Day 11: Keep Calm and Carry On

Day 11 — When I’ve had a really bad day, the first thing (not person) I reach for is…

I know I haven’t loosely interpreted most of the other questions this month (so far), but this one…I simply cannot leave my answer at “the first thing” I reach for. That would be incomplete.

The first thing I reach for is my computer. I power it on, plug it in, and I open up Photoshop. You’ve noticed the Graphic Design tab on top of my blog navigation, yes? Once upon a time, I used to post things I did on here. Then I realized I already had a DeviantArt and a Facebook album AND a Public Photobucket account for that. I really should update you guys with my Design  Is poster series though. I’ve completed it all, and the lovely glossy color posters are hanging up on my wall in the apartment. I am REALLY EXTREMELY happy with the end result. It is very expressive of my personality!

Photoshop really soothes me. I lose myself in the layers, and my desire to complete the project in my head overtakes the stress and anger. In fact, I am so engrossed in accomplishing my end result that nothing will phase me. I am often at my most happiest when I’m working on a new piece in Photoshop. There’s just such an enticing and exhilarating feeling when you recreate in print something that was only a glimmer in your head. When you use your knowledge of Adobe’s creative suite to bring your imagination to life. How can you possibly be upset over anything when you’ve done so much. Turned a blank canvas into your masterpiece.

Nothing else matters after that. I find my calm, and the peaceful zone allows me to relax more than any massage probably could.

But I don’t just open Photoshop, I also do some other things to calm myself down. I reach for my phone, obsessively check my emails and texts and send a text to Nabila of bannatreasures. I look in the fridge, pour myself some Juice and find a snack. I turn on some music. Some angry Eminem if I’m that pissed. Otherwise, just normal rap will do. I make plans to go get froyo.

I miss my mom.

I write angsty poetry. And of course, I blog about it.


List of rules and questions is here

Please take a moment to check out the other wonderful blogs participating in 30 days of Blogging Honesty with me!

Theme Two – A Disparaged Dialogue

Theme Two (PRYANKA):

Utter and complete agony. Desparity – a miniscule hope of salvation when, in reality, salvation is impossible to attain. Desperation. Fear like nothing you can ever imagine. Fear that is a million times worse than what you have imagined. Your theme this week is to relay the words of the condemned. If you’ve ever dreamt a dark story, here is your chance to write it.

Page Limit: Maximum of 5 pages on Microsoft Word. (Doublespaced, 1 inch margins, times new roman, etc etc)
Deadline: Thursday May 27, 2010 11:59 pm
Penalty: (For breaking rules, missing the deadline, etc) Your next livejournal entry must be a highly detailed and intelligently written narrative in which your main characters are a rainbow and a pile of poop.


Project Theme
Every week, Nabila or myself will post a theme upon which both of us must write an entry. Theme creation will be alternated between the both of us, and both are required to respond to the theme in a timely manner. The deadline will always be exactly seven (7) days after the theme is posted, but the restrictions and penalties are to be created at our discretion. "

Regret – Theme Response

I sat down in my chair, clutching its armwrests as though they were my only life support. This entire time, of course, my eyes were shut tight. I did not want to face my visions, but they were getting stronger. In the backs of my eyelids, I saw swirls of color, lazily blending and separating into a dark rainbow.

Suddenly, there was a white flash, and I cried out in agony 0 it was too late. I was face to face with his eyes again 0 his ghastly and haunted eyes.

My eyes were still closed.

I panicked, afraid of the strength of my own visions. Whose eyes were they? Why were they stalking me? I felt them upon me at all times now – clear, shocking blue eyes that insisted on holding my attention. What were they trying to tell me? 

I swear, sometimes, they looked upon me with pity. That was when I would rage back, yelling my insecurities out for all the world to see. They were staring me into insanity, those eyes.

Those cold hated blue eyes. 

"GO AWAY. I don’t know you. I don’t know what you want. WHY DO YOU INSIST ON TAKING AWAY MY PEACE? Leave me alone…leave – me – alone."

And always, though I started out strong and proud, at the end, I was reduced to tears, my threats and questions coming out in gasping sobs. I’m sure the people around me thought I was a deranged lunatic. And nobody believed me when I told them about the eyes. I didn’t know who they belonged to, but they seemed to be trying to trigger a memory. Who was he?


The woman behind me in the supermarket had cringed when I screamed that out loud earlier today, and then she had turned her cart around, walking nervously as fast as she could in the other direction. Ha, if only she knew that it wasn’t me she should be scared of. 

It was those icy heartbreakingly sad eyes. 


I used to be normal. At this point, I couldn’t help but give a bitter, sarcastic laugh. I’d started to classify myself as abnormal now too – it was only a matter of time before I succumbed to the world’s perspective of crazy me. 

I mean really, when I told people I wasn’t crazy, I was just being haunted by a pair of blue eyes, they gave me funny looks. Or ignored me. Or walked away, as that lady had. 

I don’t know why I’m recording this narrative. I know I don’t have the stamina left in me to write it in story form. That would require objectifying my pain, giving my protagonist a voice I don’t think I knew how to formulate anymore. How could I distance myself from her agony? It was searing into my own flesh, my own bones, my own heart, at all times. The eyes were becoming more and more anguished too, as if they knew I didn’t have much longer to live.

What was I supposed to do before I died? 

I ask the eyes for clues now. I whisper to myself as I walk down the sidewalks, counting and recounting the names of all the people I have encountered in my life this far. Or the names that I remember, at least. And each time, I ask: "Is this you, Carol? You, Michael? DO YOU EVEN HAVE A GENDER?"

One time, when I questioned them, they blinked serenely before resuming their eternal stare. I had shouted in triumph, but I guess it came out more as a strangled cry of momentary relief.

I found out later that I had passed out while walking.

They blamed it on dehydration. I was ecstatic – eternal sleep is how I would rid myself of their stare.

One of my psychiatrists had told me that they were the eyes of my victim. The small innocent boy I had killed ten years ago. I brushed it off, blaming her sudden psychotic rage on her frustration to understand me. How the hell am I a murderer now?



You know, I’m talking right now. Talking out loud in front of a mirror, pretending that there exists another soul who understands me. Talkng out loud like the crazy person that I am. But what can I do? It takes my mind off of the eyes. 

Sometimes, I suspect that they are capable of hearing me. Because just now, as I said that out loud, they seared into the back of my skull. OUCH. I’m almost afraid of putting my hand to the back of my head – I fear that there may be blood. This has never happened before – usually, they just watch. Why are they trying to hurt me?

Am I really a murderer? If I am, my brain’s done an excellent job in making me forget the whole thing. I’m testing my memory, probing deeper and deeper, farther and farther into my childhood, hoping to come across some badly patched segment so I can atleast know what my crime is. So I can atleast know for what I am being punished.

But these EYES, they don’t let me. They tire my brain, and I often sink into a lethargic sleep filled with scary nightmares. All the persons in my dreams have had those e yes for a few years now.

How have I even survived? I feel the eyes slash another cut into me, this time by the nape of my neck. I shut my eyes, not willing to look into the mirror. I am afraid I will see those eyes glaring daggers into me. I am afraid I will see those daggers suddenly materialize as they pound repeatedly into my skill, dashing my body little by little into pieces.

Such a gruesome thought. But I cannot help it. I envision another dagger hitting my collarbone, and scream in horror as I feel a responding pain. It’s just my brain. I swear, this is all just in my head. 


The daggers pick up tempo, and I know that I am losing blood fast. Still, I do not want to open up my eyes. My body is starting to go rigid with shock. 

Maybe I am numb to the pain now? More likely, I have lost so much blood that my nerves are losing sensation. Is that even possible? I knew I should have paid better attention in biology.

Now, even thinking that I am in pain is taking too much effort. I am floating away from my own body.

My eyes open with a jolt. I am ready to scream and close them again, as if in silent apology that my steady eyes-closed vigil has broken. But I have nothing to fear. The open-eyed me is staring down into a grotesque figure.

I recognize that the grotesque figure is a bloody me. 

And then I faint.

They say they found me, two days later, when a neighbor reported the odor of my rotting flesh. They say I had died peacefully of a brain aneurysm. 

How wrong they are.

Relationship, Revisited – REVISED

For my final Creative Writing Portfolio (: Enjoy.

When you grow up in a strict and protective household, it’s nice when you have the house to yourself for a few hours. It happens very rarely, but even a few minutes of solitude can be bliss in an otherwise chaotic home. Today was a perfect example of this concept. It was a hot summer day, and my parents were both at work, my brother was at a friend’s house, and I had the house to myself. I was doing the same thing I usually did at eleven in the morning: lounging in my room, still in my pajamas, sprawled out in my bed while surfing the internet, checking my phone in hopes of a new text message, downloading applications for my iPod Touch, and listening to music. The same things I do when my parents and brother are home, except today, this was all a habit and not a distraction. Today, the air was cleared of the tension that usually excited between my mother and I. There were no ridiculous arguments going on in the background, and the house did not even smell strongly of spices and my mom’s cooking. Had I been walking around, there may have been a spring to my step but sadly, plans were nonexistent.

My friends were all busy. Every single one of them. And the ones that weren’t were inconveniently back in their own hometowns. I had a conversation going on with a friend who was in California for the summer, and she was bored too. Annoying siblings, annoying parents, and boredom – a tragedy we both suffered from during the summer. Not a terrible mix, but one made worse by the miles that separated us from each other. Skype had its limitations. Our lives weren’t as intertwined as they once were, and I felt sad that this irresolvable conflict would last until the end of August, when we could finally meet up again. When I had first moved away to college, I’d separated from the only home I’d known for eighteen years, but it wasn’t as hard as these three months of summer would be. Changing my lifestyle to fit my own whims rather than my parents – college had been the easy part of this whole ordeal. But having to harshly fall back into it once the school year was over was complete torture. College was freedom, and the more time I spent away from the rules and restrictions, the more I had come to hate them.

Bing. I picked up my Blackberry and checked the new text message. It was only eleven in the morning, and I’d been anticipating a reply for lunch plans, effective in about an hour and a half. But with my friends, plans were made and changed instantaneously.

“hey I’m staying late @ Mt Sinai…sry I can’t make it =/”

Jessica had been much more reliable in high school, when we were such good friends that we felt like sisters. Back then, we also didn’t have any “sophisticated” excuses at our fingertips to get out of meeting up. Mount Sinai referred to her internship, and was a solid excuse I could compose no argument against. Work was her priority now, of course. I threw the phone back into the mess of comforters, pillows, and stuffed animals on my bed and turned back to my laptop with a sigh. My best friends from High School were busy with their own lives. They had their own internships, their own jobs, and their own group of close college friends. Old friendships were slowly unraveling, and the thought of spending an entire summer without my best friend’s company would make living with my parents insufferable. Opening up iTunes, I blasted some music – probably the lone advantage of having the house to myself that day.

When at home with my mother, I seldom had to concern myself with meals. They would simply appear at predestined times, and I would eat. The entire process of mastication seemed tedious, no longer the fun college sport friends and crazy roommates had turned it into. So far, my mother had been bringing food into my room and then sitting next to me and striking up a conversation. This was fun once in a while, but when she then attempted to read my online conversations over my shoulder, I would hint at disliking her company while I ate. This sounds harsh, but I genuinely did not have much to say to her, and it was just awkward for both of us. My mom looked for a best friend in her grown-up daughter, but I already had best friends my age; I just needed a mother.

I had whittled away the better part of an hour by now. I checked the time and then made my way to the kitchen, annoyed that mom hadn’t packed lunch for me before leaving for work. I had come to taking her food for granted, I suppose. I swung open the fridge door, examined what was inside, pulled out last night’s leftovers – some cold pizza – and heated it. Put it into the microwave. Onto the dining table. Into my mouth. Done.

At this point in the day, browsing the internet for any longer was beginning to sound very boring, and I wanted to have some fun. I pulled on my sneakers and ventured outside the house, car keys in hand. A drive around the island sounded nice, but the temperature was so nice outside that I decided against it. It was incredibly hot and my car had been bathing in the sun all day. I could already envision opening the door, almost burning myself on the hot metal. I could already smell the stifling musty heat in the car – it would be so hard to breathe that I’d have to sit around in the sun and wait a few minutes before I could even dare to venture inside the car. It’d spent the entire afternoon toasting in the sun, and I didn’t want to ruin my good mood by stepping into the furnace of my 2001 Toyota Camry – a generous gift from my parents on my 18th birthday.

What did I want to do, then? Going for a run – the one thing I usually dread – seemed like a great idea, especially when compared to my alternative. The sky was beautiful, a blue that reminded me of the Chips Ahoy! package sitting in my kitchen. That was probably a great way to reward myself after my run – ice cold milk and a few chocolate chip cookies. The wind picked up at that exact moment, lifting my spirits as if it also agreed with my decision. Yes, I was going to run.

Once I reached the end of my driveway, I had another decision to make – where was I going to turn? To my left: there was a rather large CVS – they had torn down and cleaned up an old but dear playground that used to exist there. I looked beyond the CVS to the busy roadway. Across the street, if one managed to cross the street safely, with no help from the confusing traffic signals at the intersection, there was a shopping complex. The big blinking STOP & SHOP sign caught my eye; there was a certain endearing quality to the neighborhood ST P & S OP, whose LED letters never seemed to all glow at once. But the weather was thought-provoking, and I wanted to run along a quieter part of town. Somewhere I could run and think and maybe not worry so much about traffic signals and dying.

To my right: the residential street stretched out, a mile of homes. There wasn’t much traffic here, and the only cars you saw lazily strolling past you belonged to homeowners in the area. It seemed like the kind of suburban neighborhood that would be featured on postcards, or inviting “Welcome to Long Island” websites. The lawns were meticulously mowed, and I suspected that the entire neighborhood hired the same lawn care professionals. Judging by the identical length of grass on each lawn and the uncanny use of brick-blockaded flowerbeds centered with blossoming pink trees, I decided, for the sake of my sanity, to assume that the landscaping was not just the product of neighborhood telepathy. As I ran passed the blurred lawns, rainbow flowers and blotches of pink trees, I remembered how amusing my first experience with Long Island Landscaping had been. It was the summer after grade, so that would put me at…13 years old, and was at the point in my life where I was beginning to realize that my mother could be quite annoying at times.

– – – – – – – – –

Landscaping had become all the rage in 2005, and my mother wanted to jump into this trend after our immediate neighbors had hired Long Island Landscaping, a service new to the area, to mow their lawns and spruce up their flowerbeds. Sometime in June, my mother had rushed out of the house to speak with the landscapers as they mowed lawns across the street. I had followed her out automatically, because when she communicated with others, it was usually best for me to be around and correct any potentially grievous errors. There had been plenty of those over the years. Ever since the day she emailed my aunt and told her that she had been “seduced” (read: sedated, or knocked out) by the doctors prior to her wisdom teeth removal, I preferred to be around when any important communications were made.

Another reason I had ventured out into the heat was genuine distrust for my mother’s disregard for being discreet. She would walk across the street and, halfway through, turn around and yell into the air as if her voice would carry through into my room. And it did. What’s worse – she used my Indian nickname, which, although perfectly acceptable around family and other people of Indian descent, was awkward because we lived in a predominantly white neighborhood. If I went with her, she wouldn’t have to yell for me quite as loudly later on.

My mother and I crossed the street together to speak to the landscapers. I stood a few feet away from her at first, hoping she would be able to figure out how to negotiate a deal on her own. She wanted to hire them for just the summer – whether to fit into the rest of the crowd or avoid having to repeatedly ask my brother to mow the lawn, I don’t know – and inquire how much they would charge her for the three months of landscaping service.

I had already taken a year of Spanish by then, and my mom took that as her cue to brag to all of my relatives that I knew how to proficiently speak the language. I didn’t. She went right up to the man mowing our neighbor’s lawn and began speaking to him, raising her voice to get his attention over the loud whirring of his lawnmower.

“¡Hola! ¿Comostas?” she proudly stated. I struggled to contain my laughter. She had, of course, forgotten that the “h” in “hola” was silent – a flaw of hers that I’d been unable to correct all year. The man blinked at her several times, turned off his loud machinery, and then replied. “¿Si? Estoy bien. ¿Como ayúdate? My mother had thrown a desperate glance in my direction, and I opened and shut my mouth several times before deciding that starting the conversation over was the safest option. I said hello – properly – and then stood there awkwardly, mumbling to my mother that I had no idea how to apply what little Spanish I knew to real-life conversations. I hadn’t even gotten past the present tense yet!

I tried my best to explain to him what we needed. Not knowing the Spanish equivalents of “mow” or “lawn,” I improvised. “Necesitamos tu ayuda para nuestra casa. ¿Cuánto dolores para este servicio? ¿Y cuántos tiempos venir a nuestra casa cada mes? I finished with a triumphant smile. I’d conveyed my mother’s inquiry properly – I hoped. Meanwhile, I snuck a glance over to my mother, who was beaming back at me. The slightly arrogant smile said what my mom didn’t: “See, look at my daughter. Isn’t she amazing?”

The worker, after laughing at my roundabout attempt to ask him a rather simple question, answered me back in Spanish. I looked at him. Blinked. He repeated himself. The words blurred past recognition – one long jumbled construct of consonants and vowels that flew right past comprehension. I had no idea how to respond. I had no idea what he had told me.

¿Repite, por favor?

He just laughed, and obliged.

This time, I listened simply for words that I knew, and picked out the following menagerie: “dos, meses, llamate, fines de semanas.” Trying my hardest not to let my mother down, I pieced them together and ventured an answer to my mom, who was patiently standing to the side and waiting for me to fill her in. Her knowledge of the language didn’t extend beyond “¡Hola! ¿Comostas?” This was all up to me, and I didn’t want to go through the annoyance of letting her down once more.

“Mom, they come every other weekend. And they…call us? I think.”

“And how much do they charge per month, beta?” she asked me. I hated that word – beta – especially in public. Why couldn’t she use the English equivalents, words like “dear” or “sweetie,” in front of strangers? He may not have understood her either way, but I wouldn’t feel so conscious of my heritage and skin color if she tried to fit in with other normal mothers. At any rate, I tried several times to relay her question, but each time, the worker did not understand. When he spoke, I couldn’t piece together what he said either. It was a failing enterprise and the worker decided that the best way to be rid of us was to ignore us.

“No speak English. Sorry,” he stated. And with that, he turned away and started up his lawnmower again.

My mother gave me a disappointed look, and told me to go back to the house. “Why do I send you to school? You’ve took Spanish for a whole year, and you can’t even ask a simple question?” she had said. Stinging from the insult, I spun away and ran back into the house, composing a biting reply in my head as I stormed back across the street. I hadn’t looked both ways before crossing, but I guess this was one of those times where I should be thankful that we lived on a quiet street. Back in my room, I took out a piece of computer paper and wrote a long detailed note to her explaining my complaints about her upbringing. At the time, it had seemed like a brilliant plan – the end to all of my troubles even.

Dear mom,
I’m really mad that you wanted me to speak to that guy in Spanish. I just started learning it this year, and it’s not fair that you want me to be perfect at it. You have to stop thinking I’m smart – I’m not a natural genius like dad, trust me. And I’m not even that good at math. Spanish is weird, and our teachers don’t really tell us how to talk to people, they only tell us how to correctly conjugate verbs. And I even mix that up sometimes. So maybe in three years, I’ll be able to have a full conversation, but I don’t know enough words to even try to speak to somebody right now. I hope you manage to hire the lawn mower guys though. Also, you need to stop yelling at me all the time. It’s mean.
Love, Me

I had folded up the letter carefully, found a Sharpie, and then carefully labeled the front “TO MOM” in large block letters. I left it on her dresser and went back to sulk in my room.

– – – – – – – – –

I was halfway to Jericho (Street) when I was rudely snapped out of my reverie. I’d run right into a wall of muscle – a wall of muscle named Shane. He’d been jogging in the opposite direction, and I hadn’t noticed him. And it is when they were almost upon each other that he whipped his head around and yelled “Watch out Pry” in caution. But his words flew out in vain, as our bodies collided. I tried to catch my breath and I’m sure his back didn’t really appreciated the impact either. “I’m so sorry Shane! Are you okay? Oh god, I hope I didn’t hurt you. Are you sure you’re okay? Does your back hurt? I..I’m so sorry, I wasn’t paying attention…” I rambled. “Hey hey, stop, I’m fine. ‘Sup?” he said calmly, making me blush at how awkwardly I’d handled the moment.

“Not much, I was just running because I wanted to…run. yeah umm…how about you?”

“Just running for fun too, it’s such a nice day”

“Mhm, it’s nice. And I was so bored at home, this is a good change”

“Yeah, so how’s college been anyway?”

“I love it! How’re you doing at yours?

“It’s pretty chill. I hate driving every day though, you’re lucky you get to dorm”

“Yeah…I was lucky.”

My words were a double-edged sword, and I realized my blunder almost instantly. I had wanted to imply that I was lucky during the school year, and not the summer, but it had come out wrong. I sounded like the girlfriend who couldn’t move in. So stupid of me. “Anyway, it was nice seeing you again I gotta go bye!” I yelled out, and promptly began jogging again. I had to get away from him. He was the reason my laugh had been slightly hollow, and my smile slightly pasted on. Up until then, I’d been doing fairly well accepting the fact that Shane and I were no longer dating. It was a mutual breakup, but no matter how often I reminded myself of that fact, it hurt me that he’d given up on me so easily. He was a remnant of the past, but he was a remnant I wasn’t quite ready to part with. I had gotten through an entire year of college without a single word from him, so I was ready to move on once and for all. Now, when I’d made a whole group of new friends, and had a glorious summer ahead of me – no, he was not allowed to ruin my mood.

So what if I was running from my past with Shane? This was an entirely different story, and not the one I wanted to ponder while taking my relaxing run. I snuck a peek back – Shane had probably turned a corner, because I could no longer see him. Shrugging him off my conscience, I poured my attention into the symmetry and repetition around me. The attempt of such diverse families to make the façade of their houses so similar struck me as so odd. It was so…opposite of what I’d come to expect in the city. Over there, people go at any length to differentiate their dwellings; they make their “cribs” stand out as much as possible. Each building had such history there, and the difference from one tenement style walkup to the other in the village is what made me fall in love with it. It wasn’t necessary to fit in quite so perfectly, and I loved the city for having shown me that.

In the end, New Hyde Park was something to fall back on and Long Island was my haven of familiarity. Even my mother – her rants and her tirades – they were all a part of that familiar world. I loved fighting with her because it was a part of my routine. I thought back to all the weekends during college where I decided not to go home, giving my parents the excuse of homework, office hours, deadlines, or exams. They’d patiently put up with everything I told them, and I’m sure they were not so dense that they wouldn’t know I lied sometimes. That I had some fun, that maybe I explored the city instead of studying 24/7. And they had let me have my fun. I loved them for giving up their totality of control, because the ability to explore my liberated thoughts had helped me appreciate their concerns so much better. When I didn’t see my mother for an entire month, an unfortunate circumstance incurred by the final exams at the end of my first semester of college, I remember calling her and picking on everything she said so she would argue with me. Having a fight with my mother was normal – not hearing her nag and argue with me was too strange. I preferred the normalcy provided by our differing views.

My feet leapt from one step to another, and for the next few minutes, I continued running. There was no sudden revelation today, but running had cleared my mind of some of the preprogrammed resentment toward my mother. It put me in a better mood, and I was glad the run had been of some use. My legs were beginning to ache, an acknowledgment that made me turn around and head back in the direction of my house. It wasn’t too late yet – maybe I’d go cook some lunch for my brother. And boil some tea for my mom – she was due back home in less than half an hour now. I still appreciated her – annoying voice and disagreements included.

Celestial Bodies – REVISED

In space, the cheery bonfires –
Giant pockets of gas – twinkle,
Earth’s cheery little stars.
They explode and collapse
Upon each other, and then sometimes,
Their glimmer dims little by little, or
Flares out in one triumphant display of
Glory before they are destroyed,

Eaten up by their fiery convictions.
Then, we must skip and hop to
Learn new loopholes. Rewired,
We look for another ray of starlight –
We replace that emptiness
Betwixt our heart and soul.

We look for another supernova –
A singular knife to slice through
Perpetual dark film over our eyes.

Humanity hangs on tightly –
Nature outlasts fleeting moments of
Manmade triumph. One star must defeat the stabbing knives and calculating brains.
One star must glow brightly on even
When all the others have failed.

Adobe Creative Suite 5 (CS5)

Pryanka is drooling. Quite literally. With the release of Adobe’s Master Collection of Creative Suite 5, she has realized that her dismal collection, consisting of Illustrator CS4 and Photoshop CS2, simply doesn’t cut it anymore. I am most intent on pursuing a proper suite that most graphic designers would be proud of. I want to explore this creative side of Photoshop, and have FUN with graphic design again. I want to design pieces that I’m proud of again. And this summer, I will hopefully do that with a proper set of Adobe Creative Suite tools.

  • Adobe Photoshop CS5
  • Adobe Illustrator CS5
  • Adobe InDesign CS5
  • Adobe Dreamweaver CS5
  • Adobe Flash Professional CS5
  • Adobe Fireworks CS5
  • Adobe Bridge CS5
  • Adobe Premiere Pro CS5
  • Adobe After Effects CS5

Maybe I’m just being too hopeful? I definitely want at least up until Dreamweaver however. Honestly, my summer will be complete BLISS! I’m looking forward to evenings spent writing and fine tuning my graphic and webpage design skills.

Celestial Bodies

This is my second poetry submission for Creative Writing class. It will be workshopped! I actually like it a lot more than I liked my first submission…it is written in a style that is more natural to me than the first one was. It is true to how I perceive things!

Highlighting the road to reason
In space, the cheery bonfires –
Giant pockets of gas – twinkle,
Earth’s cheery little stars.
They explode, they collapse
Upon each other – that is when there is
Hollowness in our breasts, as
Their glimmer dims little by little and

All emotion is sucked inward.
With gaps in our brain’s processing chips,
We skip and hop a little to
Learn loopholes. We
Look for other roads –
Other rays of precious starlight
We look desperately for
Another lightbulb

To brighten life’s problems.
We look for a supernova:
Daytime even when nature
Tells us to sleep and rest;
Staying awake unnaturally,
Fighting what should be –
Fighting for desires yet unfulfilled
A singular knife to slice through.

Perpetual dark film over our eyes
Ambition must overcome
Convention. Machine must overcome
Nature, And nature must persevere –
Defeat the stabbing knives
Calculating brains
And hazardous lightbulbs
Glow brightly on even
When the stars have failed

Thoughts? Leave me a comment!

Fiction Reading – Mr. Alexander Chee

I was not exactly excited as I entered the door into the Lillian Vernon Creative Writer’s House on Thursday; I had plans for a movie right after this ended, Alexander Chee was not yet there, and I was impatiently playing rounds of Brickbreaker between sending annoyed texts. Finally, he arrived, and I straightened up, glad that the reading was finally about to begin, only to watch him mouth a “Sorry I’m late” and be ushered straight off for refreshments prior to beginning the event. Needless to say, this annoyed me even more, and so, once a lengthy introduction was made, and Mr. Chee took the mic, I was so irritated that he had a high hurdle to jump if he was going to make me appreciate his work. And jump it he did…in fact, he flew straight over it so high that I was left breathless by the end. But I’m jumping ahead of myself – Mr. Chee read to us an excerpt from his upcoming novel, Queen of the Night. Historical fiction – a genre I enjoy and read when nothing in the fantasy isle catches my eye. I mentally made my hurdle just a little taller – I’ve read many amazing historical fiction novels. But from the very beginning, his voice captivated me, and as I listened to him build a rich and vibrant setting in just a chapter of his work, my opinion definitely changed. Hearing an author read his own work is mesmerizing, it draws a soul into the heart of the story. I became the mute young girl he spoke of. As he narrated, I experienced, through her eyes, the “loose but carefully wild” hair of the Contesse (one of my favorite lines from his reading). The many colloquial French additions to the piece brought his setting and era alive, and I craved to visit the Paris that he spoke of. The story is historical in nature, yes, but that doesn’t stop it from maintaining an element of whimsy. The main character is a girl, and because he chose this point of view, the story is so much more captivating than it would be otherwise.

And after he had finished reading his novel, when he was a human being once more, not the grand omniscient narrator he had been just a few moments prior, I was overcome with the magnitude of what I had heard. I needed a few moments to come to peace with the fact that this peek into his story was over. The impact of desire hit me hard after that, and I really wanted nothing more than to snatch his manuscript and make a run for it. Find somewhere quiet and read the rest in peace. Revel in every word until I had sucked from the pages all that I possibly could. We had a question and answer session following the reading, and I realized that published authors are not that much different than us. He had spent years getting to know this Parisian world – it was only then that he was able to capture the scene so confidently. He had spent weekends downing Bourbon – only then was he able to finish his novel without losing his sanity. He doubted himself, he received harsh critiques, and he, too, found motivation to keep writing despite all of this. In fact, he even keeps a blog! I liked Mr. Chee more and more. And I definitely liked the excerpt from his book – I will be sure to purchase a copy when it is released. In fact, I’m going to read his first novel, Edinburgh, as soon as my final examinations for this semester are over…and I can’t wait.

Poetry Prompt – Structured Forms

 Hi! I have to write one of the following: Villanelle, Sestina, Pantoum
So, being the overachiever that I am, I’m going to (try) to write all three of them!

A. The Villanelle at a Glance
1. It is a poem of nineteen lines
2. It has five stanzas, each of three lines, with a final one of four lines
3. The first line of the first stanza is repeated as the last line of the second and fourth stanzas.
4. The third line of the first stanza is repeated as the last line of the third and fifth stanzas.
5. These two refrain lines follow each other to become the second-to-last and last lines of the poem.
6. The rhyme scheme is aba. The rhymes are repeated according to the refrains.

And The World Crumbles
A masked happiness approaches near
Walking upon shattered fragments of a tainted past
As the circular moon drips a single silvery tear

You’ve become rich now, I hear
Your footsteps are heavy with new fortunes amassed
A masked happiness approaches near

Your conscience is now black, but was once clear
Proving to me that many seasons have passed
As the circular moon drips a single silvery tear

Your ship must I now steer?
Must I be your hull, your keel, your mast?
A masked happiness approaches near

And I feel in my body a familiar fear
As my body is shocked rigid, and I am staring aghast
As the circular moon drips a single silvery tear

You have burst through my protective sphere
You have torn it apart with a single blast
And now a masked happiness approaches near
As the circular moon drips a single silvery tear

Song of Myself – Whitman Imitation

I am the unspoken heavens,
They who try to understand me know me not,
I am indescribable, unattainable, forever out of reach,
He who tries to capture me is left clinging to spirits.

I can follow the wind, breathe with the wind, flow with the wind,
I can breeze through the streets, caressing and tousling hair as I swish by,
I am sweet and wanted, untainted and pure,
and prefer sugar to spice.

I am a child of the summer, and the hot calming breeze washing over
the beachy sands turns eyes in my direction,
You’ll watch me, you must see, although you may not believe it.
For who would believe  that I am a child of the wind
And would rather fly than swim?

I am waiting by the dock for you now, waiting
for you to come in with your fish.
Was the catch big? Or were you unable to tame the beasts
of the sea? I am waiting, patiently, for you to come to me.

I am in the city, over the country, in the small almost-frozen lakes
of the early winter season. I brush by leaves,
painting a picture of my beauty, impressing my soul into all that I have touched.
I gust into your mind, creep into your thoughts, and effuse your senses with my being.

Observation/Reflection: Walt Whitman’s prosaic style of poetry astounds me – how is it that he is able to narrate a story in such lyrical form? I envy his skill (and experience, of course – had I been writing poetry for as long as he had, I may have had a better grasp of his meter and rhyme), and feel that "Song of Myself" is a very masterful piece. There are beautiful lines all over the verses, and it truly is written in a reverential tone. When I tried to imitate this style, I think the hardest part was figuring out how to sound this reverent without sounding as though I was also trying to sound old-fashioned. I kept reading his poetry out loud and then reading mine, and finding huge discrepancies that I simply couldn’t get rid of initially…I hope that by refining it here and there, I’ve been able to properly imitate his style.