little hands

Discipline

2009-12-09T05:04:21Z

I have a week and a half more school, and I think I can do it. There was a low point a week or two ago, where I had lost pretty much all hope of getting decent grades* and was about ready to give up and lock myself in the closet until I graduated. Then, I started to study. To actually study, not just put my book in front of me and go check twitter. I did a little each night, I made sure I understood the practice questions, and what happened?

I got the highest score on the Chemistry test, raised my Calculus grade four percent, and relieved far more stress than I thought possible. Studying really isn't hard, if you just do it. And it's really gratifying. Who knew?

I've also started to get up unreasonably early, because I focus better at four o'clock in the morning. I really like getting up before anyone else, when it's still dark, and dressing in front of the heater so my toes don't turn into an icicles. Mornings have such potential. One has the whole day ahead of them, full of endless possibilities and time. So much time.

It's quiet, too. Sometimes, a train sounds in the distance, I don't know from where, but you can hear it, and the sky is blacker than when you went to bed (granted, it never gets very dark thanks to lovely Los Angeles light pollution), and the house is cold and still and every sound is all-encompassing and wholesome. And it isn't that I don't like sleeping, it's just that I like waking up more. Early to bed, early to rise, you know?

I guess I'm just learning discipline. Growing up. All that jazz.
Ohgawd. I don't want to grow up, what am I saying?

*decent=A. A is for Average. B is for Below Average.

A study from life, in comedy.

2009-11-10T05:25:38Z

I went downstairs to get my things, and cup of coffee a little while ago, because it was only six thirty and I was sleepy, and coffee is obviously the solution to that problem. I made my coffee, stirred it twice, and made a cup. All ready to head upstairs to start balancing chemical equations, I pick up my back pack. What do I find, sitting undernath? Underneath my bag, there was an excess of what can be best described as brown gunk. It had spread onto the table cloth and onto my papers. It was smelly.

It was not poop, I promise.

It was coffee. I had put my travel mug, which I thought was empty, into my back pack before I got on thee bus. Turns out, there were grounds in the bottom, and when I laid my bag on the table, the tiny bit of coffee goop leaked everywhere. Being the responsible young lady that I am, I started to clean my mess up.

In doing so, I pushed my bag a little to the right to take the table cloth off the table. This, in turn, knocked over the cup of coffee I had just poured, spilling it over the floor, the chairs, and the remainder of the table cloth. That took a lot longer to clean up, and my entire house smells like a hipster-infested Los Feliz, poetry reciting coffee house.

I might need to hire an excorcist.

See, that was way more frenetic and funny when it was happening. I am bad at writing funny and frenetic.
Read it three times fast, and run in circles while you do it.
That's what it was like.

Snipsnip.

2009-10-20T01:57:49Z

That is not the sound of a Jewish newborn boy-child.
I just need my hair cut.

I'm really very attached to my hair. I like it long, but it doesn't look nice when it's long, and my mother tells me so all the time (classically maternal, my hair is always too long and messy. I can't help my hair, it's not like its controllable.). To make her happy, and to make my life easier, I've decided to get it cut, at least to my shoulder blades. This is going to require quite a lot of emotional support, just letting you guys know.

Ta Ta For Now.
*Picture creditted to the brilliantly French and ridiculous Jean Luc Godard film Pierrot Le Fou, starring Anna Karina (sigh) and Jean Paul Belmondo (double sigh). Spoiler: He had second thoughts, so he goes to heaven. Oh. And waterboarding.

God, love, and just not getting it.

2009-10-16T04:27:22Z

At my highschool's GSA meeting today, we were informed Westboro Church would be picketing our school, before class starts in the morning. These are the people who went to Matthew Shepard's funeral, as well as countless other events and organizations, like military funerals, synogouges, &c, with signs like "God Hates Fags."

My school has a very active Gay Straight Alliance. We're at least a hundred strong, and really do a lot of good. Westboro and their leader Frank Phelps caught wind of all the good we've done and have decided to tell us we're going to hell. Westboro is a hate group, just like the KKK, and are monitored by the FBI, with good reason. They don't just hate homosexuals, either. They hate everyone. Jews, Catholics, blacks, Muslims, immigrants, shrimp, you name it, they hate it.

It gives me a stomach ache even thinking about that much anger in one human being. How could anyone live with themselves, when they have all that rage and unhappiness inside of them? I don't understand it.

If you go to my school, I suggest using the back gate in the morning. If you have to use the front entrance for some reason, please, don't make eye contact, don't talk to them, don't even acknowledge their presence. They're narcissists, and giving them attention, even negative, is what they're after. Leave them to scream hateful things at themselves.

Most of all, don't hate them back. They don't deserve that powerful a sentiment. Pity them. Pity their backwards self-righteousness and their loathe for mankind, because with all that hate, there is no way they could live as full and contented a life as you could, whoever you are.

Pride & Prejudice, sans zombies.

2009-10-06T02:19:10Z

Winter's coming. The air has gotten chilly and everyone has broken out their scarves. It's exciting, the feeling that Christmas is coming, and the promise of candy apples and changing leaves --not that you get many of those in Los Angeles, but it's nice to dream.

I remember a night, maybe two Christmases past, when I had just gotten the six-hour Pride and Prejudice miniseries on DVD from my dad. I had never seen it before, only the 2000's version with Keira Knightly, and everyone knows how I feel about her. I'd read the book the year before, finished it on New Year's Eve, around ten o'clock. I had noted the time.

My mother and I watched the entire six hours in one night, with chocolate and tea and a fire in our living room. The flu kept falling so periodically we'd have to pause the movie and clear the room of smoke so we wouldn't suffocate. I had had somewhere to go that night, so my mother called and said I was extremely ill and could not attend.

That was a nice night. I can't wait for Christmas vacation so I can do it again.

anoxfordcomma @ 2009-09-16T20:31:00

2009-09-17T03:36:28Z

If you had not already noticed, I like Wilde. So much, in fact, that I gave my best friend a copy of The Importance of Being Earnest to read, even though I doubted she'd like it. Generally, no one does.

To my most jocund surprise, she loved it. Now, if only her copy of the Complete Works would arrive, maybe we could have a play reading!

And this is why I like her:

mic522key (8:27:04 PM): wesley wong is distracting me again D:

biohazard pop (8:27:12 PM): damn hufflepuff

mic522key (8:28:06 PM): he is distracting me from my advanced muggle studies

biohazard pop (8:28:23 PM): merlin's beard! doesn't he know you have to pass your NEWTS?

mic522key (8:29:35 PM): that muggle

biohazard pop (8:29:45 PM)

: squib! tell him to go hex himself.

I mean, who else is going to, in all, seriousness, pretend we are at Hogwarts with me?
No one. That's who.

That's cute. Now go take some lessons.

2009-09-08T00:24:05Z

DISCLAIMER: This is an angry, badly justified and uncorroborated spew on art. Also, my AP Drawing class has given me a nervous tick in my left eye that I've had for a week. My opinion may be invalid, due to great amounts of artistic stress and panic.

I have an issue with Abstract Art.

We don't get along, for the most part. Mostly, well, because Mr Abstract Art keeps calling itself what it isn't. Art. Actually, he's Mr I'm Terribly Lazy but Vaguely Artistic and Unwilling to Better Thyself Through Rigorous Training.

Not all of him. Just 95%
Some Abstract Art is flipping brilliant. I like Pollack, and maybe even some other people. The best abstract art I've ever seen? It was in a children's art benefit, and it was done by a three year old. It had hollographic stickers and glitter. It was titled, "If you were a penguin, this is what you'd feel like."

And they were right. I totally felt like a penguin when I looked at it.
My main beef with abstract art --and "dark art," is that art should be beautiful. The world is mixed up and hopeless without some Plaster of Paris and piano strings adding anything else. Art is a refuge, a sanctuary in which one can hide from the ugliness of the outside world. It's a shelter of light and stroke and curve, and it doesn't have to mean anything. A naked lady reading a book is just fine with me. That's all I want. A beautifully lit, beautifully blended oil painting of some oddly naked woman.

The Impressionists understood that. Degas experimented with light and colour, used wild brush strokes, but he retained the beauty. It might even be more alive for it. Monet did not blend, but his waterscapes are brilliant and vivid and gorgeous.

But post-midcentury modern art?
I am not going to pay more than ten dollars for something that took less than a half an hour.

If I'm going to buy anything over a thousand, someone had better have slaved over that fucking canvas.

I used to be really into abstract art. I thought it meant more than classical, but really, if there's a big explanation behind it, I doubt the sincerity. Whenever I'm given a prompt that I haven't a clue how to answer, I write a big long essay with tons of explanation because I'm bullshitting.

And I am not paying ten thousand dollars for bullshit, thank you very much.

(Also: I am obviously a fascist. That is all. Move along. And get a hair cut, hippie.)

The Last Day of Summer

2009-09-01T01:09:24Z

The last day of summer has finally, completely, irrevocably passed. The final night, I feel, should always be far more mournful or dramatic than it ever is.
Today was my first day of junior year. It was utterly unremarkable, but at least it wasn't bad. I only have one more summer vacation before college, though, and that's a place that I really have to think about, and really don't want to.

My schedule is nice, though:

AP US History
AP Drawing
Spanish 3
Honours Chemistry
AP Calculus
AP Language/American Lit.

APUSH is nice for the morning, and I got into Drawing, so all is well. Calc test on Thursday already. That's a bummer.

This is all. The end.

So, I got a little pendantic. Sue me.

2009-08-20T21:07:21Z

My father posted a link to a list published by Beloit college, as a list of "observations that help to identify the experiences that have shaped the lives —and formed the mindset—of students starting their post-secondary education."

You can find the list for my graduating class (2011) here. I personally found it extremely insulting, both to my personal intelligence as well as to my generation. The future of America is not something to be poked fun at, especially if you have failed to properly educate us.

I was so insulted, in fact, that I felt the need to write a complaint. Now, I don't often do this. When Starbucks gives me something other than what I ordered, I usually don't say anything. I am timid to the point of self-detriment. However, this list made me truly indignant, and I felt the need to write a complaint.

I share that complaint with you now. Here it is.

Dear Sir or Madam:

As an individual of the class of 2011, I found your "Mindset List," extremely insulting. If "Tiananmen Square is a 2008 Olympics venue, not the scene of a massacre," then that is a failing of the American educational system, not the generation.

Frankly, if this is what an educational institution finds acceptable or worthy of a college admission, then there is very little hope for the American people. By laughing at your educational system's failings, you are perpetuating the problem of ignorance and misinformation, not solving it.

Not only is the list insulting to my own intelligence and cultural awareness, it is obviously biased toward the norms of a prior generation. You could make a "Mindset List" for the class of 1973, and those graduated in 1930 would find it revolting. Culture is transitory; I'm sure very few of the writers of this list have ever used an outhouse or had to light a gas lamp in order to read.

The list is assumptive and makes gross generalizations that any decent historian would baulk at. When it comes time to select my own college, I will surely remember the insult your institution has so nonchalantly thrown in the face of my generation.

Connor K. Novy

Perhaps I am just being over sensitive, but when a college makes me cry for half of an hour, I usually make it a point not to go there.

Convience over Culture

2009-08-16T00:14:30Z

Recently, a friend of mine told me about Acres of Books closing in Long Beach. It was a big, labyrinthine building with rows and rows of second hand books. It became a cultural heritage landmark in 1990, and last year the city forced it to sell the property, though you won't hear that from them.

This got me thinking about how Borders and Barnes and Noble and Amazon are monopolizing the book business, and slowly strangulating the small time American bookstore. Now, I shop at Borders and Amazon and Barnes and Noble. The book you want is always there, and its easy to find and that's really, really tempting. You need to find a novel for school by tomorrow, and all you have to do is go to the nearest mall and find it on the neatly organized shelves.

I've also never checked a book out of the library on my own (My mother and I used to, when I was learning to read, but that doesn't count.), partly because I can't bear to return them, and partly because I can just order it off the internet. Why check a book out and remember the due date and get it back on time, without writing in it or turning down the corners of the pages (both of which I am guilty of) when you can just order it off Amazon and go on with your business?

Because it takes the community out of reading, it really does. People read silently, and sit by themselves with their paperback volumes and never talk about their experience because there is no one to talk about it with. In Borders, you can't ask the mousy clerk behind the desk if he things the book is good, you can't ask for a rare or out of print volume, and if they don't have it, they're not going to find it for you. Books are full of ideas that should be talked about, considered. People should have varying opinions of a novel, and they should be free to debate their position with others. In Borders, a reader finds his book in the dustless shelves, and escapes from the big flickering fluorescent lights.

There is no community, there is no sharing. Reading becomes isolated and ideas stagnate. And out of all things that should stay mobile, it's knowledge. Without it, not to be alarmist, fascism and narrow mindedness take the opportunity to flourish. Culture slows to a halt and progress becomes moribund.

So we have to decide whether we prefer convenience or culture.

The Proust Questionnaire

2009-08-13T23:19:46Z

I like to do one of these every few years.
This is my third or forth and, I hope, my most honest.

What do you regard as the lowest depth of misery?
Where would you like to live?
What is your idea of earthly happiness?
To what faults do you feel most indulgent?
Who are your favorite heroes of fiction?
Who are your favorite characters in history?
Who are your favorite heroines in real life?
Who are your favorite heroines of fiction?
Your favorite painter?
Your favorite musician?
The quality you most admire in a man?
The quality you most admire in a woman?
Your favorite virtue?
Your favorite occupation?
Who would you have liked to be?

A Room with a View

2009-08-09T00:05:17Z

This week, I read A Room with a View by E. M. Forester. I'd stolen the copy from my Spanish teacher, (it was just laying there in a big box of books and it was only a Dover Thrift Edition, and no one was reading it, anyway) and started it on the first day of last semester, but I never got passed the first chapter.

The Merchant Ivory film had come to the top of my Netflix queue, and though I had always meant to read it before watching the movie, I watched it last Saturday night. It had Julian Sands, who I can't take seriously, but I admit he was good, though not what I imagined George Emerson to be. And it had Maggie Smith and Judi Dench, together, which made me catch vapours and faint.

But the book is what we are here for.

I liked it a lot, but I felt like it could have been longer. It was very quick, and the plot wrapped up almost disappointingly fast. The rising action so outstrips the climax and resolution, it almost feels the author lost interest.

The characters were developed, but I feel like Forester could have spent a little more time getting to know the Hero, George Emerson. Like so many novels, it was told from the point of view of the heroine, and you only see George Emerson once when Lucy is not there.

Then again, the sparseness added to the experience as it did not force imagery and let you use your imagination as you pleased. Forester tells you they have a conversation on the way back to the pension, but he lets you imagine what they spoke about, rather than controlling every aspect of the story.

I know for some this is irritating, but as the owner of a fine, over-active imagination, I'm going to imagine in-between bits anyway and it is nice to be told I'm allowed.

I also enjoyed it because I was able to truly understand the cultural and societal changes of the era,and though it is not necessary to the novel, it is very nice to have the information.

Let me explain:

A Room with a View was published in 1908.

The “Victorian era” ended in 1901, with the death of Queen Victoria.

There was a giant, giant financial crisis in 1893, caused by a European recession in 1889-90,which was a reverberation of the in the 1870s. Most of the time one hears about it from the American perspective, but the European aspect is just as dire. There were thousands upon thousands of business failures, and as always with financial crashes, there was a nouveau riche by the late 1900s twenty years later, when the novel was published.

Italy had also seen the effects of depression, making travel there extremely cheap. Between the low prices of travel and the revolution in wealth, people who worked in growing industries, like the rail road, as George Emerson does, often had the time and money to travel where they had not before.

The rigid class structure of the Victorian era was slowly disintegrating with the new wealthy class (as well as the newly poor), and though the destruction of the gentry by World War I had not yet taken place, there was less emphasis being placed on hereditary titles.

With this knowledge, we can look at Forester's novel with a slightly different perspective. George Emerson is a clerk at the rail road, a lower middle class standing in society. So is Lucy Honeychurch, though she is elevated beyond her position; her family was mistaken for old aristocracy when the neighbourhood was populated, because the Honeychurch family had already been there.

Forester is pointing out throughout the novel that the middle class uniformity of thinking can be a fault, through old Mr. Emerson's natural understanding and kindness, and Lucy's conscious denial and that those who are the most bourgeois are those who try to be the most shocking, the Lavishes of the world.

The message of the book?

Follow your heart. It isn't complicated, but it's nice. George Emerson is probably the most human of any of the Victorian Heroes, he was no great, dark secret, no wife locked in the attic, no wife and daughter auctioned off for five guineas, no dark love with probably half-sister. George is just slightly brooding and very thoughtful. He can be embarrassed, and speaks as plainly as possible. He is not completely overcome with love for Lucy every time he sees her, and neither is she. The simplicity of the novel is endearing, and the cast is multidimensional.

Arachnacide.

2009-07-28T13:31:46Z

Let me tell you a story.

So, I get up at three thirty this morning to get some writing done. It's three thirty in the morning, so I decide I can justifiably use the pint mug to make some coffee before I start. I toddle off down stairs in the dark, careful not to wake the mother or anyone else as I enter the kitchen. Happy as a clam, I head to the sink to refill the electric kettle (best invention ever, by the way) and what scares me half out of my wits so badly I jump back and cower for a full minute?

A big, brown hairy spider, easily as big as my thumb including the legs, trying to get out of my sink, that's what.

It was some kind of recluse, I'm pretty sure. The legs were very recluse like, and yes, I know, there are no brown recluse spiders in California, but there are desert recluse and Cuban ones. Trust me, I googled it. The thing is, the body is really, really dark, and those two are lighter. We've been having a problem with these spiders, I find one or two a week hanging around the moulding in my room, just waiting to eat me when I sleep.

Anyway, after I've regained my composure, I look back in the sink. There he is, crawling about the edge, trying to get up the side and slipping back down. I felt a little bad for him, he looked so frantic, but then I remember turning on my light after two minutes of darkness and finding his brother next to me on the pillow and I stop feeling so bad and get the teapot.

Deathly afraid to get near enough to squish him (those buggers move fast, let me tell you.) I throw some old tea on him until he's wet, but it doesn't kill him. I need to fill up the kettle still, so I look around for something else to drown him with. The dishwater in the side sink is full, so I pour that on him and he goes tumbling across a wave and, I can only imagine, into the drain catch.

After staring at the sink for a while, I go make myself my coffee and hurry back upstairs to write two thousand more words (10k mark! Whoo!)

Do I feel bad about murdering another life form in such a terrible and inhumane way?
Answer: No. They're scary and they make my ankles itch, little rotten biters.

Fucking spiders.

The best things in life are on sale.

2009-07-23T17:42:24Z

I am a materialist. I like things. I like owning things, buying things, wearing new things. Of course, the older these new things are the better. As I start to actively, regularly write, I find, like I do for any new activity, that I need some sort of paraphernalia.
The girl obviously wants a typewriter, you think, she's such a silly romantic little thing.

Not so. I have one, it's blue. It's also extremely cumbersome and despite multiple attempts, I haven't a clue how to use it. My computer is just find, though slightly distracting, and I do very well with pen and paper, too. (Though, I would love a stationary set.)

No, what I want I own, in miserable sort of way. A wingback armchair. In my backyard for the greater part of my life, there has been a large, comfortable, but very dingy armchair. It's upholstered with faded beige corduroy and the legs are nicked up and I wouldn't be surprised if more than a few species of night-creatures were living inside of it. I also won't get rid of it, because I know how expensive they are and someday I'd love to re-upholster it in mustard coloured faux leather --except that sticks to your legs when it's hot. The colour, though, is inflexible. It has to be mustard.

And, of course, the second thing I'd love to have would be a lap desk like Roald Dahls's to work on and put my tea. I can make that myself though, and if I remember to take pictures, I'll have a nice little how-to up eventually.
And a cookbook stand, because reference books are heavy and have teensy text that is easy to lose your place in.

Roald Dahl is one of my great inspirations. The man had a writing hut with a yellow door and overhanging oak trees, and he told his children it was inhabited by wolves so they wouldn't go in. Inside, it is almost horrifically dingy. He kept his own hipbone after the replacement, and it looks like a giant cupcake. He has at least two desks, and he writes in the armchair between them. The writing desk can be virtually explored here. I highly suggest checking it out. It is terrifying.

If When I go to England, the Roald Dahl Museum is one of the places I'm absolutely excited to see. I'm not much of a museum person (unless there is furniture involved. I love furniture.) but studying where an authour wrote is one of the best ways to get a little closer to them, I think. And for me, with someone like Roald Dahl, who I grew up reading, imitating his heroes and heroines, that's really important.

This is Roald Dahl's writing house, and it is so beautiful it makes me want to cry.

Day One.

2009-07-20T12:46:02Z

As of today, I am getting up at four in the morning* to write, because i am awful at starting things in the afternoon. From four to five thirty, I've written a thousand words, and I'd had just over a thousand beforehand.

Granted, I'm not writing at the moment. I'm posting on livejournal, and looking for a word count widget, all of which is quite auxiliary. However, if Stephanie-fucking-Meyer can get a book deal I can, too, blast it.

Oh look. The sun is coming up.

*four in the god damned morning.

the dress, a la fin.

2009-07-12T01:29:19Z

Here we have it. After countless hours of seam ripping and cursing and re-threading, the dress is done. I think the most terrifying part was cutting the fabric, though the fact that I bought so much extra did dampen the fear that I might be doing something wrong, since I could always cut another piece. Yesterday afternoon I assembled it, and realized the fit was completely wrong and almost had a panic attack. Luckily, and thanks to my fabulous step-mother, I was able to shorten the straps so it did not gap so much at the back. There are things I definitely could have done better, and the zipper doesn't lay flat, but hey. I made a dress.

The waistband likes to do funny things when I'm not looking. Like crinkle up and tell people I have a baby bump underneath, which I don't.

Back gaps, and the front is a little too puffy, but I am loving the shape of the back. Next time, I'm not pleating the apron, no matter what the directions say.

My elbows are weirdly dark and I need to stop slouching. But altogether, yay!

Andrew Bird, Rain or Shine.

2009-07-11T19:26:22Z

I saw Mr. Bird at the Greek last night. It was not nearly as mind-blowingly life changing as the first time, but that is to be expected. It was still pretty spectacular. I memorized the set list, but won't repeat it because I'm sure everyone has heard it enough times already, and I wouldn't want to bore. He did, though, sing Sweetbreads, which is just about my favourite song in the entire world, and he doesn't usually play it (ever.). In fact, he played almost all of my favourites. I was so happy I wanted to cry.

The marvelous Ms. Barranti at Through the Looking Glass accompanied me, and I'm sure she thinks I'm a vapid teenager now, because I can get a little emphatic when listening to Andrew Bird. I apologize for that.

My fervour for Mr. Bird can be likened to teenage girls and the Beatles or Elvis. I try to be very mature and adult outside of school, but this is the one part of my life I allow myself to be completely juvenile and overzealous. At least I'm not fawning over the Jonas Brothers like other girls my age, as Chialynn pointed out. The artist I chose to devote myself to whistles and plays the fiddle. And boy, can he.

"I'm English, we don't use guns. We use our foreheads."

2009-07-02T04:07:52Z

To tell the truth, kiddies, I've been watching Bones. (It's on hulu, go buffer it.) It's pretty great. Strong, neurotic female lead, that guy from Buffy, dead people, what could be better?

Actually, I seem to like a lot of television series that are centered around dead people. Dexter kills people, Bones finds killers, and, well, in True Blood, the main characters are dead. Does that say something about me?

(I also tend to watch a lot of television at the end of each school year. Now that school is out, I'd totally be doing it all day if it wasn't for that silly community service I've been doing.)

You can never be too prepared.

2009-06-23T22:28:23Z

I am done with school. Finals are over.
Also, not biting my nails is pretty much successful. I don't want to jinx it, but I haven't bitten in two weeks. My pinkie nail is gorgeous.

I am also a reverend, thanks to the Universal Life Church, which will be handy in my vampire killing and demon exorcising exploits. You know. Just in case. You never know. Now all I have to do is learn Latin and how to shook a gun, and drive a stick. And then I'll be set. (You know. Just in case.)

Rhubarb has been consumed, as well, and it is pretty freaking fabulous. Thank you, Chialynn!

And that's it.

Rhubarb and the Unschooled Genius.

2009-06-17T04:18:39Z

I've never had rhubarb, which is evident from the tweetversation between @chialynn, @noirbettie, @novysan and me. See, it's never been put in front of me, and I only buy things of my own accord are bottles of water and rice cripsy treats (what? I'm in highschool!) and it looks vaguely vegetable-esque anyhow. Not that I won't try it. Garrison Keillor sings about it, and I pretty much go out and buy or do anything Mr. Keillor says.

But one little thing can revive a guy,
And that is home-made rhubarb pie.
Serve it up, nice and hot.
Maybe things aren't as futile as you thought.

Mama's little baby loves rhubarb, rhubarb,
Beebopareebop Rhubarb Pie.
Mama's little baby loves rhubarb, rhubarb,
Beebopareebop Rhubarb Pie.

So, I'll be figuring out ways to get my pudgy little hands on some rhubarb this summer. I will also be sewing up a storm on Saturday when I should be studying for finals on Monday. Oooohhh wellll.

Speaking of school, we had a Calculus test today, and the last quarter was open forum, which is like a group test and you can ask anybody anything. And people asked me things, and I could answer in complete sentences that did not include, "I haven't a clue."

It was kind of great, and it was all thanks to my good friend who is a year ahead of me in math explaining the easy way to find derivatives. Yeah, so then that happened.

And now, onto the Unschooled Genius portion of today's show.

I love crafts. I love sewing. I love making things. The thing is, I don't actually know how to do it. True, I can make a pretty marvelous sauteed vegetable dish or curry, and I can knit intermediate level patterns, but I don't actually know how to sew. I've been wingin' it. My recent twitter-crisis over the Dress sort of brought to light all my completely inadequate skills as a seamstress. Now that I've admitted to myself that I don't actually know anything, I think I have somewhere to start. Somewhere to learn from.

It's like admitting you have an addiction before you can reform, but you know, backwards.

Alright. Done. Ciao.

Adventures in Costco.

2009-06-01T03:53:54Z

Today, my mother and I signed up for Costco. Costco, for those blessed in ignorance, is a food warehouse, which is exactly what it sounds like. It is like Home Depot for food, except that in Home Depot, you can get single lightbulbs or pieces of ply wood, and in Costco, the smallest ketchup is over a gallon.

You need a map in order to get around the store. There are big rigging-like shelves full of vodka bottles as tall as I am.* There are blocks of cheese as big as a Volkswagen bug. And you know what? The people match. Eight out of ten people in that store were fat and determined. It was like the Pamplona Running of the Bulls. I just about shat.

And yet, there was something so base and medieval about it. I expected there to be urchins and waifs, and sheep and prostitutes and doomsayers and that sort of thing. Not to say that the prices weren't nice. They were very nice indeed. It was just crazy.

*Maybe I am exaggerating. But only just.

I'm surprised at how proactive I've been lately.

2009-05-25T23:53:40Z

Things have been happening here at my house.

This is the fabric I plan to make my gown out of. In real life, it is so much more vibrant and golden, but you'll just have to use your imagination.

Pretty, no? That's about twelve yards. And I'm using all of it.

Next, hankies!
Now, I've made four. I have no idea where any of them are, to be honest. Here's a picture of my second one. The colour came out funky, you'll just have to forgive me. It's whitework on a white hankie. And yes, it's an ampersand. This one accompanied my European History project, which was a Victorian Monopoly board game. Hopefully I'll get it back.

I also cleaned my room, sort of. I vacuumed! Big deal, here at Dusty Home. And I'm baking cookies for Knit Club (First rule of Knit Club, don't talk about Knit Club.) elections. I am going to be such a freaking good president. I plan to topple Film Club and move that to Wednesdays, which is my only open day.

All of a sudden, I've gotten really pushy and confident. It might be the weather.

The Problem with Historic Zeal.

2009-05-24T01:11:00Z

Today, I went to the Garment District. In Los Angeles, downtown smells like urine and bacon wrapped hot dogs, and it is gloriously cheap. How cheap? Twelve yards of heavy irridescent green mock silk (maybe? I really don't know my textiles.) for thirty dollars. That would be two dollars fifty a yard. At Joanne's Fabrics, it would be something like, oh, say, six to ten bucks a yard.

Yeah. Crazy, I know.

"But, Comma! Why did you get twelve yards of this lovely green fabric for two dollars and fifty cents a yard?" you cry in wonder. "Surely, it is not just so you can cackle madly at the bargain!"

Nono, though the cackling is very much an added bonus. I got it to make a dress for the Labyrinth Masqerade, which is on the eleventh of July. So, I have just about a month and two weeks to figure out how to create a ball gown with minimal sewing skills and no pattern in an elaborate style. Go me.

Already I'm having problems. There are no crinolines for sale that are the shape neccisary, only 1850s and 60s, not late 70s and 80s. It's very distressing. Of course, I could always just throw together a cushion to strap onto my hiney, it wouldn't be that hard and it's not like I need a lot of help in that department (unfortunately.).

I'll get pictures of the fabric up soon, and hopefully I'll have created a duct tape dress form as well. I really, really want to accomplish this. I really do.

At least I'll be really popular at cocktail parties.

2009-05-09T17:13:41Z

I took the AP Exam in European history yesterday afternoon. I had gotten fives on the mock tests the class had taken the previous Saturdays, but that had just been the multiple choice, and I was still not very confident. The problem was the database questions, or dbqs, which are essays one writes, supported by thirteen or so primary documents that are provided. You get prompts that are super specific and you haven't covered in class, things like the gin trade or mardi gras. You're supposed to connect them to overreaching sentiment and movements of the period. They even provide you with a helpful little section on historical background.

I have problems organizing all that information into coherent groupings, which you're supposed to do. Three groups, at least, and you have to use at least three quarters of the documents. Under pressure, I tend to get a little disorganized, shall we say, and start writing papers in a very Joycean style. Lots of made up words, and stream of consciousness.

It was a pretty epic day, let me tell you. First off, I had a nightmare that we had been given the AP exam to do at home (the real one, not a mock.) and told to turn it in by eleven. I did the multiple choice and thought "I'll do the essays later. I can't forget them."

Cut to the Comma getting into her car and realizing she has not done her essays, or turned in her exam. And then! "Turn it in by eleven in the morning, or at night?" Panic ensues. I beg my mother to help me find out the due date and find my exam, which has been completely lost. I still haven't done my essays.

I wake up. It's time to go to school and take my exam! (Kill me!)

I've been studying, don't get me wrong. Well, I've sort of been studying. I've been doing the review worksheets the teacher has given us. I have not been studying like the beautiful Ms. Wanda has, with her crazy detailed time lines and manila folder full of print outs. I've sort of been looking over the Cold War because I am el fracasa mejor at anything past 1945.

I spent first period tennis studying. I spent second period in a daze, asking what page we were on. I spent third period studying again (thank you, Ms. Lalinde!) Fourth period I spent in a daze, rocking back and forth and having a nervous break down. I was completely freaking out about my essays. The multiple choice I could do. Even if I completely randomly picked, statistically I'd get about one fifth right, and that is almost passing on the AP test. It's not actually that difficult to get a 3 on the Exam. It's just those freaking essays.

I also forgot the receipt I was supposed to bring to get in, because I'm self sabotaging like that. After some more panic, I was assured that I would be admitted with my ID. I did have my ID, right? Yes. Yes I did.

I did a little bit worse than I had hoped on the multiple choice, but I really don't have a very good self-gauge for that sort of thing. There was a ten minute break. I walked with a friend to the bathroom and and back, and then went and started my essays.

On command, all those tenth graders broke the seal on that pink booklet and opened it to the first page.
It went something like this:

"Analyze and explain the motivations and attitudes toward colonialist expansion in Africa from 1880 to 1914."

The sky opened, angels sang. Trumpets sounded. I figuratively fell upon my knees. There was a god, and it loved me! I gave my life to it, in that moment.
I just about wet my pants. I might have squealed.

And then, I proceeded to write a decent essay. Colonialism and Imperialism are just about my best subjects, next to technology in the industrial revolution. The first free essay was okay --fall of the Soviet Union. I wrote down everything my Polish friend had ever emphatically gestured about, and was done with it. The final essay I also got lucky --decline of Spain and the Dutch Republic.

We had practiced a dbq about the economic fall of the Dutch Republic, England had taken turns sucking them dry on purpose and dragging them into wars they couldn't afford and killing them that way, while stealing all of their marine trade. I had remembered a rather ugly fresco from the book, and the section that went along with it about how the Spanish had pretty much inbred themselves into a semi-retarded ruler and bass-ackwards policies, and then ate themselves by importing American metals and inflating their currency.

So I wrote about that.

And then I went home and watched a history channel special about sex in the Bible.

Job well done, me. Job well done. You know more about the history of Europe from 1400 than you will ever find useful again.

Watching Wilde.

2009-04-26T21:29:12Z

I finally saw Wilde, after planning to for a long, long time, and putting it off. Now, I am here to talk about it.

Wilde is a biographical film about the authour and playwright (and owner of my literary heart) Oscar Wilde. It especially has to do with Wilde's affair with Sir Alfred Douglas, and the lawsuits that came with it. Stephen Fry is wonderful and looks uncannily like his character. It is almost frightening. You really do believe he is Oscar Wilde. A few minutes into the film, you quickly forget it's Fry and you wholeheartedly believe it's Wilde. Jude Law (in one of his first roles) is also brilliant. He's able to make you sympathize and pity a character who is generally a jerkwad. Vanessa Redgrave is also in it, and everyone loves her.

The thing is, it was so intently focused on Wilde's homosexuality they forgot all the other cool stuff about him. If you weren't shocked and horrified by the gay relationship, it sort of gets boring, well, really quickly and you sort of just want Fry to monolouge or do something besides try to make Douglas happy. Wilde was such a wit and entertainer, and such a brilliant writer, I had hoped it would illustrate more of his plays and their inspiration, and the audience's reaction. There are only a few minutes worth of dialouge about his actual writing, which sort of disappointed me.

The dynamics of the relationship were honest, and I applaude Jude Law's performance. Sir Alfred Douglas throws tantrums and is a horrible person, but Law is able to make you not absolutely hate him; you're screaming at the television, asking what Wilde sees in him, or are googling Jude Law and falling in love with him as well. Law makes you understand Douglas was created by exterior sources and circumstance, by his homophobic and controlling father, by his wealth and by his upper class assumption that a social position will never change, as opposed to Wilde's teetering social reputation.

The script was well written, the cinematography was marvelous and the performaces were all very, very perfect and whole hearted. The only complaint I have about the movie was its almost voyeuristic preoccupation with homosexual relationships. It sort of made it far more scandalous and taboo than it is, like a side show in a circus. If you didn't particularly mind gay relationships, it got a little tedious.