The Problem With My Voice/14-going-on-15

I’ve finally understood why I was so discontent with the way my blog was turning out.

I’d forgotten the point.

A blog should read, in a sense, like a journal entry, not a school-approved essay–and injecting a profanity midsentence isn’t enough to make the distinction. As opposed to writing with a voice–my voice–I was churning out posts that read like summaries. Hence why the blog became an obligation as opposed to a source of enjoyment. It’s almost involuntary now; I open this “new post” URL and I start writing as if I’m going to fucking hand it in and get it graded.

Enough.

I don’t want to go through my blog and feel as if I’m going to publish it. I want to hear my voice. Rhetorical triangle. Speaker. Audience. I’m talking to YOU. So why don’t I sound like it?
It’s tough, though, to make this sudden shift- LISTEN TO ME! I still sound like I’m writing an essay!
… ! Lightbulb moment ! Why don’t I pretend as if I’m speaking to a specific person? This’ll go hand in hand with my blog revival project–the seven day countdown to my 15th birthday.

14 being my favorite number, it makes sense that my 14th year on the face of the planet was the psychopathic joyride it turned out to be. But I’ve only got seven days left to be fourteen. Ever. There’s no going back, and I feel like it deserves to be commemorated somehow.
So I’m going to record each day to some degree.
Now to decide who to write to on each day…

3/7 – Jack
3/8 – Nira
3/9 -
3/10 -
3/11 -
3/12 -
3/13 – Myself

I’ll fill up those spots as I go along. Hope it’ll work.
Fingers crossed.

Amped Up Soul

My latest musical fixation has come in the form of a brand that’s somewhere between R&B/Soul and rock. This fusion (the successful versions of it, at least) usually takes the form of an R&B singer over an insane guitar backdrop.

SOME EXAMPLES -

One 2 Many (London) = love.love.love. background. love.
Only U (Ashanti) = One-hit, guitariffic <- [just coined that term] wonder. Not insulting Ashanti’s career, but this is just so much better than anything else she’s done. The magic starts at 0:24.
KEVIN RUDOLF. Yes, the artist in general. Listen to: In The City, Let It Rock

Of course, my favorite genre-hopper has to be Timbaland. Is there anything he hasn’t attempted to merge?

I’m still trying to decide whether Prom Queen is unbelievably innovative or a three-minute-forty-two-second load of crap.

Being the audiophile that I am, I’ll continue looking for more priceless shit in the form of soulrock. As should you. So, you know, when you find it, you can get your ass on AIM and send it to me.

Another Lens To Peer Through

It’s a sign.

After Tyler hung up last night*, I lay there staring at my ceiling, not feeling the slightest bit of fatigue. Irritated at the wasted time, I plugged my cellphone in and hopped out of bed to grab a copy of the New Yorker. Thanks, Ivy.
EDITION: September 22nd, 2008
I’d waded through a couple pieces on the Babar book series, a childhood favorite, and the parallel between an author’s life experiences and his work before landing on an article about Spike Lee. It was twelve pages long, eleven without the title photo.
I was originally planning to skip over it in favor of a lighter read, but I was intrigued by the shot of Spike on the second page. He had on a serious expression that most would find intimidating- I found it endearing. His shirt was black, with white letters proclaiming “OBAMA IS THE NEW BLACK”. His stance was simultaneously very forward and laid back, with one foot propped up displaying an Air Jordan sneaker (there was a reference to this later on in the article).

Some would find his expression intimidating- I found it endearing.

He looked like the type of person I would genuinely want to be friends with.

By the end of the article, I was caught by a sudden desire to direct. This was nothing new- I’d considered the role of director before, an interest rather than an already-developed talent to add to my “jack-of-all-trades”. However, I’d very quickly dismissed it because, well, there were so many other trades and interests in this collection that I’d already honed to better degrees.
Last night, this obstacle struck me as very stupid.

So?

Spike didn’t know he wanted to direct until later on in life, and was most likely talented at quite a few other things, sports included. Look what he became.

—-

The next morning, I dragged myself out of bed, very much looking forward to an uneventful day of rest- the first in perhaps a week. I wound up in my dad’s room, going through his closet and replacing some ties that had somehow slithered off their designated hanger and onto the floor to mingle with the hairballs.
As I was checking his suit jackets for stains, something prompted me to look upward. There were boxes, piled one on top of the other, a couple depicting unopened childhood toys, another… a camcorder? My interest piqued, I grabbed my dad’s chair and promptly hopped on top of it, intending to bring down whatever I found.

Among my discoveries were a doorag (W-T-F?! My uber-asian father…?), a leather baseball cap with which I was very pleased, scarves, a neon pink scarf which I intend to style as a skirt, and not one but TWO camcorders.
Perhaps I’m just overanalyzing as usual. But discovering two camcorders the morning after I read Spike’s article and resolved to look into film?

I slid my hand behind the strap, wrapping my fingers around the camcorder and flicking the switches with my index. It felt good.

*”Last night”; 2/2/09

HEADS UP: Blog Rejuvenation!

In a series of blogosphere-related ideas, I’ve decided to try a new approach.

As opposed to blogging about whatever random thing comes to mind, I’m going to start a continuous series of certain things, such as:

- Short stories
- Latest mood photography (& Picnik projects)
- Noteworthy profile pictures/defaults
- Poetry
- Life timelines
- Blogs about holidays/events of importance
- Freewrites
- Non-mainstream music that should be mainstream
- Evenings out with el padre

etc.

Poetry That Sings

Townsend Harris High School
Chamber Music – 0
Kari Wei
1/20/09

I have always been the bearer of a divided heart.
Music, of course, was my first love. How could it not be? Born to a mother who taught miracles on the piano and coaxed four-part harmony out of tone-deaf senior citizens, I was a part of music before I was even out of the womb. It filled my ears before they’d fully developed and dictated the rhythm of my tiny heart. I was a child of music, a daughter of sound, and- at least in the years of youth- I was never allowed to forget it.
When I was three and music held my undivided attention, my mother informed me I could no longer ruin all her blank notebooks with my inane scribbles. I threw a tantrum. Then I discovered literature, which quickly became on obsession. Soon after, I retrieved one of the old, now-forbidden notebooks. This time, words took the place of squiggly lines, and neither parent had anything to say about it. Just before 4th grade, I was awarded my first computer, an old but faithful Apple clamshell laptop. My pianist’s fingers adjusting quickly to the new keyboard, technology tripled my speed as a writer and, by the time I was ten,  I had typed up a whopping seventy-five half-completed novels.
Time dragged on. Though I did not seem to grow any taller, the evolution of my interests and mannerisms made it obvious that I had definitely grown older. The hours once spent poring over my stories were now occupied by other activities. I traded in my beloved clamshell for a trendier  Macbook. My mother passed away, uprooting life as I knew it- I moved back to Queens to live with my father. More often than not, I ignored the siren call of pen and keyboard.
But the voices in my head simply would not shut up. Desperate for a way to satisfy them with my very limited time, I turned to an outlet I’d discovered when in 2nd grade- poetry. Despite having consistently received large amounts of praise on my poems, prose was always my choice as a writer when left to my own devices. Pressed for time and with a mind too cluttered to form storylines that made sense, I revived the poet within in the years surrounding my mother’s death-  just in time to encounter a new conflict.
Having entered the stage where my future was constantly being discussed, I was presented with an eventual choice. Music? Or literature? A couple years have gone by since I was first asked this question. I still have not found the answer. However, somewhere along the line, someone mentioned songwriting. Of course, the role of a singer-songwriter; a marriage of both of my loves. My favorite musical outlet is song, and circumstance/necessity has turned me into a poet rather than a novelist. It was a flawless suggestion, but when I sat down and gave the idea a try, I came up with a blank slate. Which taught me yet another lesson; creativity cannot be forced.
With two months to go until my 15th birthday, I am still as indecisive as ever. But I do not forget that, amid my confusion, I still have a full collection of my own poetry- to which it will, hopefully, never be too late to find a tune.

NEW STORYLINES: Cybereality

Le gasp! Possible revival of the 4th and 5th grade novelist within? We shall see.

Cybereality
TRIGGER (if not overall inspiration): “Gamer Girl” (Mari Mancusi) and, consequently, its summary. Found on a shelf in Barnes + Noble, created instant magnetism thanks to my gamer boyfriend messing with my head.
Also, a good friend’s latest female conquest on the notorious ChatAnGo. Thanks, Sir Pimpsalot.

When I discovered aforementioned book, I was immediately drawn in thanks to my own online exploits. I was half in love with the concept by the time I got through the first sentence of the summary. By the end, I was smitten, but not with the book. The concept itself was quite incredible, but if the summary was to be believed, the book went into said concept on far too shallow a level to do it true justice *summary included in the comments, didn’t want to make everyone read it*. I was suddenly overwhelmed with a desire to take the idea of “Gamer Girl” and bring some truth to it- the truth that so many socially troubled adolescents secretly turn to the internet for in our modern day and age, spawning a whole underground online world that I, content enough with my “RL” [read: Real Life], was completely unaware of until an IRL tragedy catapulted me into it headfirst.
Then, Sir Pimpsalot’s exploits and newest virtual damsel prompted me to graduate from the idea of breathing life to “Gamer Girl” to creating an entire short-story collection of different online situations and stories. After all, it’s a multi-faceted underground; from the gamer almost forced to bond with e-compatriots to reach the next level to the verbal roleplayer, simultaneously demolishing continental capitols in an IC thread and discussing real-world international politics with fellow players from numerous universities in the OOC thread, to the addictive pull of social networking sites and their growing “People You May Know” networks (thanks, Facebook).

We’ve all heard the stories about the pedophiles on Myspace, the Facebook stalkers (which some of us can even be counted among; I know I’m guilty as charged), the eloping “good girls” who are ensnared by the net of captivating and sexually deprived older men… What about the sunnier side? What about the lives of adolescents on the bring of self-destruction, whose hopes were revived by total strangers that understood them much better than anyone in a 10-mile physical radius? What about the lifelong friends and the intriguing opinions of those born from different worlds but with similar interests? No one has ever written of their story.

It’s January, the first month of the year, nine years into the 21st century.
I think it’s about time.

COMING UP SOON:
Beloved Illusions
TRIGGER (if not overall inspiration): Laurie B. Weasley
PRELUDE: Two girls walk into a Hot Topic store, dressed so calculatedly that they almost melt into the racks. Eyeing a couple particularly cute males that seem to fit the stereotypical “emo-guy” bill, they clomp over a few aisles, determined to catch them off guard. Instant chemistry result in fast friendship and even (fatal?) attraction, of the “can’t-stop-thinking-about-her” variety. But what happens when the guys find out their muses were illusions- projects created by two particularly bored young actresses- and they the unsuspecting victims of the girls’ experiment?

1/21/09

it was after last night
when i dreamt of your eyes
and they showed me the truth
in a world full of lies

love is written
all over me.
can you feel it on my hips?
can you taste it on my lips?

i understood you at last
why slow down? there’s no time
so fall with me. fall fast
i am yours, you are mine

love is written
all over me.
do you see it in my screams?
do you hear it in my dreams?

young i may be but
not too young to know
that this chance won’t come twice
so let go, love, let go

love is written
all over me.
did you paint it like an art?
did you brand it on my heart?

i leave life in my wake
you are my last mistake.
you’re the one right decision
that i’ll ever make.

Tuesday, January 20th, 2009 – Freewrite

Prelude (First Band, English)
“Happy Inauguration Day.
President Obama, you will be forced to make some tough decisions. Follow Bruce Wayne’s lead and make the right ones, because even if short-term America resents you for them, long-term world history will remember you. Well.
They didn’t start dissecting Lincoln’s second inaugural address until long after he was dead anyway.

Townsend Harris High School
1/20/09
Writing Process – 6
Kari Wei

*written on Microsoft Word*
This fill effect is called daybreak, which is actually quite fitting for the occasion.

Inauguration Day.

 

          A new day dawns for America- and for the universe. Because no matter how far we have fallen in the public eye, this is still the greatest country in the world. We are the focal point in the international eye. Our glass ceiling, albeit still intact, has 18 million cracks within it. Our president- our president- is a half-African man, and a full American man.

            President Barack Hussein Obama.

            President Barack Obama.

            President Obama.

            Washington. Jefferson. Madison. Lincoln. Jackson. Kennedy. Johnson. Reagan. Clinton. Bush. Obama.

            Welcome to a new day, America. Welcome to change. For better or for worse, we are moving- forward or backward, we are moving, and this man has both hands on the steering wheel. We, America, we, the people of the world, the next generation and the future of the universe, pledge to follow you wherever you may take us.

            You are both the white knight and the dark knight. You will maintain a beloved public image while simultaneously making the right decisions even when they do not please everyone. You are Barack Obama, 44^th President of the United States of America, the leader of the modern world. You will uphold our constitution, our bill of rights, our spirit, and our hearts. You are the colors I use to write this (red, white, blue). You are the flag. You are America, and America is you.

            Good luck.

Heroin [No Twilight Reference Intended]

I know I’ve been promising to write a New Year’s blog for-fucking-ever- and I will, tomorrow’s Friday- but it’s just been such a busy week.

In order to keep my head attached to my shoulders, however, I will sate my readers with this little poem I wrote in geometry on November 19th, 2008.
Funny, perhaps the class is more useful/artistically stimulating than I thought.

NOTE: Capitalization un-altered.

Heroin
your glorious eyes in their sockets; they seem
subversive. the way they gaze at me
a spell, to pull me under.
you’re my lie when I don’t want the truth.
when the drugs and the nicotine leave me bored
the aftertaste of alcohol without passion
liquor gives me false warmth
but you
one touch of skin, of cell on cell
it’s what they’ve been teaching us about all these years
wasted in classrooms with test tubes and blood samples.
the rush of this rare and natural high
you spike my blood with your DNA
an addiction of which i will never tire.
the cure for which I’ll never search.
i don’t need to be made breathless.
make me sick.

Geometry Can Kiss My Angle-Side-Side

I was in room 512 and the five minute bell had just jolted me out of my half-doze, half-daydream. Although I was sitting at the front of the 8th-band geometry class, my hair + bag (of the same color) concealed my earphones from view. I was beginning to pack when I was hit by the poetry bug. Having always placed my creative whims far higher on my priority list than following the rules, I grabbed the nearest writing utensil, opened to the nearest blank surface (last page of my geometry workbook) and started scrawling another fragment of my soul onto the off-white paper.
I haven’t written any poetry in quite a while, and even though I neglected to do any mathematically-inclined work that class, what I did accomplish is SO much more worthwhile (by my standards at least) than being taught a shitload of new postulates I’m bound to forget the moment I walk out of the classroom.

well nothing you ever said
could ever be as poignant as this poem scrawled
on the back of my notebook, all about the words
that you just couldn’t spit out of your mouth.

the dreams that stayed as sentence fragments
while i wrote essays, essays of my hopes
and of the shooting star i wished on that night in december.
i couldn’t have missed it going by my window
it wasn’t like there were any other stars flying down
or roads going up.
you couldn’t be fucked to build them

so you can go ahead and stay right here
with your verbal diarrhea.
my words are my way out
the spells will come if you can steal the strength to write them.

INSPIRATION (or at least the proverbial artistic trigger): Tremble For My Beloved by Collective Soul