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 |  A new year, a new blog, same mess of a writer. |
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It's been a while, but since the world is a mess, I might as well take a crack at this writing thing again.  I Write in 2019 ▼ 12 Stories in 12 Months ▼  |
| Date: 03.04.17 -- Day 24 (Day 4 of 30-Day Blogging Challenge - March Edition) Music: "Shout" / Tears for Fears Tears for Fears has popped up again early in the challenge. I tried to think of a better song to encapsulate the prompt, but I simply couldn't do it. Tears for Fears is such an underappreciated band, and it colored so much of my childhood, so here it is once more. I might even get all of my favorite songs in before the challenge ends.  Prompt: Creation Saturday! - Who hears you when you scream? I have to say that this is not a simple question or an easy question. There is something that sits on a tipping point inside me that wants me to answer this question, to dip into deep, dark waters that I do not touch. I've waited most of the day to find a way to tackle this in a way I feel comfortable with, but have found that these aren't words I feel I want to express here. So I'm going to softball this question a little; forgive me. I scream a bit when the season is right - hockey in the winter, baseball in the summer. It's one of the few acceptable outlets I have to get out frustration. I'm a bottler, partially from cultural upbringing and partially from personality. These sports, however, have saved my life. Especially hockey. There's something about a full arena - the smell of the rink, the sound of the players' blades slicing through ice, the feel of hundreds of people ready for the puck to drop. Everyone has something to say, and usually, as long as you keep it clean, loudness is respected. When there are seconds on the clock, I'm up on my feet, shouting encouragement or chastising one of my teams players. Most people who know me find it funny if they're with me at a game. Shouting is not something they associate with my behavior. However, if I'm watching a game at home, I'm just as bad, only the protection of a mob is not with me. Since I share my living quarters, I have to yell in silence so as not to disturb others. It's kind of hilarious to watch. I'm usually waving my hands frantically in the air, soundlessly yelling at my computer screen. And given how my team is playing this year, it's been stressful and awkward. Baseball has its moments, but one has to be on watch for the right time. Screaming is reserved for that one sweet hit to the outfield with a close score. Where hockey is swift, baseball is sedate. More than anything else, baseball taught me patience, both on the field and off. So when the shouting happens, it's with purpose. My favorite moment is when there's a crisp hit from the batter. There's this moment of awe, of waiting for the ball to land in your favor. You can hear the collective intake of breath from the crowd before fate sides with your team or destroys your hopes. And if it does, the screams of joy echo forever. All of that anticipation for one hit. Sometimes you're hugging the person in the seat next to you, screaming at the top of your lungs. So, who hears me scream? Strangers. Strangers you can only love when you're in the midst of a game. Sometimes they're your enemy. Sometimes they're your best friend. And in the confines of that event, as you're screaming your lungs out, that's all that matters. |
| Date: 03.03.17 -- Day 23 (Day 3 of 30-Day Blogging Challenge - March Edition) Music: "Division (Do The Right Thing)" / Ages and Ages Prompt: Fun Fact Friday! - On this day in 1903, Barney Gilmore of St. Louis, Missouri was arrested for spitting. What's one of the dumbest things you've ever gotten in trouble for? Most of the things I've gotten in trouble for have been things I've actually done. Absolutely guilty as charged. Luckily, I have been pretty successful in staying out of trouble. Of those times I was caught for my crimes, I usually was the one to turn myself in because I have a guilt complex at least ten miles wide. Like the time I stole a couple of candy bars from the corner store when I was four-years old. I held onto them for two hours, confessed to my mother in abject horror and tears of my theft, and went back to the store to apologize to the store owner and pay for the candy bars I had taken. The funniest thing about that was the fact one of my eldest brothers was madder at me for narcing on myself, but that's another story for another time. This particular story starts with my parents and their late night discussions after we all retired to our rooms for the night. They would settle down and talk about their worries, including the fact that they had given birth to an owl. I was a little girl who had a horrible sleep cycle and who couldn't seem to sleep on a regular basis. So the rule they gave to their little owl was to play calm things at night unless I was tired enough to sleep. Sometimes those play things would be me talking to myself in my room telling my stuffies stories, asking my fake friend where he was going every night and what were the things he saw when he was out at night. "She's a weird little girl," they would say, but they let it go as just one of those odd things. However, for about a month, those little conversations seemed to change in tone. It seemed like I had developed an imaginary friend. They would try to talk to me about it in the morning hours, but to no avail. I didn't know what they were talking about; I was simply too literal for imaginary friends yet they were so convinced this was just one of my quirks. A bit concerning but they weren't too, too alarmed. Until the night they heard footsteps on the roof. The alarm that we were being robbed soon gave way to anger. They followed the steps to my room, slowly opened the door to my middle brother, CR, coming through my window. It turns out he was my imaginary friend, exploiting the small ledge and trellis outside my bedroom window to climb down from the second-story window. Regrettably for him, and luckily for my parents, the trellis was accidentally damaged when my mother was trimming her tomatoes; and when CR attempted to climb out for his nightly meeting with his junior high friends, he had broken some of the steps, thus the roof had to be utilized through the garage. Fortune favors the bold, but it does not favor the heavy-footed, especially over our parents' bedroom. I'm not sure who was more upset - my parents in not realizing my brother was sneaking out, my brother for having gotten caught (this is the same brother who was upset about me admitting my undiscovered crimes), or me about the fact they had assumed I was talking to thin air. In the end, I got an extra cookie with dinner the next night and an apology, CR was grounded for six months without television or phone privileges, and my parents added reinforcements to all the screens on the upper floor windows. Let's just say it was a really long summer that year, and I learned from afar the consequences of trying to be an escape artist. |
| Date: 03.02.17 -- Day 22 (Day 2 of 30-Day Blogging Challenge - March Edition) Music: "Frankenstein" / Cibelle Prompt: The Wildcard Round - Tell us about a time that you failed hilariously at something. My life is a hilarious fail. But there is one day that comes to mind for this occasion. Picture this - it's 6 o'clock in the morning on a Saturday, in a quiet house as my parents and siblings slept through one of their few days off. You see, weekends were sacred in my family growing up. My father often worked night shifts at the hospital so he wouldn't be on-call on the weekends, and Sunday mornings were particularly special as my mother would cook breakfast for everyone to try and bribe us into finishing our household chores before the end of Sunday evening. However, Saturdays were the awesome days because we could sleep in...unless you were a four-year old with sneaky plans for the kitchen. In a way, the kitchen rules in my house were a lot like the cooking show "Cutthroat Kitchen". I wasn't allowed to use the stove or the toaster without adult supervision, and supplies for cooking were limited to what I could access in my short stature without using the noisy stepladder. Added impediment was that my older brothers were useless because nothing could wake them before 10 o'clock except 1) natural disasters, 2) heavy monetary compensation, or 3) a dare so challenging I took my very life into my own hands in the face of their retribution. So this particular Saturday I was on my own to complete my mission - making breakfast for my parents. I had it all planned out: pancakes from scratch, scrambled eggs, and bacon designed to compliment their favorite colors as well as their marital status. For three hours I managed it all with stealthy use of the microwave and strategically-mixed food coloring in the shades of brightest yellow and coolest blue. When I was through the kitchen was a disaster zone but the whole thing was worth the cleanup as it was the finest work I had ever created in all my four years. Then it was time for the reveal. Carrying their plates up the stairs was an ordeal. I had to bring those first before going back down to get their reheated day old coffee jazzed up with cinnamon and paprika (did I mention I liked to add random spices to everything?) as well as my freshly squozen - not squeezed, squozen - orange juice from the fruit from our backyard trees. It was an ordeal, and it turns out that almost dumping that aforementioned coffee on the carpet can awaken parents in a heartbeat. However, it was their faces that truly made the moment magic. My four-year old self saw happiness and elation; my older self now recognizes those facial expressions as pure shock and pain. They diligently ate bites from their specially orchestrated food, including the cake decorations I lined their plates with. Some of you may be asking, is it possible to make pancakes from scratch or scramble eggs using only the microwave? Incredibly, that is the same question my parents mumbled to themselves constantly as I watched them like an overzealous hawk. Interestingly enough, my father loved his orange juice so much, he asked me to grab him another glass, which I did immediately with so much glee I think I may have squealed a little. By the time I made it back up stairs their plates were cleared with no food left in sight. I was thrilled! Success! I had completed my mission without my stinky brothers, and my parents were happy with my cooking. They were so happy with my culinary excellence, they didn't have room for dinner or breakfast the next day as everything paled in comparison to my cooking. My parents were sick for roughly two days after my "success". It took my father three years before he could eat pancakes again. And I'm pretty sure my mother was tempted to hide her spice rack somewhere I couldn't find it for the rest of my childhood. Luckily, I have vastly improved my cooking skills. People actually like my cooking now without the coercion of a cute face. And it's been decades since I'm almost hospitalized someone with my food. (The spaghetti fiasco of '97 was not my fault; I have proof!) Yet that day, that fine Saturday morn, still lives in infamy as the day I accidentally food poisoned my parents. |
| Date: 03.01.17 -- Day 21 (Day 1 of 30-Day Blogging Challenge - March Edition) Music: "Everybody Wants to Rule the World" / Tears for Fears To try and help with my writing happens, I decided to join "30-Day Blogging Challenge ON HIATUS"  . This is probably a mistake because I have little free time, but I want to improve my commitment to writing. Weirdly enough, I think this will be part of my Lenten obligation as I cannot make it to mass today for Ash Wednesday. Ultimately, I believe this will be cathartic for me. Prompt: War Chest Wednesday - Is trying to colonize other planets for human settlement a good or bad idea and why? If it's good, what steps would you see having to take to go into something so big? If bad, what should we do with space programs besides replacing satellites every few years? We are, as a species, a calamitous lot. Humans seem to have an imperative to own everything without truly thinking of the consequences. And colonization is been one of most destructive ventures with ramifications that can still be felt around the world to this day. The idea that we would one day spread that out into the universe seems unimaginable. Space is such a wondrous, infinite place that seems limitless. Quoting one of my favorite shows, "it is the final frontier". Yet this space of terrifying beauty has rules we have yet uncover. Will we one day try to colonize space? Sure.There are so many events humans will one day need to prepare for, from the death of Sun to the collision of Andromeda and the Milky Way, if we make it long, we'll need more resources and land to live.This need will drive use to other Earth-like, which is why the discovery of the seven exoplanets last week was such an amazing thing! Yet, I do not believe we are morally prepared to make such a leap into the unknown. Should we colonize space? No. Exploring space, absolutely, but we should never colonize it. Who are to make such presumptions as to claim other planets as our own? Especially when we have learned nothing from what our history of colonizing each other. Space programs should continue with their mission in exploring the universe around us so we can understand our place in the galaxy. As I said before, it is wondrous and mystery. However, we should resist the urge to claim everything we come across as our own, staking it out as if it were the property of our prospective countries or planet. Our first priority should be to learn and understand the vastness that surrounds us, and not go forward unwilling to see the potentially devastating consequences of our actions. |
| Date: 02.28.17 -- Day 20 Music: "Words" / Seinabo Sey Things are super hectic. This week is the deadline for most university admissions applications. As you can expect, I'm pretty slammed with helping others write their admissions essays, scholarship essays for the next academic year, and final project for Winter Quarter. Plus, you know, my classwork. I'll be back shortly. I promise.  |
| Date: 02.22.17 -- Day 19 Music: "Don't Wish Me Well" / Solange If there was an album that captured my mind in 2016, A Seat At The Table did just that. It was the right album, at the absolutely right time, and it was exactly what I needed without knowing I needed it. It is such beautiful imagery. Elegant, righteous anger. Smooth harmonies, both classic and experimental. And the interviews interspersed were a fine touch to a haunting truth. I would definitely recommend to anyone who likes Neo-Soul.   There are a few entries that I've written but kept under the private setting. My hope is to make them public soon. It's just been a weird month that's taken so much from me, yet nothing has really happened to me. It seems like I'm moving through the days with invisible weights dragging behind me. And the things I've written seem too raw to release. I keep wanting to put distance between the words and myself as if that will make them somehow less real. Mostly, my brain is just scattered, seemingly shattered into tiny little pieces. How does a person gather all of those fragments and put them together? In this new reality, particularly this current political climate, trying to keep my head above water seems like a full-time job. Part of my work is helping others navigate higher education while working through various systems of oppression. It was a difficult process before, especially trying to get individuals as well as administrations interested in students that are constantly overlooked. It was daunting. And now, with 45 and his cabinet, that job has become damn near impossible. Trying to keep hope alive for the students I serve when I'm terrified myself is a juggling act I'm not sure I'm balancing well, and it hurts me to the core that I don't think I'm strong enough for them. These are strong students, academically and mentally, with loads of responsibilities and hardships who are just trying to live in an environment that would rather see us burn than thrive. Would rather see us locked up, kicked out, ground into the dirt, and utterly destroyed than as equals or just people. And we feel it. With each new day, with each new tweet, with each new press release. We feel that fear as more and more gets striped away. I don't know how to keep how to quell the panic because our fears are real. But I'll be damned before I stop trying to protect them; I just wish I could do more. I wish I could stop what happens next. There are times when I feel unbelievably stretched beyond the confines of my own skin, pulled in a thousand directions, not sure if I can go further or if I will simply be torn apart. I look to my elders, my mentors, my people and try to draw strength from their example. There is a phrase I try recall every time I feel my heart start to break -- "I am, because we are". There are so many people who helped me get this far. So many sacrifices made. So many lives lost. So many dreams pushed aside to make things better for the next generation. I can only imagine they had moments just like this, where everything seemed to be too much, yet they continued to move forward. In the face of that, I can only do the same. |
| Date: 02.17.17 -- Day Eighteen Music: "No Wow" / The Kills Due to a flare I've been unable to contain, I've had to withdraw from my ceramics class. My hands aren't quite what they used to be. It was a night of excruciating pain that ended in tears of frustration and pain, and my mother begging me to take things easy, that I came to the decision to withdraw. Withdrawing is hard and painful and just so damn frustrating. The feeling of failure, even though that's not what's happening, consumes me. I'm breaking, and I'm slowly accepting, but I'm breaking. There are five stages of grief. Grief at the loss of my body. Right now, I'm at anger. Nothing but anger. Acceptance is a feeling for tomorrow. |
| Date: 01.20.16 -- Day 7 Music: "Since I Left You" / The Avalanches At any given time I'm working on about a dozen stories with constant fluid changes. There are usually a couple dozen more on the back-burners to be rotated back into the forefront at any given time. About a dozen or more remaining that will probably not be picked up again but still take up space in my head, like sitting on shelves in the restoration room of a forgotten museum, hoping one day I might take interest in them again. Most of these stories have their own universes, folklore rules, and parameters. I like to pretend that the Multiverse Theory is accurate and I just have a panoramic view of some of them. There's one story in particular that I've been working on for the past couple of autumns, usually just in time for NaNoWriMo. It started as kind of a lark when two years ago I became heavily invested in a science-fiction show on Syfy called Haven, based off a Stephen King short story "The Colorado Kid". I had been a casual viewer a few years prior, but there was something about it during that second-to-last season that really caught my attention. The setting, the world-building, the characters, the implications - all of it was kind of magical and seemed different than the average superpower show. However, as much as I love Haven, there were gaps in the story that I wanted to explore. The day-to-day legacy of generations of people affected by the Troubles. So, I dove into my first fanfiction story. This entry isn't specifically about fanfiction, which I'll probably talk about later on in another entry. This entry is more about the things I love about stories. The story I concocted focuses on the Marshall family, one of the original families that helped found the small seaside town of Haven. It takes place shortly before the TV series begins, bringing together three sisters who have been torn about by the Troubles but come together to try and fix their family. It is intriguing balancing three different protagonists who are so different yet family. Agnes is the eldest; a leather jacket wearing, can fix anything with an engine, grill cheese addicted, extremely loyal mother of two who is looking for a new start after a dreadful divorce. Marigold is the middle Marshall; a workaholic who can nerd with the best of them and can make killer pastries tries to remake her life as a baker when she can no longer practice medicine. And Sydney, the youngest, a musical prodigy who hates the limelight adjusts to having her older sisters back home while discovering a new part of herself attending public high school for the first time. They're fun and chaotic and trying to find their groove with each other while navigating this heavy family secret with the potential to kill. The funny thing about the whole experience is the fact that I get this urge to start plotting and writing for it around October, work through some things for NaNo in November, edit in December. It's become a part of my yearly routine. I don't know why, but it's kind of nice. I like diving into that world. There's so much potential, even with the disastrous end. So much unexplored. Going back to the project is like putting on my favorite sweater - nice and warm and tingly. (The ending of the show kind of infuriated me because the last season did some really horrible things with characterization. If anyone has seen it and has opinions, I'd love to hear them because I'm still upset, lol.) Do you ever have that feeling with writing a story? Do you ever faithfully go back to a project? |
| Date: 01.19.17 -- Day 6 Music: Recomposed Vivaldi by Max Ritcher This new-ish classical take on Vivialdi's work changed my life. The origins of how I stumbled across this piece I cannot quite remember, but after listening through the whole album, I became possessed by its splendor. It made me weep. I still weep every time I listen through it. As the seasons change, so do the moods, yet each season has it's own unique cadence. The swing from hope to despair it something else. If only I had found this when Ritcher gathered an orchestra to perform this live! My soul to have a front seat to that performance. (You can actually see it live on YouTube, but I would suggest listening to it without the live orchestra first just to get a feel of its glory, to create your own images in your mind.) Beyond the music, one thing I keep thinking about is the demonstration of rage in writing, particularly with characters that do not know how to express that emotion. There's the passage written by Patrick Rothfuss, "There are three things all wise men fear: the sea in storm, a night with no moon, and the anger of a gentle man". It makes me wonder why that is such a powerful statement. Why is that profound imagery? And does that hold true for gentle female characters? Does anger coming from a gentle person make more of a statement than someone who is wrathful all the time? And is it all about presentation - cool and calm like ice or chaotic and spiteful like fire? [This entry doesn't go into the intersection of women, particularly women of color, being allowed to be angry without falling into stereotypical behavior, but I hope to cover that soon with more depth.] It takes me back to this Irish soap I was watching several months back called Red Rock. A character named James McKay was a Guarda Superintendent out of Dublin, and probably the most sane fellow out of the whole cast of characters. He was calm and collected not knowing his mother-in-law and brothers-in-law were committing crimes left and right, using their money and influence to do so. What made McKay intriguing, at least to me, was the fact that he was a gentle man. He believed in what was right, tried to look out for those around him, and hoped his example would rub off on the other officers in his unit. Even his ambition and marriage struggles seemed so soft. So when the show got to the end of its first season, one of his officers is found to have been in an illicit and illegal relationship with a teenage girl. To cover his tracks, this waste of space committed several crimes, including premeditated attempted murder, all to keep his ongoing relationship a secret. But, like most overly complicated webs of deception, the evil man got caught. In the scene where McKay confronts this officer about all of his illegal BS, gone is the face of a calm, gentle man. He kicks ass, in horror of what this man has down while wearing a badge. It was probably one of the most striking scenes of the whole show because it's not what one would expect from McKay. It was effective as hell. Two other examples that come to mind are both played by Taraji P. Henson (because she is an absolutely amazing actress, and I love her to no end) - Joss Carter from Person of Interest and Katherine Goble/Johnson from Hidden Figures. Carter was a by-the-book cop who could never let a piece of information go if it involved a case. One of the things I think people didn't truly understand about Carter was that she was a gentle person - to her son, to the victims she was able to get to after she started working with the Machine, those left behind after she caught a homicide, even her colleagues at times. Even though Carter was badass, she was also gentle and kind. So when someone she loved was killed for doing the right thing, she goes at her enemies hard. And her rage is both calculated and poignant, and with it, she was able to bring down a corrupt police organization almost entirely on her own. But with every move she makes, you can see the rage in her actions. This isn't just a mission, it's justice with serious teeth. However, even in that place of vengeance, Joss never loses her gentleness or her kindness. Unlike John, her rage does not change who she is as a person. I will always miss Joss Carter, and will be salty that she is gone. However, in comparison, we have Katherine Goble/Johnson who is beyond the stars brilliant, living in a country that sees her as less than human. The organization she works for uses her her genius, but only later on gives her the recognition she deserves. Throughout the film, the viewer doesn't necessarily see her resentment, but they see the love she has for her family, her friends, and the numbers that few understand. Day in, day out, she puts in the time to engage in her love for mathematics as well as serve her country. It is only when this devotion is questioned that she loses her politeness to tell her boss and coworkers that their hatred was what was slowing them down, not her work. Her indignation and anger are righteous fire, making for one of the best scenes in the film. And what makes that scene so powerful is the fact that Katherine is a gentle person with one of the kindest of hearts. Everyone had to stop and take notice because of her core personality was as gentle as it was. As an aside, all three of the women showcased in this movie were absolutely amazing - would highly recommend seeing the film and reading the book on these pioneering women - and all kudos to Octavia Spencer, Janelle Monae, and Taraji P. Henson! Using all three of the examples I had previously written - James, Joss, and Katherine - I think it's telling how different they are while all being gentle folk. They each have different lives, different pasts, different motivations, but their commonality is their gentleness. That gentleness, when violated, also manifests differently given the situation. With James it's spontaneous combustion, boiling over like a kettle. With Joss it's focused fury like a laser with a fixed point. With Katherine it's a tipping point, a dam breaking into a flood. Each time it is planned or executed probably, it makes the scene, but it can be tricky. One of the things I read often from reviews of television shows is that emotions like rage or trauma seem out-of-character when a character deviates from their normal behavior. These responses usually bug me because they discount how big of a toll anger and trauma have on individuals as well as just plain character growth. Bob from Season Six is should be different from Season One because Bob has probably gone through some things over the seasons whether it's a comedy or a procedural or a drama. Someone becoming kinder or harder or finally giving into their anger isn't breaking character, it's growth. Joss getting angry not only highlights the events of her life, but also highlights how messed up a situation has become if she's visibly raging to the point of plotting and executing annihilation of corruption. I digress. Rage is an intriguing thing, particularly as a writer. It has to be used properly and honed well. Too much of it, the anger loses its power to evoke feelings in the reader. Too soft with it, and there is not real punch to deliver. And with a person who is gentle in nature, the wrath has to be true. It's something to ponder carefully that's for sure.  Do you think the adage is true - wise men fearing the anger of a gentle (wo)man? What are some of the best examples of a character getting angry? Do you think anger is utilized enough in fiction? Maybe too much or not enough? |
| Date: 01.15.17 -- Day Five Music: "Say Something (Mahogany Sessions, A Great Big World Cover)" / Jacob Banks It is frighteningly easy to let things fall through the cracks, like an old pot that it is no longer vitreous. There are these small cracks forming in the foundation allowing the water to soak into the clay, slowly dripping out of the bottom. That's what my brain feels like these days. And as more things slip away, the angrier I become because I am frightened of what will fall away next. Yesterday wasn't a particularly good day, body-wise. There was so much pain; it crashed on me like 100-foot waves. Everything seemed to be failing and I couldn't get in front of it. I can never get in front of it. Unpredictable, relentlessly unwavering. And the thing is, I was having a semi-decent week. I made it to class, one out of two of my staff meetings, tutoring sessions for my other work. But the brain is a fickle thing, and the pain is just exhausting. With a snap of the fingers, yesterday went from potentially productive to an absolute wash. Even worse, I failed at keeping things in order. I missed an extremely important deadline for a close friend of mine because I mixed up the dates. She was vastly understanding and compassionate, but it is shit like this that makes my condition all the more unbearable. I keep letting down the people around me, and I have just enough cognition left to know it. So I start next week behind rather than in front. I'm grinding through work, again. Another long night in front of me with jacked up nerves and a mind that feels more like swiss cheese than an actual muscle that carries useful knowledge. My body has always been a pile of garbage, but at least I had my mind for a while. Not the smartest or the fastest but the damn thing was dependable before all of this. Now there is only dense fog with short-term memory shot to hell, aphasia clogging up the gears, and a baseline fatigue that makes every little bump feel like K2. It seems like I spend most of my time trying to cope with the pain so that actually doing something else seems like a Herculean task. Or maybe Sisyphus. Really any Greek tragedy about futility or hubris. I don't even know how to end this other than to say, this is my new normal. Yesterday was an example of why I walked away before. My body and brain are falling apart, so I did what I usually do -- curled into a ball and shut out everything that was non-essential. Maybe that's why I came back. Because it's getting worse. This is the first time I've really admitted it to myself. My condition is getting worse and all I want is to hide from it all. But I can't. So I will try this instead. And maybe I'll make it through this. |
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Week 1: December 31st - January 6th:
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