in Life's name and for Life's sake

This is not much of an entry, just a lot of little fragmented things.

I was thinking about this randomly today in the shower: (not quite twenty) questions I want to be asked within the next twenty years.

This paper was written by an undergrad?
Do you want to go out sometime?
Would you like to work for us?
Can we publish this?
Would you mind if I kissed you?
When did you decide to become a writer?
Can I have your autograph?
Would you like to go on tour?
Is this forever?
Can I get my picture taken with you?
Do you realize how beautiful you are?
How did you get to where you are today?
Has he proposed yet?
What advice do you have for aspiring writers?
Will you marry me?
Is that your daughter?

***

I'm taking a swing dancing class that I really enjoy. It's so great just to get out and do something that's NOT school-related, or scholarly in any way. And since it's swing, all the people are really nice. I've only had one class so far but it looks like it's a great group of people.

***

Lauren, remember that long post about love a while ago? I was watching X-Files tonight and this quote happened, and it made me think back to that.

"Well, it seems to me that the best relationships-- the ones that last-- are frequently the ones that are rooted in friendship. You know, one day you look at the person and you see something more than you did the night before. Like a switch has been flicked somewhere. And the person who was just a friend is... suddenly the only person you can ever imagine yourself with." --Scully

I really like it, and how it meshes with the idea of love as something subtle that develops over time and that you don't notice happening until it's happened.

***

I went to a Michael Chabon reading today. He's a writer who lives in the area and is arguably shaping up to be THE best writer of the twenty-first century (according to my dad, among others). I had never read anything of his before, but I think I've fallen half in love with his thoughts on genre fiction vs. literary fiction. Basically, there are three things that need to happen for the two genres to reconcile themselves.

1. Literary authors have to start taking genre fiction seriously.
2. Literary readers have to start taking genre fiction seriously.
3. Genre writers have to start taking genre fiction seriously.

It was really interesting because my dad really likes his early work, which I wasn't able to get into at all. However, one of his most recent novels (The Yiddish Policeman's Union) won the Hugo Award and the Nebula Award--both intended specifically for science fiction. Now, my dad would never call Chabon's book sf, because he would be of the opinion that that's degrading to Chabon. However, Chabon was talking about how he doesn't like the person he was in his early works in the same way that he likes the person he is now--now that he's allowed himself to innovate and cross genres just a little, which is something he hopes to do more of in the future.

It was great to have a chance to call up my dad and tell him that one of his literary heroes thinks he's silly for disdaining genre fiction. But it was also great to see someone who will probably draw even larger crowds in years to come.

***

Maybe there was something else, but I forgot.

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Favorites, in no particular order, include:
Hermione Granger
Remus Lupin
Nita Callahan
Kit Rodriguez
Dairine Callahan
Roshaun
Tom Swale
Carl Romeo
Harry Dresden
Karrin Murphy
Thomas Raith
Michael Carpenter
Artemis Fowl
Holly Short
Dana Scully
Fox Mulder
Luke Skywalker
Leia Skywalker
Han Solo
Jane Eyre
Edward Rochester
Elizabeth Bennet
Fitzwilliam Darcy
Anne Shirley
Joshua Lyman
Aryl Sarc
Sira Morgan
Jason Morgan
Rael di Sarc
Enris Mendolar
Mackenzie Elizabeth Winifred Wright Connor, aka Mac
Nikolai Trojanowski

It's a rather interesting list. I have characters by J. K. Rowling (2), Jim Butcher (4), Julie E. Czerneda (7), L. M. Montgomery (1), Jane Austen (2), Charlotte Bronte (2), George Lucas (3), Chris Carter (2), Diane Duane (6), Eoin Colfer (2), and Aaron Sorkin (1).

Of course I am more in love with some of them than I am with others. I think if I had to make a top five list, I would probably die first. But since I don't have to, if I think really hard about narrowing it down, it's not so difficult. I don't just like characters for their similarities to me, or their entirely kickass abilities, or anything like that. Sometimes it's more about their depth and complexity.

For instance, take Elizabeth Bennet and Jane Eyre. I would rather be Elizabeth, but as a character I have a deeper admiration for Jane. Elizabeth's story is fun and witty, but Jane's is soul-wrenching.

It's not surprising to me that Julie's characters make up most of the list, since the thing that I love about her writing is her characterization, but if I had to pick one I liked the best it would be a tough call...all her leading ladies have captured a different part of my heart. Aryl, Sira, and Mac would be strong contenders for a spot on my top five, though if it came to an out-and-out battle, Aryl would win.

Scully's possibly the only non-literary character who could make my top five. I love the X-Files because of the depth and complexity of these characters despite the limitations of the medium (I always feel more for books than for TV). I have felt for Scully enough that I think she might deserve a place on the list.

Harry Dresden might be the only man to make the top five, but he really deservese to be there, simply because he is so kickass. Also, his voice is beautiful. There's an example of creator and creation in a fantastic working relationship.

Hm. So I think perhaps my top five, in no particular order, comes down to Hermione, Aryl, Dresden, Jane, and Scully.

And now I'm just rambling. There are far more characters who annoy me than there are characters that I like, so I think I'll stop this entry right now before I go absolutely crazy.

I got an iPod, finally. Yes, I have succumbed. It's not my fault they provide the best product I've been able to find.

It needs a name now. When I bought it I thought for sure I was going to name it Dana (after Dana Scully from X-Files), because that's what I always thought I'd like to name a white iPod, but now I'm not so sure. Other tempting names include Fred (from So You Want to Be A Wizard or Harry Potter), Jaxom (The White Dragon), and Moony (Harry Potter). The thing is, I'm tired of naming all my inanimate objects after men. I think I need a woman, and a white iPod seems the most feminine of all of my techno-gadgets. But at the same time, I ususally name the gadgets after literary characters, and Scully's from TV. Hm...advice?

Nothing much else is happening with me. I've been going out sporadically, staying in and reading primarily, trying to resign myself mentally to the idea that in two weeks and six days I leave here. It's not working too well, I can tell you that. I really don't know how I'm going to manage.

On a slightly related note, I really need to see my friends more this summer. I'm realizing that I've spent most of it alone. That's not cool.

I should probably go eat lunch now, and then maybe read, and then work on not worrying about cramming meaning into every second of my existence.

www.scriptfrenzy.org

Come on, you know you want to!

Corinne and I are going to write a movie together during the month of June.  We're not sure what it's about yet, though she says it's a cross between The Motorcycle Diaries and Garden State (we are not yet sure how this will be achieved).  

Also, on my own I am writing a stage play, that will contain very few characters and probably look at least a little (structurally) like The Road to Mecca, because I liked it.  It might be about the relationship between a student and a teacher?  No, guys, not that kind of relationship.  I want to explore the mentor-pupil dynamic, and the ways it can be changed.  I have this feeling it would be really cool to write a play about a teacher meeting a former student years down the road, and all the stuff that ensues therein...I dunno, it's a preliminary thought.  It'll be very much about real people, though, and their flaws, and the ways in which they attempt to communicate with each other (assuming communication between human beings is possible).

I have my first IB test of the year tomorrow, but it's English, so I'm not worried in the least.  I should study, and I should do math homework, but I think I'm just going to watch X-Files (damn addicting show!) and do sit-ups.  

Anyone wanna join me in the crazy?

(And the thought that I just had, to close off this entry, is "Road to Mecca meets the X-Files!"  I think that's proof enough of my mental state...or lack thereof.)

So I was on www.bible.com because I was looking through Song of Solomon (since the Walcott poem mentions it, and we're supposed to look up those allusions).  But I saw this link that I had to click: "What does the Bible say about...war?" http://www.bible.com/bibleanswers_result.php?id=219  

So there's that rant.  I realize that (except for the one Bible verse) all this stuff is just one person's interpretation of scripture, and I'm obviously not trying to ridicule Christianity -- seems pretty pointless for a Christian to do.  I just think these interpretations are a little...off.  Missing the point.  And for some reason I needed to write about it.  You've been warned, don't read if you don't want to.  

I have definitely just wasted time that I really can't afford to waste, especially if I'm just going to go and waste more time watching X-Files, which I really want to do.  So probably I will, since tonight's the last night this week when I don't have ridiculous amounts of homework.

I was procrastinating a few minutes ago, skimming through my saved images on the computer and looking for something to turn into a new icon for my LJ, when I stumbled across a picture that I took almost exactly a year ago. It was a shot of my bookshelf -- the one on the left, for anyone who's been in my room and knows that I have two and cares to orient themselves correctly. And it's interesting, because I started comparing the picture from a year ago with the image that I can see if I turn around and look at the real thing.

One big difference, really the reason why I was taking that photo in the first place: in the photo, the school's ACS plaque rests upon my top shelf. I'd just come home from the American Chemical Society's dinner and awards ceremony when I took the shot, and Mr. Fukuda had entrusted me with the plaque overnight. So I decided to pretend that it was mine to keep, and put it on my bookshelf, where all of my accomplishments tend to accumulate. I was damn proud of it. It's nice to look back at the picture and see some of the same stubborn, fierce pride in my own abilities. That's what that plaque says to me: it tells me I'm capable, that I'm someone I should be proud of.

The portions of the wall I can see in the photo are covered with glow-in-the-dark stars, and you can just barely see the Harry Potter birthday banner that hung for the longest time above my bed. For some reason, these small things remind me of being younger. The stars and the banner have both left my walls now, replaced by tasteful posters in nice frames which fit with the (finally) matching decor. But I guess there's still a few similarities -- the stars and the Hogwarts crests may have left, but the red and gold of Gryffindor remains prominent in my room's abundance of primary colors. It's one obsession, mutated into a more reasonable yet still important way of life. The red and gold for me are colors of power, defiance, strength. I think I see a bit of myself in them, sometimes, so I surround myself with them, hoping to catch glimpses of my better facets in their otherworldly mirrors. If the ACS plaque reminds me of what I can do, the red and gold and the stars remind me of what I want to do, and how I want to get it done.

In the picture, leaning up against the plaque, is a white half-mask that soon became a part of Katie's birthday present. But before that, it sat on my shelf, a reminder of life's duality. The Phantom half-mask has a new home now, but for the time that it sat on my shelf, it reminded me of my own double nature: both an optimist and a realist; both a romantic and an intellectual; both a feeler and a thinker. Now the mask brings to mind tears. Though it was just a silly plastic thing that my sister picked up for me at a party store, it stood for a while for the power of the tale which moved me, and still moves me, though not to the same extent. Nonetheless, though the mask may be gone, the Phantom still reins over my room, his red cape flourishing as he swings from the chandelier chain across the poster that hangs framed above my dresser. In either permutation, the Phantom reminds me of the price of adventure, and the price of love.

Another thing about the picture, which probably only I would notice, is that somewhere along the bottom shelf there is a book missing. Another fact which probably only I would notice is that the missing book can be found atop the bookshelf, sitting partly inside the little red basket which is within arm's reach of my bed and still holds flashlights, a pen, a journal, and occasionally hosts midnight reading. But I know which book it is, in the picture: Wicked, the novel which consumed my thought processes for much of the month of May and afterward last year. When I took the picture I was on a second read-through of it, which I don't think I ever really finished. But Wicked was an obsession of its own for me this time last year, one which compelled me to look twice at the bad guys and give them a chance. In a way, it reinforced what I'd already learned in Phantom of the Opera: good and evil, when so boldly delineated, do nothing but cause chaos and despair on both sides. Over the year, I like to think that I've learned more about appreciating the shades of gray in which everything invariably is painted.

The bottom shelf of last year might be missing one book, but this has been made up for in its carrying several others, most prominently those related to AP Euro and AP Comp. By this time last year I was done with those, but the books still stood there, testament to my scholarly ability. I had never felt so confident as when I stepped out of those tests and knew that I had written some of my best work. The most difficult part of those tests was getting over the fact that I would never get to see my essays again. Now I am living through an entirely different story; I have hardly any confidence in any of my test scores. But at the same time I feel like I've done okay. Maybe, considering the circumstances, that's the best that I can feel.

But more things have found their way to my bookshelf in this past year than have left it. Most noticeably, when the picture was taken last year, my top shelf boasted only a single gavel. Won at Santa Margarita, it barely counted. Though I was considered one of the best, I hadn't truly proven it then. Now, seven additional gavels grace my bookshelf. One more is from SM, but one is also from Tustin, one is from Huntington Beach, one is from the school of a great MUN rival and the only gavel awarded to a Mission student, one was gained in a Security Council (even though it was novice), and one is from a collegiate conference. These are accomplishments; these should make me happy, and proud, and content. But I've come to realize that the "fame" they bring is constricting. It brings paranoia, insecurity, and doubt. I'm not upset -- and I do know that I have deserved every award I have won -- but each new one makes the urge to compete even stronger within me, and makes me feel even worse should I happen to lose. I've set a high standard for myself, and I've met it...I just don't know if I'm any happier for it. I sometimes think that I was better off with just the one.

Fortunately, the gavels are not the only additions. Propped up against a blank journal or standing in frames, my bookshelf now holds picture proof of something that, at this time last year, I never would have believed in. Sometimes still I doubt at my sheer luck, but now to clear myself of this, all I have to do is look at the pictures of Rick and remember that he is very certainly real. And then I smile this funny, happy grin that I don't think I knew how to smile last year, and all is good.

Even smaller changes make me happy. Scattered across random shelves, where they did not sit before, are seasons one through five of X-Files, in their neat little collecter's edition DVD packaging. Something as simple as that makes me feel better; just knowing that I've got all of those unknowns to explore and enjoy (and let's be honest, just knowing that I've got all that good sci-fi romantic angst at my fingertips) makes me feel somehow more myself, more able to hold together. As geeky as the cause may be, the effect is nothing to frown upon. The Original Star Wars Trilogy is there too, a present last year from Uncle Kent, which works along with the X-Files to keep me remembering my roots, my past, while still providing links into the future.

Really, most of my life is like that: dealing with things that are rooted in my past, but whose trunk extends into the present and (presumably) shoots off branches and leaves into the future. I don't know what this next year will be like for me -- I don't know if it will change me as much as the last -- but I do know that no matter how many things about me change, fundamentally I'll still be the same person.

Before now, I really wasn't looking forward to my birthday. I've had so much on my mind lately that it's hard to think ahead. But now, but looking backward, I feel like I've freed myself up to look foward, and the glorious futures I see share their joy infinitely with the present. They say that change is the only constant, and maybe they're right, but I've learned that no matter how much might change about the surface of my life, at the core I'm the same person I was a year ago, or two years, or five, or even ten. Who that is, I'm not so sure of, but at least I know I've got some time ahead of me to figure that out.

COLTON: So, Mulder, whatta ya think? This look like the work of little green men?

MULDER: Grey.

COLTON: What?

MULDER: Grey. You said "green men." A Reticulan's skin tone is grey. They're notorious for their extraction of terrestrial human livers, due to iron depletion in the Reticulum galaxy.

COLTON: You can't be serious.

MULDER: Do you know how much liver and onions go for on Reticulum?

The most hilarious dialogue ever, from episode 3 of the first season of X-Files. Because Mulder's making up the entire thing off the top of his head in order to make Colton think that he really is crazy, like all the rumors make him out to be. I love the characters! Okay, that's just a post of the newly-obsessed. I finally found the first season on DVD at Costco.

Yeah, but now I'm basically just posting because I'm bored and I don't want to be productive. Thus far, here stands my summer reading:

Picture of Dorian Gray -- 235 / 235 pages [FINISHED]

Crime & Punishment -- 302 / 542 pages

Columbus in the Americas -- 0 / 172 pages

First Among Equals -- 0 / 483 pages

Hardball -- 0 / 240 pages