Five months it’s been. Sometimes (even though it is SUCH a cliche,) it is extraordinary to see how much things have changed. Absolutely extraordinary. I’m a college sophomore. I’m living in a completely new home. (Same city, at least, and I am remarkably finding more things to love about it each day.) I have crossed at least two important teenage milestones off my list (probably far more). I have lost nearly all of my best friends in a variety of ways and am spending a dangerous amount of time with myself. I’m working four part-time jobs and taking six courses and tutoring people in politics (whaaat?). It’s even remarkable how the curtain of humidity has finally yielded, leaving New York with this threateningly crisp fall air that makes me wonder how anyone could go out without a sweater on their backs!
This has been a catch-up blog. I’ve got to get back to learning about cogent and fallacious reasoning, Cro-Magnon man, Philip K. Dick’s trippy novels, supply and demand curves, and exponential functions. Yes. Fun.
Happy Birthday Fred & George Weasley!
Oh yeah, I basically didn’t get into college. I applied to 9 schools and I was waitlisted at 3, rejected at 5, and got accepted to my backup. So I am probably going to Oregon. That’s kind of scary. I’m getting really scared of everything. But for now I really just need to focus on making the end of my semester great.
Here’s a fun and random Facebook conversation.
You’re very wise sometimes.
maybe I’m just good at seeming wise.
I haven’t decided yet.
but what’s the difference?
Maybe wisdom is just like most country songs.
You throw in enough cliches hillbilly imagery and good old fashioned heartbreak experienced by a good natured but ultimately uninteresting guy and it just seems to work.
people eat it up.
tractor, beer, fence, barn, love, field, the term daddy, and a beat up old car.
a country song distilled.
the same can be done with most music I should think.
or lyrics at any rate
music is really just auditory math.
I wish I had the capability to distill it into numbers for you.
I feel like I should write… but I haven’t got much to write about. I feel like I am hanging in this scary limbo, waiting another month and a half for the letters that are going to, in part, determine my future. A lot of my friends already know where they’re going to college, and I just really want to have that security. RAWR.
I also have the strange predicament of an overflowing closet, yet boredom with a lot of my clothes. I like all my clothes, but I feel like I only wear 1/3 of them on a regular basis. A lot of stuff I keep because I know I’m going to need it at some point, like for job interviews or something, but I just don’t wear it all the time. Other stuff I just get self-conscious about, and end up wearing the same old stuff that I feel good is. ‘Tis tres annoying.
Books, books, books. So many to read. Currently: A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man. Good so far but tough to keep up with. Here’s something that sucks: I spent a lot of time last week editing pieces for my school literary journal, and then with my incessant working, forgot to submit them by deadline. Spiffy. FAIL.
Busy busy busy busy. It’s almost like I have an OFF and ON setting and no in between. I am happy about this busy but I just need to get used to juggling things again, and for instance, planning ahead so I don’t have to skip dance. Therefore I have instated a few rules for the semester in progress.
First, the two R’s. Run and wRite. I must run and write at least three days out of the week.
Once I’ve worked on and perfected the rhythm of running and writing more frequently, I will add new rules. For now, I have Statistics and Spanish work to do!
I try so hard not to write—or speak—in clichés, but trying to hard to do anything means it is inevitable that something will go wrong. I can’t get away from clichés. I am probably using one right now, in this bit of prose. I cannot write without thinking about them: either thinking about how dumb they sound or thinking about how not to use them. This is, perhaps, the biggest flaw in my writing. I wish I could write effortlessly again. It’s been so hard as of late. Nothing is flowing and everything sounds boring, jaded, and done before. The only thing I can do is cling to the one work of fiction that I wrote and love and just keep working to make it better—but it is so clichéd as well and my characters are starting to frustrate me.
Not only is my writing cliché nowadays– my life is starting to sound like an episode of Degrassi, a Taylor Swift song and a John Green book all wrapped in one. How do you get away from clichés? How do you make your writing flow again? I need HELP.
Ahh, break. Absolutely nothing to do and everything to do. Eating chocolate squares and drinking tea and wearing my new rose perfume and riding trains and listening to music and shopping and eating thai food and walkingwalkingwalking and picture taking, chess playing, hot cocoa sipping, ice skating. I love it.
I feel as if I cannot properly write down all that needs to be said here. Christmas was amazing and I got loads of gorgeous clothes, books, and lovely things. (Hopper prints for my wall, for instance!) I still have weeks of break, so this is going to be completely amazing. I am looking forward to it all.
I’m going to be working on ze novel because it needs to be worked on. There is no longer an excuse, with all my excess time, so that is what I will go do right now. TA!
With the man I love who loves me not,
I walked in the street-lamps’ flare;
We watched the world go home that night
In a flood through Union Square.
I leaned to catch the words he said
That were light as a snowflake falling;
Ah well that he never leaned to hear
The words my heart was calling.
And on we walked and on we walked
Past the fiery lights of the picture shows —
Where the girls with thirsty eyes go by
On the errand each man knows.
And on we walked and on we walked,
At the door at last we said good-bye;
I knew by his smile he had not heard
My heart’s unuttered cry.
With the man I love who loves me not
I walked in the street-lamps’ flare —
But oh, the girls who can ask for love
In the lights of Union Square.