I'm just girly girl who just thinks it's cool to be a tomboy.
Don't let me fool you.
6.29.2009
6.26.2009
Stranger
There are some days where I feel like a very weird person.
1 part paranoia.
2 parts self-consciousness.
1 part paranoia.
2 parts self-consciousness.
6.18.2009
Travel Journal.
I was going to break this down into several tweets, but I think I will just write it here instead. Pardon my typos. I am currently sitting in the lobby of Penn Station in NYC and headed for Penn Station in Baltimore. First and foremost, can I just say that I loathe Amtrak with a blood-boiling, toe-curling, hair-raising, tooth-and-nail-grinding passion? OK, thanks.
On a brighter note, just picked up my morning cup at a coffee bar. I thought I was going to go nuts with all the amazing choices they had to offer. I'm not too sure why an iced coffee costs $. 40 extra though.
Something I've observed: nothing has shown me more clearly character traits which I've developed (or inherited) than the time spent with someone with opposite traits. This week, I've learned that I'm a very organized and mildly germaphobic person. I'm constantly tracing dirt paths in my head to make sure that I dont use a soiled towel, etc. And I get unreasonaby obsessive about it, although it took 3 days with a laid-back, somewhat disheveled person to realize this.
OK, back to my coffee.
6.13.2009
6.11.2009
6.09.2009
Pen Pal
Call me old fashioned, but I've always wanted a long-term pen pal from somewhere far and mysterious. Woman, man, young, old, it doesn't really matter as long as 1) They are open and honest with me 2) I get to learn about their culture 3) They write beautifully.
Is that too much to want?
I browsed Craigslist to see if anyone was looking for a pen pal. Oh, also, I would prefer snail mail. Somehow, "email correspondence" doesn't have as nice of a ring to it. With all the psychos and ax murderers in the world, I understand the danger of sending a stranger my mailing (home) address... I would like to think that my perfect pen pal is none of these, though, nor anything equally dangerous.
I happened across a letter-writing website a couple of years ago. An English-speaking/writing man had one simple message on the site: that if you email him your mailing address, he will write you a letter. His reasoning was that folks nowadays are in too much a of a hurry to appreciate the beauty behind a personal letter and that many people in the world are lonely and only looking the simplest human connection.
That was so beautiful to me. I teared up when I read that. I went back to the website not too long ago. It was either moved or taken down; for whatever reason, it wasn't there anymore.
I want to do something like that. When I saw his website, I didn't feel the need to be written to (although that would have been interesting as well), but I wanted to partake in this project with him.
His message continued, saying that he writes about things that anyone would write in a letter - his day, a poem that he found, an interesting lyric or quote. He doesn't tell the recipient when they should expect the letter because that takes away from the fun of waiting.
If I started my own letter-writing project, I imagine that it would be a bit like blogging, but with one audience member. One real, live reader. When I write here, I write to anyone and no one. I write to me of the future about me of the present and past. If I started by own letter-writing project, I'd write about the important things; I'd bare my soul and include no return address.
This brings me back to my pen pal dilemma. A pen pal needs a return address. I suppose that's what P.O. boxes are for (or I can just get with the times and use a regular ol' good-for-nothing email address). But that's fine, a pen pal needs a reader, too. Someone who cares.
I'll care. Just write to me. I'll save every letter.
Is that too much to want?
I browsed Craigslist to see if anyone was looking for a pen pal. Oh, also, I would prefer snail mail. Somehow, "email correspondence" doesn't have as nice of a ring to it. With all the psychos and ax murderers in the world, I understand the danger of sending a stranger my mailing (home) address... I would like to think that my perfect pen pal is none of these, though, nor anything equally dangerous.
I happened across a letter-writing website a couple of years ago. An English-speaking/writing man had one simple message on the site: that if you email him your mailing address, he will write you a letter. His reasoning was that folks nowadays are in too much a of a hurry to appreciate the beauty behind a personal letter and that many people in the world are lonely and only looking the simplest human connection.
That was so beautiful to me. I teared up when I read that. I went back to the website not too long ago. It was either moved or taken down; for whatever reason, it wasn't there anymore.
I want to do something like that. When I saw his website, I didn't feel the need to be written to (although that would have been interesting as well), but I wanted to partake in this project with him.
His message continued, saying that he writes about things that anyone would write in a letter - his day, a poem that he found, an interesting lyric or quote. He doesn't tell the recipient when they should expect the letter because that takes away from the fun of waiting.
If I started my own letter-writing project, I imagine that it would be a bit like blogging, but with one audience member. One real, live reader. When I write here, I write to anyone and no one. I write to me of the future about me of the present and past. If I started by own letter-writing project, I'd write about the important things; I'd bare my soul and include no return address.
This brings me back to my pen pal dilemma. A pen pal needs a return address. I suppose that's what P.O. boxes are for (or I can just get with the times and use a regular ol' good-for-nothing email address). But that's fine, a pen pal needs a reader, too. Someone who cares.
I'll care. Just write to me. I'll save every letter.
6.06.2009
Stella
Storytellers have all the best lives. This is the life of Storyteller Stella.
Stella is a very optimistic person. She knows that any bout of bad luck is only the rising action, or maybe the climax, and that some ounce of good will inevitably follow.
Stella searches for meaning in her life because what's a good story without a moral? Consequentially, Stella reflects on every moment of her life and makes connections with the places she visits and the people she meets.
At that, Stella is always meeting people. A good story has a collection of complex characters and your more basic archetypes. She is close with her friends and family because she needs good supporting actors. Wherever she goes, Stella befriends the least likely of people in the hopes of finding noteworthy cameos.
= = =
OK, real talk. Lenny and I have an ongoing joke that my life is a movie (MLIAM). Others would probably look at the events of my life and call it nothing but a series of coincidences and consequences, but hey, I like to have my fun.
For example:
Sometimes I feel like my world is becoming so small. It's like, I know that there are 6 billion people in the world, and counting, but my life starts feeling moviesque when it seems like I know all the characters in this story. Everyone I meet, I meet for a reason. Many characters appear and reappear. Nothing is random.
-During my last day in San Diego, I ran into/spoke with every boy I have ever dated. None of us had seen or heard from each other in years, and yet there he was in the parking lot of Rubio's. Or there he was, working the kitchen at L&L. Or there he was, somewhere out there, texting me for the first time in months. It felt like all the spaced out moments in my life time were smushed together so closely that I was able to really see where I've come from and what I went through to get me here, at this very moment. I used to be a quiet, little 8th grader. I became a friendly, wide-eyed 9th grader. I grew into a critical, do-good teenager. And now? I don't know, but I'm with Lenny now. OK, I'll reflect on neo-me later.
-After hearing about Navid, Lenny's roommate, I spent much time reflecting on the purpose of life, the legacies that we leave, and what our loved ones do without us once we are gone. Later, I attended the math graduation of a good friend of mine, and Navid was recognized there. Turns out he was about to graduate in that department. His brother wore his gown for him and accepted his diploma. What were the odds that of all the commencements I'd attend, Navid would be recognized at that one? Why do coincidences like these happen? Of all the graduates, faculty, and family members here, there were probably only a select few that knew who the speaker was talking about when he recognize Navid, but I was one of them. Me. Why me? I was moved in this moment, touched to be able to share in this sacred moment with his family whom I've never met.
-Yesterday, I missed the train by a split second. Not literally, but almost literally. I missed it with just enough time for me to wonder if I was meant to miss that train. I wondered if I was meant to have to return home to retrieve a forgotten item, or meant to hesitate before descending the stairwell to the BART station, or meant to pause to listen to the new street performer at the base of the station escalator. Thirteen minutes until the next train was to arrive. What an odd number. I can't decide if I like that number or if I hate it. It comes up in my life more than you would think. At that moment, I couldn't decide if it was good or bad that I just missed that train, but if my life were a movie, it'd be a good thing. Sure enough, as I sat on the cement bench (tweeting about my life, of course), some guy appeared before me - without looking up, I knew that whoever he was, he wanted to sit down next to me. I picked up my bag from next to me in haste, not wanting to appear rude. He sat down. "Whoa, hey! What are you doing here?" It turned out that it was a guy that I had met just earlier this week. We forgot each others' names, but we weren't too embarrassed to admit it. We re-introduced ourselves. John. April. April. John. OK, I think we've got it. By chance (or fate), he was waiting for the same train, traveling to the stop just before mine. We talked and talked for the entire 30 minutes. And you know what? It was just what I needed. Earlier that day, I had looked for a friend, any friend, to make this trip down with me because I didn't want to be lonely and couldn't find one. Yet somehow, I was provided with company.
= = =
As always, this story is To Be Continued.
= = =
Based on a conversation with David K.
Stella is a very optimistic person. She knows that any bout of bad luck is only the rising action, or maybe the climax, and that some ounce of good will inevitably follow.
Stella searches for meaning in her life because what's a good story without a moral? Consequentially, Stella reflects on every moment of her life and makes connections with the places she visits and the people she meets.
At that, Stella is always meeting people. A good story has a collection of complex characters and your more basic archetypes. She is close with her friends and family because she needs good supporting actors. Wherever she goes, Stella befriends the least likely of people in the hopes of finding noteworthy cameos.
= = =
OK, real talk. Lenny and I have an ongoing joke that my life is a movie (MLIAM). Others would probably look at the events of my life and call it nothing but a series of coincidences and consequences, but hey, I like to have my fun.
For example:
Sometimes I feel like my world is becoming so small. It's like, I know that there are 6 billion people in the world, and counting, but my life starts feeling moviesque when it seems like I know all the characters in this story. Everyone I meet, I meet for a reason. Many characters appear and reappear. Nothing is random.
-During my last day in San Diego, I ran into/spoke with every boy I have ever dated. None of us had seen or heard from each other in years, and yet there he was in the parking lot of Rubio's. Or there he was, working the kitchen at L&L. Or there he was, somewhere out there, texting me for the first time in months. It felt like all the spaced out moments in my life time were smushed together so closely that I was able to really see where I've come from and what I went through to get me here, at this very moment. I used to be a quiet, little 8th grader. I became a friendly, wide-eyed 9th grader. I grew into a critical, do-good teenager. And now? I don't know, but I'm with Lenny now. OK, I'll reflect on neo-me later.
-After hearing about Navid, Lenny's roommate, I spent much time reflecting on the purpose of life, the legacies that we leave, and what our loved ones do without us once we are gone. Later, I attended the math graduation of a good friend of mine, and Navid was recognized there. Turns out he was about to graduate in that department. His brother wore his gown for him and accepted his diploma. What were the odds that of all the commencements I'd attend, Navid would be recognized at that one? Why do coincidences like these happen? Of all the graduates, faculty, and family members here, there were probably only a select few that knew who the speaker was talking about when he recognize Navid, but I was one of them. Me. Why me? I was moved in this moment, touched to be able to share in this sacred moment with his family whom I've never met.
-Yesterday, I missed the train by a split second. Not literally, but almost literally. I missed it with just enough time for me to wonder if I was meant to miss that train. I wondered if I was meant to have to return home to retrieve a forgotten item, or meant to hesitate before descending the stairwell to the BART station, or meant to pause to listen to the new street performer at the base of the station escalator. Thirteen minutes until the next train was to arrive. What an odd number. I can't decide if I like that number or if I hate it. It comes up in my life more than you would think. At that moment, I couldn't decide if it was good or bad that I just missed that train, but if my life were a movie, it'd be a good thing. Sure enough, as I sat on the cement bench (tweeting about my life, of course), some guy appeared before me - without looking up, I knew that whoever he was, he wanted to sit down next to me. I picked up my bag from next to me in haste, not wanting to appear rude. He sat down. "Whoa, hey! What are you doing here?" It turned out that it was a guy that I had met just earlier this week. We forgot each others' names, but we weren't too embarrassed to admit it. We re-introduced ourselves. John. April. April. John. OK, I think we've got it. By chance (or fate), he was waiting for the same train, traveling to the stop just before mine. We talked and talked for the entire 30 minutes. And you know what? It was just what I needed. Earlier that day, I had looked for a friend, any friend, to make this trip down with me because I didn't want to be lonely and couldn't find one. Yet somehow, I was provided with company.
= = =
As always, this story is To Be Continued.
= = =
Based on a conversation with David K.
6.05.2009
You & Me
You're someone else with that person. Someone that you never thought you could be. You're having fun being this new someone.
And then... you're you. Just you. It's simple, yet also new. You're the you that you always knew you were, but no one else did.
Who is the wiser? Not me.
And then... you're you. Just you. It's simple, yet also new. You're the you that you always knew you were, but no one else did.
Who is the wiser? Not me.
6.01.2009
Continuum
A student once asked me why it's important to study history in school. I know the canned response -- to learn from our mistakes, to improve for the future, to pay homage to our ancestors and their struggles -- so I dished it. Apparently, he knew the drill, as well:
"If history repeats itself, why do we have to study it? It's going to happen again, anyway."
You pose quite an existential question, kid. Your question no longer becomes the whiny "why do we have to learn this?" but rather, "is time but a repeating circle? to what extent do we as mere mortals control our destinies, and is that a paradoxical question in it of itself?"
And my favorite,
"In Alaska, when the sun doesn't go down, how do they tell time?"
= = =
Alright, kid, my turn to speak: Clocks and history books are humanmade objects, does that make time and history humanmade concepts?
No, I argue that time, history, and our ability to keep track of both is what makes us human. We learn, we progress, we make connections, we remember. Our histories and our time are what make our lives so valuable to us. If loved ones, simple joys, and monumental successes define living, then it is our acknowledgment of our limited amount of time to spend with those people that allows us to separate the loved ones from the insignificant. It is in our hours of happiness bordered by mundane and melancholic moments in such a way that the former becomes defined by the two latter (and perhaps vice versa) that we reach peaks of self-actualization. It is in our moments of most refined glory that we realize the importance of patience and endurance throughout the inevitable passing of time.
It's my history with you that lets me know that you are important to me. It's my yesterday with you that intimates to my tomorrow with you. It's my history, my forefathers' and foremothers' histories, and your history that tells me that our lives is an unfolding journey, well worth the walk.
Hey, kid, let's work out a trade -- my time for your story and my story for your time. We can learn a lot from each other.
"If history repeats itself, why do we have to study it? It's going to happen again, anyway."
You pose quite an existential question, kid. Your question no longer becomes the whiny "why do we have to learn this?" but rather, "is time but a repeating circle? to what extent do we as mere mortals control our destinies, and is that a paradoxical question in it of itself?"
And my favorite,
"In Alaska, when the sun doesn't go down, how do they tell time?"
= = =
Alright, kid, my turn to speak: Clocks and history books are humanmade objects, does that make time and history humanmade concepts?
No, I argue that time, history, and our ability to keep track of both is what makes us human. We learn, we progress, we make connections, we remember. Our histories and our time are what make our lives so valuable to us. If loved ones, simple joys, and monumental successes define living, then it is our acknowledgment of our limited amount of time to spend with those people that allows us to separate the loved ones from the insignificant. It is in our hours of happiness bordered by mundane and melancholic moments in such a way that the former becomes defined by the two latter (and perhaps vice versa) that we reach peaks of self-actualization. It is in our moments of most refined glory that we realize the importance of patience and endurance throughout the inevitable passing of time.
It's my history with you that lets me know that you are important to me. It's my yesterday with you that intimates to my tomorrow with you. It's my history, my forefathers' and foremothers' histories, and your history that tells me that our lives is an unfolding journey, well worth the walk.
Hey, kid, let's work out a trade -- my time for your story and my story for your time. We can learn a lot from each other.
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