Writing Whiz?

People keep telling me that if I ever wrote a book, they'd read it. I say, great, I don't have much of anything to say, but if I ever do, you'll be the first to know.
How did I ever learn to write? Sometimes I wonder. My mom asked me yesterday how it was possible that I, growing up as many places and in as many different languages as I did, not learning how to read in English 'til I was 6? 7? - how it was possible that I should have enough mastery of the English language to be able to help other people write academic papers?
At first, I didn't know. I cited my English prof from Spanish HS who offered, out of the blue, to train me for the English lit O-levels. Then I realized - I used to read like crazy. I read so much I got sick of stories - nothing could surprise me anymore. Good stuff, classic stuff, stuff that was too old for me, mystery stuff, fantasy stuff... whatever I could lay my hands on, really. And I wrote. I wrote blogs, as has been previously noted, and journal entries, and not much more. I wrote to please myself. Did I have anything to say beyond things that were happening in my own little life? Hah! Guess. I'll give you a hint- I still don't! I don't know why you're reading this stuff, seriously. But did I learn from these things, or merely develop? (watch out, chicken-and-the-egg-problem at twelve o'clock!) It's possible that I just engaged in those activities because the written word has always spoken to me in ways that other artforms never revealed.

But anyway - *end of pointless introspection* - now, here I sit, waiting for my next pupil to walk through the door. Life is truly strange.


I'm not gonna be an author, y'all. Not unless I seriously have Something to SAY. And if that ever happens, the world better watch out, 'cause come hell or high water, it'll be said, and my intended audience will listen.

list of...

...things I don't want to deal with:

1. the pilot light on my heater being out (with no hint as to how to light the stupid thing again, not to mention where exactly it is located).

2. my dryer being broken (and my landlord's home warranty company being veeery particular about contractors and also conveniently closed-mouthed about it)

3. my project for literacy class (surprise, I don't want to do my work for literacy class. Who'd've thought?)

it may not seem like it, but those three things are pretty, um... large.

yikes!
____________

P.S.: Fortunately my dad loves me and helped me deal with the pilot light. That's one thing off the list? Maybe? - maybe 'cause he told me to call my landlord already and get the thing checked. =(
haha, I thought I had good news to add, but... well, maybe not. :P

Post-movie thoughts

From "The Young Victoria":
In the end credits it says:
"In memory of her husband, Victoria had his clothes
laid out every day until her death at the age of 81"

And that's how I want it: only one. I don't want to try on guys like I try on clothes, to see if they fit.
I want to pick one and go for it, and if it's not perfect, that's ok. Just one, for my entire life. Granted, it prob'ly won't be the fCA - that's pretty much laid to rest. But if I have it my way, there won't be more than 3 tries.

I'm also really intrigued by the portrayal of Queen Victoria, and sort of wish they hadn't focused quite so much on the Albert/Victoria storyline. It would have been interesting if they had made it like... twice as long, with more facets of her life... if they had elaborated on her relationship with her mother, for example, and how she had handled parliament, etc. I kept wondering how she would interact with the cabinet members socially and such.
The whole thing reminds me of a book I read a year or two ago, called something like "The Queen and Essex". It was dull, but I think if they'd mixed this movie with that book, it would have made what I'm imagining. :P Of course, the book was about Queen Elizabeth, not Victoria, but still. You get the gist of my idea, right?
anyways. Good movie. For sure.
over 'n out.
E.O.

fresh from waking

I woke up twice today. You know how it goes. You wake up the first time to your alarm clock (you vaguely remember hearing it) and then decide, what the heck, you'll just sleep out today. You have time. And then you *try* to go back to sleep.
The first time I woke up, I remembered nothing. It rarely happens to me that I'll wake up and not have a few thoughts about either what I was dreaming about or what I have to do that day. But this time... nothing. My first thought went something like "where are all my other thoughts? what day is today?" So that was strange.
Then I realized it was Friday and I could sleep a little longer if I wanted to, so I did...
and proceeded to dream that most frustrating of dreams, the one where you can't quite get your eyes open, even though you really want to because something is happening around you that you need to see.
And I woke up the second time frustrated, determined to keep my eyes open, and see my house as it was, not as I had dreamed it. Ugh. My waking house is much nicer, especially in the morning. But my roommate isn't here (she did have to get up this morning) and so it's kind of eerie... almost as if I were still in a dream. (a dream within a dream! inception style! noooo!)
ahem. so I had to remind myself of what is true about my life & real, by writing it out.
hopefully that is effective. The sunshine streaming in my window is certainly pleasant, and my room is just as messy as it was when I went to sleep. So.
over 'n out.
E.O.

Moments

This post is dedicated to remembering moments this weekend that were satisfying in one way or another.

J not only openly told me about her relationship developments, she apologized for letting me guess before telling me - and then showed me a dinosaur of a digital camera and let me play with it, asking me to tell her, if I could, how it works.

Cc and I had a moment bonding about feeling awkward not knowing anyone at the party we were helping host, as none of our guests had arrived yet, and hoped her and my guests would arrive at the same time, so we wouldn't have to desert one another.

B had a legit conversation with me about Real Things after the service.

J2 tapped me on the shoulder from two rows back, just to say hi.

R is comfortable enough with me to let me walk with her arm in arm, and chat merrily, even though we've only met twice.

Standing in front of the stage, almost the only one on the floor, E comes up, takes my arm, and stands with me, swaying.

G: "You're a white guy magnet!"
G: "It's like you're trying, I can tell you're trying, but you're trying to be charming, and you are charming, and guys like you"

me: I could live in Southern California. I could do it.
G: I could too. Let's do it.
me: You want to move there after graduation?
G: Yeah.
me: Let's do it.
G: Let's do it, for real.
me: Deal.
(we shake hands. short pause.)
G: Do you mind if my mom lives with us?
(both nearly die of laughter)

I really love my friends.


This weekend was beautiful. I went and jammed with a friend of mine from SG, and it was TOTALLY different from jam sessions I've been to before, when I was still my most defensively shy self (and felt like I wasn't worth listening to). I joined in, and was appreciated as a member of the jam session or whatever. =)
I had a girls' night, watching two good, classic movies with some friends, sleeping on a couch, waking up to think.... We held a wonderful pre-thanksgiving thanksgiving party, full of good food and dear friends....
I am full - in stomach, but also in spirit. I am beloved by God and I have a community, and I am not only not crippled by my social ineptitude, I am reaching out to people and adding joy to their lives like they add joy to mine.

How it all started

The internet obsession.
For me, it all started with a blog. Well, e-mail, really, but the real fascination came when I somehow got going writing a blog. It was wonderful. I could write things, like I always did, but instead of those things being just for me, my friends could read them. They wanted to read them.
I lived for the comments; for the knowledge that someone out there (almost always someone that I knew) had read my thoughts and wanted to respond, had understood, had validated what I had to say. I started to read their blogs, and comment, and learned to stay in contact with people that way, the people I loved who were far away. No longer did you have to be family, willing to pay the exorbitant prices of long-distance phone bills, or a grown-up with their own e-mail account to have a say in my world; all you had to do was have an account on a blogging website!
When I first heard about facebook, I wasn't convinced. I was introduced to it on a trip to the States, right before moving back. I was hanging out in a hotel with some high schoolers who were positively dying to "check their facebook." I had no idea what that meant, but when I found out, I was not impressed. Where was the exchange of ideas, the dialogue with your friends? I made an account anyway though, to keep up with the kids I'd met on that trip.
And really, that's what the internet has always been for me. A way to keep up with (stay in touch) the people I would otherwise lose sight of completely. I have gotten used to using it in that way, for that purpose. So it really baffles me when I come into contact with people who really... don't. They just don't use the resources at their disposal. I don't get it.
My dad likes to talk about how my generation are "digital natives." I guess we are. He likes it because it means he can call himself a "digital immigrant," which is ridiculous, because if anyone's been right at the forefront of developing technology with eyes as wide with wonder as the proverbial kid in a candy shop, it's my father.
Still, it's an interesting idea. There are definitely people in my generation, though, who don't live as if they are digital natives. They just don't have to- all their people are right there, around them, and always have been. And in a way, I'm jealous. I'm pretty sure I'd happily give up my digital nativity for a security in community like they seem to have. Instead, I have somehow developed this mindset of looking for comfort and affirmation in comments and friendly notes on my wall. How much more ridiculous could life become?

over 'n out.
E.O.

Some nights...

Some nights, you just have to bake cookies.

Tonight, my kitchen is inundated with them.

There are 72 so far... but there are at least two more batches to come.

My roommate and I organized the ones that we have so far all onto one plate. I call it "the cookie-mountain at half-mast" - 'cause obviously we're not done yet.

It's a normal-sized plate, of the variety you'd eat off on any regular night. We used our combined geometry and chemistry knowledge to make a "compact crystalline structure," or something of the sort. All I know is, it's a LOT of cookies, and they're mostly piled onto one plate (one batch wasn't out of the oven yet when we made it)

Some nights, you just need to bake cookies.

In Spanish, one way to say that something is easy is to say "no tiene misterio" - in other words, it has no mystery, or there's no mystery to it. As if for complicated things you have to be inducted into some impenetrable secret. I've been thinking a bit about mystery lately... you know how kids love fantasy, and then as they grow older, it loses some of its charm? I've been wondering if there's a way to keep that sense of awe and magic. I have one or two ideas.

There is no mystery to making cookies, though. You just chuck a few ingredients into a big bowl, mash them all up, slide little globs of the stuff onto some metal trays and slide said metal trays into an oven for a bit. Take 'em out and ta-da! Cookies.

Once I taught some friends of mine, a Galician friend and her mother, how to make pancakes. They were astonished. It actually was like I was revealing a mystery to them. They were particularly flummoxed by the idea that you were not supposed to stir the batter until all the flower granules dissolved. They thought it was the weirdest thing. So I guess there is some mystery, some apprenticeship in baking after all.

Cooking however, I don't understand at all. Cooking is more of an art, I think, than baking. There are so many more different ways to do things, techniques and such. I don't know. Cooking baffles me, I'd much rather bake...

So on some nights, I just have to make lots and lots of cookies. It's good for the soul, freeing for the mind.

I leave you with a picture of the mountain at half-mast:










Over 'n out.
E.O.

p.s.: the final number of cookies is 109. Not including the ones we ate. xD