playing your violin like a ukelele

The culture of "emo" nowadays has made it impossible to have your feelings hurt without being labeled "emo" or melodramatic or just too thin-skinned. It's no longer okay to just be human and have human reactions without people telling you to "lighten up" or not take things so seriously or just to get over yourself. :/

Though, to an extent, in this situation it is applicable. "Those who matter don't mind, and those who mind don't matter." The wisdom of Dr. Seuss is pertinent still.

You don't have to love me or the things I do, but I'd appreciate it if you would just let me be, to live my life as I do. I'm not forcing anything on you, am I?

Then again, I should also "man up" a bit. I put it out there, and that means getting judged and getting critiqued. Privacy rights are more of courtesy than a right of law when you're a public figure. (Am I a public figure? That's a weird thought. I never wanted to be famous, but to complain about problems like these is like complaining about having too much money. Um, I will never have too much money, thanks.)

On a slightly related note: I hate posting things up and discovering typos/mistakes later that I can't fix. D: It's my own fault for not proofing it beforehand but...augh. Still so sad.

My problems in this regard are shallow; don't worry about it. Hurt feelings heal and I have a guy friend who is enthusiastically reccing the Skip Beat anime at me, so that has buoyed me up slightly through amusement factor alone.

from contemplative to suicidal, in 0.8 seconds

So I have some serious issues about focusing on this Note - a large part of it stems from just not caring, but I still need to put in the work and the time and, oh, the pages. I need the pages. On a productive note, I did laundry yesterday...that's really about it.

These writing urges need to be ignored until I have my required good-faith 45 pages. Man, my work ethic, where has it gone? It's so, so hard to force myself to commit to all this work that I don't care about, don't like, and don't want to pursue after graduation.

But I should still do enough to pass, you know?

Working on a list titled "100 Things I Should've Done Instead of Going to Law School." I should publish this into a book. People like lists! I would pepper this list with wry anecdotes! It would be great. Please publish me and give me lots of money. ):

25. Gone to business school. Gone to med school.
42. Discovered the answer to life, the universe, and everything.
49. Found Waldo.

Somewhere on there I should include something about poetry as well. I spent yesterday morning talking to M and trying to rediscover the soul I had for poetry (law school's killed it). I did really enjoy Pablo Neruda's works (and it was particularly interesting to compare his original Spanish versions with the translated versions), Siegfried Sassoon, and this one sonnet by Edna St. Vincnet Millay. I think a lot of modern art and poetry is crap, and free verse is easy for many people to write, but so, so few write it well. I'm more impressed with pieces like the sonnet, where you follow form and structure and still manage to write something beautiful and creative. Over the centuries, people have managed to figure out what sounds good, okay? Work with that, and make it your own. The same applies to music. (4'33" is four and a half minutes of silence, and is a piece of crap.)

AHHHHHH JUST CHECKED MY EMAIL THIS MORNING SO MUCH IS GOING ON THIS WEEKEND, MOOT COURT ORAL ARGUMENTS MON & TUES I DON'T HAVE TIME TO PREPARE FOR THIS, ALL OF THIS IS FOR ONE FUCKING CREDIT AND FUCKING GLOBAL AHHH. /WRISTS

these farewells weren't inevitable, but there's no going back

I wonder if you would miss me if we weren't friends. There seem to be plenty of people you've lined up to replace me. I would miss you. But I can't force myself to like people, so I guess it's just not going to work out.

It would be different if I were different. It's always that way, isn't it? It's always my fault.

I guess it's okay. I've more or less resigned myself to it. This is just how I roll, apparently: all or nothing, no middle ground, no compromise. The alternative is making myself sick with unhappiness, and as much fun as that has been for the past few months, the past twenty-some years of my life...I think I'm going to have to go with the other choice this time.

I hope you'll miss me. But there really isn't anything I can do if you don't.

(I do hope, though, that you are happy.)

you must stay drunk on writing so reality cannot destroy you

It's a little ridiculous how happy writing can make me. It makes or breaks my moods: not writing, or writing poorly, can make me so frustrated and listless, whereas managing to write something, however long, that I am pleased with...well, that can make my day or night.

I predict many mood swings come November and NaNoWriMo.

Granted, I need to finish this term paper and a 45-page draft of my Note before then - this endless writing will eat up my life. But, like I was saying to L - what needs to get done needs to get done.

Let's keep on truckin'.

a rose by any other name

I was thinking last night (though it would more accurately be termed "far too early this morning") about my name. I came to the conclusion that I am tired of my name. I'm tired of what (who) it stands for, and for the history associated with it. I'm tired of being me, of being judged and perceived by my name alone.

This applies only to the "English version" of my name, I suppose. I hate seeing Mei, because it's not mine, it's not me: it is word used by others when they talk about me. It is a label, of what I've said, what I've done, and who I am.

I can see and hear 齐眉 without feeling the same resentment or oppression, because that is still mine; I have limited the access to who gets to call me that, and the memories and emotions associated with that name are, thus far, good. Imperfect, certainly, but still mine. It is still me; I am still 齐眉, your 女儿，姐姐，朋友，小公主. (想我妈？)

J asked me if I was angry when he was driving me home at 5 in the morning. No, I told him, I'm just tired.

It's true. I'm not angry. I'm just tired...of being who I am under this name Mei, of being judged for who I am and what I've done. I'm tired of not being able to see people because of who I am, not being able to care the way I used to because of what I've done, not being able to live true to myself because of what someone else expects to see. I'm tired of feeling ugly, inside and out, and for feeling like a failure without a direction.

But these are things we cannot change, aren't they?

I am still me, even if I am tired of being me. Such is life, unfair, and we just have to make the best of it. Maybe, in time, I can redefine "Mei". Maybe, in time, it can be mine again, something (someone) I am proud to be.

In brighter news, however, it is gorgeous gorgeous gorgeous outside, all yellow leaves against brown-black bark, sunlight filtering through the branches right outside my apartment. Look up.

words are the music notes on my composition sheet

Have I figured out yet what I want out of life? It is easy to ask questions, but finding the answers is a little harder. Can I tell you what I don't want? "Whatever left, however improbable, must be the truth." But that applies only to eliminating the impossible things.

It is impossible to imagine a life where I don't write, or don't feel the constant itch under my skin to write. It is impossible to imagine a life where I don't crave reading, where I don't admire a gorgeous turn of phrase. Writers are people for whom writing is more difficult than normal people, maybe because we care too much what we sound like. Maybe it could be easier, but I don't think it could ever be a chore when it is a labor of love.

I can't live my life without thinking, "Oh, I could write that. I could write it this way." My mind describes scenes without my conscious realization; I search for the right words, the right emotions, that could play out in the scene that is my life. I think about how one scene might lead to another, cause and effect, how I might format everything for the most emotional impact. Is that normal? I can't imagine not living like that, like every day is something that can be turned into art.

You'd think I would be able to write better blog entries if that were the case. I should put these descriptive urges to use, practice with a summation of What I Did Today. I have always been inclined towards slice-of-life vignettes, in any case. But for all that I see my life through the writer's equivalent of a camera lens (I wonder if this is how photographers feel, I wonder if it is something they can ever set aside, or if they even want to), it can be a struggle to show that viewfinder, that perspective, to someone else. Writing is an intensely personal experience for me, because it involves not only the emotions I want to convey through words, but also the emotions I feel as I write. For someone who isn't me - can they ever truly experience what I do? See what I do?

I should practice more though, shouldn't I? If it's a hardship, a struggle, then I should only work harder to overcome it.

How many ways can you say that the world is painted in red-and-gold leaves, vibrant against the wet gray sky and ground? How many ways can you say, "This world makes me feel," when you look out the window at the sky, and the trees, at the cars and people and rain and world?

Some feelings you just can't put words to, it's true. But there are so many things you can, if you try. If you find the right words, the right analogy, the right phrasing.

I wonder if music is like this to some people.

[x] we were never meant to be (we just happened)

we were never meant to be (we just happened)
PG, 550 words

sometimes she thinks she shouldn't be this happy - but that's stupid. everyone should be happy. it's just, she never expected to be so happy. she never expected to end up here, her chest tight with joy that feels like it's going to burst out of her with wings. she never expected all these smiles and all this laughter and all this warmth when she rolls into his arms at night and counts the shadows his lashes cast on his cheek.

she's a little afraid she's going to wake up and find out it's all been a dream, or that she's going to blink and everything will dissolve before her eyes like an illusion. it's terrifying but at the same time it's thrilling, every time her blood rushes in her ears and her heart rate doubles and triples and she falls all over again, into the warmth of his smile.

love is all these songs she never stops singing, all the romance books she's secretly read. love is grand gestures and sappy movies he confesses to watching. love is sunshine and flowers and chocolates on the right days, walks in the first snow, and every other cliché she has never really understood and has never really bothered with.

love is all these stories of once-upon-a-time and happily-ever-after, fairy tales and princesses and the knights who rescue them. it's every cheesy lyric that's ever been written into song, about love keeping you warm, love keeping you safe.

she doesn't know if she believes in these meant-to-bes, these promises of forever that the world seems to think love is made of. all she knows is that she doesn't understand it, this happiness she has with him. she doesn't know if they'll be together later, much less forever; she doesn't know if they should be together now.

she wonders about the little things - if they should hold hands in public, if her parents will like him. she wonders if they will have a life together, take a vacation together, write postcards and letters and sign them together (two names linked with an ampersand). she wonders if they can sing together, voices blending and harmonizing, and write a song just for them.

she doesn't know what the future will bring, doesn't know if this scary, thrilling feeling in her chest will ever fizzle and fade. she doesn't know if she'll ever stop being this happy but, she realizes, she doesn't care.

because (once-upon-a-time) she used to wonder if he would kiss her back. once-upon-a-time, she used to wonder if she was imagining the way those arms held her close or the way those lips whispered her name, like a secret. once-upon-a-time, she used to wonder and daydream and hope a whole other series of what ifs (what if he loves me? what if he doesn't? what if i tell him?).

sometimes she is terrified of how happy she is, with no guarantees, nothing more concrete than an arm over her shoulder and her name in his smile. but she takes a chance on the what ifs anyway.

it doesn't matter if they were never meant to be, because they ended up here anyway. and that's what counts.

childhood ambitions of growing up

Q: What do you want to be when you grow up?
A: Happy.

2009/10/01: 60年的国庆

你是我的故国，我的乡土。我会一辈子祝福我优美的中国。

国庆节快乐.
Happy 60th anniversary, China!♥