Wandering

More often than not, people tend to undermine and ignore the heroic deeds of Dominique Francon. Though she is one of the characters I admire most in literature, I myself can't grasp all the layers of courage and strength present within this character and her actions. Tonight, tonight I gained more understanding while watching the starts in the backseat of a rugged jeep. No blood could flow, even when I let my earthly self push.

It was perfect. Clear skies with a chance of moon light. Water reflecting a secrecy which scent trunks provided. Perfect bodies locked together. The most beautiful teeth were revealed that night yet they couldn't bite. The heavy smell of shopping mall cologne penetrating skin and bones. Claws of a monster handling what could be a human form so unreflective, so devoid of awareness. only the immediate mattered. Only the material, ignoring the form. So unaware of shape, so ignorant of affection. The air gained weight as gravity pulled with a newfound strength; life wasn't always a mistake. It didn't have to be tonight. Stop.

Lady Francon withstood years of self-sacrifice as service to her self alone. Love is selfish. It is the biggest, perhaps only statement of our existence. It vindicates my existence to me, to me alone. Because I love you, I act. Because I love you, I want you. Your stuff interests me only because I love you. It's no selfless interest as our society likes to claim, no, it is rather the biggest display of selfishness we tend to play. Well, I don't love you. Give me celibacy, give me death; rather that than the worked perfection of your earthly self. You're a travesty to our kind. Through your beauty your ignorance shines; funny how you look so brilliant at times. No, I don't want you, clear that up. I'd only fuck if it be for love, if it be love alone even if I never hold that one artiste I've really loved. Architect of situations, imagery, sounds and human form. So few are the first-handers who rise to shape our earth, only one like that I can ever love; only for such a damned soul could I ever fuck.

Hormones

I did not get to read today. I spent the day making new friends online, and that can be, besides dangerous, addictive. I actually do not endorse online friendships and have done it very few times in the past thinking they're just not a natural way of human contact. On the same line of thought I deleted my facebook account completely about six months ago, refused to continue blogging, and though I had opened a twitter account I stopped posting tweets and following people. I have been outraged by how dependent on the web my friends have become.

People no longer bother to inform you about upcoming events; they assume you'll find out via facebook. That killed me. My social life was obliterated by my rash decision to quit online social networking. I missed parties. I lost contact with close friends. People didn't seem to rationalize what my situation entailed. Everyone thought it was a ridiculous outcry against conformism -- May be that's a little bit true.

Anyway, about a month ago due to unrelated circumstances I created a facebook account. Gradually, my friends found me. Although I now check my facebook only every other day, This is a marvelous new space to take advantage of. Why should I continue writing/ranting on a journal, when I can post on a website for the world (two or three people) to read? Sure, I remain firm on my stand that our society has become far too dependent on the internet. We're all aware of that. But as a tool, a tool instead of a life style, it can be pretty useful. The first facebook account I created (which I kept for close to three years) I used to check three to four times a day. This time, I have taken a tighter self-control grip on my online activities. It is enjoyable to figure the most effective manner of conveying a message/status in under one hundred forty characters. It is therapeutic to let my thoughts flow in the internet -- along with those of another couple billion earth-dwellers. As long as I maintain a constant surveillance of my facebook-stalking time, it is just as enjoyable to look through people's profiles as it was during the myspace age -- although I miss the greater amount of drama which myspace relationships featured.

Ok, I'd love to continue but the most beautiful brat needs help brushing her teeth and my body is imploring some rest. Good night.

wean

Reading F Scott Fitzgerald's Tender is the Night, I came across the word 'wean' in the past tense. Unaware of what it meant I looked up its meaning in the dictionary and immediately was drawn to how diversified the meaning of this word has become over time. It derives from the Old English wenian 'to accustom,' and deep in its roots it actually refers to adapt a child to consume food other than breast milk. Through history, however, this word has adopted a number of more figurative meanings such as to "withdraw" not just people but other physical or tangible objects "from some object, habit [...] or the like."

Anyway, that's not what I want to talk about. I turned eighteen a few days ago. Currently, I'm on summer break after my first year of college. I have been a bit less than two years younger than all the kids in my class since I came to the US. I did not see turning eighteen as a big deal but our society does, right? My mom always told me she'd throw a big birthday party for my 18th birthday but she knows I'm not a huge fan of parties. The weeks leading to my birthday I didn't sense anything out of the ordinary so I suspected my family would be throwing me a surprise party instead. My mom just started a new job after four years of unemployment so I knew money wouldn't be an issue for celebrating my birthday. Since she started working again, she hired me as her 'part-time' babysitter so that my little sister wouldn't bother my step dad while he slept -- he works a night shift so he sleeps into the afternoon. The night before my birthday my mom asked me to take my little sister out of the house on my birthday all day so that my step dad could sleep uninterrupted. She told me she'd pick us up wherever we where on her way home from work. I got excited. I woke up early in the morning not feeling any different but it made me happy that I'd have a big surprise party. I waited for the brat to wake up and then just went to the town and had a fun day with her. shortly after 3:30 my mom picked us up and drove home. I was packed with anxiety. when we got to the parking lot my mom lagged behind and so I opened the front door. I looked inside from the hallway of our building but it looked pretty normal. I peeked in a little more, there was something. A cake purchased at wal-mart half an hour earlier. A helium balloon my step dad spent the day claiming could have saved money on by purchasing it at another store. A personal portion strawberry shortcake sundae bought at the gas station in our neighborhood. a birthday card signed by my step dad; he also wrote the phoniest message I could deserve. the card was also bought today because my mom hadn't even signed it. I am really thankful for their gesture. I really am. But this doesn't near the scale of the celebration my mom had repeatedly told me about. I didn't ask for it. She continuously mentioned she'd throw me a big party. That's all.

This year, my birthday was a weekday. I figured it'd be easier to celebrate on the weekend and so I waited. The weekend came, I spent some time with friends, that was all. No party. No picnic. No dinner. Then, I figured I'd probably get a flashy gift instead. Yes, my Big Brother (from big brothers Big Sisters) gave me a gift card to Best Buy. The second biggest gift he's given me -- the biggest was for my HS graduation. The day before my birthday my Big Brother even asked me if my mom was planning to have a little get together for my birthday -- I thought he knew and played innocent -- well, turns out he knew alright, there was no party, none at all. My grandma told my mom to buy me a pair of pants for my birthday. I want a pair of trousers from American Apparel, $69. My mom said I only had $30 to spend. Well, fuck I want those trousers, yeah, well I pick up and pay the remaining $39. That's my mother's definition of an 18th birthday. The big party she always told me about.

I act rigid and mature, "well beyond [my] years," my mom says. I may act as I act, but I am not beyond my years. I am a teenager. I turned 18. all I received from my family was a pair of pants I have to pay forty dollars for. Tonight I finish my sixth day as an eighteen year old. It's a Tuesday. My friend's parents are away and he's having a little get-together with old friends. My mom won't let me go. Although I never had a curfew, I am only allowed to go if I return by midnight. I don't drive, no one will drive me home. I have to pay for a cab. I am not allowed to sleep over my friend's house. I never have. I am 18, and yet I allow myself to be treated like a child. This is my fault. It is my own lack of spine. I didn't feel any different the morning of my eighteenth birthday. But I am. I am now an adult. I am now paving my own road, with little help. I can't be helped. Only my own architectural skills can help. I'll have to make my choices, nay, I now have to make my own choices. I am an adult. I am not a child. Decisions entail consequences, but they're always made regardless. Do I bring upon a time of reckoning or do I live under my own shadow controlled by foreign hands? My choice to make, but there is no alternative. I have failed myself, there is nothing more disheartening than that.