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.
Monday, October 31, 2011
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
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.
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.
Sunday, October 30, 2011
. . . . .
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.
Wednesday, October 26, 2011
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.
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.
Monday, October 24, 2011
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.
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.
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.
Tuesday, October 18, 2011
Friday, October 14, 2011
quarterlay.
Look, he loves Tom Felton too.
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.
Wednesday, October 12, 2011
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.
Tuesday, October 11, 2011
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.
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.
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.
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.
Saturday, October 8, 2011
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.
- 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.
- The second video, Inside Out, is what my blog is named after.
- The third video, The Freshmen, is a story. So listen to it, don't just zone out and watch the vid.
- The last video, Glycerine, is my faaaaavorite.
- 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:
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
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:
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
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
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
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.'
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.'
Wednesday, October 5, 2011
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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