Oct 31, 2010

Into the Passion Pit

I exist in a weird place between the "I love Katy Perry, Lady Gaga, and Ke$ha" world of pop song, Glee-watching, mainstream teenyboppers and the "I love a bunch of bands you're not privileged enough to even listen to" band tshirt-wearing, skinny jean squeezing counter-culture teenager. I don't worship Kurt Cobain nor will I ever buy a Jonas Brothers concert ticket.

So I drift between these two worlds and never feel like I have complete credit in either of them.

Standing in the middle of a group of half-drunken, college-aged social deviants, I didn't exactly feel at home. Not being particularly into the music (while not a horrible sound, it was very...consistent to say the least and I never understood one word that was uttered), I turned my attention to the concert-goers that surrounded me.

The girls in front of me, blocking my view to the stage and bobbing up and down noncommittally the music, as if to say "I just happened to walk in here and saw a concert going on and decided to stay" even though they obviously made a concerted effort to attend, were a rather strange sight. One was dressed in a very non-hipster kid jeans and a sweatshirt, snapping a picture every three seconds and commencing to edit the quality of them in real time, very much unengaged with the performance unfolding a few feet in front of her.

What I presume was her friend stood beside her, much more into the music as evidenced by the occasional fist pumping to the beat and accidental tell-tale smile, was wearing a strange shirt-dress thing with loud and mismatched childish jewelry, including an over-sized monkey ring. In this weird demographic, it was difficult to tell the Halloween costumes from the personal "style" of the patrons.

Behind me was what can only be described as an obnoxious, oddly dressed and very drunk lesbian. She apologized to me a few times for her intoxicated dancing and bumping, but she did not apologize for her annoying habit of completely turning her back on the show and attempting to flirt with a tragically geeky-in-an-unattractive-way (Yeah, I'm confused too.) guy who was a little way too much into the band. Eventually, they both disappeared with their Coors Light aroma and impolite mosh pit etiquette.

Other notables include the threesome composed of a man and woman similarly dressed whose body language suggested a romantic couple and whose facial features suggested siblings accompanied by a girl who didn't fit at all; also present was what appeared to be a gay couple dressed as a gorilla and a banana, an obnoxious sounding kid who looked like Justin Bieber but was dressed as something I don't know about, and a super drunk guy who said hey to everyone and spit in the floor.

While I may never be part of this peer group (what a shame), it was nice to experience it for one night, a bobbing head among all the other bobbing heads in the crowd, unintelligible from an actual appreciator of electronica music.

I do enjoy passionate and eclectic people and loud music with a bass that reverberates through your very muscles and organs and contributing to the happiness of a beloved friend, so all and all, it was a night well spent.

Oct 27, 2010

Naive

I'm not naive.

It really bugs me when people assume I am. I guess they get that impression because I'm young-looking and short of stature. I get good grades and I don't cuss. I'm supposed to be some sweet, innocent little girl whose ears bleed at the mere mention of anything remotely sexual or illegal or otherwise in poor taste.

I rode in the back of the bus in middle school. I watch television and movies; I get on the internet. I am aware of the world around me, and the varying degrees of perversion it contains. It doesn't do me a bit of harm to hear it.

What does bother me is when people apologize to me for it. Maybe it's a base annoyance of being patronized or the underlying assumption that I'm automatically offended. The truth is, I'm truly not offended very easily at all. You would probably have to specifically try to offend me, and if you're doing that, you have more issues than I care to address.

It's a bit of a paradox, really, that I associate people apologizing for acting immature towards me with people not taking me seriously. Maybe people think I'm too serious for sexual humor. Maybe this is sort of a backward compliment. It's hard to be flattered by something that alienates me from the rest of my peers.

This sort of thing always reminds me of a middle school lunch table I hated very much. I didn't have any friends in the class that I was forced to eat lunch with, so I spent the time very nerdily reading. So of course, because I didn't happen to like anyone in that particular group of people (which included a gang of giggly, annoying girls, a section of rapid Spanish-speaking people with no interest in including a white kid, several boys who spent the whole time mixing random crap together and daring one another to eat it, and the group I'm about to describe my experience with).

This one group thought they were so mature because they liked to toss around some sexual slang and pretend they had sexual experience. They'd make off-color jokes and laugh heartily, then glance around like "I hope nobody heard that" but really meaning "I hope everybody heard that."

I was particularly irked by one story this wannabe-whore of a girl would frequently tell about how she donned nude-colored lingerie and turned a gay guy straight. First of all, they don't make lingerie in the size "awkward, under-developed thirteen year old girl." Second of all, you're 13! You didn't do anything. Quit making up dumb, improbable stories. It simply didn't happen.

Of course I could hear it, being right next to them. One day, one of them turned to me and says "I bet you don't understand any of this, eh?" I probably grimaced slightly, and then went back to my book. But I couldn't let it go, and after a few minutes, I politely interrupted their conversation and began pouring out all sorts of sexual crap I don't even remember. They left me alone the rest of the year, but I don't know if I really got my point across.

It's just so irritating. Or maybe I'm being unreasonable. I don't know, but please people, feel free to make "that's what she said" jokes in my vicinity. I might even laugh.

Oct 25, 2010

Eggs in a Basket

I have been struggling lately, for the first time in a long time, about what I want I want to do for the rest of my life. It is no longer a distant thought, something hazy in the distance to work toward in tiny steps, a small talk question made by distant relatives. It is real and it is now and I need to figure some things out. I don't like jumping into anything without my head clear and certain, especially not something this important.

Lots of small inhibitions nag at my subconscious when I think of possible careers, and I've lost sight of the big pictures I think.

The big picture that's been most alluring as of late is teaching. But why?

There's something about teaching people to write that appeals to me. While there are always some people who just don't care to learn, there are others who have been robbed of the opportunity. There is the person that has a writer within them, but nobody's taken the time to bring him or her out. I want to bring the writers out.

Once the intimidation is gone and they get past the "I'm just not a writer phase" they begin to see the merits in it. Expressing yourself is not as easy as Madonna makes it seem; people simply never learn how to do it. It opens up a world to them, a deeper world that connects them to humanity in ways they didn't know existed.

I also like watching confidence build. I like helping people own their words, realize they have thoughts that matter and the ability to articulate them. I love when somebody starts tutoring scared, nervous, and unsure and starts coming smiling, proud, and anticipatory. They can't wait to show what they've accomplished. They're actually excited.

I feel like that's the most efficient and humanitarian thing I have the ability to do.

But is it at the compromise of my own writing? That is the last thing I am willing to give up. But I don't like putting all my eggs in the basket of me, my writing, my career hinging on my unproven abilities. I feel safer cultivating the abilities of others.

I know it wouldn't be such a stretch to do both, but it seems like I have to somehow choose which takes priority now. I've spent 18 years working on me. Maybe the best way to improve myself is to help improve others?

And I'm not even into a college yet.

Oct 18, 2010

I Just Want To Go To College

I really don't think I'm asking a whole lot.

Ever since middle school, I have been thinking about how wonderful college will be. I am made to be at a university; I know it is where I belong. As a result, everything I've done and accomplished these past six years have been with one goal in mind. I want to go to college.

When I was afforded the opportunity to go to college in high school, I jumped at it. And it was sometimes everything I hoped it would be--intellectually challenging, diverse (more so than high school at least), and productive. As cheesy as it sounds, I grew as a writer, a thinker, and a person. I feel a million times more educated than I think I would have if I'd never stepped foot in college classroom. That is something that is hard to give up.

That makes it all the more frustrating now that my desire for college is getting in the way of admission to a university.

I wish there was a way to measure aptitude and desire that didn't require jumping through forty hoops and five acres worth of paper. I know I'm a competent person and I will succeed in the university setting. I have teachers and peers who agree. I have a transcript that shows responsibility and dedication. I know what I want to do and where I want to be. But all of that might be lost through technicalities, muffled by a seven-page application. I don't want to be silenced by bureaucracy.

I'm horribly frustrated and desperate. This is why I haven't been blogging lately. When I get this frustrated, the words just gum up inside me. A big pile of congealed, stunted writing. Is this what university is going to do to me?

Do I really want all of this after all?

Oct 9, 2010

Cheesy Musings

When small things get in the way of big things, and futures become slightly hazy, it makes you really think about what it is you really want in the future.

I want a library. A home library stocked with my favorite books, all of which I've completed at least once, and organized in some way that I love and is confusing to everyone else.

I want the library to be a sanctuary against all the clutter my personality won't allow me to not make. I want the walls (that aren't already lined in shelves, of course) to be covered in things I love. A wall of significant newspaper headlines, a wall of vintage propaganda posters, maybe my favorite records, and some antique typewriters that I've always been fascinated with. Frivolous things that look immature in living rooms will come together to create a space that only I'd put together.

And more than that, I want to be able to sit in that room and write things that people want to read. Maybe not a lot of people, but a few genuine ones.

I often find myself focusing on the school and career parts of my future, but there's definitely more important parts that I'll need more than anything else.

I'll need great friends that will hop into a ditch I backed into without hesitation and friends that clip perfect cartoons from newspapers and carry them around in their wallets so I can see them and friends that don't mind when my brother needs to tag along.

I'll need family that supports my frantic panicking and doesn't get mad when I call at random hours freaking out even though they're on vacation and laughs at me with more love than amusement.

These things are what make the bad parts bearable. Whether I'm teaching people who don't care at a brain dead community college or guiding vibrant and curious students at a prestigious university or writing magazine articles with topics I know nothing about or living on freelance writing and a prayer, I'll be okay.

Oct 4, 2010

Psuedo-Intellectual Creative Writing

She noticed she didn’t feel the same way anymore. The pang in her stomach was an automatic, superficial, uncontrollable action. She ignored it as a minor annoyance. Indigestion, hiccups, a pent-up sneeze.

Her hands remained steady, her priorities straight, her smile confident. She didn’t think about how the position of her limbs looked, if her hair was frizzy, if her voice was friendly enough. She just went about her business as usual.

And in that moment, she realized what growing up is. Her happiness depended not on outside forces, but something within herself. She knew who she was, what she liked, where she wanted to go. She owned her ideas and thoughts and all her actions moved in accordance to this plan. Her plan.

The others around her were the same. They still waved in recognition of the same body they thought they knew so well. They smiled a greeting, made small talk, laughed at jokes. Nothing had changed, really. But she felt fresh and brand new. She somehow wanted to explain to them that she wasn’t the same, but it was no use. They didn’t notice. It didn’t matter. Only she needed to know.

Outside, she scaled the mini-hills of her street, walking in step to the music coursing through her brain. She liked the exclusiveness of it. Nobody could hear the harmonies but her. She didn’t think how she looked to the curious neighbors peering at the curious girl in the street, singing and skipping to herself. But she didn’t care. Just kept marching to her own beat, happy and secure.