Fin.

Concerning my reading selection:


I have always hated romance. I think I would have incarcerated myself, had I chosen to write about love for the anthology project. But of course, I didn't. I probably chose the opposite, or something that stems from the opposite, if you get my drift. Anyway, in novels, I hate fluffy, mushy, supposedly teenage-high-school-based, perfect love. Or anything that attempts to imitate it in so-called literature. Lolita was as close as I got to that, but to be honest, that is definitely not even remotely what I just described. It's between a pedophile and a thirteen year old girl for chrissakes.

So basically, this semester, I chose anything that didn't resemble that. I love anything to do with music, hence The Words of Every Song. I -- do not love per se-- but I find war incredibly entertaining and engrossing, therefore, I chose The Art of War, and The Things They Carried. I adore vulgarity and profanity, a side-effect of being a teenager, so I loved Then We Came to the End. Tragedies are infinitely more interesting than happy-endings, so I was drawn to Angela's Ashes.

I love this boy.

 I had an incredibly hard time sticking to any singular book, for I would always find something more interesting whilst perusing through the shelves of the library. Yeah, I don't think I actually finished any of the books I started, but shhhh. Because finishing all those books was my goal for this quarter. HOLD UP. I finished The Things They Carried, but that was, uh, an assignment for AP Comp. It was an amazing fictional war novel (about Vietnam, and when I say amazing-- I really do mean it....), so I had no problem charging through it. I didn't actually list that on my reading log bookmark, so it can't be considered cheating. No Sir-ee.

I'll admit, sometimes I had a bit of trouble getting in the page quota for the weeks. So much physics and AP Comp and stupid PreCalc/Trig and Econ. Not that that's an excuse or anything. But PreCalc kills me. As does physics, kind of. It's a liable excuse in mine eyes. Mine eyes. Is that grammatically correct? It sounds a bit Old English-y. I assume it is.

Did I meet the requirements for the 'final' blog post? I believe I did. This looks like 250 words or more. So, Mr. Hill, if this is indeed our last post, then I shall never touch this blog again. I enjoyed it while it lasted, but I don't believe blogging is for me. Goodbye forever.

I feel as though that was the shortest, most sour, final goodbye I've ever scrounged up. My apologies, but I have no intention of improving it.

Ta-ta,
Lily

The Words of Every Song is such a depressing book. I haven't come upon a single short story in it, that ends in favor of the main character. Some of them are incomplete too, which makes it even more depressing. I can't stand when things end-- books or movies. It pisses me off to no end.

So I happened upon this one story (in fact, I mentioned it in my last 'sentences of the week' post), it concerns an aging man who is a sounds technician in the music corporation that is the centerpiece of the book (what connects each character to one another). He receives a letter from "Geri" who is his ex-wife, whom he has not seen in fourteen years, and is the mother of his two children. So much has happened in those fourteen years:

Tony, the main character and father, has a girlfriend named Vanessa. She loves him dearly and wishes to deepen their relationship, but somewhere inside her, she knows that will never happen.
Cooking dinner last night has inspired her. She thinks--in an abstract way-- that maybe acting like Tony's wife will make Tony ask her to be his wife. If she let herself voice that hope too specifically, she'd only realize the impossibility of it. Right now it is a subconscious desire, this idea of marriage to Tony; it is far enough away from the forefront of her mind that it remains nothing but a sweet and unexamined feeling most of the time.
And then she finds the letter from Tony's ex-wife, addressed to Tony.
[She] sees a letter addressed to Tony in what looks like a woman's hand. It bears a recent post mark. She closes the drawer. She opens the drawer. She closes the drawer.
She opens the drawer, and takes the letter out, and reads it, and feels infinitely young, a child, an infant, a person incapable of self-care, and lies back on the bed, and cries like a widow.

OMG. how depressing can you get? It's slightly ridiculous that there is no hint of positivity in this book. This other passaged touched me as well. It concerns the disappearance of a father-figure, Tony, in his two children's lives: Jim and Leila.
This is when Leila was born (the younger one) and Jim and Tony are going to see her.
The hospital smelled like school, but sadder.
"Hi, honey," said his mother. "This is your sister."
"Go say hi to her," said his father. But Jim stayed back, his arms wrapped around Tony's leg. He watched the baby and felt shy . . . . . .
[Jim] realized with a sudden ache that the memory stopped at that poing, with his arms wrapped about his father's leg; he couldn't remember what Leila looked like, or what his mother looked like, or what he did next. . . . The strength of him, the width of his calf, the fabric of his pants. How Tony had reached down and placed one large hand on the back of Jim's head-- not pushing him forward, just leaving it there. Just letting him be.
That's what Jim remembers of his father.
What Leila remembers: nothing. A black shape standing over her crib. Music. Nothing.

It astounds me how many children on the face of this earth have either only one parent, or none, or have to visit each parent separately. I am so lucky, I just can't find it in myself to appreciate it. I think it has to do with their authoritarian ways. They are quite anal-retentive, which in turn, makes me anal-expulsive (sounds gross, but just means unorganized and laid-back). At least I'm aware that I have something that many don't: two wonderful, loving, if strict, parents.

A miniature response post for last week. I suppose I'll do an enormously long one for this week.

So.... The Art of War.
It's not what I thought it was gonna be, but it is interesting. That's it though-- interesting. I only read about 60 pages so far, but 45 of that was an introduction that I may have secretly skipped....

So theres a Master Sun Tzu, who was the mother of all master kung fu artists (yeah, idk-- I skipped the intro, remember) and all the other martial arts guys look up to him. Sun Tzu basically just states a rule, like that a good general or leader must be good towards the people in order for the people to support the cause of the war. Mostly common sense stuff. And then underneath the aformentioned rule, the other generals, like I don't know, Cao Cao, will basically just restate it in his own words. Really redundant. But interesting all the same.

The reason I'm even considering reading this, is because when my father was an officer in the army, he was assigned to read it (but he never did, cuz he didn't really like to read), and since that might (most likely) be my future, I figure, I might as well get it out of the way.

It's so boring though, so I don't think I'm gonna finish all 500 pages of it. I think it's more than 500, more like 2000-- which definitely means I won't finish it. And it's completely repetitive.... I'm really good at stating the negative aspects of stuff. Side effect of being  a pessimist.

OMG. I DIDN'T KNOW THERE WAS A MOVIE CALLED THE ART OF WAR WITH WESLEY SNIPES! Who's watching this? I am. 'Cos I love Wesley Snipes. And Blade. Maybe It'll summarize Sun Tzu's version, though I highly doubt it. AND it's an instant play on Netflix! Omgz.

Currentlay

Pages this week: 120
Pages this quartie: 130 + 160 + 120 (I think those are the right numbers) equals 420

the best of the conglomerate sentences:

And here's Siobhan: in love with a dead man with desperate eyes, a man she's never met, a man she bled for twice.

Kurt was watching her from the magazine. He was beautiful, really beautiful, angelic and blond. Painful to look at.

He doesn't write anything, really, so it is an unfamiliar feeling to him to place his pen on this paper and write the words 'Dear Geri.' Next comes 'I'. Next comes a blank sort of terror.

All of these are from The Words of Every Song,  and the last one, about Geri, hits me the hardest. The book doesn't fully explain what he is to write next in this letter to Geri, but it's pretty obvious that the word 'I' is to be followed with 'love' and then 'you.' And the writer of the letter is scared witless to put those words on paper-- probably because writing it down solidifies his feelings for her, and those feelings should have long ago been erased. Hence, the terror of admission. I feel for him--even though he's fictional--I really do. Partly because, love is a strong word. Whenever someone says 'I HATE YOU' to another, the recipient replies with "hate is a strong word." And that makes me want to say, "well, love is a strong word too, and people seem to have no problem throwing that around. Except for me and this dude writing a letter to Geri apparently.

wham bam, thank you ma'm.

WHAM. BAM. I'm done with my make-up posts, on account of how I was so behind. Did you see them? They were pretty dang long. I should get extra credit for rambling on like that-- I was on fire. Still got to post for this week... but whatevskies, I'll do it in school.

Hedwig

THE POST FOR THE 2ND WEEK OF THE NEW 2ND QUARTER:


Incest.

I've started this book called Forbidden by Tabitha Suzuma, and the central conflict/problemo of the novel is incest. Such a touchy subject.

Let me share a little bit about myself, before I start my rant about the unethicalness and icky-ness of romantic sibling love:
I am an only child.It's just me, my anal-retentive and authoritarian/authoritative parents (they've toned down over the years), and my slug of a dog. My closest relatives live in Michigan, the next closest in California, and the next in Guam, which is half-way around the world. Therefore, I have ABSOLUTELY no idea what it is like to . . . . .[they all have to do with the book, and the troubles of the main characters]:

1. share, a bed, or a room, or food, or chores (I do them all myself, unfortunately)
2. be independent, as an only child, my parents smother me with . . . not affection, but they watch my every move. They suffocate me with overprotection.
3.  take care of others, other than myself

BACK TO THE POINT: The main characters, Lochan and Maya, have had eachother for as long as they can remember, they're always surrounded by their siblings, and unlike my parents, their mother can barely call herself one. SO, I cannot readily socialize myself with them and their forbidden love. In all actuality, their love is not that surprising. In their family of six (two little brothers, one little sister, Maya, Lochan, mother) Lochan and Maya play the father and mother, respectively, because their real mother, for all intents and purposes, is a deadbeat. Their father left when they were young, to marry some younger woman and move to Australia, leaving Lochan and Maya to cope on their own with the loss of a parent, the loss of a good mother, and various other inhibitions in life.

Mothers and fathers are romantic interests of each other, therefore, Lochan and Maya begin to see each other as such. They rely on each other through thick and thin, and with all the frustrations of high school and raising a young family, they find that the only people they can turn to in times of need are each other.

Lochan falls first. He notices her beauty-- he has all his life, but while practicing dance steps with Maya one afternoon, he suddenly realizes that he is physically attracted to her, as well as emotionally-- for she is the only one in his life who knows his true self.

He doesn't talk in school because he is abnormally shy. It seems almost like a phobia of sorts, of talking or interacting with anyone other than his family. But APPARENTLY Lochan is a sex god, with black hair and green eyes, and allll of the girls in his high school are in love with him, despite his antisocial tendencies.

Maya herself, is his opposite. She is the goddess to his sex god-- and all the little high school boys have noticed.

I feel like this is one of those typical teenage romances that I always see on bookshelves, the kind that I read in middle school, before I actually knew what literature was. The kind that tries to replicate the atmosphere of high school in writing, and it's usually done supremely inaccurately. I mean, not EVERYONE is highly gifted in the looks department, and it's just such a weird coincidence that the two main characters (the most troubled, as well) are practically the best lookin' guy and gal in the world apparently. Books like this always include things like that-- the main character being inexorably gorgeous, with her beautiful manly counterpart. Huh. Susssspicious.

But then again, I've never read a book that centered around incest before, so at least it has that unique aspect going for it.

IF I WERE THEM, I would have given up already. I mean, I've never been in a serious relationship, but I can't imagine attempting to tough it out with my so-called brother.

1. Numero uno, NO ONE WILL EVER ACCEPT THEM. There's a reason it's illegal. I mean, I think I can handle those people who live in remote villages in the mountains, who marry their cousins.... but there is a huge gap between cousins and siblings. It's just tooooo close. I'm hoping in this book, that they don't, uh, consummate their relationship, because that might put me off my porridge. What is that phrase again? Idk. But I'm voting for abstinence, because, really, what is there to gain by taking their relationship a bit further? It can only go downhill from the point that they realized their love-- and I don't know if there's a way to build up their brotherly and sisterly relationship after they deal with this little "problem." From the looks of the back cover, it seems like Maya and Lochan are going to try to make it work, as in pursue the relationship.... which is not likely. They will never be accepted, the end. And I doubt they're going to go into hiding just to continue their relationship.
2. Another numero uno, which goes along with the above: BABIES ARE HIDEOUSLY DEFORMED WHEN THEY ARE PRODUCTS OF INCEST. Man, I really really hope they don't do it. Blech.

I understand that they are in love, I understand that they have found the one true person who will always accept them for who they are, and already  has. I understand. But at the same time, I would've totally given up. In fact, at the first sign of attraction, I would've run in the opposite direction. It's illegal. It just can't happen.

I know this book is going to end sadly. 'Cause it's not like they can just live happily ever after.

They're gonna have to get over it. Somehow.

Crookshanks.

Did you see it? That spectacularly loooong almost-essay that I wrote for the last post? Yeah. I'm on fire.

This is the CURRENTLY FOR LAST WEEK.

Pages last week:160
Pages this semester:290

Am reading The Words of Every Song by Liz Moore
and Forbidden by Tabitha Suzuma

and OMG. I'm going to immerse my self in The Art of War by Sun Tzu, fairly soon.

Sentences of the last weeksie:

And here's Siobhan: in love with a dead man with desperate eyes, a man she's never met, a man she bled for twice.

It's about Kurt Cobain. Yes, I fall in love with singers and lyricists as well. Probably why it's one of my SoW's.

Now Theo is here, oblivious, standing on Tenth Avenue with his green messenger bag, falling in love with a woman he never really knew anyway. He will not know the pain of that until it is a memory, distant and hallowed, until it is a dream.

Leila, in the elevator, is dreaming of the first concert she veer saw. She was in the second-to-last row. She was fifteen. Tom, in the lights onstage, had looked like an angel.


All from The Words of Every Song by Liz Moore.

Pidgewidgeon.

*the title is only random, as most of mine tend to be.
FOR THE FIRST WEEK OF THE 2ND QUARTER:


So while I was taking the unit 7 vocab test (which I completely failed, cos I didn't have the wkbk), I was sitting in one of the places in front of the bookshelf. One caught my eye: The Words of Every Song by Liz Moore.

I suppose, I chose it because:

I

love

Music.

I don't know what I'd do without it. Actually I do-- my loving mother has just confiscated my ipod (in response to me failing to clean my room properly, psssshhh.) and I am simply dying inside. Especially on the bus. In the mornings, the immature underclassmen (I assure you, I was never remotely like them) laugh, shout, talk as if it isn't  seven in the morning. It's vexing, and they continually try my patience. I mean, if I'm not able to listen to the music on the bus, then what is the next most likely thing to do on a dark, recently heated bus, early in the morning? Sleep of course. BUT I CAN'T EFFING SLEEP IF THERE'S STUPID LITTLE KIDS SCREAMING ALL OVER THE GODFORSAKEN PLACE. I swear. I won't last long without my beloved ipod.

Anyway, let me go on to explain what drew me to this book, as well as what draws me to music.

A lot of people use music to concentrate. To relax. To vent. To escape. To lose oneself. As inspiration. As comfort. I am one of those people. In fact, I'm hooked up to the media player on my computer right now, as I write this. Music doesn't affect my writing. It allows me to ignore everything else in the room, and to focus on my thoughts and the beat simultaneously without one or the other competing to drown out the other. It's delicious.

Yeah, I use weird words to describe music sometimes. If I could taste music, it would taste pretty damn good (yay for teenage vulgarity!). Like rainbows and unicorns, and iron-y like blood, and a little dark like shadows, and a little chocolaty-- because chocolate is heaven, as is music. At least in my world. Ignore me, I go off on a tangent sometimes, as you can see from my little taste bud analyzation of un-taste-able objects (not even objects, more like ideas that please the ear).

So back to the title of the book. The Words of Every Song. I find that when I am in a happy-go-lucky mood, not particularly caring about anything at all-- I don't care about the exact words or meaning in the songs I listen to. It's all about the beat, the tune, the overall mood that the song puts me in. It could be about grinding, about money, about sex, about unrequited pathetic love (yeah, I just listed all the songs popular today) and I wouldn't care one bit. As long I'm in that particular mood.

However, if I am in a frustrated, depressed, worrisome, angry, or any sort of unwanted, vile kind of mood-- I care about the context of the song. The words have to match; they have to mean something personal, and something worth actually listening to. Those lyrics have to be able to reach into my soul and magically relieve me of the symptoms of my plight. It's like medicine. The tune doesn't have to be good. The beat doesn't have to be spot on, although, if it's actually a lyrically good song, then the beat, tune, and words are usually of the same quality. Just 'cause it was probably made by someone who was not an imbecile, and who has been in my position before and therefore, is eloquently expressing his views.

Man, as soon as I slam on those ear buds, it's like there's a stopper to every bad feeling I've ever had the misfortune of feeling. It's like I'm suspended in time, and I find myself closing my eyes, and losing my breath and my life and myself in that moment as soon as it starts. Oh, and if the singer's voice is deep and grumbly, godddd it's like I'm dying from the perfection.

 It's overwhelmingly wonderful. It's exactly what I need.



ANYWAY, on to the actual book.
I'm not going to say it's wonderful, or especially well-written, but it is.... different. In it's own way.
It's a collection of short stories-- most of them are depressingly depressing--and the main characters of each story are interlinked in a massive tangled web of messed-up lives and screwed-up love, and none of them know it. It's also all about music. As in, some of the stories' main characters are employed at a music corporation, and some of the main characters perform for it (they're clients).

One story: Siobhan In Love struck me as . . . I don't even really know. Let me explain. Siobhan (a young punk rock female) is the lead singer of an up and coming band called The Burn.

She has only ever loved one thing (or rather, person) in her short life, and that person is Kurt Cobain. The day he died was the day she had gotten her first period. It was embarrassing-- standing up at the end of class, only to see a red spot on the chair, leaving it safe to assume that "it's twin was probably blooming across her plaid covered ass."

Later she would reflect-- inaccurately--upon the idea that she and Kurt Cobain might have started bleeding simultaneously. . . . .

That night. . . . Siobhan had lit candles . . . by the statue for the Blessed Virgin in front of St. Jeremiah's. She fumbled under her bed for a copy of Rolling Stone that she had borrowed from her friend.

Siobhan, looking for an appropriate tribute to the life and death of Kurt Cobain, was working away at her inner ankle with the pocketknife. She was carving 'K.C.' just below  where her sock would end. It hurt, but not eh way the tampon had hurt her and not the way the shot would hurt. She closed her eyes and dug the knife in far enough to really hurt but not bleed too much. She multiplied by a thousand: Would that be death? Would that be a bullet in the mouth?

Kurt was watching her from the magazine. He was beautiful, really beautiful, angelic and blond. Painful to look at.

And then the story ends with:  And here's Siobhan: in love with a dead man with desperate eyes, a man she's never met, a man she bled for twice.

Enough said. It's pretty self-explanatory, pretty shocking. Pretty sad.

. . . . .

Omgz, I'm so behind. I promise I'll make it up--- I'll do, like, exxxxtra long ones in the future, Mr. Hill. Get ready.

Close Reading Bingo.

"Nicholson Baker's dull, clear, and low diction creates a common and dull tone." by  Lori.
It violates the no redundancy rule. Not that there is one, but there should be.

 "The Mezzanine by Nicholson Baker has a somewhat straightforward diction. The description is precise and has a somber bitterness to it. The rubber handrails "wavered slightly" and had a "black luster." by Running in Circles. Too general, violates rule numero tres. I feel like everyone is describing Nicholas Baker's piece as dull, but.... I thought it was rather sophisticated. Whatever.

"He presents words like "if you really want to know" and "if I have to" that explains his boring life as the average teenager. " by Amanda. She used a quote introduction, which is in direct violation of numero uno. Aw.

"Baker said the lobby was filled with "towering volumes of marble and glass.
Oops, Mariah forgot to put quotation marks at the end of her quote, making it violate rule numero ocho.

and THIS ONE WINS MY VOTE: mostly 'cause it's longer than, like, tres sentences, so props to you,
Mr. Viking Death Metal

J. D. Salinger is an author who uses very low and denotative words to write his stories. This is evident in his story “Catcher in the Rye”, which is written as if it were a personal account of the author's.  In “Catcher in the Rye”, his low, denotative words express a very blunt, down-to-earth nature of the narrator’s tone, while the fear of acting out against his parents’ wishes, not wanting them to have “two hemorrhages apiece” should he tell the reader “anything personal about them” surges through his mind. The narrators makes comments of his parents like “They’re nice and all-I’m not saying that-but they’re also touchy as hell” and says “I mean that’s all I told D.B. about, and he’s my brother” about his brother. These selections suggest a withdrawal from his family and possibly that he feels insecure about who he’s related to and that he does not wish to make his parents mad at him. The use of such words may reflect Salinger’s opinions on other writers at the time and their use of large, figurative language and words. Salinger’s works are not the most image-inducing, but while they don’t drip out of the reader’s mouth with luscious figurative language, they do have a certain tone and different sense to them then found in other author’s works.

PDA (not public display of affection, it's rather practice diction analysis.)

The highly descriptive and scholarly diction, the almost philosophical and appreciative tone inserted into Nicholson Baker's connotation, and the harmonious flow ringing throughout the first page of his novel, instill dreamy, practically romantic admiration for the mezzanine Baker speaks of, as this first page is read. Define Mezzanine: [mez-uh-neen, mez-uh-neen] the lowest balcony or forward part of such a balcony in a theater, or in this case, an office building (perhaps, I have not read this book). Baker elaborates on the mezzanine, the centerpiece of his novel, with a subtle passion, as he begins his journey to his office. He observes a "needly area of shine . . . [fall] against their brushed-steel side-panels" and the "long gloss highlights" waver on the black rubber handrails-- and he is amazed.  He adores these simple flecks of beauty that he comes across in his office building (?) and he watches them with fanciful amusement, absorbing each simple elegance with the a happy heart.

Currentlay.

The Words of Every Song  by Liz Moore

This week: 150 pgs

Favorites in the Style mapping thing-a-ma-jig:

*note: my reasoning is in bold italics, the quotes are in regular font.

Phyllis:
 A Million Little Pieces by James Frey is written with crude diction that portrays the author's critical struggles and a repetitive flow that allows the reader to understand his thinking.

I need to read this book. Heard he faked it, but it's still supposed to be a good one, right?

The Lost Message of Words:
Contrasting the opening of The Guns of August , Tuchman portrays a sophisticated view of regality that harmoniously prescribes a session of kings. The precise diction glorifies the seasoned May morning of 1910. The author further distinguishes the morning, "So gorgeous was the spectacle on the May morning of 1910 when nine kings rode in the funeral of Edward V11 of England that the crowd, waiting in hushed and black-clad awe, could not keep back gasps of admiration."

"sophisticated view of regality that harmoniously..." I like it. I don't know what regality is, so props to you, you Lost Message.

That One Guy's blog:
The low, musical connotation of "Blood Meridian" is revealed by the diction in which there are no sophisticated words or those used simply for there pretty sound. There is plenty of imagery and poetic description as he describes the sun as "the color of steel" and his shadow falling for "miles before him." 

This curving pathway of thoughts evokes a discordant mumbling in the mind as the story continues.

I find him eloquent, especially with the above sentence.

As Told by Ginger:
 In comparison to these two books, Charlotte Brontë's novel Jane Eyre reveals Brontë's denotative sense of style. Her literal and straightforward descriptions as well as the almost journalistic style as if she were reporting back the actions of the other characters reveals the way in which she observes and describes language.

Ugh. Jane Eyre. Bleeeechhhh. My mother had to literally force me to read that book the summer before junior year. I agree with the journalistic style that Ginger speaks of. It bored me to tears, no offence (but really, take offence), Jane Eyre.

Stylishly Mapping, a weenie bit overdue.

Lolita by Vladimir Nabokov (spelled right, this time)

Scholarly, ornate-- overwhelmingly so. His language is ridiculously high on the y-axis, and it reeks of elegance. Nabokov's diction is sensuous and provocative when describing his beloved Lolita, but he never manages to lose the formality of his voice. He paints murals, oodles and oodles of them, his words so imagistic and figurative-- but how else are we to know love, both physical and emotional, as he knows it? He defines prose with a sweet melodious rhythm and sound, but entwines it with the heart of a perverted cynic and a lustful soul.

The Words of Every Song by Liz Moore

This is middle ground. Or rather, it is all over the place. At times, there is swearing, at others, there is deep emotional analyzation. It is straightforward, but not completely blunt, and it is somewhere in between harsh and harmonious. I've no idea. It's rather mediocre writing, but I like it all the same. The stories are extremely interesting, but I wouldn't go as far to say that they are elegantly written. There are seldom images that come to mind when reading this. There are, but not really. It is more made up of literal diction, with no imaginative connotations or hidden meanings. These are more just stories of figurative people and what happens in their somewhat sad, mediocre lives, connected by musica.

Forbidden by Tabitha Suzuma

This book is spilling over with emotion, which makes it imagistic and picturesque and figurative. Depression, fear, solitude, infatuation, love-- are all explained in depth, as the main characters feel them accordingly. Wouldn't say it's elegant, or scholarly, but it's well-written. A bit better written than The Words of Ever Song but, they're are both on the same level of goodness. The only vulgarity I come across is the swearing. I would say there's a lot, but the situations in the book call for it. I'll settle with middle ground, with a strong splash of picturesque and suggestive connotation.


Eschuchar musica.

Lightning Crashes by LIVE.









I could live off of this song. Don't feed me, don't shelter me
just let me breathe in the melody and the words and the voice
I can soak it in, I already have
I've digested it as well.
Yum.

It would do you well, proverbial (nonexistent) blog reader, to look it up.

quarterlay.

Look, he loves Tom Felton too.

I've got to say, the educational level of my independent reading this quarter has dramatically changed. In fact, before this class, I hadn't even bothered to read outside of school for at least the past two years. I believe I stopped around Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, whenever that came out.

So I've gone from a truly horrible first book, (goodness, I can't even remember its name), something to do with a deaf teenage girl who lives happily ever after. Then I turned to Then We Came To The End by Joshua Ferris, which.... I haven't even finished. Yeah, I haven't really finished anything: partially read the Joshua Ferris book, I intend to complete Lolita, I read the first four chapters of Angela's Ashes, and then now I'm on The Road, Blink, and some book on "The Psychotic Who Lives Next Door." Not the exact title, but it's something like that.

I am an incomplete person. A procrastinator, if you will. I like to deny myself deadlines. It's more fun that way, and I work superbly under pressure. For reals.

Yeah, I'll get to finishing those books, I promise.

My goal for next quarter: FINISH THE BOOKS I STARTED. and also, no more picking stupid teenybopper books. Like Twilight. Not that I've read that in the past, like, 4 years or anything. It's only an example.

mymindsgoneblankicantthinkofatitle.

*Note: I did my currently for last week, last week.

 

God, he was the cutest thing.

sentences of the quartie.


Numero uno.
If only my heart were stone.
-The Road, by Cormac McCarthy

I'm totally aware that I rambled a bit, when I supposedly *analyzed* this li'l quote last time, and I shall ramble on again. I feel like it's such a good sentence. If only my heart were stone-- it's short, sweet, rolls off my tongue.... I enjoy it.

I just.... I don't know, it makes me think of the times when I hurt (I'm trying to dig deep here, so give me credit where credit is due. Namely below, in them examples.)

EXAMPLES:

• when my throat closes up on me, and there's an abnormally large lump in it, where all my anger seems to have gathered and decided to throw a revolt there against the act of swallowing, and it aches like a momma------

• when I'm so angry and sad at the same time, (the emotions pulling my brain apart, yet collapsing in on theirselves; make up your mind already) that I can't figure out what I want to do, except curl up in my bed and dream my life away (away from reality, away from brain splitting, confusing feelings)-----

• when someone decides to "tell it to you like it is" and when their layin' it all out for you to see, the tears prickle behind my eyes, and I sort of stare off into space, or at the wall behind the a**hole that's talking and try not to let the salt water spill over-----

YEAH. SO, SOMETIMES I WISH ALL THAT STUFF UP THERE DIDN'T AFFECT ME SO, but on the bright side- it's better than feelin' nothin. I guess.

But, don't get me wrong-- I live for those times, when my heart feels like it's a freaking hot air balloon, that's rising so high above the skyline with happiness (simile=what? ap lit class payed off?), and those times when my back throbs and my stomach is killing me, because I've laughed for about an hour straight with my friends-- so I'm totally not that depressing person listed above all the time. It's probably only teenagey hormones that make me that way, so don't worry.

And that, is why 'if only my heart were stone' is listed as one of the sentences of the quarter, Mr. Hill.


Numero dos.
Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, the majority of sex offenders that hanker for some throbbing, sweet-moaning, physical but not necessarily coital, relation with a girl-child, are innocuous, inadequate, passive timid strangers who merely ask the community to allow them to pursue their practically harmless, so-called aberrant behavior, their little hot wet private acts of sexual deviation without the police and society cracking down upon them. We are not sex fiends! We do not rape as good soldiers do.We are unhappy, mild, dog-eyed gentlemen, sufficiently well integrated to control our urge in the presence of adults, but ready to give years and years of life for one chance to touch a nymphet.
- Lolita by Vladimir Nabokov

On a higher note, now I know how good of a person a pedophile is. I suppose, you could compare them all to John the Baptist. John spreads his spiritualness and the knowledge of God, whilst pedophiles seek to spread their tender love. Idk why society hates them. They're only deprived of little girl (oh, and boy) luuurrrve. Come on children, get into that strange man's car and help him find his lost puppy. I heard he's got candy. Popsicle shaped candy AHAHAHA I kid, Mr. Hill. We're all adults here.

^^^^sentences of the quarter, if you somehow missed the bold, enlarged print above.

My bads.

Whoopsie daisies. I've made another rare mistake. Turns out, I've been spelling Nabakov wrong this whole time; on my video and on my blog. My Bad.

Its Vladimir Nabokov with an o.


From my random mind, here is a poem on death. Actually, it's been on my mind for awhile now, on account of how its hanging in Mr. Decker's room, and I had him for AP Psych last year.

Do not stand at my grave and weep,
I am not there, I do not sleep.
I am a thousand winds that blow.
I am the diamond glint on snow.
I am the sunlight on ripened grain.
I am the gentle autumn rain.
When you wake in the morning hush,
I am the swift, uplifting rush
Of quiet birds in circling flight.
I am the soft starlight at night.
Do not stand at my grave and weep.
I am not there, I do not sleep.
Do not stand at my grave and cry.
I am not there, I did not die!
- Mary Frye 



I enjoy this.

Mr. Hill,  I believe I smell brownie points.

Blech, I believe I've thrown up.

I've finished Whip It, and it sucked. Honestly, it did. Maybe it really is because I just got through with the ever-so-complicated Lolita, but it for reals sucked. I don't even know how it became a movie. Though, the concept is kind of cool-- you never hear about roller derby at all really, so it's unique.

But that's all it has going for it. I mean, at the end, Bliss didn't even get back together with her apparently-smokin' boyfriend. What's up with that? What happens is: Bliss miraculously wins yet another derby competition (as do all protagonists in teen novels; win, I mean) and her boyfriend (who apparently cheated) taps her on the shoulder and says "Nice goin', sexy." Then she shoves him away instead of making out with him, and goes on with her life.

THAT'S IT. wtf. What kind of ending is that? A stupid ending is what it is.

Yeah, I'm a Debbie Downer. But whatevs, I gotta put my view point on this blog. This is a response post right? Just a response to a terrible ending-slash-book.

The girl who sits next to me (A.B.) has alerted me to the fact that Whip It: The Movie is for reals good. I think I already knew that though. Props to Ellen Page and Drew Barrymore for making an awesome movie out of a mediocre book.

Close your eyes.

She's So High:

The Art of Underrated Rock Music

from the 90's.

I think that perhaps, just closing your eyes, and not even glancing at the music video makes it easier to soak in the brilliance of the lyrics, but whatever.

1. The first video, She's So High, is what my "art of" paper is named after. It's much less underrated than the others, so I didn't bother doing a close reading of it. You'll know it, already, I guarantee it.
2. The second video, Inside Out, is what my blog is named after.
3. The third video, The Freshmen, is a story. So listen to it, don't just zone out and watch the vid.
4. The last video, Glycerine, is my faaaaavorite.
5. Btw, turn it up, when you listen to these, Mr. Hill. That way, it's so much easier to lose yourself in the music and the words and the meaning. Just my advice, because that's the only way I'm able to listen to my music-- loud enough to the point where I can feel the bass reverberate through my head and down to my toes. Makes me unconsciously sway to the beat. Makes me smile.

AND my personal favorite is the one below. I can't really explain why I love it so much, but it's just the feel of it or something. His voice is delectable too. I adore it. That's all that matters.

Turn it up when you listen to it, if you do.

you, nancy boy, you.

The thing about Lolita is that the language Nabokov uses is incredibly rich, sophisticated, and infinitely more developed than anything I've ever read in my life. His vocabulary is out of this world, and as I've said before, I've collected practically a novel of hastily scribbled down words that, many of which, I've never even seen before. Therefore, the act of reading anything else after experiencing Lolita, has swayed me to judge other books unfairly, and to cringe in disgust when reading anything remotely "teenie-bopperish." For example: Whip It, now a major motion picture, but a book as well, is so, so inferior to Lolita both in its un-sophisticated language, as well as its story line. I mean, Nabokov writes a book from a pedophile's point of view, and even brings under-age sex into it, which engages the reader in a battle of morals and wits. Compared to Whip It-- wait, I can't. It's incomparable, that's what it is.

But I shall-- compare it, that is. While Nabokov's novel is of (unethical) romance, and is comprised of in depth descriptions of his love and physical attraction to Delores and other nymphets before her, Whip it, barely manages to do so. In fact, one of the main components of the latter novel (?) is a romance between the protaginisht, Bliss Cavender, and the apparently smokin' hot punk rocker, Oliver Something (I can't remember the dude's last name). Yet, in the book, the romance is essentially non-existent. Oh, it's there, but not there. Shauna Cross (the author) talks of kisses, sex, and witty conversations with flirtation, but it's not romance to the level of Humbert and Delores. In fact, in the motion picture, I think they cut out a lot of the romance part, but I didn't see it, so I can't say for sure. AND, the guy who plays Bliss's romantic partner is LANDON PIGG. As in, the guy who sang the song for that diamond ring engagement commercial, where the couple is in the car, and the guy proposes to the girl [which is so not the way it's supposed to go. I mean, take the effort to get on your dang knee]. And there's a song playing in the background, with the lead singer softly serenading like this:

I think that possibly, maybe I'm falling for you
Yes, There's a chance that I've fallen quite hard over you

I've seen the paths that your eyes wander down,
I want to come tooooooo

I think that possibly, maybe I'm falling for you.

No one understands me, quite like you do,
Through all of the shadowy corners of meeeeee

I never knew

 just what it was

 about this old coffee shop, I love so much
All of the while I never knewww

I think that possibly
Maybe I'm falling for you
Yes there's a chance that I've fallen quite hard over you

I've seen the waters that make your eyes shine
Now I'm shining tooooooo

Because, oh, because:

I've fallen quite hard over you

If I didn't know you, I'd rather not know
If I couldn't have you I'd rather be alone

I never knew

 just what it was

 about this old coffee shop, I love so much,
All of the while I never knewwwww

I never knew

 just what it was

 about this old coffee shop, I love so much
All of the while I never knewwwwww

All of the while
All of the while
All of the while: it was youuuuu

It's actually a good song, and Landon Pigg is cute, but not hard punk rocker, who is darkishly handsome (which is what is implied in Whip it).

Here's the video of LANDON PIGG:

In the immediate future (currently).

Reading:
Lolita by Vladimir Nabokov
Whip It by Shauna Cross
The Road by Cormac McCarthy

Pages this week: 191
all semester: 191 + 958 = 1149

Sentences of the week:


And on the far shore a creature that raised its dripping mouth from the rimstone pool and stared into the light with eyes dead white and sightless as the eggs of spiders.

What would you do if I died?
If you died I would want to die too.
So you could be with me?
Yes. So I could be with you.
Okay.

You forget what you want to remember and you remember what you want to forget.

If only my heart were stone.

If only hearts were made of stone. There would be none of those pesky feelings, no need for tears, no lumps in my throat. But that is life in ailment-form-- so without these, without those little pricks of tears or the pounding of my heart or the headaches from frustation and anger-- I wouldn't know I was alive. I admit, whenever I am down with one of those symptoms, I find myself wishing for a little bit of numbness . . . but it'd be terrible to feel nothing. I'd resemble some cold-hearted Hitler, or rather, a heartless nazi. I'd stop caring about everything.

Yeah, I don't really know what I'm talking about... just rambling on about stony hearts, so that I fulfill the requirement of talking about a 'sentence of the week.'

Bollocks.

How to Earn a Schrute Buck: The Art of Being Dwight Schrute

I believe that is the coolest thing I've ever thought of. Cause, you know, Dwight is a genre of human being himself. There is only one of him, and no one like him, or more specifically: no one that wants to be like him (at least I don't think so). Rainn Wilson is insanely talented at acting insane, sexist, and Dwightish. Too bad I can't do it (Hill turned it down, bummer). Oh well, I'm doing something music related now, which is something I care about even more. Not that anyone is going to read this-- should I  post this then?


 Whatevskies.

I was mistaken.

It happens sometimes, the rare occurrence of me making a mistake. And I was deadly wrong. About Humbert's Lolita, that is. Extremely wrong, as it turns out, because little Delores is SO TOTALLY NOT A VIRGIN. And she's only twelve! Way to start ahead of the game. She's like I was at age 5-- reading chapter books when all the other little ones were stuck on Junie B. Jones. Completely applicable comparison.

So, Hummy manages to get Lolita to take a minor sleeping pill (by faking taking it himself, then getting Delores all jealous of his big purple "energy" pills, then offering one to her). Only problem is, when he sneaks back into their room, expecting to find her completely comatose, she keeps waking up at the slightest movements Humbert makes. Oh noes, big ol' Hummy can't take advantage of the little girl if she's half-awake!

Actually, the next day, her and Humbert get into a discussion of Humberts sex life, and he reveals that he's never done it before (as a child at least), which surprises her. In fact, it surprises her so much, that she immediately engages in carnal act itself with Humbert right then and there.

This is the weird part: I feel like Hummy was leading up to this point in all the other chapters before, and throughout his whole life. I mean, this is what he has been dreaming of since, like, forever. He's been surrounded by beautiful innocent nymphets his entire life, and he hasn't ever been able to touch a single one of them until now, and it is SO. UNDERSTATED. when it happens. I had to actually flip back through the pages, and check to make sure that they actually did it, because he never even says it out right. In the most un-straightforward way possible, Humbert describes it as if Lolita doesn't exactly know what she's doing, but that she's eager to please him. Basically, yeah.

^^^^ My little Lolita update for today.

Currently (for the past weeksie)

Still reading Lolita.
I swear, I am the slowest reader in the history of literature. It's an interestingly, controversial amazing book, and it is really well-written. As in really well-written to the point where I've practically collected a novel of words that I either a) don't understand or b) never even heard of or c) are in french, which I've spontaneously scribbled down over the course of reading the dang thing.

pgs this week: 107
all semester: 107 + eight-fifty-something = 958

Sentences of the week:

The park was as black as the sins it concealed.

Parody of a hotel corridor. Parody of silence and death.

Then, she crept into my waiting arms, radiant, relaxed, caressing me with her tender, mysterious impure, indifferent, twilight eyes-- for all the world, like the cheapest of cheap cuties. For that is what nymphets imitate-- while we moan and die.

If my happiness could have talked, it would have filled that genteel hotel with a deafening rooar.


All of these have to do with getting little Delores into the hotel, stuff her full of sleeping pills--enough to last one night-- and then, uh, take advantage of her (that was the least controversial way I could put it). Anyway, Humbert is practically high with giddiness and excitement with this opportunity, and as he put it: if his happiness had a voice, it would roar. How appropriate.

Gasp.

Yeah, so I'm like 3 weeks behind on posts, so I've decided to cram it all in one day. I am the master procrastinator of my generation. Argh, so here goes:

SENTENCE OF THE MONTH:

I'll pick one to save time (cause I have, like, 5 other posts to do). Take a looksie.

She said that it did not matter a bit, but that, if she ever found out that I did not believe in our Christian God, she would commit suicide. She said it so solemnly that it gave me the creeps.
- Humbert Humbert (grand pedophile from Lolita)

Yeah, I have a lot to say about this. This lady, Delores's mother, is super duper religious. Ick, that's gross. Ultra-religious-y people gross me out and anger me. A lot. They make me kind of want to throw up in my mouth/yell at them about THE HOLOCAUST AND WHERE THE HECK WAS YOUR GOD DURING THAT ONE, HUH? Yes, yes, I know, that was offensive. My bad, but I really, really, don't like those kinds of people. I mean, on facebook, I periodically see people post things like: "Praise God for this wonderful life!" or this one (which slightly pissed me off), "If you don't know God, You don't know peace." Which is a load of crap, because religion is one of the main sources of conflict (you know, the wars, the massacres, the crucifictions, the burnings at the stake, the stonings to death) throughout all of history. Jeez, get your facts straight.

Anyway, my ultimate line of wisdom that I believe in: you don't have to believe in God to be a good person. Period. Just live life right-- don't do drugs and don't be a pedophile, and you're good.  I realize what I posted above was an extremely strong viewpoint, and probably a little offensive. But, whatever, it's my blog. I mean no disrespect, and if anybody even reads my blog, feel free to spout religious stuff at me in the comments (not that anyone actually reads this, I bet). Mahalo.

 I try not to associate myself with any religion whatsoever <----summary of above paragraph.

Oh, bugger.

I changed something. It makes me laugh. His name is Draco Malfoy, and now he adorns my page. See him on the left? He's looking at you.

PRESENTLY:

pages read this week: 144

this semester: 707 + 144 is 851

In the midst of: Lolita

The Road (literally read the first page only- but it's a start)

SENTENCES OF THE WEEK:

She said it did not matter a bit; but that, if she ever found out I did not believe in Our Christian God, she would commit suicide. She said it so solemnly that it gave me the creeps.

Oh, she was very genteel: she said "excuse me" whenever a slight burp interrupted her flowing speech, called an envelope an ahnvelope, and when talking to her lady friends, referred to me as Mr. Humbert.


So there was Charlotte swimming on with dutiful awkwardness (she was a very mediocre mermaid), but not without a certain solemn pleasure (for was not her merman by her side?) . . .


Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, the majority of sex offenders that hanker for some throbbing, sweet-moaning, physical but not necessarily coital, relation with a girl-child, are innocuous, inadequate, passive timid strangers who merely ask the community to allow them to pursue their practically harmless, so-called aberrant behavior, their little hot wet private acts of sexual deviation without the police and society cracking down a\upon them. We are not sex fiends! We do not rape as good soldiers do.We are unhappy, mild, dog-eyed gentlemen, sufficiently well integrated to control our urge in the presence of adults, but ready to give years and years of life for one chance to touch a nymphet.

The last passage especially strikes me as awkwardly truthful, and suspiciously so. It makes me ask the question-- uhhhh, Nabakov, how do you so intimately know the mind of a pedophile? And how would you know that they do not have a single vengeful, violent, thought in their heads, or that they are not intent on hurting their victims? Of course, Nabakov probably put loads of research into his book before he wrote it, but if he did, then this passage must be somewhat true. Huh. I've always thought of pedophiles as evil, sadistic, hedonistic people, who couldn't control their perversive urges, but Nabakov makes me think otherwise. I bet the families of pedophile victims will not agree with me and would probably would throw Lolita in the trash (and burn it too). Just a thought. Just an observation. Au revoir.

Goodness.

Charlotte Haze has died. Killed in a car accident. She found Humbert's secret diary, where he writes all his frustrations of having to deal with Charlotte herself, and all his yearnings and desires for little Lolita. She found it, realized he was a total pedophile out to get her daughter, with no intention of ever loving her, and FREAKED. As any person should really. So Charlotte tells him to get out of the house, and he goes up stairs to his room. While Humbert contemplates the dire situation he has gotten himself into, Charlotte goes to send three letters in the mail box down the street. One for Lolita, one an application to a new boarding school (hopefully away from Hummy the Pedophile), and one letter to Humbert himself. Unfortunately, on her way, she gets hit by a car, dragged some ways down the street, and dies. Which means that

HOLYMOTHEROFGOD, 
LITTLE DELORES IS GOING TO BE ALONE WITH HUMBERT. Who is a nymphet-loving pedophile for chrissake. Goodness.

Like, seriously, that's the worst situation ever to be in if your under the age of twelve. Little unsuspecting Lolita is so going to be taken advantage of by her ever-loving step-dad. I mean, Humbert is practically popping at the seams at the thought of finally being alone with his Lo. He's going to pick her up from her summer camp, and I can't wait to see what happens next.

Claimy claims of the day.

In the song "Your Love Is A Song" by the band Switchfoot, the pensive, tenacious air of the lyrics, along with the mellow drum and guitar accompaniment and the powerful, husky, and dreamlike quality of the singer's vocals combine to evoke an overwhelming sense of breathlessness and euphoria surrounding the song's subject, a love so solemn and earnest it becomes the singer's reason for living.
                                                                      -On Paper Wings' blog

The educationally stimulating childrens' game Questionaut incorporates pleasantly jubilant music with whimsically quaint animation to create an inventively playful adventure.
                                                                     -Norwegian Wood's blog

In this painting of a couple meandering down a sidewalk, the relaxed broshstrokes and comples simplicity of the colors embody a feeling of pleasant passion which mesmerizes with its unassumingly focused design.
                                                                      - That One Guy's Blog blog

In this shocking yet comically amusing video we observe an unusually grotesque reaction to some news that set a strange wild boy into a mystifying tangent of caterwauling violently. 

                                                                       - The Ozone Lair's blog

In this picture of lightning striking the Serengeti you are overwhelmed by it's explosive power, seductive presence, and docile setting which creates a sense of euphoria, fear, and loneliness.
                                                                       -Chillin in the Nyle's blog

I think perhaps I like On Paper Wings' claim the best, because I adore that band and song. And he is indeed, husky. BUT I THINK SHE DELETED IT! so the link is useless :(

I tried being humble, but nevermind that now. [CLOSE READING]

I had to do it. I love 300. and Gerard Butler. I also think it's funny that it was set in a world of painted-on six packs. Ever since this movie, whenever someone asks, "what is this?" or questions something along those lines-- I have the insane urge to kick someone down a black hole and yell
THIS
 IS
SPARTAAAAH.
 But I've resigned to only do it in my head.




4 categories/words to look for in movie posters:
color scheme- dark? light? inbetween? what do they make you feel?
setting or environment it projects- inside or outside? a background?
wording- powerful words that draw the eye, that make a statement?
placement of characters or objects- does the placement affect the way you view the poster or your thoughts on it?

12 or more words (and phrases) to describe this 300 poster:
bloody
rage
anguish
determined
glorified
indifferent (wife)
emotionless (wife)
warrior
deadly
hostile
challenging
courageous
in the dead of night
warfare
bloodshed
angry
despairing
unsubmissive
exhilarating
foreboding
seductive (wife) quite possibly Gerard too
explosive
disturbed
furious
grim
harsh
loud
wrathful
threatening
electrifying

Claim:

        In this electrifying poster for the film 300, splashes of blood, open-mouthed screams of rage and anguish, and determined, hostile facial expressions,  deliver  impressive  feelings of wrath, exhilaration, and bloodshed that are sure to be felt in the heat of battle.


Until next time, this, is Spartaaah.

Lolita

I've started Lolita, and it's incredibly intriguing. It started with another book however. My mother handed me Reading Lolita in Tehran, a book about a college professor in the Middle East who forms a book club at her home, filled with hand-picked students with the specific purpose of reading books that are banned. As women in their country, they share their lives with each other and realize what it means to be a Middle Eastern woman (certain clothing, permission from men to do certain things, despite being college educated women). At the same time they analyze Lolita.

However, I could not get past the first couple pages of the book, I thought it rather boring--forgive me if you think otherwise. I decided to give Lolita a try, to start at the beginning of sorts. It was a good choice, there's really nothing quite like it. For those of you who don't know, Lolita is a book that is narrated by a pedophile. Not Vladimir Nabakov himself, just the character he invented while writing it.

Humbert Humbert. Isn't that the most peculiar name? Reminds me of bumble bees for some reason. Humbert H., is the name of the pedophile, who, throughout his whole life, has had a fascination with the younger female generation. He even comes up with his own classification of the attractive, soft-skinned, juvenile girls that he admires from his park bench (from everywhere really). He nick-names them "nymphets." He's so funny, when he analyzes these girls, especially when he fantasizes about them. Humbert wants them to forever play around him and his park bench, and never let them grow up. It's not that he's a bad person, at least I don't think so, because he truly appreciates their figures, their smiles, and their untainted hearts and minds. Of course, Humbert has the urges of an adult male, but he tries his damnedest to not stray from what society has already approved of. He even marries a woman, and fell for her simply because she was quite childish in her behavior and looks.

His marriage ends in disaster, his first wife ends up dead in California, and Humbert moves to the states, where he meets Charlotte Haze and her daughter Lo, short for Delores, Lolita, or Lola. And so begins his Heaven and Hell. Heaven, because he finally has in reach, the opportunity to take advantage of his beautiful nymphets, the most beautiful of all being Delores. At this point in the story, he sneaks little caresses, touches, brushes of the cheek, creating secret highs for himself, constantly having to hide his arousal from being around his Lolita.

Lolita seems to have a teensy crush on Humbert himself. In fact, I forgot to insert it earlier, but Humbert is a sex god, apparently. He'll sometime refer back to his extremely good looks, and the numerous women that would gladly throw their selves at him. Alas, Humbert Humbert only likes little girls. Poor babies. One of those women, who unfortunately fell in love with Humbert, is Delores' mother. She expresses her love to him, fully expecting him to reject her immediately, in a letter. However, Humbert thinks on it and devises a plan. By marrying Charlotte Haze, the mother, he will be undeniably closer than ever to his Lolita. Decisions, decisions. And that's where I'm at in the book. Right where Humbert is practically salivating at the thoughts of how much a "father" gets to touch his "little girl" (fatherly hugs, kisses, etc). I'm guessing that he's gonna make the decision to become a really loving, caring, unusually touchy-feely father. Just a hunch.

Ashes to Ashes, we all fall down.

I've read the first four chapters of Angela's Ashes, and it's put me off of a few things. Like drunkard, selfish, worthless, alcoholic fathers, and having kids. I mean, I've already decided I never want kids (that may or may not change), but this book really puts "popping them out" into perspective. If you've never read Angela's Ashes, here's a taste:

It's about this family, formed by two parents-- Angela and Malachy, who by some accidental "I was in the moment and it felt good" incident, had a kid, and we're forced to marry in order to keep the family name respectful and all that. Malachy, the father, is a wooooorrrthless, selfish, non-father, who spends his days working (if he can even get a job) and then spends his wages on beer at the many bars he hops to after the work day ends. It is because of him (well, that's my conclusion anyway), that THREE, not one, not two, but THREE of his 6 children DIE BECAUSE OF MALNUTRITION AND POVERTY. You'd think he'd learn after the first, but noooo. Go ahead, you worthless father, and drink your wages all over again, so that your children will once again go hungry in the middle of the night. Despicable.

The thing about this book, is that it's a memoir. Frank McCourt, the author, and the main character who grows up throughout the book, has amazing stamina and a very large forgiving heart. He paints his father as a loving man, who just messed up a little, not as an out of control alcohol who can't decide what matters most: his starving wife and children, or that bottle of Jack.

Back to the memoir part. Frank McCourt uses humor through a child's eyes as he grows up miserably. It may be because of his childlike ways, that he is ignorant of how things truly work in the world, but it was probably for the best. For instance, Frank goes to confession with all the other little boys in his catholic school, and feels the pressure of coming up with a sin. Frank has a problem--he hasn't actually sinned. The only thing closest would be listening to an inappropriate story, which he can't really help. So, he overhears the other boys sins-- lies to their mother, stealing money, stealing food, stuff like that, and he ends up going to confession and confessing that he had done all the other boys' sins as well. Ha, he ends up sinning by telling that he had sinned to the priest, when in actuality, he had done nothing wrong. Oh, children. Then he throws up his first communion. That apparently, was a sin--so I guess Frank got his sin after all, even though he couldn't help it. I can't understand religion sometimes. A lot of times actually.

I like you, Nick Flynn.

Ta-da. Here it is, the poem and poet of the year. It's pretty good, but it's all rushed together like stream of consciousness (that's probably what makes it good) or something. Don't try to make too much sense of it, it somehow fits into place and makes sense on its own. I like it a lot, even though I try not to affiliate myself with any sort of religion. I thought I was taking a leap of proverbial faith when I read this, but I wasn't. Nick Flynn ends up pretty much voicing my thoughts on this topic. Flynn writes this as though he was there when (and if) Jesus was around, and as if he knows Jesus' thoughts. It was in the "Faith and Doubt" category of the website, and I picked it specifically for the "Doubt" part. Only because I was curious about people's reasons for non-believing.

This poem deals with the unknown of Jesus and his death. and why, oh why, Jesus had to die in the first place.

It's unique and makes me think. Makes me wonder if Nick Flynn was a child when he wrote this in 1960. Just the words used and the way they're used makes me lean towards a less educated person than a college professor. Just a comparison, no insult, really.

 If you happen by this, try to read it all the way through.

jesus knew

By Nick Flynn b. 1960 Nick Flynn

unlike you and I jesus knew he’d die

some days a headache woke him it

lingered nothing terrible but the word

hung around his temples like this

soul everyone wants but can’t find jesus

knew he’d die he just didn’t know how

& that bothered him sometimes & then

he’d do one of his little bootleg tricks

what the hell, didn’t hurt anyone

didn’t make anyone disappear for-

ever but the tricks stopped working he forgot

why he did them & what for he confused

a story about a guy named jesus

with a story about a father he never knew

& it all began to hang like a motheaten coat

pulled out of a trunk on shaky days hey let’s

return to the scene of the fucken tragedy at least

we all know how it turns out instead of this end-

less uncertainty hey let’s sell our souls a few

more times no one’s really counting (those

little papers you trade for your sins,

what do you call them? anyone? no?)

—anyway—jesus this jesus that

god of nickel god of dime

right, the real jesus he was lost he walked in-

to the desert not far really his friends his

disciples he told them he’d come back

like us he said this every time he left but jesus

never said wait never pointed to the sky

never claimed he’d rise again never asked us to eat

his flesh jesus never asked anything as far

as I can tell he got tired everyday & then slept

sometimes okay sometimes un-

bearable, the dreams, the father

pointing a finger at everyone a finger we can’t

even look at.

30% off for lateness

I'm going to shove all of my sentences of the week(s) in this one post, since they're long delayed. There are some memorable ones, especially on Guam.

Starting with Lolita :

That old woman in black who sat down next to me on my bench, on my rack of joy (a nymphet was groping under me for a lost marble), and asked if I had a stomachache, the insolent hag. Ah, leave me alone in my pubescent park, in my mossy garden. Let them play around me forever. Never grow up.


That solemn pool of alien urine with a soggy, tawny cigarette butt disintegrating in it struck me as a crowing insult, and I wildly looked around for a weapon.


No temptations maddened me. The plump, glossy little Eskimo girls with their fish smell, hideous raven hair and guinea pig faces, evoked even less desire in me than Dr. Johnson had. Nymphets do not occur in polar regions.

From Angela's Ashes:

They multiply faster than Hindus. --in reference to fleas.

And lastly, I had an interesting borderline-assault conversation with a drunk person on Guam. There I was, with my 2 cousins, walking down a hotel and expensive shop-lined street in a village called Tumon, when I see 2 white young men sitting at a table. The reason I point out their skin color, mind you, is because the ratio of white people on Guam to Chamorros is, like, 1 to 2 bazillion. Whereas, here in Fort Fun, the ratio is more like 500 white people for every 1 non-white person (it's not that much of an exaggeration). So, naturally, I spot their whiteness, but I don't think anything of it. Until one of them grabs me and asks for a picture. I think they wanted a picture with the "locals," so I agreed (not that I had much of a choice with his whole arm dragging me to the camera).  I muttered to myself:


"We're not even locals."
"Really? Where are you from?" says the drunk man.
". . .Indiana"
"NO WAY. I'm from Florida! (well, you gotta be from somewhere, buddy) Where are you from?" says drunk man. So, first, he thinks it's a really cool that we're from two different places that aren't that remotely close together at all, and second, it's like he forgot what he already asked me. Redundant, much?

So, the drunk man's buddy takes his picture with us, with one of my cousins wailing: "BUT WHAT IS THIS FORRR?" in the background.
And then he holds out his hand, as if expecting me to shake it, which is exactly what I do. Then I walk away.

"WELL THAT WAS KINDA MEAN..."  he yells back at me, which of course it wasn't. He started toward me, to I don't know, confront me, but his buddy stopped him by saying, "whoaaa man." All I did was shake his hand, not try to instigate a fight. And for chrissake, I look like a little 12 year old brown girl. What a drunken crackpot he was.

I guess, since that's my first instance of being near a drunk person, I thought it was significant enough to put in my sentences of the week post. I later saw the drunk man's friend (who took the picture) sitting down, with his head in his hands, while his drunk friend went camera happy on all the tourists in a hotel. That's what you get, bud, for letting your friend get drunk.

Currently (for reals)

In the middle of Lolita by Vladimir Nabokov
                           Then We Came to the End by Joshua Ferris
                          Angela's Ashes by Frank McCourt

pages this week: 177

This semester: 530 + 177 issss 707

Currently (not really)

This is for last week, on account of how I was kinda on Guam. And my grandpa's internet sucked there.

I started Lolita by Vladimir Nabakov
             Roald Dahl's Tales of the Unexpected

Pages read: 143

This semester: 387 + 143 = uh 530