wuthering heights cartoon
Just thought i'd post it. I don't think it's amazing or anything, but I had fun making it. I think I'll go browse Rie's site...
posted by VVM at 9:59 AM
Sunday, February 27
Just thought i'd post it. I don't think it's amazing or anything, but I had fun making it. I think I'll go browse Rie's site...
You Little Angel, You
Forget what I said about being over it-- after I wrote that I went and had me a big ol' breakdown, tears and pijamas and all, in front of Harry and my sister and everything. Harry couldn't have been more perfect. I felt hideous. At least it's out of my system, though. I can't explain what not-writing does to me. Or why I couldn't for so long. A poet I know once wrote a line about walking down the street with ghosts in your head, screaming inside, being told that a hundred dollars will buy your sanity back. It's an amazing poem. This same fellow edited my competition entry. I reread it last night, and what struck me about it was that when I wrote it I had some idea of who I was. I want to recover that.
Anyway, since I'm sure you're all thoroughly fed up with teen angst by now... I'm still taking CD requests, as I haven't started burning yet, so send 'em in! And I realized after what I wrote yesterday that I forgot to blog about Abbey, despite my promise, so here goes. Hope she'll forgive me.
Abbey Bender knows more music at thirteen than I'm sure I will at twenty. This is partly because of her father, a music savante and a brilliant English teacher at Dalton, and the fact that the walls of her house are lined in bookshelves of music. And not just jewel cases, either-- spindles. The kind you buy blank CDs in that hold fifty or a hundred albums, one on top of the other. There are vinyls, concert DVDs galore, and zebra-striped pillows in every corner. In the bathroom there's a red toothbrush as tall as a small child, and over the kitchen sink there's a sprawling Buddha and an eclectic collection of mugs, figurines and jacks and bits of string. The fridge is COVERED in fortune-cookie slips, photographs, magnets, and Frank Zappa quotes, to the extent that I'm not sure what color it actually is. On her bedroom door is a hand-drawn Christmas card from Sean Lennon, a signed picture of Bart Simpson, and one of Harry's sketches that reads "Be cool! Kill babies!". The hall is lined with signed vinyls from anyone you can imagine and plastic daisies, and a signed Keith Haring poster sits gently framed over the sofa. The Benders are responsible for about half the music I own, and for my obsession with Bob Dylan, and, lately, Thomas Pynchon.
I've sidetracked. Abbey is thirteen and a little shy, with big brown eyes and a soft smile, and has an impressive wardrobe. (It's not Abigail, or anything simpery like that, either-- just Abbey.) She's all about Eat to the Beat, the Ramones and Karaoke Revolution (sister software to Dance-Dance Revolution). She reads with considerable frequency and draws tall thin women with interesting outfits and wide smiles. I percieve sometimes that she doesn't have as much self-confidence as she ought to, doesn't realize how cool she really is. She's deep, too; I'm not sure she realizes how deep she is relative to the people around her. (Relatively? I'm not sure.) She sports a mod shoulder-length bob that turns out at the ends and frames her face nicely. When I met her, she was "Renata's Friend," so I put her through the typical drill of playing a Billboard album and quizzing her on the musicians. She got every single one right, even songs she'd never heard before, from the sound of the band, and I knew she was something special. She's grown a lot since I first met her; so have I, for that matter. She's lost some weight, and holds herself with more poise. Watching her grow has been delightful, although I'm not sure she'd like to hear me say that. She's becoming a little more like her mother, which isn't a bad thing, as her mother is very warm and very beautiful and a lovely painter. She's a little punk-rock and loves shopping at Trash & Vaudeville with Renata and me, and owns the most amazing collection of Converse, including some aquamarine-colored ones with Jackson-Pollock-style paint splatters that were her mothers' in the eighties and always make me smile. I've never met any of her friends, although she does have a curly-haired buddy named Harry who's interested in a girl named Miranda, and every time she says his name I laugh. She doesn't have a blog because her parents don't like them, but we're working to get her petition passed, so to speak. Perhaps this is more exposure than she'd like. In any case, she's very lovely and very bright, and some day she'll have men at her feet like royalty.
I must say, I really love the Benders. Between the incessant music talk and the political Sedars ("... and to continue to banish darkness, you can visit... Abbey, that's your cue..." "Oh, right... MoveOn.org, daddy.") and the monopoly games and the days spent wandering the village and St. Mark's, we've all come a long way and have come to love each other very dearly. It's a beautiful friendship.
Sorry about the excessively long posts, you guys. I guess I've got a lot to say suddenly. You can retaliate by making me burn albums.
Anyway, since I'm sure you're all thoroughly fed up with teen angst by now... I'm still taking CD requests, as I haven't started burning yet, so send 'em in! And I realized after what I wrote yesterday that I forgot to blog about Abbey, despite my promise, so here goes. Hope she'll forgive me.
Abbey Bender knows more music at thirteen than I'm sure I will at twenty. This is partly because of her father, a music savante and a brilliant English teacher at Dalton, and the fact that the walls of her house are lined in bookshelves of music. And not just jewel cases, either-- spindles. The kind you buy blank CDs in that hold fifty or a hundred albums, one on top of the other. There are vinyls, concert DVDs galore, and zebra-striped pillows in every corner. In the bathroom there's a red toothbrush as tall as a small child, and over the kitchen sink there's a sprawling Buddha and an eclectic collection of mugs, figurines and jacks and bits of string. The fridge is COVERED in fortune-cookie slips, photographs, magnets, and Frank Zappa quotes, to the extent that I'm not sure what color it actually is. On her bedroom door is a hand-drawn Christmas card from Sean Lennon, a signed picture of Bart Simpson, and one of Harry's sketches that reads "Be cool! Kill babies!". The hall is lined with signed vinyls from anyone you can imagine and plastic daisies, and a signed Keith Haring poster sits gently framed over the sofa. The Benders are responsible for about half the music I own, and for my obsession with Bob Dylan, and, lately, Thomas Pynchon.
I've sidetracked. Abbey is thirteen and a little shy, with big brown eyes and a soft smile, and has an impressive wardrobe. (It's not Abigail, or anything simpery like that, either-- just Abbey.) She's all about Eat to the Beat, the Ramones and Karaoke Revolution (sister software to Dance-Dance Revolution). She reads with considerable frequency and draws tall thin women with interesting outfits and wide smiles. I percieve sometimes that she doesn't have as much self-confidence as she ought to, doesn't realize how cool she really is. She's deep, too; I'm not sure she realizes how deep she is relative to the people around her. (Relatively? I'm not sure.) She sports a mod shoulder-length bob that turns out at the ends and frames her face nicely. When I met her, she was "Renata's Friend," so I put her through the typical drill of playing a Billboard album and quizzing her on the musicians. She got every single one right, even songs she'd never heard before, from the sound of the band, and I knew she was something special. She's grown a lot since I first met her; so have I, for that matter. She's lost some weight, and holds herself with more poise. Watching her grow has been delightful, although I'm not sure she'd like to hear me say that. She's becoming a little more like her mother, which isn't a bad thing, as her mother is very warm and very beautiful and a lovely painter. She's a little punk-rock and loves shopping at Trash & Vaudeville with Renata and me, and owns the most amazing collection of Converse, including some aquamarine-colored ones with Jackson-Pollock-style paint splatters that were her mothers' in the eighties and always make me smile. I've never met any of her friends, although she does have a curly-haired buddy named Harry who's interested in a girl named Miranda, and every time she says his name I laugh. She doesn't have a blog because her parents don't like them, but we're working to get her petition passed, so to speak. Perhaps this is more exposure than she'd like. In any case, she's very lovely and very bright, and some day she'll have men at her feet like royalty.
I must say, I really love the Benders. Between the incessant music talk and the political Sedars ("... and to continue to banish darkness, you can visit... Abbey, that's your cue..." "Oh, right... MoveOn.org, daddy.") and the monopoly games and the days spent wandering the village and St. Mark's, we've all come a long way and have come to love each other very dearly. It's a beautiful friendship.
Sorry about the excessively long posts, you guys. I guess I've got a lot to say suddenly. You can retaliate by making me burn albums.
posted by VVM at 7:59 AM
2 New Ideas
Saturday, February 26
Eleanor Rigby
I have a confession to make. For the last two months I have done no creative writing whatsoever aside from this blog, even before I'd made it. It's not that I haven't wanted to, or tried: I have; it's just that I've had the most severe writer's block of my life over these last two months, to the point that a blank page has become truly terrifying to me. On Friday I was on the verge of writing; I was inches away from jotting down the skeleton of a sonnet when I was cruelly interrupted in the form of Mr. Schubert behind my shoulder. I indulged myself in a hidden tear only after answering his question. I didn't tell anyone until yesterday, and I felt guilty when I did for upsetting them.
The worst thing about it is how it's made me feel. Writing is my life; it's who I am, even if I rarely save anything I write. It's not the finished pieces that I live for, really; it's the process of writing them. A friend of mine suggested to me once that writing is for me what sex is for most people, and it's true; while I drop the occasional dirty joke and have a knack for spotting phallic imagery, I've never had a dream that went farther than a peck on the lips, and even those have occurred infrequently enough to count on one hand. I think of The Wasp Factory (a book that can only be described as "really, really messed up, and strangely good") and realize that I feel as though I've been castrated. I've been pretty unbalanced lately, I think. I don't know why I don't tell people when I'm upset. It's not readily apparant; most of the time I don't think anyone knows or notices, even when I'm truly in a terrible state. I think it's because I don't really like recieving sympathy or pity. If someone says something loving, I want it to be genuine and spur-of-the-moment, not calculated to cheer me up. And I don't know how to respond to flattery or praise. It's probably also partly because I don't know how to comfort people myself and have come to associate need with social awkwardness... does that make any sense? I guess it's pretty harsh of me to expect people to know what I'm feeling or say the right thing if I don't clue them in... I suppose I ought to talk more about my emotions. When they're serious, though, and negative, they're much harder to give away so freely. Love is easy for me to give, because I don't ever really want much back; I just hate to give parts of myself away that will make people upset.
And I have been in a terrible state, overall. I've had moments of hysterical hapiness, yes, but they've been surrounded by terrible darkness, a brash sunburn before a cold saltwater bath. Even my blog posts haven't been very well written; I've misspelled things several times, and my IM conversations have been grammatical nightmares. I'm ashamed, honestly, of who I've been. Aside from my brief fit of snappiness with Harry (for which I'm truly sorry), I've behaved all right socially, I think, although some of my old awkwardness has returned to me; but in private I haven't read anything new, haven't written anything, haven't let out my emotions. It feels terrible. My writing used to have a magic to it, a sense of ethereal distance, as though each story existed only in some nether realm. My blog has been worldly and cold.
On one of my very happy nights last week, a new but dear friend told me that she admired my ability to cry. I realized afterwards that at the root of my problem was the fact that I've felt as though I was on the brink of tears for months. I don't really know why I've been feeling this way, or why I haven't been able to truly cry about myself for years; I cry when I fight with my parents, and when I read something that means a lot to me or is truly beautiful in my eyes. I cried on the subway halfway through 73 by e.e. cummings, I cried when I got to Shakespeare's Sonnet 34 (an old favorite of mine), I cried when I heard Today on the radio, and I cried for the baby when my aunt announced her intentions to divorce a second time. I never once cried for myself, aside from the tear in Mr. Schubert's class and another one last night, nor do I desire to.
And for some reason when I read In His Own Write from cover to cover for the second time this morning, I felt better. I shed a tear, but I was smiling. Something about the second-to-last story struck me in a new way. It's all nonsense, and none of it literally means anything, but I've always treasured it as a door into Lennon's mind; and I realized that, after all, in one's own mind isn't a bad place to be. I can't really explain what I felt just then. I don't want to desecrate it by writing it down or analyzing it. It was lovely, though.
I sat at the table with wet hair and drank some coffee with my mom and Renata. And then my dad walked in and said, "V, I like that shirt. Where'd you get it?" I told him that I'd bought it with Alex and Harry last week, and he said "Well, it looks nice on you." A commonplace nicety, but sweet nonetheless. Then he sat down, took off his coat, and began opening the mail. I sipped at my coffee and dripped for a few minutes before he said "V, did you write something called 'The Pointless Patchwork Story of a Very Lonely Child'?" I froze. "Yeah..." "Well, it's won some award or other. A 'Golden Key.'"
I can't brag, because the piece honestly wasn't very good, but the award still made my day. I know Matt will win something, and we'll go together and have a good time laughing at all the literary snobs.
Later on, I found out that my ticket to see the Allman Brothers had been given to my uncle without my knowledge. Needless to say, I was a little annoyed. My mom decided to go online and try to find me a ticket. They were out. What she found instead, however, was the Allman Brothers playing with Government Mule on the first monday of spring break. Two tickets.
Mom and I are going together.
On a seperate note, if any of the people who were at Blue Nine Burger on Friday are reading this, can I ask you to forgive me? I got snappish and made the whole conversation into an argument, and I'm sorry. No hard feelings? Because I really love you guys. All of you, even the ones I don't know so well. And I'd hate for some stupid conversation to build walls between us.
And with tickets to see God--not once but twice--in April, life doesn't seem all too bad right now. Pete is also here--none of you know him, but he's pretty awesome. A neuroscientist and an amazing blues guitarist who's inches away from marrying my mom's cousin.
Check out my picture, everyone. PhotoBucket.com kicks ass. Please don't try to console me. I love you. I'm out.
The worst thing about it is how it's made me feel. Writing is my life; it's who I am, even if I rarely save anything I write. It's not the finished pieces that I live for, really; it's the process of writing them. A friend of mine suggested to me once that writing is for me what sex is for most people, and it's true; while I drop the occasional dirty joke and have a knack for spotting phallic imagery, I've never had a dream that went farther than a peck on the lips, and even those have occurred infrequently enough to count on one hand. I think of The Wasp Factory (a book that can only be described as "really, really messed up, and strangely good") and realize that I feel as though I've been castrated. I've been pretty unbalanced lately, I think. I don't know why I don't tell people when I'm upset. It's not readily apparant; most of the time I don't think anyone knows or notices, even when I'm truly in a terrible state. I think it's because I don't really like recieving sympathy or pity. If someone says something loving, I want it to be genuine and spur-of-the-moment, not calculated to cheer me up. And I don't know how to respond to flattery or praise. It's probably also partly because I don't know how to comfort people myself and have come to associate need with social awkwardness... does that make any sense? I guess it's pretty harsh of me to expect people to know what I'm feeling or say the right thing if I don't clue them in... I suppose I ought to talk more about my emotions. When they're serious, though, and negative, they're much harder to give away so freely. Love is easy for me to give, because I don't ever really want much back; I just hate to give parts of myself away that will make people upset.
And I have been in a terrible state, overall. I've had moments of hysterical hapiness, yes, but they've been surrounded by terrible darkness, a brash sunburn before a cold saltwater bath. Even my blog posts haven't been very well written; I've misspelled things several times, and my IM conversations have been grammatical nightmares. I'm ashamed, honestly, of who I've been. Aside from my brief fit of snappiness with Harry (for which I'm truly sorry), I've behaved all right socially, I think, although some of my old awkwardness has returned to me; but in private I haven't read anything new, haven't written anything, haven't let out my emotions. It feels terrible. My writing used to have a magic to it, a sense of ethereal distance, as though each story existed only in some nether realm. My blog has been worldly and cold.
On one of my very happy nights last week, a new but dear friend told me that she admired my ability to cry. I realized afterwards that at the root of my problem was the fact that I've felt as though I was on the brink of tears for months. I don't really know why I've been feeling this way, or why I haven't been able to truly cry about myself for years; I cry when I fight with my parents, and when I read something that means a lot to me or is truly beautiful in my eyes. I cried on the subway halfway through 73 by e.e. cummings, I cried when I got to Shakespeare's Sonnet 34 (an old favorite of mine), I cried when I heard Today on the radio, and I cried for the baby when my aunt announced her intentions to divorce a second time. I never once cried for myself, aside from the tear in Mr. Schubert's class and another one last night, nor do I desire to.
And for some reason when I read In His Own Write from cover to cover for the second time this morning, I felt better. I shed a tear, but I was smiling. Something about the second-to-last story struck me in a new way. It's all nonsense, and none of it literally means anything, but I've always treasured it as a door into Lennon's mind; and I realized that, after all, in one's own mind isn't a bad place to be. I can't really explain what I felt just then. I don't want to desecrate it by writing it down or analyzing it. It was lovely, though.
I sat at the table with wet hair and drank some coffee with my mom and Renata. And then my dad walked in and said, "V, I like that shirt. Where'd you get it?" I told him that I'd bought it with Alex and Harry last week, and he said "Well, it looks nice on you." A commonplace nicety, but sweet nonetheless. Then he sat down, took off his coat, and began opening the mail. I sipped at my coffee and dripped for a few minutes before he said "V, did you write something called 'The Pointless Patchwork Story of a Very Lonely Child'?" I froze. "Yeah..." "Well, it's won some award or other. A 'Golden Key.'"
I can't brag, because the piece honestly wasn't very good, but the award still made my day. I know Matt will win something, and we'll go together and have a good time laughing at all the literary snobs.
Later on, I found out that my ticket to see the Allman Brothers had been given to my uncle without my knowledge. Needless to say, I was a little annoyed. My mom decided to go online and try to find me a ticket. They were out. What she found instead, however, was the Allman Brothers playing with Government Mule on the first monday of spring break. Two tickets.
Mom and I are going together.
On a seperate note, if any of the people who were at Blue Nine Burger on Friday are reading this, can I ask you to forgive me? I got snappish and made the whole conversation into an argument, and I'm sorry. No hard feelings? Because I really love you guys. All of you, even the ones I don't know so well. And I'd hate for some stupid conversation to build walls between us.
And with tickets to see God--not once but twice--in April, life doesn't seem all too bad right now. Pete is also here--none of you know him, but he's pretty awesome. A neuroscientist and an amazing blues guitarist who's inches away from marrying my mom's cousin.
Check out my picture, everyone. PhotoBucket.com kicks ass. Please don't try to console me. I love you. I'm out.
posted by VVM at 2:59 PM
4 New Ideas
Wednesday, February 23
14. ___
Okay, you guys, I'm gonna do a big cd-burning kick this weekend, so turn in your requests! Seriously, though. I love spreading music, and I have pretty much everything except the Grateful Dead and Phish because I don't really listen to them. Obscure, random, illegal, classical... you name it! (Please do!)
Footnotes: My title references one of Jaya's legends. Pizza for whoever's hip to it, because I'm not. And everyone read Alex's blog because he's just the most amazing guy. And this doesn't count as a post because it's really just a livejournal-entry-esque blurb.
Footnotes: My title references one of Jaya's legends. Pizza for whoever's hip to it, because I'm not. And everyone read Alex's blog because he's just the most amazing guy. And this doesn't count as a post because it's really just a livejournal-entry-esque blurb.
posted by VVM at 7:44 PM
6 New Ideas
Monday, February 21
Hurdy Gurdy Man
I haven't updated since last week wednesday-ish, so here goes--the News-in-Brief of my life since then. (Bonus points to whoever gets the title.)
On Thursday, Oona, Alex and Harry came over before the The Music concert. (How awkward was that sentence?) Matt showed up later, and my sister, and we drew in Alex's Happy Book with the billion colored markers he carries around and Renata and Alex jammed and Oona recieved an hour-long massage. It was lovely, the six of us, spanning eigth grade through senior year, all just sitting there and loving each other. We ordered pizza and then went to the concert.
The first band was Morning Wood. They were amazing. The front woman was incredibly sexy. She kept throwing her hair and extremely large breasts everywhere and alternately trying to undress the bassist and the lead guitarist. The drummer got no love, though, which made me sad. Oona and I were openly enraptured. (Alex, Matt and Harry were secretly enraptured, I think.) The guy standing in front of me turned out to be her brother, and when I found out, I screamed, over the noise, "My friend and I have spent the last twenty minutes discussing how sexy she is, and we're straight!" I'm not sure he heard me, though. They had everything miked up really loud.
The second band was Kasabian. Matt bought one of their t-shirts. He bought a large, but it was tiny, and he said he'd give it to me if it didn't fit him. It did, sadly, but it looked nice on him so I didn't really mind. They were amazing, too. I couldn't stop dancing.
By the time The Music came on, I was exhausted from all the dancing and excitement. Oona and I had taken a twenty-minute bathroom break and had to adjust to the sound all over again. It was miked much louder than either of the previous bands, to the extent that it was difficult to really hear the music. (No pun intended.) The bass and the lead kept mingling and I lost track of the lyrics after about ten seconds, and two minutes in Oona turned to me and shouted "Do you want to leave?" I couldn't hear her because of the sound system, so I nodded and smiled and kept dancing. When she asked me again, I figured it must have been something important, so I shouted "Whaaaaat?" and finally got it the third time. It took two songs to relay the idea to everyone else. Matt was a little reluctant to go, but agreed in the end; everyone else was so exhausted that we didn't mind.
Oona and Matt departed en route to my house, but Harry and Alex stopped by to pick up their stuff. Alex left first, at around 11:30; Harry was forced to leave without his kiss when my dad realized that I hadn't done all of my homework. By 1:30 I was done, and headed off to bed. I attempted to collapse and remembered that there were still two guitars, a ukelele and about a billion or so colored markers scattered across my bed. I took it as a sign and turned on my computer to blog the concert out, but when my internet connection broke in the middle of it, I took it as a sign and went to bed.
Friday I made plans to go to Rocky and to Elena's play-- Horace Mann's version of The Tempest. My parents freaked out halfway and told me that I had to be home at 1:30, so I decided not to go to Rocky in hopes of being allowed to go another night. Horace Mann is huge and rich and about a BILLION times fancier than Friends, but our actors are just as good, if not better, and our theater is full at least. We don't have cupcakes at intermission, though, or impressive sets and costumes. They also hired a Professional Actor (the dance teacher's husband) to play Prospero. Half of me was angry at him for upstaging the kids, and the other half was in awe of his talent. Their newspaper made me jealous, too. Grr.
Afterwards, Elena and Harry and I collapsed on my bed until the two of them were thrown out and I resolved to go to sleep.
Saturday I went to see The Gates in Central Park. Initially I didn't like them, but it was so lovely and calm that I couldn't help but think them beautiful. I went with my family and the Benders, and it was all very beautiful. Abbey wrote "I love Ronnie" on my cell phone banner. It turned out that Steve, alias my hippie-english-teacher-friend, used to teach the sexy girl in Morning Wood at Dalton. He said she's insane. They are also, apparantly, the largest contract Columbia has signed for a new band in all of history at four million dollars for their first album. It's kind of insane, really; I mean, they're good, but they're not that good. I'm sure they'll promote the hell (or soul) out of them, too, which will be annoying. Keep an eye open, folks.
Sunday I went shopping and bought all this cool, useless junk, and a t-shirt for Harry, which I think he liked. We watched Red Beard, an Akira Kurosawa movie, and ate ice cream. It was sweet, and pleasant.
I've done nothing today, except see Russ, my dad's friend from Chilton, Wisconsin (although he lives in L.A. now) and write a comic strip for English which is actually kind of dark. And I've got to leave now to meet LK on 14th and 7th. More later.
I plan to blog about Abbey next time, so watch out! She needs a lot of space.
Hey, you guys, guess what???
I love you!!!
On Thursday, Oona, Alex and Harry came over before the The Music concert. (How awkward was that sentence?) Matt showed up later, and my sister, and we drew in Alex's Happy Book with the billion colored markers he carries around and Renata and Alex jammed and Oona recieved an hour-long massage. It was lovely, the six of us, spanning eigth grade through senior year, all just sitting there and loving each other. We ordered pizza and then went to the concert.
The first band was Morning Wood. They were amazing. The front woman was incredibly sexy. She kept throwing her hair and extremely large breasts everywhere and alternately trying to undress the bassist and the lead guitarist. The drummer got no love, though, which made me sad. Oona and I were openly enraptured. (Alex, Matt and Harry were secretly enraptured, I think.) The guy standing in front of me turned out to be her brother, and when I found out, I screamed, over the noise, "My friend and I have spent the last twenty minutes discussing how sexy she is, and we're straight!" I'm not sure he heard me, though. They had everything miked up really loud.
The second band was Kasabian. Matt bought one of their t-shirts. He bought a large, but it was tiny, and he said he'd give it to me if it didn't fit him. It did, sadly, but it looked nice on him so I didn't really mind. They were amazing, too. I couldn't stop dancing.
By the time The Music came on, I was exhausted from all the dancing and excitement. Oona and I had taken a twenty-minute bathroom break and had to adjust to the sound all over again. It was miked much louder than either of the previous bands, to the extent that it was difficult to really hear the music. (No pun intended.) The bass and the lead kept mingling and I lost track of the lyrics after about ten seconds, and two minutes in Oona turned to me and shouted "Do you want to leave?" I couldn't hear her because of the sound system, so I nodded and smiled and kept dancing. When she asked me again, I figured it must have been something important, so I shouted "Whaaaaat?" and finally got it the third time. It took two songs to relay the idea to everyone else. Matt was a little reluctant to go, but agreed in the end; everyone else was so exhausted that we didn't mind.
Oona and Matt departed en route to my house, but Harry and Alex stopped by to pick up their stuff. Alex left first, at around 11:30; Harry was forced to leave without his kiss when my dad realized that I hadn't done all of my homework. By 1:30 I was done, and headed off to bed. I attempted to collapse and remembered that there were still two guitars, a ukelele and about a billion or so colored markers scattered across my bed. I took it as a sign and turned on my computer to blog the concert out, but when my internet connection broke in the middle of it, I took it as a sign and went to bed.
Friday I made plans to go to Rocky and to Elena's play-- Horace Mann's version of The Tempest. My parents freaked out halfway and told me that I had to be home at 1:30, so I decided not to go to Rocky in hopes of being allowed to go another night. Horace Mann is huge and rich and about a BILLION times fancier than Friends, but our actors are just as good, if not better, and our theater is full at least. We don't have cupcakes at intermission, though, or impressive sets and costumes. They also hired a Professional Actor (the dance teacher's husband) to play Prospero. Half of me was angry at him for upstaging the kids, and the other half was in awe of his talent. Their newspaper made me jealous, too. Grr.
Afterwards, Elena and Harry and I collapsed on my bed until the two of them were thrown out and I resolved to go to sleep.
Saturday I went to see The Gates in Central Park. Initially I didn't like them, but it was so lovely and calm that I couldn't help but think them beautiful. I went with my family and the Benders, and it was all very beautiful. Abbey wrote "I love Ronnie" on my cell phone banner. It turned out that Steve, alias my hippie-english-teacher-friend, used to teach the sexy girl in Morning Wood at Dalton. He said she's insane. They are also, apparantly, the largest contract Columbia has signed for a new band in all of history at four million dollars for their first album. It's kind of insane, really; I mean, they're good, but they're not that good. I'm sure they'll promote the hell (or soul) out of them, too, which will be annoying. Keep an eye open, folks.
Sunday I went shopping and bought all this cool, useless junk, and a t-shirt for Harry, which I think he liked. We watched Red Beard, an Akira Kurosawa movie, and ate ice cream. It was sweet, and pleasant.
I've done nothing today, except see Russ, my dad's friend from Chilton, Wisconsin (although he lives in L.A. now) and write a comic strip for English which is actually kind of dark. And I've got to leave now to meet LK on 14th and 7th. More later.
I plan to blog about Abbey next time, so watch out! She needs a lot of space.
Hey, you guys, guess what???
I love you!!!
posted by VVM at 3:04 PM
6 New Ideas
Tuesday, February 15
Coming Back To Me
Today Oona and I were badass.
We cut two classes in a row.
I clogged up my nose and told Chris I had a cold to get out of Fitness, and Oona had a sub and didn't care. We even went to the Stu and held our turf in the corner for a full forty minutes. I up-and didn't go to Sculpture, and I don't know what I'm going to tell Yarrott tomorrow. He'll definately give me a B or B+ now.
Why do I just simply not care?
I'm in such a good mood.
Good Stuff:
>>I finally got a new bag! I probably won't use it long, but for two bucks, you can't go wrong.
>>Went to the Tea House again. I don't know why that made me happy, but it did. Aside from a certain someone not being very firm in the convictions she needs to have...
>>Amanda and I got some great vinyls. REALLY great. Like "Yes-albums-and-live-broadcasts-from-brittish-radio-stations-in-perfect-condition" great.
>>My dad decided RANDOMLY to increase my allowance and stop making me work for it. I can't explain how uncharacteristic of him such actions are.
>>I now have a solid A in Camille's class, her highest grade, and I just found out that she too shares my passion for folk music.
>>I think I'm really starting to understand The Crying of Lot 49. Although Fish now thinks I'm a dork for it. Laura too, probably. Ah, well!
>>Tory was over today, interacting with Harry, which is always amusing, especially since I'm ninety-nine percent sure that she has a crush on him. Plus she'd just had rich dark chocolate.
>>I love my boyfriend. I do. Even though he insists on whipping out his laptop in the middle of the park and then complains when the birds shit on it.
>>My sister said that talking to me was more therapeutic for her than talking to a shrink. And made me a Valentine's Day card.
>>I had a great Valentine's Day! For ONCE it wasn't depressing as all hell. (I can't speak for my sister, though; she had a palate expander put in her mouth, and by a female dentist, no less. I told her she should at least have a guy in her mouth on V-day. I don't think she liked that.)
>>Bob Dylan is touring again, dates and prices TBA. And you can bet I'll sell my soul to get tickets.
>>The Music this thursday, opened-for by Cassavian! (im, not. lazy! i,m edg.y)
>>I found my favorite harmonica again. This doesn't sound like a big deal, but it really is.
>>Harry finally changed his template! He didn't republish, though, so it was rather pointless, but still...
>>Conversation from earlier: Me: My relationships with Alex and Oona are very similar.
Harry: I hope not, given how often you kiss her!
Me: except for that part.
My mom is actually trying to force the computer off, so I have to go. I love you guys!
Oh, man, I'm in such a good mood. Who needs drugs? This is good enough!
We cut two classes in a row.
I clogged up my nose and told Chris I had a cold to get out of Fitness, and Oona had a sub and didn't care. We even went to the Stu and held our turf in the corner for a full forty minutes. I up-and didn't go to Sculpture, and I don't know what I'm going to tell Yarrott tomorrow. He'll definately give me a B or B+ now.
Why do I just simply not care?
I'm in such a good mood.
Good Stuff:
>>I finally got a new bag! I probably won't use it long, but for two bucks, you can't go wrong.
>>Went to the Tea House again. I don't know why that made me happy, but it did. Aside from a certain someone not being very firm in the convictions she needs to have...
>>Amanda and I got some great vinyls. REALLY great. Like "Yes-albums-and-live-broadcasts-from-brittish-radio-stations-in-perfect-condition" great.
>>My dad decided RANDOMLY to increase my allowance and stop making me work for it. I can't explain how uncharacteristic of him such actions are.
>>I now have a solid A in Camille's class, her highest grade, and I just found out that she too shares my passion for folk music.
>>I think I'm really starting to understand The Crying of Lot 49. Although Fish now thinks I'm a dork for it. Laura too, probably. Ah, well!
>>Tory was over today, interacting with Harry, which is always amusing, especially since I'm ninety-nine percent sure that she has a crush on him. Plus she'd just had rich dark chocolate.
>>I love my boyfriend. I do. Even though he insists on whipping out his laptop in the middle of the park and then complains when the birds shit on it.
>>My sister said that talking to me was more therapeutic for her than talking to a shrink. And made me a Valentine's Day card.
>>I had a great Valentine's Day! For ONCE it wasn't depressing as all hell. (I can't speak for my sister, though; she had a palate expander put in her mouth, and by a female dentist, no less. I told her she should at least have a guy in her mouth on V-day. I don't think she liked that.)
>>Bob Dylan is touring again, dates and prices TBA. And you can bet I'll sell my soul to get tickets.
>>The Music this thursday, opened-for by Cassavian! (im, not. lazy! i,m edg.y)
>>I found my favorite harmonica again. This doesn't sound like a big deal, but it really is.
>>Harry finally changed his template! He didn't republish, though, so it was rather pointless, but still...
>>Conversation from earlier: Me: My relationships with Alex and Oona are very similar.
Harry: I hope not, given how often you kiss her!
Me: except for that part.
My mom is actually trying to force the computer off, so I have to go. I love you guys!
Oh, man, I'm in such a good mood. Who needs drugs? This is good enough!
posted by VVM at 7:04 PM
2 New Ideas
Sunday, February 13
Oye como va!
I spent Friday wandering the streets with Harry and eating chocolate, despite the fact that Matt's band (and every other band in the world, apparantly) was playing the Tsunami concert.
Lots of chocolate.
As in, when a bowl of fondue was placed in front of me, I dipped everything in sight into the fondue and ingested it. Including the decorative-purposes-only mint leaves.
And when I ran out, I tipped the dish and used the fondue tongs.
And then my fingers.
It was good chocolate, though. Really good.
Afterwards we went back to Elena's house. ("We" here means "Elena, Harry, Maya and I, plus half of Horace Mann." The female half.) I quickly discovered that, being of different cliques in a very large school, none of them really knew each other, and that, despite being from Friends, Harry, Maya and I already had an advantage over them in that we, at least, knew each other's names. (Harry quickly discovered that the bag he was carrying-- the one with the glass bottle of cooking oil in it-- had a hole in the bottom. Poor shoes.)
I was feeling terribly guilty for having missed the concert, especially since Matt's band was named after one of my all-time favorite poems (Haha! I can link!), so I allowed myself to be persuaded to go to Pucci's afterwards.
This odd collection of girls (and Harry and his oily shoes) was still feeling a little uncomfy in Elena's living room, and desperately needed an icebreaker. So when Matt called me up, what could I do but ask him, Lucas and Clark to come upstairs?
Apparantly, I wasn't the only one who was feeling a little hyper. Lucas, Matt and Clark wasted no time finding the Yamaha Acoustic.
And the Fender Strat.
And the Ukelele.
And the cake.
And Lucas played Substitute while Elena and I danced.
And Matt played the songs I missed at the Tsunami concert.
And I played Ballad of a Gypsy Girl far better than when I recorded it last year.
And Clark played the acoustic six-string like an electric bass.
And I danced. And danced. And danced.
And Lucas played The Real Girl and Penn's song from last year.
And I sang along to pretty much every song. Even when I didn't know the words.
And Matt played Something and Elena was happy.
And we stayed far later than we intended to.
At eleven, we were finally wandering the streets again in search of Pucci's. (I did a lot of wandering that day.) By the time I got there, I had a full five minutes to hang out before I had to leave. I think Will was actually kind of intoxicated. This was especially unusual, because last time I went to Pucci's I saw him win five rounds of Vodka Pong without blinking an eye. (I hadn't yet read Oona's blog and knew nothing of the events of the concert.) I got to play a few minutes of foosball, say hi to Rie, and take off my coat. Then I got to say goodbye to Rie, brush the chalk dust off of my coat, and walk home.
It would have sucked if Harry hadn't been so sweet and walked me home and stayed another hour, after which my dad started getting ready to throw him out.
Footnote- Clark, I'm sure you don't read this, but happy birthday anyway. Belated, because I haven't blogged since Thursday, but sincere nonetheless.
On Saturday we went to the Aztec exhibit at the Guggenheim and endured my dad's Violent Mexican jokes. ("We" here refers to my parents and Harry, because we're dorks, not Maya and the female half of Horace Mann.) It was actually really cool, and pretty violent. The oddest part was that I had already seen some of the statues two years ago in Mexico, when I had belly flub and short hair, which threw everything into a strange deja-vu-ish light.
Later we ate pasta and Harry and I went to see his mother's play. We sat in the cafe across the street beforehand and talked about life. I had jello with whipped cream and felt like it was five years ago. I kept thinking about this poem I read then, and couldn't rest until I'd remembered every word of it, and didn't dare say anything about it because it was so perfect.
The play was amazing. Depressing as all hell, yes, but amazing nonetheless. Afterwards we met the cast briefly and then-- surprise!-- the playwrite himself. Actually, I didn't place him until I was at home and tucked warmly in bed. Then I remembered his face from the photo in Great American Screenplays of the 1990s. Neil LaBute. Of course. In The Company Of Men. The Shape Of Things. Nurse Betty.
I hate realizing who I've just met the minute after I've met them. Agony! Still, better to have met him and not known it than never to have done so... and I had even said something along the lines of "Seeing your play enacted like this makes me want to write a play myself," to which he replied, "Do it." God, I felt like such a dolt.
Then I started thinking about how I hadn't really read anything good for the past month and how all I ever want to do is become a writer, no matter what the cost, and how I really wanted to read Oscar Wilde again.
So I did. I read Salome and Lady Windermere's Fan and at least half of The Picture of Dorian Gray while sitting crosslegged in the hall just outside the bathroom so the light wouldn't wake Renata up. I went to sleep at around four and felt grumpy and irritable and got into ANOTHER fight about my grades and my summer plans with my parents and cried yet again and had my plans to go out tonight forcibly cancelled. Finally I wrote this while listening to Santana out of sheer boredom.
Edit: Harry, if you're reading this, and have survived all the way to the bottom of this entry, you're definately online (although maybe not awake) and perfectly capable of changing your template... hint, hint...
Lots of chocolate.
As in, when a bowl of fondue was placed in front of me, I dipped everything in sight into the fondue and ingested it. Including the decorative-purposes-only mint leaves.
And when I ran out, I tipped the dish and used the fondue tongs.
And then my fingers.
It was good chocolate, though. Really good.
Afterwards we went back to Elena's house. ("We" here means "Elena, Harry, Maya and I, plus half of Horace Mann." The female half.) I quickly discovered that, being of different cliques in a very large school, none of them really knew each other, and that, despite being from Friends, Harry, Maya and I already had an advantage over them in that we, at least, knew each other's names. (Harry quickly discovered that the bag he was carrying-- the one with the glass bottle of cooking oil in it-- had a hole in the bottom. Poor shoes.)
I was feeling terribly guilty for having missed the concert, especially since Matt's band was named after one of my all-time favorite poems (Haha! I can link!), so I allowed myself to be persuaded to go to Pucci's afterwards.
This odd collection of girls (and Harry and his oily shoes) was still feeling a little uncomfy in Elena's living room, and desperately needed an icebreaker. So when Matt called me up, what could I do but ask him, Lucas and Clark to come upstairs?
Apparantly, I wasn't the only one who was feeling a little hyper. Lucas, Matt and Clark wasted no time finding the Yamaha Acoustic.
And the Fender Strat.
And the Ukelele.
And the cake.
And Lucas played Substitute while Elena and I danced.
And Matt played the songs I missed at the Tsunami concert.
And I played Ballad of a Gypsy Girl far better than when I recorded it last year.
And Clark played the acoustic six-string like an electric bass.
And I danced. And danced. And danced.
And Lucas played The Real Girl and Penn's song from last year.
And I sang along to pretty much every song. Even when I didn't know the words.
And Matt played Something and Elena was happy.
And we stayed far later than we intended to.
At eleven, we were finally wandering the streets again in search of Pucci's. (I did a lot of wandering that day.) By the time I got there, I had a full five minutes to hang out before I had to leave. I think Will was actually kind of intoxicated. This was especially unusual, because last time I went to Pucci's I saw him win five rounds of Vodka Pong without blinking an eye. (I hadn't yet read Oona's blog and knew nothing of the events of the concert.) I got to play a few minutes of foosball, say hi to Rie, and take off my coat. Then I got to say goodbye to Rie, brush the chalk dust off of my coat, and walk home.
It would have sucked if Harry hadn't been so sweet and walked me home and stayed another hour, after which my dad started getting ready to throw him out.
Footnote- Clark, I'm sure you don't read this, but happy birthday anyway. Belated, because I haven't blogged since Thursday, but sincere nonetheless.
On Saturday we went to the Aztec exhibit at the Guggenheim and endured my dad's Violent Mexican jokes. ("We" here refers to my parents and Harry, because we're dorks, not Maya and the female half of Horace Mann.) It was actually really cool, and pretty violent. The oddest part was that I had already seen some of the statues two years ago in Mexico, when I had belly flub and short hair, which threw everything into a strange deja-vu-ish light.
Later we ate pasta and Harry and I went to see his mother's play. We sat in the cafe across the street beforehand and talked about life. I had jello with whipped cream and felt like it was five years ago. I kept thinking about this poem I read then, and couldn't rest until I'd remembered every word of it, and didn't dare say anything about it because it was so perfect.
The play was amazing. Depressing as all hell, yes, but amazing nonetheless. Afterwards we met the cast briefly and then-- surprise!-- the playwrite himself. Actually, I didn't place him until I was at home and tucked warmly in bed. Then I remembered his face from the photo in Great American Screenplays of the 1990s. Neil LaBute. Of course. In The Company Of Men. The Shape Of Things. Nurse Betty.
I hate realizing who I've just met the minute after I've met them. Agony! Still, better to have met him and not known it than never to have done so... and I had even said something along the lines of "Seeing your play enacted like this makes me want to write a play myself," to which he replied, "Do it." God, I felt like such a dolt.
Then I started thinking about how I hadn't really read anything good for the past month and how all I ever want to do is become a writer, no matter what the cost, and how I really wanted to read Oscar Wilde again.
So I did. I read Salome and Lady Windermere's Fan and at least half of The Picture of Dorian Gray while sitting crosslegged in the hall just outside the bathroom so the light wouldn't wake Renata up. I went to sleep at around four and felt grumpy and irritable and got into ANOTHER fight about my grades and my summer plans with my parents and cried yet again and had my plans to go out tonight forcibly cancelled. Finally I wrote this while listening to Santana out of sheer boredom.
Edit: Harry, if you're reading this, and have survived all the way to the bottom of this entry, you're definately online (although maybe not awake) and perfectly capable of changing your template... hint, hint...
posted by VVM at 12:50 PM
4 New Ideas
Thursday, February 10
New Morning
This week and last week have been extremely stressful for me; I've been filled with a deep-growing frustration that has bled into other areas of my life and made me feel disgruntled and generally discontent. By yesterday it had started to wane, leaving me feeling the way someone who has just been beaten feels as the pain in their bones begins to wash away. Too few people in this world love each other. Too few people care about how other people feel. Art is dying, and nobody but me cares. I've been a bitch this week and don't deserve to be loved as much as I am. I'm just not as cool as the people around me. They can't honestly like me. It must all be fake. I hate things that are fake. These were the thoughts in my head. (NB I'm really not asking you guys for sympathy. That's not what this blog is about. "Pity-Me" posts make me want to puke, and besides, I'm past feeling like that now, anyway; I'm just telling you honestly how I felt.)
I had lunch with David Tay fourth period today and talked about egocentricism and stuff, and I realized that, no matter what some may say, people genuinely do care about each other. They really do. They love each other and do things just to make each other happy and they feel each other's pain and they forgive each other and they love each other truly and deeply and they try to remedy the injustice in the world. Some people screw up some times, and some people don't love as much as others or have as positive and effect as others, but I really do honestly believe that people have inherent goodness in them-- I want to call it original godliness but without the god bit-- does that make any sense? In Mexico they say "Dios es Amor"-- God is Love. Original loving-ness. I remember once during one of my bleaker breakdowns I cried and thought that I was so lost that I couldn't think of one thing that was solidly true of myself, and Harry asked me if I thought that, based on my own experiences, people were genuinely good at heart and I couldn't answer him. I think I've changed and I think I've grown a lot since eigth grade (reminder: I'm very young), even since last summer. I've always felt alone, and known that I can't ever be fully understood, and known that I won't ever tell everything about myself to anyone, but I'm starting to realize that-- this won't make any sense to you, but here goes-- that I can be alone with people. My little book-lined castle on a cloud can have neighbors and I can tell people enough about myself that hopefully, with a little intelligence, they can begin to understand me. I sit around analyzing people and trying to understand their motives, but I can't do it without involving my own motives and reflecting and projecting myself into my analises (sp). (That was a terrible metaphor. I'm sorry. I don't know how else to say what I mean.) It's like Othello; you can use the facts to arrive at any number of conclusions and never be wrong... and yet there are still far more wrong answers than right ones, and finding truth in it still takes measureless effort. But there is truth out there and it's worth the search. And the only one who can identify it for you is yourself, because (and this sounds more senseless than anything I've said so far) truth is relative. What's true of the world to one person isn't true to another; what's true one day isn't true another. And yet it's true, and real, and solid. I have trouble with solidity, I guess.
And another thing: Oona, dearest, I love you wholeheartedly but I disagree with you and Jera (who I think I've talked to maybe once... isn't that odd?). All men are not bad or inherently assholes. All relationships are not mostly pain. I know that there are only a few truly happy loving couples at our school who aren't sick of each other, and that happy relationships are somewhat rare, really, but they do exist and you can find them and make them work. The key is to find someone who you truly love who can love you back, and not to throw yourself on the rack if they can't. And as Zack the wise one would say, love brings out the best in us. I could argue that it also brings out the worst, because it's true, and that it can cause us more pain than anything else in the world; but the good truly, truly, truly outweighs the bad.
Honestly.
Right now I guess I'm just revelling in really honestly being loved and in leading a truly wonderful life filled with beautiful people and in having the ability to love people. And probably in hormone inbalances. But hey, I'm a teenager. I'm allowed to have mood swings and passionate emotions. And right now I couldn't care less what causes them, because whatever causes them is a part of me and a part of who I am, and what I feel and write is truth and is genuine like water and not false at all. I just want to love with all my heart and to be loved back.
I had lunch with David Tay fourth period today and talked about egocentricism and stuff, and I realized that, no matter what some may say, people genuinely do care about each other. They really do. They love each other and do things just to make each other happy and they feel each other's pain and they forgive each other and they love each other truly and deeply and they try to remedy the injustice in the world. Some people screw up some times, and some people don't love as much as others or have as positive and effect as others, but I really do honestly believe that people have inherent goodness in them-- I want to call it original godliness but without the god bit-- does that make any sense? In Mexico they say "Dios es Amor"-- God is Love. Original loving-ness. I remember once during one of my bleaker breakdowns I cried and thought that I was so lost that I couldn't think of one thing that was solidly true of myself, and Harry asked me if I thought that, based on my own experiences, people were genuinely good at heart and I couldn't answer him. I think I've changed and I think I've grown a lot since eigth grade (reminder: I'm very young), even since last summer. I've always felt alone, and known that I can't ever be fully understood, and known that I won't ever tell everything about myself to anyone, but I'm starting to realize that-- this won't make any sense to you, but here goes-- that I can be alone with people. My little book-lined castle on a cloud can have neighbors and I can tell people enough about myself that hopefully, with a little intelligence, they can begin to understand me. I sit around analyzing people and trying to understand their motives, but I can't do it without involving my own motives and reflecting and projecting myself into my analises (sp). (That was a terrible metaphor. I'm sorry. I don't know how else to say what I mean.) It's like Othello; you can use the facts to arrive at any number of conclusions and never be wrong... and yet there are still far more wrong answers than right ones, and finding truth in it still takes measureless effort. But there is truth out there and it's worth the search. And the only one who can identify it for you is yourself, because (and this sounds more senseless than anything I've said so far) truth is relative. What's true of the world to one person isn't true to another; what's true one day isn't true another. And yet it's true, and real, and solid. I have trouble with solidity, I guess.
And another thing: Oona, dearest, I love you wholeheartedly but I disagree with you and Jera (who I think I've talked to maybe once... isn't that odd?). All men are not bad or inherently assholes. All relationships are not mostly pain. I know that there are only a few truly happy loving couples at our school who aren't sick of each other, and that happy relationships are somewhat rare, really, but they do exist and you can find them and make them work. The key is to find someone who you truly love who can love you back, and not to throw yourself on the rack if they can't. And as Zack the wise one would say, love brings out the best in us. I could argue that it also brings out the worst, because it's true, and that it can cause us more pain than anything else in the world; but the good truly, truly, truly outweighs the bad.
Honestly.
Right now I guess I'm just revelling in really honestly being loved and in leading a truly wonderful life filled with beautiful people and in having the ability to love people. And probably in hormone inbalances. But hey, I'm a teenager. I'm allowed to have mood swings and passionate emotions. And right now I couldn't care less what causes them, because whatever causes them is a part of me and a part of who I am, and what I feel and write is truth and is genuine like water and not false at all. I just want to love with all my heart and to be loved back.
posted by VVM at 6:06 PM
4 New Ideas
Tuesday, February 8
Hard Times in New York Town
I made this list at the height of my frustration around yesterday, and I thought I'd post it because I can't think of anything that better expresses my opinions. As a prior disclaimer, however, I'm not writing this to get sympathy or comfort-- I just feel like venting, and you, like Lennon's audience, are the unlucky recipients of the blunt end of my anger and frustration. I actually edited this list quite a bit because I didn't want to unintentionally insult anyone.
Things That Piss Me Off
>>Being treated like a kid, or differently from people I hang out with, because I'm younger
>>When I snap at people for no reason (which usually almost never happens... this last week has been tough.)
>>Harry haven stolen my template (I don't really care about this one, I just wanted to remind him subtly to change it. Guess it's too late for subtlty now... ah, well.)
>>Feeling indelicate and unfemenine
>>When people don't like my twisted black ink drawings, or look at me like I'm insane when I finish them
>>Being just a face to people
>>Feeling ready to drown/cry at Barnes and Noble and embarrassing myself
>>My conversational awkwardness
>>Backstabbers
>>That I have so much junk and people don't accept it when I try to give it to them
>>Everyone's inability to understand the pressure I'm under
>>Coming up with fitting blog aliases. I've decided to give up and just say what I mean.
>>Being called cute. I hate cute.
>>Jealousy. At the risk of completely killing the topic, it really is a motherfucking bitch.
>>Obsessions with ethnicities and sexualities (homo, metro, british, asian, hispanic, etc.), a crime that I'm extremely hypocritically guilty of.
>>Triple-booking my weekends and doing stuff I don't want to do on week days
>>People who don't make clear whether they like me or not.
>>Having lost all my St. Mark's Place connections and habits
>>Not having been to the Reading Room for ages, and thus not having seen Matt (no longer Jack 2) or Chloe or Zack for weeks
>>Bram's class
>>My grades in Bram's class
>>My grades in Mr. Schubert's class
>>That I hung up on Elena when she needed me
>>That I have to take Sue Steckel's math thing over Spring Break and am going to be all alone during it.
>>Ms. Daly, her class, her advisory, and the fact that she hates me because I know more Bob Dylan lyrics than her.
>>The pimples on my forehead
>>People who get depressed EVERY DAY and expect to be comforted ALL THE TIME and stopped from jumping out the window every other week.
>>People who really don't get depressed every day and help me when I'm upset and never ask much of me except for every now and then, and I just have to fuck it up and not know how to comfort them when they're upset
>>douchebag. Because he is, and I don't want to do him the honor of printing his name in my beautiful blog.
>>Having been a C cup in fifth grade and being an E now. I know it sounds lovely, but it really isn't. At all.
>>These damned arrows. I don't know how to get bullet points.
>>Fighting with my parents, even though I'm doing it right now. I fucking hate it, and I can't stop it. It just gets worse.
>>Being thought of as a druggie even though I'm not, and getting yelled at by Ava for smoking when I've never even had one puff in my whole life.
>>Being repeatedly asked to join Quaker Leadership
Things That DON'T Piss Me Off
>>Harry, who is always forgiving and loving and holds me tenderly and kisses away my scars and would never hurt me, even though I'm a bitch sometimes (as in this whole past week).
>>People who write things about me in their blogs. Anything at all, really. I just like being included. Praised is good, too...
>>People who don't care how old I am.
>>Feeling like I made someone feel good or enriched their life in some ways, if only minimally.
>>People who are really good poets and like the songs that I am most embarrassed about having penned, and always cheer me up when I call them, sometimes unintentionally.
>>Knowing how to link! Thank you again, Laura dear.
>>Days when I don't fight with my parents.
>>Doing well in English.
Things That Piss Me Off
>>Being treated like a kid, or differently from people I hang out with, because I'm younger
>>When I snap at people for no reason (which usually almost never happens... this last week has been tough.)
>>Harry haven stolen my template (I don't really care about this one, I just wanted to remind him subtly to change it. Guess it's too late for subtlty now... ah, well.)
>>Feeling indelicate and unfemenine
>>When people don't like my twisted black ink drawings, or look at me like I'm insane when I finish them
>>Being just a face to people
>>Feeling ready to drown/cry at Barnes and Noble and embarrassing myself
>>My conversational awkwardness
>>Backstabbers
>>That I have so much junk and people don't accept it when I try to give it to them
>>Everyone's inability to understand the pressure I'm under
>>Coming up with fitting blog aliases. I've decided to give up and just say what I mean.
>>Being called cute. I hate cute.
>>Jealousy. At the risk of completely killing the topic, it really is a motherfucking bitch.
>>Obsessions with ethnicities and sexualities (homo, metro, british, asian, hispanic, etc.), a crime that I'm extremely hypocritically guilty of.
>>Triple-booking my weekends and doing stuff I don't want to do on week days
>>People who don't make clear whether they like me or not.
>>Having lost all my St. Mark's Place connections and habits
>>Not having been to the Reading Room for ages, and thus not having seen Matt (no longer Jack 2) or Chloe or Zack for weeks
>>Bram's class
>>My grades in Bram's class
>>My grades in Mr. Schubert's class
>>That I hung up on Elena when she needed me
>>That I have to take Sue Steckel's math thing over Spring Break and am going to be all alone during it.
>>Ms. Daly, her class, her advisory, and the fact that she hates me because I know more Bob Dylan lyrics than her.
>>The pimples on my forehead
>>People who get depressed EVERY DAY and expect to be comforted ALL THE TIME and stopped from jumping out the window every other week.
>>People who really don't get depressed every day and help me when I'm upset and never ask much of me except for every now and then, and I just have to fuck it up and not know how to comfort them when they're upset
>>douchebag. Because he is, and I don't want to do him the honor of printing his name in my beautiful blog.
>>Having been a C cup in fifth grade and being an E now. I know it sounds lovely, but it really isn't. At all.
>>These damned arrows. I don't know how to get bullet points.
>>Fighting with my parents, even though I'm doing it right now. I fucking hate it, and I can't stop it. It just gets worse.
>>Being thought of as a druggie even though I'm not, and getting yelled at by Ava for smoking when I've never even had one puff in my whole life.
>>Being repeatedly asked to join Quaker Leadership
Things That DON'T Piss Me Off
>>Harry, who is always forgiving and loving and holds me tenderly and kisses away my scars and would never hurt me, even though I'm a bitch sometimes (as in this whole past week).
>>People who write things about me in their blogs. Anything at all, really. I just like being included. Praised is good, too...
>>People who don't care how old I am.
>>Feeling like I made someone feel good or enriched their life in some ways, if only minimally.
>>People who are really good poets and like the songs that I am most embarrassed about having penned, and always cheer me up when I call them, sometimes unintentionally.
>>Knowing how to link! Thank you again, Laura dear.
>>Days when I don't fight with my parents.
>>Doing well in English.
posted by VVM at 6:42 PM
2 New Ideas
Monday, February 7
I, me, mine
I went to Kids Helping Kids today for the first time this year and realized what a bitch I am. I was in the worst mood after school today because of my grades and the fact that I spent about four hours arguing with my parents about them last weekend. I even managed to get upset at Harry about nothing at all... it had to do with rollercoasters and scary movies and my fears of them. It was just plainly ridiculous. I even managed to slight Rie slightly, even though she's one of the people I admire most. Anyway, seeing the kids so cheerful with so little to be cheerful about threw the harsh realities of the world in my face like the metaphysical sack of bricks. Not so much because they were leading such horrible lives but because theirs are positively cute compared to so many other people and children around the world. I felt terribly egotistical and shallow.
Another thing I really admired about them was their ability (abilities? Help me here, Rach, you loveable grammar nazi) to show their feelings, let us know when they wanted attention and to accept love when they got it. I really don't show my feelings very well. When I'm happy, God knows, the whole world is made painfully aware of it, but when I'm upset I carefully hide the source of my anger, and I never have any idea of how to comfort people who are upset or accept compliments.
A brief detour: at the very beginning, about two months into our relationship, I actually considered dumping Bogo-San because I was too happy. I figured that getting so involved with someone would just give me more pain later in life. Happiness --> Pain; if I was enjoying myself too much, I'd suffer for it later. Better to nip the damn thing in the bud. What the hell kind of reasoning is that? I guess I really just don't really know how to sit back and be happy. Whenever I am truly happy, I feel like it's a rare privilege. Although these days, especially these last two months or so, I've been happy a LOT more frequently. (It's all your fault, dear readers. Aren't I obnoxious, adressing my readers? I love it. A whole webpage to contain my egocentricism.) Anyway, just when the dark-brooding-poetess side of me had almost won, Harry came over and said some incredibly romantic things and I gave up and decided to try to enjoy myself. I can't explain how glad I am that I didn't go through with it.
Even last week, when eating at Paquito's with Cornelius and AB, it took C. about ten minutes to convince me to let her buy me something as simple as a Snapple. "V.V., I love you and I want to buy your drink," she finally said, and I melted. How can you refuse that face, those words?
I guess I really am the embodiment of what Rie blogged against last week.
In a less self-centered vein, today was Elena the Magnificent's birthday. (I think Magnifico should be your new blog alias. Let's discuss.) Although I still haven't found the buddha earrings, I did manage to convince her dad to buy her a more expensive guitar (yay! humbuckers! rich white kids! jimi hendrix rip-offs!) and treat her to a heart-shaped cookie. I also managed to sing half of Paul McCartney's Birthday to her over the phone before I cracked up. I love you with all my heart, Elena, and I hope you had a really great day, despite your prior recount of its suckiness. And because it's your birthday I forgive you for scratching my boob. Why do I think you're going to leave a comment that's longer than this blog entry.... again?
God, there go my parents again. I can't fucking stand it.
Another thing I really admired about them was their ability (abilities? Help me here, Rach, you loveable grammar nazi) to show their feelings, let us know when they wanted attention and to accept love when they got it. I really don't show my feelings very well. When I'm happy, God knows, the whole world is made painfully aware of it, but when I'm upset I carefully hide the source of my anger, and I never have any idea of how to comfort people who are upset or accept compliments.
A brief detour: at the very beginning, about two months into our relationship, I actually considered dumping Bogo-San because I was too happy. I figured that getting so involved with someone would just give me more pain later in life. Happiness --> Pain; if I was enjoying myself too much, I'd suffer for it later. Better to nip the damn thing in the bud. What the hell kind of reasoning is that? I guess I really just don't really know how to sit back and be happy. Whenever I am truly happy, I feel like it's a rare privilege. Although these days, especially these last two months or so, I've been happy a LOT more frequently. (It's all your fault, dear readers. Aren't I obnoxious, adressing my readers? I love it. A whole webpage to contain my egocentricism.) Anyway, just when the dark-brooding-poetess side of me had almost won, Harry came over and said some incredibly romantic things and I gave up and decided to try to enjoy myself. I can't explain how glad I am that I didn't go through with it.
Even last week, when eating at Paquito's with Cornelius and AB, it took C. about ten minutes to convince me to let her buy me something as simple as a Snapple. "V.V., I love you and I want to buy your drink," she finally said, and I melted. How can you refuse that face, those words?
I guess I really am the embodiment of what Rie blogged against last week.
In a less self-centered vein, today was Elena the Magnificent's birthday. (I think Magnifico should be your new blog alias. Let's discuss.) Although I still haven't found the buddha earrings, I did manage to convince her dad to buy her a more expensive guitar (yay! humbuckers! rich white kids! jimi hendrix rip-offs!) and treat her to a heart-shaped cookie. I also managed to sing half of Paul McCartney's Birthday to her over the phone before I cracked up. I love you with all my heart, Elena, and I hope you had a really great day, despite your prior recount of its suckiness. And because it's your birthday I forgive you for scratching my boob. Why do I think you're going to leave a comment that's longer than this blog entry.... again?
God, there go my parents again. I can't fucking stand it.
posted by VVM at 6:15 PM
2 New Ideas
Sunday, February 6
yea! heavy and a bottle of bread
I've been wondering since about thursday why nobody has posted any new blog entries, and generally feeling annoyed, until I realized that I hadn't posted anything either. Anyway, a few things I'd like to get straight:
1.I no longer have any sort of "thing" for Andy. I was merely reminiscing when I wrote that post. Therefore there is no controversy.
2.I am not a procrastinator. In fact, I finished all my homework this weekend on saturday morning. If I was a little hyper after I ate a cup of chocolate brownie batter ice cream, I truly can't be blamed, and if Harry took the comments off of his blog, how could I rebutt his accusations? Anyway, I am a very hard worker.
3.Renata and I are much more mature than Harry and Travis. It's just true.
4.Tomorrow is Elena the Magnificent's beautiful birthday. I love you. And I will find the buddha earrings if I have to spend the next week doing it.
5.Oona is lovely
She doesn't know that I am
Filled with green envy.
(I'm not actually jealous of her; I just love her and wouldn't mind being her.)
6.Paul McCartney's superbowl performance was overrated.
7.Jack2 is one of the most amazing people I've ever met. It struck me today that I've never really told him that. I aspire to parallel him.
8.Elena and Avery are not from Mexico.
9.New blog list: Rachel, Oona, Neo, Julia, Renata, my second blog (named after a Matthew Arnolds poem. I'm just that artsy.) Sorry, but I've been meaning to do that for a while, and the list just isn't getting any shorter. I'm sure more are on their way, too.
This weekend I went with Elena to see Forbidden Broadway. It was one of the most hilarious plays I've ever seen, and the cast (of four members and one pianist) was amazing. Every satirical word hit home. Seeing Phantom of the Opera and Avenue Q get slandered was painful, though.
I also went to eat with my sister, Harry and Travis and acted like a five year old. It was great. Renata and I started to imitate Travis and Harry, and Harry said "Wow, you guys are so wierd," which made us crack up all over again. My cheeks ached from laughing at the end of the night. We had terrible cheap sushi. Afterwards I went to Harry's and had a lovely romantic time. I am so terribly in love. It's so relieving.
I also went to Frankie's for the assistant-director-ish party-thing, even though I only went to one thingy. It was a blast, and I felt infinately less self-conscious than when we went to Rocky Horror a few months ago. The difference was palpable. I'm still not completely secure, but I suppose having people in my grade and even younger with me probably helped. And having had a lot of chocolate and tea. And knowing everyone better.
My schedule and the scheduling world in general is against me. I can't take any of the classes I want to take, and besides that, I already have simply too much to do. There are about thirty people I can list off the top of my head that I'd really like to get to know better, and unfortunately many of them are leaving, graduating, changing schools, falling out of touch with me, gone forever, or just simply leading busy lives. Why do I always feel that I love more than I am loved? Why do I fall in love with everyone I meet?
A few days ago I bit into a butterfinger bar and felt the strongest sense of nostalgia that I have perhaps ever experienced. It was painful. I walked out of Chem and cried in the bathroom. It was also strangely enjoyable, probably because it proved my own humanity to me. Something in me loves crying and hates being seen doing it. Very few people have ever seen me cry, although I do it rather frequently.
When some people say "peace," they don't mean it or understand it. I feel like nobody really recognizes how very sincere those rare people are about it who actually know what they're saying.
If you're wondering why this was so choppy, it was because my mom keeps bugging me to get off of this thing, and I'm trying to appease her. My love, and peace, to all. I mean it.
1.I no longer have any sort of "thing" for Andy. I was merely reminiscing when I wrote that post. Therefore there is no controversy.
2.I am not a procrastinator. In fact, I finished all my homework this weekend on saturday morning. If I was a little hyper after I ate a cup of chocolate brownie batter ice cream, I truly can't be blamed, and if Harry took the comments off of his blog, how could I rebutt his accusations? Anyway, I am a very hard worker.
3.Renata and I are much more mature than Harry and Travis. It's just true.
4.Tomorrow is Elena the Magnificent's beautiful birthday. I love you. And I will find the buddha earrings if I have to spend the next week doing it.
5.Oona is lovely
She doesn't know that I am
Filled with green envy.
(I'm not actually jealous of her; I just love her and wouldn't mind being her.)
6.Paul McCartney's superbowl performance was overrated.
7.Jack2 is one of the most amazing people I've ever met. It struck me today that I've never really told him that. I aspire to parallel him.
8.Elena and Avery are not from Mexico.
9.New blog list: Rachel, Oona, Neo, Julia, Renata, my second blog (named after a Matthew Arnolds poem. I'm just that artsy.) Sorry, but I've been meaning to do that for a while, and the list just isn't getting any shorter. I'm sure more are on their way, too.
This weekend I went with Elena to see Forbidden Broadway. It was one of the most hilarious plays I've ever seen, and the cast (of four members and one pianist) was amazing. Every satirical word hit home. Seeing Phantom of the Opera and Avenue Q get slandered was painful, though.
I also went to eat with my sister, Harry and Travis and acted like a five year old. It was great. Renata and I started to imitate Travis and Harry, and Harry said "Wow, you guys are so wierd," which made us crack up all over again. My cheeks ached from laughing at the end of the night. We had terrible cheap sushi. Afterwards I went to Harry's and had a lovely romantic time. I am so terribly in love. It's so relieving.
I also went to Frankie's for the assistant-director-ish party-thing, even though I only went to one thingy. It was a blast, and I felt infinately less self-conscious than when we went to Rocky Horror a few months ago. The difference was palpable. I'm still not completely secure, but I suppose having people in my grade and even younger with me probably helped. And having had a lot of chocolate and tea. And knowing everyone better.
My schedule and the scheduling world in general is against me. I can't take any of the classes I want to take, and besides that, I already have simply too much to do. There are about thirty people I can list off the top of my head that I'd really like to get to know better, and unfortunately many of them are leaving, graduating, changing schools, falling out of touch with me, gone forever, or just simply leading busy lives. Why do I always feel that I love more than I am loved? Why do I fall in love with everyone I meet?
A few days ago I bit into a butterfinger bar and felt the strongest sense of nostalgia that I have perhaps ever experienced. It was painful. I walked out of Chem and cried in the bathroom. It was also strangely enjoyable, probably because it proved my own humanity to me. Something in me loves crying and hates being seen doing it. Very few people have ever seen me cry, although I do it rather frequently.
When some people say "peace," they don't mean it or understand it. I feel like nobody really recognizes how very sincere those rare people are about it who actually know what they're saying.
If you're wondering why this was so choppy, it was because my mom keeps bugging me to get off of this thing, and I'm trying to appease her. My love, and peace, to all. I mean it.
posted by VVM at 6:15 PM
6 New Ideas
Wednesday, February 2
Oh Darling
Today I stressed out during school about my English paper that I'd turned in the week before and about the upcoming History paper and Chem and Spanish tests. I was so irritable that I called Bogo-San a chauvanist when he took me out to eat, bought me a cup of ice-cream and left his brother alone to help me work on my essay. It's so ridiculous I want to laugh and cry when I write it. After I calmed down a bit I apologized profusely and he forgave me instantly, because he is wonderful and for some strange reason loves me. It felt amazing.
One thing that saved me today was my English paper. I was a bit worried that Camille would hate it, because I wrote my essay about Othello (the character) when she specifically told me to write about Roderigo and Cassio (who are dull), and because I tried to include everything in the play when she told me not to and made it eleven pages at 1.5 instead of the suggested six at 2.0. When I got it back, however, there was a big fat A! on the cover. I felt like kissing Camille's overtly effeminate handwriting right off the page. "Wow, V.V.! What a tour de force! This is a very ambitious, brilliant & imaginative reading of Othello. I really like how much you include, how many angles you anayze. Your anaysis is very mature!" The pages were littered with great!s, good points, very smarts and yes!ses.
I'm only quoting.
Ok, I'm being a tad obnoxious. I can't help it. I'm proud of myself.
To add to my already jubilant mood, I figured out what the Industrial Revolution (and consequently my essay) was about, my sister made fun of me (a lot), B.S. made a bunch of little drawings that I taped to my ceiling, and my dad brought me a huge chocolate-chip cookie from Lafayette Bakery for no reason. (Actually, I think it had something to do with my essay, but whatever...)
I also read Travis and Frankie's blogs, in which they appraised Julia Dratel, a long-time favorite of mine who somehow manages not to think the less of me when I answer the phone oddly ("Well, Renata's technically here... but a big ugly black hole just opened in the middle of the piano, and I'm afraid she's lost."), sing showtunes at the top of my lungs when I take them (her and my sister) to lunch during the summer and generally cause people to give us all odd looks. I can't help it--she makes me feel very relaxed. Sweet thing.
But on to the true subject of my semi-daily stream of consciousness: Oona.
My darling Oona requested that I (as in threatened me with death and rape if I failed to) blog about her, and I must say I'm happy to oblige.
I am usually intimidated by people who I percieve as cooler than me, or hostile towards me, a tendancy that ran particularly rampant in me at the beginning of my Freshman year, when all my best friends from childhood had just abandoned me for other schools and I knew nobody. Having missed Powell House didn't help, either. Anyway, I was terrified of Oona and the distant philosophical look she occasionally gave me that made me feel as if she could see exactly what I was and didn't really mind how I reciprocated her judgements. Somehow this year I managed to overcome my insecurities and take a peek at the woman behind the curtain, and what I found there was truly amazing. She is, after all, a lot like me. And yet my polar opposite at times. Jack2 asked me to describe her once (because he didn't know who she was), and I told him that she was essentially meditative but wild, funny and coy, a free spirit burdened with societal restraints. I think he was confused by my description, because when he met her he proclaimed to me, "V.V., I met Oona last night, and she's not shy at all... what were you talking about?" I in turn then became confused, because I realized that there is simply no way to describe Oona. Once, we ended up in First Aid together, and spent the whole time looking away from the gory images on the screen and discussing what good kissers we were (because the sexless manequins inflated every time we touched them). "We're too good, V.V. Our talents are going to waste," she declared. "Too good for anyone but each other," I agreed. Wicked (but tired, because it was early) grins. We spent the four hours afterwards philosophising in the meeting house and various cheap cafes. Later, she and Will introduced me to MacGyver, for which I am eternally grateful, and Will's mother recognized me as the shy fifth-grader who sat in the corner with Oscar Wilde plays, which was a little embarrassing. (Footnote: I think Oona still has my gloves, but I'm not sure. She can keep them, if she forgives me for my comment earlier about the size of her butt...) One sweet testimonial from Oona makes my week. I love you, darling. Hope this post makes you happy.
One thing that saved me today was my English paper. I was a bit worried that Camille would hate it, because I wrote my essay about Othello (the character) when she specifically told me to write about Roderigo and Cassio (who are dull), and because I tried to include everything in the play when she told me not to and made it eleven pages at 1.5 instead of the suggested six at 2.0. When I got it back, however, there was a big fat A! on the cover. I felt like kissing Camille's overtly effeminate handwriting right off the page. "Wow, V.V.! What a tour de force! This is a very ambitious, brilliant & imaginative reading of Othello. I really like how much you include, how many angles you anayze. Your anaysis is very mature!" The pages were littered with great!s, good points, very smarts and yes!ses.
I'm only quoting.
Ok, I'm being a tad obnoxious. I can't help it. I'm proud of myself.
To add to my already jubilant mood, I figured out what the Industrial Revolution (and consequently my essay) was about, my sister made fun of me (a lot), B.S. made a bunch of little drawings that I taped to my ceiling, and my dad brought me a huge chocolate-chip cookie from Lafayette Bakery for no reason. (Actually, I think it had something to do with my essay, but whatever...)
I also read Travis and Frankie's blogs, in which they appraised Julia Dratel, a long-time favorite of mine who somehow manages not to think the less of me when I answer the phone oddly ("Well, Renata's technically here... but a big ugly black hole just opened in the middle of the piano, and I'm afraid she's lost."), sing showtunes at the top of my lungs when I take them (her and my sister) to lunch during the summer and generally cause people to give us all odd looks. I can't help it--she makes me feel very relaxed. Sweet thing.
But on to the true subject of my semi-daily stream of consciousness: Oona.
My darling Oona requested that I (as in threatened me with death and rape if I failed to) blog about her, and I must say I'm happy to oblige.
I am usually intimidated by people who I percieve as cooler than me, or hostile towards me, a tendancy that ran particularly rampant in me at the beginning of my Freshman year, when all my best friends from childhood had just abandoned me for other schools and I knew nobody. Having missed Powell House didn't help, either. Anyway, I was terrified of Oona and the distant philosophical look she occasionally gave me that made me feel as if she could see exactly what I was and didn't really mind how I reciprocated her judgements. Somehow this year I managed to overcome my insecurities and take a peek at the woman behind the curtain, and what I found there was truly amazing. She is, after all, a lot like me. And yet my polar opposite at times. Jack2 asked me to describe her once (because he didn't know who she was), and I told him that she was essentially meditative but wild, funny and coy, a free spirit burdened with societal restraints. I think he was confused by my description, because when he met her he proclaimed to me, "V.V., I met Oona last night, and she's not shy at all... what were you talking about?" I in turn then became confused, because I realized that there is simply no way to describe Oona. Once, we ended up in First Aid together, and spent the whole time looking away from the gory images on the screen and discussing what good kissers we were (because the sexless manequins inflated every time we touched them). "We're too good, V.V. Our talents are going to waste," she declared. "Too good for anyone but each other," I agreed. Wicked (but tired, because it was early) grins. We spent the four hours afterwards philosophising in the meeting house and various cheap cafes. Later, she and Will introduced me to MacGyver, for which I am eternally grateful, and Will's mother recognized me as the shy fifth-grader who sat in the corner with Oscar Wilde plays, which was a little embarrassing. (Footnote: I think Oona still has my gloves, but I'm not sure. She can keep them, if she forgives me for my comment earlier about the size of her butt...) One sweet testimonial from Oona makes my week. I love you, darling. Hope this post makes you happy.
posted by VVM at 7:17 PM
8 New Ideas
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