I walked upstairs to put my coat in my locker this morning and heard the bell ring for the 10-minute warning. My bus had been relatively early (compared to the past few days), and I still had time to go to the Chinese thing Dora asked me to go to yesterday. I thought about going, but in the end, I decided on not going. Not with what I had been musing over for the past few days, anyway.
I went down the hall, hoping to see someone else I had in mind, even though I knew he would not be there. He had never been there on Fridays. And even as I walked past the door, I thought, "No way. I'm deluding myself."
And there he was.
I backtracked a few steps and went in, said hi. Made all the formal and non-formal greetings. It was such a normal conversation, on such a trivial thing, and it was just so relieving. I wanted that—I had missed that. He left when the 5-minute bell rang, and I left too, after a while, and I saw Micro and we talked about social studies (and our shared social studies teacher).
Yesterday, I moped about not knowing what I wanted. Confusion, yes. It is still muddled. But I do know, at least in part, what the things I want feels like. And being able to talk to Micro about the most ridiculous and pointless things felt like one of those moments.
The eyes too. I can't forget the eyes, and yes, it's the other stuff that counts, but I can't forget the eyes.
Not feeling guilty, that helps too.
Our greetings are less awkward now. A small improvement. And it somehow meant all the world to me. (Although it's still in less-than-ideal situations, where we find ourselves, that is. It always is, for some reason.)
In French, I knew I had lost it again. Any semblance to rational thought. A prelude, to when I would have to pull up those rusty French skills because I could not stop at the door. I should have known better, but when invited, I just could not stop.
The insane. I don't like insanity, because it is so infuriating most of the times, but I would rather be insane than nothing at all.
I asked Clay about California, wanted to know what it was like. More laid-back, he said. Northern California, at least, especially San Francisco. He is more of a west coast person. I always think I am more of an east coast girl, not just because I have lived here for the longest, but also because I dream of letting go and being free, but I never quite am. Tied back by traditions, you might say. The good old South Carolina, maybe even Charleston, made (more) famous by homeboy Rhett Butler.
I am getting a normal backpack for Monday. No more of this nonsense. I wish I could have some more time to talk to Argon, because I miss those moments dearly, and I even miss the illogical logic Reese always sprouts. His hand-motions. The way he always manages to exasperate and amuse me at the same time. And even as I am writing this, I know this is an easily solved problem. I shall just have to spend more time with them, all other consequences be damned.
Meanwhile, I am glad for Fridays, for how it just turned out like that.
. . .
No story update today. I'm bad, I know, it's only been the third day, but I really need to finish homework as well, and do lots of other things I promised myself I would.
. . .
On a more cheerful note, we worked on proofs in multi today, as Gretchen has already mentioned. Proof by mathematical induction. Number theory. Argon has a number theory binder full of really interesting notes, and I had borrowed it for a long while but never cracked down on any of it. For an entire year. I just said to myself, "I'll get to it one day, one of these days," and it never happened.
But now we are learning about it, and I am happy.
I also need to stop turning my back to Mercle in econ (also, who came up with such a name?). That I need to remember. I like him a lot, so he should not be ignored, even if it was unintentional. From now on I propose to sit properly in my seat, unless Mr. Wollen is going to write on the board behind me. In econ, we also compared water bottle designs and the demographic/socioeconomic group each design targeted. I volunteered my Hint water bottle, and Mr. Wollen said, "See, that's the exact same product, but packaged so it'll sell for more."
"No, it's not the same," Ali said. "That water's flavored."
"Oh," Mr. Wollen said. "Then you can justify paying more for it."
Not really. It doesn't taste that good. Not enough sugar. But I guess I should have known, since it does say on the label that it is unsweetened.
Oh, there was also frisbee today. I had considered not going, but I went anyway. There were only five of us, but it was still fun. Elaine came too, although she could not stay for too long, and she left before a real game actually began, but we threw frisbees around for a while.
. . .
Pandora is getting better at predicting my preferences now.
And that is the end for today.
Showing posts with label Elaine. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Elaine. Show all posts
Friday, November 5, 2010
Monday, August 23, 2010
All Sentimental
I am in a classroom, that I am sure of. There are rows of wooden desks and chairs—plank-like chairs that wobble and should not be chairs, should be a bookshelf instead, or a makeshift lock for backyard glass doors—and for a moment I think I am in China, because that is where I had seen plank chairs before. But it cannot be, because I see Paperclip people around me, Hank and one of his perverted, awkward teenage boy friends, and there is Dino, and Sonny, and I strain to see my friends, but I cannot find any.
So instead I walk up to Dino, and Sonny (as an afterthought, perhaps), and I say, "Hello."
My vowels are crisp. I say my "hello" with the "eh" and not as "hullo," and it somehow matters. My way of saying things, that is close, but not quite what I want it to be.
I do not remember if Dino says anything back. Sonny does, though. "Hi." Maybe a "how are you doing?" but that would be pushing it, I think. We are not that close.
We talk, the three of us, about things that do not matter, and I am talking just because I want to talk. Because I am running away from what I really should be doing, things that do matter, and I think Sonny senses it, because he asks me, "Should you be doing something?"
"Like what?" I ask, pretending to be coy.
"I don't know."
And this honesty shocks me, this admitting that he only knew a fleeting moment, but not anything substantial. And it makes Dino laugh, his cruel, monotone laugh, and I think that it is this laugh that I have fallen in love with, not his hair, or his eyes, or his back, or whatever else I have proclaimed it to be.
"There is a competition," I say, "French. I won, but I haven't gotten the scholarship yet. Haven't gone to pick it up."
It is a silly thing to hide. Silly me. Silly running away, not facing the truth. I do not know why it was so important that I not go and get what should be mine.
"Well, you should go, then," Sonny says.
I shook my head. "I don't want to," I say, while looking at Dino. I wanted him to be chivalrous, for once, and say, "I'll go with you."
Instead, it is Sonny who says that, while Dino just shrugs and laughs again. Sonny who pulls me into his arms, hugging me so tightly I am reminded of Vincent, remotely, and I hug him back, all calmed down, ready to tackle this apparently difficult task of grabbing for what really, really should be mine.
. . .
Then there are gender-bending moments, and I am a guy, and Sonny—or I think it is still him—is now a girl. We are a little cute, the two of us, together, wandering the halls, and I am not sure we know exactly where it is we are going. There are rooms, yes. Lots of offices. People. I ask for directions, and I get answers, but I forget them immediately and instead I try out every room until I think I have the right one. And then I forget what it is I am asking for, and I try to think of anything French, and I say Le petit prince, although that cannot be the right answer, and I know it even as I say it out loud.
Then my mom is calling me. She is. She says, "Ginny," although of course she does not really say Ginny, but my Chinese nickname instead. I think I responded, but I must have forgotten to, because she calls my name again.
And I wake up, and it is all gone. The hallway, the French, Sonny, the plank-chairs.
I can still feel Sonny's arms around me though, even if I know he is not a hugging kind of person. I cannot imagine Sonny hugging anyone, at least not now, and when he does it will probably be someone who is cheerful, and innocent, and not full of unspoken mysteries and little not-necessary lies. I am a little sad that I will not be able to know what his arms are like, but only a little. Barely there.
. . .
I am reading Anne Enright's The Gathering right now. The story itself has some mad quality to it, some dream-like appearance that is real but not reality. The reality is strange, detached, almost unreal, and the only things that are concrete are the blasphemies that were never real to begin with.
A softening of reality's jarring edges.
I have written before that I do not like reality, because it is too painful, and I do not like pain. I am constantly running away from pain, and maybe this is a wake-up call, that I am a hypocrite, because running away from pain and running toward Dino and his cruel laughs and this dream of golden blue are two very contradicting things. He is he and I am I, and in my dreams, at least, I am—despite my little not-necessary lies—as straightforward and innocent as I ever will be. In my dreams, I am capable of accepting someone who genuinely cares. In my dreams, I am able to stare into Sonny's eyes and not think about Dino, not think about how I wish everything were different.
In my dreams, I am content. And it is not reality, but it is real. Real enough, for me.
. . .
School is starting in over a week. On Wednesday. I still remember the first day of summer vacation, or the first half-day, anyway. I went to arena, got all the classes I wanted, then waited outside the front doors for an hour, talking to the people who came in and out, learning about the different schedules and feeling happy that everything, for me, anyway, worked out.
Then I walked over to the middle school, where I was meeting Argon, and I had taken off my shoes and was twirling in my white skirt, bare-footed, flip-flops on the side, and I felt the cool ground against my soles.
We were talking about math team. Gretchen was there, as was Mario, and Dino. I hated to admit it, but Mario and Dino did most of the introducing, the information-giving, and I thought to myself, "I am not really necessary here."
And then I thought about Matt and Kyle and Trevor, and Elaine, and all of the seniors, and I think, "They are not really necessary, either." They can be here, but if they were never here to begin with I do not think any of us would miss them. I think someone would have replaced them easily, and we would never miss them until we know of their existence. I, for one, do not yearn for someone who does not yet exist. Someone so real in another world, perhaps, he does exist.
Of course, that was exactly two months ago. This will probably be my last post before school starts, and when it does, I will probably go back to what I have been blogging about all along, except perhaps with a lot more college things and a lot less ranting about junior year and research papers, because that is in the past. There will be busy weeks, and not so busy weeks where I am constantly writing things and not doing things, and where words, for once, speak louder than actions.
Somewhere along the way, I know I want to realize dreams. I know I will want to find my way through the tangled half-truths and sticky, snarling pieces of memories, and of course, there is also the farewell, but I do not like to think about that yet. Not yet. It is not time yet. And I should be most familiar with this path, this last year of forlornness and realizing and complicatedness that will invariably snake its way into my decisions and leave me regretting some small thing or another ten years from now, until I do not remember what it was and only remember the regret. But not yet.
. . .
Veronica Hegarty has to—and it is not a whiny, hopefully-will-be but an absolutely-must-be—fall in love with everyone she has sex with. I, in turn, have to fall in love with everyone who loves me. It is as though I have no choice in the matter. Of course, that is not true. I can fall in love with people who do not love me back, who will never love me back. But I absolutely-must-be have to fall in love with anyone who loves me. No exceptions.
This has, I suppose, made me brazen at times. A daring I-don't-give-a-damn-about-you that has propelled me into worlds I am not supposed to trespass, but I have broken far more rules than I care about. I have long ago blurred that fine line between love and affection, because it is impossible to love so many people at once without having to spread myself somewhat, to say "I love you," and make all the gestures, but to be unable to say, "I'll do anything for you," because there are way too many of you and only one of me.
And I am happy. I think I am, and that is all that matters, not whether I am actually happy or not. I think I am happy, and I will be.
As long as Sonny never reads this. That would be difficult to explain.
So instead I walk up to Dino, and Sonny (as an afterthought, perhaps), and I say, "Hello."
My vowels are crisp. I say my "hello" with the "eh" and not as "hullo," and it somehow matters. My way of saying things, that is close, but not quite what I want it to be.
I do not remember if Dino says anything back. Sonny does, though. "Hi." Maybe a "how are you doing?" but that would be pushing it, I think. We are not that close.
We talk, the three of us, about things that do not matter, and I am talking just because I want to talk. Because I am running away from what I really should be doing, things that do matter, and I think Sonny senses it, because he asks me, "Should you be doing something?"
"Like what?" I ask, pretending to be coy.
"I don't know."
And this honesty shocks me, this admitting that he only knew a fleeting moment, but not anything substantial. And it makes Dino laugh, his cruel, monotone laugh, and I think that it is this laugh that I have fallen in love with, not his hair, or his eyes, or his back, or whatever else I have proclaimed it to be.
"There is a competition," I say, "French. I won, but I haven't gotten the scholarship yet. Haven't gone to pick it up."
It is a silly thing to hide. Silly me. Silly running away, not facing the truth. I do not know why it was so important that I not go and get what should be mine.
"Well, you should go, then," Sonny says.
I shook my head. "I don't want to," I say, while looking at Dino. I wanted him to be chivalrous, for once, and say, "I'll go with you."
Instead, it is Sonny who says that, while Dino just shrugs and laughs again. Sonny who pulls me into his arms, hugging me so tightly I am reminded of Vincent, remotely, and I hug him back, all calmed down, ready to tackle this apparently difficult task of grabbing for what really, really should be mine.
. . .
Then there are gender-bending moments, and I am a guy, and Sonny—or I think it is still him—is now a girl. We are a little cute, the two of us, together, wandering the halls, and I am not sure we know exactly where it is we are going. There are rooms, yes. Lots of offices. People. I ask for directions, and I get answers, but I forget them immediately and instead I try out every room until I think I have the right one. And then I forget what it is I am asking for, and I try to think of anything French, and I say Le petit prince, although that cannot be the right answer, and I know it even as I say it out loud.
Then my mom is calling me. She is. She says, "Ginny," although of course she does not really say Ginny, but my Chinese nickname instead. I think I responded, but I must have forgotten to, because she calls my name again.
And I wake up, and it is all gone. The hallway, the French, Sonny, the plank-chairs.
I can still feel Sonny's arms around me though, even if I know he is not a hugging kind of person. I cannot imagine Sonny hugging anyone, at least not now, and when he does it will probably be someone who is cheerful, and innocent, and not full of unspoken mysteries and little not-necessary lies. I am a little sad that I will not be able to know what his arms are like, but only a little. Barely there.
. . .
I am reading Anne Enright's The Gathering right now. The story itself has some mad quality to it, some dream-like appearance that is real but not reality. The reality is strange, detached, almost unreal, and the only things that are concrete are the blasphemies that were never real to begin with.
A softening of reality's jarring edges.
I have written before that I do not like reality, because it is too painful, and I do not like pain. I am constantly running away from pain, and maybe this is a wake-up call, that I am a hypocrite, because running away from pain and running toward Dino and his cruel laughs and this dream of golden blue are two very contradicting things. He is he and I am I, and in my dreams, at least, I am—despite my little not-necessary lies—as straightforward and innocent as I ever will be. In my dreams, I am capable of accepting someone who genuinely cares. In my dreams, I am able to stare into Sonny's eyes and not think about Dino, not think about how I wish everything were different.
In my dreams, I am content. And it is not reality, but it is real. Real enough, for me.
. . .
School is starting in over a week. On Wednesday. I still remember the first day of summer vacation, or the first half-day, anyway. I went to arena, got all the classes I wanted, then waited outside the front doors for an hour, talking to the people who came in and out, learning about the different schedules and feeling happy that everything, for me, anyway, worked out.
Then I walked over to the middle school, where I was meeting Argon, and I had taken off my shoes and was twirling in my white skirt, bare-footed, flip-flops on the side, and I felt the cool ground against my soles.
We were talking about math team. Gretchen was there, as was Mario, and Dino. I hated to admit it, but Mario and Dino did most of the introducing, the information-giving, and I thought to myself, "I am not really necessary here."
And then I thought about Matt and Kyle and Trevor, and Elaine, and all of the seniors, and I think, "They are not really necessary, either." They can be here, but if they were never here to begin with I do not think any of us would miss them. I think someone would have replaced them easily, and we would never miss them until we know of their existence. I, for one, do not yearn for someone who does not yet exist. Someone so real in another world, perhaps, he does exist.
Of course, that was exactly two months ago. This will probably be my last post before school starts, and when it does, I will probably go back to what I have been blogging about all along, except perhaps with a lot more college things and a lot less ranting about junior year and research papers, because that is in the past. There will be busy weeks, and not so busy weeks where I am constantly writing things and not doing things, and where words, for once, speak louder than actions.
Somewhere along the way, I know I want to realize dreams. I know I will want to find my way through the tangled half-truths and sticky, snarling pieces of memories, and of course, there is also the farewell, but I do not like to think about that yet. Not yet. It is not time yet. And I should be most familiar with this path, this last year of forlornness and realizing and complicatedness that will invariably snake its way into my decisions and leave me regretting some small thing or another ten years from now, until I do not remember what it was and only remember the regret. But not yet.
. . .
Veronica Hegarty has to—and it is not a whiny, hopefully-will-be but an absolutely-must-be—fall in love with everyone she has sex with. I, in turn, have to fall in love with everyone who loves me. It is as though I have no choice in the matter. Of course, that is not true. I can fall in love with people who do not love me back, who will never love me back. But I absolutely-must-be have to fall in love with anyone who loves me. No exceptions.
This has, I suppose, made me brazen at times. A daring I-don't-give-a-damn-about-you that has propelled me into worlds I am not supposed to trespass, but I have broken far more rules than I care about. I have long ago blurred that fine line between love and affection, because it is impossible to love so many people at once without having to spread myself somewhat, to say "I love you," and make all the gestures, but to be unable to say, "I'll do anything for you," because there are way too many of you and only one of me.
And I am happy. I think I am, and that is all that matters, not whether I am actually happy or not. I think I am happy, and I will be.
As long as Sonny never reads this. That would be difficult to explain.
Tuesday, May 11, 2010
Top Ten Reasons Why You Should Never Walk Long Distances In Flip-flops*
(*Also known as: the longest title Nephria has and will ever see. Ever.)
Anyway. I have miraculously (and most unfortunately) discovered almost all of these reasons today. Needless to say, I will not be walking in flip-flops (or high heels, but that's another story) for an extended period of time anymore (until the next time I forget, or whatever). But here is the list:
Elaine had, a very, very long time ago, lent me two bottles of blue nail polish (which I still need to return her), so I went and bought a bottle of pink nail polish and a bottle of silvery one. There were so many I couldn't really decide which ones I wanted, and I didn't find any glitter (to make the shiny effect), but the silvery nail polish had mini-glitter inside, so I suppose that will work (or I can go ask the art department if they have any spare glitter). I plan to paint them (my erasers, that is) on Friday, when Mrs. James is not here. Not that I think she will mind, but I probably will be reading for US on Thursday, and she so happens to not be in school on Friday.
Also, here, I would like to wish all my friends who are taking AP English (and there are quite a few of them) good luck on the test tomorrow. I personally could never write an essay in pen. I would just hate it so much. But you (all of you) will do wonderful and ace the test but will do much, much better than it because I do not have a high opinion of anything that claims to judge your ability with a three hour long test.
I suppose there lies a certain level of ability to the test, however, as Bryant finished his multiple choice section of the AP chem test 45 minutes earlier. Camel (who sat behind Bryant) looked up at the clock with 45 minutes left to go, and saw Bryant sitting upright, with nothing in his hands, just staring ahead. Granted, the test was not hard (and some of the questions were downright ridiculous, but I can't spill them "ever," according to CB), but 45 minutes is a bit absurd when the entire section is 90 minutes long (okay, fine, I had 30 minutes to spare, and I spent them coloring in every one of my bubbles again, but still).
But I have no more excuses to skip class anymore. I must do my homework now (or do them during chem). English vocab/10 chapters of Huck Finn/SAT-type prompt here I come (yay...).
Anyway. I have miraculously (and most unfortunately) discovered almost all of these reasons today. Needless to say, I will not be walking in flip-flops (or high heels, but that's another story) for an extended period of time anymore (until the next time I forget, or whatever). But here is the list:
- When you walk for more than 45 minutes (or over 4000 steps) your feet will hurt. A lot.
- Since you will not be anywhere near your intended destination (or home) after 45 minutes or 4000 steps (because if you were, you would not have this problem), you will have to walk even more. And it will hurt. A lot.
- Because you have been walking despite your feet complaining that perhaps you should not be walking, your feet will retaliate with the suicidal approach of—gasp—growing blisters.
- Blisters hurt. A lot.
- After your feet complain/protest/make your life miserable, your flip-flops will decide to be even more harsh on you (or maybe that's just the placebo effect).
- Since you are wearing flip-flops, you are most likely (although maybe not always) not wearing socks, and so there is nothing to cushion your feet against the hard soles.
- You will be in a lot of agony. So much that, while others complain of their legs hurting because they have walked over 4000 steps, you will not feel anything in your legs because all of the attention/pain has been hogged by your feet.
- When you (finally) get home, you will discover that the shoes your mom makes you wear (because the floor is dirty) resembles flip-flops. (This step/reason is not necessary, but may occur.)
- You will sit down in front of your computer and your feet will still hurt. A lot.
- Lastly, you will become inspired to write a list of top ten reasons why you should never, ever walk long distances while wearing flip-flops, except you only chose the number "ten" because it forms an alliteration with "top," not because you actually had ten reasons, so you basically made up the other seven.
Elaine had, a very, very long time ago, lent me two bottles of blue nail polish (which I still need to return her), so I went and bought a bottle of pink nail polish and a bottle of silvery one. There were so many I couldn't really decide which ones I wanted, and I didn't find any glitter (to make the shiny effect), but the silvery nail polish had mini-glitter inside, so I suppose that will work (or I can go ask the art department if they have any spare glitter). I plan to paint them (my erasers, that is) on Friday, when Mrs. James is not here. Not that I think she will mind, but I probably will be reading for US on Thursday, and she so happens to not be in school on Friday.
Also, here, I would like to wish all my friends who are taking AP English (and there are quite a few of them) good luck on the test tomorrow. I personally could never write an essay in pen. I would just hate it so much. But you (all of you) will do wonderful and ace the test but will do much, much better than it because I do not have a high opinion of anything that claims to judge your ability with a three hour long test.
I suppose there lies a certain level of ability to the test, however, as Bryant finished his multiple choice section of the AP chem test 45 minutes earlier. Camel (who sat behind Bryant) looked up at the clock with 45 minutes left to go, and saw Bryant sitting upright, with nothing in his hands, just staring ahead. Granted, the test was not hard (and some of the questions were downright ridiculous, but I can't spill them "ever," according to CB), but 45 minutes is a bit absurd when the entire section is 90 minutes long (okay, fine, I had 30 minutes to spare, and I spent them coloring in every one of my bubbles again, but still).
But I have no more excuses to skip class anymore. I must do my homework now (or do them during chem). English vocab/10 chapters of Huck Finn/SAT-type prompt here I come (yay...).
