Assigned Blog Post #6 - I'm so thankful for you

So, the second I read the prompt for this, I thought of Inx. I am ridiculously thankful for you (and your blog, but that’s kind of a different reason). Thank you for always being there for me, and holding me up when I collapse. I can really be myself with you. And sing randomly on the bus and on the streets, and feel at ease with. And there are so many other people who kind of have the same role as you, but I’m singling you out because well, I LOVE YOUR BLOG (oh and you’re just definitely always there. No matter what. Whenever I need you, and I need you a lot. BECAUSE I’M A HORRIBLY NEEDY PERSON. And you listen to all the angst I have, all of it, in all its repetitiveness, over and over again. As long as I need to say it, you’re just always there to listen. Thank you so much, and I love you forever for what you are for me). Your blog – it just kind of expresses everything that I’m thinking of ever… it’s like you see what I see. Always. IT’S LIKE YOU’RE IN MY HEAD. But in a non-creepy fashion. Now, I’m just worried that I will fail with the linking to your blog. Because I cannot link very well. Oh, and your blog is fabulously written. It’s moving, touching, and All Sorts of Fabulous. I think the best thing about it is that I completely and absolutely relate on like five different levels. Or five thousand.

Really, I’m not telling you anything you don’t know. Although I might be quite insane about it right now. And I’m a bit curious as to why this whole “gratefulness” thing has been brought up – I mean, it’s great and we should definitely think about it more than we do now (taking things for granted like all the time), but there isn’t even a holiday to bring it up. So I don’t know.

Who else’s blog do I love? Well… I skimmed over this one, and was horrified and amused by the pictures. Horrified by the horse man, amused by the AMAZINGLY ADORABLE SEAL and the hello kitty AK47 (which really makes me go why would you do that. No seriously, why?) but also giggle at the same time. And I love this one, which kind of surprises me, because it’s very different than the ones I normally like I guess? But it’s quite similar to this one, and I guess I just have a certain style that I like. Maybe sarcasm. I’m not sure, I feel a bit out of it right now. And honestly, I don’t read very many people’s. Oh, I loved this post, even though it went a little bit fast. But it was poetic, especially at the end. I think I just read Inx’s, and then these once in a while when people link me to them. Because they are full of awesome and win. So I will read yours maybe someday… I read the “girl” post of a lot of people’s, and I kind of love Inx’s the best (oh, and this one. Because it's so different). So, I sound slightly obsessive of him. Deal with it.

Well, aren’t I just entirely angry these last few posts.

Points of View

POV #1:

He leaned against the cushions in the bay window with the curtains half drawn around him. All was still in the house except for the gentle hum of the refrigerator in the next room. He had a rather large and thick hardback book with a red cover and old, worn binding in his lap and a concentrated expression on his face. He ran his hand through his short brown curls, and blew out a frustrated sigh. The book was so boring and difficult to comprehend. His brow scrunched up in utter concentration as he tried yet again to continue the paragraph that made little to no sense, the tiny font not helping anything at all. He glanced out the window, and was mesmerized by the ocean. It was your average cloudy day, but the sea rolled and tumbled with such mysterious grace and power. He wanted to go sailing, to be one with the ocean and ride upon the crests and down to the troughs.  Noticing that he was glancing wistfully outside at the water rather than at his textbook, he groaned again. At this rate, he’d get nothing done! In frustration, he grabbed one of the pillows and threw it into the room, sailing over a couch and landing somewhere behind it.

Instead of hearing the muffled thump that he was expecting from the cushion landing on the hardwood floor, he didn’t hear it land at all. Instead, he heard a muffled and slightly high pitched “ouch”, and a bit of rustling behind the couch.

His senses kicked into overgear. He didn’t make a single noise as he surveyed the room and pinpointed where the noise came from. Was it a burglar? Or a creeper? He silently got to his feet and started padding over to the noise. He held that monotonous and boring textbook in his hand like a weapon, ready to incapacitate the intruder by any means.

Hearing a bit more rustling, there was a sudden movement, a thump, and a flying of feet in the air. He rushed over to see the problem, and was shocked.

“What are you doing here?”

POV #2:

“Hey, are you home?” she called from the front porch of the boringly gray house, but neat and fresh in its paint job. She sulked, knowing that he probably forgot that he needed her to bring some documents for him. Really, the man so absentminded! It really irked her sometime. If she wasn’t completely… interested… in his studies… she would’ve given up on helping him a long time ago. She pushed against the door, and found that it opened easily. Well then, he forgot to lock the door once again. She let herself in, thinking that she would leave the documents on his study table, and be done with the matter. Even if she really wanted to see his face. I mean ask him about his new discoveries, she thought to herself, even more irked that she really allowed that thought to slip into her head.

She snuck into his study, and left the papers with a bright post-it note attached on the space in the middle of his desk. It was like the eye of the storm – papers strewn around it in no particular order, as if thrown randomly, but a random empty space in the middle for him to work in. It was so him that she almost laughed.

Suddenly, she heard a frustrated sigh coming from the next room. Oh, so he’s in his little reading alcove, she thought. She crept over there, and noticed him in the gap between the curtains. His little frustrated expression almost made her giggle, and then she realized the position she was in. she had just broken into his house, and now was staring at him without him noticing through curtains. She ducked behind the couch that was conveniently placed between them, and then cringed. Wow, apparently being a stalker was in her blood. Every reflex and reaction just made her position seem worse and worse. While she was pondering, she heard a frustrated groan, and seconds later was hit by a flying cushion. She squeaked out an “ouch” before clapping her hands to her mouth. She had to get out of there. Now.

She got to a crouching position, and was about to make a mad dash for the door when she stepped on the cushion that was on the floor and fell to the floor with a flailing of limbs and a definitely audible thump.

When she got her bearings back, she saw his face looking at her with surprise and confusion. “What are you doing here,” he asked. She grinned up at him sheepishly, embarrassed to be caught in such a state, and replied, “Just stopping by.”

Assigned Blog Post #5: Girl

Smile sweetly whenever you see him, but don’t forget to flaunt your singleness; flirt with the guys, let your eyes do the talking for you; let them know that you’re very, very single; wear flattering shirts but not like a slut; never give him any more attention than he gives you unlike the desperate girl I know you are inside; be affectionate; give hugs, but don’t be exclusive; wave and be cheery, but not too cheery as to be creepy; gauge his every move but don’t make it obvious unlike the desperate girl I know you are inside; lower your eyelashes and glance at him fleetingly; if you notice him looking at you make sure you look away; be shy but not too shy; be open but not too open; be cute but not too cute; What do you want me to do then? Make up your mind; understand what he needs at that moment and be it; smile at his friends but not too much; don’t make the difference between him and his friends too noticeable unlike the desperate girl I know you are inside; keep your options open; never fall in love; play the carefree spirit; don’t chase him, have him chase you; make sure he’s not just a skirt chaser, and if he is, don’t fall for him unlike the desperate girl I know you are inside; But I don’t chase boys?; be seductive but only in the most innocent way possible; this is how greet him; this is how you greet his friends; this is how you make sure you don’t neglect your friends; this is how you wish him a happy birthday; this is how to hint to him that you want him, but not in the way of a desperate girl I know you are inside; laugh and be happy, even when you’re not; and when he inevitably breaks your heart in the end, remember that I told you to not be that desperate girl I know you are inside.  

Assigned Blog Post #4 - Town details

There’s a quiet little alcove by the shore, hidden by the trees, where the water laps the soft white sand. Very few people in the town know about it, but those who do are not even aware that the others know. They all go there when they need a moment of peace, especially on starry nights to reflect on their lives.

A grassy meadow, smaller in proportion and very close to Makeout Meadow, where wildflowers grow freely and there’s very little trace of human interaction with the wild landscape. The slope of the hill is not too steep, and patches of soft, green grass spreads like a lazy yawn over the area.

A dock that has many white sailboats gleaming in the sunlight waits in lonely silence, with only the gull’s cries. The boats rock back and forth, as if eagerly awaiting the chance to go with their owners out to the seven seas to brave any (mild) weather that might be out there.

A small shop run by an elderly couple sells little knick-knacks carved from the wood of a native tree to the peninsula/island. The sweet smell of wood permeates the shop, mixed with the sharp tones of acrylic paint. The two are still just as in love as they were on their wedding day, and work companionably to bring art and joy to the community around them.

A giant tree towers near the town square. About seven adult men could hold hands and barely wrap their collective arms around this massive and ancient oak. The branches stretch out, old and gnarled, providing a great umbrella of shade to the townspeople. There was some mysterious aura around the tree that had a calming and soothing effect – many distressed people would come frequent the tree for calm and comfort. It was a great center of this little town that really allowed people to gravitate toward and feel unified with.

Potential names:

Wisteria

Hysteria

Mysteria

(OKAY I’M DONE)

Personally, I’m pretty good with Vodkaville.

Assigned Blog Post #3: Rose Emily Sketch and Meeting

Rose Emily is a fair girl of European descent, slight build with cascading blonde waves. She didn’t actually have a surname; Rose Emily was just the name that the opera mistress gave her when they took her in as a baby. From a young age, she knew that she was different. She not only didn’t have parents, but she also had the whitest and palest skin with the most shocking sapphire eyes. Those who she passed along the streets, lived with in her dorm, all around her had tan skin, brown eyes, and long black hair as straight as death. She was the fair maiden among a sea of dreary monotone, of people who kept their heads down and bobbled along the dirt roads, among those who hawked their merchandise with loud voices meshing like a cacophonous symphony, among those who were stuck in their own rut so deeply they walked along the same path, at the same pace, at the same time each and every day.

                She wore the simple white traditional Chinese dress that the mistress owned when she was younger. It was made of a durable but lightweight cotton, with short sleeves and a hem that stopped right as her knees. The pure white fabric was lined by an aqua trim, harmonizing with the blue pools of expression. Her hair was slightly tied to keep away from her face, but most of it left to tumble down her shoulders and her back, vibrant and lively. Her voice was pure and light, but not skilled. She sang with obligation, allowing her voice to take flight like perhaps a bird with a previously broken wing – she understood she was no swallow in the springtime. Finding that she had no talent in singing, the owner taught her acrobatics, so that she could perform the more physical roles and make herself useful. Mild and slight, she was often bullied by the other girls for her beauty; but she still she stood with her back straight, just her head tilted toward the ground.

                When she became older, she was caught the eye of a wealthy European man who had been living in China for only a few years. She was married off to him for a hefty sum for the opera mistress, as the man’s concubine. She lived in moderate wealth and comfort, but under the ever-resentful watch of the first wife. When the family of three moved back to Europe, she became a yoga instructor to keep her busy during the boring days, rather than trying to stay out of the way of the jealous wife that was slowly losing her beauty every day. The small reprieves from her harsh and envious glares were like heaven to Rose.

Meeting with S-‘s Character, Amelia Boneheart:        

One day, she was granted a day off from the mistress; apparently some wealthy man had just booked the entire theatre for him and his entourage, a lucrative opportunity. With such profits tucked neatly away in her silk drawstring bag, her tongue sweetened and she treated her girls with much more kindness.

                 Donning a pair of cloth shoes, she lightly skipped out onto the busy and dusty road. She wandered, drawing open stares wherever she went. “Who is she?” “She looks like some kind of ghost, with that pale skin.” Whispers echoed around her. “Can she speak English?” “It looks like she’s good for nothing, with that slight build of hers.” As if she couldn’t understand them. Just because she looked different didn’t mean that she was deaf or blind – even the most foreign of foreigners could see the distrust in those people’s eyes and the harshness of their whispers.  

                Feeling annoyed and slightly disappointed that her day out had been rather ruined, she almost walked into this giant wall. Wall? No, it was just someone really, really tall.

                “对不起，先生,” she said, bowing low without looking at the face of the person.  (A/N: it says, “I’m sorry, sir”)

                “Well, sorry little miss,” she heard above her in a foreign language, “I almost ran you over.”

                Hearing the deep yet distinctly feminine voice, her head snapped up in confusion. She looked fearfully at the gargantuan woman, with bulging biceps and a mass of curly red hair badly tamed into a ponytail. Even her brown eyes seemed fierce as her smile reminded Rose of the smiles of wolves before they ingested their prey. Standing like a deer caught in headlights, she furiously shook her head signifying that she didn’t understand the huge woman.

                “Ah, ni bu dong ying wen?” (A/N: Ah, you don’t understand English?) The woman slowly tried to twist her tongue around the foreign words, succeeding in very little besides butchering them. “Mei guan xi. Wo de ming zi shi Amelia. Amelia Boneheart.” (A/N: No problem. My name is Amelia. Amelia Boneheart.)

                A glimmer of a sparkle gave way in Rose Emily’s eyes before she burst out into a little giggles that shook her frail frame. “对不起,” she managed to gasp out before yet again dissolving into another fit of laughter. (A/N: Sorry.)

                Amelia was glad that the girl looked less nervous, as she knew that people were often scared of her. But, she supposed that was reasonable when she had the build of a wrestler and killed people for a living. Speaking of which… “Ni zhi dao Zhang xian sheng zhu zai nar li?” she queried. (A/N: Do you know where Mr. Zhang lives?)

                “对不起，我很少出来逛街。除了京剧管老板和其他的歌女，我谁都不知道,” She replied apologetically. (A/N: Sorry, I don’t come out much. Besides the opera mistress and the other girls, I don’t really know anyone.) She wished she could go out more, but the mistress prized her fair skin and didn’t let her out into the sun very much. “您为什么找他?” She asked, curious at the workings of the world around her. (A/N: Why are you looking for him?)

                Amelia’s lips almost slipped out the truth before she said, “Wo shi ta de peng you de peng you. Yin wei wo zhi lai dao zhong guo bu tai jiu, wo xiang rang ta bang wo zhao ge di fang zhu. Xie xie ni bang zhu wo, ke shi wo dei xian zou le.” (A/N: I’m his friend’s friend. Because I haven’t been in China for that long, I want him to help me find somewhere to live. Thanks for helping me, but I have to leave now.) Amelia made a hasty retreat before she got too attached to this blonde haired blue-eyed girl with such an earnest expression. She almost told her the truth of her profession! That girl had a charismatic power far stronger than she knew, and it only seemed to get stronger the longer you spoke to her.

                Rose Emily looked sadly at the retreating figure of the strange woman before continuing down the road and the rest of her day.

Assigned Blog Post #2: My style~!

So I realize that there is an actual prompt for this assigned blog post, but you have no idea how amazingly thrilled I am to finally read a story that I like. “Robert Kennedy Saved From Drowning” is made from amusing clips of his personality – I am writing this as I read it so really I have no idea if the title even has to do with anything.

But anyways, the whole “Attitude Toward His Work” thing totally reminded me of playing Tetris. Maybe because of the “I become interested, I become excited, I work very fast, things fall into place, I am exhilarated…” because it’s kind of like that? I think I’m basically terrible at playing Tetris. But sometimes, on certain days, it just all clicks and my fingers work faster and the pieces just fall into place without gaps or screwed up places or anything! Those are my two cents.

Oh the “penetrated with sadness” part – yea, it’s kind of weird, but I do that too. I hear something inexplicably sad, and then I will find it on my Ipod and listen to it again and again, wallowing in my own sadness. It’s like a mood. A weird mood. Actually, I rather dislike being sad. I think. Maybe I subconsciously like it. Who knows.

I like this story. A lot. Because I like the person that is painted by these excerpts. He seems very interesting, witty, and intelligent. He is. Oh my goodness, I love the “Puzzled by his children” section. I adore it beyond belief! It’s just so funny. “The crying of children continues.” Haha, I can just imagine this scene, and he is puzzled by the randomness.

Inx, no, this isn’t my OTS (One True Story). It’s just the first story that I like of the ones we’ve read in this class so far.

Oh hey, he is actually saved from drowning. Was it Halloween?

Okay, and now I’ll actually start on the assigned post. Oh, and I was just interrupted by A-, who was terribly sick. She sounds horrible… poor A-. I sure hope she doesn’t need to do the stats homework. Gah, stats is so boring. And she couldn’t have possibly done so horribly that she needed to do the homework. I refuse to believe this.

Okay, so the style of the Junot Diaz is really noticeable. Because it’s ridiculously informal. And generally focuses on his family life and has the same characters (okay so that’s not exactly a style) but it makes it more recognizable. And talks in very crude and rough terms. Robert Olen Butler has a much more… I’m not sure how to put it. I wonder if it’s dreamy? It’s a lot more detail focused, and I suppose Diaz also has details, but I feel like Butler’s details stick with me more. Like the sticky doorknob, the sweet smell coming from his hands, Ho’s pacing around the room, etc. I wonder if it’s just their use of adjectives, and I wonder if I just pay attention to that. Hmm, although honestly, I’m not very sure what sets Butler apart. I’m sure that Diaz is set apart by his tone/diction/choice of words (I’m pretty sure I was just being redundant, oh well). But Butler, I’m not so sure.

My own style? Well, I’m really “dreamy” when I’m writing my pieces. I like adjectives. I like them a lot. So much so that it’s a bit of an overload… but I still like them. I wonder if my central point dies within the overload of adjectives, but I guess I tend to like things like that: like a million sparkles on a single sheet of paper; layers upon layers on a floor length dress, poofing it up so that it’s like a waterfall of fabric. (By the way, I’m referencing that beautiful purple dress that I wore during my photo shoot – they told me it was for wedding shots, but I insisted on wearing it anyways. I felt and looked like a princess. Pretty in pink – but actually purple.)

I guess it actually depends on my mood. I guess for short stories, I write like that. But otherwise, I write like I am writing now, in a semi-rant style. It’s just how I think, I believe. Completely random, filled with bits and pieces of other things that are floating around my head. Like music. And random musings. This time, I think I took out more of the random musings, because otherwise my blog post would be even longer than it is now. Actually, this is a random tangent all on its own, isn’t it? Maybe. Perhaps.

Also, I definitely remember seeing a piece of art on… dosomething.org or something like that. It was like some kind of laptop art contest, something like how art education is important. And it was of a “Female Grim Reaper” (but the word ‘grim’ was spelled wrong so that it was ‘girm’. That seriously bothered me. But I suppose if you do amazing art, you don’t need to know how to spell.) Oh quick, my seven cents (I’m bored of two. I’ll just randomly choose numbers from now on). I don’t think that art education should be mandatory past elementary school. Or maybe early years of middle school. I mean, I really like art classes (and I would take them if I were not so terrible at it), but they shouldn’t be mandatory. It doesn’t add to anything once you get to your teenage years. If you like it, then fine, go take it. But it’s not expanding anyone’s horizons any longer.

Anyways, back to the piece of artwork. The girl was holding this gigantic scythe that was really detailed and pretty and fabulous. It had like, this fabulous design, and the length of the handle was probably twice the height of the girl herself. It was so fabulous – it made her seem so intense and awesome. It was shiny and seemed that it would glint in the moonlit night – a lethal yet gorgeous instrument. I can imagine it whizzing through the air and slicing open space and time! And the girl, wielding it with ethereal grace. Because she would be awesome like that.

Oops, my style! What’s my style? In a blog? Complete randomness. It’s pretty colloquial: it’s basically how I talk. It’s how I think. It’s like my train of thought that is being painted by the tips of my fingertips (hehehe) onto the canvas that is the… Internet? Haha, that metaphor I’m pretty sure just failed. Oh well.

The sporadic and wishy washy weather seems to have stopped. I will finally go for a walk… it’s gorgeous outside. Okay, go! J

Assigned Blog Post #1 - The Truth in Fiction: Rant style

Finding the truth in my writing. Really, it’s not that hard, I tend to be more open with these blog posts than I probably should. However, I find that it is easier to be open when I feel like the only person that sees this is myself. Music playing, the beat a small pulsation an accompaniment to my clacking, my rationalizing thoughts are covered up.

Pause. I stop the music and I go back to the original assignment. What was it again? Squeak, squeak, squeak. The wheel of a mouse, a bit worn out from overuse, creaks as it pulls the page down. So truth.

Earlier in the post, Professor C- mentioned that she drowned out the rationalizing thoughts, the censoring with music. Therefore, I will also play music. If this blog post turns out to be a rant on randomness, then so be it.

And go.

So what I forgot to tell you before I turned my music back on is that I ran to the mirror, grabbed my two hot pink hair ties, and pulled my hair into two pigtails that I decided I liked sporting recently. It was surprising – over the course of a day, my hair changed quite a bit, but I have found a style that I rather like. It pulls my hair tight, no nonsense, into two parts that are scattered and displayed cascading down my shoulders. It’s fun, but convenient. I dislike loosely tying hair. It just bothers me.

And so, let’s see what I’m listening to. Something that’s not in English. I like it; it sounds island-y, like a tropical celebration. Too bad I don’t understand a single word of it. Except for the random English phrases. However, it isn’t enough to understand the gist of it all. Oh well. Thus is life, randomness.

Truth exists everywhere. I feel like lying isn’t especially gratifying to me. Even where I should put in a lie (Oh, that haircut looks wonderful on you! Sound familiar?) I don’t. It has branded me a caustic person. A blunt person. And so I might be. I guess even when I’m being creative, I don’t really add in too much fiction. It makes the story a little unbelievable. I don’t write about death because I have not had a death of a loved on in my life. I don’t know how it feels, and therefore I wouldn’t be able to write a good story. I have experienced loneliness, and so writing truthful feelings in that (like the post Alone, in fact that was complete truth… usually I at least add in a few embellished touches to my creative pieces) would help add to the believability of the story. It just resonates.

Truth does belong in a creative piece. Just not in the most conventional sense. I don’t have to have this certain event at this certain time at this certain place happen to write truthfully. Perhaps I fudged a few details. Or most of the details. But the inherent underlying ideas are drawn from truth. “Surviving the storm” (which I actually modified into a fanfiction because I liked it so much) resonates with me. I feel like it turned out really nice because it’s not overdone. Okay, perhaps a lot of it is fluff that I added in to make it more angsty, which I generally am not. But still, I know the loneliness, the absolute misery of being imprisoned in classes that I really don’t care about. I have walked in a forest that was icy and beautifully glittering (after all, I’ve lived in the Northwest for my entire life). I have yet to find a boy to come and save me (I’m not sure I want one. That just seems really sketchy at the core. But it’s something that I have wanted to happen (kind of) and so truth is bent and redesigned. But still it’s based on truth.

Truth in fiction. Not as strange a concept as I would’ve thought.

I realized why this song sounded really familiar. I tend to really focus on what I’m doing, and other things tend to be toned out. So that even if I blare music, I tend to not hear it. But that song is my ringtone! My ringtone is a song that’s not in English. Nor in Chinese, which are the two languages that I understand. But I like the song. So what if I don’t understand it? Get over yourself. Not that you’re judging me or anything.

And now the song is talking about crushes. Either way, I think that the term is the most terrible thing ever. “Crush”? I agree, it’s quite fitting, but like, must it be so depressing? “Oh, and by the way, you’re going to be crushed by your own feelings at the end. Just to let you know.” How depressing is that.

Anyways, I can’t really tell what the song is talking about. Oh well. I decided that I like the feeling of my hair at my neck. It’s just really interesting. And I really like the feeling of typing, and seeing random things show up on my computer. This post was more like a rant, yes, I said it would be a rant. And it’s not exactly creative? What is creative anyhow? I feel like a creative thing should be a story. But even if that’s not true, would this be considered as creative? This is just like me talking, exploding with sentences that are completely random. I write like this on my friend E-‘s wall, but that’s just because… well it’s because this is just the way I think. I suppose I could get into a mood and spew random sentimental stuff from my fingertips (ew, spew? That sounds like I’m going to throw up from my fingers. That’s really nasty.) But yea, it’s a mood I guess.

So is this creative? I have no idea. Anyways, even though I feel like I should be talking to myself, I feel like I’m talking to someone out there, someone I don’t know, someone that might randomly want to read this (I have no idea why a random person would want to read this. This is just complete nonsense). Well, I hope you, random person that I would have never met and decided to actually go through the entire post, had a lot of fun.

Because I think I did.



LAST NOTE: I was curious as to how long the post was, and before I typed this note, it was 1040 words. That’s absolutely ridiculous for a random rant that I just thought of over the course of probably 10 or 15 minutes. Yay for randomness~!