Memories are fickle.

So I was on Facebook today, trying to waste time rather than face the huge pile of summer clothes and bags and GHP nick knacks taking up residence in my bedroom, which I am supposed to somehow "clean" i.e. misplace in time for my grandparents' visit tomorrow, and something struck me. Not literally, of course, but psychologically. I was looking at the profile of my neighbor, who is a freshman and pretty new to the whole Facebook thing. (Okay, random side note: I just sneezed seven times in a row. What the fuck.) And I was looking at her Wall, which she just recently updated with the addition of three new pictures: one of someone's torn jeans, another of a giant red gash on the same person's knee, and the third, a blurry picture of a hand holding the knee out of pain. In the first picture, I noticed the chair the person was sitting in: a wood kitchen chair, on which I can remember standing to reach the cabinet where my neighbor wanted me to get the pancake mix one morning. In the second, the bottom of a wood rolling chair, which I can clearly recollect sitting in, when we played her Barbie horse riding computer game. And finally, the third: in the background, the pedal of a red bike, slightly rusted with chipped paint, that her dad had bought from the flea market which used to be where the Super Target is now, that he fixed up and gave to her for Christmas at least five years ago. I don't know why, but it just hit me all at once: all the memories we'd shared together, all the days I'd spent behind her house playing in the leaves, etc, etc. For some reason, I hadn't thought about it for a long time. And the fact that all of this surfaced made me just sort of sit, pause and think... what else am I not remembering about my childhood? And what else won't I remember in another five years? What little details and memories are hiding in the back closet of my mind, in the moth ball infested cardigans and old tapered trousers? It's just weird, to think about the fact that things, people, even our perceptions of them change. Everything I'm remembering about her I remember as I did then, but it wasn't "then," it was "now." You know what I mean? It kind of makes me hopeful, on one hand, because I know when I was in it, I didn't try to remember any of the sensory things that I can now pick out from just three of her photographs. So maybe it means even though I feel like I'm walking through a dream right now, some day I'll be able to recollect the kind of imagery and details which I sometimes set aside time to ingest. But then on the other hand, it makes me sad, knowing that these things were once a large part of my days, of my life, and now they feel like an entirely different world separate from me. I don't know, it's just weird to think that there are years of my life I won't ever get back, and yet they don't even feel like I ever had them at all.

The Flying Tomato

I've always had a thing for redheads, for some reason. About four years ago, at the time of the 2006 Winter Olympics, I fell in love at first sight. With whom, you may ask? With Shaun White, adorable snowboarder/surfer/skater from SoCal with X-Games and Olympics medals under his belt, Olympics favorite and sweetheart of the press (who were aware of all the teenage girls swooning over him). I stood in my mom's office, and swore to my parents that somehow, in four years, when I was a junior in high school (it seemed so far away at the time), I would go to the 2010 Vancouver Olympics and bask in the glory that was Shaun White.

I'm not gonna lie, I sort of forgot about him recently after spending 3-ish years obsessing over him. But I looked him up again, and fell in love with him all over again. Dear god, I totally forgot to mention this important fact: I learned to snowboard on a mountain he rode on, which I think is a clear indication that fate decided we were meant to be together.

Anyway, I just realized that the 2010 Winter Olympics were just around the corner, and it had totally slipped my mind. Did you know the torch relay has already started? And with a sinking heart I realize that even though I can afford Olympic tickets to the men's halfpipe event and a plane ticket, I'm probably not even legally allowed to purchase a plane ticket. And I'd probably have to live on the street were I to go anyway because of the fact that hotels were booked out 10 years ago. The middle school-me is sobbing on the inside.

I love the Olympics!

Being Underestimated

The other day in H. Brit Lit we were starting an independent novel, and Ms. Saunders was reading off this list of possible books (the qualifications just required it be written by a British author) and she came to a book by Joseph Conrad, the same guy who wrote "Heart of Darkness," this book I would have read had I taken one of the Evil classes with Scott at GHP. Nevertheless, we had briefly discussed it, and Scott had given me a copy, and with it, a suggestion: "Finish it on the drive home." Well, in that moment, I remembered, and thought, "Aha! I'll read Heart of Darkness!" So I raise my hand enthusiastically, beaming from ear to ear, for what seems like the first time in weeks, because that class is such a bore and annoyance. And Ms. Saunders calls on me, with her little deadpan face.

Imagine, if you will, an attractive thirty-something year old who had been kidnapped at birth and thrown into a nunnery, where she would live out the course of her young adulthood, learning how to best redden the knuckles of pupils with rulers, avoid unholiness, etc., etc. Now you've got Saunders. She was, of course, never legitimately kidnapped, but she gives preschoolers bible study lessons on Wednesday evenings and ends each class with, "Remember, don't do drugs!" So... she may as well have been. Now, with that being said, I can recount our exchange.

Me: "What about Heart of Darkness?"

Her: "Uhm... well, honestly, that is a rough text."

(to the class) "If you're taking AP Lit next year, you'll be reading it anyway. And it's such a difficult piece of literature, you're going to want to read it with the help of Mrs. Dye."

Huh. Funny. I thought I asked the question, not my loquacious, text-message sneaking classmates. Even so, she knows I'm taking AP Lit next semester. As a junior. So I can squeeze in both AP Lit and AP Lang. She knows I went to GHP, she knows I'm not at the same level as the rest of my classmates... or so she should. It's kind of been our understanding that I'm a few notches above the rest of them; we even chatted after school one day and planned a preemptive counterattack on them for being such little bitches. We had an unspoken bond. Until this day.

It just got me thinking about how much this state needs GHP, about how much I need GHP. A place where my talents were both recognized and stimulated, where reading wasn't seen as a tiresome chore. I told my mom about this particular occurrence, one of many since my return, and her response?

"Stop being such a snob."

Oh, my bizzle. Sorry, mom! I forgot that, in this society, being an intellectual, being perceptive and giving a shit about the ignorance of those around me, is a sign of pretension.

On a lighter note, we were discussing wisdom in AP Psych today, and as a preemptive experiment, Dr. Jezequel gave us a sheet of paper telling a story about a married couple (in my mind, they were dubbed, "John and Kate Minus Eight") who were dealing with common life issues. Pre-marriage, John was offered a job overseas, so he packed up his bags and soon-to-be-wifey and git, git, got. Once overseas, the two married, yielding a product of their passionate love, i.e. baby. Kate propels herself back into the work force, bringing home a slice of bacon, but recognizes the possibility of one day being given a full porker for her productivity (moving up on the profiting ladder). John is offered a transfer back home to the U.S. after his few years in Europe or wherever, and so the problem arises: does he move home, where he could have a wonderful job and life, or remain in Europe to raise his child with a working momma?

Well, a lot of kids answered either, "He should divorce and take the tot." or "She should be an independent woman without that bastard." I raised my hand, because I felt it should be said, "What about the kid? Moving little Billy or Billie around will probably traumatize him or her. They should stay where they are." I kind of got quiet and faded off, because Dr. J scares me and I thought I was saying something wrong. Well, apparently not. She began explaining the point of the lab, which was, unbeknown to us, wisdom. And, well, long story short, she explained what the "answers" were -- which were many, and just said, "Well, they could have blah blah blah like some of you said or blah blah blah like others said..." And then she looked at me and said, "I think you danced around this, Chels..." which was a BIG coo because a) she called me by a bit of a pet name, even though it's one I hate and b) she never remembers who says anything, so the fact that she correctly identified me as the speaker means she knew who said it. So she continues to explain her life story of living in Italy till she was entering high school, when her parents had to transfer back, and how a lot of their decision rested on the well-being of their kids. And so, the point of this whole bit was, she said something along the lines of, "So yes, Chels, that was definitely something to focus on, and it shows wisdom beyond your years..." And she continued, but I just glowed because it was like...

SUCK IT SAUNDERS! I AM WISE!

Sell-out

I rarely watch television, and when I do, it's at the awkward time in the afternoon when no show worth watching is on. So I select mtv and settle down for some good, brain-sucking fun. My dad gets on my case every single time he sees me do that, and lectures me about how there are more intelligent things I could be watching, that all the girls are sluts and have no brains, and that it disappoints him to see me watching such things. Okay, fine. That's a perfectly valid point. But today (or was it yesterday at 2 am while sewing a grecian dress for toga day?) I had a revelation of sorts. I don't know if anyone other than me can comprehend how blown away I was by the revelation. I'm probably just stupid/ simple-minded, or was very tired, but:

Take "My Super Sweet Sixteen"; the kids are absolute divas, and have movie premieres to invite guests to their parties, have their faces plastered all over the walls, etc. It's the paragon of egotism, and sometimes nauseating. But at the same time, it's incredibly beautiful and inspiring. I mean, a relatively short time ago, humanity was a huddling, wretched homogenous mass, with no individuality treasured, probably apart from some royalty and a couple leaders here and there. Over the years, we've evolved and changed the world so much that it's indoctrinated in each child from birth that they are special and unique and have gifts to offer the world that no one else has. From that big group of nothings has evolved this civilization where young teenagers get to proclaim to be the very center of the universe and expect everyone to think the same. Isn't that beautiful? Disgusting, yes, in terms of MTV, but the idea itself is awe-inspiring, I think. It almost makes me happy to be human. The very fact that I even think that my thoughts are important enough to post them on this blog is fascinating, and I love it.

So now when my dad screams at me, I've got a legitimate point to offer. Haha.

That Rhythm & Blues

I love ballet slippers. Not the pointe shoes, the kind that I suspect were originally invented as torture machines, and then given to ballerinas when they were no longer in style. No, I love the soft, buttery leather glove kind. I like the little burn and prickle they give my feet when I'm not wearing tights, and I like the black scuff marks on the bottom that follow the lines of the fold of the leather, looking like a fan of flesh pink delicately colored with charcoal. I like the way they feel like a second skin, and the way they envelop my heel. I like the simple, understated elastic band that keeps them attached to your feet.

I miss using them.

Really?

Dear Dad,
You don't recycle imported fashion magazines. It just isn't done.
Regards,
Fiona

The Brightest Eyes

Now, don't feel discouraged by the title. This is not going to be my emo swoop into teen angst, nor a diatribe about how no one "feels their music" anymore, "man!" Just because I like Bright Eyes, does not mean I'm a homosexual living in a world of people who just don't understand me, and my love for music, amongst other things. Except I am and they don't. So. Ha!

Recently, which means within the last two years, I've been really, really into Bright Eyes. And I've never really fallen out of love with him... it's sad, I believe Conor Oberst may be the longest relationship I've ever had... damn, sucks to be me!

He is entirely brilliant, though. His voice is raw, and ugly; even he admits to not being much of a singer. And yet, it's that rawness, that ugliness, that makes him so relatable, because, like everyone, he feels things, and can communicate them in a real, tangible way.

"I find one of the most interesting, alluring properties of Conor Oberst that he is neither interesting nor alluring in person. If you watch him, he's this hunched, sort of shell of a man, someone who is truly marked by his past, in a way unlike any musician I've ever seen before him. Yet he reminds me so much of Bob Dylan, but without any of the romantic, poetic aura. He just is. Like, I imagine finding him on a street in some city somewhere, eating something he found in the garbage, wearing someone else's clothes. He has this twitch, this painful or pain-filled sense about how he moves, almost like he has to really think about where he's going to put his limbs but instead swings them wildly, missing. Every time he performs a song, he not only changes his movements, but the arrangement, the emphasis, sometimes even the words. Which was something Dylan did at the concert. That's a connection I'd never really drawn before, but which I'm now smiling at having made. And it's so different, watching him sing, from listening to him. You can see the scream. I remember once, I was watching a Tegan and Sara interview, and one of them, Tegan most probably, mentioned that to her, singing is acting, more than anything else, it's capturing the emotion a thousand times repeated of a conclusion you just barely reached to begin with. Conor is not an actor. He is feeling the same emotions he felt upon writing when he performs a song. You can hear it in his voice, see it in the way his lips curl downward, like when you try to conceal a cry and all you end up doing is breathing heavy, a fish out of water. Sometimes he extends or lengthens the words, lets his lips linger in their shape, as if he forgets he's singing for anyone other than himself. I used to think he just looked like some crazy homeless man -- which, don't get me wrong, he totally does, haha. But now I think he looks more just like someone who's lived life. The good, the bad. I feel like ugly is the most perfect word for Conor Oberst, but I never, ever mean it as an insult. Raw is probably more of the right word. Like a baby just out of the womb, or the stubble of a man a few days past time to shave. Sometimes he screams a word without even screaming it, no increase in volume, he puts the intensity in his voice and it's just moving, absolutely bone-trembling type emotion. I feel his music in a way I don't feel any other. I mean, really feel it, like you're holding it in your hands, letting it swim through your fingers at times, clutching it with knuckles of blotchy white at others, really grabbing at it or just letting it exist. I'm not sure why exactly I'm telling you this, I was watching a video of Lenders In the Temple, my favorite song of his, and it just struck me, how intensely, I can't even describe it, just how Conor Oberst makes me feel everything at once, makes me recognize what I'm feeling without being able to name it."

I wrote that about a month ago, but it still reigns true today.

She's my apple pie.

Alright, so I forbid you to hate me for being bad at blogging.

Forbidden Thing #2: Hating me for not being able to respond to your post(s) last night. A friend of mine, whom I haven't had anything to do with since GHP, decided to get all sentimental on me, and have "boy talk" over facebook. Too bad it was a one-sided conversation. When she asked if I had any in my life, I just internet laughed, a bit of an awkward "lawl" and changed the subject. To school. Because no one ever gets bored with that, right?

Okay, ironies upon all ironies, the second I started this, a friend from middle school decided to ask if I'd gone to the Harrison game Friday. Damn. I am just Mrs. Facebook Popularity. Or maybe it's just that I'm always online, so I'm their only choice for discussion. I'm betting on that beta fish.

So, Mother Nature has been knocking on both my door and my lower back for the past week or so, and it scared me because I was like, "Punctuation mark? Naw. Naw, that motha fucka too early." And then this morning, I woke up, with the worst cramps I've ever had in my life. I laid in bed for the next three hours, because I was hurtin. I didn't want to move. I couldn't move. I never have cramps, Fiona. Like, never. It's something I pride myself on. Megan gets the worst cramps in existence, and up until now, I've been able to laugh. Now, I cry for her pain. As well as my own.

God, Mother Nature, why you gotta do me like that? Oh, I see how it is. Keep your enemies-- keep your friends close, keep your enemies closer. Damn, Mother Nature. You like my best enemy.

I love chicken. So much. Mi madre is baking some good shit this... mid-afternoon. I'm excited. Chicken my favorite meal. Must be an American thing.

Weird, though. I hate apple pie.

The Avett Brothers

Guilty pleasure of the month: The Avett Brothers

I've recently been finding myself subconsciously leading a battle against my Q100-loving self to immerse myself in more high-brow music, but it has not been faring well. Although I think The Avett Brothers are a far cry from Miley Cyrus's yelp-songs, they're not quite the high-brow experimental musical artistry that I've recently been exposed to.

However, they're not exactly your typical acoustic guitar indie group, either. I shun country music (minus Taylor Swift; damnit, Q100), and I suppose the Avett Brothers might share a sliver of their style with the country music circle in the great Venn Diagram of Music. If remember correctly, the two brothers are from South Carolina, and you can hear faint southern twangs in their songs if you listen closely. I loved their song I got from the NPR SXSW sampler cd I got free off itunes (St. Joseph's), but I realized that they were the same band that that one chick at GHP always played while we scrutinized our own faces with a charcoal stick in our hands.

The ballerina who always had a snotty air about her who I couldn't bring myself to hate because she had a good taste in music and dress. Anyway, she would play them all the time. So right now my addiction is "Second Gleam", their more recent album.

"News came of a child born unto this world of people demented and wild. I will stay here for you, my love.

Above: A piece by Harry, who also approved of this band.

La Expulsión de Mi Útero

This blog will, henceforward, be my sole reason for existing. I will also attempt not to be sentimental, spend more than 2.5 sentences talking about GHP, neglect it, or renounce the skin color that was given to me by attempting to be very ghetto. In retrospect, saying that "only black people can talk like that" is just as racist as, uh, other racist stuff. (Resolution four: not ramble on about my thoughts regarding racism).

I am somewhat nervous about tonight. Before coming over to babysit, I didn't ask when they'd come back. When I got here, she said midnight. Um, unless I am grossly mistaken (which I sincerely doubt) it is quite illegal, against the law, and otherwise not in accordance with state legislation for me to be out on the roads after the clock strikes 11:59:59. Damn French people, their philosophy is always "fuck da police". Okay, so they're recent expats, and they have no children that have gone through the tedious process of acquiring a license, but still! I swear to God, French people. French people LOVE strikes almost as much as they love skinny jeans, wine, and widly careening through the streets of Paris. That is to say, a lot.

P.S. French women do shave their armpits. Sort of.