September's Finale

Last Friday the Avatar: The Last Airbender’s spin-off THE LEGEND OF KORRA had aired with surprisingly two episodes across Asia while I incoherently tweeted about my favorites’ debuts on TV. Not less just fifty minutes before the premiere the cable was pretending to be dead and I was plunged in an ephemeral pall caused by the pessimistic feeling that it would not come back before the very much hair-standing series of which I have been awaiting for months and months. Now, I am supposed to be reviewing for an emphatically long quiz on cells for tomorrow, but I wanted to record a few happenings of which were quite enjoyable, and the record had already started with Korra’s heavenly intro pre-October. But I will still study afterwards this update!

My mother and I watched The Perks of Being a Wallflower, and I had awkwardly yet almost boldly explained the reason why Perks is rated R-13. Basically the book would be the same if they were rated like movies were. I also rambled on about how people should not act immature about the scenes in both the book and its movie adaptation, because seriously. Anyway Perks was emotional and by “emotional” I mean exhaustingly enjoyable and captivating. And as two older teenage girls giggled on about how cute Logan Lerman is and why this and why that (since one of them apparently did not read Stephen Chbosky's work of brilliance), I clung to my mother’s arm and thought of many things, which I admit did not exclude the attempt of figuring out what personality type Charlie has and the probability of a high wave of the online statistics of Harry Potter/Percy Jackson crossovers via a number of writing sites I admittedly tarry around for fanfiction from other fandoms. I argue that some aspects from the book weren’t so stressed about or did not even appear in the adaptation, but overall I’d given Stephen a thumbs up and a friendly smile. I should also mention how beautifully blessed Ezra Miller is with the audience’s obvious infatuation with him summed up by their cheers, but I’m handing it over to you to dream about until you see the movie (if you haven’t seen it yet).

But before Perks had caught my full attention I was at Fully Booked, hissing around lest someone grab the SIGNED COPY of John Green’s bestseller The Fault in Our Stars. My mother was of course hesitant about getting it for me since I already own a NOT SIGNED COPY of the book, but she eventually did. I wriggled around with my hands across my face, a tingle of the Nerdfighter sign racing through my fingers. Then en route to a nearer mall after a quick respite in the house, I replaced Owl City’s The Midsummer Station with Ocean Eyes. It was a bound to safety and relief, for I had needed it.

One significant character from TFiOS is Augustus Waters, and I just had to add: I also love metaphors and fear oblivion, Gus. I feel comfort through your sentences through Hazel, so thank you.

Today a book and the cutest bookmark were purchased. Think Shakespeare and a flower, getting ready for October. With a new month comes this kind of unpredictability I both dread and dream about. Let's do that together, hopefully with less worrying.

The following month, again, okay! Good evening, good night.

Blind Them With This

Despite how perilous it would be if it continued on pouring, I like the rain. I like rainy days and petrichor. Although nights sabotaged by rain may worry me at times, I can never say I do not enjoy the company of the sound of water falling from the sky and the smell of it, the atmosphere. The rain is an inspiration, and when thunder starts knocking on the front door, I do not fear. I like the shout of the heavens. Oddly it comforts me more than it should.

An archive for my feelings - that is what I desperately need. I can't seem to collect them all, tuck them in somewhere safe and private every other day. I am a scattered mural stretching my arms as if they were wings, but I am apterous, and it couldn't suffice! I dream of sunny mornings of plates of bacon but I also do dip my head into reveries of tucking myself in a bed of handwritten journal entries, cotton blankets, and a hazy whisper of elsewhere. I don't really know, I really don't know. I'm just a bundle of question marks. What happens if I fall from a cliff to a pit of flames and waves? Will I ever redeem myself from letting it happen? If I could blame the propinquity of madness, I would. But I can't for I had promised myself that I am in control of my own steering wheel. I could parry these haunted circuits, but I did not and I do not know why.

Run, they told me. Run like the wind. I ran into pale moonlight and whirls of claustrophobia. I fell apart under a garden of pending ambition. What do I do now? Do I dream?

Yes. No.

I feel defeated. My hands feel defeated. Marks of teeth and cold calluses wind around my hands and arms like my conscience. I can't fathom, I can't let science explain this one. I spot a fortress of breathing blood in my body. I sniff a scarf of trees and rivers, and it is never the same. Yet I could not be the same. My veins burst with adrenaline and my cough plans to outrun my heartbeat. And my smile, dear, is terrible. I, people, have scarred it maliciously and have planted battles on it. I cannot cancel my dreams; I cannot cut them in half and save the latter part for later. I do not go back. My spine is aching. My eyes are lost. My lips are searching for a kiss I've never won. I had no competition but the foretold way of how events sequence. I am in bliss somewhere in between these lines, in between these mad trains of thought. Dear God, my thoughts are malarkey! My doings are its quintessence! I am but a figment of a girl's imagination, aren't I? I am spiraling into her disappearing childhood memories. Bring me back! Am I not of import to you? Haven't I nourished your mind and heart in lieu of leaving you with blank pages? Do I not give you something to think about? Oh, my panic. She must have felt it, and it should've been heavy on her, so she had unceremoniously burned it to the ground.

But it's still here. With me. In the ashes of her memory.

Chalky Throat

and though the embers are new, whatever you do, just don't let the fire die

From slapping sinew to cracking degrees, she pirouetted like a swan across the hollow stage. Her trailing ribbon of aquamarine sequins floated above her head as her chalky skirt and opalescent arms diced the air in swift precision. Dredged in rosy daydream, stuck in an aquarium, the auditorium of Gothic Orchestra sang no song but the dance of October. The spines of thousands and thousands of books have graced the tip of her fingers. She couldn’t see; her eyeglasses were missing and her head was tumbling and her heart was crashing to her feet and oh 
                           God oh God someone please catch me–

Catch! Caught. I-She caught herself, found her heart, and then twirled some more. Composure. She watched her shaking fingers tickle the ghosts, lavishing them with secrets to keep. She felt diaphanous, so naked in the two or three stage lights. When she’d breathe, she’d swallow an ocean. She could already feel the overwhelming bedlam of the crowd, the cheer not so collective. She had swallowed a fire, wanting to give up, but nothing. Nothing but a nauseating rollercoaster on life. She tripped – almost broke – on her own feet. She followed traces. She followed ghosts. She followed embers. Trying to swallow, then swallowed, couldn’t choke, will not choke. 

She was better than this, still.

Icy Drumming

His spindly legs prickle even under the fluorescent light, with snow in between his fingers and his heart drumming in his ears, knocking on his ribs with such stamina he himself couldn't fathom. His coat rises with each breath, one inhalation feeling like his last. His tongue is ribboned with snowflakes, daggers of icy water creeping down and down his throat and swimming in his peanut butter and jam-rimmed belly. It is futile. He couldn't fight. He couldn't stand and battle the men. Those snowmen in the snow world of a house. He cants his head and finds his clawed hoodie, his barely shielded head, in the low mirror. And oh, the sore of his shoulders, slapped with loose rhythm by icicle hands. A pained groan escapes him and the room shakes, he thinks. The bathroom trembles with belatedly prophesied transformation.

"No," he croaks. First the ceiling grows roots, and a chandeleir sprouts, accompanied with more swaying and the sound of ice bumping and tinkering. His breath quickens, and when he tries to fold his legs they cower and collapse in front of him, betraying him. But then he still initiates to move although it hurts, because he doesn't forget. Those fairytales. Those myths. The truth all along. The slow yet deadly gain of ice on his flesh will hurt a million times more than the ache he feels.

By the time he is in the mimicry of standing on both feet, the bathroom has shrunk, with the ceiling thickening with ice and daydream. Later, the floor will breathe with the snowmen and he needs to get out before the walls and the floor do, too.

With his head down he miraculously manages to squat and pass through the door with his whole body still, as he knows it, intact and his ice skates tacitly with his feet and the large expanse of ice. It is almost dark outside, and as a breeze kisses him a voluminous chatter follows. He grapples for his flashlight in one baggy pocket, then turns it on, flashing each corner of his bedroom with yellow light. Ice, ice, ice. All is ice. Then the floor creaks, so he's got to move. That's the trick; you've got to keep moving, keep yourself warm, keep being human. The rules of life among snowmen always have the word "keep." But in this life you can't always keep the ones you love. You can't keep trust. You can't keep Earth. You get snow, and then you begin to keep and not keep again. He finds it hilarious, tiresome, this make-believe gone real. He warms his hands, quick, and skates onward to elsewhere. Anywhere. Somewhere. Just not here, where everything is scarier alone.

Zac Efron

Every time I see Zac Efron for Bench I always see this image.

You're welcome.

Mediocre

I am really tired, and today has been a splash of colorful weather combinations; the weather being all sorts of emotions, at least according to me. I've been thinking about video blogging while riding home from school as I observed how fresh and bright the colors were this afternoon. Perhaps the vlogbrothers have inspired me. To be frank I've been trying to make light of classes but I am often stuck in the middle of chaos -- if we're straightforwardly referring to Art class, I came across my own mediocre imitation of professionally drawn lips. Turns out I can't even shade them.

There has been so much urgency going around and tonight I have the heels of my palms on my grandmother's computer because mine is silent in misery in one corner of where my relatives are staying for at least, maybe, a month. I've missed blogging. I've missed the comfort of my blog, because in a way it comforts me like no one can. I've been worrying that something inside me would just leave this afloat and abandoned, especially since I haven't been blogging for a long time. Well, maybe not for so long, but I am strict and unmerciful to myself. I've been chastising myself day by day by loosening the grip on my hold on this haven. Maybe it doesn't make sense at all, but I hope it does. I apparently like making sense and having it.

Thanks, and DFTBA! (what does DFTBA mean? see numbers 1 and 2 for accuracy)

Tuneage

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9.

10.

1. After Afterall -- William Fitzsimmons 
2. Tenzin's Decision -- Legend of Korra (The Track Team)
3. Breakeven -- The Script
4. She Will Be Loved -- Maroon 5
5. Reflection -- Lea Salonga (Mulan)
6. A Whole New World -- Brad Kane and Lea Salonga (Aladdin)
7. Breath of Life -- Florence + The Machine
8. Cave Jivin -- Avatar: The Last Airbender (The Track Team)
9. Where The Fence is Low -- LIGHTS
10. I Don't Dance -- Corbin Bleu and Lucas Grabeel (High School Musical 2)

Take Me There

I grew up dreaming amidst raindrops and fireworks, like the depressing pall of the weather and the beginning of a sparkly New Year. I read the dark in the syrupy breath of flickerflickerflickers in the attic and on the dining room table, and I drew childish hearts, borrowing fingertips of the dark and knowing I was alone that night while the peaceful roar of adults talking quaked below. I had forgotten and abandoned my favorite books and how could I? The dogs swam around and below, circling around the house like shark fins. We were on top of the world nonetheless, and I peeked down and crawled and tried to whisper some prayers here and there. I did not know what the sun was. La luna? I think I knew its language. But anyway the branches danced from side to side, then the roots swallowed too much water, and I held on with it because it needed me and somehow I was the lost girl that needed it too. The Lost Girl of the Nowhere, listening and watching and waiting for the sailors of La Luna to take me there. La Luna.

Dogs, Tweets, and Satos

Hi.

August is on its way and as the weather keeps holding everything in place and fighting against gates of rust, I’ve been lazing around, listening to the dot dots of key-pushing, completing a few assignments, babying somebody, and reading, writing, examining words, and watching photosets/gifs of characters I adore.

Last Saturday I woke up to my mother looking at the TV as The Olympic Games ran live. John Green has been tweeting eagerly about the competitors/teams, and I am absolutely enjoying seeing his tweets pour down my timeline.

So far he hasn’t sworn. Yet.

And I got this book 

Inside of a Dog: What Dogs See, Smell, and Know 

and the reviews are enticing – it does look promising, especially with that dog staring into your soul on the cover (and the title even uses the oxford comma, although I try to establish not to judge any work of literature that lacks it) – so I hope I garner more and more knowledge about dogs, considering the aforementioned reasons and the fact that the author is – surprise surprise! – a dog lover herself. 

There are two girls I love so much – one the namesake of the other.

My Asami Baby

(and all the other dogs

try to chase me

but here's my number

so call me maybe)

(I'm embarrassing myself online.)

and my Queen, who appears on Legend of Korra

©

I'll be back this August! Hopefully, yes!

Two Hips and a Hooray

Some days when the world is pretty much the same in the peculiar sense that it is not, I like to think that I do think of the worlds I’ve rumbled and jumbled under my eyelids. There’s a Captain America shield to my right – a story, among other stories. Books – at least the books you know – stand out to you because they’re known and they are loved. I’ve loved worlds and I can’t tell if it’s healthy or not – the longing and the desire – but it dresses me with joy. Unquantifiable joy I grasp till I can’t – euphoria I can hold before the truth and the days of this world blind me back to disparate (and sometimes unwanted) knowledge.

Yesterday I wrote one drabble and hiP HIP HOORAY to that! But now I can feel how competitive and so damn little I am as I have skimmed past a page of laudable writing by a dear blogger. There is pride, now that I think about it, when the screen had flashed through my eyes and thoughts. I identify as writer (and I just had to italicize that word so much because I marvel in it) and I live in a world where there are many others of that too. But then I speed through blog to blog and I know – I’ve always known – that there are lovelier, simpler bridges of words that have been constructed SO WELL that they are so gorgeously complicated in a way it makes me dizzy to comprehend. I envy so much.

One thing: I am a cruel vine sprawled out over lives of my loves, and I am a witch hissing for languages and the breath of vacation. Another thing: A twisted world doesn’t need a Cinderella, but she stays because she’s Cinderella.

If it hasn’t dawned on you yet, I want to speak out that my words do not make sense unless you understand – from beginning to end. I try not to make reading hard for you. But the world doesn’t make writing easy for me. I’m struggling, and I love you. Perhaps you could allot time for reading? :)