Alter Egos

2010-01-05T19:40:00.000-08:00

THe move has happened! This blog is now at:

http://latestambitions.wordpress.com/

I will only be updating that blog. Thanks for reading!

Shipping up to Boston

2010-01-04T11:41:00.000-08:00

So today is my first full day in Boston for FWT. My goals are the usual: Live. Laugh. Learn. Read. Write. Move forward.

Restaurant Log: Boston
January 3rd, 2010
The Burren
247 Elm Street, Davis Square
Somerville MA

Irish pub -- not a sports bar. No huge TVs. Not smoky. Celtic music over the speakers. Dim lighting, wooden everything. There's a cello mounted over the window leading to the kitchen from the bar. The waitstaff hangs out underneath it, as though it were some oversized and mutated sprig of mistletoe. Wonderful, rich, Irish food best shared over good conversation -- and I imagine, a Guiness or other draft. $9.00 for a half-pound, delicious burger.

Currently Reading: Jane Eyre by Charlotte Bronte
This is the second time I've read Jane Eyre. The first was in high school, summer reading for sophomore English. At the time, I was tracking four different themes and thoroughly into the story -- into the mystery. I won't spoil it for anyone hasn't read it, because the story itself is amazing. Right now I've been in this middle section where Mr. Rochester is being completely GAH! I mean, it works out for Jane. But there's this line on 158:

I have told you, reader, that I had learned to love Mr. Rochester I could not unlove him now merely because I found that he had ceased to notice me -- because I might pass hours in his presence, and he would notice me -- because I saw all his attention appropriated by a great lady, who scorned touch me with the hem of her robes as she passed, who, if ever her dark and imperious eye fell on me by chance, would withdraw it instantly as from an object too mean to merit observation. I could not unlove him because I felt sure he would soon marry this very lady ...

There was nothing to cool or banish love in these circumstances, though much to create despair. ...

This was the point -- this was where the nerve was touched and teased -- this was where the fever was sustained and fed: she could not charm him

Ok. So it's more than a line. It's a few pages really. It just made my heart die a little. Oh my Jane, I know. I know those feelings. This is the first time I've reread a book and understood what people meant by a book taking on different meanings when you read it at different points in your life. This love story... the love story is what I'm going to remember from this read. You know, I'm just waiting for the axe to fall. Well, I know it will because I know the story. I just want to stop reading here and not have to go on.

The writing is more beautiful than I remembered. This woman can master words and communicate feelings so clearly.

Lolita in Retrospect

2009-12-22T22:01:00.001-08:00

I finished Lolita a few days ago and never wrote anything about it. This is a bit of the e-mail I wrote to my friend who lent it:

So, finishing Lolita was an up-until-three-in-the-morning type deal, and totally worth it. The prose is absolutely phenomenal, as you said. Thank you for lending it to me. The ending blew my mind -- man, once he started to mentally break... the only other book I've read that conveys madness so perfectly just through prose structure is The Yellow Wallpaper, but Nabokov does Charlotte Perkins Gilman one better.

I feel a little disgusted with myself for feeling sorry for Humbert throughout most of the book. However, I credit that to Nabokov's skill as a writer and a storyteller...

My interest has definitely been piqued. Nabokov is on the list of writers to explore and style to learn from. I'm still reeling from the book. In Masters of Style, we would talk about balance -- if the style balanced the story, and served it, or if the style drew attention to itself at the expense of the story. The first job of prose is to tell a story. If it does not do that, it fails as prose. Nabokov's prose here bordered on imbalance, but it was brilliantly played. The elegance and beauty of the prose in juxtaposition with the depravity of the story just worked. At times the story left me breathless. And at times, the writing did. The times when I was floored were when they worked together.

I could go on about this, but I think I'll save my dignity.

I've begun Jane Eyre, but have to admit that I have been spending more time playing Assasin's Creed on the Xbox360 than reading. I miss fantasy and writing those stories. I used to be obsessed with thieves and assassins and try to create dens and rings of the depraved who worked against a heavy handed and evil politician... or someone. I was a horribly cliche teenage fantasy writer. I hope I've grown past that. I would love to be one of those people who wrote good fantasy. Emphasis on good.

I'm really interested in stories that take place in a world almost identical to our own, with one glitch -- one thing fantastic or extraordinary. I just haven't figured out the fantastic yet. Or the story. Starting tomorrow, I would like to start writing everyday again. I'm never very good at keeping this practice up, but tomorrow, I'm going to try again. Just think -- if I actually do it, then I'll have about seven - eight weeks worth of writing when I go back to school. That would be amazing.

Body of Lies

2009-12-14T20:46:00.000-08:00

I know now why the movie Body of Lies didn’t receive much public or critical chatter. It’s movie about the war in the Middle East, and it does not paint either side in a very positive light. I heard mixed things about the acting and the story line — that it was bad and there wasn’t one.

I read an article in Entertainment that criticized DiCaprio’s accent and Crowe’s accent as well. As odd as this sounds, they sounded American. Stereotypically American. I think that might have been the point. Ridley Scott directed this movie, and I really like the other TV Shows and movies he’s done. I respect his direction. AND DiCaprio and Crowe are experienced, talented actors. I think their choices were correct.

That same article said that DiCaprio and Crowe had no chemistry and failed to develop a relationship: I would say that the two characters barely have a relationship in the story itself. They are constantly talking past and over each other, neither listening — especially Crowe. Most of their conversations happen by telephone, and the in-person meetings are tense and awkward. As they should be. Crowe’s character has interfered with and compromised many of the mission his agent (DiCaprio) was heading up. The intel gathered in these missions would have supposedly saved many lives. I don’t know. I’m going on about nothing.

I’m not trying to claim this was the best movie ever. DiCaprio wasn’t at his best. I really have no opinion on Crowe. It just seems to be a very apt movie for our time — one that people may not want to watch, because it forces them to look at something they don’t want to see. The CIA agent (Crowe), who thinks of himself as and possibly comes to represent America, is the least likeable character in the whole movie. That being said, every character has some despicable point (rare, in a movie these days where there needs to be a hero in whom even the flaw is heroic and forgivable.) Sex and drugs are, if anything, on the peripheral. The “action” is gruesome. War is not glorified.

Perhaps not a movie for the masses.

Bookshelves

2009-12-14T18:00:00.001-08:00

I'm a bibliophile, can you tell? I love everything about books -- the way they smell, the way they feel, the way the bindings look all lines up together, what happens to the pages if it gets wet. I love what they contain, what you can press between the pages, and what you return to time and again.

On the way home from school, my dad and I stopped at a used/antique book store. I was in heaven, I kid you not. Upstairs there were shelves of fiction and plays -- beautiful and inlaid with gold, the covers thick and hard, the pages weathered or white. I picked up the copy of Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man that I found. It smelled like old paper and cigarettes. I was in love. Upstairs among the books, I had visceral reaction after visceral reaction. (I think it might have been close to what we typify as an orgasm.) I could hardly catch my breath, and I just wanted to touch everything.

I brought home four books from that store -- three for me and one for a friend. I would have brought the entire place home if I could.

I spent the afternoon cleaning my room, which obviously meant rearranging my bookshelves. Most of my fiction is now in one place, and my non-fiction and poetry in another. My old books are interspersed with new ones. The novels are arranged alphabetically by author, and the rest in whatever way struck my fancy. It's arbitrary, I know, but somehow I can still find everything.

When I own my own home, there will be a library -- one room full of books. I've already started quite a collection, so I don't think it will be hard to fulfill this particular dream. Of course, I need to have a place big enough for this room -- as in, there is enough space to dedicate this one room rather than having it infringe on the living room or someone's bedroom. I want floor to ceiling bookshelves and a rolling ladder. Maybe the ladder is too much to ask for.

A Hypothetical

2009-12-13T20:05:00.000-08:00

I'm thinking of moving this blog over to wordpress. I have an account there for a school project, so I'm on it often. I also just like the formatting better. One glitch -- since I do post to the blog, which will be attached to the school, I don't necessarily want it to be public because well, I don't want everyone who visits that site to click on my profile, find this blog (right now), and be able to read it.

So if I do, in fact, move over to wordpress, then anyone who wants to continue reading this blog would need a wordpress account, so i could add you to the list of readers.

Like I said, this is hypothetical. I might decide that it would be great publicity if I do keep it public. Or, my bosses might say that they don't want any other blog attached to that specific user profile, in which case, I would keep it private.

Anyways... don't be surprised if it never happens. Don't be surprised if it does. I'll keep you posted.

Lo and Behold

2009-12-13T20:04:00.000-08:00

There is this section at the beginning of Part 2 of Lolita that is absolutely breathtaking. Nabokov describes the roadtrip shared by him and Lolita — and the way he describes the landscape, the tourist attractions, the road itself is just wonderful. It’s wonderful technically too. Variations in sentence make-up, simple descriptions but vivid as hell. Fragments. Run ons, and then the reminders that Humbert Humbert is writing all this as a statement for the legal trail.

Here’s why it’s brilliant: by the end of Part One, Humbert has had his nymphet and so the tension of “Will Humbert ever get Lolita, or just fantasize about her?” is relieved. As a reader, one knows that eventually Lolita will lose interest, or something, and Humbert’s resilient jealousy and gross descriptions of the teenage boys who flock to Lolita sometimes feel tiresome and heavy handed. However… here is when readers are reminded of the trial, of the statement Humbert is making. He’s been accused of something, but what has yet to be revealed. It can be assumed that it has something to do with Lolita, since she is the focus of the memoir. But now, I want to know what happened – why and how he was imprisoned. This new curiosity is what keeps me reading, as well as the sordid curiosity about when and how Lolita and Humbert’s relationship falls apart.

I don’t know… I guess I’m just sitting here admiring Nabokov’s ability to craft a story. An uncomfortable story. And tell the story from the pedophile’s point of view, and make Humbert a likable character. His torment is so palpable. Sometimes, I find myself hating Lolita for torturing him so. And then my morals get all confused, and I have to slow down because I’m reading the words so fast that I’m know I’m missing the elegance and beauty of his writing…

I’m still reading, but I am going crazy about Nabokov as a stylist. Damn… the boy has good taste in books and authors.

Lo. Lee. Ta.

2009-12-11T22:32:00.000-08:00

Today was the first day of my winter break. I woke up at noon, packed a little bit, and then spent the next four hours in bed with Nabokov's Lolita. Not only is it Nabokov's Lolita, the copy I have is a borrowed one -- well loved by a friend. That is one thing I love about sharing books. Feeling the wear another person has put on the binding, see what page he turned down.

The prose is amazing. The beauty of the prose is such a contrast to the sort of perverse subject matter. You forget. And it services the story too. The prose isn't so beautiful that it overshadows the story. It's beautiful and painful in the way I imagine Humbert's passions were. It helps that he is the narrator. I'm curious as to the nature of Nabokov's other work. I'm sure the strength of his words and construction carry over, despite of story.

He read me the opening paragraphs of this book and whenever I read the word, "Lolita," I can hear him say it. It's distracting and silly. I don't mind it. Of course, I exaggerate a little, but not by much. I find myself breaking up her name as he did. The line in the book reads, "Lo. Lee. Ta." That's what I hear. That is the moment attached to this book. It's been a while since a memory, even one of recent days, has been attached to a book. Person -- usually. Specific image, specific interaction, not as usual.

Back to my bed and blanket with this book.

2:22

2009-11-25T11:22:00.000-08:00

I like putting times in the titles of posts. A friend of mine Dated and Timed everyone one of her journal entries during her term abroad. I just kind of like the idea.

Home. Strep. Thanksgiving. Story looming. Projects taunting. Will I get it done in time? Yes. Yes I will. I just have to get down to it.

I've been thinking about what I want to use this blog for, because I would like to keep it updated. Writing about my life holds only varying degrees of interest for me. I think over FWT I will probably have a lot more to say. I liked it when I really kept a log of what I'd been reading and what I thought of it.

Needless to say, being a student means that I've mostly been reading books for class. But this term (and next term), those book have (and will be) awesome. Perhaps in the next few days, I will make time for a retrospective.

I began Jane Eyre again last night when I couldn't sleep. More and more I find myself drawn to books that I read once, but probably did not fully appreciate. Also, ADG raved about it. What am I supposed to do, just stare at it in my book shelf? Well, has me just staring at a book ever worked before?

It's 1:17

2009-11-04T22:17:00.000-08:00

One seventeen in the morning. My eyes are tired from the contacts I wore all day and my feet are sore from the concrete of the costume shop.

I've been able to cross most of my To-Dos off the To-Do list, which is nice but tomorrow is even crazier.

And amidst all this, I can't help but think of next term, of what is to come, of what I hope to accomplish. It's crazy because I should be thinking about what I need to finish and how to complete my current work with flying colors. I should take my own advice: one hour at a time.

2009-10-22T22:34:00.000-07:00

As usual, there is a boy or two or three or, rather, four being extremely illusive and infuriatingly visible.

As usual, there is a situation constantly a step ahead of me, waiting to trip me up at every corner.

As usual, there is the friend or two I love and want to see more of, and as usual, the peculiarities of our student existence keep us within arms reach, but too long apart.

As usual, my body is learning to run on four hours of sleep.

As usual, life is not what I though it'd be.

As unusual, things are falling into place and I'm not worried because things are going to be ok.

Eye Contact

2009-10-20T21:01:00.000-07:00

Sometimes you can just tell by the way a person falls into step with you that they wanted to talk, or invite, or offer, or just share steps with you. Sometimes you can tell by the way he smiled to you at the beginning of class that you really are friends. Sometimes you can tell that he's waiting to leave so it's possible to walk in time together.

And sometimes there's a third party who totally does not realize the brief and fragile exchange they are intruding upon, despite lowered voices, deliberate steps, and sideways glances.

You know how I can tell -- eye contact, the way you hold your shoulders, the loose, platonic hug you gave me in the hall. When I said I wanted to hang out, I meant it. I think you did too.

Ink

2009-10-18T23:42:00.000-07:00

I always say I will write something daily, and I don't think the four pages of philosophy count. So, before I sleep for a mere four hours to dream of what I accomplished in a past life, or of what orange the leaves in the fall of the underworld may be, I shall write of what I do have -- rather than pine while waking and dreaming for what I do not.

I have four different pens, all of which write in blue ink. Blue ink smells different than black -- more like a molded sky than rising earth. The variations of the blue thrill me as I flip through notebook pages -- some are more blue, others more green (probably tainted), a little too close to black for my comfort.

I go through phases -- sometimes I prefer ink pens to ball point pens, or felt tip to anything else. Sometimes I need a razor fine point to write, and others I want to see the calligraphic nature of my letters and long for the sweep of a fountain pen. I love irregularity and unpredictability. However, when it accompanies ballpoint pens in the form of not-writing-at-all-and-only-indenting-but-sometimes-ripping-the-paper, I do not love it. I will write with black ink or green or red or orange. Once I thought that purple was the future of ink. I always return to blue.

If someone asks to borrow a pen, and I have both a blue and a black, I will lend them the black -- even if it is the nicer pen. I don't care about pedigree. I care about color.

Occasionally I try to color code my notes. This method usually disintegrates because while I do have four different pens which contain four different shades of blue ink, it is not obvious enough in a glance. Therefore, the point of color-coding (expediting the process of finding pertinent notes, or notes for the same class) is rendered completely moot. Color-coding only works when distinctly different colors are used. Shades just don't cut it.

Blue used to be my favorite color, but ever since seventh grade it has been orange. Mustard yellow is my favorite color to wear, and perhaps if I could find a vibrant, mustard yellow pen, I would change my ink preference. But, I still prefer blue ink to all others. It is a kind of consistent. There will always be blue pens.

I never understood changing the font color on a computer to blue. It just doesn't have the same effect as blue ink. I think that's why I still enjoy writing so much. The two things that can never be substituted on a computer: the look and smell of blue ink, and the texture of a page written on in ball point pen. Feeling the Braille of what I watched myself write is odd - could I ever distinguish words by their feel? I know the way they feel in my mouth, but how do they feel on a page?

Autumn

2009-10-16T20:08:00.000-07:00

Fall has always been my second favorite season. (Summer is first because it brings my birthday, suntans, hikes, and swimming.) The colors I love come out this time of year. AND, more importantly, a lot of my favorite foods emerge. Pumpkin everything, apples, squash. Tea is easier to drink because it's cold outside. Nutmeg starts to flavor everything.

And the air is always the kind of cold that can cleanse. Some of the bluest skies I've seen on fall days.

The other reason I love fall: the leaves dance.

Vaclav Havel, the Sex Pistols, ABC...

2009-08-22T18:08:00.000-07:00

My new book by Vaclav Havel came today: The Art of the Impossible - Politics as Morality in practice. It's a collection of his speeches over the years.

I've been thinking about life after college, and all of a sudden the phrase "law school" came up. It's possible to earn a dual J.D. and an M.A. in English. It's still so new to think about, and I don't really know where to go from here.

I don't know if my adviser has been changed for the fall. I don't know what's going to happen when I return to school. I feel quite adrift, not really grounded at home, waiting to be grounded at school, and wondering where the hell you go when you drop off the face of the earth.

Vaclav Havel has led an amazing career. He was a key figure out of Prague Spring of 1968, and emerged as a intellectual who proceeded to challenge the ideas of the Communist government. He wrote plays, wrote letters, and essays. He was imprisoned for his ideals and his works, but he didn't let it stop him. He went on to become the first elected president of the Czech Republic and still works as a writer and politician. He didn't take the easy route: he fought for his beliefs. Hardships or inconveniences didn't stop him.

Ken Saro-Wiwa is an author I know less about. C. sent me a NYTimes article about him sometime in the spring, and I find myself thinking about it often. In it, his son says, "All other things being equal, he probably would have been a comedian or an actor, but he was compelled to write." And at the end of the article, Saro-Wiwa is quoted: "During his imprisonment Mr. Saro-Wiwa said that he often envied Western writers “who can peacefully practice their craft.” Yet he also recognized that wasn’t his path. As he wrote in 1993, “The writer cannot be a mere storyteller, he cannot be a mere teacher; he cannot merely X-ray society’s weaknesses, its ills, its perils, he or she must be actively involved shaping its present and its future.”

I have yet to read any of this man's writing, and whenever I read these words, I feel an inexplicable guilt at the fact that if I become a writer, I will be a Western Writer. I still feel as though I know so little able everything. How do I begin to be involved in shaping the present and future of my society? Where do I even start? I've lived for the past eight years (at least) intent on becoming an actor, on making commentary that way. In reality, I probably would have spent more time scraping together rent and breaking my own heart over auditions than making any sort of commentary, than changing anyone's minds about anything.

In my ideal world, as a writer I would bypass at least the heart break over auditions. I feel as though I haven't taken the world seriously until right now -- that I've missed things. I was so focused on learning the world of theater that I forgot about the world I'm living in now. I feel so scatterbrained right now that I don't know where to look for answers.

Do I want to be a lawyer? Maybe. Do I want to be a writer -- yes. Do I think I could be. Jury is still out.

If I decide that yes, I want to study law, I'd want to work at the international level -- International law and human rights. I know the ICC is still kind of in developmental stages, but I know that in the coming years it, or something else, comes to the forefront. I think there should be a system that will hold leaders of countries, even minority groups in countries, responsible for crimes against humanity and crimes of war. In this age of wirelessness and globalization, more and more of the world becomes interconnected. At that changed, I think we should have legal system to go with it. I don't think it is right or useful for countries to act completely in their own self interest -- aka, the fact that the United States will not endorse the ICC to avoid being accused of war crimes OR the US absence on the Kyoto Protocol because it would hurt our economic competition with China. I don't know what could be done to change this. I don't know how an international justice system would work without it becoming Big Brother (the fear of a democratic society.) I don't really know anything about law or what a lawyer involved in international law even does. If I don't know any of this, how can I even think about being one?

I don't speak another language. Law school is expensive; I don't know if I could pay for it. The ones that I would like to attend (U. of Virginia, Duke, Fordham) are among the top 15, Tier 1 law schools in the United States. I don't know if I could even get IN to law school.

And yet, despite all these things I don't know, the idea invigorates me. It excites me in a way I didn't expect. If I decide to go this route (especially the joint-degree), I know it will be harder than anything I've ever done before. But you know, it's been a very long time since I've allowed myself to dream, to reach for the stars. I've spent so much time making sure I was grounded in a certain amount of reality that I forgot the power of a dream.

Drawing Blanks

2009-08-21T10:16:00.001-07:00

I hate when I have nothing to say. Right now, I have nothing to say. I'm just antsy.

Perhaps I should... ah, I don't know.

2009-08-09T09:07:00.000-07:00

Thanks to my own pent in emotions I now have many answers to, "What's the stupidest thing you've ever done?" and "What's your most embarrassing moment?"

Ironic thing is I was just telling a story about my previous most embarrassing moment. I was either fifteen or sixteen and in the car with my mom and my boyfriend at the time. I had been listening to a lot of U2 lately, mainly the album How to Dismantle an Atomic Bomb. A song came on the radio, and I tried to show off my musical knowledge, calmly asking if this was a U2 song.

The look on my boyfriend's face when he said, "It's Hotel California," was one of slightly befuddled disgust. Well, I think it was disgust. My cheeks were burning so red that I can't quite remember anything past my own embarrassment. I would say shame, but I now know the true meaning and power of that word. This story is definitely one that falls under, "embarrassment."

Anyways, story-telling aside, I have - somehow - learned something very important. Maybe I should cease to stop up every vaguely emotional impulse of mine for want of protecting those around me. Emotions stored under pressure just strengthen with time.

Spellchek

2009-08-03T11:10:00.001-07:00

I think perhaps I should use spell check more often. (And generally check for typos.)

Ramblings

2009-08-02T22:38:00.000-07:00

WARNING: This post may contain thoughts on vegetarianism, ethics, the moral appeal of certain television characters, puzzle discourse, unnecessary warnings, tooth paranoia, and kitchy (slightly ironic, maybe quotes. So, as the Peter Pan of the not-quite-true-to-J.M. Barrie's-actual-story-Disney-animated-flick would say, "Hang on everybody, cause here we goooooooooooo! (Insert alternating male and female do-doo-do do-doo-do do-doo-do ahhhhh... Think of a wonderful thought...)

So about last Thursday. I offered to help S make dinner for her family, since we were hanging out already and I didn't just want to watch her cook. In fact, I don't think I could actually sit and just watch someone undertake a task I'm capable of doing too. They were having chicken, so we decided to make a casserole. It was all peachy keen, from the chopping of the onion to the zucchini to the carrot to the canned mushrooms (which felt like my eyeball underneath my contacts.) And then, she handed me a chicken thigh. Now, I've cooked plenty, but I can really only use ground meat because anything vaguely resembling an animal turns my stomach. I can't eat lobster or crab... and I have a hard time with roasted chicken. So, doing my best to debone this chicken, I had to suppress several gag reflexes. I finished, stomach contents intact.

Except I couldn't stop thinking about it and disgusting myself for the day. So, on Friday I went food shopping because, once again, I have decided to be a vegetarian. This is the third time I've decided this. The first was my sophomore year in highschool -- I lasted a good while. (This was brought on by my dad's 'Live Fish' story. In Japan, it is a particular delicacy to serve the fish [as sushi?] alive. I was done with meat.) Sometime in the winter, I was REALLY hungry and it was chicken patty day. When my friend Sarah said, "I thought you were a vegetarian," my replay was, "I'm starving." My next bout came senior year of highschool... and this time, I was a vegetarian for a good year and a half. However, I only became a vegetarian because I was attending a "hippie" highschool, and it seemed like the morally appropriate (and cool) this to do. And I maintained it because I was going to attend a "hippie" college.

I forget why I returned to omnivore-ism, but I did about halfway through freshman year. This time, it's not just a knee jerk reaction to a gross story or some weird social perception of mine: I've thought it out.

My reasons for being vegetarian V.3
1) I eat healthier. I am much more conscious of what I am eating and what my body needs. Vegetarians can be just as unhealthy as non-vegetarians: I know that. I'm just more aware.

2) I feel better. I don't know why - knock it up to state of mind or some sort of weird placebo-like thing. All I know it that I do feel better -- about myself, about what I'm eating, about the choices I'm making in my life.

3) I maintain control. (see above reasons about awareness.) Sometimes I do feel like life is running away from me. Instead of developing an eating disorder, I would rather say haha to the "Make up your mind!" jokes and be conscious (in a healthy way) of what I eat.

4) I don't know where I stand on animal rights. (I've been thinking a lot about ethics recently.) My reasons for being vegetarian don't hinge on this.

5) I don't think the idea of hunting is wrong or cruel. However, when I was cutting up that chicken, all I could think of was how it was born, feed, raised, and grown just for me to consume it. The more I thought about this, it started to link more and more to blind consumerism (in my head.) When animals and humans exist in a natural sort of cycle, hunting is a reality. Some would say that in that situation, the chicken is also born only to die. However, if part of the aforementioned cycle, the chicken has some purpose, weather it be to spread seed or to control some sort of insect infestation, other than to be slaughtered.

Anyways, that was big change number 1. As for my next decision on what to do with my time and how it may best be spent:

I've decided to embark about the Great Books reading journey: some 200+ authors are on this list. These books impacted the field of Literature, Science, Philosophy, Politics, Math, and History. St. John's College structures the whole of its undergraduate education around this list. These books are mostly Western, and I hope to (after I am satisfied with my attempt at this task) to embark on the Great Books of the East reading journey. Right now, I'm just trying to organize my list... make sure I have everything. My good friend Charles is helping me out. He's read these books. He's actually the one who introduced me to the list my freshman year.

I want to be secure in my knowledge of things. And I want to know where all these ideas I'm seeing in writing or theory now came from. The list starts with Homer and just continues on. Who knows, maybe I'll keep a separate blog for this. (I also have to decide if I want to reread the Illiad or just trust that I got it the first time and plunge into The Odessey.)

Change/Decision/Realization #3: I don't know where, when, how, or why I decided I wanted to become an actor. I mean, like just an actor. I know I wanted to be a dancer, and then a singer, and always a writer. Then, somewhere in there, I decided the only way I could be happy was to be a famous actor, and then the fame became less integral and I tried to convince myself that this was where my life was going.

It's not where my life is going.

This isn't a matter of talent or being successful. When I really thought about what makes me happy, what satisfies me, it's the collaborative work of the theater. I love theater. I love working with my friends, with people who I respect and who respect me. I love having this venue to express myself. I hate feeling like I'm constantly being evaluated and that whatever I give isn't enough. I hate feeling that luck and superficial qualities like appearance matter more than merit or how hard you worked. I hate feeling like I don't have a real say in what I'm creating.

I love costumes. I love puppetry. I love working with friends towards a shared vision. Theater is a place to do that -- not the only place. I've decided to take back control of both my direction, my sense of worth, and ultimately my life. People told me if I could live without being an actor, to live without it. I can live without being an actor.

Event 4: I have been waiting and waiting for news on whether or not I will be allowed to return to Bennington in the fall. I think part of the Great Books thing was on the off chance I don't return in the fall, here's something very real to do. The wait is killing me.

I also think I chipped my molar on something and am terrified that I'm going to get a cavity. In twenty years I've never had a cavity. And I'm not going to change that now.

Ok. I'm done. I think the ramble about ethics will have to come at a later date.

Nerves, Nausea, Insomnia

2009-07-29T23:08:00.001-07:00

I feel as if I might throw up. It's thoughts of my mom's increasing heart rate and hyperthyroid, how much I miss certain someones, the interview that is a mere eight and a half hours away, my nostalgia for times past and fear of what may come.

Eyes that have been open for tool long are heavier especially with allergies. My butt seems to be glued to this fucking chair. I want a direction. I feel like one of those whinging characters I was complaining about a few posts ago.

I think it is time for the book in bed remedy. Late to bed, early to rise: my favorite.

2009-07-28T20:27:00.000-07:00

This is from my new favorite website: Cardboard Love in a Digital World

http://www.cardboardlove.com/wp-content/uploads/2009/07/28knight.jpg

Insomnia strikes again

2009-07-27T23:29:00.000-07:00

Maybe I get hit with these bouts because I keep such odd hours, but I hate not being able to fall asleep. I am morbidly awake at 2:30 in the morning and don't see any hope of falling asleep soon. I've bored myself out of reading the rest of Life, the Universe, and Everything. I love Douglas Adams, but reading all of them back to back really highlights the discrepancies he pointed out in the introduction to this collected edition I have... and all of the characters start to irritate me to no end. Trillian is currently not in the picture, and I'm ready to kill Zaphod, Arthur, and Ford. They just seem to be whining all the time about something -- whether it's having discovered a soul, been rescued from pre-historic Earth, or being moved through time and space at an uncomfortable pace. I still get the occasional laugh, but I really miss Dirk Gently. He seemed oddly optimistic compared to this lot. (Especially Marvin, the Paranoid Android.)

Anyways, I spent most of today surfing around the blog-o-sphere looking for some cool things. I found a couple of blogs:

Day Dream Lily
Flapper Doodles
Design for Mankind

This all made me feel extremely inadequate. How does one rack in the audience? By post pretty pictures with every post? It works for some people, and I love looking at them, but it's not for me. Oh, and I've been seeing trailers for Julie & Julia lately (a movie really want to see) which also makes me wonder, how does this happen?

I assume part of it is finding a kind of hook, almost a gimmick if you will -- something no one else has seen. Writing about your life doesn't quite seem to cut it: you need to be particularly funny, or insightful, or creative, or make pretty things. I don't quite inhabit the same niche. NICHE! That's what I really meant: not gimmick, you need to find your niche.

I have opinions, but none that I'm particularly sure of. I have a style that I'm still developing. I live a fairly normal life. I'm a fairly normal girl to whom normal things happen. Who wants to read about the normal?

I think I need to figure out something, or this blog is going to drive me insane. Well, actually, the blog won't drive me crazy. In fact, it has been key in keeping me sane. It's just the monotony of my life that's pushing me to the edge of sanity right now. I think I'm going to curl up with The Unbearable Lightness of Being now, and will perhaps report earlier in the morning.

Poetry

2009-07-25T15:06:00.000-07:00

Beating Rugs

Rugs are paddled,
beaten and smacked.
Rugs are collectors,
magpies of the unconsidered.
Each hides an archive -
files labeled: ashes, biscotti
crumbs, dirt, etchings, footprints,
gaping holes, ink, juice, kinked lines,
messes, needles, ointment pellets,
quixotic ramblings, splatters,
the usual vermin, watermarks, and other miscellany.
Rugs are stepped upon
without concern
for rugs are a constant,
always on the floor.

Rug, board-riding sultan,
I beg you to carry me
along with ashes and watermarks,
over fire and through air.
As you carry my sole from room to room,
carry me back through all of space
and forward through all of time.
I know where I want to be:
...............Beneath a clothesline and beside a staircase
...............with a book and a kindred soul,
...............upon this rug.
...............One by one, we’re joined by faces
...............similar to our own. A faint whisper
...............and the rug would rise to fly
...............you and me and this family
...............far from each and every she-bitch
...............with claws sunk into the flesh beneath our
...............breast bones, beneath our blood-burning organs.
..............................O rug, beloved conveyor belt,
..............................I beg you to relay me and my desire
..............................safely to this destination.

Rug, threadbare in your elegance,
I travel and live upon you. You are my sanctum,
Made with strips of well loved cloth –
faded with sunshine and watershine
and braided into a tri-colored whip.
I wound you tightly around yourself.
Strand by strand,
by strand by strand, the whip
winds to disk, and you grow and grow,
until you are your tightly wound self.
Then, feet trod upon your face,
and children played, joints kneeding into your figure,
and meals spilled between your fingers
and weather outsmarted the door
to wage war upon you.
Then, beneath the summer sun,
at high noon, my relatives trooped outdoors
with you tucked into their armpits.
Then, they crucified you, strung you up for a viewing,
like a criminal, pinching
your flesh, smirking as they rendered
misguided justice.
Then, with no warning,
they came at you with weapons.
Twack! Dust from our cloths and feet and food
flew from you.
Twack! You groaned with the loss
of all these treasures.
Twack! again. And again, twack!
A regular holocaust – perpetuated without reason,
executed without mercy.

When they returned you to me, you fell
limp into my arms, defeated and deflated.
You became my family.
Only my feet would caress your braids,
only my dust would fill your crevices,
only my hands would gently clean your surface.
...............You and me, as family,
...............until the day rises that
...............we fly away: you, me, and my desire.

From one Coast to the Other

2009-07-22T23:34:00.000-07:00

From a lady to a band of galactic hitchhikers, back home again and confronted with the meaning of life in the sharp relief of death

The Portrait of a Lady by Henry James

The prose of this book is undoubtedly on of the most beautifully and neatly written books I've ever read. James's prose was a bit like a foreign language at first, but after about sixty pages, I found his narration quite enjoyable if at times very very slow. I don't regret having read this book. In fact, I feel almost definitely triumphant in having traversed all 622 pages of it and come out the other side. There were times when I just wanted to skip to the end or throw the book at the wall. I won't be rash and swear off James like I did Salinger in ninth grade.

Isabel Archer is a character to whom I particularly relate, especially at the beginning of the book. As she grows, some would say matures, she makes some choices that I hope never to make. Her life becomes something much different than expected. That's a really crappy summary of my experience with this book, but I don't really care. It will be a while until I pick James up again.

The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy by Douglas Adams

This book is better and more ingenious than I remember it being. Of course, I read it the first time at the suggestion of a boy I really really liked, and pretended to go crazy for the series. That was four years ago and I was incapable of fully understanding the fun of Douglas Adams. I never made it past the first book in the series, so I look forward to reading the remaining four books of the trilogy.

And now to why I wanted to write this post: My Uncle Jimmy passed away the day I left California. (He's not exactly my uncle... he was the husband of my grandmother's youngest sister.) I met Jimmy only once: at my grandmother's funeral in 2006. He was a wonderful, gentle man with a voice as big as the continent and a personality to match. He worked as an actor, a producer, a bouncer, a musician, anything at all. I don't really know what his life was like, but in those three or four days that I was blessed enough to be in his presence, I got a sense of his character. He was a theater rat. And wonderful man, he believed in me.

He'd only known me for a little while but he believed in me. I kept up a shoddy e-mail correspondence with him for a couple of months. He wasn't a huge part of my life, but he was a very important part. He's one of the people I can pinpoint as having changed my life.

I just returned from visiting J. in California. Because of money, I won't be able to go out to California for the funeral. I won't be able to meet his friends, or hear the stories people tell about him. This is one huge chance to experience the life of a man I admire and love and wish I had the opportunity to know better. And I can't go. I was just in California. I was right there... and now I'm stuck back on the east coast.

The one thing I miss about having a solid belief in God is being sure that there was an afterlife, someone who would take care of all the loved ones I've lost. I don't know what I believe anymore. I want to pray for Jimmy, but it just feels empty now. I don't understand the way things work and at least when I had prayer, I felt like I was doing something. Now I just feel cheated, yet again, from fully knowing someone. And I don't get the chance to say goodbye. I won't get to smile at him or touch his hand (even if it makes me squirmish). I won't get to cry with extended family or hear stories about his life, his job. I won't get to see his house how he left it.

I just get to sit in my room and cry at 2:00 in the morning so my parents won't know how much it's hurting that I can't go to the funeral with my mom.

Layover

2009-07-19T22:42:00.000-07:00

(Written yesterday in Minneapolis)

Dear Jesse McCartney,

I wonder if this is what it’s like to be you. I just flew first class for the first time, and probably one of the last, unless I end up making a lot of money someday. The service was excellent: drinks before take off, hot, lemon scented towels before food, more drinks, breakfast, and decent leg room. However, you probably don’t have to debate whether or not you’re going to crawl over the stranger next to you in order to use the bathroom before you land. Or, be leaning casually forward to have a frizz of hair and airliner fabric come hurtling towards you. Well, not hurtling exactly, but moving more quickly and far closer to your face than you’re comfortable with.

Jetsetting seems to be a wonderful idea in theory, but in practice, I think I would tire of it. However, the allure and excitement of exploring a new place will never bore me. Isabel Archer, of Henry James’s The Portrait of a Lady, aspires to travel to all corners of the world and discover new people, places, and things. I also share these aspirations, but I believe her story may be a bit more grand and romantic than my own.

I’m laid over in Minneapolis, waiting for the second leg of my trip to visit J. This is my first trip to Southern Cali, and my first venture across the country alone. This is only the second time I’ve traveled on my own. I have to admit, as I went through security back home, that feeling of slight trepidation pitted itself in my stomach and probably all over my face. I remember the sensation when my parents drove me to NYC to drop me off for then next seven weeks, when I had to catch the train in Penn Station, and even when I was driving up to school, the car loaded up for my first semester. I know that anything new usually brings that trepidation, and I’ve learned to love it a little bit. Usually something wonderful lies beyond that fear.

Douglas Adams’s book The Long Dark Tea Time of the Soul begins with a sentence having to do with the phrase “pretty as an airport” and how it is an awful idiom, which is why it has not found its way into popular use. I have to agree... airports are not pretty visually. They smell like stale air, a mingling of fast foods, with just a hint of latent adventure. Paranoia is almost a requirement: don’t leave your bags unattended. Make sure to keep your ears open for your flight number and boarding call. Don’t fall asleep in the Gate waiting area.

Behind me, two strangers have struck up a conversation about hockey, sports, and coaching. I wish I could do that, just start talking to the person next to me. I used to be terrified of sitting beside a stranger when I was younger. I would force my parents to allow me a seat between them, or sandwiched between them and a wall. I’ve since gotten over that: (one of these guys behind me works for The Crane Foundation and is talking of his travels – he’s been to China twice, and just returned from Barcelona. That sounds amazing.) Freshman year – living with someone I don’t know helped. Taking the bus into work over my first FWT helped. Traveling on the subway REALLY helped. And now, this airplane waiting room thing really helps. Good to know I’ve gotten over one juvenile hang up.

Anyways, I know this visit to California will be amazing. I’m so glad I did this. Back to my book.

Direction

2009-07-13T21:14:00.000-07:00

Today was spent in front of the television, on the couch with tea and a crochet hook and a slight fever. Summer sicknesses are really no fun because while you're trying to make yourself warm on the couch, the sun is shining outside. I felt so silly lounging around in thick sweat pants and a long sleeve shirt in the middle of July. (And I was still cold.)

But, I think something finally clicked into place in my head. This day of watching pointless television and twirling yarn around my fingers was one of the last for a bit. Mind you, I enjoy the occasional day of laziness and vegging, but I've been doing it too much lately. I have books to read, words to write and consider, points of view to examine and possibly contest, a body to take care of, a mind to continue healing, and a soul to keep wrestling with. None of these things is best done while zoning out in front of a bunch of quickly moving pictures -- even if I do find television shows about vampires highly entertaining.

I just read a wonderful post over at The Word Mechanic. I've been struggling with the question of what to do with the rest of my life: there's the life long dream of theater and performing, and then the passion of reading and writing as well the aspiration to be able to contribute something pertinent, to help in some way, to share and spread my ideas. (I'm still forming the knowledge base to really form those ideas, and hope to be an eternal student. Because my footing isn't too solid yet, I begin to hesitate.) Over this summer, I've started to think that maybe what's been holding me back, what's been so difficult is because I do think that I have a point of view to offer. I think that I could reach the heights I set for myself working on the page rather than the stage. The hard part... 1) I don't want to let go of the theater dream, not because I can't live without it, but because the cards are already stacked against me. If I don't succeed, it is not necessarily because I lack ability, but for some superficial reason like my hair is the wrong color or I'm too short. 2) I want to be a writer for the right reasons. I don't want to write because I want to call myself a writer, or have a book. I want to want to write simply for the act of writing, and because I have something to say.

For so long, I've quantified my success and my abilities in a very twisted way. I can't quite explain it, but it has to do with amassing a great many things to my name -- Somewhere I got it into my head that I had to be good at everything, and that I wasn't allowed to be great at anything. And then, through a series of strange and (in hindsight) slightly unfortunate events, I no longer viewed writing as a talent, but as something wicked and evil. I denounced my imagination as a Satanic tool. I stopped writing. I stopped seeing.

That was the scary part... I've always been an observer. It's a pertinent skill as both an actor and a writer. I've always been able to see in a way that is different from those around me. I assumed for the longest time that it was some sort of curse, that I wasn't supposed to see in this way. I've only just begun to return to the simple act of allowing myself to look, to imagine, to ask What if, and to tell a story.

I finally got my laptop off my floor and cleared my desk. The computer stays here: this is my work space. It's almost impossible to write something while lounging in bed or on the couch. Slouching is Public Enemy Number 1 to creativity and flow.

So, in closing, thanks to Grandpa at The Word Mechanic for lighting a fire under my lazy ass with that post. It's taken a while, but I'm finally opening my eyes again.

After Dinner exchange over "Lunch Poems"

2009-07-11T21:53:00.000-07:00

Poem

Wouldn't it be funny
if The Finger had designed us
to shit just once a week?

all week long we'd get fatter
and fatter and then on Sunday morning
while everyone's in church
ploop!

Frank O'Hara

I read this poem to my family after dinner this evening. I thought it was one of the greatest things I've read in a long time. It tickled me. Neither my dad nor my brother found it more than slightly amusing. So I just sat and laughed until my mom returned to the room. Controlling myself long enough to read the poem to her wasn't disappointing. It doesn't take much to "set my mom off" when it comes to laughter. She got more of a kick out of it than I did.

She and I just laughed and laughed )or as my brother would say, cackled) until we were short of breath and our stomachs ached. Meanwhile, my dad and brother chortled a few times at us, but insisted they could not see the hilarity we did.

My mom and I spent about 10 minutes communicating in barely formed words and half-formed gestures. It was wonderful.

(I found Frank O'Hara's "Lunch Poems" this afternoon at Barnes & Noble -- the volumes is part of the Pocket Poets series. I decided I needed this particular series of poems for two reasons: Reason 1 -- Next term at school I plan to use 5-8 pieces from O'Hara's "Lunch Poems" as the concept for a fashion show. Reason 2 -- I really like the size of Pocket Poets books. The other I currently have in my possesion is "Howl and Other Poems" and it belongs to C. I'll have to return it eventually.

I think I just re-fell in love with beat poets and socially and politically charged literature:

City Lights Books Mission Statement

In June of 1955, Lawrence Ferlinghetti, co-founder of City Lights Bookstore, launched City Lights Publications with the Pocket Poets Series. The first volume was a collection of his own poems, Pictures of the Gone World, which has since become a classic of beat literature and one of Ferlinghetti's most popular works. Within a year City Lights had published its fourth, its most famous, and still its bestselling title, Allen Ginsberg's Howl and Other Poems, the book that revolutionized American poetry and American consciousness.

Ferlinghetti writes that the function of the independent press is to discover new voices and give them an audience. "From the beginning, the aim was to publish across the board, avoiding the provincial and the academic. I had rather an international insurgent ferment in mind, and what has proved most fascinating are the continuing crosscurrents and cross-fertilizations between poets and writers widely separated by language or geography, coalescing in a truly supranational voice."

For over fifty years, City Lights has been a champion of progressive thinking, fighting against the forces of conservatism and censorship. We are committed to publishing works of social responsibility, and to maintaining a tradition of bringing renegade literature from other parts of the world into English. In our function of discovery, we will continue to publish cutting-edge contemporary literature and brilliant new non-fiction.

This all reminds me of senior year when I was convinced I could change the world. Maybe I can. Maybe that drive was real.

Where is that voice coming from?

2009-07-10T22:24:00.000-07:00

So, I was planning on beginning this post with the tribulations of crocheting: wear eyes, stiff elbow and wrist, slight yarn blisters on my left hand - but as I was brushing my teeth, I had a break through:

I'm stuck on the sister.

Rewind: (insert cool rewinding sound effect here.) I began work on a story I was really excited about writing and reading a book I was really excited to read about a week and a half ago. I haven't breached 1000 words on the story and this is the longest it's taken me to read about 130 pages all summer. I truly enjoy Henry James's writing, and I couldn't figure out why I was getting restless with the book. Plenty is happening (well, at the pace that events in books like his and Austen's tend to occur) and I'm thoroughly enjoying his style. I couldn't stop jotting down ideas for the Georgie story... mentally noting situations, sensations, and all sorts of things that would suit her.

Then it all just stopped. I started in on this crocheting frenzy and that was the end of progress with Georgie or James. Henry James gives his heroine such a perfect voice and style. I think that's why I'm getting restless with him: I can't write a decent female voice for my life. Well, that's just my opinion. And 'Ches is, above all things, a girl. I'm stuck at her part of the story. Shitsta...

I adore Eudora Welty. She can embody the voice of any character and execute it... it's mystifying.

Nothing is Written

2009-07-06T21:23:00.000-07:00

I finished Lawrence of Arabia this evening: the movie was nothing I expected it to be. (I'm not quite sure what I expected, but I was constantly surprised.) Peter O'Toole's T.E. Lawrence was completely endearing and frustrating and confusing and interesting. I have to say though that my favorite character was Omar Sharif's Ali. It was so nice to see a genuine soul amidst all that political nonsense. And the scene in which Lawrence and his boy walk into Cairo and Lawrence orders lemonade at the bar was beautifully done. I don't know much about the historical events of the movie, but I say it was well worth the three hours and forty-seven minutes.

I also finished my ongoing project for the past month this morning: my quilt. While I was anxious to get it finished (because I wanted to begin other projects), I'm a bit disappointed that my work on that piece has come to an end. I really enjoyed that work -- and it came out looking great. I suffer from the common Gemini predicament: I always juggle many projects at once and very rarely finish things. It's a patience thing. I used to claim that I had to always be busy because I would get bored with one particular craft, project, story, job extremely quickly. I think it might actually be that I don't enjoy finishing because then something has ended.

One of my first short stories I wrote, titled "In the Shadow's Light," featured as its heroine a writer who never wrote in pen and never wrote endings. Or maybe it was that she always wrote in pen and refused to use an eraser... and never finished stories. No matter.

I have three prose pieces I have actually finished (and would call finished.) One is a one act play I wrote in high school called "Barbados." The next (in length, but most recently composed) is called "The Reckoning." It was the first thing I had written for about two years. And then the longest piece is titled "Hymn from the Shadows" and I guess I would call it my first novel -- I wrote it during NaNoWriMo my sophomore year of highschool. My oline writing buddies of the time really enjoyed it. I thought it was contrived and predictable. But I finished.

Now I can't even start. I've been toying with this character: Georgie Mitchell -- for about three months now. She began as a way for me to write about myself without writing about myself, and anything that happened in her life mirrored my own. I tired of that quickly and she grew into more than my alter-ego. She now has three sisters, an insane mother, an unsatiable taste for cigarettes and adventures, a best friend who is graduating high school a year and a half late, an unexpected boy, and a summer to kill. I've got a story line running around my brain. Originally I thought I wanted to write about each of the Mitchell girls and tried to plan out an interconnected cycle of short stories -- too much. I founda thread wit hGeorgie and ran with it.

I haven't been able to get past the first 300 words. I stop myself. I know my problem is that I want - need - what I write to be perfect on the first go. I try to impress my imagined audience with my eloquence and style and vivid whatever... even though I learned first hand in January the joys and importance of rewriting. Even the agonizing job of going back and throing away a paragraph or scene or pages that you poured your soul into only the night before.

I'm also stuck with my play because I realized over the weekend how much research about camp-life and important events I have to do. For instance, there was this whole "loyalty" questionaire given to anyone who was applying to leave the camp either for school or for the army. I don't want to dishonor any of my family or the memory/legacy of anyone who lived through the internment experience by writing ignorantly.

I also had a point I wanted to make about crocheting... but I've forgotten it.

Match Point

2009-07-04T09:33:00.001-07:00

There comes a point while exercising where your lungs and heart and muscles are all burning. It usually happens either 4 or 5 minutes into your run or at the halfway point. Before, I would never push through that point thinking that I was having an asthma attack or a charlie horse. But, if you run through those awful 30-60 seconds, the burning goes away and I can run the rest without the debilitating feeling that my organs are going to fall out.

There is this point in running, in writing, in reading, in scanning pictures, in studying, in everything: the point you have to push past to find a breakthrough. I had been reading voraciously for a while, and now I'm only putting in the half hour before bed. I have a huge list of books I'd like to get through before the school chaos takes over again. I have a half-written play that I'm stuck on. I should look at the photo albums and get ideas. Act II has to do with things that happened in the camp -- I need to do research and I've been putting that off. It's funny that I have because in all honesty, I want to do that research. I want to have that knowledge base.

I have a story that I've been building in my head for a while off of some of the 500 words I've been writing per day. I'm scared to begin. Usually when I begin something, I hit a point where I feel as though I can't push through. I think it's an impenetrable road block -- the ever fortified castle wall. Really, it's just a rock that is stuck and needs a little pushing.

On a completely different note (sort of), I found the BEST website yesterday: www.goodreads.com I always try to keep track of the books I've read and want to read but loose the list or get frustrated because I have a hard time with paper lists because I can't alphabetize. I mean, I should really start an Excel spreadsheet, but this site is great. You can keep track electronically of the books you've read, want to read, and are reading. You can rate or electronically recommend books. I wasted alot of time on it yesterday. (My profile)

One of my other goals this summer is to watch as many of the movies that won Best Picture as possible, and to someday have watched all of them. I watched the first half of Lawerence of Arabia last night: not what I expected, but very good. Peter O'Toole is quite the actor.

My nails are bright orange, and I'm going to go begin on that story I mentioned.

Before too long...

2009-06-28T21:23:00.000-07:00

Home again, home again. I love sleeping in my own bed. It is something that is just mine.

I began a bunch of things today within minutes of returning.
1) Ticket Album: I bought one in Chicago. Pack-rat-ism runs in my mom's family as does sentimentalism. As I was cleaning my room I was finding one too many boxes of mementos. Tickets, letters, cards, programs, and other such things... so I decided it was time to develop a better filing system. Boxes are too bulky. Binders and albums, however, are easily shelved.

2) Program/Theater/New York memorabilia. Is it any surprise that I have a lot of this sort of thing? Not really. So, I put it all in one place and have sorted it into Broadway, FWT, and Other. Tomorrow, I will begin to make simple pages for each. No elaborate scrapbooking scheme... just a sheet of paper, a little color, and some explanations.

3)Costume Portfolio. I've needed to do this for a while.

4)Scanning of Family Albums: So this is what really brought all this one. At my grandparent's house, my mom found a chest belonging to my great grandmother. In it, I found my jichan's insignia from his army uniform and his permission to leave the internment camp. My family's history (especially the part that involves the internment of Japanese-Americans) has always been very important to me. I began a play dealing with this and identity in February. Unfortunately, I haven't worked on it much since then. This was due to two things: lack of time and lack of research (affected by the lack of time). Now that I have some of the time, I'd like to do the research. Anyways, the reason for all this archiving is that I don't ever want my children or grandchildren to have to dig and search to find my life. I want to have the means to show them.

So I'm going to do this binder thing and keep scanning the family albums. I'm going to write my great-aunts and uncles and ask them for stories they remember from camp, or stories of other family members. I want to know where I came from.

In that chest of my grandmother's, I found her pattern book. She used to pattern and sew clothe for her daughter. I never knew that. Now I feel like my costume/sewing work actually connects me to my past. I wish I had known before.

I've actually begun to write 500 words a day. And eat better. And exercise. Baby steps.

Monticello

2009-06-22T10:14:00.001-07:00

The past few days have been crazy. Car trouble, miraculous repairs, Catholic weddings, receptions for said weddings, not so exciting birthdays, good phone conversations, books, paper, crosswords, kakuro, and a really hard sudoku that I couldn't finish. I started over twice. I admit, it was more than frustrating.

I'm currently at the town library, but don't feel like writing a full account of the past few days, so I think I'll write it up in a word document (if I'm so inspired) and then post it later. It's been nice to spend time with family and have a chance to relax. My grandmother told me that she's going to teach me how to crochet this afternoon. I've been asking her for as long as I can remember. I'm really glad she's finally going to teach me.

It's kind of sad... over the past few years, my mom, grandma, and I have slowly been going through the house and laying claim to certain things. I don't like it too well, but that's what Grandma likes doing. It's also been important because, without warning, she sometimes just sells things. She wanted to sell my grandfather's class ring and pin from highschool. Luckily, we found it today and are taking it home with us. She's at the point where she doesn't care -- she's had this stuff for so long. I still want to go through Papa's books. I find myself missing him so much lately. He's a man I wish I had know more, a man I wish I could have learned from. If I had just gotten three more years, I would have started to be the person I am know -- the one interested in building things and history, in antiques and things of old. He could have told me stories, taught me things. Whenever I read or do a crossword, I think of him.

Illinois has this wonderful, sweet smell. It's corn, but to me, there's a kind of magic mixed into it. It smells like my grandfather's garage, and like his shirts used to smell. One of my favorite parts of the trip out here is the first reststop in Illinois: whenever I step out of the car and get a whiff of it - that's when I know we're here. The smell of corn, and fireflies so thick you could swim in them.

Garage
for my grandfather

Corn smells silky and itchy at the same time.
Clover smells violet.
And this old garage
smells like my blood would smell
(minus copper, human, and red.)
I can taste comfort
in this garage.
The air cradles it like daisies cradle dewdrops
and I am cradled in its cocoon.

Only the smell finds me here,
but it is him. Papa.
This garage holds your tools,
fertilizers,
seeds,
pots,
things grandma “don’t need no more.”
But I do.
I need to eat every
bit of metal, rust, and dirt
in this garage
just like I need to guzzle
every crossword
every Western
every novel
you ever touched.

This garage knew you, another friend
you left behind.
She tells me stories, but I can’t
ever stay long.
I’m jealous of her and her workbench
and her cement floor
and her nooks
and her crannies.
Your birdhouses – Martins –
aren’t there anymore.
You tools scattered to the winds of grandchildren
but what I want is kept here.
She swallowed that knife
you used to make me dolls.
She hoards it along with that
scent.
I want to flavor a drink
with this smell
dust, mildew, green, and alive.
This garage reminds me of
you,
more than a picture
or a rocking chair.
I just wish
I could take your garage
home with me.

But it won’t fit in the car
- obstructs the rearview mirror.

© copyright 2009 R. Yaeko at Alter Egos Blog
All rights reserved.

Summer 2007

Stranded

2009-06-19T20:03:00.000-07:00

Our air conditioner froze just as we hit the 90-degree Ohio weather. The car, recently filled with Tim Curry’s narration of Lemony Snicket’s A Series of Unfortunate Events, was now a wind tunnel. Two hours later, sweaty and finally in Indiana, the engine started to choke. This had happened once before (except it was two days before Christmas, about nine o’clock in the morning, in the middle of nowhere-Pennsylvania, and the transmission was the faulty part).

Understandably, my dad was pissy and frustrated. He has this affinity for making supposedly spontaneous choices that end up being extremely fortuitous. I call it a kind of sixth sense. It seemed to be at work again: for no reason, he insisted we take the closest exit. The choking began just as we pulled to a stop at the end of the ramp. Luckily, there were plenty of gas stations, dealerships, and hotels in a one-mile radius.

My mom insisted that we just shouldn’t make the drive to Illinois anymore, that this would be the last time this car would make the trip. While our bought of bad luck seemed to indicate this would be the best future decision, I think maybe this is too rash. If there is a power out there – Fate, God, the Universe, whatever... – it has been kind enough to give my family a net of safety as well.

I admit, the wait outside the gas station for the tow truck was hot and excruciating. One of the worst parts was watching my dad curse the car. He had brought the van in for a tune up only a month ago. Nothing I said or did could ease his frustration. So, I stopped trying. My dog, who constantly wears a black coat, was hot and confused and wouldn’t drink the water I offered him. My arm was burning in the sun.

Luckily, I had in my company one of the most imaginative and comedic voices in modern fiction: Douglas Adams. I was reading Dirk Gently’s Holistic Detective Agency. I was so thankful for the oddity of events: the portals, the Electric Monks, the hypnosis, the ghosts, the strange world that Adams had created: so much like our own world, but with those eccentric little details.

The philosophy Dirk Gently operates under is that everything, especially the most unusual and seemingly unrelated events, are interconnected. He works to understand how this connection works and, because he is open to the all possibilities (even supernatural), he usually finds that connection. Now, I don’t know why our car had to break down – why we probably won’t make it to a family friend’s wedding ceremony – why my family is stuck in a hotel room for the second night in a row – why we were unable to attend the Friday Fish Fry with my grandmother. I do know that my brother showed me the name of the girl he’s been texting – that I got to swim with my dad and brother – that we taught my mom how to play set back despite her not understanding the finer points of a not to complicated game – that I resolved to begin a transformation of body, mind, and soul.

I don’t need an Electric Monk to believe things for me. I’d rather be unsure of my beliefs rather than whole-heartedly believing that everything in the valley is pink, or that the answer to my problems lies at the top of a tree. I’d rather be stuck in Indiana with my family rather than be at home, alone. I’d rather read for hours than watch television program after television program. And, instead of striving to match the imaginations of Adams, Card, and the like, I’d rather write what I know.

The Last Words of Monte Cristo

2009-06-18T19:33:00.000-07:00

"Live, then, and be happy, beloved children of my heart, and never forget that, until the day God deigns to reveal the future to man, the sum of all human wisdom will be contained in these two words: Wait and hope.
Your friend,
Edmond Dantes
Count of Monte Cristo"

The Count of Monte Cristo
Alexandre Dumas

I finished Dumas's tale of revenge this afternoon in the car. It sounds silly, but I had forgotten exactly how much I enjoy his writing. While sometimes the story gets bogged down, I always find myself caring for all of his characters at some moment or other -- even the treacherous Mondego, Danglars, and Villefort. Little gems of stylistic excellence and wisdom are scattered throughout the novel, but the last page is what hit me the hardest.

Wait and hope. Strange words from a man who took revenge into his own hands. Granted, he did believe he was doing God's work, that God had blessed him with a great fortune in order to bring the men who had destroyed his life to justice. He is a man who, after waiting and hoping for about fifteen years, finally got his wish. However, the course he takes after those years of waiting is filled with nothing but action.

Wait and hope. I feel like that's what I've been doing for the whole of these past seven years (at least). I'm tired of waiting and hoping. I'm ready to do things, to take action. And Dantes's last words just made me feel extremely ansy and ready to go.

I've been doing alot of work with the M.D. to debunk the mysteries of my behavior, or more accurately, the mysteries of my reactions. I've been reading, but I want to start writing again. I just re-read the play I began over FWT. I should really work on that. I should do something. I will do something.

Power

2009-06-16T22:10:00.001-07:00

I wrote this poem my senior year in high school for my poetry class. I've been thinking a lot about it lately because I've been struggling with my feelings of self-worth and my appearance. It's so cliche, but all this was raging just dying to get out when I thought everything was ok. This is one of the most graphic things I've ever written, and at the time I believed that it came out of no where. But really, I think I just tapped into some deep seated insecurities.

Here is the original poem. The assignment was to imitate Lorde's poem as closely as we could - using the same rhythms, poetic devices, and things of that nature. And it had to bear the title "Power."

Power
after “Power” by Audre Lorde

The difference between a horror and a nightmare
is being
able to strip
naked
in front of a mirror.

I am blindsided by regurgitated tidal waves
and skeletons stalk my peripheral
vision even when my eyes are closed
the space between hollow cheekbone and jaw
is the only air in this vacuum and my nerves
scream to inhale but
I won’t take a breath
No I won’t take a breath
(torso taut without expansion)
every organ melts to sawdust
and cotton in my mouth
even as I drool urine
not seeing that power lies in strength
not seeing my sex appeal fade with the fat
and the lard of the earth boiling my ankles.

The blossoming duck just voted Queen
stands in front of the naked mirror
while a critic sneers “Look at those fleshy ribs” and
this voice is real to her. After religious
fasting and cleansings, the voice chides
“96 lbs… looks like two hundred
with thighs like those.” This is a
real death threat too.

Next week, a twelve-year-old-girl of 96 lbs
will be scorned
on the playground for extra baby-pink
in her face
and so begins the 6 AM
running regime which leads to
rabbit behavior that pulls more laughs
and meals turn to water and water to
screw well-being
cause less is more and sex is strong
and since she only sees power in
a trim silhouette she doesn’t watch
her shadow eclipsed by the wall.

I cannot imagine my body and frame fading
yet I still don’t see
the line separating a horror and a nightmare
They’ve taught me that less is more (thirty inch waist)
and any other shape’s as unwanted as a dated diva
and one day as my thoughts evaporate
and the steam helps to melt my body away
I will lend myself out to
horny bastards at carnivals
giving blowjobs behind the dunk tank
and when they find my corpse raped with a plunger
the clowns will whisper “What a shame no one taught her real beauty.”

© copyright 2009 R. Yaeko at Alter Egos Blog
All rights reserved.

Evaluation

2009-06-14T21:46:00.000-07:00

Finished:
God Bless You, Dr. Kevorkian
Ender's Game
The Virgin Suicides
Raised gardens - beds, vegetables, and critter-prevention

In Progress (still):
Project 'Here's Looking'
my room

Begun:
Dubliners
The Count of Monte Cristo
Dress - to wear to the wedding

Meaning

2009-06-12T23:50:00.001-07:00

I finished Ender's Game this afternoon. It's a book worth reading, and the kind of science fiction capable of inciting thoughts about today's world and what the future holds. Given the first page of Card's introduction, I'd say he succeeded quite well since this was (partially) his goal.

Central to the story is this idea of game. It comes in many forms: games imposed from within and without, games of manipulation, of winning, of learning, of sacrifice. Ender is only six when the book begins and, until the last chapter of the book, he is about twelve. The voice Card gives him and the other children of the story is adult, mature, and you forget that the "Ender Wiggin" feared, respected, and admired is only a boy. Just a kid.

But it got me thinking about the meaning behind the games we play in real life. As my M.D. has been telling me in the past few weeks, as humans we are creatures of meaning. We attach meaning to events, people, words without even trying. It is part of what he believes defines us as human and part of what I know has been my own downfall.

I, like many others, attach meaning to every moment, every interaction. However, I exaggerate the importance of this meaning to the point where is it harmful to me -- because my expectation is just too high. It is not only unrealistic but actually impossible to maintain the way I interact with the world. I personalize every interaction I have with anyone, hold myself to unreachable standards, and completely berate myself when I find myself unable to meet them. This all compounds to a dramatic kind of anxiety about what other people think of me and of my work -- see, I already know I haven't done my best or been at my best. The only way I think I can even begin to feel successful is if someone else sees value in me or what I've done.

Like Ender, I've chosen to take part in a game. Except, here there are no aliens, no battle rooms, no simulators, no teachers orchestrating my every move so it will be a test. Humanity's survival does not rely on my passing the next test. However, my own does. The aliens are my expectations and the battle room my reactions. While I have no game simulators, no computers to constantly challenge me, I have my own wild imagination that can get ahead of me before I even blink. And while there is no system or teachers trying to mold me into something great at my own expense... there is the meaning I've attached to past events and current ones, the way I define my life. And now that I'm really stepping back to look... I've spent so long unconsciously plotting my own defeat.

Why do I feel like I must take on every task, shoulder every challenge thrown my way? Why do I feel like I need to excel even at things I hate? Why do I set my sights on the unattainable when what I've got right now is pretty damn good? Why do I always think about how I've failed rather than what I have accomplished? Why do I fear mistakes so much?

Ender had more reason than I to fear mistakes. The imposed expectation of him where tantamount. His responsibilities affected all of humanity. Yet he took risks. He wasn't afraid to try a new maneuver and fail. He would just practice it until it was right. He didn't doubt his understanding of the enemy or of strategies. If he had been wrong, or wavered at all, the book would end differently. And because of all this he was the most creative, most innovative, bravest character in that book. That is why he succeeded.

I say that I want to be brave, that I want to be able to help people, that I want to think of things no one has thought of before. I won't ever be able to do that with my current expectations. My ambition paralyzes me. It doesn't fit with the way the world works. Something's gotta give - and if it's between my beliefs about success and performance level or the world, I think the one to change is going to be me.

Om

2009-06-08T21:15:00.000-07:00

"These people were worthy of love and admiration in their blind loyalty, in their blind strength and tenacity."

"It [wisdom] was nothing but a preparation of the soul, a capacity, a secret art of thinking, feeling and breathing thoughts of unity at every moment of life."

"Was it not a comedy, a strange and stupid thing, this repetition, this course of events in a fateful circle? The river laughed. Yes, that was how it was. Everything that was not suffered to the end and finally concluded, recurred, and the same sorrows were undergone."

Siddartha
Hermann Hesse

I just finished Siddartha, a book I've wanted to read since senior year in high school. The first book I picked up since being back from Bennington. One thing's for sure... after about a month, TV gets boring and I need to get thinking again. It was a really good book for me to read right now, considering it's all about self-discovery and the acquisition of wisdom. This was my first real exposure to the concepts of Buddhism. I read The Tao of Pooh last FWT, and I think I'd like to read some of Lao Tsu's work.

Anyways, that quote about the comedic circle is very apt right now. Perhaps if I had learned that lesson sooner, my summer plans would be different. However, I am learning it now.

Siddartha talks about a unity that surpasses time, a cohesion that unites even the diametrically opposed. He goes between referring to is as "Om" as "God" as "Buddha." The kind of peace and wisdom he attains at the end of the novel is alluring. He completely diverts from the set teachings and finds his own teachers and his own way. Eventually, he attains a state of holy comparable to the Buddha, but Siddartha does this not through the rejection of Illusion or complete detachment from the material world. He opens himself to everything, to that unity.

Last night, I hung out with my friends from youth group for the first time since last summer. Stay had told me that there would be praise and worship and assured me that the two of us could hang back in the house if I wanted and just talk. I joined them. The group likes to do a sort of jam session thing and there's a running idea that I'm the best at improvising melody and lyrics. I was pretty good at it last summer when my imagination was fueled by the faith fire. I knew it wouldn't be the same this time. But I tried.

I'm not surprised I tried. Part of me really wanted something miraculous to happen - to be hit over the head with how wrong I was. I just felt empty. And the only words I could think of were, "If I have any reason to believe in you, it's love." Siddartha tells his friend Govinda, at the end, that the most important thing in life is love -- Govinda is a follower of the Buddha who preaches that love only ties you to the material. He cannot understand Siddartha's "doctrine," but, when Siddartha asks, Govinda kisses his forehead. It is through this gesture of love and affection that Govinda experiences the truth in his friend's words. While the description is kind of trippy, it has a sort of beauty all it's own. If you didn't get the point of the book before... you sure as hell better get it then.

I haven't thought about love in a long time. For about three years, it was defined by the love I thought God had for me, by this idea of "agape." When I took that out of the picture, I had no idea where to start. I still haven't thought about it too much other than who I love -- my family, my network up at school. I've thought about what it means to tell my friends I love them, and who I really mean it for. The one person I desperately want to add to the list is myself. I don't want to just like myself, or be satisfied. I want to love everything about me. Even the scars.

Maybe I should take a page out of Siddartha's book and go sit by a river for a while.

Post 2 of the Day

2009-06-05T11:22:00.001-07:00

And so begins the thirteenth labor of Hercules: being miles away and unable to immediately share in the graduation of eight people whom I admire and love -- knowing that the time between when I last hugged them and was close enough to feel them breathing and the next is undetermined. It could be days, weeks, months, years, or eternity. -- knowing that I or they could be forgotten -- knowing that, for now, our time in a shared world, shared experience is over. Not knowing when I will return to seeing and speaking to them daily.

I wanted to piece them into my quilt - but I never got to ask for the articles of clothing while I was still there. I think it's time for an e-mail, a facebook message... because I want to continue that project... and have it to wrap myself in. To warm me when I'm cold. And to feel an embrace when I am lonely.

2009-06-05T10:05:00.000-07:00

Text of Obama's Speech in Cairo
President Obama’s prepared remarks to the Muslim world

At Nazi Camp, Obama Calls Holocaust Denial ‘Hateful’
By NICHOLAS KULISH, JEFF ZELENY AND ALAN COWELL
Published: June 6, 2009

When a Picture is Worth a Thousand Debates, Give or Take
By MICHAEL KIMMELMAN
“Controversies: A Legal and Ethical History of Photography,” a show at the Bibliothèque Nationale in Paris, squandered our mercy for a rambling survey.

How the Other Half Lives

2009-06-04T22:10:00.000-07:00

In twelfth grade I was told that there was enough food on the planet to feed the world's population three times over. It was just poorly distributed. I watched Slumdog Millionaire tonight. Good movie -- it got me thinking about poverty, about the slums.

What can be done? I want badly to be able to do something. I know there is action that can be taken - especially in Bennington & N. Bennington. I know that I have, at least, time to offer. C has got me thinking about charity in a whole new way. Human Rights with Mansour made me question "right" and "good." How do I explore this completely unfamiliar territory?

I've never been extremely involved in my community. The most involved I ever got was with the youth group. We kind of, sort of did things that might help someone somewhere. I volunteered at the Lutz Children's Museum for a summer. I always thought about tutoring with P.A.L. Thought about - never did. I couldn't bring myself out of my comfort zone. I feel so disconnected from both the town community of Manchester (and then Bennington) that I don't even know where I'd want to begin. I don't have dreams of volunteering my ass off to make myself feel better. I'd just like something I do to have a positive impact.

I think C & S's bookstore is a marvelous idea because it's not just a bookstore. It's something for the community to rally around. I want to help that to happen. And then I want to go on and keep doing and being a part of things like that.

Where would you go to get out of the slums? To the nearest city? To a city in a different country? What are the odds that you'll end back up in a slum, just one miles away from where you started? What would happen if there was a concentrated effort made by the citizens of the world, the biggest community we have, to better the slum areas? To make them livable - to help them and the people there to thrive. Instead of feeding the ideas of "getting out," what if that environment grew to be one they could be proud of? One they wanted to move forward? One that could and would prosper?

Maybe nothing would happen. Or maybe something would.

Video Games

2009-06-03T19:52:00.001-07:00

So I feel like I missed something in my childhood - Zelda. It's the one video game I'm absolutely addicted to now and can play for hours and hours (besides a puzzle game.) I had reached the final battle with Ganondorf, but it had been so long since I had played the preceding levels -- Ocarina of Time has been about a year and a half long endeavor -- I decided to delete that game and to start from the beginning.

In this game, I want to complete as many quests as possible, to not just hit B repeatedly and hope I hit something. but now I'm in Jabu-Jabu's belly with all the electricity and... and I'm kinda screwed. I have no patience sometimes. Well, I've also been playing for about six hours. I hate being child Link. I can't reach Gold Skulltella Tokens. I don't have the hook shot yet, or even the boomerang. I just want the boomerang...

I know that after I get this last spirit stone, the whole scene with the ocarina of Time and the Temple of Time happens and Link grows up and becomes much more effective. I can get my horse, Epona, and play the fun temple levels with the cool items.

Video game is a language and a style that I've never really mastered. My brother (and many of my male friends) seem to have a seventh sense -- video game sense. It's like the sixth sense or spider-sense, only completely reliant on programs hardwired into a little disk or cartridge. The only other video game I'm "good" at is Soul Caliber... because you can mosh and still win. I spent a while perfecting my technique with Raphael and Talim so that I could actually play with my brother. And then, with no practice at all, he started beating me with "my" characters. That did not make me happy.

So I've finally gotten bored with television, and it won't be long before I satisfy my video game craving... then I can finally get to the books and the projects and the writing.

I feel stranded... out in this place that doesn't really feel connected to the rest of my life: Some sort of mental Crusoe. I need to sing a way to mark the days on the wall of my brain so that time stays with me and I don't go insane.

Solitaire

2009-06-02T21:36:00.000-07:00

Solitaire is game you play when you are on your own, alone, and bored. Spider solitaire is a game that is only practical on the computer and completely addicting. Four suited spider solitaire definitely has its challenges. I was once told that every game has a solution. Well, I can't find one if ever game.

Ever eaten at a Cracker Barrel? On every table is this triangular peg game. The object is to jump one peg over the other and try to eliminate all but one. It takes planning and is a helluva lot harder than it looks. I ate at Cracker Barrel twice today (the same one) and played that game too many times to count. I must have won a scant three games.

When I was younger, I secretly wanted to be a spy or a detective. Nancy Drew, the Hardy Boys, Encyclopedia Brown, and the Boxcar Children were my models of children detectives. I had a detective kit with fingerprint chalk and everything. Oh, and I wanted to be Harriet the Spy too.

Saturdays were usually spent with my best friend, Elizabeth. She owned every American Girl doll. Sometimes we played with them. Other times, we tried to track down fairies in her back yard. Since unusually grey Saturdays do not easily lend themselves to fairy hunting, we usually consented to watch a movie. On one of these Saturdays Harriet the Spy, Nickelodeon’s newest video, surfaced. By the movie’s end, I wanted to be Harriet. I can’t remember if this desire was precluded by a game of spy, or by my best friend’s own Harriet-esque aspirations. Whatever the catalyst, I was determined to live the daring life of an eight year old spy.

The scenes I internalized involved expeditions to skylights and rides in a dumbwaiter. Each escapade glittered with everything grand and forbidden. I must have understood that those bits of architecture were not built to offer a glimpse at someone’s life. I proudly deduced that only an intellectual could exploit them. Harriet, fearless in her yellow raincoat, was the smartest girl who ever lived. I was sure. What enthralled me about her was not just the trespassing, but the dedication with which she wrote everything down. Those drab white and black notebooks stacked in my desk could be used for something other than spelling words and critical reading responses. Marble composition books were the medium by which I had been assessed, critiqued, and measured. In her marble notebook, Harriet assessed the world.

The idea of a secret notebook bearing a red, “WARNING: DO NOT READ,” or, “FORBIDDEN,” or, “PRIVATE,” on the cover completely trumped any consideration that spying may be wrong. Any trouble it caused paled in the light of the richest observation. I oversimplified the whole idea and tried my best to be Harriet. Observation seemed free, as though I was crossing an unknown line with this little experiment. It was not just about spying. I wanted to remember everything. After all, if I could remember how to spell phobia or some other enticingly difficult word, I should be able to remember these people who surrounded me. At the age of eight, I must have had a sense of the individuality of each human spirit.

I would be Harriet. And I knew exactly which notebook to use.

It must have been a party favor, or an indulgent “Please-mommy-please” gift. At an age when personalized items screamed cool, a notebook cover bearing “Kaitlin” framed by an orange star and backed by silvery melted sequins was a necessity. That notebook held the promise of a personalized paper haven. Of course, at eight it was only an illusion of sanctuary. Anyone could reach into my desk and take that precious notebook despite the name-insurance. Such a notebook completely defied the third grade canon: wide ruled composition books and number two pencils. Our uniforms matched and so did the contents of our desks. A little silver reporter’s notebook had no place in that repertoire. Only a fantastic reason could tempt me to bring it to school. This was it.

My notebook was smaller than hers: more reflective, yes, but smaller. Some of my school jumpers had pockets perfectly sized for this secret. In my lopsided print, I scrawled the name of everyone in my homeroom class: Elizabeth, Caitlin P., Caitlin H., Mike, Chris, Tim, Ally, Dave, Helen, Tara, Mary Pat – twenty something first names. I gave everyone in my class, including my teacher Mrs. Camposeo, a page in my little silver reporter’s notebook. I threw order to the wind, imagining myself spontaneous and chaotic.

Amidst all this perceived turmoil, I halted. Timidity reminded me that my first concern should be academic; studying remained the top priority. Even though spying could be considered a method of study, another obstacle surfaced. I had no means of watching my classmates other than a blatant stare. Staring was rude and to turn around in class would mark me as a cheater. “No Mrs. Camposeo, I wasn’t trying to copy the answers. I was just spying.” Sometimes Harriet used a mirror for over-the-shoulder observation. My nerves could not sustain the risk of a mirror. In my mind, the notebook would already be pushing it.

Why my Catholic elementary school bestowed dog tags upon us, I will never know. I remember polishing the smooth silver charm on my blouse and slyly tilting it back. Perfect. Those behind me were no longer inaccessible. I think this discovery gave me some sort of perverted courage. I brought the notebook to school and embarked on my mission. I admit my entries were sometimes malicious, but that wasn’t the point. The point was to discover secrets, to know what people looked like when no one was watching.

“Mike – Cute. Doodling in notebook. I have a crush on him.

Tim – Lets his mouth hang open. Makes him look stupid.

Elizabeth – My best friend. I like her.

Caitlin P. – Smart. Pulls her face funny when she leans on her hand.

Mary Pat – Pretty. Called me a know-it-all-Chinese-four-eyed-face-goody-goody-girl-scout-girl to my face just to be mean. I hate her. I hope I can catch her picking her nose. ”

The entries continued on in simple little not-sentences. After all, I was sneaking peripheral or rearview glances in the middle of silent reading. Scribbling as neatly as I could, I hid the little silver notebook in my lap. During free time, I worked up the nerve to actually make entries on my desk, a hand tactfully covering any name. I became too bold.

Mike walked by my desk one day during free time. I don’t know if nerves started to swell in my stomach or if I was unconsciously set upon revealing myself. All I remember is the notebook falling off my desk, the white of its exposed pages laughing at me. Embarrassment, guilt, and a bitter rage bubbled into my chest cavity in place of the butterflies. My game was over. The rules had changed on me. Or… had I changed them? Either way, such an end was unjust.

He bent down to retrieve it, reading the open page. Then it occurred to me that he could read his own page or one that belonged to a friend. What if I had been mean? What if he uncovered some of my secrets? How would I even begin to explain myself? “I’m just playing ‘Harriet the Spy.’ Would you like to join me?”

By the kindness of Fate or luck or God, he saw Elizabeth’s page. “My best friend,” did not stir up any suspicions. The notebook went straight into my backpack and back into my room. Secrets, secrets are no fun unless you’re absolutely positively one hundred thousand percent sure that no one will ever read your secret notebook.

I stopped my game with pen and paper, but in a sense I never stopped spying, or more correctly, watching. While I don’t use the reflection in the periphery of my sunglasses to peer at those behind me, I do catalog the way he walks or the way she says, “Great!” into the corners of my mind. Now it is an exercise in human behavior rather than my own little dangerous game.

The truth is those notebook pages bore what I had considered to be the most dangerous phrases I could record. That sort of huge risk remains alluring. I still wonder why I even pulled it out onto my desk during free time. After all, I was the best speller in the class. Remembering for later was easy. Maybe I was bragging, assuming that people could sense what was on those pages.

A part of me supposes I wanted to get caught. I didn’t want to be a “goody-goody-girl-scout-girl.” I set myself up for capture. After all, Harriet was caught. Why shouldn’t I be?

Now, my favorite television shows are crime dramas or sci-fi adventure series. I love a good mystery - a good puzzle. I love people who solve puzzles. I wanted to be a forensic scientist for a while in order to solve the big puzzles. Then I wanted to be a police detective, investigating cases and actually making a difference. I wanted to be an SVU detective - you deal more with the living. I'm not cut out for that occupation, but sometimes I consider the police academy. I want to solve puzzles and help people.

How did acting fit into all of this? No clue... but this all came about due to my new found addiction to insanely difficult sudoku, the NY Times and LA Times crosswords, and spider solitaire. Now I just need to take on my most challenging puzzle... myself. Diagnose that, Gregory House.

Click your heels three times

2009-06-01T23:33:00.000-07:00

I feel like I'm in an inverted and perverted Wizard of Oz. While I'm home, I don't really want to be here, in my Kansas. Dorothy just wanted to go home to Aunt Em... and I just want to go back to Oz.

I could cast the whole thing if I had to... and the line "I think I'll miss you the most, Scarecrow" just keeps running through my head. Over and over - instead of "There's no place like home" I'm at the point where I'm just thinking, "There's no place like Oz."

Imagine what that black and white must have looked like after the vibrant colors of Oz. While the familiar is comforting, there's a sort of excitement to being on sensory overload - new sights, smells, sounds, tastes, and feelings. (I know I'm just talking in terms of the movies. I never read the books, and I know that Dorothy returns to Oz at some point.) But the movie never addresses how Dorothy felt after the relief of being in her own bed wore off. All her friends, her adventures and successes were back in Oz. And yes, there were dangers: The Wicked Witch of the West, the forest, and probably plenty more evils in Frank L. Baum's original world. Dorothy defeated those evils. She was a hero in Oz. At home, she was just Dorothy Gale: the gawky, lonely girl whose dearest friend was her dog.

Imagine what she would feel if she were offered the chance to return.

I get to return to Oz for about five hours. The thought of it is exciting, but I also know that leaving will be twice as difficult this time. I wish that this story could end a bit like Peter Pan - Wendy brings all the lost boys (except Peter) home with her. While Neverland was far away, the family of that place melded with that of her home. And London could be home again.

Oz, Neverland, Bennington... each a land born in the imagination and then worked into existence. The only thing that makes them real - truly real - is the people Dorothy/Wendy/I had to leave behind.

Now I get to say "Hello" and "Until we meet again" -- a second departure. The first was like ripping a band-aid off... quick and relatively painless. Of course, there was still the scab, puss, scar, or whatever else you find underneath a band-aid (That over hydrated skin that looks a bit alien...) And the aftermath sucked...

Man, my brain isn't quite processing things anymore. I'm stuck on these metaphors I began... and I have no way to really tie this up. I think that's a sign I should sleep.

Headache

2009-05-30T23:04:00.001-07:00

Sometimes I think I force myself to stay awake until I have a headache and am absolutely famished because it's some weird kind of hitting and surpassing a limit kind of thing.

It's 2:00 am and there are birds chirping outside. I'm confused - I hope the birds are ok. Though, given the time of day, something is probably wrong.

I'm now addicted to The X-Files. Apparently, I'm completely entranced by mystery, government conspiracy, crime, and slightly dysfunctional and deranged male characters: House (Gregory House); NCIS (Leroy Jethro Gibbs); Law & Order: SVU (Eliot Stabler); and now The X-Files (Fox Mulder).

Wouldn't it be cool to be named "Fox?"

If you give a mouse a muffin...

2009-05-30T00:59:00.000-07:00

It's roughly 4:00 AM - the minute actually just turned. I've listened to every Jesse McCartney song on my computer - that's 3 hours, 52 minutes, and 44 seconds of that voice (and some really bad music.) And, not so surprisingly, when surrounded by that voice - that voice of the boy I've met twice and will never know - I've felt the most content than I have in a long while.

His music has permeated my life. Last weekend I sang "Beautiful Soul" to myself for two hours as I planted snapdragons, geraniums, cilia, wild flowers, basil - rosemary - parsley - and sweet pea seeds. For no reason, I broke the song up into different parts and perfected where each melody fell on my vocal chords. One consistent thing in my life for the past eight years has been that his voice - voice, not music - can make me smile. "Beautiful Soul" still feels like an anthem.

I began a sort of memoir over FWT, inspired by the DEAR JESSE MCCARTNEY blog. This is the introduction:

Dear Jesse McCartney,

When you were thirteen and I was eleven, your life was what I wanted, my dream. It thrilled me that you and I shared the same dream. Well, you, me, and about sixty percent of the teenage world population. What was this dream? If I want to set this in a noble frame, I’d say it was to make music for music’s sake. It wasn’t about being in a band, traveling to new places, performing in front of a thousand people, and doing photo shoots for POPstar magazine. I used to save up my allowance so that I could buy that magazine and plaster all the pictures of you onto my wall. (I wonder if it's different now... now that you're 21. You may still have your picture in POPstar, I haven't looked in a while.) If I’m honest, my dream was not merely to sing, but to perform with you.

Hello Jesse. You don’t know me, but like many people tuned into pop culture, I know of you. I’ve known of you for quite a while now. How’s life treating you? Well, I hope. You’re still making music, and I’m still watching and listening. You sound and look good. Are your dreams the same? Mine have changed quite a bit.

Since eleven and thirteen, I survived high school with only a few scars to show for it. You’ve released four albums. I’ve put myself through conversion after conversion. You completely changed your image and the flavor of your music. You were in a three-year relationship. I got my heart stepped on more times than I like admitting. You’re going tour, starring in a movie, writing hit songs, and probably more than I could even begin to guess. I’m heading into my second term as a sophomore at Bennington College feeling a bit less like a gawky teenager.

We’ve both grown up some, haven’t we?

Actually, that’s why I’m writing – because we’ve grown up. In a very odd, we've-never-met-and-you-live-across-the-country kind of way, I feel like I grew up next door to you or something; not because I know the slightest bit of truth about you, but because when I think about any point in my life, I can connect it with your career. It's weird that mine is a life and yours in a career. Looking back, I'm glad we didn't trade.

I’ve been doing a lot of thinking lately about my life and what I want my role as an artist to be, where I’d like to go and what kind of art I want to make. Hell, I don't even really know if I’m an artist now, or if I’ll ever be one.

All I really know is who I used to be, what happened to that person, what day dream I’d create to escape it all, and whichever album of yours was hitting the record stores.

© copyright 2009 R. Yaeko at Alter Egos Blog
All rights reserved.

Old habits die hard.

I'd forgotten that when I don't interact with people outside of my family - if I shut myself off, I have nothing to write about. Now that I'm here with no requirements on how I spend my time, I should read the newspaper. I should really read the NY Times, just so I remember the world outside of my backyard. I should keep e-mailing, keep calling, become a little less of a hermit.

I still keep pulling my Jo March and pretend to spend my "sleeping" hours writing. There was a time when I did do that. Lately, I've just been tryign to beat Spider Solitaire in vain. I have no ideas. There are a lot of old ones that could be revisited, resurrected... but I don't know if that's a good idea either.

Maybe one of the best bets is this "Dear Jesse McCartney" project -- a memoir for me: a kind of exploration of my own history. I think I began it because of some writing contest or another. But maybe it's a good way to put down in words what's happening.

Maybe start now... maybe start with the dilemma I find myself in now (artistically): stale and unsure of where I'm going. While theater has always been the "dream," it seems to be changing, taking on new aspects. I want so much to be able to help people - really help them. I want to do many things. Making a difference is climbing the ladder of priority rather quickly.

There was a time that I wanted to start a program centered in theater and writing that would help high school kids deal with and handle the stresses in their lives. And then take it a step farther and develop a sort of program to help teenagers dealing with depression and anxiety. To use theater as a tool to examine, confront, and solve their problems. It would involve creating their own work - being able to channel and then release.

Man, that's what I need right now.

I do have Georgie Mitchell stored away. THAT'S THE PROBLEM.

Not Georgie Mitchell... but, when I write with the idea that someone, somewhere will read this someday, I loose it. I hide things and try to hide my life in what I'm writing. Why not just write this for me... use that world I started to create as a tool to get out of my head. To channel and release... Why do moments of clarity come at 4:18 in the morning?

Emoticons

2009-05-28T21:09:00.000-07:00

Ever notice how sometimes words aren't enough and so you revert to other symbols to try and express your current state? Emoticons suck, but I use them anyways :/...

I'm obsessed with perfection. With maintaining a waxy and hazy mask over my sadness and my anger. Ugh, I can't even. Done.this is done.

Dirt Under the Fingernails

2009-05-25T13:01:00.000-07:00

I woke up at 10:30 today and spent most of the afternoon outside, planting flowers and seed my dad and I bought. I've always wanted to develop a green thumb because both of my grandfathers loved to garden. I keep hoping that maybe I've inherited that particular talent, but I'm impatient.

So my goal this summer is to be patient, to tend to the plants as they grow, and to do so in memory of my grandfathers. My jichan, even though he lives in Chicago, used to grow bushes and bushes of raspberries. I love raspberries. It was one of my favorite parts of going to visit them -- picking the raspberries or tomatoes.

My papa lived in Monticello, Illinois in prime farm country. He didn't have fields of corn, but he did have a pretty comprehensive patch with lettuce, carrots, beans, tomatoes, a few stalks of corn, squash, zucchini, and cucumbers. One fall we actually went back in time for harvest. Usually we were too early or too late. I always wished that I could have been there to plant with him in the spring.

I'm going to build a raised garden in the next week so that we can have a shot at growing our own vegetables. I'm really excited - 1) to build something. 2) to grow things. If I don't keep giving myself these projects, I'd just be wallowing.

God, I want to start talking to someone. I don't want to be dealing with this on my own any longer.

These aren't the droids you're looking for.

2009-05-24T23:55:00.000-07:00

Obi-wan Kenobi: These aren't the droids you're looking for.
Stormtrooper: These aren't the droids we're looking for.
Obi-Wan: He can go about his business.
Stormtrooper: You can go about your business.
Obi-Wan: Move along.
Stormtrooper: Move along... move along.

Now, if only my brain could work tricks like this, I'd have dealt with this depression, these insecurities and neurosis ages ago. Well, dealt with is probably the wrong phrase... banished is more apt.

I've unpacked my clothes and am over halfway done with Project "Here's looking". It's nice to be able to hold something in my hands and say, "I made this." I am over anxious to begin my other project, but that's just the Gemini in me.

There's more, but I just got really tired.

2009-05-24T09:16:00.000-07:00

Add:

Good Omens - Neil Gaimen
The Prince - Machiavelli
The Pillowbook
No Exit - Jean Paul Sartre

Project "Rhetoric"

Embroidery Hoops

2009-05-23T00:14:00.000-07:00

I spent the last 16 hours cutting, sewing, embroidering, and otherwise piecing together fabric. I have something to show for my work (in addition to a stiff forearm) And it's something to do. I'm having fun, and hopefully this will keep someone, somewhere warm.

I almost watched an episode of the West Wing, even though I had no idea what was going on. It's 3:15 am and I'm still not asleep.

I've let Eva know that I am medically withdrawing from Bennington for the remainder of this term. I watched The Sting and episodes of NCIS for most of the day.

Things to make:
-Project "Here's Looking"
-Project "Kitchenette"
-Project "Springtime 1" & "Springtime 2"

Those people I wanted to learn about/read:
Vaclav Havel
Ken Saro-Wiwa
Habermas (This is ambition/curiosity)
Socrates, Plato, Aristotle

Short Stories/Collections/Essays:
The Things They Carried
Dubliners
Flannery O'Connor
Eudora Whelty
Plutarch's Lives
Seven Stories - Salinger
Honore de Balzac
Borges

Books I wanted to read:
The Count of Monte Cristo
The Aeneid
The Odessey
The Virgin Suicides
God Bless You, Mr. Rosewater
Brave New World
Siddhartha
Catcher in the Rye
Hiroshima
Memoirs of a Geisha

Poets:
Frank O'Hara
e.e. cummings
"Howl" Alan Ginsberg
"The Wasteland" T.S. Eliot
Mark Doty
Marge Piercy
Walt Whitman

Plays:
The Seagull
Proof
Summer and Smoke
Cat on a Hot Tin Roof
George Bernard Shaw

To Do:
Floss daily.
Keep an idea notebook.
Finish things.
Piece life back together.
Wake up before 10 - sleep before 2.
Be honest.
Love much, laugh often.

Insomnia doesn't solve anything

2009-05-21T23:43:00.000-07:00

Somehow... I've always thought that if I never sleep then the next day won't come... and then I won't have to deal with whatever is bound to come in the next day. It never works. It's a silly idea, but I always try.

After the conversation with E. today, medical withdrawal seems to be where I'm headed. I'm not fond of this idea, so to speak. It's not what I want. I want to be near you all. And as much as I want that, I also want to have this figured out. To finally deal with whatever has been lying dormant and ignored for the past couple years.

Damn, am I terrified.

What is 'normal' and how do I get there?

Fuck, yesterday was ok because I built up my hope of returning this term. Now that the reality of fulfilling that hope dwindles, so does my ability to keep myself from crying. I can laugh with my brother and play with my dog, but the tears come anyways. I shouldn't have invested so much in that hope. I know I'll be ok. I got myself into a situation where no option is easy or perfect - these feelings are what come with it I guess.

The new goal/hope is to really deal with this all and get back to Bennington in the fall. I'm already going stir crazy... I'm already fighting my inclination to sleep in and just give up. I don't want this inclination any longer... I want to be inclined to wake up and pursue my dreams, my goals. I don't want to feel hopeless anymore.

At least yesterday I hoped whole-heartedly. I'd forgotten what that felt like. I'd really like that to be regular part of my life.

For Your Consideration

2009-05-20T22:14:00.000-07:00

C. brought up in an e-mail (and rightly so) that I will/should have to talk to you about what went on. I know this... and I will. The conversation with Eva is actually happening tomorrow (or technically today) at 3:00. I've been doing a lot of thinking so that I can articulate what happened, what I would like to happen in my ideal world, how/why I think I should/could return, etc.

I've... well, I'm not going to have that conversation here. No worries about that. It was really difficult to say in the first place - on Monday night/Tuesday morning. I've gotten a little better about talking about it since.

That being said, I only want to talk to you if you're comfortable with it. I don't want it to be a continual elephant in the room, but I don't want to make anyone uncomfortable either.

Ugh, I wish I could turn back time and start this over - ask for help sooner, take on less, not let certain things get to me. When someone invents the time machine, gimme a call?

Sketch: My Brother

2009-05-20T17:34:00.000-07:00

A boy I know very well has grown up while I was away. The kid whizzing a lacrosse ball across the lawn isn’t so much my kid brother as a pillar of young greatness. His wide shoulders could hold the world, but he doesn’t. He takes it day by day in a simple and content routine, allowing himself the pleasure of video games and sports. He’s a smart kid – smarter than me. He doesn’t worry.

Over the past year he’s taught himself to handle a lacrosse stick with power and grace. Just a stick and some string... he turns the bit of netting and tape into an instrument. It’s an extension of his arm, capable of carrying a ball down a stretch of field or relegating it to the goal. He’s fast. The ball zizzes faster. What is really just a sphere of latex flies with the wings my brother has earned.

The sounds of lacrosse are typical of sports: the stick slices the air at vaguely regular intervals; the balls thump like a heartbeat in the grace; the net deflates as it receives his throw. The bushes crackle and groan when he misdirects his aim. Now, he is practicing the “hard shots,” targeting the corners and the crossbar. He’s asking me if I want to play. Of course I want to play.

Lacrosse is one of the most unnatural sports played in the history of mankind. Hold the stick vertically to catch. Got it. Keep the net perpendicular to the ground. Got it. Point your elbow at me to throw. Got it. Zizz—whfe-thnk. Zizz---whfe-thnk. He’s more poised with this stick and ball than I will ever be.

He teaches me how to cradle and my forearm has never burned this much. My admiration for him skyrockets; he shows me how smooth it is for him, the grace he’s been striving towards, the speed and the elegance. Coldplay’s Live Album croons in the back ground, accompanying his running footsteps and laughter.

He’s one of the most wonderful, alive people I know. And he throws a 75 MPH lacrosse ball... that’s pretty cool in my book.

I can't close my eyes

2009-05-19T21:55:00.001-07:00

I'm wired. Perhaps this is what happens when twenty-four very serious hours pass, each filled with at least one bout of tears and an "I feel so stupid."

Everything piled up on itself in a way that I didn't expect. Usually I can handle the social pressures and the academic pressures and my perfectionist tendencies and whatever else life happens to throw my way. Not this time. I underestimated my ability to cope.

I pride myself most on being a good student and a good friend. Two distinct conversations/moments in the past ten days caused me to invalidate my own confidence in these two categories. And it was just downhill from there.

If I could exist solely in the "rational" realm, I think I might have been able to hold it together longer. However, that transition between rational and irrational was terrifying. At about 5:00 AM May 19, I knew that if an anxiety attack catapulted me into an irrational frenzy that I would no longer be in control: that I could act on my carefully thought out plan.

This is the first time I've ever feared for my own safety. I've never been more scared and I've never been more sure of my own capacity for destruction.

I don't know what happens next. I know that being home, if only for a few days, will be good. It will give me a chance to sleep, to decompress. But I have to make a decision: I have to decide whether I want to take a medical leave of absence or finish the term out.

This conversation will happen between me and my parents, E. and A. on the morrow - but right now, I just wanted to let you know what I'm thinking.

1) You guys are the only reason I got this far in term without hitting this point sooner. I can't thank you enough for your support. You are what I miss most right now. Within an hour of being off campus, I wanted to be back with you again. I've been saying lately, "I just want to go home." Now that I'm in CT, it's more clear than ever that home is with you.

2) I don't know where I stand academically right now: even with extensions and leniency, I don't know if I can pull myself out of academic probation/concern range. That's where the medical leave would be helpful: it would be almost like I wasn't at Bennington for a term. This poses another problem: I already have been feeling (for whatever reasons) that, no matter how hard I work or how hard I try, it's not enough. (A conversation with a Teacher really got underneath my skin.) If I withdraw, this term will "not exist." I feel like all that work - all that blood, sweat, and tears were for naught.

3) Even with the extensions, that sort of work could just set me into another panicked state.

4) I've been home for less that 24 hours and I'm already stir-crazy. I don't want anyone to know I'm here (from home) because I don't want to see them.

5) If I withdraw, I'll have therapy 2-3 times a week this summer. In the long run, I know that will be a good thing. I know that it's high time I dealt with whatever all this shit is so that this doesn't happen again... so that I can be happy. It'll be work (which I'll have to do regardless of what happens with this term) and I'm willing to do it. If I withdraw, Eva said that the HC position is there if I want it and they are willing to consider my reapplication for the fall rather than insisting on the full term to a year of medical leave.

This is a lot, I know. I love you all dearly. You mean so much to me - the thought of not seeing you for the next two-three starts the waterworks going every time. I'll be writing and calling a lot in the next two days because, well, because you guys are my safety net. I just want to keep you in the loop.

Thank you for being there for me. I hope to be able to return the favor someday.

Books Read - Summer 2009

2007-12-11T22:47:00.000-08:00

Books Read -- Summer 2009

* Adams, Douglas - Dirk Gently's Holistic Detective Agency
* Adams, Douglas - The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy
* Adams, Douglas - The Resturant at the End of the Universe
* Card, Orson Scott - Ender's Game
* Dumas, Alexander - The Count of Monte Cristo
* Eugenides, Jeffery - The Virgin Suicides
* Gaiman, Neil and Terry Prachett - Good Omens
* Hesse, Hermann - Siddartha
* James, Henry - The Portrait of a Lady
* Vonnegut, Kirk - God Bless You, Dr. Kevorkian

Best Picture Relay

2007-07-04T09:47:00.000-07:00

81st Annual Academy Awards - Slumdog Millionaire
80th Annual Academy Awards - No Country for Old Men
79th Annual Academy Awards - The Departed
78th Annual Academy Awards - Crash
77th Annual Academy Awards - Million Dollar Baby
76th Annual Academy Awards - The Lord of the Rings: The Return of the King
75th Annual Academy Awards - Chicago
74th Annual Academy Awards - A Beautiful Mind
73rd Annual Academy Awards - Gladiator
72nd Annual Academy Awards - American Beauty
71st Annual Academy Awards - Shakespeare in Love
70th Annual Academy Awards - Titanic
69th Annual Academy Awards - The English Patient
68th Annual Academy Awards - Braveheart
67th Annual Academy Awards - Forrest Gump
66th Annual Academy Awards - Schindler's List
65th Annual Academy Awards - Unforgiven
64th Annual Academy Awards - The Silence of the Lambs
63rd Annual Academy Awards - Dances With Wolves
62nd Annual Academy Awards - Driving Miss Daisy
61st Annual Academy Awards - Rain Man
60th Annual Academy Awards - The Last Emperor
59th Annual Academy Awards - Platoon
58th Annual Academy Awards - Out of Africa
57th Annual Academy Awards - Amadeus
56th Annual Academy Awards - Terms of Endearment
55th Annual Academy Awards - Gandhi
54th Annual Academy Awards - Chariots of Fire
53rd Annual Academy Awards - Ordinary People
52nd Annual Academy Awards - Kramer vs. Kramer
51st Annual Academy Awards -The Deer Hunter
50th Annual Academy Awards - Annie Hall
49th Annual Academy Awards - Rocky
48th Annual Academy Awards - One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest ***
47th Annual Academy Awards - The Godfather, Part II
46th Annual Academy Awards - The Sting
45th Annual Academy Awards - The Godfather
44th Annual Academy Awards - The French Connection
43rd Annual Academy Awards - Patton
42nd Annual Academy Awards - Midnight Cowboy
41st Annual Academy Awards - Oliver!
40th Annual Academy Awards - In the Heat of the Night
39th Annual Academy Awards - A Man for All Seasons
38th Annual Academy Awards - The Sound of Music
37th Annual Academy Awards - My Fair Lady
36th Annual Academy Awards - Tom Jones
35th Annual Academy Awards - Lawrence of Arabia
34th Annual Academy Awards - West Side Story
33rd Annual Academy Awards - The Apartment
32nd Annual Academy Awards - Ben-Hur
31st Annual Academy Awards - Gigi
30th Annual Academy Awards - The Bridge on the River Kwai
29th Annual Academy Awards - Around the World in 80 Days
28th Annual Academy Awards - Marty
27th Annual Academy Awards - On the Waterfront
26th Annual Academy Awards - From Here to Eternity
25th Annual Academy Awards - The Greatest Show on Earth
24th Annual Academy Awards - An American in Paris
23rd Annual Academy Awards - All About Eve
22nd Annual Academy Awards - All the King's Men
21st Annual Academy Awards - Hamlet
20th Annual Academy Awards - Gentleman's Agreement
19th Annual Academy Awards - The Best Years of Our Lives
18th Annual Academy Awards - The Lost Weekend
17th Annual Academy Awards - Going My Way
16th Annual Academy Awards - Casablanca ***
15th Annual Academy Awards - Mrs. Miniver
14th Annual Academy Awards - How Green Was My Valley
13th Annual Academy Awards - Rebecca
12th Annual Academy Awards - Gone with the Wind
11th Annual Academy Awards - You Can't Take It With You
10th Annual Academy Awards - The Life of Emile Zola
9th Annual Academy Awards - The Great Ziegfeld
8th Annual Academy Awards - Mutiny on the Bounty
7th Annual Academy Awards - It Happened One Night
6th Annual Academy Awards - Cavalcade
5th Annual Academy Awards - Grand Hotel
4th Annual Academy Awards - Cimarron
3rd Annual Academy Awards - All Quiet on the Western Front
2nd Annual Academy Awards - The Broadway Melody
1st Annual Academy Awards - Wings

*** (seen, but will watch again [because I don't really remember it.])

24/81