Thursday, May 29, 2008

magic.

It's amazing...when there is just that one thing you've been hoping and waiting for, and you know you have a chance at it, and you know you've done all that you can, and you don't want to get your hopes up, nor give up hope in case your negativity will affect the outcome...and you kind of feel like it's going to happen because it just has to happen.

And then it does.

And suddenly everything works out exactly the way you want them to. Little surprises you would have never expected.

I go the scholarship! Or at least, a portion of it. A portion meaning 15,000 dollars. Which is a good portion. An incredible portion. I'm so excited. To not be starving...

On top of that: my NYU orientation fee has been lowered. To a lovely $70 instead of $300. And I won't have to get up early. I get to arrive a day early. So many lovely things are possible, now that this scholarship has happened.

I'm optimistic, energetic, cheerful. Lovely, lovely things are happening in the near future. Hurray!

Now I just have to make sure that I'm not dying of some terrible sickness. And all will be well.

Sunday, May 18, 2008

existentialism on prom night



Despite what my photo may lead you to believe, prom night was not any of the following: classy, romantic, elegant, fun, unique, the best night of my life, or even particularly memorable except for the fact that it was my high school prom and really just about sums up my high school experience.

That is to say--I suppose I'm glad I went. But only so that I won't ever, in the future, wonder what my prom would have been like. Only so that in the future, the only regrets I'll have about prom is that I'm sorry I went. But it had to be done. And now that it's over--at least there were lovely pictures to make it well.

This whole experience is so illogical and not at all what it's made out to be. Think about it--everyone makes an effort to dress up formal (although, of course, how anyone interprets that is a whole different matter...) and pretend to be classy in order to go to a supposedly fancy hotel so that they can hump and grind to the worst music imaginable, get as sweaty as possible and look like utter crap at the end of the night after having had sex in public with clothes on and happily ruining the hundreds of dollars wasted on a dress, hair and makeup.

But hey--maybe I'm just bitter because I attended the best night of my life without a date. And what can be more romantic than terrible R&B and slower grinding in groping? This is especially perfect to show off the low cut dresses in the back and the front, lift up those silts until you might as well be wearing an ultra mini (or just nothing at all), and, well, act like an idiotic teenager for all to admire.

There's really just nothing quite like it. The other good thing to come out of it? At least I've got lovely photos and a cute outfit. And the little after party we had with our friends was actually quite classy fun.

High school experience conquered. Thank god I won't ever miss that.

Monday, May 12, 2008

Rather than studying for the last AP exam I will ever take (wow, that's a satisfying idea...), I've been more preoccupied with this idea of prom. Which is this Saturday. Which is ironic, because although I was the one who once encouraged all my friends to go to prom, just a little a while ago the idea of going to prom seemed like the worst idea of them all. And now? And now I'm back to almost being excited. But not so much with the prom itself--I'm sure it'll be an interesting experience. Terrible loud music, cliched over dressed and overly groomed people I mostly hate and won't have to see for much longer, at a random hotel...and most importantly: my friends and I all dressed up in our finery.

Yes, it is not so much the attending my one and only high school dance that appeals to me so much as the dressing up. Finally, an occasion to indulge in my most theatrical outfit ideas and be relatively treated as a sane person! And as I've given up on finding that perfect little prom dress and settled on this vintage little number I got a few months back, it is now the idea of a pair of killer heels that plague me. And what a search it is, as apparently my taste in shoes is exclusively the most exquisite and completely unaffordable options that are utterly gorgeous...

I lust these Prada pumps with that beautiful flower heel detail:



and if I actually wanted a strappy shoe, this would be ideal:



and a pair of Louboutin's that are so basic yet beautiful and the very definition of perfection:



(all from Neiman Marcus)

This somehow led me into a search for the perfect shoes in general. As in, shoes I might be able to wear on a regular basis (even in nyc) without dying. And I would probably be ever so happy and never ever take off these Salvatore Ferragamo flats. Understated, simple, elegant, classic, classy, adorable and from what I've read, ever so comfortable and stylish, I may just put in the effort and invest for something that may be my essential item.



(image from Fabsugar)

Tuesday, May 6, 2008

Ah, daydreams and fantasies. How you plague me, every time I go on a walk with the proper soundtrack playing in my ears. Every time I'm strutting through school, pretending to be somewhere else. Every time I'm mindlessly shelving books or waiting for a class to end, every time I'm home alone and I feel like doing something but I'm not sure what, and not sure what I can do...but I am sure that I can pretend. Every time I put on an outfit that contains a little bit of who I think I am--who I think I want to be. Every night when the troubles of the day are circling in my mind and I'm tired but oh so awake, so I turn to these. A movie version of my life that has yet to happen, played by an alternative version of me who looks a bit more like Anna Karina or Chuck from Pushing Daisies or some unbearably sweet and pretty Swedish darling photographed on endless fashion blogs.

An especially prevalent one, currently (yes it's all a bit ridiculous and pathetic really, but who can judge and who should really mind? This is probably just about the only place I'll ever share them. Ironic, since this is also possibly about the most public place to do so...) is so detailed and lovely in my mind that I want to capture the script, the screenplay. Maybe as evidence of the silly childish things I once longed for, maybe as evidence of idealistic dreams to be crushed by reality. Maybe just something to think about the deep psychological meaning of or just something that sounds so fun in my mind that it may even sound fun in writing.

This one, is set sometimes in the future, but not too far in the future. A few years, at most. The scene is the journalism room at my high school, the same room with the same arrangements as it had when I first stepped foot in it, freshman year. The same "punk rock" journalism and english teacher towering at the front of the room. Maybe I come in during 4th period journalism and it is brainstorming day.

I open that all familiar door and smile, and tug forward the boy behind me. I am thin and confident and look like I just stepped out of a Sartorialist photo. I'm wearing (yes, how great it is that I plan out my outfits to details in a petty fantasy..) a short black dress--a black dress with layers of floaty fabric of chiffon and silk with the proper shape to make an impact, a soft smoke cardigan with exquisite buttons and subtle details, layers of necklaces in silvers and jewels and pearls, slightly slouchy thigh-high socks in a pastel shade that suggests a faint sense of color, the sort of socks Cassie from Skins is prone towards, a creme vintage chanel quilted purse slung across the shoulder, and a pair of red red heels that demand attention. The perfect shade of lipstick. This boy, he smiles an indulgent smile and follows me. The room stares. He is impeccably dressed--another Sartorialist phantom--and incredibly beautiful.

I see my teacher and walk towards her, with that easy strut that would appear difficult with the height of the heels. She's exclaiming and complementing us on how great we look and how wonderful it is to see us. We make small talk, me speaking with such a self assured ease and sophistication that betrays what nyc is able to do. And after a few minutes of really saying nothing, I give her another smile. This not just the natural politeness but something more.

Maybe this is where I raise my eyebrows and adopt a tone that Blair of Gossip Girl would be proud of. The sort of sardonic, piercing irony and brutal honesty. I tell her, enough about me, though, I'm sure both you and I are more curious about the fate of your favorite, star student. You know, that precious beat bohemian hippie boy who you had such lovely, lovely bonding conversations and moments with. The one you were convinced would become the star--the famous author, the rich eccentric. I haven't seen him, or spoken to him in a long while. I want to know where he is, how he is now. I wonder if you know. I certainly didn't notice his name next to mine on the nyt best sellers list...but hey, that's to be expected. He's an non-conformist, never to be part of the mainstream. I didn't hear Dave Eggers drop his name on the list of aspiring writers with brilliant potential when we had lunch last weekend. My editor at the New Yorker never got any submissions or even heard anything about him. No word of a brilliant new young writer winning big prizes from the great Humboldt State University. I mean, I really wonder...your favorite student. The one whom you were so so sure was the greatest writer you've ever taught.

You know what I have heard, though. From sources, old friends, and the like...I have heard that he's quite content with his pot growing and selling mini-business at his esteemed university. I have heard that he's kicking it with old and new friends, living the life, rebelling the fuck against government hypocrisy and preaching the beauty of organic drugs. Converting budding young non-conformists into full on future life changers, just like him. I've heard that he plans on settling in Oregon and working at his favorite independent coffee shop or bookstore. In his free time, drumming for peace and smoking for understanding.

They would all be too stunned to speak. I would shrug, turn towards the door. Well, it was lovely seeing you. I just wanted to update you on my life--but no need to pay attention. After all, it's your star student, your best writer you should be focused on. I hear he's trying to self publish his deep personal memoir--the one he let you read and made you cry, back in the day? Remember that? I do too. At the time, he claimed to have wrote it for me. Who would have ever thought?

This is where I smile at my boy, who'll smile back, nod in the class's general direction. It was nice meeting you.

And, his hand on my back, we'd walk out, smiling, together.

A little episode--one that I would perhaps give so much to set in real life. Is it a misguided goal, then? My intentions are so not pure. Not art for the sake of art but for proving them wrong.

Maybe my intentions are all wrong--so much of what I want is hindered on how I'll return, one day, to the bookstore, to the high school that I spent four years hating and desperate to escape from, this city, this world. I'd give so much for the opportunity to come back and speak to these same people who would have never imagined. Treasure their reactions.

Does it matter?

Reality won't happen like this, I know. Because nothing ever works out exactly the way it does in my mind. but there will be pieces and bits, little moments that maybe give me the satisfaction and sense of fulfillment I desire. Because it's all too good to be true, and it's never that easy, and even if it is it won't happen until some time in the future. It won't happen because it's so spiteful, so pathetic...but mostly it won't happen because when it does happen, when happiness and joy isn't so difficult to grasp and I don't have to resort of make-believe to smile, when my book is sold in the same store I once worked at, I won't go back. Not to my high school, not to those halls and concrete walkways and miserable grass and dirt fields and stained benches, not to those windowless classrooms and hopeless white boards, not to look into the faces and eyes of the next generation...the next big thing. It won't happen because by then it won't matter. What they think, what they thought. I won't come back to this teacher and I won't mock her with all that I've accomplished. I think, by then, the accomplishments will be enough to speak for themselves.

And as for the boy, her star student, her best writer. Maybe I'll run into him while visiting my high school friends. Maybe we'll smile and pretend to hug and catch up. Maybe we'll be awkward strangers with a temporary lapse of pretense. Maybe I'll brush hair from my eyes and tell him: it's good to see you. Good luck with everything. Maybe I'll walk away with my boy, leaning ever so slightly in, and so obviously in love.

And maybe he'll be happier, knowing that he stuck to his precious morals and values of a life greater than the commercial affair I'll have sold myself to. Or maybe, he'll wonder where he went wrong. Maybe neither of us will notice, at all.
Lately, I've been wasting a lot of time watching TV shows online and other assorted mindless things just to kill time. I've still got two AP tests left to go, but only art history requires a bit of studying that I'm not excited to do. I always get this way AP test season, it seems.

Everything is so incredibly unchallenging that I lack the motivation to really accomplish any of things I meant to do. I need another job for the summer--preferably one that concerns a bit more mental exercise and doesn't pay the minimal amount above the minimum wage.

Other things that I need to do: post on Wardrobe remix again. If nothing else, it's an interesting visual diary. Get on this query letter writing and get around to actually submitting novel proposal. Even if it fails--at least there will be something to look forward to and hope for.

My life in a nutshell: at least there will be something to hope for. No matter how impossible it may seem. And after all--isn't that what keeps us going? This hope.

Fuck it. Maybe that should be my new ideology. There are certainly things that are just out of my control and maybe hoping to change it will make a difference, maybe actually doing something about it will make a difference. Does it really even matter? I hate going over these same ideas over and over again. Time to find something new and exciting to write about. My life has become yet again as mundane as the Sunday cartoons.