like crazy. She's leaving tomorrow morning and I have to drive her to the airport at about 4am. My dad's gone again all weekend, so my aunt and uncle and grandparents are driving down tomorrow for an undisclosed amount of time. If my cousin goes, my dad's going to fly out to Denver as well.
The thing that kills me is like, what would you do if you found out you had five hours left to live? I can't get over that. And how much we take for granted: bubble baths and starbucks, sushi and walking, working out and being with the people we love, reading a fucking book. It is just such a mindfuck. You know? And the other thing that kills me is the fact that they've been pumping her with plasma to slow the process so that her dad and sister could fly in to see her, and while they were doing that, she turns and asks, "Why are you slowing it down if I'm dying?" God, that just rips my heart out. Rips it the hell out. And I keep thinking of all the times we had together, which wasn't that much time at all, and most specifically the day when the two of us had to drive up to Canada together. Just the two of us in her car, talking about college and life and all the crazy things she did and listening to her crappy Nickleback CDs. God, what I wouldn't have to get that day back right now even though, at the time, I just wanted to break the fucking CD in half.
What I'm saying is, stop taking shit for granted people. I know it's easier said than done and I'm the worst when it comes to this. I don't know.
Don't ever try listening to My Chemical Romance's song "Cancer" when you know someone who has been severely affected by the fucking thing. The worst goddamn thing in the world, I swear to it.
On top of all this, dealing with my mother (who freaked out and cleaned our entire kitchen so that it's spotless, not to mention she's been on the phone all day and crying on and off), trying to deal myself, and then I go and lose my credit card. So I had to deal with canceling that shit while my phone flickered in and out because Comcast needs to suck a dirty, hairy nut. So that was all sorted out. As well, I went to go pick my brother up from school for my mom because she's been in no shape to drive, and he never comes out of the building. So I have to go up to the office and ask and they page him and he doesn't come, so his teacher and myself go looking for him and find him at the after-school station which he never has on Thursdays. Then he starts yelling at me in front of all the kids and the people who watch the kids because he doesn't want to leave, and at this point I just want to smack him in the head because I'm fed up and I know he has no idea what's going on because he's too young to understand. So I just grab his arm and drag him out to the car where I proceed to cry before I bring him home.
I bought sushi from Dominick's today because I was craving it so badly and by the time I got home I'd cried myself dry in the car and didn't want any of it anymore. So I didn't have it until now with a glass of Coke Zero and now I feel like throwing it all up. Also, I really want to paint right now but I can't focus on anything and I know painting will just frustrate me further so I'm just sitting here staring and updating and thinking, thinking, thinking.
I finished both Me Talk Pretty One Day by David Sedaris and that damned Traveling Pants book yesterday. Let me say that the latter did prove to be a waste of my time, and, *SPOILER*, the last line made me want to kill myself. "Pants = love." FUCK YOU. What a waste of four hundred pages, my god. Then I started American Psycho by Bret Easton Ellis and goddammit if that isn't a change from the previous two books. I'm entertained (and maybe that's where my sushi craving came from?) but whoa on the description, Mr. Ellis. Jesus. Do I really need to know that so-and-so's skirt is Ralph Lauren but her shoes are Nine West? It's different and interesting, I suppose, but blah.
I can't even focus on doing homework right now. And fuck Tilden and Brayden at this moment - I can't even deal with my own world, let alone figuring out their fucked up shit. Or reading anything at this point in time about Haitian torture, transvestites, "bennies," sex, gang rape, etc. Makes it hard to get homework done. Plus, I am 95% positive I am about to hurl up my california rolls.
Everyone needs to listen to Kanye's remix of Fall Out Boy's, "This Ain't A Scene, It's An Arms Race." Even if you don't like the song or Kanye (because I hate Kanye), you need to listen to it here. I love Patrick's voice. (colonhappysmurf - I am a geek.) As well, everyone should look at their Rolling Stones cover and laugh at Pete here because he's suddenly a total tool. It makes me laugh a shitload.
I watched Amelie the other day. What a beautiful movie. I'm glad I actually paid attention to it this time - I have a lot to say about that, but I'll save it for some other time (like my journal response for Megan).
Sometimes I'm afraid to see a movie that Justin Timberlake has been a part of. I really want to see Black Snake Moan though. Don't make fun! Take a look at the douche though: ahhaha. I absolutely love the man though and I will have his babies someday. Be jealous, be very, very jealous. Things like this keep me believing that there is still talent in the world. You know, he's one of the few that I will defend my love for until the end of time. It's not a joke when my myspace/facebook profiles (oh, how lame is that?) say, "Shit that makes your ears & heart bleed (andjustintimberlake)."
A list of things I wish for at this moment:
(February 20th, 2007. 5:07pm.)
Back on track with a BANG!
So today some guy on the corner of Clark and Madison informed me that I had "cool hair" but "shouldn't wear make up." For some reason, this has stuck with me. Not for the offense in which I almost took, but for the oddity of it all. He was a young guy, not some old random man who decided to enlighten the younger generation of their obscurities. Whatever, right? But then fifteen minutes later I'm faced with some other man, about the same age, inclined to tell me his life story up until the point where he was put in jail (for what, he did not disclaim) and that he'd just gotten out. I was polite, not so much out of fear but out of curiosity maybe? And that, too, stuck with me.
Anyway, today was an interesting day (or has been so far). I wasn't caffeinated enough for my CRW class, but alas, I tried. I know the story we're reading well and I studied it pretty hard, took notes, wrote a pretty good response in my opinion. As well, I'm enoying Selby's novel on the side, so it makes class a lot more interesting. Unfortunately though, I'm trying to cut the excess calories and coffee is just one of those things. I replaced said liquid with that new Enviga stuff, which isn't half bad considering it's green tea. I'm not a fan of "sparkling" drinks though, and thus, the beverage just makes me goddamn thirsty. Apparently by drinking three within a day (at five calories per can) you should burn 60-100 calories a day on that alone. Which, of course, is most likely bullshit, but I guess the promise of negative calories can't hold a candle to coffee.
After that class, which I absolutely love because it gets me thinking about all the things necessary to write well (not just content, but context) as well as motivating me to go home and write fucking WRITE WRITE WRITE. And then, ten minutes after, I'm shut in a damn-near four by four foot room with one other person focusing on me and only me and what I've got to say. Lucky for me, my tutor, Annie, is an awesome girl. We have all these weird commonalities, too, and she always boosts my relatively high writing-ego because she seems to enjoy my work.
This is not meant to be a bragging update, for chrissake. Let me continue with the important shit: today, the two of us read over what I've turned into her so far. We were interrupted by a fire alarm which took a good chunk out of our session (thank you, Columbia, for having one staircase and fifteen-ish floors) but what we did get accomplished was sure as hell motivational. I turned in this portion of my novel where my charcter, Tilden...well, I won't get too far into it. But basically, there was this one line that struck Annie particularly hard which she underlined and apparently re-read several times because it was just that powerful. Do you know what it feels like to be told you wrote something powerful? It means the fucking world, people. The. Fucking. World.
She was actually excited about the piece and pointed out the attention to details such as gestures, looks, and feelings emitting from each individual character. This floored me for several reasons - one, she enjoyed it?! two, she understood it?! and three, wait, what? I wrote that?
This excites ME for the following reasons: I do not consciously sit and tell myself, "Okay, give a gesture. Okay, now give an emotion. Okay, exaggerate here." Though I'm aware that it must be in the back of my mind, I've never paid enough attention to these things. Sometimes I fear that I am missing too many details, rushing the story, not telling enough. Then I worry that if I DO attempt such a task, I am giving too much and boring the audience. Worry, worry, worry. Why don't I just fucking write? Now there's a question worth exploring.
I can't decide if I'm too pumped to write a journal for Megan next week or if I'd rather work on my novel. Maybe both, but both require a large amount of energy and time and care and I don't think I can do it all tonight. We'll see. I also have this damn Science of Nutrition homework to type up and submit (aka, regurgitating the past chapter I've read in Fast Food Nation for at least a page, single spaced with no heading) before midnight. Which I dread every goddamn week because it's so boring (as are the tests, which I aim for a 72% on every week. I hope we don't have a final!) and so time consuming and just not fun at all.
On that note, I've realized that I really cannot read non-fiction. I try. Even when it's recommended. And I'll do it if I really feel the need to, but this book is such a yawnfest that it pains me to see how many pages are left (a couple hundred) and books such as Sex, Drug, and Cocoa Puffs by Chuck Klosterman are impossible to keep my attention with. I cannot concentrate and I don't have any solid explanation as to why that is, it just is. And I know SD&CP is a good read and is humorous and blah blah blah. Preach it to the choir, because honestly, I'm aware and it just doesn't click with me. I've read half of that book and have not touched it since I last put it down. Maybe I'll push through it some day. Maybe.
Off topic - has anyone heard the newly leaked Modest Mouse? Holy shit, I cannot get over the greatness that is that album. I will be spending money on the actual CD when it releases. It's my soundtrack to the city, my reminder that summer is, in fact, just around the corner (yes, people, it is currently 45 degrees out in Chicago and I am more than happy to remove my coat and dance around on the streets for half an hour at least).
I think I've ranted enough for this given moment in my life, and I'm almost done with my work out (thank God for arm rests on stationary bikes and laptops, right?) so it's time to leave this for now.
PS - I WANT SOME SERIOUS INTERACTION HERE, FOLKS. I don't just write this to see myself talk, and I don't write this merely for feedback on my work. I want to DISCUSS. I want to talk about literature and music and love (though I don't believe in that so much and yes, I will argue to the death on that point: try me) and anything else you can think of. DON'T BE AFRAID, MY TEETH ARE TOO SMALL TO CAUSE DAMAGE WHEN BITING.
(February 17th, 2007. 10:44am.)
Let's talk about pet peeves as a lead in.
Honestly, pet peeve numero uno: couples at concerts. GET A FUCKING ROOM. Friday night, Jo and I get to Jack's Mannequin's wonderful show a little late and end up stuck behind three separate couples. You know the kind. The ones that spoon the whole goddamn time at best, eat each other's faces at (almost) worst. Well, one of the couples was the former, the other two were the latter. And I, oh-so-fortunately, ended up right behind the dude having a tongue-war with his chick's neck.
You know what I go to shows for? To enjoy the music. Because I like the band and I want to see them. If you want to make out during their music, go home and put on their CD. You're not in public and no one has to see your ugly faces sucking the lips off your not-so-great-looking significant other. Not that it'd be any less annoying if the couple happened to be good-looking, but alas, somehow it makes me vomit a little more violently when they're beastly.
So, while Andrew sat at his piano being all scrum-diddely-umptious, I had to try to duck my head in every which way to avert my eyes from the massacre in front of me. Fucking. A. I eventually gave up and just closed my eyes as Jack's Mannequin ran through one of my favorite songs, "Dark Blue." Then again, the couple butchered an old favorite, a piano-only, Andrew-only, version of his other band's song, "Punk Rock Princess." What kills me at this point is that not only can I not see the amazingness that is this man, but half of the audience (not even of driving age, let alone legal age!) did not know this song. Damn you all to scene-whoring hell!
Anyway, moving on.
So this weekend I've been playing the mother role. I suppose it'll be all week, really, but specifically this weekend as I'm the oldest one around. It sucks for my siblings because, ha, I'm not that nice. I had Paige cleaning up the mess she allowed my brother to make while I was at the previously talked-about concert. Liam got all of his homework done before he could do anything else. I cleaned the house top to bottom among a list of other things. And, because I'm so proud of myself, here is the list: I did... laundry, dishes, baked, vacuumed the living room, vacuumed the kitchen, vacuumed the family rom, vacuumed the bedrooms and hallway of the top floor as well as the bathroom, shoveled the entire driveway and sidewalk, cleaned the upstairs bathroom, picked up my room, cleaned up the kitchen, made dinner, worked out and showered, attempted to parody Melville.
Okay, so I added that last part, well, last for a reason. FUCK MELVILLE is my reason. I cannot parody this. I'm trying so hard. There's no way I'll get anything half-decent for tomorrow so I'll have to be happy with my Kafka parody and work on another scene for my novel that I could turn in. Plus my tutoring exercise and my CRW response. Eegads, I have a long day ahead of me! (Shut up. Yes, I did say "eegads!")
(February 15th, 2007. 11:24pm.)
"And it's spread to her spine..."
Cancer is one of those things. One of those scary words that you just pray will never affect you, never touch you, never even graze the people around you. The same goes for the following: alzheimers, stroke, depression and disease.
All of these categories have been passed into my family within the past three weeks. I don't mean to complain. I just need to write.
Currently I'm watching Amelie, though not for the actual content. I can't focus. But just having the French dialect in the background is somehow soothing and I wish I could speak that language, I wish I could be so much more cultured than I am. I'm sure it's a beautiful film as well, and I'll probably watch it again this weekend and actually pay attention.
But what I really wish is that my grandma didn't have alzheimers, that she didn't have a stroke a couple weeks ago, that my cousin wasn't dying from cancer that has spread to her spine as of today, giving her less than two months to live, that my sister didn't have a blood count of 80, making hers higher than any normal ADULT should have (when she herself should be at about 20) and no one knows what's wrong. And then there's me. Little depressed Kayleigh. Boo fucking hoo.
Nothing has hit me yet. I'm in this state of shock and I...don't know. I just don't. My mother will be gone longer than expected, staying with my aunt out in Colorado to help take care of my cousin. She's only in her early thirties. It makes me sick to my stomach. Sick to my fucking stomach.
I don't know how I'm going to get anything done this weekend. I can't even focus on this entry, let alone parodying some stupid Melville story or reading a book about hookers and drugs (whether it's well written and interesting or not).
I just need to go to sleep. This is the most depressing update ever and it doesn't even focus on what this place is intended to focus on. I'm just writing to write to feel better to help me because I don't know what else to do with myself.
(February 13th, 2007. 9:08pm.)
When I have anxiety, I turn into a snowglobe.
I've decided that if I'm ever stupid enough to make the mistake of having children, they will grow up with very little television. Not in an, "I'm going to be the bitch that deprives my kids!" kind of way, but in a, "Everything in small doses" style of thinking. Why? Because they're going to grow up on good literature and films that actually mean something. Not this crap that's on TV nowadays. My brother, who presently is seven years old, but at the time of the incident was five, maybe six, informed our mother that he was going to take a bath before her. Why? Because, and these words really did come from his mouth, it's, "Bros before hoes." Where did he get this "saying?" Well, he blamed it on something he'd seen on TV.
Not for my kids. They're going to be smart and well rounded. Except, I don't plan on ever having children, so why am I even dwelling on this? Oh, maybe because I wish my parents had minded to do this to me. HELL YES for already planning on living vicariously through my non-existant children.
And on that note, I had an (almost) amazing night last night. You could have found me at the Apollo Theatre at the "No Love For Love" reading (that featured: Ira Glass, Joel Chmara, Joe Meno (eee! fangirl!), Jonathon Messinger (eee! cutie!), Christopher Piatt, Diana Slickman, Megan Stielstra and Scott Woldman) alongside my mother, who I'd dragged along. She, though seemingly enjoying herself throughout the show, pulled a cranky card and complained about her exhaustion more than I was happy about. Downfall. ANYWAY. Let's move on because odds are she will read this in the future (if at all since she ignores my verbal stories. Hello, mom!)
Let me just point out before I go any further that I've been excited about this since I found out about it. Why? Meno is one of my favorite writers, currently a huge inspiration on my novel (see: Hairstyles of the Damned) and on top of that, Megan Stielstra is one of my instructors whom I think has offered me the most perspective, direction, motivation and help so far in my adventures at Columbia. Not to mention, she's fucking kick-ass and hilarious. So, those two alone could have done a four hour show and kept me amused for days.
But, I was in for a surprise because nearly every writer wow'd me with their specific styles, unique in every presentation. Only one did not find a place in my heart due to the over-abundance of politics and weather within his story. Which is cool on his level or whatever, and had people laughing, but I personally was not feeling it.
I was going to take notes throughout the show, but then I felt like a geek, and on top of that wanted to just sit and enjoy the presentations. As well, maybe the fact that Randy Albers, the head of the fiction department? Yeah, he was sitting right behind me. Go figure.
Anywhoodles, I laughed my way through each presentation. And then I went all fangirl (see above) because it was time for Joe Meno and I was sitting there going, "What will he read what will he read whatwillheREAD?!" Yes, I am just that lame. Writers > any other "celebrity." Okae? OKAE. So, he reads this story about a couple, and the wife, whenever she's under pressure or he tries to kiss her, she turns into a puff of white cloud and takes some sort of shape. It was very weird, very creative, very The Boy Detective Fails reminiscent. He seemed a little awkward on stage, a little nervous, but his hand movements added to the telling of the story and I really enjoyed it. My mom then informed me that I have weird taste in writers. I was highly offended.
I told her to wait for Megan. And BAM. Indiana Jones and Megan had a conversation right there on the stage. Though I'd heard the basis of the story before, it didn't draw my attention away from the story because I think Megan's got a stage presence that no one else can replicate. And this isn't me kissing ass because god knows she doesn't read this, but in all, complete honesty, I hope to one day make an audience laugh the way she (and the other presenters) did.
I learned a lot during the four hours of hating-on-love-with-laughter. Like how important stage presence is, how important it is to look at your audience and interact with them and address them. To know what you're reading well enough to not stumble over anything you're saying because flow really is crucial. It also dawned on me that I really need to start reading my shit out loud. And not just to my sister or to my wall (though both have pretty colors that I take credit for painting) but to a group of people. Not only do I want to gauge the reactions people will have, but I need to train my tongue and my nerves to get comfortable with doing such a thing. I noticed that even the pros on stage were shaking a bit, but they still did well and read smoothly and it really made all the difference.
What makes a writer a "good" writer? Jeff proposed this idea yesterday in class and I wrote really quickly that being able to tell a story that actually catches and keeps someone's attention is being a good writer. It's the satisfaction in the completion of a piece that also suggests whether or not it's "good." However, I use the term "completion" loosely, as I don't think writing is every fully complete. I can gaurantee you that any writer will tell you that, but if you can get to a place where maybe it's okay to stay that way, then you've hit gold. On top of that, writing can't just be words shit out on a page. Maybe that's how everything starts, which is totally rockin', but it has to turn into something with meaning.
And this ties into Jeff's second question, which is what does our favorite writer do that makes them a "good" writer? And of course, my mind went straight to Meno (could I talk about him any more in this one specific entry? Good god. I promise I'll calm down. Eventually.) and I was trying to think of, contextually, what he does on the page that sticks with me so much. Maybe it's plot. Maybe it's how relatable his stories can be. Then I thought about how I'd read some short stories he's had published online just a week or so ago, and how some of those short stories had been reworked to fit into Hairstyles and how that struck me as so awesome. I had examples right there of the process of rewrites, and from the one writer who is taking my attention the most these days! And furthermore, I get to see the man live last night. So now I get to add that, as well as working it on the page, he works it on the stage (oooh, rhyming was so NOT intentional, I promise). As I mentioned before, dude uses his hands to create images, be it the puff of white cloud the wife becomes, the loosening of a tie, placing a phone back in it's plastic receiver, or indicating the height of a building, he wasn't only telling, he was showing. So there's that, I guess.
I've seriously just word masterbated for like, the past half hour. Someone stop me. I should probably go and focus on something productive, like maybe some homework or... I don't know, my highly neglected novel that I have a bunch of scene-starts for but nothing too solid as of recently? Wait, novel? What's that? Ha. HA.
Ahem. OH. And as an almost-closing statement, just to tie it right around and bring it to the beginning, I have also recently decided (since, you know, I've recently decided how I'm going to raise my future kids) that I am married to the idea of my career. I say it as such because I don't feel comfortable calling it a career until I'm actually making profit, which may be never, and thus I won't get married. However, I am okay with being single. All this talk of love and Valentine's day and being in love? Fuck it all. I don't need someone else. I have someone else. It's writing. And reading.
So I guess my kids will be...paper? I don't know. v (Oh, hey, if I could have a song that was the backtrack to my life currently, it would be the one you can find on my myspace today: KayleighHokis! And in case I change it before you read this, it's The Shins, "Sleeping Lessons.")
(February 10th, 2007. 12:15am.)
Look at me dealing with my problems.
I am currently eating Oreo Cookies&Cream cheesecake. And no, I did not just have one piece, though I can't bring my fat ass to finish the second slice so I'm investing my emotions into the bottle of diet Grean Tea (with Citrus no less!!) instead. I hate when I feel so icky mentally that I eat until I feel icky physically. This madness must come to an end. I will start on Monday.
I'm listening to The Decemberists right now, Picaresque to be exact, and bopping along to "The Sporting Life" (arguably one of the best tracks on the album). I'm considering going to bed right now, but first indulging in a book. And not just any book, mind you, but a book I was given for my 19th Birthday this past week. What book, you ask? Why, The Fourth Sisterhood. Yes, the one of the traveling pants nature.
Hold the laughter! I can see it on your face. But here, let me break this shit down for you. Yes, I read and enjoyed the first three Sisterhood novels. I was also sixteen (don't quote me on that, I'm estimating due to lack of good memory cells) and naive.
Picture this: I unwrap a gift from my mother, knowing it's a book but not sure which and keeping my fingers crossed for something, anything I've been meaning to read (see: Middlesex by Jeffrey Eugenides, The Sirens of Titan by Vonnegut, A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius by Eggers, etc.) and instead fumble with a blindingly yellow cover with a pair of, gasp, jeans on the front. Oh, joy.
Now, I can't complain. A book is a book and thus, worth reading. Plus, hey, I liked Tibby and Lena and Carmen and Bee at one point or another. I even tried to pair up which friend was similar to each character (let me tell you, this didn't work out so great as, well, my friends are kind of odd individuals) at some point in my adventures with the novel.
But never did I put any thought into what reading this novel would do to my mind slash ego.
I fall back on this time, the first day of my senior year of high school when I stepped foot into my Compositional Literature and Film class. All of us students sat in our single desk, staring straight ahead as our teacher, Mr. Wetta, informed the room that his class was no joke, it was like an AP course without the credit, and that we would never, ever view film the same way again. Un-fucking-fortunately, he was right. I even catch little things in Harry Potter movies and go, "WOW, the director is so goddamn smart to have that rain trickle down that stained glass window to make it look like the woman in the design is crying. It's absolutely PERFECT foreshadowing." Yes, I know, that's exactly what I'm saying.
Anyway, never did I put any thought into the idea that, hey, maybe this shit carries over into real life. Wait, what? What we learn in school actually affects us outside of the 7:40am-3:11pm time-block? I'll be honest here and say that, yes, sometimes it does. Case in point, I cannot get myself to enjoy this fourth summer with the girls because nothing happens outside of dialogue and it DRIVES ME NUTS.
Now, I'm not saying Ann Brashares is a poor writer by any means. Hell, she has four best-selling books. I bow down to that kind of accomplishment. But the entire story is told in dialogue. And whatever action there is seems to be rushed and awkward, thus unrealistic. v It kind of makes me sad, really. Am I just too old to be reading this type of novel? But then again, I know adults who enjoy the stories. And then again, as I've already brought up (because yes, I love him, okay?!), Harry Potter is directed for a younger audience and does not revolve around what Harry, Hermoine and Ron discuss. There is action and plot, suspense and realism (though, of course, in an unrealistic world). I never once see a dialogue that goes on for a page such as:
"No?"
Because, though not verbatim, I promise you that there is dialogue such as that in the wonderful Sisterhood adventures.
What it comes down to is this: I will finish the book because it is a quick, fun, and easy read. And what I foresee myself learning from it is what not to do when I write a novel I want people to read.
Then I come back to the idea of my CL&F class. Is it just that I've begun to study text so much, what authors are doing and what, as Megan always asks us to figure out, is "going on on the page" that I can't push myself through a, for lack of a better term, "brainless" text? Maybe so. I kind of take pride in that, too, knowing that I can put a book down and think, "You know what? I could write that better."
I'm not trying to sound cocky. Everyone's idea of "better" is different and thus, my "better" could be someone else's "worse." So be it. To each their own. Etc etc.
Anyway, I'm going to try and whip through it so I can finish reading what I need to for class (Last Exit to Brooklyn by Hubert Selby Jr., The Dew Breaker by Edwidge Danticat, and other various stories likes The Metamorphosis by Franz Kafka) as well as what I'd like to read on my own (the list could go on forever, but namely: finish Geek Love by Katherine Dunn, Me Talk Pretty One Day by David Sedaris, White Oleander by Janet Fitch, and start Less Than Zero by Bret Easton Ellis). Oh, literature.
My tummy is disgusted with me. I need coffee if I expect myself to stay up any later than this (ten after midnight, I'm such a grandma!) and, because that's not a possibility due to my current state of laziness, I think I'll go pass out to the sound of a whale eating a crew of whalers, Captain, revenge-seeker, and all. I love this band. v (Exit with a short jig, a swig of my diet Green Tea drink, and a collapse into bed.)