more random thoughts, because my writing is lacking

Sometimes it does happen.

Sometimes things work out. Or start to. To some extent, anyway.

Sometimes there are things not stopping you. But annoyingly in the way.

Sometimes there are things you don't want to keep to yourself. You don't want them sitting there in your head, you the only one carrying them. It feels like to much for one person, you don't want to deal with that- but you have to. Still.

Sometimes life goes on.
Sometimes you want it to, want it to race forward into time.
Sometimes you want to hold it for a moment, hold the picture for a while.

Sometimes you have nothing better to do than come up with a list of musings all beginning with "sometimes."

Sometimes you wish things had gone differently.

Sometimes you're glad that they happened. The way the did.

Sometimes you're thinking all these things at once.

Sometimes you're thinking all these things at once, yet you still wonder how you can possibly be doing so.

Sometimes you surprise yourself.

Sometimes the world does in fact come through for you.

Just in spite of the year that's gone by...

The first thing is this: it's been over a year. And I missed the exact anniversary.

Besides the fact that blogging has been less of a constant for me lately, I also realize that this blog started as something about reading. It quickly became something about life in general...and then it was simply my writing. But on life, I think know what inspired me. It was the idea of publishing the things that may have been disregarded by the rest of the world, tiny nonentities. Nothings. Maybe, at the time, thats what I considered myself to be; but I also assumed I was not alone in wishing that people would take note, remember these things. Remember me.

I also used to talk about my "story." Which has become so unimportant to me now. My story is simply my life- because I know, every day, it will keep changing. Nothing's going to stop that. But writing about it as it goes on is what I can do to keep it under control- at least for a little while.

In my first bog post, I said that I lived by the theme of "no day but today." And I think I've often tried to be someone else...especially in the last year, at times when I felt I had been able to change my life, raise the standards. But at some point, I just fell back down again, ending up where I started.

And I know for a fact that I was more ambitious during the time before this; if it weren't for my experiences, I might have gotten right back up and tried again. But I didn't. I just let my life take me in the destined direction (trying not to be too cheesy here), and some things worked out. Some didn't. I'm still waiting for a lot. And I keep looking, imagining the future. So it would be safe to say that I don't always exactly live in the moment, like I originally thought I did. Or maybe hoped.

But I still write. And as I grow up, as I have a lot since I began blogging, I guess I tend to keep it more personal. Less confidence may come from the fact that I'm more aware of it, as well as judgement...and every little detail.

And I also think so much- about pretty much every little detail. Which keeps me occupied about 95% of the time. Once in a while I just have to listen to music over and over again, blocking out the rest of the world- at least for those few moments alone. Whenever I open my eyes it's just all there again, waiting for me to figure out. People, and life in general...sometimes I need to focus on me, I end up losing track of myself...

I'm not going to lie; I have regrets, friendships I lost for the better and some that tore me to shreds- but, as everything seems to be for me, it was all indirect. Which, I think, can sometimes make it harder. I've seen the fake in myself and other people, but I've spent just as much time looking for the good. I wish I could say I'm better off without all that, but sometimes it makes me sad when I think back to my whole life last year, which is very different now.

I'm still drinking hot chocolate on Thursdays, still writing in the backs of my school notebooks in my free time. I want to see what happens next- and I know I'm impatient. There's a lot in my life I'm unsure of, but this I know: I will continue to always see things with the eyes of a writer. So at least I can say that much for myself.

Funny- that all just sort of came out at once, without thinking.

Something different, inspired by artist Yoshitomo Nara

Planting little dreams

scattered across the sidewalk

again and again

making circles underground,

spinning as

the subway hums...

stuck in my mind-

lonesome puppies, crying,

empty red noses waiting for

the little girl to climb

up, and stumble

singing

in circles

me waiting too...

in the store, they wonder

the dads

why their daughters aren't quite so loving...

i want to stop, tell them

all, puppies too, wait...

because love's nothing to do with it.



just thinking in circles, now

humming softly

devoid of emotions, just

waiting for you...

Did i really write that yesterday?

A small hint

With the school year about to start up again,

I should be hungry,

desperate for ideas.

For writing.

Amazingly,

I'm set.

Hint:

Maybe it'll win an oscar...

No More, Please

I discovered the stopping point a while ago.

I used think I could revise to no end, and it would bring nothing but benefits to my writing.

That's not true, though.

I think I may have learned the lies in that through art. When I was younger, or even now, I would draw, or paint, or anything, and then once in a while I would come to the point where something was actually beautiful.

But I would end up indecisive, as I always am, and when choosing I would always choose to add more.

And too late, I would discover that my curiosity in wanting to see what would happen destroyed my work, in some ways. Too late, I saw that the more I added, the more the beauty was slowly drawn out.

At this point I've learned to not only be sparse in my writing, but how to draw a line. And to know where.

Art and writing aren't actually that similar.

But.

When an adult tries to explain to me in very simple terms how the writing world works and why we NEED to keep on revising, I can only say- to myself, really- that I believe I understand this quite well, thank you very much.

And really, though it doesn't sound optimistic, exactly, when I say it- I'm trying to help.

Frozen Moment #4

That good feeling
standing on the mountain of sand, the dunes-
taller than even the waves

and the scorching burn on my toes
tells me i should be in the water
now
not wandering
but i choose mind power
over instinct

for once.

a choice,
for once,
for that matter.

minutes later i look back
deciding my third cousin
is the prettiest teen on the beach

because of who she is.



i can still feel beach fire in my eyes
from nights ago.

Blogging about blog (and a little reading)

So if you've noticed, I never did blog about my experience in Europe, but I chose to keep those on-the-spot hand-written entries in their natural place only.

And I've been more focused on writing in my blogging...my writing...than what I'm reading. I read a few books already, including My Sister's Keeper- which was great, and I liked it, but I wasn't obsessed with it. I think the character narration changes could have been more creative, while most of the time I was confused (though jet lag could have easily contributed to.)

I also recently began Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close, which I am already LOVING and am not far enough into to really blog about.

So I'll leave it at that.

I'll be back soon with more frozen moments, and thoughts on my current reading experience...

Really, this time. Soon!

Frozen Moment #3

The cover of clouds across the sky is broken
in our one circle of blue sky
fading in twilight

I almost reach over
to feel for you

I want it to be real
so I close my eyes
like always
sheltered, momentarily from the truth

like waiting to fall asleep at night,
so I can dream.

I open to the light, still lingering
and my broken patch of blue sky

but even though i would swear
i felt your rushing blood
beating heart
and slow, light breath on my neck

you're the one thing missing.

The piano sounds distant

I'm breathing.

But slowly, in heaves.

I need to write.

I should have written.

Where did I go?

I want love.

I want to be happy.

Listening to the most beautiful music ever can't make that happen.

I'm alone.

I should have blogged

about London

France

Europe

summer

real life

not just empty words, imagined to fill the blank space.

music.

Tomorrow.



Always tomorrow.




i forget about today.


Almost a year, love.


But you don't think about me, do you?



Miss you.

In the words of Blanche DuBois...

"Death- I used to sit here and she used to sit over there and death was as close as you are now...We didn't dare even admit we had ever heard of it!"

"...The opposite is desire. So do you wonder? how could you possibly wonder? Not far from Belle Reve, before we had lost Belle Reve, was a camp where they trained young soldiers. On Saturday nights they would go into town to get drunk..."

"...and on the way back they would stagger onto my lawn calling "Blanche! Blanche!" The deaf old lady remained suspecting nothing. But sometimes I slipped outside to answer their calls...Later the paddy-wagon would gather them up like daisies...the long way home..."

-Blanche DuBois, from Tennessee Williams' A Streetcar Named Desire

AMAZING DIALOGUE.

And an incredibly intense and strong character- besides the fact thats she's pretty much a classic herself. WILL BE WRITING LONG OFF BLANCHE IN THE VERY NEAR FUTURE!!!!!!!!

P.S. If you have any quotes recommendations, please comment with them! I'm open to anything!

Frozen Moment #2

Stepping out
the heat wave
clouds full, ready to burst,

I sympathize with them.

Saying hi is one thing,
but it hurts to watch too long.

As he pushes his fingers into her sides
carressing
hungrily grabbing up and down her torso.
Holding her.
The her I've known almost all my life
Searching her lips
the ones repeatedly kissed by him,
searching for something.
A sign.
An answer.
Wildly staring
I don't make eye contact.

Or even look at him.

She's not scared,
I can see that
just by watching.

Honestly,
I don't know
if she knows
what to think
though she'd like to think
she does.

Honestly,
I think I'm scared.

I can see that,
because on the bus I look down,
and I'm shaking.

Sorry

I had a slight emotional breakdown, as you may have seen in my last entry. Sigh.

Sorry about that. Please ignore.

Sorry Ms. Robbins, especially, for having to see that probably traumatizing entry.

Thanks for your amazing support.

Thanks.

Everyone.

Sorry.

Of course I cried

Mostly because I feel myself slipping away in terms of writing abilities and confidence. Overwhelmed by pretty much EVERYTHING, I've been sliding down tracks I hadn't considered before.

Ew. I really did not mean for that to sound poetic or metaphorical.

Half the time I feel like I'm going to throw up. I always feel like my work is lacking, thanks to my surroundings and the judgement of others. I'm not feeling competitive, but when certain people are constantly recognized and it's made clear by others that those people are above your levels, it's hard not to compare.

And it's hard not to have a meltdown when writing is what you rely on. Your only outlet. Like me.

I'm starting to get the feeling that this doesn't make any sense.

Anyway.

My gut reaction is to ignore it. Swallow my emotions and let it go. Say to myself, "screw them."

Sometimes I wish I didn't care so much. Like it would be easier to be able to...I don't know, not care.

I am not an over achiever, though I know some subconscious part of my brain, or just me, or WHATEVER wants to be.

As if that would make anything better.

I've been screaming in my head for most of the day. Especially in ELA, when my struggles with my own writing comes into play.

I honestly expected to see drops on the keyboard the minute I looked down, but they're not there. At this point I'm just ranting angrily...not being skillful or clever writing wise, of course.

And every time I let too much run through my mind at once, I know I'm going to cry.

Because how could I not?

Anyway.

I'm reading the Bell Jar, and at first I tried to turn to Esther and Sylvia, alike as character and author.

But at this point, I don't find comfort in my books. I can only use them as distractions from my loss of confidence. And everything else.

Which depresses me even further.

I'm making an attempt...
to get over it...
but I'm not getting anywhere...

Help...

Waking Up

Somethin' filled up
my heart with nothin'
someone told me not to cry.

These are the first three lines of the song "Wake Up" by Arcade Fire. Looking at it as poetry without the musical component has proved to be difficult, but I purposely chose a song with meaningful lyrics for this week's entry. And with songs like this, there are a million ways the words can be interpreted...

I think that these three particular (first) lines are referring to- in some way- the reaction of humans when they are caught off gaurd. Like an unexpected death. The nothingness that fills you, the empty, broken place in your heart. Filling up with nothing is the same as having everything cruelly sucked away. Someone tells you not to cry. To rise above. But all at once, you wonder how you could cry when all you have is the nothingness, and at the same time how you couldn't.

But now that I'm older,
my heart's colder,
and I know that it's a lie.

The time that goes by after something like this causes your heart to fill with something. In order to survive, we can't be empty. An empty heart is an empty person.

So coldness swirls in, if we find nothing else. Hate; hate for life, and love, and everything beautiful about it. Because you've lost something, so why should everyone else be rewarded with the beautiful things? You grow up from that, coming to believe that the world has mislead you. You've been lied to, pushed around and forced by thise who were once in control o you that you had to get over it and you would. But you didn't. It changed you in ways you never wanted.

Children wake up,
hold your mistake up,
before they turn the summer into dust...

This might not necessarily be speaking out just towards "children"- it could mean anyone who inexperienced with that. The speaker is basically telling them to fix their mistakes, but also to get over whatever happens while they still can. Because at some point it becomes impossible, and it leaves a scar on you; it takes away your "childhood," which could be literal in the case of actually children but will vary depending on who is being spoken to. It could just mean taking away the joy in whatever period of time they're in.

Also, summer is like the time when children let go- free of school, many free to do what they want. Most kids look forward to it. It can be seen as their happy period of time.

Before they turn the summer into dust.

Before something takes away that happiness.

If "Wake Up" is read like a poem, then each stanza has its own meaning. But they all connect into one. There are many more stanzas (or sections) of it, but the general message is portrayed in just the first few. I could go on with every one, but I get at this point. Don't hold grudges. Don't hold onto everything. Or you'll lose a lot more than what you did originally- possibly your happiness, your warmth, and yourself.

In two words, what Arcade Fire is trying to tell us- us "children" especially: let go.

A Nirvana-influenced perspective of The Best Teen Writing of 2009

Leaving the beautiful weekend in the Hamptons was painful, but I had Nirvana and the Scholastic Awards to thank for making the ride home a little better.
With “Come as You Are” pounding through my earbuds, I read through the book I received at the Scholastic Awards- the book containing what is perceived as the best teen writing of 2009. I was expecting something a little lesser of what the writing quality actually turned out to be, but I was not to surprised. I know some pretty talented people my age, and it’s amazing what some of my peers can do with a pencil- or pen, for that matter- and something to write on.

One of the reasons I prefer “older” music to pretty much a lot of albums publicized in the last decade- there’s more to interpret. So as I dug through the best teen writing of 2009, I also dug through one of my favorite songs. “Come as You Are” happens to be an example of one I’ve been thinking through for a long time, and every time the ideas come out differently.

That’s what’s hard about music- the meaning could be laying on the surface, easily spotted; there could be multiple meanings, swimming much deeper than the average human brain can find; or there could simply be no meaning at all. In an altered version of Nirvana’s words, the song could be “coming as it is.”

So I had this to ponder as well as the works of teen writers from all over.

So you could say I listened to Nirvana with the ears of a reader.

And I ended up learning a lot about myself as a reader. At first I was drawn to the short stories, but after forcing myself to randomly open to a page and read whatever that gave me, I found a new love and appreciation for creative journalism, memoirs, and other non-narrative writing.

And thanks to Nirvana, I was able to push myself to think on an undiscovered level of complexity that my brain has now been exposed to.

I think I’ll try this again next time I leave the Hamptons…

Falling in love with The History of it

Deeply in love.

My love for The History of Love by Nicole Krauss sprouted from hoping I'd like it to loving it more than I ever imagined I would. As you might have been able to tell from my last entry, for whatever reason the book was not doing for me. For most parts of the beginning, I think I was bored. I think it's the kind of book where you have to pay attention and be patient. Then you're rewarded with more than you deserve by the end.

Maybe this is one of the best things that's ever happened to me. A challenge.

Anyway, for the second out of (hopefully) many blog entries about the book, I chose to focus on an un-noted characteristic of Alma, and her relationships with her family members. In the book, Alma is searching for the woman she's named after. A book character from a book called The History of Love, which her mother is translating for an author. Fourteen (and growing up fast throughout the book) Alma believes the character Alma Mereminski to be real.

This search not only shows her persistence and determination, but also her desparate sides and weaknesses. One of these weaknesses seemed to lay within Alma's mother. The main thing I noticed was that rather than spend time with her mother, Alma prefers to search for a possibly fictional woman. Though her search is portrayed as important and key to the plot, I think it also might be that Alma uses this as something to keep her occupied when need be.

I think this says something about both Alma and her mother as characters, and as people with emotions. Alma was always more loving and involved with her father, until he died when she was seven. I think Alma is afraid that by turning to her mother for comfort and parental guidance, she would be letting go of her father. She's afraid of losing him- but what she doesn't understand is that she already has. Meaning she has nothing to lose by going to her mother.

Thouhgh Alma never comes to terms with her fear or the truth at any point in the book, I'm pretty sure she will eventually. In her case, on thing that comes from growing up will be letting go.

A Cure for Lonliness

Begun plowing through The History Of Love for various reasons, starting Friday. Besides plowing, I have been racing, scurrying, chomping, tearing and whatever else I can think of through the book- point being, I have being going through the book at a fast pace while still enjoying it and not rushing. And enjoying is an understatement.

I'm into what seems like a second section of the book- a second perspective, being 14 year old Alma Singer. What has begun to be one of the things I love about the book is that I know some details about her, but she spends most of her time focusing on other people. Other people being her mother and brother.

What I do know- though this relates to all the members of her family- is that her dad died when she was seven. The typical dad death subplot prior to the current times of the book. She loved her dad. He was special. And then he died of cancer.

But what sticks out to me is a line that Alma said about her mom. "She never stopped loving my dad" says the smart 14 year old (not in those exact words).

This is sweet, with a lot of meaning behind it. But it also could be one of her mother's main source of problems. She's lonely- she's dated before, but never with a strong feeling. Because she's in love with something she's lost. And she won't get it back. And she knows it.

Yet she allows it to destroy her.

Instead of thinking for the character, this time I'm going to actually wait and see how they work things out on their own. I have the best hopes for Alma- her mother is a broken character that I definitely want to see fixed.

Young love and Hitler

Still reading the book thief...
Still love it...

Anyway, I've been noticing a reoccuring pattern in myself- a longing for friendy love inside a younger generation. In The Book Thief, Liesel has a close friend named Rudy. The book has an edge that gives it a very vague feel, making it extremely difficult for me to track Rudy as a character.

I have a few ideas...none very deep. I think he can be, as a person, mistaken for the average nine-year-old male thinker in Hitler's Germany. But I think it goes beyond that. he is an intellectual in many ways, and softens the shallow edge that Liesel, in growing up, feels forced to portray to the world. She still uses the somewhat loud and obnoxious tone with him, but I've come to realize he won't have it. Rudy can totally tell that there is so much more beneath the surface of Liesel, and he knows there's a lot more going on inside her head than what may seem at first glance.

I think, in some ways, he is in love with her. These kind of relationships- in this position- usually create crishes and love.

This is all just my vague little theory.

And besides that, I'm having even MORE issues trying to get into Liesel's thoughts on all of this. I think she feels flustered and embarrassed when she's around the intellectual side of him. But it forces her to think deeper. When his more shallow side is exposed, she is more comfortable, relieved, and barely thinks beyond the first few obvious layers.

I've also been thinking about Hitler's role in the book...but that is pretty much self-explanatory. He affects everyone's lives, some in negative ways and some in non-descript ways. Some feel they are benefitted with him being at power.

It was especially interesting for me to read, having written a play about Hitler. My play was an intense look at him as a character, whereas this makes him more of an idea- one that has a very powerful affect on everyone.

Very powerful.

P.s. My play won a silver key award in the scholastic competition. I think my writing life has officially begun.

Scratch that. My writing life is my life. It's always been there.

Assumptions and Followers

The Book Thief had been recommended to me multiple times before I finally found and decided to pick up the book from my classroom library, desparately in need of a new book after Elegance of the Hedgehog.

I now understand why it was so recommended.

In the book, Liesel Meminger is a nine year old girl in the 1930s in Germany, as Hitler rises to power. She makes the journey with her mother and brother- who does not survive the trip- to be given to a foster family. She arrives with only one memory to hold onto of her brother- The Grave Digger's handbook, a book Liesel found in the snow by her brother's graveside. Though Liesel cannot read, the book holds an importance...a last connection with her real family.

The foster mother, Rosa, is definitely a piece of work. The narrator tells the reader that she loves Liesel, though without that spectation the thought would barely occur to us. She is loud, cold, unfriendly and impatient. She forces Liesel to call her "mama" and Rosa's husband Hans "papa."

Though calling Hans "papa" is absolutely no trouble for Liesel.

It interested me how Hans is such a nicer, more fun and fatherly character. The male characters in relationships often show the softer side. Liesel seems to be living a scenario that I've seen occur multiple times in books.

My theory is that women hold on to emotion for a lot longer than men (this isn't the case with everyone, please don't mistake ths for being sexist!!!), making them a lot more complicated. Or atleast their minds. Men seem- in books- to be able to get past and let go a lot easier than their mates.

Is this an assumtion that authors, over so many years, have made? That men have specific strengths, such as this, that women struggle with? I think this is somewhat reality...while a lot of it is written to stay within the zone of the average character structures.

While I tend to enjoy literature that breaks these "rules," I am thoroughly enjoying The Book Thief.

Judging Myself

I know myself pretty well as a reader. Most of the time. Though often, my brain has been confusing me- in terms of favorites, how well written (and amazing, if that) a book is, and all of the above. I realized, after ditching the idea that maybe I didn't in fact know myself as intimately as I thought, that it wasn't me- it was the certain books that were leaving footprints of different shapes and sizes.

So I proceeded to go through the books that were standing out and had been (in whatever way) for a while in my current life.

I began with a not very deep book that I read last year- The Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants. Laugh all you want, but besides the junk food affect- bad for you but deliciously addicting- something else was drawing me in. As I tore through each book, rereading them, I dicovered the things I loved about it:

1. The close, fun relationship between the girls...I have never known what it's like to know a friend so well...

2. The multiple range of features, minds, and characteristics of the girls- and the fact that being told by all of them, I got an insight to and flavor of each of these, going back and forth throughout the books.

It was a combination of this and the junk food affect that got my brain so wrapped up around the books. I then compared this to how a book like The Elegance of the Hedgehog affected me. It was very different; less of an obvious reaction, and it's not one of those books that keeps you reading and reading and reading...you pause after a little, putting it down for the moment. You have to take breaks in between short passages and reread and think a lot.

But this also shows the difference in strength and depth between the books. They are both thoughtfully written, but one just radiates a new level of complex, sophisticated literature while the other is, well...very satisfying but addictingly(my own word) average.

While most of the time it would be easiest for me to pick up The Sisterhood and let myu brain deal with softer material to chew, sometimes it's better for me as a person to chomp on tougher stuff- telling myself "I will do this. I want to do this."

Do not read if you plan on...well, devouring this book

I believe that the secret to making a book as absolutely amazing as possible is to have the perfect ending. My favorite are the ones that leave you hanging, not knowing what to think and then suddenly exploding with ideas, so full that the person next to you gives you a weird look. In a few (french) words, to make it clear: j'adore un beau fin.

There is a purpose here, believe it or not. Today I finished The Elegance of the Hedgehog.

For a few seconds I couldn't breathe. The magic of the book still lingers in the air for moments after you close it. My first thought was that I couldn't believe it was over; half a second later I realized I should be focusing on the actual ending itself.

And my reaction to that was at least a thousand times stronger.

To sum things up, we are forced to blow a kiss to Renee's life, and Paloma, caught up in grief for her only true friend, does not commit suicide.

I promise everyone these are my final thoughts on the book, but I HAD to blog about it today. Forgive me.

Renee and Paloma were destined to know each other. They brought out not necessarily the best in one another, but something that changed them. Renee, in life and death, brought Paloma to see the light in living, the values of life. For someone as clever, persistent, and cynical as Paloma, that was an immense accomplishment.

Paloma for Renee was less obvious, but I think- usng the title- that though Renee was pretty much a hedgehog, Paloma helped her see the elegance in that- the elegance of the hedgehog. The elegance of Renee.

I loved the two of them. I loved how honest and gentle Renee was while still managing to maintain her elegant intelligence. I loved Muriel Barbary's take on young girls of my own age, and I loved Paloma's little girlish side that, later in the book, slowly began to seep through her thick later of maturity and solitarity, showing that it's natural- even she couldn't repress it.

My final words on the book (though probably not really): Thank you, Ms. Robbins, for recomending to me the most thought provoking and incredible book I have ever read.

And that's saying a lot!

Explanations

I now have begun the writing related sections of my blogging, through multiple "Frozen Moments," which capture writing-material-worthy moments in my life. Expect more, along with other genre writings.

Besides that, my life is under control and my life is a hectic mess. Snow day today allows me to get work done. Last night I begun to write a novel which I intend to finish and publish within the next two years, and I'm still not sure who the character is or the plot structure. AND I went to the stuyvesant website last night and loved it. Then I curled up into a ball and had a nervous breakdown because of high schools, and the evil heavy HS directory book that cast a dark- a VERY dark- shadow over my happiness.

Besides all that, I have had exactly half a day of school this week, due to a two night overnight, parent-teacher conferences, and today's being a snow day (but that I can handle, believe me!). Plus I meant to say happy birthday to someone on the 24th.

Well, I sort of did. On the bus home from the overnight. Except they weren't on the trip. Does that count???

Anyway...

Life goes on, I guess.

Frozen Moment #1

Wet.

And cold, too. Uncomfortably stiff, red fingertips stuck in a stiff bent formation, clutching the simple black umbrella.

Parce- que il est un jour demie, it is 12:45 p.m. And I wait for the bus.

I see her before she sees me. Never really friends, I had lost nothing when she parted with her closest amies to join up with "cooler" people. Apparently, though, she was in a life-destroying state of misery.

I didn't blame her. I have seen the dangers of those people. The sacrifices she must have made...

But we were always somewhat friendly.

So now, without her new "buddies" she greets me with a small smile and a hello. I return it.

I stronly believe that I am a neutral for her- a medium and a relief. No awkwardness like with the friends she used to be close with, and no forced ecstasy like with the newer ones. That is all fake. She can relax for the moment, knowing that I won't sit and judge her based on every little movement; the jokes she makes, the way she laughs and what she reacts to, how she eats, etc.

We share a two seater near the back once the dry shelter of the bus finally arrives and is given to us. After about five seconds of small talk, she announces that she is going to "enter the world of her book."

I know she's intelligent, and her intentions are good. She just made some really bad choices.

Which I, of all people, can most definitely relate to.

I multitask, attempting to read her and devour my final forty or so pages of The Elegance of the Hedgehog. But I think we understand eachother. She shuts me out.

I quietly exit the bus at my stop with a goodbye smile. Pushing up the simple black umbrella, I walk through the wet, attempting to keep it bent in the right direction despite the persistently blowing wind. I look up. Snow is falling.

Precipitation happens.

Mear unnoticably, the blowing fall calms, nearly ceasing to exist much further. But I can already feel it starting up again.

My fingers, clenched around the umbrella, are raw. Cold and wet...

The Anne Frank in all of us

Today, the kind of snow day that keeps you inside most of the day, posed the perfect opportunity to look through that evil yet friendly and HUGE stack of favorite books that have somehow only been picked up once.

I have owned The Diary of Anne Frank for the longest time, and read it for the first time- and only time so far- two summers ago. I flipped through it, rereading a few parts and remembering how I might have analyzed Anne Frank as a character and person at that time.

Anne Frank's story has moved and touched a huge audience, and people from all over have devoured entryafter entry of hers.

Here's my view: Her journal survived the war, and ended up being published. That is amazing. But Anne Frank herself wasn't the most remarkable girl.

No offense intended, Anne. The girl was clever, gifted with the pen, and experienced horrible, intense things that she managed to convey decades later to the world, once she was gone. But so many others- millions- experienced what she did. When we read her diary, the immediate reaction with so many people is to start thnking about her. Picking apart her emotions, what kept her strong, etc.

What Frank does do is symbolize the population of Jews in World War Two that were terrorized and brutally mistreated (and that's an understatement, believe me) and killed by Nazis. Her face shines in the millions because of what she brought out from those horrors, even though she finished in a camp like any other that was unfortunate (another extreme understatement) enough to have to live and die through this.

There's a little bit of her in you when you finish it- she manages to draw the reader in and you experience everything alongside Anne. And there's already a little bit of her in us, because we're all human, just like Anne Frank- we feel, we breath, and we live- no matter how long or short a time period.

And when you close the book, you realize it's not over. So much more happened after that...so much more of her life.

But you have to be content with what you do know.

Afraid of Elegance

No hints on the title in The Elegance of the Hedgehog, but I have yet to give up. I have begun piecing together everything I know that could possibly relate to it, and I am in the process of disecting my information- bit by bit.

I was inspired to begin out of nothing when the word "elegance" came up. Though I'm nearly positive (though you can never be sure, right?)that the small mention of the word really had nothing to do with the titile, seeing as the context before and after offered nothing more, it sparked a possibility in my mind.

Renee, the widow and concierge in her fifties, is anything but elegant, and she will be the first to inform you of that. In fact, she talks about her disgusting and unattractive characteristics so often that one may be convinced that she enjoys this about herself, or atleast is proud of it.

Actually, thinking about this for the first time, she could be proud of it. But I promised myself I'd stay on topic this week.

Anyway, though on the outside Renee- from what she's told the reader- is really quite revolting, she is totally different on the inside. She secretly devours the arts, and has extreme appreciation for the tiny, flawless, "elegant" aspects of life in the seemingly small world surrounding her. She takes intense notice of le petit choses, or little things that the poshest of parisians wouldn't look twice at.

But I think she's afraid of being more than the downer, lonely little concierge of Number 7 Rue de Grenelle (I think that's how you spell it!). She knows a lot more than the world outside her appartment and her cat, Leo- but she is reluctant to change. She sees herself as a hedgehog- spiky, gross, and altogether rather unpleasent- but she herself contains more than a few drops of elegance.

Embrace the elegance trapped inside your hedgehog-shaped shell, Renee!

Of course, none of this has anything to do with Paloma. Renee does seem to narrate slightly more often than Paloma does...

I hope my theory isn't totally off.

Never mind the live painting...what's worth living for?

I am currently reading a book that I predict will go down in my personal history of most favorite and beloved books- The Elegance of the Hedgehog. Fifty pages into the book I have NO idea what the title means, and I am dying for even just a hint that can help me uncover it. But despite that mystery, I am thoroughly loving it.

The book, originally french, goes between the perspectives of two characters tied in some way to a fancy building in France. One is very intelligent twelve year old Paloma, who come from a wealthy family and lives in a four thousand sqare foot appartment in the building. The other is Renee, a fifty-four year old widow who describes herself as rather disgusting and poor, and works as the concierge at the building (7, rue de Grenelle)

Here's the catch, on the younger side: on the last day of school when she's thirteen, Paloma plans to commit suicide.

Which is a very dark thing to a twelve year old to even consider, let alone plan on doing...though not totally unheard of.I am more able to connect to her for the obvious reasons- age, etc.- but there's a part of her that I feel I will never understand. For example, Paloma is a lover af art, and she watches a real life scene in the hallway that seems to immitate a piece of artwork she's seen exactly, and in some ways broadens her understanding of art...life art.

Of course, when she's done thinking this, Paloma decides even moments like that- rare, exciting moments for a person like her- are not worth living for.

And I am stuck thinking about how TOTALLY and COMPLETELY irrational this is, and I have to go back and read over her thinking again. And it always comes up thes same.

But Paloma is a smart girl, and she knows that. She talks with an air of dark, sophisticated knowing, and I always feel so awkward. This character knows something I don't. She puts me down. ALL the time. And though I admire her persistence and sense of thought, I don't like her as a person. Atleast, I hate that she has such a cynical attitude. She's intelligent enough to sense it.

But that's the thing. Paloma has so much smart thinking and reasoning behind her plan that it's almost impossible to disagree with her. While at the same time, you couldn't disagree with her more.

And this is what's driving me absolutely insane...

Like Old Friends...

My room is a hurricane of books. I could probably spend an hour describing every bookshelf, every nook and cranny that one of my- hundred or so?- books has wormed its way into. I've begun to think they have minds of their own.

Which they might.

But yesterday I took on the impossible task of attempting to organize three huge stacks of books, due to the purchase of two new wall bookshelves(LIFESAVER!). I came across many books that I loved but hadn't seen for the longest time because of the clutter. Findind them felt like finding old friends, as reading is such a huge part of my life.

All of my absolute favorite books fill those two shelves now, but I was especiall happy when I pulled out (from god knows where)my copy of A Tree Grows In Brooklyn, one of my favorite reads from this summer.

Francie lives in Brooklyn many decades ago (I'll find out when later today, trust me!), in an era where money is somewhat hard to come by. It is the story of her childhood- practically from birth to young woman. I especially loved this book because besides Francie's twelve year old self being one of my favorite characters in the world of literature, I get to watch her grow and change.

I remember particularly the ending- its abruptness stood out to me. In the very end of the book, Francie is about twenty, and watching a young girl play around outside- alone. She says "Hi, Francie," and when the girl shoots ack that her name is most certainly NOT Francie, she says nothing. Then, walking inside her home, she whispers "Bye, Francie."

I remember all of this and more, and I haven't picked up the book since last summer. This part, Francie is seeing her past self in one way or another, and recognizing that she's now a different person. When she says "Bye, Francie," she's letting go of her childhood, and starting the rest of her life fresh...with more than a few memories tucked away, just in case she does want to look back at some point.

And remember.

Lost Alongside Isabel

I think for now I've taken a nice, LONG break from posting. A second cycle of ELA writing entries are forcing me to pick up where I left off. Thank you, Ms. Robbins.

In writing, we are working in groups on fiction sub-genres. Mine by choice is historical fiction, which I have not written since fifth grade- though it was probably my best writing of that year.

But anyway, I am for that purpose currently reading Chains, by Laurie Halse Anderson. Though the book is a somewhat easier read than some other things I've read in the past, it lets me become totally engrossed and lost in the words themselves.

So lost that it seems I completely lose track of time whenever I open the book. The words fly off the page, and I absorb them like a sponge. Isabel, the main character in Chains, is a slave during the time of the revolutionary war, working for a secretly loyalist couple with her younger sister Ruth.

At times, Isabel seems to feel lost- whether she's daydreaming as she labors over whatever order Madam has demanded from her, or she's lying in bed at night, dreamimng of home...but really, where is home for her.

The idea of home is pretty much a lost concept to Isabel. The only home she's known is the one of the recently deceased elderly woman her family used to work for. She longs for a nonexistant place...and I truly feel sorry for the poor lost soul.

This made me realize how fortunate I am, and the people I know are. I could have easily been born in the place of some one in Isabel's situation. For some people, the word and concept of home is as it is to Isabel: foreign.