The Cave

2005-08-25T23:46:00.000-04:00

I may be back but probably not.

Take care, everyone.

2005-08-14T16:56:00.000-04:00

I woke up last night at 2:30 with an idea. Turning on the light, I fumbled for my ever-present notebook and pen, and I wrote.

This morning I re-read it and it suddenly occurred to me that I could send it in as my college essay. Okay: it has colloquialisms, contractions, first-, second-, and third-person; it's not structured; it's only 450 words; it doesn't have a story in it; and I reference obscure Slavic gods. But still, I sort of really like it.

It's called "The In-Between Places." Heh--after all that agonizing I did over what I'd write about, I never thought it'd be this. I guess there's something to that saying about finding what you need right when you're not looking for it.

College-searching, T.C.-style

2005-08-14T00:03:00.000-04:00

I finally haul out the massive (massive!) bag of college propaganda that has been accumulating over the past year and a half. It is very daunting. I create five categories*, from !!! to eugh!, and proceed to sort sort sort, while—appropriately enough—Stephen Merritt assures me in the background that I’m “absolutely cuckoo”. Quite a while later I ceremoniously dispose of the eugh! pile and put the remaining piles in separate brown paper bags (I wonder if I will ever refer to them again?). Because I get the feeling that my dad was itching to throw away the 4th-tier bag behind my back, I decide to get creative with the bag labeling; they are now obliquely labeled Death, Dream, Desire, and Delirium—four of the Endless from oldest to youngest. Since I can quite confidently say that no one in my family knows the Endless family hierarchy besides myself, I think my 4th-tier bag (Delirium) is quite safe indeed.

So maybe I didn’t accomplish too much in terms of colleges. But I pretty much have a list worked out, and as much as I might deceive myself about how additional research will broaden my choices and whatnot, I bet I’ll end up applying to what I have now. Whether I get in or not is another matter.

*I also made a sixth semi-category just for the Claremont colleges, because I don’t know the difference between them and the sheer volume of literature—this of course being Ulysses-type literature, judging from page count at least—was skewing my other categories.

(NB: itwontfuckingkillyou; Scarlet’s Walk; grapefruit juice; ER; secret societies; Tristan Tzara; Big Country)

From itwontfuckingkillyou--why do I like this?

- - - - -

Oh, and in case you were wondering (you weren’t), here are some things I have eaten as a lame candy-subsitute when I needed to satiate my insane sweet-tooth but there was no ice cream or candy about:

Chocolate-flavored calcium chew
Flintstone vitamin
Sugar cube
Breath mints
Cough drops

Today I employed numbers 1 and 4. Mmm-mm.

Good night; I can't wait till tomorrow because Sunday is my favorite day of the week, you know.

The Insomniac Papers, vol. 1

2005-08-13T01:08:00.000-04:00

I've gotten into the worst sleeping pattern: staying up till three or four (or, the other night, five--horror!) then sleeping in embarrassingly late. I'm out of sync with all my family and friends, and I end up whiling away the night hours on the internet listening to songs on repeat. Whenever I try cutting my night short and getting up after just a few hours, I'm irritable and sleepy all day.

So, Plan B. I'm staying up all night. I'll do some cleaning--bedroom cleaning, bathroom cleaning, kitchen vacuuming, notebook organizing. I like cleaning, when I'm in the right mood; I like getting things done and I like being useful...and despite what my sometimes catastrophic room would have you think, I love neat-and-clean-ness. Play some music, have some tea, read Good Omens for a while (Neil Gaiman. Terry Pratchett. A comic novel about the Apocalypse. How could I go wrong?).

Listen to my new iPod, which is really my brother's old iPod. It's 20GB (my old one is 10GB--my sister has happily inherited it), and he gave it to me. I love that kid. Anyway, I loaded all my music onto my new 'Pod today and christened him Slim. He's a little bit cocky but also quite affectionate, and he has a great ear. He likes cereal a lot. (But then, who doesn't?)

And since I, ironically, delight in all things cynical and pessimistic, here's a little more R. Crumb: Life and Times:

"Though I might be very fond of particular individuals, humanity in general fills me with contempt and despair. I hate most of what passes for civilization. I hate the modern world."

Heh. I just read this to my self-labeled-cynic little sister and she said, Yep.

Why I love R. Crumb:

2005-08-12T11:12:00.000-04:00

"Your vigor for life appalls me."

Tombstone Blues

2005-08-10T23:44:00.000-04:00

Finally read The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy, at my brother’s insistence. I agree with its zany philosophy on many counts; for instance, towels really are the most massively useful tool out there! I also got my senior pictures in the mail, which are okay but overall pretty lame looking. I mean, I look a bit vacant—ah well.

Loyal blog-readers probably know about my obsessive and slightly morbid fascination with graveyards—the older and more decrepit, the better. I’m always exploring spooky old cemeteries in the area, reading the epitaphs and memorizing the haunting angels’ faces and marveling at how often a husband and wife will die within weeks of one another. In an ironic way, graveyards are actually quite comforting places, and they’re populated by so many tales. Every one of those stones represents a person’s whole life—there’s really no other place on earth that ties up the loose ends of so many stories, and sparks memories of a thousand faces in a thousand different minds. The more wild and derelict the cemetery, the quicker my imagination starts exploring the lives, and creating impossible worlds for them to inhabit.

However, I don’t know if I’ve ever come across so many lovely old graveyards as these in London:

(This is perhaps the most disturbing one, no?)

As Death would say,

(P.S. The Audioscrobbler redesign looks fantastic! The list of my top-40 artists is a pretty good representation of my music tastes, as opposed to the pretty skewed weekly chart.)

A change of pace

2005-08-08T16:17:00.000-04:00

I find that the more I write in this blog, the less I write creatively--which is really what I'd rather focus my efforts on. So, for the time being at least, I'll post little updates of what I'm up to, but the bulk of the text will be things I've found interesting in reading (online or otherwise). If that makes sense.

So, me: A few days ago I visited Mass MoCA (to see the Leipzig artists and Cai Guo-Qiang's work) and Dia:Beacon (the highlight being a big Warhol exhibit, among other things). I also stopped in briefly at Williams, Bard, and Vassar colleges--the first two of which I liked enormously, the last of which I didn't like at all. Yesterday evening we had another 826 meeting, this time led by 826 National's Nineve Calegari. I'm reading Hermann Hesse's Demian and listening to Tori Amos almost exclusively. I've been drinking less coffee and more milk. And I've been painting, writing letters, etc. etc.

I've also been reading more of Glenn McDonald's articles online, which brings me to a couple snippets from him--the first, I've posted here before; the second, for contrast:

Here are some good things in the world that humans are responsible for: the way tapioca pearls pop out of the big plastic bubble-tea straws into your mouth in little clusters of three or four; the red and blue lights on Volkswagen dashboards; Ryo's mother's oden bar in Princess Nine and the bridge in Love Hina; Emmitt Smith setting the rushing record; custom Scrabble boards; Thanksgiving; politeness; wood-burning stoves; down comforters and snooze buttons; frailty, courage and CAT scans; the way paper folds; mail rules; bow-ties you tie yourself and shoes you don't; the way all suitcases come with wheels and those telescoping handles now; all the health food you don't eat; Natural Capitalism and Midnight in the Garden of Evel Knievel; the Criterion Collection and the Viking Portable Library; "Down in the Tube Station at Midnight" and "The Ghost at Number One"; Google and eBay and the page at usps.com that tells you how much it costs to mail $17 in cash to Kyoto; the way people venture out of their homes to attempt something they would like to see done; the way somebody looks at you in between the moment in which they realize that you're no longer a stranger and the moment in which they decide whether that's an improvement or not. The kick pulse in Chitose Hajime's "Hummingbird" and the snare twang in Tori's "Taxi Ride".

And then, in a different article, a digression off a different record:

Here are some gratuitous examples of wearyingly banal minor evil: people who pull out quickly after an ambulance goes by and try to get past the cars that had pulled over ahead of them; advertisements that cite "your favorite" something, particularly with a classifier that's unrealistically generic or specific, like "now offering your favorite beverages", or "all your favorite hypoallergenic air-mattress cleansers"; the articles written at midday, every day, attempting to ascribe significance to the morning's stochastic stock-market fluctuations; bureaus or corporations that attempt to promulgate their own nicknames, like the Department of Public Works stenciling "The Works" on all their trucks, or Kentucky Fried Chicken trying to go by "KFC"; the fact that no airline has thought to mount the seats in their planes on tracks, so that in a quarter-full flight they could slide all the unused ones to the ends of the sections and give the remaining passengers humane legroom; cropped movies of any kind, but most especially cell animation, where the cropping is cutting out details at the edges of the frame that some person had to physically draw there; political parties; cable-television fees; talk radio; the insane American notion that people only need ten or fifteen days off from work in a whole year.

I couldn't agree more. (Not only are these very true, but they also appeal to my list-making sensibilities.) That's all. Back to Emil Sinclair!

Some of what I'll be seeing tomorrow:

2005-08-02T23:33:00.000-04:00

Quick-segue-less-update day!

2005-08-02T20:26:00.000-04:00

Today I was in the city and I saw a sign that said, "You MUST convert to born-again Christian or you WILL go to Hell." It was a neon sign. It made me laugh.

I also got another (ANOTHER!) notebook and I'm making pretty things in it. And then I painted some pictures, and maybe I will send some to my pen-pals. I read Martin Amis' The Rachel Papers, which despite its egotistical, sex-obsessed hero, was the funniest book I've read in as far as I can remember.

(I think I've perhaps read too much Brit Lit lately? Moore, McEwan, Rowling, Gaiman, Amis, Wilde...hm, I need to branch out, definitely. Hermann Hesse maybe?

I watched Sid and Nancy, a movie about Sid Vicious (of the Sex Pistols) and girlfriend Nancy Spungen--about their violent relationship and tragic end. It was upsetting, but quite deeply moving.

Also, I have Lyme disease (as a result of having two dogs who like rangy hikes, and of course of living in New England), but I just need three weeks of antibiotics and then I'll be fine. Only problem is, I can't swallow pills (I have an inexplicable but vehement aversion to medicine), so I have to open the capsules and eat the medicine with apple sauce (yuck) or ice cream (yum!). My sister, who for her depression has to take multiple medicines every morning, counseled me in the ways of pill-popping. Many a joke was made about our drug-dependent statuses.

I bought tickets for the Sufjan Stevens concert in September!

AND LAST BUT NOT LEAST: I'm going away tomorrow, but just for a couple days. Mass MoCA, Dia:Beacon, and probably (ugh) a couple colleges. I'll pack myriad CD's for those looong hours on the road, natch...hm, I wonder how many times I'll oh-so-intelligently make oblique references to Kerouac over the course of the next two days? Eyes will roll, I will laugh. A good time will be had by all*.

*Footnote! For those certain stubborn English teachers who insist that the passive voice must never be used (hehe) under any circumstances whatsoever, cite "A good time was had by all" and "All was lost" (They lost everything?). Never fails.

Jarmusch and Joujouka

2005-08-01T13:40:00.000-04:00

I love summer mornings. I woke up at 12:30, then I had coffee and chocolate-chip cookies while listening to these indie covers of bubblegum-pop songs and reading about Jim Jarmusch’s eccentric film-making style. I remember seeing Stranger than Paradise a while ago, and being completely baffled, because it was unlike anything. I understand why Jarmusch’s films have been described as sort of foreign films set in America.

This one part is the truest thing I’ve heard anyone say about how passions ought to be—how unreserved and encompassing and silly and obsessive:

“His [Jarmusch’s] passions, which reflect his resolute disinterest in the conventional, include the study of mushrooms ('I almost died after eating wild mushrooms'); bird-watching ('In 12 years, I've identified about 80 birds in my yard in my home in the Catskills'); the authorship of Shakespeare's plays (‘I think it was Christopher Marlowe'); the history of cinema ('Some mornings I'll wake up and say, 'There's an Ophuls film I haven't seen, and I need to see it today'); and, most of all, music. He wrote Broken Flowers while listening to recordings from the early 70's by Mulatu Astatke, an Ethiopian jazz-funk artist (whose music ended up in the film), and is currently enthralled by a duo called Coco Rosie, who, as he described them, ‘sound like two little Billie Holidays an octave higher if you were on acid in Tokyo in 1926.’”

And at one point in the article Jarmusch talks about the NYC of the ‘70s, when he went to Columbia there; it’s pretty much exactly the way I romanticize it, though I think it’s unfortunately become a great deal more gentrified since then…

“During the late 70's in New York, anything seemed possible. You could make a movie or a record and work part time, and you could find an apartment for 160 bucks a month. And the conversations were about ideas. No one was talking about money. It was pretty amazing. I don't like nostalgia…But, still, damn, it was fun. I'm glad I was there.''

- - - - -

So, when I get interested in something, the first thing I usually do is jump from page to page on Wikipedia. As a result, I learned yesterday about Dadaism, Jean Arp, Tristan Tzara, the Cabaret Voltaire, Georges Bataille, Fluxus, the Master Musicians of Joujouka*, Brion Gysin, the Dreamachine, and more. Good stuff.

*The Master Musicians of Joujouka: (or, as I keep on accidentally typing, “the Master Magicians of Joujouka”). This is a 4,000-year-old Moroccan rock band; while living in Tangiers, Brion Gysin created his 1001 Nights café solely to employ the Master Musicians so that he could hear them play every night. (Gysin was friends with William S. Burroughs, so I’m guessing that’s how the Beats were introduced to (and subsequently enamored of) the Master Musicians.) I’ve ordered their CD, and I’m looking forward to it enormously. Incidentally, the CD was commissioned by Brian Jones, so I guess even the Stones were fond of these lira-playing rascals.

Also, on an entirely unrelated note—I’ve been reading some Flannery O’Connor lately, and I just finished “A Good Man is Hard to Find.” Which was, well, shocking. At least, it was not at all what I expected. It was…quite a tumult of grotesque characters and banality and horrifying turns of event. But anyway. I finished Sandman a few days ago, and damn. I think I’ll write about it tomorrow.

Good art:

2005-07-31T01:24:00.000-04:00

"Configuration," by Jean Arp:

"Three Candles," by Marc Chagall:

I'm going to see Leipzig art at Mass MoCA in a few days. More on that later, maybe. Also, I'm going through a Dadaist phase, hence the Arp. Forgive me.

Oh, and listen to "Wednesday," by Tori Amos. And, if you're curious, look into the Mornington Crescent game. G'night.

2005-07-29T19:56:00.000-04:00

Ahhh…so many things to write about, sorry about the sparse updates. During the school year I always used to write up posts during French class*, and now…well, I’m writing this post in a notebook, in my bed, at three in the morning. What’s that, sleepyhead?! you cry, aghast. Yes yes, I know, quite late indeed. I’ve assumed the rather irritating habit (irritating to myself as well as to those around me) of staying up till two or three, sleeping till ten, and then complaining about how I’ve overslept, and Why didn’t anyone wake me up, dammit!—to which I’m assured that various family members did try to rouse me over the hours, but I either yelled hostile things at them, or muttered that I was “already up” (foul liar!), or simply lay silent as a corpse.

So anyway. Back to what I was saying. Which was…ah okay. Not much, gotcha. Oh! a footnote. I’ll address that here rather than at the end so I won’t forget. So, without further ado:

*French class: Yes, I will be continuing with French next year, in addition to Spanish. However, I am horrendous at French and had a terrible teacher last year, when I was in French 1 (not that I listened much…case in point being my rather extensive and freakishly (for me) regular posts.) Anyway, I wish someone would tutor me or at least speak French to me so I can work on pronunciation so I won’t completely embarrass myself at the start of next year. Maybe I should start watching more French films?…a bit of a risque way to get an education, but hey—could be fun, eh?

Speaking of the beginning of the school year (eck—I hate to even mention it!), I think I had better start exercising or something so that on August 31st I don’t look like I’ve just been sitting in the sun reading all summer because, um, that would be totally inaccurate. (Sometimes I sit in the shade.) But yeah, although I must admit that for the first time in uh, ever, I actually have a chest—which is nice—I feel a bit plump and uncomfortable. But I don’t really like exercise—the catch-22, you see. Maybe I’ll just take up jogging again—I used to jog every day. Hated it, though. Hated that I was running with no particular purpose or destination. Also, I rather dislike sweating… (I’m one of those kids who always signs up for “mixed games” in gym class.) Uh huh. But then, if I get in shape, I’ll hafta sacrifice the chest…oh well.

Hm, on a decidedly less awkward note, I’ve quite outdone myself (so modest!) with the latest thing I’ve created. It’s a robot. Well, it’s more like a stuffed doll that is a robot; I made it for my sister because she was feeling glum. In all honesty, it’s really not very attractive nor masterfully done, but I had to sew it by hand and I’m bollocks* at that kind of thing. That said, I’m quite proud of it and when I locate The Amazing Disappearing Digital Camera, I shall document its every facet for you guys. Because obviously you’re set on edge with the intrigue of it all.

*Bollocks: Hooray for British slang! I’m not sure where I picked that up, though—surely it couldn’t’ve been Harry Potter, as I’m fairly certain bollocks means—um, y’know. Gosh, I hope Harry wasn’t using language like that! Scandalous!

Oh, small side note: I got the score for my AP exam the other day, and I got a 5, which is exciting for two reasons. First, because I didn’t take the class (I oh-so-arrogantly decided that I could teach myself the material better than the teacher could, after the first couple weeks of school) and the teacher was so infuriatingly certain I wouldn’t pass unless I took his class—ha! Second, because that means that I’ve gotten perfect scores on the SAT I, SAT II, and AP I’ve taken within the past few months. And I don’t say this to gloat, but the obsessive-compulsive perfectionist in me (which is not so much a small aspect of me as it is an overwhelming characteristic of my being) rejoices at this. (I think I wrote some kind of frantic post while in the midst of studying for the AP exam back in May—complete with the panic-mode desk photo and prophesies of doom and yeah, you get the idea.) Okay, that was more than a “small side note,” wasn’t it? Eugh, sorry for being so self-absorbed. Then again, this is after all a blog; self-absorption is sort of their sole purpose.

All right, my handwriting has regressed to the point of near-illegibility. Which means it’s definitely past my bedtime. G’night, all (though in all likelihood I won’t post this till tomorrow). And the inane drivel must end. This is why you must never enter into conversation with me after midnight; I’m more verbose and incoherent than usual, which is really quite a feat. Good night then!

Bookworming, as usual

2005-07-24T13:46:00.000-04:00

Anyone who’s read this blog for any extended length of time knows that I’m an incurable bookworm. Typically, perhaps, for a kid living in the creatively stifling, routine-oriented world of suburbian high school, books are the best way to escape into another world where heroes always vanquish the villains and true love vanquishes the heroes. I read pretty much whatever I can get my hands on, though the vast majority is made up of novels, with little nonfiction (besides magazine articles and the newspaper) and the rare short story or poem.

With that said, here’s what I’ve been burying my nose in the past few weeks:

Kafka on the Shore, by Haruki Murakami—The characters were all quite lovingly, intriguingly painted, but because I could sense such richness even in secondary characters, I felt a little gypped when the book ended, in my opinion, several hundred pages too soon. I was slightly irritated that Murakami kept dropping deep philosophical quotations (via Oshima), but I can forgive him that because I so loved the magical bits that seemed to sneak in to help me suspend disbelief for the rest of the fantastical, Oedipal, breakneck-paced story. Certainly unlike anything I’ve ever read before, and I want to read more by Murakami—probably The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle next, if only for the terrific title :)

Middlesex, by Jeffrey Eugenides—I read a chapter from this in the New Yorker a few years ago, and at the time I was frankly too surprised by the fact that the protagonist is a hermaphrodite to read the rest of the book. I’m glad that I’m too curious to have abandoned it forever. Eugenides thankfully doesn’t expoit Callie hermaphroditism for shock-value or literary “eccentricity”—that would have repulsed and saddened me. Though the book starts out slow, it progresses from Smyrna to San Francisco, from Greek Orthodox to the Nation of Islam, from silkworms to crocuses, from Callie to Cal; this was without a doubt one of the vastest books ever to be packed into 500 pages. It was delightfully obvious how much Eugenides loves his characters, and I in turn was quite in love with them as well. Definitely worthwhile—and at the boring parts, at least you can always focus on the story’s lovely craftsmanship!

A Million Little Pieces, by James Frey—One of the strongest things I’ve ever read, in turn making me curl my toes in agony and also tear up a little at the few kindnesses extended to him. It’s a memoir, which begins with Frey entering rehab with the quite painful lack of four teeth, part of his cheek, drugs, alcohol, or a memory. His friends there are a mobster, a state supreme court justice, a prostitute, a steel worker, a rapist…I initially kept on for the painfully engrossing shock-value, but Frey’s story develops into quite a soul-baring tale of how he overcame his myriad addictions and terrible odds, and also about the relationships he builds and the equalizing nature of addiction. I might have been too upset to continue at times were it not for the fact that I knew Frey survived at least to write AMLP. Made me want to read Frey’s My Friend Leonard, which just came out. Highly, highly recommended.

Watchmen, by Alan Moore—Despite all the praise I’ve seen surrounding this book (a comic, or graphic novel, actually), I found it mediocre at best. The story line is interesting enough: a group of superhero-like vigilantes handle the city’s crime in their own lawless way, until the fictional Keene Act outlaws vigilanteism and they’re forced to abandon their crime-fighting identities (The Incredibles, anyone?). The main plot revolves around a mysterious “mask-killer” who is picking off the crime-busters one by one. Then there’s the threat of nuclear war, an alien invasion…y’know, just another day in New York City. But like Moore’s V for Vendetta, Watchmen introduced a lot of intriguing characters and ideas without ever fully fleshing them out, and the copious amounts of blood ‘n’ gore were almost never necessary, but always repulsive. The ending was marginally redeeming to the book, but overall I thought Watchmen was a waste of my time.

Atonement, by Ian McEwan—The story begins in a happy, wealthy English household in the early 1900’s—little Briony is a budding writer with an overactive imagination, while older sister Cecilia pursues a strange flirtation with their housekeepers’ son, Robbie. But Briony misconstrues Cecilia and Robbie’s relationship, setting into motion a destructive chain of events that continue to have repercussions during and after the war. Many people might be turned off by the large chunk of pages devoted to Robbie At War and Briony As A Nurse, but I liked them both immensely. Though the story functioned always under a shadow of regret and, ultimately, tragedy, it was a beautiful and impeccably drawn picture of a few intertwining lives.

Harry Potters 4, 5, and 6, by JK Rowling—If I need to tell you, you don’t deserve to know. (I ramble about Half-Blood Prince in the post below this one.)

Anyway, I’m currently in the middle of a Sandman marathon (my obsession with all things Neil Gaiman is another pervasive theme of this blog)—a huge, engrossing comic series from the late ‘80s and early ‘90s that should not even be in the same category as Watchmen. I’m currently in the middle of the fifth volume of ten. More on this later, but I’ll leave you with a picture of the totally badass Dream King:

Beware of Half-Blood Prince spoilers!

2005-07-19T13:01:00.000-04:00

I’ll assume that by now, most of you have finished Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince, so I’m finally going to post my thoughts on it. If you don’t want spoilers, don’t read on.

All right…overall, I liked it a lot. I thought that the trio’s various romantic escapades were rather lame and out of character (Ron and Lavender? Hermione dating McLaggan to make Ron jealous? Come on!)…but I guess their love lives had been stagnant enough thus far, something was bound to happen. Regardless, I wish that those pages had been dedicated to plot instead.

Ah yes, plot. Although I certainly laughed aloud many times (Mollywobbles, Phlegm, Ron’s half an eyebrow…etc.) as I enjoyed the first several hundred pages, I did feel like very little was happening in comparison to previous books. (Although the first two chapters were excellent.) Then near the end, all of a sudden everything started happening and I didn’t know what to think. I actually gasped many times, which is good :) I was very upset when Harry had to make Dumbledore drink the poison (“That was no health drink, Harry!”—ha ha), and when Snape killed Dumbledore, and when the locket showed that it had all been for naught (though as we know with JKR, nothing is really for naught). That said, now that I’ve calmed down a little, I realize it was quite inevitable; the hero has to ultimately face the villain alone, be forced to act like a man, etc. Oh Harry!

I think the reason I’m not as enthusiastic as I might be is because the book revealed so many more questions than answers. Things that I thought would be answered or at least addressed/fleshed out in this book, but weren’t: (1) Sirius’s two-way mirror from the previous book (2) Lily’s importance—why was Voldemort willing to let her live? (3) The characters Luna, Neville, and Ginny. (P.S. Anyone else think that Wormtail's silver hand means that he's going to kill Lupin?—after all, silver kills werewolves.)

As for the questions introduced by HBP, oh my. Well, we know that JKR always introduces things for a reason, but what, for example, was her reason for introducing the muggle Prime Minister (in the first chapter no less!) and what was the plot importance of Harry’s oh-so-mysterious Half-Blood Prince spell-book?—he did better in Potions, and of course Snape is important, but the textbook itself seemed rather pointless.

Then there is Snape. How did Snape really convince Dumbledore of his innocence (there’s no way I believe Harry’s reason)…And remember how Hagrid overheard Snape and Dumbledore arguing earlier in the book:

"Well—I jus' heard Snape sayin' Dumbledore took too much fer granted an' maybe he—Snape- didn' wan' ter do it anymore—"

"Do what?"

"I dunno, Harry, it sounded like Snape was feelin' a bit overworked, tha's all—anyway, Dumbledore told him flat out he'd agreed ter do it an' that was all there was to it. Pretty firm with him."

As such, I'm inclined to think that Dumbledore sacrificed himself for the cause; his death cements Snape's rep as a cold heartless Death Eater—he's now the perfect spy. Dumbledore would never beg for his life to be spared. I think he was begging for Snape to have the courage to Avada Kedavra him. (But then why didn't Dumbledore tell McGonagall? To protect their secret from Occlumency? Hmm…)

I think that possibly the most important, most overlooked plot point of HBP was the repercussions of Sirius’s death. Specifically, Harry now owns Grimmauld Place and, more significantly, he is Kreacher’s master. Kreacher and Dobby’s tailing of Malfoy through much of the book had little effect, but we can assume that they’ll continue to follow Malfoy (and, presumably, Snape) after they flee Hogwarts. (Two side-notes: First, don’t house-elves have a special, strong brand of magic? And second, I think Malfoy is going to be redeemed somehow—after all, he didn’t end up killing Dumbledore.)

The other really important thing revealed at the end of the book—though this is much more obvious—is the fact that the locket horcrux was a fake. I’m assuming that R.A.B. (from the note) stands for Regulus Black, Sirius’s younger brother who joined Voldemort’s ranks then was killed when he tried to return to the good side. Right. And remember how when they were cleaning Grimmauld Place (Black residence) in the previous book, they came across a mysterious locket that wouldn’t open? Either that locket is still in the house, which Harry now owns (doubtful), Kreacher stole it, it was thrown away…or Mundungus sold it. Hmm!

(Oh, side note about the horcruxes. So maybe seven is a lucky number or whatever (after all, there are seven Harry Potter books! ha ha), but if I were an evil soulless murderer who wanted immortality, I’d horcrux everything in sight: enigmatic, boring, hidden, obvious, big, small…so I’m a little curious about that.)

Okay, that’s enough for now. The only other thing is that I was hoping for a great battle in Hogwarts, with all those moving staircases and hidden passages and ghosts and such…but I suppose we can still hold out for book 7! Heh.

Wow, I really italicized and analyzed the hell out of that book...I guess that now you can begin to understand why I'm such a literature nut! Feel free to comment with your own HBP reflections. Take care, I'm off to the doctor's office, what fun.

No real spoilers, don't worry

2005-07-17T00:31:00.000-04:00

Well, I just finished. Oh, I cried and I'm really upset now. And the bulk of the book was sort of--but I don't know, I'm still in shock from the end, I need to sleep on it at least before I can form a real opinion.

So many things don't make sense, don't fit. I don't...I don't know. My eyes are still wet. Why, JKR, why?!

P.S. Don't make fun of me, this is no laughing matter. I've spent thousands of pages with these people, this hurts!

Harry Potter and Howl's Moving Castle: O how I love my wizards!

2005-07-15T00:16:00.000-04:00

So, fewer than 24 hours till Harry Potter and the Half Blood Prince is released! The first two chapters have leaked onto the internet and they...are...within...clicking...distance... BUT I'm using all the self-restraint I never knew I had to try to not read them until I've got the book solidly in my hands. But oh, it's so hard. It's very, very hard...

All other news is really secondary to that, but... Well, I finally turned my brother on to Bob Dylan, which is great for me, because I can listen without him drowning out my music, but better for him, because he gets to discover Dylan! I was listening to Blood on the Tracks today and it was just heaven.

Also, today a friend and I went into Boston to see Howl's Moving Castle, which (though based on a book by Diana Wynne Jones) was drawn and dreamed up and directed by the genius Hayao Miyazaki. It wasn't Spirited Away, but it was pretty amazing in its own right. (I mean, it's unfair really to compare anything with Spirited Away, which was just--well, beyond comparison. If you've seen it, you know what I mean.) Regardless, Howl was magical and the art was breathtaking--like photographs but a hundred times more vibrant, and unreal. And you know that I'm not much of a fan of reality :) Despite the string of bad movies I've had the misfortune of seeing recently, I loved Howl. I hope this is breaking the trend!

Okay, off to bed for me. I typed up a quick to-do list for tomorrow--I wonder how productive that's gonna be...

2005-07-13T23:04:00.000-04:00

I don't think I clarified this in my previous post; I said that listening to Tori Amos made me miss Neil Gaiman. Well, specifically, "Tear in Your Hand" (part of it goes,"If you need me, me and Neil'll be hangin' out with the Dream King; Neil said hi by the way."). It's fitting that they should be friends; they're both so talented in their very different ways, their different areas, their different cult followings. She writes him into songs, he writes her into books (she's Delirium in Sandman, you know, and the tree in Stardust). He has also written more than one short story for various tour booklets of hers.

I was reading some of these online today. For Strange Little Girls, he wrote a very, very short story for each of the twelve songs. The songs are all covers, quite lovely, of songs sung by men; without changing the words, she seems to be singing about the women. Here's the story (and picture, of Tori of course) for "Raining Blood":

Here: an exercise in choice. Your choice. One of these tales is true.

She lived through the war. In 1959 she came to America. She now lives in a condo in Miami, a tiny French woman with white hair, with a daughter and a grand-daughter. She keeps herself to herself and smiles rarely, as if the weight of memory keeps her from finding joy.

Or that's a lie. Actually the Gestapo picked her up during a border crossing in 1943, and they left her in a meadow. First she dug her own grave, then a single bullet to the back of the skull.

Her last thought, before that bullet, was that she was four months' pregnant, and that if we do not fight to create a future there will be no future for any of us.

There is an old woman in Miami who wakes, confused, from a dream of the wind blowing the wildflowers in a meadow.

There are bones untouched beneath the warm French earth which dream of a daughter's wedding. Good wine is drunk. The only tears shed are happy ones.

Or for "Strange Little Girl":

There are a hundred things she has tried to chase away the things she won't remember and that she can't even let herself think about because that's when the birds scream and the worms crawl and somewhere in her mind it's always raining a slow and endless drizzle.

You will hear that she has left the country, that there was a gift she wanted you to have, but it is lost before it reaches you. Late one night the telephone will sing, and a voice that might be hers will say something that you cannot interpret before the connection crackles and is broken.

Several years later, from a taxi, you will see someone in a doorway who looks like her, but she will be gone by the time you persuade the driver to stop. You will never see her again.

Whenever it rains you think of her.

(You can read the rest of them here, as well as see Tori dressed up like the different strange little girls...) And here is the Memento-esque "Pages from a Journal found in a shoebox left in a Grayhound Bus somewhere between Tulsa, Oklahoma and Louisville, Kentucky" he wrote for Scarlet's Walk.

There's something about that really strong mutual friendship between two so talented...like the way Picasso and Matisse were friends, or Byron and Shelley, or Camus and Sartre, or Ginsberg and Kerouac. Inspiring and understanding each other.

- - - - -

This evening I went to a book reading by Mark Helprin in honor of his newest book, Freddy and Fredericka. I haven't read anything by him since A Winter's Tale, which made me fall in love with Peter Lake so hard I was afraid to read anything else by him. With its people who live on the ice and the disappearing lake-town covered in snow and gangsters on Peter's heels and consumption that just makes you look healthier and the newspaper battles and that great flying horse! And whenever I'm feeling sad, I think of the engraving that Hardesty carries around,

"For what can be imagined more beautiful than the sight of a perfectly just city rejoicing in justice alone."

But anyway, I digress. Helprin talked for a couple hours, and I liked it when he was talking about romanticism and books and deer but not when he talked about politics and the avian flu. (Of course, his books have famously been skewered by the ever-liberal literary critics because they resent his vocal support of conservative politics--but that doesn't bother me, he's still a brilliant story-teller.) Strangely, Helprin didn't read from his new book, but I did get him to sign my much-thumbed, very battered copy of A Winter's Tale and it was funny, very Brookline, to see a pierced, tattooed skater-type waiting in line to have Helprin sign his copies of A Soldier of the Great War and The Pacific.

I didn't buy Freddy and Fredericka but I did buy The Facts of Winter, by Paul Poissel. More on that later.

Goodnight.

Camus, spinach, origami, and other loves

2005-07-12T16:10:00.000-04:00

It's sad when you start feeling indifferent to something you used to love. But I think I probably start loving more things every day than I stop. I stopped: jimmies, the internet, Andy Warhol. I started: proverbs, glasses (or, as I prefer: spectacles! in more ways than one), Tori Amos, driving, Camus, spinach, short stories. I guess at this rate pretty soon I’ll love mostly everything. Which makes me happy.

Speaking of Tori Amos, those of you who know how prone I am to sudden and potent obsession will not be surprised to hear that I am quite enamored. Each song is like reading a really great book—but no, that’s not a fair comparison. Each song is like finding out something new about yourself—every time you hear it. And like making a friend. And a story unfolding…and then folding into a different shape. Origami.

“She sings like an angel and rocks like a red-haired banshee,” someone said of her. I think that’s about right, or as close as anyone’ll ever be.

- - - - -

As I was listening to Tori, I missed Neil so I’ve been reading his short stories all day. I wish I wouldn’t keep getting stuck in my writing, but I guess it would be no fun if it were easy. Right? This is what’s supposed to happen. Right?

- - - - -

Could David Byrne possibly be any greater than he already is? Well yes, he can: “Sometimes it’s a form of love just to talk to somebody that you have nothing in common with and still be fascinated by their presence.” I like that.

2005-07-10T23:50:00.000-04:00

What I am doing right now (11:53 p.m.)

Drinking warm Coca-Cola
Listening to a 12-minute mp3 of James Frey reading from his book A Million Little Pieces, which I am half-way through reading
Fueling the Harry-Potter-obsessed fire by reading Half-Blood Prince rumors and news over at MuggleNet
Peeling sunburned skin off my shoulder (damn Irish genes!)
Blogging

The jury is in, my friends: I am definitely a dork.

Fictionalizing reality

2005-07-07T23:24:00.000-04:00

I have an odd habit of sometimes regarding the present in premature retrospect. Sometimes this is good: I can put events in perspective, try to make connections, be aware of the ways I change as I grow up. But I slip into this unconciously, and when I realize I’m doing it again I make myself stop, because it seems that that sort of detachment from Now can only harm me.

I have a feeling that it’s the bookworm in me that’s doing it. Not just my previously professed love of being the observer—the reader, too, and the writer. I think I’ve spent too many hours of my life immersed in the lives of other people, through books. Those third-person, past-tensers—a nice 500-pager with a flawed protagonist—they’ve become such a part of me that I find myself accidentally fictionalizing real life.

Let me explain. Sometimes I narrate my actions in my head: what I’m doing, why; the requisite scene-setting descriptions; foreshadowing, metaphors; and of course: emotions, doubts, triumphs—honest in that brutal but forgiving narrator sort of way.

Sometimes it’s in first-person, as if from a memoir written twenty years later: (to be delightfully meta about this): I was forever trying to articulate—and come to grips with—my eccentricity; a public journal, it seemed, would be almost like writing an autobiography in real-time…

Sometimes I silently add colorful adverbs and adjectives to the dialogue of people who are talking too me, or around me, if I’m bored: …she said slyly…he confessed…she lied through her teeth…he added bitterly…

I'll realize suddenly what I'm doing and make myself stop. It seems too, I don't know, cowardly of me I guess, to be fictionalizing what's real. That kind of detachment seems like a dangerous thing. And I never want to be a coward.

Though now that I think about it, maybe this is just the Truman-Show vanity and self-consciousness that everyone has (does everyone have this?)—you’re the star in your life story, and your world revolves around you… But I’m inclined to say, arrogantly perhaps, that this shouldn’t be dismissed or stigmatized as those evils egotism and false self-importance. We have to realize the importance of ourselves, don’t we? And maybe all this Ayn Rand has rubbed off on me, but is egotism really so terrible?

And now, in the excessively tedious novelization of my life…she takes off her glasses to rub her eyes with the heels of her hands and, resigned for the time being to a life of writing about writing (too rarely actually buckling down to do the thing itself), she climbs the stairs to bed and to strange dreams about immigrants in styrofoam packaging…

Good-night. (No wait: Great-night!)

I apologize in advance for this post

2005-07-06T22:56:00.000-04:00

I am looking at the sweetest scenario just now: my sister is scratching my dog’s belly and my dog is simultaneously scratching my sister’s leg (to be fair, I guess). When my sister stops, so does my dog. When she starts back up again, my dog does as well. Cutest. Thing. Ever.

Speaking of my sister…she’s doing better than before, but not great. She always seems to be very lethargic and unhappy in her depression, so I’m always on the go trying to cheer her up. I try to do activities with her every day to get her up and moving and smiling, but it can be tough… Last night I drove her out to Friendly’s in the middle of the night to get her one of those monster sundaes, and then we played Taboo. Today we went out for a drive to Kimball’s and she painted my shoes with me afterwards… I don’t know, I can usually get her giggling like normal, but it doesn’t last long. She just comes home and goes to sleep, and I try to rouse her with one thing or another. It’s tough having to be in charge of her all the time, especially since I’m sure she’d rather have me just leave her alone. She’s going to a private (um, “alternative”) school in Boston next year, which I hope will be better—it seems great, I’d love to go there, but she’s been attending summer school there a couple days a week and she always seems loath to go. I keep on thinking it will be one more push and then everything will be better, but more and more I get the sense that she will always have to deal with this—and consequently, so will we, because we love her so. Oh, but it’s tough.

Hey, at the risk of sounding too much like my mom: When the going gets tough, the tough get going!

Sorry to go all angsty on you guys—you know how desperately I try to avoid that (heh). Ah well, take care.

The Egg-Off approaches!

2005-07-03T23:48:00.000-04:00

I got new glasses a couple days ago—they’re tortoise-shell framed and pretty dorky, but I like ‘em. I usually wear contacts but there is something vaguely romantic (eh?) and fitting (to my personality at least, hah) about being curled up somewhere with a book or standing in front of my easle painting, pushing the glasses up on the bridge of my nose from time to time.

Tomorrow’s Independence Day, which is a super! fun! day! at my house at least. I’ll be wearing red-white-n-blue, natch (my shoulders and cheeks are sunburned so there’s my red!), and my best friend and her family will be coming over, along with my aunt and uncle. Traditionally, on the 4th of July, my family has an event that we call, um, the Egg-Off. You can probably guess what it entails…namely, various games that involve eggs. Y’know (or perhaps you don’t): Egg toss between teams of two people stepping farther and farther apart, to see who can get farthest without the egg breaking. Race around the house with an egg in a spoon. Make some sort of cushioning package for your egg using only natural outdoors materials, then toss it off the roof and see if it breaks. Um, yeah.

(What can I say, when you live in the suburbs with a family that makes its own fun, you learn to roll with the punches. And as long as you can ignore the complete ridiculousness of everything, it can be quite a hoot.)

So at dinner tonight, we were tossing back and forth various ideas for new things to do this year. My brother suggested just throwing eggs at each other, each person with a frying pan as a shield to deflect them. Then my sister suggested that we all just throw them at my mom, who would have to deflect from all angles—heh.

Then there’s lots of food, a must in the O’Brien household, and fireworks of course—across town—later on in the night. And the drunkard at the end of my street rarely fails to set off a few of his own homemade fireworks…though he doesn’t usually stick to the general rules of 4th of July, or, y’know, nighttime. Ah, the drunkard…

On an entirely different note, I’ve seen a couple interesting movies recently; I usually don’t have much time to watch films during the school year, but with summer comes our Netflix subscription and as many weird independent movies as I want—as long as I adjust the film queue online before my brother does, heh. (My movies aren’t manly enough for him.)

I saw The City of Lost Children, by Jean-Paul Jeunet (Mr. Amelie), which was terrific visually and…well, intriguing in plot, but not fantastic. Sort of like it was trying too hard to be endearingly eccentric. It was about children in a mythical city who were kidnapped by an evil scientist (assisted by six dumb clones), who tried to steal their dreams because he didn’t have any. (It was cooler than I’m making it sound, though, I’m just terrible with synopses.)

Maybe the real reason I didn’t like it is because of the kidnapping theme. When I was little I was terrified of being kidnapped; it was my biggest fear, and it was something that I would worry about quite often. Being kidnapped or, alternately, being abandoned by my parents. I don’t know why I would fear this; my parents were always endlessly caring, and they never threatened anything of the nature. Of course, my mom would warn me about not getting into cars with strangers (“And T.C., what if the man says, ‘I’ll give you candy if you get in my car…’?”—“Okay!…oh, um, I mean: Are you a bad guy?”), but it was never an actual threat. Yet whenever I’d wait for my mom or dad to pick me up, I’d be quite fearful of being left alone or “stolen” unless my big brother was with me. This fear persisted for an embarrassingly long time—until I was in about sixth grade, I think.

But oh how I digress. The other movie was In the Realms of the Unreal, about a janitor-artist…actually, I’ll talk about this later. I’m sleepy. Good night and have a pleasant tomorrow!

Some disjointed thoughts:

2005-07-01T23:57:00.000-04:00

I think someday I would like to go to the Berlin Love Parade, if it ever gets started up again.

I didn't really like The Aviator but I did like Cate Blanchett's portrayal of Katherine Hepburn.

In fact, I like Cate Blanchett in general. (Ahem, Galadriel.)

I'm going to help teach ninth graders World History next year. I've never really felt like teaching is something I want to do as a career, but that said, I do seem to spend a lot of time teaching/tutoring/playing with kids. I don't know.

I think I'd like to lose my virginity to Radiohead. It disturbs me vaguely that I would think this.

I want to get my hands on The Whole Earth Catalog (after hearing Steve Jobs' Stanford commencement address--"Stay hungry. Stay foolish." Yes!)

My sister teases me because I actually become distraught when bad things happen to Harry Potter in the books ("Why is everyone so mean to him? They don't understand anything about him!")

I can't decide whether everyone is like me or nobody is like me. Probably nobody; I don't know if I'm happy about that or not. (Guess I'm an indecisive gal, eh?)

That said, there's probably nothing more exciting than finding like minds. I've found a few, not many, but a few.

Cemetaries.

Is it possible to feel nostalgic for times you weren't alive in, or miss someone you've never met?

I don't want to go to college, I just want to go out into the world. I'm not sure what this means for my future.

I painted again today, over an old painting. It's funny, I never need to buy new canvases, because I just paint over old paintings when I run out. It's cathartic.

People with catatonic schizophrenia sometimes freeze in a strange and impossible position, like a statue, for hours. It is a scary and beautiful thing--it seems magical.

I got Oki's zine today, and the best word to describe it is YES. It's hilarious and beautiful and completely bizarre and fun and fantastic. It's the best. She's the best.

The end.

2005-06-29T14:49:00.000-04:00

Reading, looking, listening, watching, thinking…I’m like a sponge, absorbing everything around me until I feel about to burst. Today I’ve read far, far more words than I’ve spoken—which seems antisocial (and maybe it is) but it is peaceful and slow to me. I like being alone—not all the time, but—there’s something very poised and at once utterly careless about it. There is no self-consciousness, and at the same time a hyper consciousness of oneself.

I’m not trying to be enigmatic here…but it’s always hard to try to explain myself.

I read these two unbelievable articles today, one a profile of the "misfit" Comme des Garcons designer Rei Kawakubo and the other about Albania’s irreverent artist-mayor Edi Rama ("He spends his days repairing the body and soul of a shattered capital and his nights prowling its streets…"). (Both are highly individual, inscrutable, ambitious, creative people…which I guess says something about me, or about what I’d like to be.)

- - - - -

It feels like a storm is approaching, and the sky is bright white but the ground and trees are dark…the air is eerily still, like a vacuum or the silent moment right before the climax of a scary movie; heavy with humidity, everything seems somber.

I like being alone, but this utter silence around me is disconcerting. (Just the clickety-clack of my typing, with heavy pauses in between sentences.) I’m tired, but it’s probably just lethargy—I need to get up and move, do something, make something…

2005-06-28T12:35:00.000-04:00

Haircut today. A seemingly interminable time listening to the ditzy hairdresser talk about her boyfriend’s opinion of her most recent haircut and her own surprisingly fervent thoughts on the Tom Cruise/Katie Holmes debacle. Now my hair is much shorter and so shiny from the blow-dry that I kept fingering the newly shorn ends as I drove home (be-bopping to the Rolling Stones, natch).

Library trip, during which I looked at impossibly structured but quite beautiful dresses in Vogue and checked out a few books with my war-scarred blue library card. I started reading Jeffrey Eugenides’ Middlesex—I read his Virgin Suicides a while ago and it was disturbingly great—and so far it’s strange, but fantastic. It’s about a Greek-American hermaphrodite…yup. I vaguely recall reading an excerpt of it in the New Yorker a couple years ago, and it’s even better than I remembered.

Also: my sister and I decided that we need to re-read Harry Potters four and five before six comes out July 16th. We’re taking shifts (like Bloomsday!) of reading it aloud, so that one of us can eat/draw/paint toenails/loll while the other reads the book with the requisite over-dramatic dialogue and running commentary. Boy do I know how to have a good time!

- - - - -

I’ve recently become slightly obsessed with John Currin’s creepily vacant-eyed, exploitive, caricature-ish paintings. (Does that make me a bad person?) I don’t like the exaggeratedly busty ones, though... I like the portraits best--including this first one, which is called "Heartless," heh:

Happy Tuesday, gang!

Digressing about the un/reality of people in books

2005-06-26T19:02:00.000-04:00

Oftentimes when I'm reading a book, I'll become rather obsessed with some trivial character--a walk-on, even. The person is usually quite two-dimensional, with only a sentence or two of introduction, if that. But I find myself wondering what kind of a person this is, for surely he has as complex a story as the protagonist--maybe more so. I wonder who his family is, and how he may have become an integral part of the story if only things had lined up a little differently.

In The Fountainhead, for once the answers were provided by the author instead of my own imagination, because characters like Dominique, Ellsworth Toohey, and Gail Wynand were just barely mentioned in passing, like a dozen others, until a few hundred pages into the book they suddenly became quite vital to the story.

In Murakami's Kafka on the Shore, which I re-read today, I wondered about the old man in the coffee-shop:

"Hoshino didn't know this, of course, but the man used to be an official in the Ministry of Education. After retirement, he came back to his hometown of Takamatsu and opened up this coffee shop, where he made fine coffee and played classical music."

As far as I can recall, this coffee-shop man didn't even have a name. But he could have had his own book, I bet, as could Oshima's brother or Kafka Tamura's father or the young teacher who testified at the beginning. On the other hand, now that I think about it, writers could fill the whole world with books about these different characters, but if I just spent all my time reading about them and sympathizing with figments of somebody else's imagination, I guess I wouldn't have any time to be with real people, the dullest of whom is intrinsically more interesting than any character in a book, because real people are dynamic--always changing and learning--and people stuck in ink and paper can't ever change from the day they're published (except in the minds of real-live people, of course).

No matter how real they may seem to me, sometimes.

Which brings me to my next thought: if reading about someone is bound to be less interesting than an actual tangible exchange--and on top of that, one-sided, because you can't converse with people in books--then why do I love it so? Maybe because I get to act as an observer, coming to my own conclusions as slow as I like, without being pressed for a response or analysis. I can accept big things that are wrong or confusing without bothering to delve into them, even if that's what's expected of me, and I can focus on little things that are wrong and confusing--or little things that are good and right.

Because I am shameless, I'll quote Pulp Fiction:

"That's when you know you've found somebody special. When you can just shut the fuck up for a minute and comfortably enjoy the silence."

What I'm trying to say is, I think that what I like about books so much--well, maybe just one aspect of why--is that I can be introspective by myself, at my own pace, thinking what I want or not thinking anything at all, without having to ruin my thoughts by the proprietary rules of reflecting out loud. Sometimes I like talking about books--in fact, a lot of times I do--but I don't like doing what's expected of me. I don't like having to answer the question, "What did you think of that?"

Is that just petulance? Eh.

So that's the trade-off of real people versus book characters: the luxury of being the undisturbed observer of a situation, or the excitement of the inability to flip ahead and find out what the character's thinking. I'm glad I have both.

P.S. What should I read next? I'm thinking maybe James Frey's A Million Little Pieces (nothing like a harrowing tale of drug addiction to read on a sunny beach!), but I'm open to suggestions.

Dig!

2005-06-25T10:25:00.000-04:00

Last night I finally watched Dig!, a documentary that Ondi Timoner filmed over the course of seven years, following the friendship, rivalry, rise, and fall of two bands in the '90s and the minds behind them: Anton Newcomb of the Brian Jonestown Massacre and Courtney Taylor of the Dandy Warhols.

Anton was the real tortured genius: he was terribly prolific, he played countless instruments ("he fuckin' broke my fuckin' sitar!"), each of his songs was breathtaking and unlike anything else...and he was so screwed up mentally and physically that commercial failure was almost an inevitability. It would have said something amazing about the music industry if he had been able to succeed.

Haruki Murakami wrote, "People are drawn deeper into tragedy not by their defects but by their virtues...So an inevitably irony results."

In fact, Dig! is so bursting with irony that it reaches at times the point of painful obviousness—Timoner's one failing, I think, was that the film should never have been obvious.

The greatest irony, of course, was that Anton—the more talented, the more visionary, the more idealistic—was bound for failure, while he simultaneously inspired the relative success of his close friend and sometimes-rival, Courtney. Courtney lacked perhaps the wild genius of Anton, but he could get through a show without kicking in the head of an audience member, a tour without firing half the band, a recording session without heroin. And the only person who can’t see this irony is Anton himself: “I don’t do anything wrong,” he says. “That’s why I don’t say I’m sorry.”

Again and again throughout the film, Anton declares, “I am not selling myself!” as if he’s trying to convince himself of it. His talent persuades one manager and industry official after another to put themselves on the line so Anton can get a record contract, and time after time he wreaks destruction on his chances of success.

"He is his own worst enemy, because he thinks success and credibility are mutually exclusive," said one friend in the film.

And yet, after seeing the film I went online immediately to buy a CD by the Brian Jonestown Massacre, and I downloaded some music by the more-accessible and also terrific Dandy Warhols. Sings Courtney,

“In a way, I can’t
help but feel responsible:
I always knew that you were insane
with your pain.
But I never thought you’d be a junkie
because heroin is so passe.”

2005-06-25T10:23:00.000-04:00

New look

2005-06-24T15:31:00.000-04:00

Not too radical, alas. I'm not sure what I think of it yet; ideas? opinions? criticism? Clearly, I'm not good at working with many colors/designs all on one page--I'm pretty much limited to altering it in Blogger's little template box, since I don't have Photoshop or other such fancy-shmancy programs. That said, I like that I'm forced to keep the page nice and simple.

I was deciding between dark red or dark blue for the main color, and I may change it. We'll see. I'm a bit sick so I probably won't be messing with it more for at least a few days. Take care.

2005-06-23T20:15:00.000-04:00

I'm going to quote more Glenn McDonald--I've been reading him obsessively--and I don't care that I've already quoted him twice. So:

Here are some good things in the world that humans are responsible for: the way tapioca pearls pop out of the big plastic bubble-tea straws into your mouth in little clusters of three or four; the red and blue lights on Volkswagen dashboards; Ryo's mother's oden bar in Princess Nine and the bridge in Love Hina; Emmitt Smith setting the rushing record; custom Scrabble boards; Thanksgiving; politeness; wood-burning stoves; down comforters and snooze buttons; frailty, courage and CAT scans; the way paper folds; mail rules; bow-ties you tie yourself and shoes you don't; the way all suitcases come with wheels and those telescoping handles now; all the health food you don't eat; Natural Capitalism and Midnight in the Garden of Evel Knievel; the Criterion Collection and the Viking Portable Library; "Down in the Tube Station at Midnight" and "The Ghost at Number One"; Google and eBay and the page at usps.com that tells you how much it costs to mail $17 in cash to Kyoto; the way people venture out of their homes to attempt something they would like to see done; the way somebody looks at you in between the moment in which they realize that you're no longer a stranger and the moment in which they decide whether that's an improvement or not. The kick pulse in Chitose Hajime's "Hummingbird" and the snare twang in Tori's "Taxi Ride".

Also, today I was in Boston and I ran into a girl from 826. It was neat, and it made me feel warm. I also saw the movie Mad Hot Ballroom with a friend and it was too! cute! for! words! and heartwarming, etc. It made me wanna dance, too...or at least it made me wish I knew how to dance. I wish I could swing-dance and I wish I could do the t-w-i-s-t.

Summer!

2005-06-22T15:53:00.000-04:00

(Ugo Rondinone
HELL,YES! 2001, Installation view, f a projects London
Neon and Acrylic Glass
copyright Ugo Rondinone)

Finally out of school!

Yesterday night was bowling at Lanes and Games with the 826 gang, good stuff. I wore sandals there so I had to buy socks before I could bowl. They say "Bowlers Rock!" on the ankle and they are splendid.

Wearing my Harry and the Potters t-shirt in wild! anticipation! of the release of Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince on July 16 (three weeks!). Boy am I excited...I think I'm going to start re-reading the books soon so that I can dive right into HBP.

And:

There's no vocabulary
For love within a family, love that's lived in
But not looked at, love within the light of which
All else is seen, the love within which
All other love finds speech.
This love is silent.

--T.S. Eliot

Yes.

2005-06-20T13:53:00.000-04:00

A little wisdom from the inimitable Glenn McDonald, Cambridge's own unpublished music critic and crafter-of-prose extraordinaire. From the beginning of an old Sleater-Kinney review:

Here in the US, though, where most people (including many art students) think that art school is for learning how to use Photoshop and FrontPage, where all things are possible and so most of them never happen, where rebellion is an advertising style not a social imperative, and where independence is every bit as formal as government, we require rebel music to be made with guitars...

Reading his reviews are like reading a good book, and his passion and obsession are contagious.

- - - - -

I don't usually have the patience for biographies, but I love the allure of "real"--the things real people did; when, where, and how; who they met and who they married, why they went to jail, where they went in the wintertime, and who their favorite writers were. To satisfy this lust (ehh bad word-choice): WIKIPEDIA! Here's a good one on Jean Cocteau, knock yerself out.

In other news: French final done, a couple more tomorrow and then I'm off to go have a meeting/fun-fest at a bowling alley with the 826 folks. I'm listening to Regina Spektor and memorizing the political affiliations of various political leaders. A good time if I ever knew one :)

2005-06-20T06:33:00.000-04:00

800 on the Literature SAT II, which I took earlier in the month. Ah, finally the fact that I go to a school that is obsessed with preparing us for standardized tests is paying off! But seriously. The morning of the test, when my mom was driving me to the testing center, I was quite anxiously reciting the definitions of conceit and zeugma and litotes under my breath but they didn't come in handy at all. Ah well. My English teacher's gonna be so proud, since I'm the only kid who ever reads the books or participates in English class.

I still have to take Math and possibly Spanish SAT II's (anyone know how the Spanish one is?) next fall. For COLLEGE. Argh.

Well, a nice note on which to end the year, at least. Now I must finish cramming for my French final that is in a couple hours, since I studied minimally for it. Goddamn irregular verbs!

Oh goodness, my summer reading list has swelled to epic proportions!

2005-06-19T17:52:00.000-04:00

Argh, here it is. Feel free to tell me what to add, or what to bump up to the top. Good thing I read like a fiend when the sun is hot on my back...

2005-06-19T17:28:00.000-04:00

"Children, wake up!
Hold your mistake up--
Before they turn the summer
Into dust."

2005-06-17T22:00:00.000-04:00

Things I don't want to forget to talk about when I am free:

The Whole Earth Catalog
The Project Project--and extension (Projectors, anyone?)
826 and bowling
This year's Big Summer Plan (and boy is it Big!)
...In the meantime, get hyped for Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince--July 16!!

Check out my Flickr favorites. You'll notice that I'm obsessed with long-exposure color photos taken at night... Lovely.

Also: my 43 things.

2005-06-16T20:02:00.000-04:00

Bizarrely, my dad actually has much of the same taste in music as me. He had Bjork's Medulla, Joanna Newsom's Milk-Eyed Mender, and etc. before I did. (I beat him to some, though, like the Arcade Fire, Sufjan Stevens, and the New Pornographers.) Anyway, I was just talking to him about how I want to get the new Spoon album Gimme Fiction and he said nonchalantly, "Oh yeah I've had that for a while now." So he's burning me a copy, yay!

It's really nice to be able to play my music loudly on the main speakers and not have it bother anyone...most of the time.

Speaking of the New Pornographers, I've been listening to The Electric Version a lot more lately (I used to mostly listen to Mass Romantic) and I'm obsessed with it! "The Laws Have Changed" is inexpressible--the first song I ever heard by them, so it has a special place in my heart--and I also love "Loose Translation" and "Divine Right." And all them... "Miss Teen Wordpower" should be my theme song...Gimme Fiction should be my theme album.

Sorry for geeking out. More final exams tomorrow--so obviously I'm gonna go waste some time on the internet.

P.S. Right now I'm listening to the Amelie soundtrack--Jesus, the music is actually as amazing as the film.

Quotes I have uttered in the past week that have earned me strange looks

2005-06-16T19:16:00.000-04:00

Perhaps people didn't catch the references? Get them right and you win a prize!

"My name is Inigo Montoya. You killed my father. Prepare to die." [before dueling]
"Curiouser and curiouser..."
"The horror! The horror!"
"To define is to limit." [when asked to define a word in English class--well, I thought it was clever]
"It was the sound of destruction and she liked it."
"Just Katie?! Well if Katie is just Katie, then I suppose a lion is just a lion, and a god just a god." [except I replaced another name with Katie, obviously]
"Meat is murder."

826 Boston!

2005-06-15T17:04:00.000-04:00

I would love to write a more in-depth post on this but alas, tomorrow finals begin and I’m grossly underprepared. So. Today was the first meeting of folks to start up a Boston chapter of 826, a exciting ‘n’ fun free drop-in tutoring/writing center. The first of these was 826 Valencia, in San Francisco (founded by the inimitable Dave Eggers), and now they have chapters in New York, LA, Chicago, Seattle, and Michigan. Anyway, 826 Boston is currently in its planning phase—we’ll turn in our application for acceptance as a new 826 branch this December—so we need to work out location, students, volunteers, legal stuff, community-integration (surveys and collaboration, etc.), and most of all MONEY.

Anyway, the meeting was at a woman’s house on Brattle Street, and we ate lunch and Kevin Feeney, the man (well he’s maybe 25) in charge, explained the ins and outs of what we’re going to be doing. There were about 10 people, two of whom were venture capitalists/grant organization people (intimidating!), but the rest were impossibly cool writerly types, all under 30.

One is the music editor for the Boston Weekly Dig, and after the meeting he was shooting off to interview Sleater-Kinney this afternoon (!). His intern was there, and a Harvard undergrad, a freelance journalist, and an alumnus from 826 Valencia.

I’ve got lots of ideas. I want to make some connections with Marcella Bombardieri, a recent-ish alumna from my high school who is now a reporter for the Boston Globe on, you guessed it, the education beat. Keeping her up to date on our planning and set-up—especially as we get closer to actually opening the center—would be excellent in terms of publicity and legitimacy to help us gain funding and students.

I also want to start a sort of underground whisper campaign (a la the “Who is John Galt?” thing for Atlas Shrugged) whose tagline could be “What is 826?”: chalking on sidewalks and sides of buildings in Boston and Cambridge (of course), posting flyers and bills, giving out stickers and pins, etc. Then people would start to wonder, What is 826?, and they’d pay attention when notice came out about it, or they might look it up online.

Speaking of which, when we get a website, I’m going to ask every single one of you to link to it from your blogs/websites so that it will come up tops and “I’m feeling lucky” on a Google search for 826Boston or 826 Boston. And I know you will all comply with this plan eagerly, right?

There is much else to do, but I don’t feel like detailing it all here now, and I bet you don’t want to read it either. However, if any of you have experience/connections with writers (especially Boston writers) who may want to be involved OR, more importantly, with any sort of grant organizations that give money to educational programs, LET ME KNOW.

All help will be greatly appreciated.

In other news, yesterday my brother and I had a two-and-a-half hour debate over the merits and demerits of organized religion and the validity/logic of religion itself. He’s an atheist; I believe in God but I subscribe to no particular set of religious beliefs or religious affiliation. (Lapsed Catholic, I guess.) We both agreed that organized religion is pretty much a scam with no real purpose (other than the community aspect it fosters), but he thinks that belief in God/afterlife/etc. is merely fear of mortality and self-delusion in an attempt to feel safe, while I…disagreed, but my arguments and thoughts would take more than a paragraph to relate. It was interesting though, and fun; I love debating—I don’t at all mind being around people who disagree completely with me, as long as they can make an intelligent and vehement argument.

So anyway. Off to study, woo-hoo. (In one week I’m FREE!)

Update: Excited though I am about this 826 venture, I felt like today's meeting was a little awkward and not as fun-filled as I had expected. However, I just got an email from some of the others saying the same thing, and it seems that we'll be getting together again to start off on the right foot. So now I'm cheerier. Yay!

Resolutions

2005-06-14T14:52:00.000-04:00

I make resolutions all the time: sometimes they’re stereotypical New Years resolutions (except any time of year) like, for this summer, learn guitar and take more photos with my ol’ Lomo. But mostly my resolutions are big things, the kind that are hard to consciously change, but you just have to hope they change on their own…eventually. I exist in a paradoxical state of self-assuredness (or at least self-awareness) and self-consciousness/lack of confidence.

For instance, I used to be very, very shy. Painfully shy. Shy on don’t-talk-to-anyone-unless-I-know-them-and-even-then-sparingly proportions. I’ve gotten better about that; not great, but better. I can still be quite nervous around strangers or people whom I really look up to but don’t know (does that make sense?). I still blush really easily.

The first meeting of 826 Boston is this Wednesday, for example, and as the date approaches, I am much more nervous than excited. In fact, I’m nervous and daunted and intimated because I’ll be the youngest person there and what if they don’t want a high schooler messing with their project and what if I’m not smart enough or what if I babble—it’s to the point where I don’t even want to go, but I know the way I am and I just have to go through the painfulness (only shy people know this, but it is physically painful to do this kind of thing) and force myself to attend because I’ll be happy about it afterwards. This is a hard thing to explain. But I am much better than I used to be, because at least I’m actually making myself go. So that’s something.

But I still have these resolutions that I can never seem to reach. I mean, there are some things I really don’t like about myself: Most of the time I forgive too easily, and when I don’t, I hold a grudge forever. Embarrassingly, I really like to be liked—ugh, I hate that I have that kind of dependence upon what others think. I wish I were pretty—I used to wish this a lot, now just once in a while—and even more than that, I wish I didn’t care what I look like. I’m romantic and idealistic and I’m afraid I’ll end up like in that song: “All romantics meet the same fate: cynical and drunk and boring someone in some dark café.”

Those are my main resolutions, or my…I don’t know what you call them. Sorry for the confessional post.

On a brighter, more beautiful note, I found a great new photoblog by a French photographer named Alain Astruc. His work is unbelievable (Here’s the photoblog’s current page; here’s a sort of portfolio.) I’m glad he won’t be reading this because I always embarrass myself with my gushing. But man oh man, those photos!

Also on the photoblog front, I’m sure I’ve mentioned the excellent Slower.net on here before…but the other day I left my first! comment! ever! on the picture with the yellow stripes. I talk about superheros and villains and stuff. Heh. Speaking of Slower (aka Eliot Shepard, man-about-NYC and photographer-extraordinaire), the other day a friend an I were talking about how lucky Kdunk is to have a boyfriend who takes such lovely photos of her all the time. (Perhaps when I finally get a boyfriend—yeah, the shyness again, let’s not get into that—he will be a lovely photographer…or maybe an architect—coughHOWARDROURKE.)

I just wrote “speaking of boyfriends…” but I decided that that is another confessional post for another day. Lucky you.

Have a lovely day.

P.S. I’m such a dork: I wrote this on Monday night because I knew I was going to be too busy to blog on Tuesday. That T.C., always thinking ahead!

Oh, and here are a couple of the original in-color photos of the black-and-whiters I posted yesterday:

2005-06-13T14:11:00.000-04:00

I wanted to use up some of my Flickr upload capacity this month, but I haven't been taking many photos lately, so I black-and-white-ized a few of my old New York photos--they're up there now, and I think they look pretty damn good. Here are four:

Knock yourselves out.

"...and some people they hafta work"

2005-06-12T23:25:00.000-04:00

Possible careers:

Writer in some form: novelist? journalist? fortune-cookie composer?
Prof
Privateer (aka government-paid, under-the-radar pirate!)
Regular pirate (more grit 'n' grime, more street cred)
Film writer-director; not really viable, but cool
Art history teacher
Beatnik

Hmm...

Entertainment!

2005-06-12T16:45:00.000-04:00

I don’t know if I’ve ever talked about this on the blog, but I love the White Stripes in a way that is hard to articulate. Needless to say, I was excited and a bit apprehensive about hearing their new CD, Get Behind Me Satan.

It is spectacular. It’s completely different from anything they’ve done before, and at the same time, it couldn’t have been done by anyone but Jack White. I love it. I’ve been listening to it quite a lot—and believe me, you folks who only listen to music on your computer (elbow elbow), it sounds worlds better on really loud, really good speakers. That’s mostly the only way I listen to the White Stripes.

Speaking of new CD’s, my brother also downloaded and burned Sleater-Kinney’s The Woods for me—I’m not as into it as I thought I would be, but I need to listen to it more times before I form a real opinion. I also forced my brother to watch Harold and Maude, and afterwards I burned the film’s soundtrack (actually, an official soundtrack was never released—they’re all unbelievable Cat Stevens songs though, mmm). Here it is, for those of you who want to make the CD for yourselves:

1. Don’t Be Shy
2. On the Road to Find Out
3. I Wish, I Wish
4. Miles from Nowhere
5. Tea for the Tillerman
6. I Think I See the Light
7. Where Do the Children Play?
8. If You Want to Sing Out, Sing Out
9. Trouble

“If You Want to Sing Out, Sing Out,” is the best song on the CD…it’s great in its own right, but even better if you’ve seen the movie. If you want me to email it to you, leave your email as a comment and I’ll get on it. Spread the love.

Speaking of Harold and Maude—the most hilarious, tragic, poignant, sardonic movie out there—I’d like to relate the funniest dialogue exchange:

Therapist: “So Harold, were all these suicide attempts staged for your mother’s benefit?”
Harold: [long pause] “…I wouldn’t say benefit.”

Then there’s that look he gives to the camera after the first date runs away—possibly the best moment in any movie ever. I do not exaggerate. It’s perfect. And the tree scene! And…and…just see it. (Interesting but unimportant fact: Bud Cort, aka Harold, plays the Bond Company Stooge in Wes Anderson's hilarious The Life Aquatic. Yeah, I couldn't believe it either.)

-----

By the way, during my absence, I’ve been reading like a fiend. Almost summer-vacation proportions. Let’s see…I finished A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius, then I read Lord of the Flies, The Fountainhead (best. book. ever. I kid you not. More to come on that, another day), The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-Time, and The Bonfire of the Vanities. Good stuff.

Here’s a list of recommendations for summer that I made for my friend, by the way. (They are all incredible books, and because I'm obsessive-compulsive, it is labeled with such conveniencies as genre, length, and medium.) And hey, leave me suggestions for what I ought to read! I’ll probably follow up on them. I like everything, so don’t worry about genre.

Off to pretend I’m studying for finals.

Eat your hearts out

2005-06-11T22:34:00.000-04:00

Loyal blog-readers have probably noticed the conspicuous absence of photos of myself and friends or family on here; this is, as you might have guessed, part of my hope to keep this blog entirely anonymous. That said, it would drive me nuts to read someone's blog regularly and not know what she looked like. I'm a very curious girl and I don't want to be hypocritical.

But I want to stick with my original goal: no name, no photos.

So for those of you who want to know what I look like, I've posted a picture on Flickr. You can find it here. I'll probably take it down in a few days... I should warn you though, I'm not very pretty and I'm very self-conscious about pictures of myself, so--don't expect many more of these. Oh, the things I do for the blog. Anyway, I guess this is sort of a surprise treat to say sorry for my absence. Ciao.

Back and blogging with a vengeance!

2005-06-11T21:27:00.000-04:00

I apologize for the brief hiatus—I’d rather not explain. I’m not sure how much I’m going to be blogging or even online this summer, but we’ll see. I have a week and two days left of school (!!) which means I’m a busy bee: There’s a banquet for the Spectrum (school paper) on Tuesday, which might be the last time for a long time that I see some of the graduating newspaper folks like D. and J. and M. (I went to graduation and realized then, ironically, that I should have been really good friends with D.—we’re kindred spirits. But he’s going to Brandeis so at least I’ll probably see him once in a blue moon.)

Then, on Wednesday, there’s the first! meeting! ever! of 826 Boston, which will hopefully become a new chapter of the McSweeney’s super-fun writing- and tutoring-centers (remember when I wrote about the Superhero Supply Store?—that was 826NYC). I’m a bit apprehensive about this first meeting, as I’ll probably be the only high schooler there and the organizer is, intimidatingly, a Harvard grad student—but at the same time, I’m insanely excited about it. I’m going to be a part of something new and different and wild and E-D-U-C-A-T-I-O-N-A-L! So what, I like educational. Go ahead, laugh. It’s gonna be rad.

Then on Thursday and Friday, FINALS! Saturday, last day of volunteering at the hospital till next year. Monday and Tuesday, MORE FINALS! Then, freedom. Ten weeks of joy and exuberance. And hot hot heat.

I mean it. I’ve heard there are places more intensely hot than New England in the throes of summer (bad word choice?) but I am dubious about their existance. New England goes from being cold and raw (snow in May, eugh!) to two weeks of blissful spring, then two weeks of constant—unrelenting—rain, then the rain burns away and it’s summer with a vengeance. It’s been 95 degrees every day this past week, and glaringly sunny, and so humid you could take a shower just by walking outside. Steam curls up off the pavement in waves. Skin is constantly slick with sweat, hair curls from the wet air, my cheekbones sun-burn, and I start sleeping downstairs on the couch more often than in bed because the family room is the only room with an air conditioner. It’s so hot you have to walk around rubbing ice on yourself and you stop your constant imbibement of English Breakfast Tea. Your clothes start sticking to you seconds after you put them on.

Obviously, I love it.

Summer is the! best! season! ever! The running madly around, the no-school, the warm-to-the-bones feeling, the sun sinking into my skin and making my hair about a thousand degrees and giving it reddish-gold streaks, the books (the books!), the beaches, the spur-of-the-moments, the everything. I’m obsessed with summer. It’s here! It’s a New England summer!

This evening I decided to go on a walk with my dogs, sister, and mom, so I put on my sneaks (that’s T.C.-speak for sneakers, though I’d think that’s obvious, but I have received many a raised-eyebrow for this lingo) and grabbed some sustainance for the hike…by which I mean, of course: I got a glass, filled it with coffee and a handful of ice cubes, and piled into the car. So yeah, I hiked with my dogs while primly sipping on iced coffee—the best part is that neither my mom nor my sister even gave this a second glance. Ah me.

Should I get in shape this summer? I can’t decide. I don’t really like exercising, but it would be cool to be buff. (Very Sydney Bristow. Very Kill Bill.) And then if I ever got in like a tussle, I could totally take my arch-rival on. If I had an arch-rival. Hm, I have less that two weeks (!) to decide.

Oh and I started writing a book. I’m exactly nine Microsoft Word pages in and it’s called The Second Trial of James Rine. It’s epic and beautiful, and it is to contain—among many other things—a spell-binding mystery, a tumultuous love affair, a HERO, an arch-villain (but of course), a secret past, and a SPY. So what if nine pages isn’t much? So what if I’ve started millions of books and never gotten past 40 pages? So what if I have no idea where the plot’s going? So far it is great—okay, maybe not great, but at least fun to write.

Here are the first few paragraphs:

Though she sat near the back of the courtroom, Madeleine Hall could see that James Rine lacked the boyish smirk and soft cheeks that had been plastered all over the tabloids during his first trial, five years ago. She breathed a barely audible sigh of relief; she hated when criminals became poster-boys to the ignorant public. That was why Rine had been aquitted last time—because the New York Looking-Glass had taken him under its wing as a martyr to glorify; as a cause to champion; as a ploy to increase circulation.

But criminals like Rine weren’t very smart. After all, here he was again, after his free ride five years ago when he and everyone else knew he ought to have been put behind bars. He would still be in the penitentiary now, Madeleine thought, but here he is looking at all of us as if we are prisoners and he holds the keys.

Self-righteous bastard.

Madeleine Hall, top-notch reporter for the New York Fount, surreptitiously pulled a notebook and pen out of her purse. If some second-rate yellow-journalists at the Looking-Glass could keep Rine out of jail, she sure as hell could put him in.

Okay, it's bad, but whatever. The fact that my writing is strictly third-rate surprisingly does not bother me in the slightest--whatever makes me happy doesn't bother me. I’m off to go write and eat cake. Bye!

P.S. I'm listening to Rufus Wainwright's song "The Consort" on repeat--I like the idea of lovers taking over the world together.

2005-06-01T23:26:00.000-04:00

This person is staying with us, sleeping on a cot in the family room. I don't care for her very much at all. Right now she is snoring very loudly in the other room and it's severely disconcerting, I don't know why. Is it very superficial to say that I don't think I will ever marry a man who is a loud snorer?

Well maybe love will make it endearing rather than annoying...

2005-05-31T23:47:00.000-04:00

It's been sort of cold these past few days and I have goosebumps. I was shaking in class it was so freezing... But, but. I'm happy. I just finished my first issue of the school newspaper as editor-in-chief, and I was so nervous that I might botch it, but it looks splendid and it's interesting and beautiful and--well, this is what I'm good at. Writing, I mean. It's what I love.

And when I get cold I make myself a big mug of tea and I press it up against my cheek that way I do, which my brother teases me about. It makes my cheeks bright pink but it warms me up so.

And I have issue 16 of McSweeney's--goodness, I forgot to write about how I caught the McSweeney's tour in Boston yesterday! It was...well, I'll post about it tomorrow, I'm too tired right now. It was delightful.

And I've been thinking about what my kids (babies!) will be like, and how I'll raise them and what a good job I'll do, and how I'll give them baths in the kitchen sink and play them old records and paint their faces and let them dance on the fire escape (I'll be living in the city of course). Is it odd that I think about this kind of thing?

And I still have a schoolgirl crush on this boy...and those are the best, y'know. Make you feel funny inside.

...And boy do I love the summer. Here comes the sun, indeed.

Update: Oh, and: 826 Boston. It's really happening. I'm going to be one of the starter-uppers (start-uppers? starters-up?), and the guy in charge is this really young, geeky and hip-seeming Harvard kid, and there are meetings with official 826 National folks, and I'm going to be there! I love being involved in this kind of thing, it's such an exciting beginning-of-something-big feeling. I am happy :)

Book report...and Star Wars. Yeah, I finally saw it.

2005-05-29T20:21:00.000-04:00

Well, yesterday I finished A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius. It was divine. I loved every second of it (well okay, maybe not every second: there were about 50 pages around the 3/4 mark through which I was amused, but not entranced). The ending was perfect (that 7-page-long final sentence about frisbee’ing and life, oh yes). In Dave Eggers’ words:

“The brotherly love/weird symbiosis factor…was as a matter of fact supposed to be the surprise conclusion reached at the end of the book, the big pay-off, as it were, that, while the author searches for love…and his prother searches for, you know, whatever little kids search for (gum and pennies?) and together they try to be normal and happy, they actually will probably always be unsuccessful in any and every extracurricular relationship, given that the only people who they truly admire and love and find perfect are each other.”

I sort of paraphrased that idea for my mom, prefacing it with, “This is going to sound really cheesy, but…” My mom got sort of teary afterwards and said, “Oh, that’s not cheesy, that counts for a lot…for a lot more than it seems. That’s something big, to realize.”

As you can probably infer, I highly recommend AHWOSG. This morning I read Proof—a play that a friend suggested to me—and I enjoyed it immensely as well. It had the best dry wit and I even laughed aloud at a couple parts, and it was very slight but sweet and thought-provoking. Oh I sound silly now. But eh. (The joke about the mathematicians’ band’s song i reminded me of the kind of joke this friend-who-suggested would tell.)

And now here I am. I went to Border’s today and picked up Ayn Rand’s The Fountainhead. I have a feeling I’m either going to love it or hate it—we’ll see, I’ll give it a couple hundred pages. I have to admit that the reason I’m reading it is not because of its political agenda or allegorical plot, but rather because of something I read a while ago when I was browsing through some dusty, very old New York Times book reviews:

“I first read The Fountainhead when I was 18 years old. I loved it…And I spent the next year hoping I would meet a gaunt, orange-haired architect who would rape me. Or failing that, an architect who would rape me. Or failing that, an architect.”

Why would a comment like that entice me to buy a tangental, 750-page book of cramped type and libertarian propaganda, I can’t say. But boy I can’t wait to read it.

-----

On a very different note, last night I finally went to see Star Wars with some friends. My expectations weren’t too high, but I was looking forward to it and I was prepared to enjoy it, to not be overly critical, and what-have-you.

It was ludicrously bad.

I was bored in some of the battle scenes (and those are supposed to be the exciting bits!). I couldn’t make myself really care about any of the characters (and let me tell you, I’m one of those people whose emotions are quite easily manipulated by old film tricks—I’ve been known to get teary at trailers)—even Anakin, especially Anakin, I felt indifferent about. There was a tug when I really hoped he wouldn’t turn to the dark side, but frankly, I couldn’t wait for him to get into his black Vader costume. He didn’t seem conflicted and powerful, he seemed bratty.

Even worse was the flimsy dialogue between Anakin and Padme—of course, even the beautiful old Star Wars films weren’t known for their dialogue or acting prowess, but still—who didn’t talk to each other like lovers but like junior high school kids asks to pretend to be husband and wife. Or something. Why would he betray his friends for her life? She doesn’t seem too great. Does she even do anything other than just mope around their skyscraper all day? Why is she sleeping in that ridiculous dress?

And oh, I tried to like it, I really did. I mean, I went in with a good attitude, and I wanted to respect what George Lucas was trying to do. But I have to say I couldn’t suppress myself from bursting into silent laughter at two points. One was when Padme was giving birth and, because this was after all taking place in Lucas’ sterile world, that big structured tent thing was over her…if you’ve seen the movie, you know what I’m talking about. That was fucking ridiculous. I was shaking with laughter. The other thing that really broke me up was a certain dialogue exchange:

“How do you know Anakin killed the younglings?”
“I caught it on the security hologram!”

Oh George Lucas. Oh George. Oh. I’m shaking my head in wonderment. (Side note about the “younglings”: that was the only part of the movie that actually did get the intended emotional response out of me. He—he wouldn’t! He won’t!—hand over mouth, eyes wide, aghast—Jesus Christ. He did.)

Whew, sorry for that rant. If you haven’t seen the movie yet, I advise against it. Waste of time and money, if vaguely amusing for mocking purposes at least. I want to go watch The Empire Strikes Back to remind me what these movies really are about. Maybe I will. Goodnight.

P.S. Y'know how there's Lord Sidious, like the word insidious? (Don't even get me started on those names.) If you add that same in- to Lord Vader, you have invader...Clearly I can't stop thinking about etymology, even when I'm in the movie theater. What a dork.

2005-05-28T11:26:00.000-04:00

I guess someone must be sending me sunny thoughts because today, for the first time in over a week, the sun burned away all those dreary gray clouds and it's beautiful and clear and steaming out.

I'm going outside. Thank you!

Why I love to write

2005-05-26T22:54:00.000-04:00

Big sigh of relief.

Today was officially the very last, ultimate final day of my Comparative Religions class at Harvard Extension. Boy I loved that class, and boy did I beat my brains out with all that writing-of-last-minute-five-pagers and studying for vastly detailed tests. I took my final exam today (finished early, walked around in the clean-smelling air and the rain for a while until my mom picked me up) and my TA handed back my final essay (A!).

The class is taught by this brilliant professor, but our essays and exams are graded by TA’s—theology grad students at Harvard. Anyway, I’m intensely fond of my TA, Mark. He’s the geekiest, sweetest, smartest guy. No, it’s not a crush because there’s no funny feeling in my stomach. But is it weird to say I hope I run across him sometime in the future?

Here’s what he wrote on the back of my final essay, which I wrote about a past of harmful exclusivity in Judaism, and how the religion’s evolution counters that friction. And etc. Anyway, I’ll leave out his comments about my paper, because those will bore you, but here’s some advice he left at the end that any would-be writers like myself might be interested in:

You are an excellent writer and you will become even better. Writing is difficult to teach, but I will tell you what I know: you improve by reading more and writing more. Know your audience and be willing to adapt your style for different audiences and occasions. Always be clear and concise—volume is not a virtue. Opt for the right word over the “million-dollar word,” but, having said that, do not shy away from complex language when the need arises. Analyze the presuppositions and implications of arguments from multiple perspectives. Be creative and analytical, not merely descriptive. Make instructive connections in your writing and offer constructive ideas or look at old ideas from new angles—“there is nothing new under the sun” but you can always look at it from a new perspective. Do not be overly ambitious in forwarding a thesis. Rather, in every paper advance a clear, cogent argument based on textual evidence and solid analysis. Meet with your professors and ask for advice. I attribute a lot of my success to the direction of my professors. Be open to advice but follow your instincts. Tell yourself before every paper that this will be the best thing you have ever written and make it so. Lastly, never neglect the aesthetics of writing. Great writing is always beautiful, even if the subject matter is mundane or highly complex. This is what I know.

You have been my best student. I hope you continue to pursue studying religion in some capacity. If you have any questions feel free to e-mail me at: (well I’m not printing that). All the best in your future endeavors. Peace.

Mark

In case you skipped that whole part, which I’m guessing a bunch of you did, the best line was this: “Tell yourself before every paper that this will be the best thing you have ever written and make it so.” I think that that’s maybe the best advice anyone has ever given me, about writing. And I love that he would say that. And I love writing. And I can’t wait till I’m in college and there are people like that around. I want to be friends with him! We’ve been emailing back and forth a bit; I’ve also been corresponding some with the professor. He (the professor, not the TA) invited me to go to lunch with him sometime but I’m afraid that would be a little weird. We’ll see, maybe this summer.

Speaking of this summer: I’m going to be involved with trying to start up an 826 Boston this summer! And beyond! More details to come.

…And, since I’m doing a good job with segues here today, I’ll mention that those same McSweeney’s folk behind the various 826 ventures are releasing Issue 16 of McSweeney’s Quarterly Concern these next few days. A few of the McSweeney's people are going on a tour (right word?) promoting the new issue and they’re going to be at a Boston bookstore (doing god-knows-what) this Monday, so you know I’ll be there. Will report back.

For my third McSweeney’s-related topic of the day: I’ve got about 20 pages left in Dave Eggers’ A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius, but I had to make my sister hide the book from me yesterday and today so that I’d study for my Religion final and not fall in love with San Francisco. I’ll probably be finishing that tonight though, that beautiful delicious rib-crackingly funny book.

- - - - -

I just watched Rushmore with my brother—I’d already seen it but he hadn’t. Man that’s a funny movie…I was going to do a little rhapsodizing but I’m tired so I guess I’ll just say, Watch it. There is much excellent music and snide remarks and Futura to be had.

And it’s been rain-rain-raining for the past week. Hard. And it’s not supposed to let up for another week. But…it makes the grass and all the trees such a bright green and the air smells like fresh dirt (a good smell, though hard to describe) and I like it when the rain makes my hair curl all around my face. So I’m a happy camper.

…A hard rain’s a-gonna fall…

I was going to title this post "What a girl wants" but I thought it would be too lame

2005-05-26T00:10:00.000-04:00

So my dad just walked into the room and said, "Hey T.C., I seem to remember that SAT scores should be coming back around now. Have you checked yours?"

I said nonchalantly: "Oh that...yeah, I got a 2400."

Rock.

- - - - -

I was thinking today that I'm wasting my time around here. I want to just get up and go. Go do something, help someone, create something. I feel stifled. (But maybe that's juts because it's been raining torrentially for the past week straight...) I want to paint a self-portrait illegally on the side of an old warehouse. I want to slip invitations to a secret society under doors in the night. I want to dress up like a flapper and smoke through a cigarette-holder like Holly Golightly (though alas, I'm too health-conscious for that!). I want to read heavy-browed intellectual tomes on the beach and read trashy beach books in the library reading room. I want to chalk a message on a parking lot so big that airplanes can read it. I want to have a pen-pal to whom I can mail trinkets and oddities. I want to never get up unless I feel well-rested. I want to learn a foreign language solely by watching old unsubtitled films. I want to give a shiny red bike to a kid who doesn't have one. I want to invent an old-fashioned salon where all the great minds of my generation will gather. I want to start the next Beat Generation. I want to exchange the MoMA audio guides with my own commentary. I want to hitch-hike to San Francisco. I want to fall in love with someone who gets all my jokes and under-the-breath-mutterings. I want to read out on a fire escape like Francie Nolan. I want to meet Art Spiegelman. I want to take a nap.

You know you're a geek when...

2005-05-24T18:53:00.000-04:00

...you overhear someone say "cereal of death" and you pipe up, "Hey, if you were a book, that could be your Statistically Improbable Phrase!"

I really hope someone here gets it.

Also: Today I started telling this boy about Lichtenstein's Rouen Cathedral paintings and he didn't seem to care. I tried to explain ("No you see, but long before, Monet did these paintings of the Rouen Cathedral at different times of day...") but alas, I guess we're not meant to be. Even if my heart still drums when I see him.

(Monet's)

(Lichtenstein's)

2400

2005-05-23T12:39:00.000-04:00

!

Hell yes.

2005-05-22T18:09:00.000-04:00

Dave Eggers' A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius. I got it out of the library today and I'm halfway through, it's brilliant and hilarious and tragic...and well, heartbreaking, staggering, ingenious. I do quite love it, though I'm dashing this update off right now and I haven't the time for something coherent.

In a nutshell: Dave's parents die when he's 22, and he's left to raise his 7-year-old brother, Toph. He's fiercely protective and doesn't really know how to be a dad (or as he refers to himself, a "single mother"):

"I watch Toph interact with the other kids, scanning, suspecting.
Why are those kids laughing?
What are they laughing at? Is it Toph's hat? It's too big, right?
Who are those little pricks? I'll break those little fuckers.
Oh.
Oh, it was that. Just that. Heh heh. Heh."

Also, as part of the extensive preface, Eggers includes an "incomplete guide to symbols and metaphors," which includes, among other things, sky = emancipation, ocean = mortality, white bed = womb, sun = mother, moon = father, dolls = mother, tiny stuffed bear = mother, Toph = mother, Lake Michigan = mother, and bridge = bridge.

Oh my. Must run. Take care dears.

Wow.

2005-05-20T21:25:00.000-04:00

Go to this website to see it bigger and better.

2005-05-20T19:37:00.000-04:00

I took a long nap this afternoon and I had the most upsetting nightmare imaginable. I remember I was just filled with despair over the incident and thinking that I could no longer live here, I'd have to run away and live always haunted by the terrible memory of what had happened. In fact, when my dad tried to wake me up I was so distraught and upset that I just felt like I wanted to sleep forever--because I was still half-asleep so I thought the nightmare was real--and I didn't want to get up and face my terrible future, so I stayed asleep much longer, unintentionally extending this horrible experience.

When I finally woke up, I was sweaty and on the verge of tears. It was the most awful nightmare I've ever had, indeed I cannot imagine anything worse. It probably sounds like I'm exaggerating, especially since I'm not saying what the nightmare was about. Honestly, I just don't want to repeat it. I would never wish it on anyone. I rarely remember my dreams and I haven't had a nightmare for ages, but nevertheless I usually find it a little silly when people remain upset about nightmares even after they know they weren't true. I'm a hypocrite then, I guess. I almost don't want to go to sleep tonight.

(Remember in that Roald Dahl book The BFG, how the Big Friendly Giant would send dreams and nightmares to people? I don't know why, but I keep on thinking of that...)

Anyway, whew.

The other rather strange occurrence that happened today was in English class. For some reason we started talking about the Oedipus Complex and then the Electra Complex, which led us to Freud's idea of "penis-envy" and other such awkward and fairly vulgar topics. It was very, very awkward. (Sorry for the anti-climactic anecdote right there.)

Hm, this was a very lame blog post. Ah well, have a nice weekend my dears.

2005-05-19T20:59:00.000-04:00

The funny thing about Harvard Square (or, as we like to refer to it hereabouts, "Hah-vud Yahd") is that it's so gentrified that even the hobos are respectful and polite. Instead of heckling, they'll say, "Hello hello, that jacket looks very flattering on you!...oh by the way, spare change?" Anyway, today I was walking through Harvard Square to get to my religion class, and this one hobo asked me for money. I didn't have any change on hand but I was eating a chocolate bar, so I gave him half of that :)

Soup blurbs and etc.

2005-05-19T15:18:00.000-04:00

Today I was wearing these dangling earrings

and I was suddenly struck with the irrational fear that someone was going to yank them out. It would be so easy to do and it would tear my earlobe in half! See, now I’m getting distraught about it again. Eugh. I may have to go back to post earrings for a while…

Quote of the day (heads up, history buffs): “Guess how many times I’ve accidentally typed ‘Ear of Good Feelings.’ Just. Guess.” Heh, ear of good feelings. I’m still giggling over that.

Speaking of giggling, I read a delightful list over at McSweeney’s yesterday, entitled Soup Blurbs. I won’t even try to explain, but here’s a link and here are some of my favorites:

"This year's breakout soup."

"It leaves its eaters a little fuller and, somehow, a little wiser."

"For a young soup, it has an eerie maturity. When I ate it, I felt like the soup was courting me."

"The kind of soup that makes you laugh, and then weep into the bowl when it's done. At times you'll be doing both, which, come to think of it, is kind of the point."

"I don't know how else to say it. This soup was born to be a soup."

Hee. I really love anything or anyone that makes me laugh. Of course, it’s fairly easy to make me laugh (especially when I’m tired, or nervous, or in a cheery mood, and etc.), but nevertheless… That’s probably why I like everyone, because I bet everyone’s made me laugh at some point. I’m not sure if it’s a sign of weak character that I like pretty much everyone I meet. I mean, there are some people with whom I would rather not spend an extended period of time, but that doesn’t mean I don’t like them. In fact, I only ever really forcefully dislike people who are mean. They are few, actually, because a lot of people are tactless or thoughtless but few are mean in a calculated way.

I don’t hate anybody, but I sort of which I had an arch-nemesis.

Teen Beat for the bookworm

2005-05-18T20:35:00.000-04:00

When I'm browsing the bookstore or the library with nothing in particular in mind, there are two main criteria by which I choose my book. The first is title, because that's easiest to see when your eyes are sliding across long bookshelves. An intriguing title makes me pull out the book, after which comes criterion number two: the cover. Yup, I judge books by their covers, all the time. In fact, sometimes if I read a book and don't really like it, it will still have a sort of good place in my memory because I'm so visual that I'll always associate it with its cover.

Taking that visual elitist attitude one step further, I've also been known to pick up a book because the author is, um, very attractive. For instance, The Scar by China Mieville. A cool book, made much better by the intriguing cover...

...and by its cute author (who also happened to run for Parliament recently!)...

And well y'know, also the impressive way in which he wielded his adjectives.

I'm also keen to read this book:

(requisite author photo):

It sports the winning trio of excellent title, cover, and author photo (eh and you know that old thing they call critical acclaim).

Actually, even though I've never read anything by Eggers except some of his things from McSweeney's, I've lately become slightly obsessed with him. (Funny how I obsessively fall in love with men like Neil Gaiman and Dave Eggers while other girls my age are drooling over Orlando Bloom and Brad Pitt. Ah well.) Okay, so not only did Dave Eggers used to be a Salon.com writer and not only is he much of the backbone behind the grand and hilarious McSweeney's enterprise, but he also started up a Superhero Supply Store in New York City (!!) and as if that weren't cool enough, it's actually a front for a free tutoring program for underpriveleged kids. (!, !!, and !!!) There's a special door in the back of the store that leads to the tutoring area. Superhero Supply Store! I don't know what to do with myself. I really wish I were in NYC with my family right now! Too. Cool.

(Sorry for all the explanation points. I'm overwhelmed.)

I apologize for the mediocrity of this blog lately, but I've been busy and I'm apt to go on tangents when I'm absent-minded. And, y'know, overuse those damn !!'s. I have to go write the final paper for my religion class, and some newspaper articles. And etc. Not going to Revenge of the Sith tonight because I didn't want to take away one of those midnight tickets from some obsessive, darling geek who had made a paper chain to count down the days till Episode III's release and watched all the previous movies the day before (like, cough, my brother) and spoke Wookie and got all decked out in his Boba Fett costume. And stuff. (Sigh. I love geeks.)

So anyway, I'll probably go be entertained by a young man's self-destructive fall to evil and the corruption of an empire this weekend. Should be a rockin' time.

Secret wall tattoos

2005-05-17T18:37:00.000-04:00

Check this out. Secret wall tattoos: people remove mirrors or hanging pictures in hotel rooms, paint something of their own in exactly that space, and then replace the frames to cover up their work for someone else to secretly discover later. I am definitely doing one of these the next time I go to a hotel. Definitely. (I will photograph it as well.)

Ramblin' girl

2005-05-16T23:12:00.000-04:00

These past few days I’ve been overdosing on grapefruit juice and Joanna Newsom. The former because I adore grapefruit juice and try to ingest as much of it as possible whenever it’s in the house. The latter because my mom can’t stand Joanna Newsom’s voice, and so I’m taking advantage of her being away so that I can get my Joanna Newsom fix without my mom harping on me. (Harping, get it, get it?!)

Let me rewind. My mom is on a business trip in New York City this week and I was supposed to accompany her along with my sister and dad, but alas, I’m typing this from my couch at home, not from some wi-fi-connected café in NYC. My brother’s here with me, but the rest of my family is traipsing around the city having a grand old time, I’m sure. Damn these suburbs. Anyway, I couldn’t go on the trip because I had the oral portion of my Spanish final exam today that my teacher wouldn’t let me make up and I have editor-in-chief duties all this week and next.

It’s funny, I can’t get used to calling myself editor-in-chief. I’m the least likely candidate for that kind of thing, because I’m just not very bossy and I don’t even really like managing people. Of course, I love writing and I’m friends with all the staff, so it’s not really a problem. I’m working on being more aggressive. In the meantime, a few of my friends have pretty much monopolized the student government, being class president, secretary, and treasury. Now that I’m editor-and-chief of the school paper (with my friend as deputy editor), we decided that we could start a bit of an oligarchy, with them controlling politics and me controlling media. Haha.

(Incidentally, I’ve just been writing a sort of goodbye tribute article to the former editor-in-chief, and I’m having a hard time making it have just the right tone. I want it to be affectionate and respectful and funny. He’s a dear, and he really deserves something great. Hm.)

Here are two conversations I took part in today:

Girl 1: Why does our French textbook say there are only five continents?
French teacher: Because there are.
Girl 1: Um, no. There are seven. Antarctica, Australia, North America, South America—
French teacher: No, the Americas are one continent.
Me: What! Monsieur ----, the Americas are not one continent.
Girl 2: Well maybe in France they count them as one…?
Me: In France they disregard plate tectonics?
French teacher: Um…everybody turn to page 211, exercise D…

Me: I take daily naps now. I get home from school and immediately go to sleep.
Kid 1: Ah, nice. Bed naps or couch naps?
Me: Couch naps.
Kid 1: (staring off into the distance) Yeah, couch naps… In fact, I’m about to drift off to sleep right now.
Me: Well if you fall asleep, I’ll give you a quick subtle kick in the shin, alright?
Kid 1: What! No! I want to fall asleep in class. In fact, if I fall asleep, get me a pillow!
Me: Ha, alright.
(Later, in class, he fell asleep. He was half-snoring. I was half-laughing.)

Okay, I just realized that that second conversation isn't funny at all. It was at the time. Regardless, here are some unrelated things I meant to talk about but am now feeling too lazy to address: My infuriation with Audioscrobbler, which never seems to be working nowadays. My project o’ projects and how it’s coming along. The current mediocrity of 24. Revenge of the Sith reviews, AO Scott (NY Times) vs. Anthony Lane (New Yorker)--this clash of the critics makes me even more excited! I guess I'll just have to wait for the diagnosis from the Wall Street Journal's Joe Morgenstern, because my movie taste agrees almost exclusively with his. We shall see. (Today I saw a girl wearing a Star Wars t-shirt and boy did I get over-excited.)

What a manic Monday it’s been…

2005-05-15T10:31:00.000-04:00

I wish I had a cause to champion.

Athens and the "brightness of a single bird"

2005-05-14T08:50:00.000-04:00

Last night at dinner my dad posed a question, I don’t remember how it came up: If you had a billion dollars to give away, what would you spend it on? My brother immediately said AIDS research. My sister said water purification systems in impoverished countries. My mom said education on public health. I said I’d give it to those MIT guys who are developing $100 laptops so that every kid in the world could have acccess to the internet (sounds dumb, but think about how connected to the rest of the world they would be, and what they could teach themselves)—they’re close to achieving their goal, but think of how a billion dollars would increase the volume they could produce!

My dad, however, had the most interesting answer of all. He said that he’d use the money to somehow identify and support creatives all over the world. Paraphrased, this was his argument:

“Many more people have the capacity for extreme creativity or innovation than actually exploit it. Most people can’t afford to spend their time philosophizing or sculpting or whatnot, but…But think about Athens. That was a city of only 30,000 people, yet a huge number of influential people—including Aristophanes, Sophocles, Aristotle, Hyperbolus, Plato, Herodotus, and Socrates—came out of there. That water didn’t have something special in it. Those people weren’t smarter than any other given community. But it was a place in which people were given the opportunity to devote their time to purely intellectual or artistic pursuits. Which is not to say that everyone should hang around thinking deep thoughts all the time, but it is to say that people should have the prospect to.”

Just something to think about. Musing over the question again now, the other thing I might do is fund some kind of think tank—political or intellectual or creative, I don’t know which…

On a different note, I’d like to mention the three best CD’s I’ve been listening to in the past couple months:

Regina Spektor, Soviet Kitsch
Broken Social Scene, You Forgot It In People
Joanna Newsom, Milk-Eyed Mender (which my brother likes too! Who woulda thought…)

(I’m also really liking the Delgados’ Universal Audio and Sufjan Stevens’ leaked Illinois as well as Bjork and some recently re-discovered White Stripes.)

Here’s a funny fact about me and music: For some reason, riding on a bus or train or as a passenger in a car has a very therapeutic effect on me. I guess it’s sorta like how babies will fall asleep right away if you take them out for a drive at night. Anyway, I find that if I listen to a CD for the first time in the car—preferably at night, in quiet, when I can stare absently out the window—it has the strange effect of making me much more inclined towards that CD, not just at first listen but at all later listens. It sets a good mood for my first impression, I guess, and that residual feeling sticks with me… I’m not really sure what I’m talking about. But regardless, I now actually make a point of going out for a night drive whenever I get a new album—it’s my ritual for absorbing music. Everyone has odd rituals like that, right? (Like eating the middle square of French toast last and reading magazines from back to front and smelling library books and drawing all over my hands when I’m nervous or upset…) Right?

I have so much to do. I’ll leave you with some beautiful art by my friend the very talented and very lovely Oki:

She’s going places, eh? For more of her art, go here. (Oki, if you want me to take these pictures down I will, since I used them without your permission. Sorry—they’re too splendid!)

Three conversations

2005-05-13T18:54:00.000-04:00

Matt: When I finished the SAT's I thought, finally! done with ovals.
Me: I like ovals! But yeah, I guess it would be cool if we had stars to fill in, or hearts...
Matt: ...or ponies.

Kid 1: Wouldn't you love to live in those Vietcong tunnels?
Kid 2: Yeah! It would be like living in a hobbit hole...except, y'know, with war.

Me: This fish sorta looks undercooked, Dad.
My brother: Oh don't be ridiculous, it won't kill you...it will only make you very, very sick.

:: : :: : :: : :: : :: : :: : :: : :: : :: : :: : :: : :: : :: : :: : :: : :: : :: : :: : :: : :: : :: : :: : ::

Also, for history class I had to make a political cartoon about the Cold War. It's pretty pathetic, but I'll see if I can scan or photograph it for you guys. (It's about the Bay of Pigs.)

I'm watching The Life Aquatic with a friend tonight. Interns!

And finally, I wish I had a boyfriend right now so that he would give me lilacs at this time of year...

"For internal use only"

2005-05-11T21:18:00.000-04:00

So I was playing Boggle with my dad and my sister (yeah dorky, I know) and the paper I was writing on was some company paper from my mom's work. On it was printed, "FOR INTERNAL USE ONLY." I thought this was quite humorous for some reason, and I tried to convince first my dad and then my brother to ingest this phrase, which I carefully ripped out. Because you see, then it would be used internally. (Well, it made sense at the time.) Eventually my brother said, "T.C. if this is such a great idea, why don't you eat it?" Well, I was pretty much cornered. Also, I was curious as to what it would taste like. So I did. It tasted pulpy, and exactly how you'd imagine. It was only a tiny piece of paper though. Anyway. Have a nice day.

Things to do in the next few days:

Study all old vocab for oral portion of Spanish final exam
Write three-page essay on Dulles' and McNamara's respective foreign policies during the Cold War
Write five-page essay for religion class
Write four-page essay on Heart of Darkness and The Power of One for English class...oh yeah and think of thesis first
French test
Spanish test
Science take-home final exam
Write five articles for school newspaper...interview people first
History homework
Study for religion class final exam
Fix computer
Make birthday card for Mom
Watch all five Star Wars movies in preparation for Revenge of the Sith
Read Proof
Get some shut-eye

Whew. I'm a busy bee.

Summertime, and the livin' is easy

2005-05-10T22:21:00.000-04:00

What tends to happen with me is that if I’m under stress or undergoing unusually tough times, I’m all a-scowl and snappish for a few days and generally no fun to be around. This was the situation for several days leading up to today’s AP exam, because I was grossly underprepared and I knew it.

(This is the depressing image of where I was cramming late last night. I purposely made it depressing and dull so that I wouldn’t get distracted.)

But. What also tends to happen is that it’s pretty unnatural for me to suppress my usual cheeriness for days on end, so when that specific pressure (such as, oh I don’t know, an AP exam) is lifted, I have an outburst of happiness and exuberance that I was trying to keep the lid on before.

Let me rewind. Obviously, I took my AP exam today. I think it went…okay…but I doubt I did very well at all. Eugh. I’m disappointed in myself for that. But regardless, I came home from school feeling sort of dejected because of the bad, long exam, and I was sad about coming home to an empty house, but when I came into the kitchen there was a message on the answering machine. It was from my mom: “Hi honey, I’m at work but I was thinking you’re done with your AP now! I hope you did well but even if you didn’t, don’t worry, what’s most important is that it’s finally over with and now you can relax and be happy! There’s some ice cream in the fridge for you. Love you dear.”

As you can imagine, my heart pretty much burst with how much I love her. And I realized that my brother is home, my sister is home, I’m done with the exam, and there is ice cream waiting for me. And it was the most beautiful, sunny glowing day.

Outside, it smelled like honey and pollen and fresh-mown-grass and thyme and mud and an afternoon barbecue. I read in the beaming hot sun for a while, and then I was a little sleepy so I lay down in the middle of my green grassy backyard and napped right there. I woke up when the shadow from the house crept all the way over to cover me, which made me chilly, so I got up (shaking various beetles and grass clippings from my hair) and went in to help my dad cook dinner.

It was lovely, and I’m very happy. Here’s a happy (tiny too!--it’s only 3”x4”) painting of a fish I did a few days ago:

And here are some bright, cheery photos I took today when I was walking my dogs down the street:

2005-05-09T23:06:00.000-04:00

2005-05-08T17:30:00.000-04:00

So, um, I'm in the middle of cramming for AP's. Now, if I pull this off, I'll brag about how I did it later. If--in the more likely scenario--I do not pull it off, then damn this was a bad idea. I've been holed up in my room all day. All day. With only copious amounts of tea and Coldplay to keep me company. That's good music to study by. I've mostly been listening to "The Scientist" on repeat...

I'm getting pretty psyched about Star Wars. A friend and I have made excited plans for watching the original three in a marathon of light-sabery-goodness next weekend. I was thinking about them last night and I remembered all of a sudden how much I love them. I think I'll maybe wear my hair in those funny Princess Leia buns for the movie-watching. I'm a dork.

Also, the other day in Spanish about half of my class was gone to take the US History AP exam (not myself, whew), so our teacher was letting the rest of us just chat and hang out. A couple girls near me were having a very breathless and unironic discussion of the previous night's double episode of The OC omigod!!!11!!1 I had a nearly unsuppressable urge to mock, but I restrained myself and instead, I coolly informed them that 24 could beat The OC in a duel any day. There was a tense moment. Then, to make amends, one of the OC gals and I went and got some cookies from the cafeteria, and all was well again. This is the thing I love about teenage girls: any disagreement or tension can be easily diffused with some sugar. (Oh, and right as we were leaving to get our cookies, I noticed that the teacher was looking at us with a funny expression. "Oh don't worry," I assured him, "we're not going to go do drugs or anything." The class burst into laughter so I guess I'm not very convincing as a potential drug-doer. Um, druggie. Addict? What's the right word?)

That's all for now. Cross your fingers tightly for me this coming week!

2005-05-05T21:42:00.000-04:00

I've been sick since Friday. Spitting-headache, burning-fever, aching-muscles, constant-chills sick. I had to take the SAT's today--that sucked. I feel even worse now. AP's early next week and I can barely make my eyes focus on the page. Eugh.

"Let all that you do be done in love"

2005-05-04T23:04:00.000-04:00

Today I spent a few hours writing a five-page paper on "Subverting Hatred in Judaism"--it really deteriorated at the end, especially in the last paragraph where I wanted to use up all my great remaindering quotes, so it reads like a Zagat guide. Well, it's a rough draft so it's fine. (Also, I stuck in a Salman Rushdie quote about love from The Satanic Verses: "Not only the need to be believed in, but believe in another. You got it: Love." And the last sentence in the paper is "Indeed." I really need to do some editing.)

Here's a nice quote about from the Bible that I used in the paper: "Let all that you do be done in love" (1 Corinthians 16:14).

Yeah, I know, I love love.

Here's one of my favorite quotes from Judaism, from Hillel the Elder:

"What is hateful to you, do not do to your neighbor:
that is the entire Torah;
the rest is commentary;
go and learn it."

I like this too, I don't know why:

"I never could forget you.
See, I have engraved you
on the palms of my hands..."

Anyway, religion religion. I don't know what I believe anymore. I believe in love.

Max Ernst and Michael Borremans

2005-05-04T14:12:00.000-04:00

I don't have time for a real post so I'm going to leave you with some paintings by a couple artists I've been interested in lately.

Max Ernst was a German surrealist painter most active in the first half of the 20th century. Here are two of my favorite paintings by him:

(Oedipus Rex)

(Celebes)

Michael Borremans is a modern painter, and his subjects are quite disconcerting in a way I can't place my finger on. I first read about him in this Guardian article. You can see more of his work here, but I've reproduced a few of my favorites below:

(The Barn)

(Trickland)

(The Fool)

(Fisherman's Luck)

2005-05-04T00:12:00.000-04:00

I should mention that I wrote the below post during French class today, while referring to some printouts of Glenn McDonald's reviews that I'd brought with me. I had my lined paper and printouts spread out and I was industriously scribbling away, biting my lip from time to time or crossing something out. Occasionally I would raise my hand and add something constructive to the class discussion.

Anyway, this is one of the many ways I keep myself entertained during those long dull hours. (The girl next to me peered over my shoulder. "What are you writing?" she asked. I looked up. I had been rewriting part of the Medulla description. "Eh," I said.)

The War Against Silence

2005-05-03T16:29:00.000-04:00

Yesterday I came across this website. The War Against Silence. The site is now defunct, but for ten years--since 1995, when nobody blogged--Glenn McDonald wrote music reviews on Wednesday nights: long, unweildy, spiralling, autobiographical, bizarrely poetic reviews of CD's and songs and musicians, built upon superlatives and words like electroencephalogram and isomorphic. Most of his reviews are quite expansive, but in his list of the best albums of 2004 he described Bjork's Medulla thus:

A porcelain doll in a broken ship sinks in the cold sea that warms towards us. If we find it whole ashore, it is a doll. If we find it broken, but entire, we will probably make a doll again out of the parts. But it was a doll before its time in the sea, and surely it is more interesting afterwards. So we lay out the parts as parts, from torso to shard, and let them be the story of their separation, but then this is not a story of a doll. Only when we stop finding doll parts do we think to stand on an empty shore and let the water alone tell us the story of all the dolls, and all the ships, and the sea and how we wait on the edge of it for what it brings us.

Man oh man! Then, in his list of best albums of all time, he says of Ted Leo and the Pharmacists' Hearts of Oak and Tell Balgeary, Balgury is Dead:

This is what it sounded like to grow up inside my head.

And of the Magnetic Fields' The Charm of the Highway Strip:

The ghosts of Bach and Handel, marooned in limbo with only some Casio keyboards, amuse themselves by filling in a color-by-numbers country album.

I love this guy. He lives in Cambridge, MA, in fact--close to me--and when I mentioned him to my Dad he said, "Oh yep, I met him a few years ago--that was one strange guy! He'd buy 15 or 20 CD's a week and just listen to them obsessively, and he had this cult following online. Like he was an outsider type, and then finally he met this girl and the story of him falling in love with her was sort of scattered across his reviews as time progressed." Wow.

And here is what Glenn McDonald has to say about delving into unfamiliar genres (pretty similar to what I do, actually, though I of course function on a much lesser scale):

My primary tactic for approaching styles of music about which I know nothing is to watch them leerily from afar for a while, picking up random bits of information of questionable relevance. Eventually a random catalyst will lead me to dart in and buy some specific album. If I don't like it, I instantly abandon the whole genre as a lost cause...If I do like it, though, that artist becomes my foothold; I begin obsessive catalog back-filling, and when that runs out, I begin buying things by the same record company, or things by the same producer, or things by people who appear on compilations with the first artist, or things with similar names or cover-art color schemes. A few weeks of this usually gives me enough triangulation points that I can start reading newsgroups, or expensive foreign magazines, or pestering people I know, and have some points of reference from which to evaluate what they're saying.

(By the way, I'm sorry for these huge quotes, but I just couldn't decide what to cut out! And it's great just the way it is. If you've been skipping the long quotes, I suggest you go back and read them; they're much more funny and interesting than anything I'm writing here.)

Two footnotes: (1) He went to Harvard (that's how he ended up in Cambridge) and here's a very brief, very heartrending story he wrote in college that I found on his site. (2) How he chose the domain name Furia:

"Furia", my portmanteau of "furious" and "Narnia", is the magical realm inhabited by everything about which you care passionately enough to get angry. If I won the lottery tomorrow, perhaps it would be the non-profit foundation/think-tank/
eco-terrorist organization I'd start; perhaps eventually, even without the lottery, I'll think of something other than maddeningly digressive music reviews to put on it.

Anyway, I spent much of the day yesterday reading these reviews instead of studying for AP's. Hah.

Also, yesterday I read half of Jamaica Kincaid's novel Annie John. It's very good; it reminds me a lot of A Tree Grows in Brooklyn (except Annie John's set in Antigua...)--which, in fact, was the book that first sparked my romantic idealization of New York City. (And I loved the name Francie for years after reading that book.)

Have a beautiful day!

2005-05-02T15:14:00.000-04:00

I have an acquaintance who is particularly representative of the overachieving nature of my school: he is a junior like myself--not a senior--but in the coming two weeks he's taking AP exams for Economics, US History, Psychology, Chemistry, Government/Politics, and BC Calculus. And the thing is, I know he's going to do really well on them. (What really gets me is that he's a totally arrogant, thoughtless, taunting-type boy.) How can I compete with someone like that though! That's what kills me: I'm a good student and everything, but my classes are packed with kids like this, who are also part of the student government and AcaDec and the newspaper and science team and basketball and track. So anyway. I hate school. I feel like it's over and I have two months left. I really wish I were homeschooled or something, since I learn infinitely more from reading and museums and newspapers and my out-of-school things than I do in school. The only thing I'd miss is seeing my friends. Anyway... I can't wait till this year ends, it's been tough in more ways than one.

(This is a picture that I feel accurately illustrates my plight. I love Edward Gorey.)

Also, I have a rather devastating crush on this boy, the kind where your chest feels like it's being squeezed in a vice and your skin tingles all over and you blush all the time. Probably only the second time I've ever felt like that. I really wish I didn't know anyone who read this blog; it makes me feel more awkward about going into specifics. Well, suffice to say, his name starts with an E. and he has a girlfriend. I don't even know him well at all, it's totally irrational. (I guess I'm an irrational girl.) So. One more thing to agonize over, a schoolgirl crush.

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I don't really want to go to college. I mean, everyone keeps telling me how great it's going to be, but I can't imagine four more years of school. Oh well, I wouldn't let my parents down like that, by not going. But besides the selfish aspect of wanting to get out of school, there's also the problem of money. I have an older brother and a younger sister who will both be in college at the same time as I will, so I decided a while ago that I'd pay my own way through. Damn, though. I might end up going to whichever school gives me the biggest scholarship. I don't really want to go to college.

Oh, and I think I might have mono; I'm so fatigued all the time and I have to try to keep myself from taking naps, because once I fall asleep I physically cannot get up for hours, and even then with great effort. Inertia? Eh.

I apologize if this post is rather angsty. There are too many things going on right now. Happy May though; May must bring good things, right?

This is the classic T.C. furrowed brow...ubiquitous even when I was an infant

2005-05-01T23:30:00.000-04:00

Walk for Hunger

2005-05-01T18:00:00.000-04:00

I did the Walk for Hunger today. And it rained. Hard. Well, it started raining after three or four miles (luckily I took a bunch of photos as we were kicking off, before the rain started, which you can look at here on Flickr). The white tank top and blue jeans I was wearing were probably the worst things I could possibly have worn--but in my defense I checked the forecast before I left--nothing! Anyway, by the end my skin was bright pink and raw from the freezing cold rain, every inch of me was dripping and cold. (At least it's for a good cause.) I came home and immediately peeled off all my cold, wet layers to immerse myself in a hot bath. Then tea and the Sunday Times. My favorite things.

That's as much of an update as you're going to get today (I posted twice yesterday, you lucky dogs), but ah well, it's multimedia. (It occurred to me today that I didn't use any of my Flickr upload capacity for April, yet I'm using basically all of the May capacity on May 1st. Oh well.)

Also, I regret that the photos are pretty amateur-ish and some are kinda blurry, since I was taking them on the go. But they are green!

Updates this next week may be sparse, we'll see.

"To take drugs"

2005-04-30T19:56:00.000-04:00

I was just doing some homework and my pencil reminded me of a funny anecdote: When I was in 6th grade I had to go through this mandatory anti-drug program (DARE) sponsored by my town's police department. Anyway, they gave us all sorts of anti-drug propaganda like t-shirts and mugs and balloons. They also gave us pencils that read, "DARE not to take drugs" or something like that. The only problem was, after you sharpened the pencil a bit it would just say "to take drugs," then "take drugs," and finally just "drugs." Oh my. (Of course I don't do any sort of drugs, but I'm sorry to say that the DARE program seems to have had no effect whatsoever on the population of my high school. Perhaps it was the misleading pencils that did it?)

Also, last night a couple friends and I rented the first season of "The Office" at the suggestion of a friend of mine. It was quite hilarious, though at times it made me wince. People like that boss don't exist in real life, do they?

God, I cannot imagine anything worse than spending my life working at an office like that. I promise that will never, ever happen to me. Never!

2005-04-30T10:36:00.000-04:00

Let's see. First, a follow-up on the extremely brief Lessig/Tweedy post I put up a couple days ago; I wrote this but forgot to blog it:

The players: Stanford law professor Larry Lessig, Wilco frontman Jeff Tweedy, and Wired editor Steven Johnson. (Quite the all-star lineup.)

The topic: copyright and the law, player pianos, artistic freedom, Walt Disney, "piracy" and terrorism, DJ Dangermouse, Jack Valenti (ha!), and why we're raising our kids as criminals.

This occurred a couple weeks ago; at the time, there was a live webcast off wilcoworld.net. A couple days ago I found the audio file for the "Who Owns Culture?" talk, which you can stream or download here. It's about an hour and a half. Lessig is brilliant; I just wish I had seen the webcast, if solely for (in Geoff Aung's words) "the only cool PowerPoint presentation I’ve ever seen"--ahem, Keynote presentation.

Recall recent Wired News interview with Tweedy on the topic: he famously declared that "Music is not a loaf of bread."

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I'm going to be veddy busy these next few weeks. Today I'm volunteering at the hospital; tomorrow's the Walk for Hunger, which will take all day; then there are AP's, SAT's, SAT II's, projects, finals, figuring out my summer, being with my brother, taking care of my sister, trying to stay sane.

Oh, I just realized that nobody outside Massachusetts knows what the Walk for Hunger is. Basically, you get pledges from various friends and family (usually about $20 each), then you walk 20 miles on a set route around Boston, check off at the checkpoints, and give the money to Project Bread, which buys food for homeless shelters in the area. It usually takes me about six hours to do the actual walk, but it takes about 40 minutes to get in and another 40 to get out. I've done this for the past four or five years; it's really fun until maybe the last three miles. It's funny, because I'm pretty much the least athletic person ever, but eh. My legs are gonna be sore on Monday!

Also, regarding my summer plans... I'm thinking about running away for a few weeks under the pretense of looking at colleges. I'd like to hit Chicago, San Diego, and San Francisco, maybe DC and LA and N'Orleans. I know people whose couches I could appropriate in Chicago, San Francisco, DC, and LA. I figure that between Greyhound and Southwest Airlines' promotional fares, I could travel pretty cheaply. In cities where I don't know anyone, I could stay at youth hostels...or, y'know, curl up at an airport.

I think I could get by with pretty much just a toothbrush, a dress, and a pair of blue jeans.

I'll see if my brother wants to come with me, but the idea of doing it alone is kind of alluring to me...

Updates to come.

Art attack

2005-04-28T23:14:00.000-04:00

We're learning about the 1950's in history class right now. I was excited because I have quite a soft spot for the black rock of the '50's and also the Beat movement, but apparently I'm the only person. Actually, I take that back. There was one other girl in my class, Kate, who is quite a fan of the beatniks, and we were talking breathlessly about Kerouac for a while ("...one long scroll, three days, he wrote it on amphetamines and you can tell...football scholarship!...the observer of the Beat generation...he'll have four dollars and he'll just go...") before our teacher shut us up.

I like learning about the '50's--the suburban movement is unreal, the ads, the movies (James Dean! Marilyn Monroe!), the music (Matt next to me commented that he always confuses Buddy Holly and Billie Holiday. "Blasphemy!" I exclaimed. He went on to quote Clueless: "--Do you like Billie Holiday?" "--I love him!"), the literature, the politics... I'm so glad we're finally moving into the second half of the 20th century in history class. If only my classmates were excited about it too!

Apathy really bothers me. Today I was reading an old issue of The New Yorker in school and when I was in Spanish class, I had reached an article on Basquiat. In an analogy comparing Basquiat to Rimbaud, there was a quotation from Rimbaud's 1873 work, "which gave exalted, hilarious, altogether uncanny voice to teen-age narcissism":

My turn now. The story of one of my insanities...What I liked were: absurd paintings, pictures over doorways, stage sets, carnival backdrops, billboards, bright-colored prints, old-fashioned literature, church Latin, erotic books full of misspellings...I dreamed of Crusades, voyages of discovery that nobody had heard of, republics without histories, religious wars stamped out, revolutions in morals, movements of races and continents...I invented colors for the vowels!—A black, E white, I red, O blue, U green...I turned silences and nights into words. What was unutterable, I wrote down. I made the whirling world stand still.

I thought that was just fantastic. I showed it to a few people, commanded: "Read this," but the responses were generally-- yep--apathetic. "Ehh?" people would say with furrowed brows, "I don't get it." I wanted to say, "You're not supposed to get it, you ought to just get it!" but I didn't think most people would understand what I was trying to say.

Regardless, this article made me want to read some Rimbaud and, even more, see some Basquiat paintings in person:

...He brought lyrical truth to a movement that swam and, ultimately, drowned in facetiousness...what Julian Schnabel performed with operatic bombast, David Salle with theatrical gall, and any number of others with academic irony, Basquiat brought off with spontaneous conviction. Whatever historical modes stirred him—Expressionism, “primitivism,” art brut, Pop—lived anew, for a spell, at his hands...Meanwhile, his unhappy story gave a fresh, perhaps valedictory turn to the myth of the poète maudit, a revelatory, self-immolating figure of terrible delight.

Basquiat's art sort of reminds me of Cy Twombly or Keith Haring--graffiti-esque, with cubist and African influences, and the best colors and lines. It also has that collage or overlapping sense of one thing being built on top of another, one thing painted atop another until it's just right. Even if they are paintings, they don't seem two-dimensional. I need to see these in person!

Speaking of art: this evening I went to see Christo (the guy who made the Gates in New York this winter) speak at the MFA; Jeanne-Claude couldn't be there because she'd hurt her back, but he was fantastic. That accent! That hair! Those hands!--and most of all--That mind! I won't recap the whole event, since I'm sure you've all had enough of my amateurish art rambling, but I do admire him more than ever. They spend all their money on installing ephemeral art--each installation only lasts for two weeks--and why? Just so they can make something beautiful that will make people look and think and smile. What mission in life is there, other than that, really?

(This is Christo with Jeanne-Claude)

His and Jeanne-Claude's next exhibition is going to be a covered river in Colorado, where you'll be able to see the cloth from above but also raft or kayak below it and look up at the sky through the cloth. It's supposed to be in summer 2008, which means I'll be old enough to volunteer with the set-up. See you guys there!

Yup, I have a song by Christina Aguilera (...and my indie cred goes down the drain, oh well)

2005-04-28T00:14:00.000-04:00

I'm listening to comfort food music, like that song from Friends, "I'll Be There For You." This makes me happy. In fact, I have an entire playlist entitled Embarrassing Songs, which are songs that I can admit are total empty-calorie affairs, but that I nevertheless adore. These include the following:

I'll Be There For You, the Rembrandts--Friends theme song, 'nuff said
Roam, the B-52's--any time you're watching a cheesy movie set in Rome, this song is bound to come up
Every Breath You Take, the Police
Ven Conmigo (Solamente Tu), Christina Aguilera--that's right! We used to listen to this all the time in Spanish class and I still have a soft spot for it. Probably just because it brings back silly memories...
Such Great Heights, the Postal Service
Sexuality, Billy Bragg--okay, this one just because I feel embarrassed when I play it aloud. But his voice! ("I've had relitions, with gi'ls of many nitions")
That Thing You Do, the Wonders--yup, from the movie. In my defense, though, Fountains of Wayne wrote it (!), and I unabashedly love those guys
Hooked on a Feeling, Blue Swede--it kicks off with a rousing chorus of "ooga chucka, ooga chucka." Upon second thought, I really love this song, I don't even knows if it qualifies for the embarrassing list!
Video Killed the Radio Star, the Buggles--the Buggles, c'mon! Those terrible '80's riffs!
I Just Can't Wait to Be King, from the Lion King--I have this recording of it like sung by Simba, it's pretty much the cutest thing ever. Oh Disney.

Anyway, I'm sure everyone has embarrassing songs like this. Sometimes I'm about to play one and then I think, Oh no, Audioscrobbler will log it and record it for eternity! but right now I'm working my way through the playlist--how's that for defiance, eh?

Art is not a loaf of bread

2005-04-26T21:59:00.000-04:00

I just listened to this. I've always loved Jeff Tweedy, but I think Larry Lessig is my new hero.

In which we meet my tiny toy computer-ox

2005-04-26T16:38:00.000-04:00

Last night at 1:00 I baked a batch of cupcakes, with Abbey Road playing in the background and my dogs keeping me company. I think I probably ate about half the frosting, and somehow some of the remainder ended up in my hair.

(Before I forget: Steve Silberman's Wired article on George Lucas is now online.)

Incidentally, today I went to pull out my iBook to type this post and I was astonished to find a tiny toy ox on a ribbon (yep, you read that right) taped to the top of my laptop. "Mom," I said accusingly, "did you tape this tiny ox to my computer?" She confessed that indeed she had, she thought I would like it. And I do! He keeps me company when I'm working and he likes all my music.

Despite the little ox's company, I've been spending a lot less time on the internet lately. Consequently, in order to be more efficient, I've set up a Bloglines account to read various blogs and online news sites via their RSS feeds. This is very, very convenient and also pretty fun. I have feeds from Slate, kottke.org, Oki's blog, Neil Gaiman's journal, the Guardian, Wired News, and a couple others. I highly recommend it; almost all regularly updated websites have RSS or Atom feeds--even xangas!

(During first and second period today, I watched videos in class. The first featured a heart-stoppingly adorable six-year-old; the second, a baby. I was all aflutter, they were so devastatingly cute.)

I've been listening to the Decemberists song "Engine Driver" a lot these past few days. Certain songs, like "Apricot Tea" and some by Yo La Tengo, have also been making me kind of sad.

On a brighter note, however, my brother T.'s coming home from college on May 5th. I'm very, very happy; I miss our old family dynamic, and I miss him. Someone reflected to me the other day that I sure do adore my brother. That's true, of course, but I think probably everyone adores their big brothers, even if they don't show it.

And I must be off.

2005-04-25T15:47:00.000-04:00

Yesterday I lost a really, really good friend.

And when I got home from school today I found that my sister is in the hospital again. She'll be there for a few weeks. Of course family takes precedence over exams--ironic that the SAT's, AP's, and SAT II's are all coming up in the next few weeks.

Goddammit, I hope he's okay and I hope she's okay.

2005-04-24T18:04:00.000-04:00

Yesterday I was delighted to find the new issue of Wired lying unassumingly in my mailbox, classic sturdy cover with the checkered title, Darth Vader grinning up at me…even more excitingly, this month’s cover story on George Lucas was written by my own friend, the very talented Steve Silberman! I devoured the magazine from back to front, as is my custom, after which I was able to personally congratulate Steve online. (Silly though this might sound, it made me proud to see his name on the front cover, y’know.) You guys can read the article online on Tuesday, and I highly recommend it; I found it much more engrossing than your run-of-the-mill article on Lucas’s special effects and the mediocrity of Episodes I and II—instead, it focuses on Lucas’s influences for Star Wars, his aims for Episode III, and his plans for a rather avant-garde future in film-making.

And as I was curled up on one couch, Wired against my knees, my sister was reading Seventeen next to me. At one point she felt compelled to tell me what Seventeen predicted for my “summer love life,” a prediction apparently tailored especially for me because it is based on my birthday. That’s right, all girls born on March 31 have this to look forward to this summer:

“Don’t be scared off by a persistent guy who finds you in August—he’s perfect for you!”

My mind wanders to fond memories of my old freaky stalker…looks like he may be making a comeback!

Also, as planned, today is project-announcement-day. I am pleased to report that my newly painted and curtained room looks quite splendid, and I’ll try to Flickr a few photos of it shortly. This coming week, I will be sneaking (at night of course) into various ugly, sandy, and generally barren middle-of-the-road triangles to enrich with loam, MiracleGro, and sunflowers. Imagine the town’s surprise when six- and seven-foot flowers suddenly begin popping up all over town! It will be terrific—I’ll post photos when they spring up.

A short anecdote: my sister and I went off to buy some groceries today with a shopping list from my mom and orders to return something to RadioShack. As we enter RadioShack, a slightly confused teenage cashier approaches us, a phone dangling from his hands. “Um,” he says, indicating the telephone, “your mom just called for you. She said you should get some onions.” More funny than embarrassing—oh Mom!

Now I’m off to cook dinner, have a lovely evening!

P.S. I read Heart of Darkness today, and I liked it slightly less than I expected to. (It’s those damn Dover Thrift Editions, that font is so hard to read!) It was bizarre and interesting but my thoughts were elsewhere; I suspect I’ll like it more when I re-read it. Also, funnily enough, I was reading this poem by TS Eliot yesterday and had no idea what the “Mistah Kurtz” allusion was—of course, now I know!

Etymology (I can’t help it!) and waxing rhapsodic about “the most heart-stoppingly climactic piece of music I’ve ever heard”

2005-04-23T11:52:00.000-04:00

Yesterday I was reading about Judaism in my religion textbook and I came to this passage about sacred festivals:

“On the full moon of the month before spring comes Purim…[which] commemorates the legend of Esther…It has been linked to Mesopotamian mythology about the goddess Ishtar, whose spring return brings joy and fertility.”

Now, this in itself does not seem too strange except, I thought to myself, spring, Esther, Ishtar…sorta sounds like Easter, doesn’t it? Now, I almost discounted this thought as ridiculous, because after all Easter is a Christian holiday commemorating the resurrection of Jesus—certainly nothing relating to fertility or Judaism, or Mesopotamian mythology for that matter.

But wait. Because I am T.C. and I try to relate everything to Neil Gaiman (…half-joking), I recalled that part in American Gods when Shadow and Wednesday encounter the very sexy goddess Easter (that’s a link to the page she’s introduced, via Amazon.com’s Search Inside the Book, I hope the link works).

Anyway, there was a part that puzzled me when I first read the book a while ago, and unlike many of the allusions, it was completely new to me:

“Easter put her slim hand on the back of Wednesday’s square gray hand. ‘I’m telling you,’ she said, ‘I’m doing fine. On my festival days they still feast on eggs and rabbits, on candy and flesh, to represent rebirth and copulation…they give each other flowers. They do it in my name…In my name, old wolf.’

…“‘Serious question, m’dear. Certainly…they still practive all the rites of your festival, even down to hunting for hidden eggs. But how many of them know who you are? Eh?…How many passersby know that their Easter festival takes its name from Eostre of the Dawn?’”

Just speculating. I have a thing for etymology. But damn: Esther, Ishtar, Easter, Eostre—coincidence? Even if, after some digging, I still couldn’t find any written connection between the Esther/Ishtar and Easter/Eostre, I don’t think I’m being totally foolish here. Who knows.

Whew, sorry if I bored you with that there, but I thought it was pretty neat when I was mulling over it yesterday. Now that I type it out, I’m not so sure. Oh well.

I finally obtained a copy of Bjork’s Medulla, and I’m listening to it presently. It is bizarre and beautiful; I haven’t yet listened to it enough to give a real opinion. Ethereal, though, and simultaneously unsettling and…well, settling. Bjork sounds to me like the lovechild of Sigur Ros and Regina Spektor.

Speaking of which, where did my Sigur Ros CD’s disappear to? I think my brother may have taken them off to college with him, hm… Track 8, man! When listened to on headphones in the dark and quiet, that 11-minute symphony is the most heart-stoppingly climactic piece of music I’ve ever heard. (And it’s even better when you listen to the whole CD in the dark and quiet, because the songs build off one another to finally create this amalgam of sound that descends upon you in Track 8. I’m sorry, I’m rhapsodizing. But man oh man, it has to be heard to be believed.)

Update: Hah! Check out this baby:

It’s a rainy day, I think I’ll create something.

Encounter With Mystery (essay I wrote yesterday for my Comparative Religions class)

2005-04-22T18:19:00.000-04:00

There is a thing confusedly formed,
Born before heaven and earth.
Silent and void
It stands alone and does not change,
Goes round and does not weary.
It is capable of being the mother of the world.
I know not its name
So I style it “the way.”
I give it the makeshift name of “the great.”
—Lao-tzu (Fisher and Bailey 166-7)

Lao-tzu is traditionally believed to have founded Taoism in the sixth century BCE. He served as the royal library’s curator during the Chou dynasty and according to legend he dictated Taoism’s central text, the Tao-te Ching, to a border guard as he was renouncing society to live in the mountains. The Tao-te Ching’s terse philosophical teachings, including the verse quoted above, consistently project “a mystical reality that cannot be grasped by the mind” (Fisher 191).

We call this “mystical reality” Taoism, for tao traditionally means “the way”; but even Lao-tzu refers to “the way” as an imperfect designation for “the mysterious Unnamable” (Fisher 192). One critic notes that “[Lao-tzu’s] mysticism actually had no name until scholars labeled it Taoism” (Fisher and Bailey 164). Ironically, then, the name of the faith itself is derived from this fundamentally unnamable “thing confusedly formed”—this tao. While tao has been made finite and given designation to become the basis of Taoism, “at the heart of Taoist teachings is…the ‘unnamable,’ the ‘eternally real’” (Fisher 191).

The Tao-te Ching verse excerpted above is an elegant, if vague, description of the inexplicable genesis and dualistic existence of an Absolute; unable to name it, Lao-tzu “style[s] it ‘the way’”—tao. In illustrating tao’s mystical nature, the verse subtly but purposefully demonstrates why tao cannot be truly named: “Silent and void,” its essential meaning eludes linguists as deftly as it does worshipers.

II

A paradox seems to emerge: how can an apparently strong religion have basis in something so indistinct, something that lacks not only substance and explanation but even a true name? Upon closer consideration, however, it becomes apparent that for all the primary texts and secondary analyses of Taoism, the faith is in fact most accurately—and strikingly— encapsulated by the obscure nature of tao. I am tempted to turn to one critic’s assertion that “religious Taoism itself is often an amalgam” (Fisher 190), but such an explanation, however neat, begins to disintegrate when one considers that “in the Tao, all things are one, no matter how separate they may appear on the surface” (Fisher and Bailey 164). The key, however, lies not in the singularity of tao but in its mutability. “The name that can be named / is not the constant name” (Fisher and Bailey 165), writes the erudite Lao-tzu, “[for] the nameless…[and] the named…these two are the same / but diverge in name as they issue forth. / Being the same they are called mysteries, / mystery upon mystery” (Fisher and Bailey 165).

More explicitly, Taoism has two opposite but not necessarily opposing bases that together illuminate worshipers (much like the contrasting but complementary elements of yin and yang): that which “does not change” and that which “goes round and does not weary,” the namable and the unnamable, the personal mother and the ultimate being comparable perhaps to the forceful father deities of other religions. “The named [element] was the mother of the myriad creatures” (Fisher and Bailey 165); the passage itself also describes the tao as “capable of being the mother of the world.” Just so, human worshipers focus on the finite aspect of Taoism, even naming its essential, ostensibly unnamable belief. This element is the steadfast, namable “mother” that comforts and aids her children, the worshipers. In contrast, “The nameless [element] was the beginning of heaven and earth” (Fisher and Bailey 165). Worshipers cannot grasp the infinite nature of an Absolute “born before heaven and earth,” an element as omnipotent and inexplicable as a father is to his young child. Yet for all its overarching significance and centrality to Taoist belief, the elusive nameless force is not central to tangible Taoist worship or discernible explanation. Rather, Taoists address this element indirectly by “giv[ing] it a makeshift name”—and even the Tao-te Ching seeks to illuminate the tao through anything but direct explanation.

Although the dual nature of tao allows Taoists to primarily worship a comfortably realized concept, the unnamable, mystical tao nevertheless remains the ultimate focus of the religion. This grand, abstract, and vital element of Taoism inspires in its worshipers the same awe as monotheists associate with their God; in fact, “the Absolute Tao” (Fisher 191) is perhaps more awe- and fear-inspiring, for it lacks the partial anthropomorphism of the Judeo-Christian God.

Taoists look to the namable aspect of the Absolute to make worship more concrete, but the unnamable aspect inspires the awe and mysticism at the core of Taoist belief. The tao is ineffable yet essential, nameless yet identified, at once encompassing all Taoist beliefs and none. “The change is constant,” writes Al Chung-liang Huang; “the constant is change.” (Fisher and Bailey 180).

III

The mysticism of Taoism is both fearsome and alluring to me. Its ideology is great and its teachings powerful, yet I cannot comprehend it; and humans naturally fear that which they do not understand. In contrast, however, its exotic position in relation to my own religion and—to dig up an old phrase—its sense of “Mysterium Tremendum” are captivating qualities to me as one who has learned much of the surface terms and knowledge associated with Taoism but little of the actual pith. And who am I to evaluate such mystery when I have never experienced it myself?

My own experience with religion revolves around my Catholic upbringing; in contrast to Taoism’s delicate treatment of and evasiveness in naming its ultimate being, Catholicism goes so far as to equate God’s name with God himself. In the Bible, a house of worship is “a house unto the name of the Lord my God” (King James Bible 688) and devout David, praying, speaks to “our God,” saying, “we thank thee, and praise thy glorious name” (Bible 698). This Christian God, identified and even worshiped by his name, diverges greatly from the Taoist Absolute, of which even Lao-tzu “know[s] not its name.” Yet, be the name omnipresent or nonexistent, it ultimately holds the same mystical significance in both faiths: if the name is the key to understanding or coming closer to the Absolute, then this closeness to the ultimate being is for Taoists much more elusive than it is for Christians.

In other religions, too, the name—or more especially, the namelessness—of God is of vital importance. Earlier we learned that the “333 million deities in India…[symbolize] that the divine has countless faces” (Fisher 79). The Islamic god Allah famously has 99 names oft-repeated by worshipers. In the sacred Hebrew language of Judaism, God’s true name “is considered too sacred to be pronounced…it is rendered only in consonants as YHWH” (Fisher 239). And one of the essential Ten Commandments of both Christianity and Judaism states that “the Lord will not leave unpunished the man who misuses his name” (Fisher 240). Religions quite different from Taoism, then, also address the holiness, danger, and uncertainty associated with the sacred name (or names) of the Absolute. The mysticism of namelessness in Taoism, which at first seems so alien, is in fact an ageless and potent element of religious worship.

Revs and Woody

2005-04-22T00:11:00.000-04:00

“Revs went underground and left the city for Alaska. And when he returned, his work went mostly underground, too—into the subway, where he painted long, feverish diary entries worthy of a Dostoyevsky character on dozens of walls hidden deep inside the tunnels.”

How great is that? A few days ago I read a fantastic article in the New York Times Arts section about Revs, this legendary cult graffiti artist in New York whose identity is a complete mystery. Even when the reporter finally tracked him down, he had to promise to keep Revs’ age, name, and image a secret. Apparently he used to be a renegade graffiti-ist (‘cause the vandals took the handles… oh never mind), but then he disappeared for a while, no trace. Now he’s back, with a day job as a steel worker and moonlighting (yeah!) as this hip counter-culture hero in NYC.

He’s a famous name; he doesn’t need to work in a steel plant. He could live off his art, rise to fame… a lot of people wonder why he doesn’t.

“‘To me,’ he said recently, in a rare interview, ‘once money changes hands for art, it becomes a fraudulent activity.’”

Yes! So righteous, so romantic and upstanding. I love it. I love this guy. I mean, shouldn’t this be the viewpoint of all artists?—ars gratia artis, if you will. You will. Anyway, here’s the NYT article, but it will be archived and therefore lost to us forever in a few days, so get it while it’s hot! Update: I found a copy of the article along with a little commentary on the Wooster Collective site, so there ya go.

If I ever become an artist, I promise not to let any money change hands. Will paint for…chocolate?

Incidentally, I saw Woody Allen’s new movie Melinda & Melinda (like that ampersand, Oki?) a couple nights ago. I…liked it. Like the past few movies I’ve seen, it was almost really good. Basically it’s the same story—or the same basis for a story—fleshed out as a comedy and alternately as a tragedy, starring Melinda of course, as a sort-of-unwelcome houseguest who’s sort of a psychological wreck. There were a few really funny parts, but all the Woody Allen lines went to Will Ferrell! (Sorry, I like you Will, but you’re no aging neurotic Jewish comic. You’re just not.)

The biggest star of the movie was probably the set. New York, of course, is Woody Allen’s life-blood, but the apartments were pretty beautiful and elegant as well. I liked Chloe Sevigny the best of all the cast—as an actress and for her character (even though her character was a sort of spoiled philandering romantic, I liked her). Speaking of which, she was also very good in Shattered Glass, that splendid movie about the fraudulent New Republic journalist Stephen Glass (starring none other than a very handsome Anakin Skywalker! Just kidding. Sort of.)

So, Melinda & Melinda has reminded me of some other movies you should all watch instead of it: old Woody Allen favorites like Annie Hall, Manhattan, and Hannah and Her Sisters or Shattered Glass. Next on my list to see is Jim Jarmusch’s Coffee and Cigarettes.

Ah well, have a good night.

Project o’ Projects (or, I Wasn’t on the Project-Based Team in Junior High School for Nothing!)

2005-04-20T10:22:00.000-04:00

Brace yourself. I have decided to embark on a project of projects, that’s right: every week, indefinitely, I will complete a project of some sort—the only requirements being that it take more than one day, that it add some sort of beauty or happiness to the world (or at least to my world, hah), and hopefully that it have some sort of tangible result. So, excepting today, I will announce the projects on Sunday night and post before and after pictures, or something of the sort.

This week’s project is not really awesome to anyone but myself, but I’ve taken it upon myself to paint my room, put up new curtains, hang my pictures rather than tape them up, etc. I already soaped and rinsed the walls and painted the first coat, during which I listened to an obscene number of CD’s from start to finish (boy is this time-consuming!) and acquired a splitting headache from inhaling paint fumes for hours on end. But I like the smell of fresh paint, it’s such a clean, springy, new-beginnings kind of smell. And I like such an excuse to listen to CD after CD for hours on end, so I’m a happy camper.

This is going to be a great thing. Anyone else interested in taking part in the project o’ projects (I think I shall give it a special name, hmm) can let me know, and you can use my ideas or do things of your own. Imagine if everyone in the world did a useful, happiness-inducing project every week!—what a world we’d have.

/ / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / /

No segue here: salamander hunt!

I had a delightful time two nights ago. A friend of mine, her family, and father-son duo Jerry and Christian (in kindergarten!), my family, and I got together for a barbecue and yep, you guessed it, a salamander hunt. I don’t know if this is something exclusive to New Englanders, or to people in Massachusetts, or maybe just to us O’Briens, but when I was little my parents would bring me and my siblings out to the woods one evening in spring, flashlights in tow, to overturn rocks around vernal pools and generally muddy areas to see if we could find any salamanders. This was, for a little sprite such as myself, probably one of the highlights of the year; so we decided to pass the tradition on to Jerry and little Christian.

Since it had been so many years since I’d been on a fer-real salamander hunt, I was worried that I’d maybe be a little rusty. After dinner, at about 8:30, the whole gang of us set off walking to the conservatory land near my house; when we got there, we rolled up our pants and got down and dirty with those rocks and leaves, all of us searching pretty intensely because we so wanted Christian to find one, that excited little peach. So you can imagine our excitement when Christian’s dad Jerry was finally the one to find a salamander (“he is brown so I will name him Brownie,” Christian declared) and little Christian, cute cute as a button (right Shakeer?), came around to show Brownie to all of us before he let him go back into the vernal pool.

It was delightfully absurd, all of us—ranging from ages 5 to 55—on our knees in the dirt, shining flashlights under rocks and exclaiming joyfully when we found any life at all (“Look Christian, a centipede!”). When I have kids I want to do things like that with them all the time. I loved it.

Also, I watched A Love Song for Bobby Long last night. (Movie review in five short sentences:) I liked it. I got a little teary at one part. Scarlett Johansson’s dresses were pretty. All those books made me happy. Best quote quoted in it: “Happiness makes up in height for what it lacks in length,” Robert Frost.

Kitschy.

2005-04-19T13:16:00.000-04:00

About a week ago, I bought Regina Spektor’s CD Soviet Kitsch and boy, it is phenomenal. The songs are smart and funny and totally zany (like the cover!), but there’s just something else about them…the more I listen to them, the more obsessed I become. She was born in Russia and her voice at times has that foreign quality, over-enunciating syllables and consonants like she hasn’t quite mastered English, so she’s over-compensating. This is by no means a bad effect; at times her voice reminds me of Bjork or, to a lesser extent, Joanna Newsom. But then, I have a terrible habit of comparing new artists to others…at various times while listening to the CD, I found myself comparing Spektor to PJ Harvey, Joni Mitchell, Tori Amos, and others.

So rather than saying she sounds like many different people, I’ll say she sounds like nothing else. Each song is wildly different from the one before, and each one sounds better than the last…until you listen to the CD again, then you’re really muddled. The most knock-out song was “Us,” but it’s hard for me to single that out without saying that “Ode to Divorce” and “Carbon Monoxide” and “Somedays” are also spectacular…and “Poor Little Rich Boy,” and “Ghost of Corporate Future.” So I’ll stop. But you’ll be happy to know (if you are, miraculously, still reading at this point—lucky you!) that you can stream her whole CD off her website. So enjoy.

In other entertainment news (hah)…I saw Closer a few days ago. It was not great. It was good—time and time again I found myself almost really liking it—but damn, it was so depressing! It was billed as “a look at how love is in the real world” and boy, I sure hope love isn’t like that. Too much deception and broken hearts for my liking, and a couple parts at which I felt myself blushing like a cherry. (Also, I had two problems with the casting: first, Jude Law is not a heartthrob, he’s just effeminate and sort of irritating; and second, Natalie Portman is too pretty to exist in real life.) Even the excessive amounts of scandal and intrigue could not save this film from mediocrity.

Aldous Huxley said that several excuses are less convincing than one, but ah well.

2005-04-18T17:52:00.000-04:00

It feels like I’ve been gone longer than I actually have, but god so much has happened in the past several weeks. Most significantly, my sister was in the hospital. I worry enough about her as it is; you can imagine how distraught I was during that incident and still now. I try everything I can to make things better but I can’t, I can’t, I just seem to be feckless when it comes to those really important things. My god, that must have been one of the worst times of my life; thankfully, things are settling down now, and she seems to be doing alright.

On top of that—though less importantly, of course—I’ve also been madly busy with school and things unrelated to school. I’ve now officially taken over as editor-in-chief of the school newspaper, which requires much attention, much editing of mediocre articles (I read and edited 60 articles in two days!), and many very late nights in the computer lab during Layout Week, with just some cold pizza and the layout boys to keep me company.

I’ve also been going through the extrememly exhaustive process of applying for a summer job (actually more like an internship, as the menial wages will barely cover my train fare for the commute) at SBC—I’ve mentioned this before, right? If I get in—if if if—I would be teaching English lit and Art History to underprivileged inner city kids in Boston. After turning in a five-essay application at the end of March, I was called back for a two-and-a-half hour group interview with three other students ridiculously-more-qualified-than-me. Then, this past Friday, I had a 45-minute individual interview with one of the program’s director’s. We’ll see how it went; despite my nervousness, I have to say that it certainly would have been a lot scarier if I weren’t as verbose as I am. (Finally it comes in handy!) But let’s face it; I probably won’t get in: they had 300 applicants for 10-20 positions, so the chances are pathetically slim.

One good thing about these past few weeks, however, is that I have done a great deal of writing. Ten essays in all, if you count school and religion class and application essays. In addition, I’ve been writing many a handwritten letter. I love writing letters. I also love receiving them. In fact, opening up the mailbox to find a nice crisp letter awaiting you is probably one of the best things there is. (And man, 37 cents to send something anywhere in the country in three days! I heart the USPS.)

So anyway, there’s my very long-winded excuse for why I haven’t been blogging of late. (And AP’s and SAT’s and SAT II’s are coming up, so we’ll see.) But all that said, I miss blogging—assuming things start getting better and not worse, I should be back here cursing Blogger for deleting my posts like in the days of yore.

Boy, I’m sorry for what looks like a pretty whiny post. But then, it is my blog. Speaking of which, obviously I changed the background. I planned on doing something a bit more complicated and pretty, but I decided that spending an embarrassing amount of time with just my iBook and CSS was not going to be any fun.

Nevertheless, I’m back!

Baby T.C.

2005-04-06T00:18:00.000-04:00

2005-04-03T22:43:00.000-04:00

This is not an apology but a statement. I need to take a temporary but indefinite hiatus from blogging. I'm not gone for good, but I need a break from all this stuff in order to get better. I need to take care of my sister and myself, and this blog is just low on my priorities right now. I'll be back, but not for a little while.

If you really need to contact me, then send a message to my real email, not the one listed on this site. Otherwise, it's goodbye for a time.

I wish I had a plaid bathroom

2005-04-01T23:04:00.001-05:00

That's how old I am now. I guess I'll go out and watch an R or an NC-17 movie!

Anyway, I got home from school today and sat out in the sun reading Frankenstein for a couple hours--and I finished it! Now that was pretty much one of the dullest books I've ever read, but except for 20 pages I read a couple weeks ago, I read it in its entirety between yesterday and today. (Hah take that Shakeer! Don't tell me you can't catch up with Don Quixote.)

It seems like I should have more time to read now, something that I haven't really been able to do regularly for the past couple weeks. I'm thinking some Salman Rushdie next? Incidentally, I was looking at a list of Nobel Laureates yesterday and was ashamed to find that of the nearly 100 writers, I'd read things by only nine. That's right. How embarrassing, I ought to get on that.

Also, in honor of one of the summeriest days we've had so far this year, some friends and I broke out the frisbees today. That's my favorite form of exercise, frisbee is: the better you get, the less actual physical exertion is required. Also, you can talk and listen to music as you play. Gosh, the world would be a better place if everyone played frisbee.

So the other day I overheard two very funny conversations--so funny, in fact, that they caused an unsuppressible burst of laughter, the trademark way to draw accidental attention to the fact that you were listening to someone's conversation and you think they're pretty darn silly. Whoops. Anyway, here they are:

#1) "So you mean bread existed before Moses?! Whoa, bread is old!"

#2) "Now don't you think a plaid bathroom would be a great addition to our House o' Whimsy?"

Actually, I half-lied. That second statement was not overheard, it was said to me in conversation. (And I replied, "Oh yep! That would be awesome!" unironically. Well, don't you think a plaid bathroom would be pretty cool?) But I did burst into laughter afterwards. I laugh too much.

Also, I took a couple photos for Shakeer's terrific shoegazing group on Flickr; here they are:

And finally, happy April Fools Day! My parents' idea of a great April Fools joke to play on me was for my dad to come into my room this morning saying worriedly, "Oh my gosh, it's so late, you missed the bus and you missed English class!" I tiredly looked at my clock and said, "Uhh no I didn't, I don't even need to be up yet." He looked a little crestfallen: "Um yep. Darn." I asked him, "Mom's idea?" "Of course."

However, my mom did have one awesome April Fools joke that she played on someone at her work, and I plan on adopting this joke to play on a teacher next year. So we have this terrible wall clock in our house, one of those bird clocks that has a different bird chirping at every hour. She gets into work before her boss does, so she went into his office and put the clock up in the ceiling (you know, those office--and school--ceiling panels that you can push up). Also, she set it so that it chirped at a quarter to the hour, not exactly at the hour, so it would be less obvious. Then she alerted the rest of her coworkers that if the boss asked if they heard chirping, they should say they didn't hear anything. And it was all set. And it was awesome. Aw yep, my mom ususally has the worst sense of humor, but that is just brilliant.

Happy April Fools Day, my dears.

Ernst Haeckel: Kunstformen der Natur (??)

2005-03-31T15:12:00.000-05:00

I just spent an embarrassingly long time organizing my internet bookmarks. A lot of times when I run across something interesting but don't have time to read it just then or want to be able to find it later (hah!), I stick it in my all-purpose folder to sort later (like that's gonna happen). Thus, when I go to look for something, I find literally hundreds of links all with astonishingly unenlightening names (like "Ernst Haeckel: Kunstformen der Natur" or "820409-Reruns.jpg JPEG Image, 600x420 pixels"--no clue what either of those things are, not in the slightest). Also, even my supposedly organized folders have titles like--and I'm not making these up--"But Seriously Folks," "Litter," and "Beat That." So yeah.

I think I organize my internet bookmarks or my room or my bookshelf or anything so it's like I'm organizing my life. Little by little. Oh yeah and I'm listening to the Postal Service. Doesn't get much lamer than that. (Though earlier I was listening to PJ Harvey so maybe I can reclaim some of my indie cred?)

Birthdays always feel anticlimactic to me.

2005-03-30T15:49:00.000-05:00

Well, I wrote my entire history research paper last night, all eight pages of it. I finished it at a ridiculously late (so late it's early) hour and then proceeded to put together my bibliography, gather my notes, and cite quotations. As I was proof-reading it, I discovered inconspicuous but very significant phrases like, oh I don't know, "Insert intro here" and "Insert conclusion here." Damn my laziness. Once I wrote those, there was more citing, formatting, finding a picture for the title page (I chose a New Yorker cartoon--I hope cartoons are okay for a "serious" research paper!), one last proof-read and then print and staple. I decided to shower then because hey, it was already morning anyways. Then I literally collapsed into my still sheetless bed, wet hair in tangles, asleep before my head hit the pillow. And yet, re-reading the paper this morning--granted, I was in a delirious sleep-deprived state--I think it wasn't half bad. Miraculous.

My paper was about the Weathermen (who famously got their name from the part in Bob Dylan's "Subterranean Homesick Blues" when he says, "You don't need a weatherman to know which way the wind blows"). My thesis stated that despite all their grand and violent demonstrations, the Weathermen were ultimately feckless in terms of affecting the political and social climate; so I titled my paper, "You Don't Need a Weatherman to Know Which Way the Wind Blows. No, Really." Thought that was pretty clever last night; now I'm not so sure. Anyway, thus ends the great epic essay-writing marathon. Boy oh boy.

I've been getting back into photography lately--looking at it and taking it. I really like the Flickr blog, Slower.net's photos, and these eerie Loretta Lux photos I followed a link to yesterday. (I'm reminding myself of that part in Annie Hall, during the subtitles scene, when Alvy starts talking about photography. Hah.) I'll try to Flickr the photos I turned in for my final project in photo class last year--but alas I haven't been back in a dark room since then. I really ought to get back in there; it's one of those rare places, like trains, that are just utterly peaceful for me.

The careful reader may have noticed that I added Oki's blog to my blogroll; she is a yab blogging from Southern California, terribly artistic and smart as a whip...and she has a zine! I think she's probably the coolest yab to join our ranks so far (sorry Shakeer, but you know we are both too dorky for our own goods). So hooray.

Today, after posting this, I plan to take a long nap, eat dinner, watch 24 off the TiVo--Jack Bauer, how I've missed you!--and then go back to sleep. That's how tired I am--and this coming from a girl known to survive on five hours of sleep a night for weeks on end.

Also, I convinced Shakeer to start a shoegazing group on Flickr and I'll be sticking on some of my own photos once it's up; I suggest you all do the same. Wait, you all do have Flickr accounts, right? Okay, I'm going to curl up on the couch now. See ya later.

Sax and violins...and guitars and drums and maybe a harmonica or two, as well

2005-03-28T23:47:00.000-05:00

I just found out that David Byrne has started his own radio station (love that guy!), which you can also listen to on iTunes radio under the "Eclectic" category. I know what I'll be listening to tomorrow... The only thing I wonder is, why didn't he just get an Audioscrobbler account? It would accomplish the same goal of a "personalized radio station" using the last.fm feature and he wouldn't have to bother with music licensing rights and other such nonsense. Hm.

As a matter of fact, I actually do dare to eat a peach!

2005-03-28T22:40:00.000-05:00

I have been sleeping on a sheetless bed for days because I always forget to make it till I go up for bed, and by then I'm far too tired to do anything about it. It's pretty uncomfortable, I really should do something about that...

Remember that peach post of a few days back?--"Do I dare to eat a peach?" That there, my friends, is the best line of poetry of all time (quite a weighty claim, I know I know), from TS Eliot's "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock." Echoing it, a few days ago I leaned over to the girl next to me in French class and asked, "Do I dare to eat a peach?" I was treated to a rather nonplussed look and a vague "Uhh well I guess if you want to." Ah well, I don't know what I was expecting--I guess I was hoping she'd start spouting poetry or something. Or maybe give me a peach.

The poem's funny, though; first it seems full of non sequitors, with references to Dante's Inferno and yellow fog and peaches and Michelangelo, but I realized after a while that it's just about an indecisive, really withdrawn and shy guy trying to screw up the courage to enter the party so he can tell a girl that he loves her. Aww. (That's how it seemed to me, at least; you never can tell for sure when it comes to poetry! Heh.)

On a somewhat related note, yesterday I was talking to my dad about James Joyce, wondering if I ought to read Ulysses. I mentioned Bloomsday (love those Irish!) and my dad said that on that day, lots of people in Ireland sit around and read Ulysses aloud from start to finish--all thousand-odd pages of it. This led me to thinking: that would be a fun tradition to have, though maybe with a different book. For instance, we could all read A Tale of Two Cities on Bastille Day, or we could read On the Road on Jack Kerouac's birthday. (This seems like a fun idea to me, at least, but then I'm a nut.)

I'm listening to the Police and Sting belt out "Every Breath You Take" in quite an anguished voice, oh my. That is the kind of song I would mock in I didn't love it so much, hypocritical me. Seriously, how is that song so good?! I read somewhere that it has been played four million times on the radio, which is the equivalent of 24 years of consecutive radio play, 24/7. Gosh.

P.S. I stuck up a few leftover photos from my digital camera at Flickr. Take a look if you like. Fare thee well.

2005-03-27T13:32:00.000-05:00

(This is my kitchen window. It's a little hard to tell, but it's springy and Eastery outside!)

"Actually, I have no idea what you're talking about."

2005-03-27T12:53:00.000-05:00

I just came in from shoveling. That's right, shoveling. It's sunny and (relatively) warm, it hasn't snowed for a couple days actually, but my mom wanted us to get rid of the snow banks next to our driveway before people came over for Easter. So my sister and I opened up all the doors of my mom's car and blasted the Talking Heads from the speakers and shoveled our hearts out for about an hour, shedding layers every few minutes until I had my jeans rolled up, wearing a tank top, hair in a hasty ponytail. Felt summery. (Also, I can do a killer David Byrne. You should hear me trying to sing "Psycho Killer," hah.)

Anyway.

If you know me at all, you know that I love Neil Gaiman. He's talented and funny and beautiful and generally fantastic. So I was reading his blog the other day and found that you can read the first chapter of his new book, Anansi Boys (to be published September 20), online. I read it. It was very Neil. (Very different than American Gods, though...very different.) Anyway, you ought to read it as well.

Back? Okay, what have we... Well, I watched I Heart Huckabees a couple nights ago and I must say, I was grossly disappointed. I would have thought that I would automatically like anything with the pretentious self-irony to label itself an "existential comedy." But alas, it fell short. It kept on almost being really clever, but like tripping on its way to the finish line and just looking awkward and flustered. (Does that analogy make sense?) Though it was generally too frenetic, I will grant that there were a couple really funny parts. For instance,

One of the existential detectives asks Albert, "Have you ever transcended time and space?"

Albert replies, "Time, yes. Not space." Beat. "Actually, I have no idea what you're talking about."

On an entirely different note, the song on repeat at the moment is the 10,000 Maniacs' "Hey Jack Kerouac." A damn good song, if I dare say so myself. (I dare.) I love the Beats, oh yes I do. After I listen to this song a couple more times, I think I'll listen to Jack himself reading his "American Haikus." Then maybe listen to Allen Ginsberg reading "America." Maybe I should just go to a jazz joint and link knees with someone, and talk about everything that comes into our heads...

Have a great Easter!

2005-03-25T18:20:00.000-05:00

There once was a girl named Tess
who couldn't cook without making a mess,
and one day she made dinner
trying hard to be cleaner
but got flour all over her dress.

I bet not many people can listen to Kelly Clarkson, read Frankenstein, make dinner, and compose a limerick all at once. But I can, oh yes, am the master of multi-tasking! (A friend and I are watching I Heart Huckabees tonight, so I'll update this post later on...)