A Secret

Trust it with your life.

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Saudade

Give Thanks (and gifts!)

I don't really get Santa's place in a Thanksgiving Day Parade. But I don't really understand why I'm there either, freezing my butt off as I watch float after float topped with B-list singers and actresses who are also freezing their butts off, but with the addition of 10 inch heels.

Oh well.

Eat lots of turkey!
Feel grateful!
For our Jewish audience, light that hannukiah!

I Love NY

My current book that I'm reading is Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close by Jonathan Safran Foer.

There's a part where the main character (Oskar) meets a Chinese man who is wearing an I Love NY shirt. When Oskar points it out, the man says that he thought it said I Love You.

Noticing that the man has so many I Love NY things around his home, Oskar asks why he loves everyone so much.

This isn't really a good blog post, just something to think about.

____________________

“I asked him did he really love New York or was he just wearing the shirt. He smiled, like he was nervous. I could tell he didn't understand, which made me feel guilty for speaking English, for some reason. I pointed at his shirt. "Do? You? Really? Love? New York?" He said, "New York?" I said, "Your. Shirt." He looked at his shirt. I pointed at the N and said "New," and the Y and said "York." He looked confused or embarrassed, or surprised, or maybe even mad. I couldn't tell what he was feeling, because I couldn't speak the language of his feelings. "I not know was New York. In Chinese, ny mean 'you.' Thought was 'I love you.'" It was then that I noticed the "I♥NY" poster on the wall, and the "I♥NY" flag over the door, and the "I♥NY" dishtowels, and the "I♥NY" lunchbox on the kitchen table. I asked him, "Well, then why do you love everybody so much?”

Cookies

As a rule, I don't cook. Or bake. Or even try to handle food.

So when the Health project was assigned to prepare a food, I kind of freaked out. I honestly cannot cook. My dad laughed at me and told me I'd need to do some major clean-up because there was flour and vanilla extract all over. I cracked an egg and poured too much baking soda and put in twice the regular amount of brown sugar.

None of that matters, because after the recommended 8-10 minutes of baking, they taste great!

Satisfaction

It really does feel good when you get there.

But why can you only feel the mistakes?

Sometimes, the mistakes are put off for a while, and the real love begins.

Mature

"That's disgusting."
"EWWWWW."
"Really?"

The line we walk between maturity and a sense of humor is a very fine one.

Why am I laughing?

Weeds

My English teacher asked us to thing about the connotation of the word "wild."  In The Joy Luck Club's case, wild describes the weeds that run up and over the house, in every direction (even though this might be a symbol for Rose Hsu!).

I am running wild, from my enemies and my friends, in an open field where what's ahead is the same as what's behind me. At some point, I might lie down and look up. And smile.

I don't know why someone hasn't pulled me up yet. 

But I guess dandelions are weeds too.

Feelings

Empathy transcends the regular mind. You might be smart, or funny, or creative, but what's the probability of you crying at something? Why do we cry at these songs or movies, or moments?

When I get bored, I time myself to see how fast I can bring tears to my eyes. It's an acting thing. I'm working on my sad face.

But why is it that some songs can make me cry in two seconds?

I hummed the Finding Nemo theme today and set a record for how fast I made myself cry. I don't know.

Good night.

Forgot!

Things I forget:

-props
-my head
-MY GLOBAL TEST!

Type

I find it interesting when people say- "that's not your type."

How does someone else determine type? I listen to mostly quiet indie folk, which meant for a bit of a change when I listened to a well-known hip hop song with absolutely vile lyrics.

But someone who didn't know me would probably determine that I'd hate this song.

Nope!

Collapsible

Depending on the day, I am made of different material.

Today, I am the "Fragile: This Way Up," cardboard piece- collapsible and flimsy, but strong enough to support what it is holding.

Man, am I tired.
I gotta get in bed.

Witching Hour (Make up for 11.15)

There comes a time of night (most usually early morning) where you break your walls down and sit in the ruins. You are vulnerable, but truthful, with no bricks or concrete to disguise you from who you really are.

You can talk about anything there, sitting on the stump of your self-consciousness, the severed pillars of your own self esteem.

And when you build that wall right up again the next day, it doesn't seem quite as high again.

Explanation

Thinking about how to explain something is often harder than actually explaining.

In my case, someone else explained it for me.

You took the words right out of my mouth, poking a straw into my heart and sucking until all my feelings popped out into your outstretched hand.

Thank you. It made the lonely part easy.

Stories

The stories we tell come in unexpected places.

The director likes to refer to our show as piece of a bigger story, each of us just the scrapbook cuttings of a bigger collage that will (come one week!) be glued together well enough so that we don't fall apart.

I don't know what my story is, if I'll find it in facial expressions, or buried knee deep in props and costumes, or cradling a lacrosse stick before flinging the ball-child in search of another mother.

Maybe it will be through writing? My thoughts have gotten mumbled. Unmumble them please!

Stream of Conciousness

This is a stream of consciousness post because I realize that I think a lot and I never really put my thoughts down on paper completely unedited which is sort of a lie because I edited the first sentence of this post before I wrote this sentence so whatever, but from the first sentence on, my thoughts are literally just spilling out onto the keyboard.

Spotify ads bother me really badly, but this one is actually kinda cool. It says that they apparently have a band that is only robots but they only play one guitar.  I get the idea behind that, but doesn't music come from the heart? If it's a robot programmed to play a guitar, then that's an example of crafty engineering and cool technology, not actual music. Well, I guess it's actual music if there are notes and stuff, but I'm listening to this song now where it's just a guy and his guitar and it's so emotional and real.

Can a robot really give you that? I don't think a lot of things can imitate the compassion that occurs in living things. That's why music is compassionate, it comes from that place in people where the first stirrings of sympathy flicker.

(Woah. I go off on a lot of tangents. I would find me pretty annoying, but I don't really have a choice!)

:)

Sometimes the things you say just depend on your mood.

I feel relaxed tonight. And a little bit nostalgic.

You can come here and talk to me.

We can drink hot chocolate and comment absently on the fact that it's supposed to snow sometime soon.

:)

The Art of Ask.fm

I just got a message on ask.fm that says

"Please don't judge if you don't know the whole story. Sorry."

I know this is probably just someone calling in with a complaint about my typically judgmental character, and I'm not going to lie, I can be very judgmental.

But what bugs me about these messages is that

a) If you have a complaint, why'd you say sorry? That's like "No offense, but you suck."

b) Now I'm annoyed because I've been stalking everything I said once on the internet to find what prompted this.

I'm sorry if I judged you.

But what?

Small Fact

I happened to miss the fact that someone I know is the lead singer of a band I also know.

When learning of this, I promptly smacked my head and proceeded to wonder why I had no idea that the singer of a band I'd heard back in April and enjoyed was seeing me a few times this Fall.

Whatever.

Never Have I Ever

Cast Sleepover is an insanely interesting experience. Especially if you (like me) are an eighth grader in the same area as seniors and other upper-termers.

Never-Have-I-Ever is the Cast Sleepover game of choice. You say "Never have I ever (i.e., drank coffee)" and if you have done this, you clap.

It's nice to be the innocent one for once, laughing as I hear about everyone else's experiences in the teenage years, shuddering a little when I hear a few REALLY explicit and thoroughly inappropriate stories when people finally give in and hesitantly clap.

I have never done a lot of things, but by my last cast sleepover, will I be the one clapping away?

Fast Walk, No Friends!

Dearest Everyone-I've-Left-Behind,

Sorry about that. It's not that I don't want to be friends with you. I really do! You're excellent humans and conversationalists.

BUT IF YOU ARE GOING WALK THAT SLOWLY, IT'S NOT MY FAULT.

(This letter is selfish).

(It's also a joke).

I have been told that

a) I walk quickly
b) I take long strides because I am tall (since when am I tall? What?)

I UNDERSTAND YOUR NEED TO CONVERSE WITH YOUR OTHER FRIENDS. BUT IF YOU ARE ALSO TALKING TO ME, THEN

c) I cannot walk as slowly as you, because I would literally be stationary.
d) I can't leave because you're addressing me.

Sorry about leaving you to walk slowly.

It was awkward when we were on the same bus.

Sincerely (and fastpaced),
Lily.

Stage Kiss

Stage kisses have popped up a lot in the past week. Seeing West Side Story at Stuyvesant, the lead was always doing that stage kiss thing where you kiss someone with your thumbs. It was pretty obvious, and led to a few awkward moments on stage with his love interest.

Rehearsing for Comedy of Errors, it is very different, Maybe we're just more romantic people, but even in rehearsal, people are kissing like it's the last night of performances.

I've always kind of wondered whether or not stage kisses are awkward between two people who are actually friends. Or are they just an excuse to kiss someone, especially when they have to do it like 5 times? 

Whichever they are, the scene looks pretty sweet.

Good job guys.

Somewhere Else

I like to be in a different world sometimes.

There's something a little too boring about the fact that my room will always be my room, and a year will pass and I will be the exact same person I was.

I like to imagine complex other-realities for myself, places I visit while thinking alone.

One day, I want to be interesting. C'mon, imagination! Work!

Help

I am slipping off the brink of insanity,

and if you think you can save me, I commend you, sir!

please send for help

most helpful donations would be-

1 snuggie because it's really cold in here.

1 sewing kit because I wore a sweater with a huge hole in it today.

3 skeins of Lion Brand Chunky Knit Self-Stripe yarn in different colors, because knitting is fun.

1 person who I could rant to.

1 person who I can talk to about absolutely anything (preferably my age?)

1 person who likes the same music as me and would listen to this song with me like, forever.

1 person who likes me (you know, likes me).

1 partner in nostalgic vintage crime.

2 compliments

5 words of encouragement?

1 person to do all of my homework for me.

4 classes made more interesting

10 more weekends

thanks.

lily.

Fluffy?

Suited up in my fanciest dress for my mother's birthday dinner, I feel as if I should be twirling and singing melodically, due to the fact that my hair looks nice even though I didn't do anything with it today and the fact that my red lipstick is still working.

When I originally began this blog post, I was listening to some REALLY soft and fluffy, absolutely terrible indie folk that I was trying to force myself to like. "Ellen and the Escapades" are not a terrible band, they're just for a very specific type of people.

Ellen and the Escapades are probably for someone who twirls around the house and for someone who spends hours doing their hair.

I thought that the current time was an hour late (thank you, Fall Back!) so technically, I did do my hair two hours before we're escorted to our table by some young woman who would rather be watching movies with her boyfriend, but has to act like she enjoys her job because it pays her pretty well.

But honestly, I am not a fluffy kitten wearing lipstick who could spend the entirety of her life listening to increasingly awful folk music.

Which is why I swapped the dress for a T-shirt, and I'm listening to some rock music now.

Photo Shoot

There's a certain glamour to capture the world through the eyes of a lens. You know when you look at it, you and the model will see two different things

The model will see herself, and only herself. If she likes it, it's exciting. If she doesn't, there's a grimace and a quick "Ew delete delete delete!"

The photographer sees the light, sees the world in juxtaposition with her sister, who isn't vain, despite loving to have pictures of herself taken. She will see that beauty is a gift, and a talent, something that is fun to flaunt and fun to capture, but yet found everywhere.

She will find that she should probably get home and do homework, or jet off to her different parties (since when did people invite her to anything?), but that camera and the sister are so appealing, the allure of the perfect shot still shimmering in the crisp November air.

_______________________

(I'll attach photos later)

Cancel Out

West Side Story is one of those classic love stories that makes you swoon a little when you watch it again. That was the case with Stuyvesant's production of West Side Story.

The final scene of West Side Story has Maria holding a gun to everyone standing around her beloved, Tony. 

"All of you! You all killed him! And my brother, and Riff. Not with bullets, or guns, with hate. Well now I can kill, too, because now I have hate!"Maria says through her tears.

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This blog post really didn't have much of a point. I just thought that was a really powerful line.

People pay too much attention to hate. If we just love each other, then Tony wouldn't have died. Romeo and Juliet's happy ending doesn't exist yet, but maybe soon.