September 9
It is incredibly frustrating when your own parents judge you by the music you listen to.
Adrienne: But you don't even listen to it, you don't know what it's about!
Father: I don't need to listen to it to know what it does.
Grandmother: You see, we have heard reports.. that you know, there are children who are influenced
by all this rock music -
Adrienne: Reports! Are they official? Did you know the victim? People have stereotyped rock music
from the very beginning and that is what influences these Reports - which are biased. They find a rock
album in the kid's CD collection and they deem it the culprit -
Father: You see, look at you and how defensive you are -
Adrienne: I'm not being defensive, I'm stating the facts and I can give you more but you're not -
Father: Look at that, that's the problem with you, you think you're so clever.
Wow, I could not do anything but give him a disgusted look after that comment. And just for the record,
I AM more knowledgeable than they are in this topic.
I had a lot to say but the complex thing is that they will not listen to me.
If anything, they should be thankful I don't poison my brain with raunchy R&B - if they give me a
stereotype, I'll throw it right back at them.
1) The 'noise' I listen to is anything but suicidal.
2) If there are children who are negatively influenced, the parents are the ones to blame. The child lacks
responsibility. I am a lot smarter than one to think that jumping off a buliding will solve all my
problems.
3) Those reports that my grandmother mentioned. No one will ever truly know what drove a person off
a cliff, unless that person is miraculously resurrected and that person says so. To quote Slipknot in an
interview with Singapore's The Straits Times last year - People label what they do not
understand.
September 11
I went to my room.
My hands were dirty, but I didn't wash them. I wanted them to stay dirty, at least until the next
morning. I hoped some of the dirt would stay under my fingernails for a long time, and maybe some of
the microscopic material would be there forever.
I turned off the lights.
I put my backpack on the floor, took off my clothes, and got into bed.
I stared at the fake stars.
What about windmills on the roof of every skyscraper?
What about a kite-sting bracelet?
What if skyscrapers had roots?
What if you had to water skyscrapers, and play classical music to them, and know if they like sun or
shade?
What about a teakettle?
I got out of bed and ran to the door in my undies.
Mom was still on the sofa. She wasn't reading, or listening to music, or doing anything.
She said, "You're awake."
I started crying.
She opened her arms and said, "What is it?"
I ran to her and said, "I don't want to be hospitalized."
She pulled me into her so my head was against the soft part of her shoulder, and she squeezed me.
"You're not going to be hospitalized."
I told her, I promise I'm going to be better soon."
She said, "There's nothing wrong with you."
"I'll be happy and normal."
She put her fingeres around the back of my neck.
I told her, "I tried incredibly hard. I don't know how I could have tried harder."
She said, "Dad would have been very proud of you."
"Do you think so?"
"I know so."
I cried some more. I wanted to tell her all of the lies that I'd told her. And then I wanted her to tell me
that it was OK, because sometimes you have to do something bad to do something good. And then I
wanted her to tell me that Dad still would have been proud of me.
She said, "Dad called me from the building that day."
I pulled away from her.
"What?"
"He called from the building."
"On your cell phone?"
She nodded yes, and it was the first time since Dad died that I'd seen her not try to stop her tears. Was
she relieved? Was she depressed? Grateful? Exhausted?
"What did he say?"
"He told me he was on the street, that he'd gotten out of the building. He said he was walking home."
"But he wasn't."
"No."
Was I angry? Was I glad?
"He made it up so you wouldn't worry."
"That's right."
Frustrated? Panicky? Optimistic?
"But he knew you knew."
"He did."
I put my fingers around her neck, where her hair started.
I don't know how late it got.
I probably fell asleep, but I don't remember. I cried so much that everything blurred into everything
else. At some point she was carrying me to my room. Then I was in bed. She was looking over me. I
don't believe in God, but I believe that things are extremely complicated, and her looking over me was
as complicated as anything ever could be. But it was also incredibly simple. In my only life, she was my
mom, and I was her son.
I told her, "It's OK if you fall in love again."
She said, "I won't fall in love again."
I told her, "I want you to."
She kissed me and said, "I'll never fall in love again."
I told her, "You don't have to make it up so I won't worry."
She said, "I love you."
I rolled onto my side and listened to her walk back to the sofa.
I heard her crying. I imagined her wet sleeves. Her tired eyes.
One minute fifty-one seconds . . .
Four minutes thirty-eight seconds . . .
Seven minutes . . .
I felt in the space between the bed and the wall, and found Stuff That Happened to Me. It was
completely full. I was going to have to start a new volume soon. I read that it was the paper that kept
the towers burning. All of those notepads, and Xeroxes, and printed e-mails, and photographs of kids,
and books, and dollar bills in wallets, and documents in files . . . all of them were fuel. Maybe if we
lived in a paperless society, which lots of scientists say we'll probably live in one day soon, Dad would
still be alive. Maybe I shouldn't start a new volume.
I grabbed the flashlight from my backpack and aimed it at the book. I saw maps and drawings, pictures
from magazines and newspapers and the Internet, pictures I'd taken with Grandpa's camera. The whole
world was in there. Finally, I found the pictures of the falling body.
Was it Dad?
Maybe.
Whoever it was, it was somebody.
I ripped the pages out of the book.
I reversed the order, so the last one was first, and the first was last.
When I flipped through them, it looked like the man was floating up through the sky.
And if I'd had more pictures, he would've flown through a window, back into the building, and the
smoke would've poured into the hole that the plane was about to come out of.
Dad would have left his messages backward, until the machine was empty, and the plane would've
flown backward away from him, all the way to Boston.
He would've taken the elevator to the street and pressed the button for the top floor.
He would've walked backward to the subway, and the subway would've gone backward through the
tunnel, back to our stop.
Dad would've gone backward through the turnstile, then swiped his Metrocard backward, then walked
home backward as he read the New York Times from right to left.
He would've spit coffee into his mug, unbrushed his teeth, and put hair on his face with a razor.
He would've gotten back into bed, the alarm would've rung backward, he would've dreamt backward.
Then he would've gotten up again at the end of the night before the worst day.
He would've walked backward to my room, whistling "I Am the Walrus" backward.
He would've gotten into bed with me.
We would've looked at the stars on my ceiling, which would've pulled back their light from our eyes.
I'd have said "Nothing" backward.
He'd have said "Yeah, buddy?" backward.
I'd have said "Dad?" backward, which would have sounded the same as "Dad" forward.
He would've told me the story of the Sixth Borough, from the voice in the can at the end to the
beginning, from "I love you" to "Once upon a time . . ."
We would have been safe.
______________________________________________________
Say hello, and give 9-year-old Oskar Schell a hug.
This is probably illegal, forgive me Jonathan Safran Foer, but your book Extremely Loud and Incredibly
Close is just too brilliant - not to mention so appropriate for today.
September 12
The class is just too fucking dense, they would not shut up and listen to him explaining the Active and
Passive voice and the perfect tenses. Maybe it's just me and my weird ability to read people so well,
but couldn't they tell he was having a bad day? And 'bad day' is an understatement. This is a follow-up
of the cellphone incident I talked about the last time I mentioned him.
We all know my English teacher who wears his heart on his sleeve.
I don't care if you don't like me, he said. If you don't like me, then I don't like you either! He rounded
the class with a disgusted look. You know what, if you don't want to listen, I'll just fail you in second
quarter, he said. I'll see to it that you do.
He gave a twisted smile.
Hmm, it's fun doing this, no? Taking revenge?
For nine years I've been so nice, and kind, and now it just feels good to have the person Kneel down at
your feet, begging for you to take them back.
It feels good, no?
Again, maybe it's just me, but I already saw that coming, and knew that everything after the twisted
smile was well past talking about failing students in the second quarter. The "nine years" is a huge
giveaway - June to September this year is only four months long.
September 13
Just to justify what I wrote on the twelfth.
Today's lesson was William Shakespeare's Sonnet 116:
Let me not to the marriage of true minds
Admit impediments. Love is not love
Which alters when it alteration finds,
Or bends with the remover to remove:
O no! it is an ever-fixed mark
That looks on tempests and is never shaken;
It is the star to every wandering bark,
Whose worth's unknown, although his height be taken.
Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks
Within his bending sickle's compass come:
Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,
But bears it out even to the edge of doom.
If this be error and upon me proved,
I never writ, nor no man ever loved.
|
He said, Class, I believe in that saying, "It is better to have loved and been loved rather than not have
loved at all."
(He got the quote wrong but anyway.)
He said You know, some of you may say aye I don't want to love anymore because I am just going to
get hurt but kids you know it is different, the feeling of being in love, aye you know kids it is
extraordinary, it may not last forever but it is extraordinary. Mine only lasted for nine years...
And I am sorry I cannot remember what he said after that. I forgot to take notes because I was so
focused on his face and body language. Trying to fully decipher what he was saying. He was not
actually preaching to us, he was pretty much talking to himself, consoling himself, helping himself cope.
(Yes I actually do take notes of what I write in here, little phrases or certain words, strings of description
and random thoughts. Odd I know but it helps.)
Let me school you for a bit. English sonnets (I say English because there is another kind of sonnet, the
Italian sonnet, and it is read differently.) are read in an iambic manner. This means that you say the
syllables in pairs, and the accent is in the second syllable. Like so:
Let ME / not TO / the MA- / rriage OF / true MINDS
And should you come across a line that has an odd number of syllables... Note the word 'never' in this
line:
That LOOKS / on TEM- / pests AND / is NE'ER / sha- KEN
So you either shorten it, like the above, or lengthen it... Note the word 'fixed':
o NO! / it IS / and E- / ver FIX- / ed MARK
OK well I thought that was interesting, so.
September 14
So I thought Kevin had miraculously converted to the Adrienne's Good Books by being extraordinarily
mature (compared to past experiences) the other day. I was passing Recess Time away, listening to The
Fray while eating a sandwich at my desk.
He came up to me, offered some of his Roller Coaster, and asked if he could listen to "what [I was]
bopping my head to". In effort to engage myself in remotely interesting conversation, I noted to him
that How to Save A Life is a beautiful song on the soundtrack of the even more beautiful show Grey's
Anatomy. And then I proceeded to point out the quote I put up on the bulletin board which was this:
The early bird catches the worm;
A stitch in time saves nine.
He who hesitates is lost.
We can't pretend we haven't been told.
We've heard the proverbs,
Heard the philosophers,
Heard our grandparents warning us about wasted time,
Heard the poets urging us to 'seize the day'.
Still sometimes we have to see for ourselves.
We have to make our own mistakes.
We have to learn our own lessons.
We have to sweep today's possibility under tomorrow's rug until we can't anymore,
Until we finally understand for ourselves what Benjamin Franklin meant.
That knowing is better than wondering,
That waking is better than sleeping.
That even the worst, most intractable mistake,
Beats the hell out of never trying.
And I was hoping for some sort of reaction to any of the following:
a) The quote
b) The show
c) The song
But all I got was a nod.
Several ten seconds later he suddenly jumped up and said Oh my big sister watches Grey's
Anatomy!
And later on I found out she had the DVDs of both seasons, and he said he'd tell me the following day if
his sister allowed. And if not, he'd lend me
his seasons of House.
But eh he never mentioned it after that. And there I was thinking I would be able to sit in front of the
teevee on Saturday watching nine hours of Grey's Anatomy.
Then again... maybe it's a good thing. Had he been able (or bothered) to lend me the DVD, I would
have eliminated all excitement and anticipation for Thursday Nights, which is the official Grey's Anatomy
night.
Which is something I look forward to every single week the minute the show rolls its credits.
Which is important, this Looking Forward To, because it is essential for survival.
I was telling Si Jing that I would definitely not want life to be perfect, simply because it will lose all its
meaning. Let's face it, we homosapiens are pathetic. We thrive on this Eternal Misery of the Clouded
Mind. Something
has to be wrong, or missing, or incomplete. We create our own little personal
Nirvana in our heads but by the time we get there, it has flown off, further. The donkey and its bright
orange carrot hanging over its head. You would very much like to eat that carrot but you hold back,
knowing that you would not know what the fuck to do after that.
You would probably just stand there at the crossroads and get hit by a car, or something.
But you see, this Personal Nirvana only flies off because you want it to. Whether you realize this or not
depends on the level of your self-esteem. Or self-worth. Or sense of satisfaction.
But usually we do not. We just think failure is imminent if not already existing.
Usually we do not realize that we grow.
Meaning the dreams grow.
Meaning we need a bigger pond. More misery. More obstacles. You think you are on this search for the
ultimate purpose of your existence but what they do not teach you in your oh-so-morally-correct high
school / secondary school / college is that your very purpose is to search. Turn over every possibility.
Take every shortcut, every dark scary winding road. For every dozen wrong turns, you make a dozen
right ones.
Proof of the phrase "life is a journey, not a destination."
September 15
Finally walked out of record store with a purchase.
In the past I have given up:
- Franz Ferdinand (was reluctant because CD cover looked weird. Actually like it was pirated.)
- The White Stripes
- Sonic Youth
- The Fray
- Thom Yorke (turly intriguing stuff, man.)
- Placebo
OK I don't want to list everything.
Was surprised to see Editors on the shelf. Decided to just run with it without thinking. Snatched money
out of wallet, paid, told self to throw any regret to future.
Regret is not much of a presentiment because the album is fantastic plus CD jacket design has beautiful
photography to boot.
(Though was disappointed to find nothing but enlarged band's concert photos inside.)
September 16
So. You know you are desperate when you wake up with what feels very much like a fever, but do
not get it checked. And then you avoid anybody from touching you and realizing you feel very hot, lest
they make you check your temperature and dump you in the bed.
Why? Because you do not want a bed-ridden weekend and would like to waste your life in front of the
silently rumbling machine (Desperation factor #2) that connects you to a virtual world that is pretty
much your reality (Desperation factor #3).
|
Updated Saturday, September 16, 2006, 04:13 p.m.
|