salience

What a weekend!!!

1. Friday: last leadership training session with Dave for marching band. Although it was an interesting forum, near the end too many personal feelings were unleashed. Instead of sorting through potential issues for the upcoming year, the session turned into a bitch and moan frenzy. It's great that kids are so into the group and take things so personally, but issues were brought up that should remain between the director and student. Some privacy, please.

Anna's sister came up for her birthday. She is really sweet, basically an older Anna. :)
Natalie's sister came up for the weekend. She's a senior in high school. What can I say? A younger, doll version of Natalie.

Later that night was the AHANA ball. AHANA is the minority group on campus, and this ball is one of the biggest dances of the year. They bused all of us downtown to a really nice hotel. Lots of kids, and it was pointed out how odd it was that even at a minority function, dark hair only slightly outnumbered blonde hair. :) I guess it makes sense, the ball being a BC event and all--you just can't get away from all the blonde hair, whether natural or altered. All in all it was a fun time. I had a blast dancing with the girls, especially when the dj played tons of my man Michael and then, (drum roll please!!) who would have guessed??, Prince!!! ;) I was elated, to say the least. Flora was so funny, saying, "Wow!! Two of your boyfriends!!! In a row!!!!!!!!!!!" And it must be said, Prince has officially, after much protesting by Kirsten, made THE LIST! Hehe, sorry girl. But you can't deny, he's got it going on, even if he is vertically challenged.

2. Saturday: We spent the day mostly recovering from the night before. Flora, Michelle, and I spent over an hour watching kids in the Eagle's Nest after brunch. Sometimes, it's just too much fun, making fun of people we don't even know. Lately, I've noticed I feel older than the other kids on upper campus look. The majority of them are freshmen, and there isn't much of an age gap at all. But there is a difference, trust me, maybe it just feels monumental. It's like, these kids are trying to continue high school, so we watch them play their games, and shake our heads. 'Cause really, when it comes down to it, that's not what we're about, y'know?

We came back to the room, and it was lounge time. I had to fix my abused, cheap pants. They apparently were mangled Friday night: I had lost the hem from the right leg!! As I stitched that up, Flora started with the shirts. (You see, we are all LOTR fanatics, even more so now, since we feed off of each other. So... Flora had this great idea of making shirts, since we all have favorite characters. Many online photo albums later, we all had pictures, and then came up with little sayings to go with each one. Flora even came up with this cute idea of putting our initials on one of the Elven brooches for the back of the shirts!!! How original is that?! Flora and Michelle fixed up the pictures in Paint and PhotoShop, Flora got the special paper, and Kirsten printed out the pictures. See, after a fortunate weekend when Kirsten's dad and brother came to visit, we had the opportunity of going to Target, so we already had the shirts. So it was all set. We were going to surprise Anna for her birthday with her shirt with all of us wearing our shirts.) With Anna's sister in town, they were out and about, so it was just the four of us--perfect timing!

So picture it: me in my chair sewing up my pants, Flora next to me, ironing the prints onto the shirts!! So domestic, right? Michelle even took a picture of us! So silly! After ironing the brooches on the back of the shirts, Michelle wanted to iron on the big prints, so she and Flora switched. About an hour later, I was still trying to fix my pants, since I'm oh-so-coordinated and dropped Michelle's needle!! Michelle was still ironing to make sure the entire print was on the shirt, and Kirsten and Flora were bored out of their minds, waiting for us to finish, so we could watch Made. Michelle got to the last shirt, and she goes "Shit!" The whole time we were joking about how funny it would be if she messed up and the pictures were crooked: all of that effort for nothing. Well, wouldn't you know it, it was my shirt she messed up, Aragorn all lopsided. I mean, he just isn't as breathtaking when one is distracted with the placement of his picture!! So I got all upset, still trying to stitch up my pants, and Michelle felt all terrible. Flora and Kirsten were trying to console Michelle, saying it didn't look that bad. We watched the movie, and then it was time for Michelle and I to get ready for the band banquet.

And everything was going to be okay. Michelle and I got all dressed and spiffed up, and headed down to Lower. Well, wouldn't you know it? The humidity was insane and so our hair was completely assaulted by the time we got down there. No fun. The actual banquet itself wasn't bad. The only thing was this year, Seb opened it up to the entire bands program, which didn't go over so well with the marching band--'cause you know, we don't want to party with anyone else except us. So, not many kids showed up. There were only about 100. But, it was a good time. Speeches were, for the most part, short and concise. The food was good. And then the dance: this is the part of the night where everyone except for about 30 of us left!! Man, kinda sad, y'know?

But it was all good. We had fun, even when it was pouring rain when we left.

We got back to the room, and Flora was decorating balloons for Anna's door. Anna was still out with her sister, but it almost midnight, technically her birthday, so we all decorated her door. We planned to give her the shirt that night, but we were all tired, and Anna was asleep, so it didn't work out.

3. Sunday: pretty much a lazy day. After my shower, I come back to the room to find Michelle bolting out the door. She grabbed a map, her sweatshirt and purse, muttered something about an errand, and out the door she went. I was just like, okay---what the hell is going on? So, it was just me in the room...very sad and lonely, doing work and waiting for her to get back. At about 4, in comes Michelle, soaking wet, with a Target bag in her hand. She had WALKED all the way to Target, about 3 miles, in the pouring rain, to buy me another shirt, to fix what happened the day before!! She said she didn't want to say anything to me 'cause she knew I would just say forget about it, even though it upset me. Hehe, she's so sweet. :) Flora made me another shirt, but unfortunately, I had leadership training for concert band, so I couldn't be there when they gave Anna her shirt. But she liked it, and it all turned out okay.

So, the morale of the story is: life is so great when one has the most wonderful friends!!

Today has been one of those days where I read posted words, blink and look away, and then only remember the first and last letters. Must be spring. :)

An excerpt from Graffiti by Julio Cortazar, a work we're reading in my spanish class:

"...era horrible temblar asi, era horrible pensar que eso pasaba por culpa de tu dibujo en el paredon gris...Tampoco vos pudiste resistir, y un mes despues te levantaste al amanecer y volviste a la calle del garaje. No habia patrullas, las paredes estaban perfectamente limpias; un gato te miro cauteloso desde un portal cuando sacaste las tizas y en el mismo lugar, alli donde ella habia dejado su dibujo, llenaste las maderas con un grito verde, una roja llamarada de reconocimiento y de amor, envolviste tu dibujo con un ovalo que era tambien tu boca y la suya y la esperanza. Los pasos en la esquina te lanzaron a una carrera afelpada, al refugio de una pila de cajones vacios; un borracho vacilante se acerco canturreando, quiso patear al gato y cayo boca abajo a los pies del dibujo. Te fuiste lentamente, ya seguro, y con el primer sol dormiste como no habias dormido en mucho tiempo..."

What does it mean?? Simple:
Take responsibility for the gray wall of life; leave your own colorful drawings as a testimony to how you've lived.

Know what I've been thinking about lately? It seems we only hear about assemblies of protestors, you never hear from gatherings of those who support the other side of the argument. No one is for violence, but when there is no other option, then what?

Negotiations only go so far: words, written and spoken, don't change the facts.

I came out of my econ class today and out in the quad was another assembly of protestors. They were all banging drums and shouting, "No war, no way!" repeatedly. This whole circumstance is so odd. I have never been somewhere, in a time such as this, where I am not surrounded by people who feel the same way I do. It's definitely an eye-opener.

Eureka!! All of my links now work!! :)

Oh Melissa, you are constantly in my thoughts, girl. Even though I know there is no possible way for you to read this... There are no words to describe my respect and admiration for you--this is no trip to Paris--you are in the midst of fighting for your country. We love you dearly, and we're counting each minute that passes: Texas misses her rose.

God be with our troops. We're praying for you all, come home to us soon.

Due to unbelievable downloading capactities, I have been able to get the entire Zwan album!! Yes, this is HUGE news--I have been a devoted fan of Billy Corgan ever since my mom came home raving about the Smashing Pumpkins when I was in sixth grade. :) And, how cool is it that Paz from APC is in this group?!?!

Today I was looking around for Zwan info and I came across this site. In the biography section, the following was posted (I'm still laughing about it!):

Former Smashing Pumpkins frontman Billy Corgan stepped back up to the mic in 2001 with the creation of his new band, Zwan. Joining vocalist/guitarist Corgan are fellow Pumpkins alum Jimmy Chamberlin on drums, Matt Sweeney (formerly of Skunk and Chavez) on guitar, David Pajo (formerly of Slint and Tortoise) on guitar/bass, and Paz Lenchantin (formerly of A Perfect Circle) on bass. The band snuck quietly onto the scene in the fall of 2001 with a series of club dates. After honing their new material on stage, Zwan offered up Mary Star of the Sea, their 2003 debut album. For our purposes there two (2) Zwan issues; One is more of a muthafucker then the other. We'll start with the becoming of Zwan -- how does this happen? The act. The art. The monolithic myth of 'ZWANness'. For the rest of my dissertation, I will recant the torture & tribulations of my INVESTIGATION AND POSTULATIONS on the ambulatory implications and meanings of Zwan. It was at a Christmas party for orphaned youngins, in the portentous year of the millennial pre-nuclear ice age, that Billy Corgan gazed out voluntarily at the merrymaking. Corgan had stationed himself in a doorway, a comfortable place to park, but unbeknownst to him, however, a fortuitous sprig of mistletoe hung inches above his skull. He stood there, glistening with an alluring sheen, the lost notes swirled about him, seen only by those who gifted with musical vision. For it had not yet been a month since our Billy's vacating from his former housing in The Smashing Pumpkins, much like the repoing of a double wide trailer, the mass still stands, but the price of living in it just cannot be surmounted even by the selling of 25 million records, even by Corgan's little known (until the recent Barbara Walters shocking and revealing 20/20 expos?) side business running moonshine. Every jake-legged holler dweller north of West Virginia can attest to the true meaning of THE SMASHING PUMPKINS 169 PROOF! Hence you can imagine how easy it might've been, Corgan, his liquid crystal eyes crackling with the possibilities of repossession to mistake him for one of those enchanting orphans, an error young Matt Sweeney (musician, PR provocateur) was about to embark on. Imagine, the visible swarm of musical notation carried by the sparkle of Precious Moments peepers: Who could resist? Just as rakish Mr. Sweeney was stretching upwards on tippy-toes to plant a wet one on this enthralling orphan in disguise, a particularly maudlin slurring of Christmas carols jolted Mr. Sweeney's attentions for under the holly-festooned tables were the bona fide orphans guzzling bootleg Smashing Pumpkins bootleg. Mr. Sweeney spun just as Corgan coincidentally became abruptly conscious as well of the savoring beneath the table. A shock of tense recognition surged through both gentlemen. 'Billy Corgan!' Mr. Sweeney shouted in dismay, "You are not an Orphan for me to kiss!" "Tis true, alas" replied a forlorn Corgan, used to not fulfilling the expectations and desires of humanity. He then reached into the air, his ballerina like arms and with a heartrending appeal, gathered his floating music back into his overcoat. "Please," Mr. Sweeney entreated, adjusting his trucker cap in deference, "allow me to share in some of them melancholy and infinite sadness ya got there." He nodded toward the overcoats bulging pockets, dribbling symphonic notations. Corgan instinctively stuffed his fists into the pockets in a protective maneuver, which the somewhat loaded Mr. Sweeney misread as a coy invitation (as he had bought off of an orphan and had imbibed in some of that Pumpkins? 169 hisself) and lunged for some of them oeuvres in the overcoat that did not necessarily belong to Corgan. After all Mr. Sweeney captured quite a few runaway notes in his venerated band, Skunk & Chavez. Now, Corgan & Mr. Sweeney have known each other before. Not in the biblical sense, but heck, Matt (let's get comfortable here) used to drop by the still, climb in the vat to mash the tougher pumpkins. But past relations can be no excuse for note chasing and the two were soon rolling on the floor involved in fisticuffs. The hammered orphans were at first highly entertained by these rock star shenanigans, and clustered round the battle. But soon as the shine was polished, they commenced a most mournful weepage. "Please, give us more," was their austere refrain that finally penetrated Billy"s audible range & he released Matt from a belly-to-belly suplex. They stood breathless before the orphans, and knew what must be done." It was an irony not lost on Billy, Matt and the always present in orphans' prayers anchor of Jimmy Chamberlin, that they should be somehow brought together in the warming spring of 2001, a harmonic collusion in the dang, driest county in our great nation, Salt Lake City. What strange direction would the lack of formation be forged' But something was clicking, much like that hammer in your Winchester sawed-off model 97 when them that got no bizness writing crap they got no entitlement to whoops, but we digress and somewhat perilously, for which there is never an excuse. So, to continue, the Mormons knew something majestic was afoot and camped outside of the newly acquired doublewide practice space that floated in the lake much like the car in Chitty Chitty Bang Bang. Mormons threw coke cans at the double wide, which they perceived in their righteousness as a marker of rebellious redemption. Chamberlin flung open the doors of the mobile practice space and queried, "Hark anon, what shall them orphans in New York cogitate "Fuck 'em!?" Billy would wince with the agility of one practiced at dodging carelessly thrown fists, "We got the Mormons." And thus the trio moseyed on to orphan territory. Chicago, 2001, the piercing heat of August was bearing down. The enthralling orchestrations were further concretized by crafting the soundtrack for the film, Spun(not yet released, a Mormon issue). September 11th found Billy, Matt & Jimmy in NYC. How do you make sense of assembling experience as an artist when your core has been so brutally astounded? But much like the post -11th baby boom the desire to spawn a hope filled new life is what arose all the stronger in them in response. The overcoat of Billy was fully flung open, pockets turned inside out like the Artful Dodger returning from a long day's pocket-picking, and all released. A group, a posse, a gang was formed. It became apparent that the notes were flying fast and furious, so David Pajo (Slint, Papa M, Tortoise, Stereolab) was added on butterfly net which he proved adept at mounting on guitar. There was still a perforation, a hemorrhage, a missing link - if you will, which was quenched with the arrival of Paz (formally of the seminal A Perfect Circle). She embodied the childlike unadulterated sensuality, vivification and beguilement only the forces of consummate musicianship can engender. It was deep winter 2002 else where in the world, but here in Key West Florida, as far South as one can launch and still claim US soil, it was all warmth and sunshine. It was here that I was brought into this paradise, in the harbor. A creaky wooden schooner, circumcised, the H.M.S. ZWAN. ZWAN, Billy chuckled as my crates of supplies for my journey were hoisted onto the ship. Go forth and discover. He slapped my back in goodwill causing me to plunge into the warm waters. Once I was revived, I gazed into the great moonbeam face above me and sputtered, Couldn't you just tell me what the fuck it means?? "What" And not waste promotional dollars?!? He stomped with his massive boots, narrowly missing my flapping hands. Unheard of!? And thusly I was loaded on to the ship in search of Zwan, the unexplained moniker for this new super group. TIERRA DEL FUEGO - Climbing Mount Tarn, we employ donkeys to make the arduous trek. We are able to load them with everything we need for our journey. When we reach the top, I think I overhear referral to the donkeys as Zwans, but as I am oxygen starved, I just might be trippin?. CHILE COAST AND ARCHIPELAGO - Massive glaciers breaking apart send our boat rollicking as if a wall of guitars is turning up chucks of ice are harvested and shipped to Japan for frozen slushy sweet seaweed drinks called, most tellingly, Zwankiko. CONCEPCION - On a nearby island, Captain FitzRoy unearthed packages of 'ridged for its pleasure' condoms. They are the color blue. The letters Z.W.A. and N. are embossed on the packaging. Its pleasure! What or who is IT?? A chill of adrenalin surges through me, like Captain Kirk when he lands on a new planet and that extra crewmember disappears behind a rock, never to be heard from again. SANTIAGO TO MENDOZA - I crossed the Andes from Santiago, Chile, to Mendoza, Argentina, by way of Portillo Pass. We then returned by Uspallata. Ten mules transport us across this continent and back in 24 days. In the Andes, I discovered fossil seashells at 14,000 foot elevation along with petrified coastal trees high on the Argentine side of the ragged mountains. Both are indicative of tremendous mountain uplift; but, alas there is no evidence of Zwan-ness here, Fuck! But we did burn through some record company dollars. LIMA - I have sunk past humiliation on my thirst for Zwan. Seduced elderly indigenous cook for entry into the restricted ritual preparations of the mighty Lima bean souffl?. It is considered an exceptional epicurean delight, rare in that the resulting expelling of gasses after such feasts is so abhorrent, it is indulged in only in ambient amphitheaters, where the unique reverberations can conjure the time-space continuum of life and the great beyond. The consequential cacophony is whispered in hushed tones as "Zwaning." I am Zwaned from reboarding the ship for a fortnight, but the cook is pretty snuggly, so all is not so bad. GALAPAGOS - I find what appears to be a flock of swans with what seem be broken necks. I uncover they are a subspecies of swans - they are born always looking over their backs, giving them an appearance of continual paranoia. Some even have the ability -- much like Linda Blair in the Exorcist, I note in my journal --to do a full 360 head swivel. The locals call this "The broken beauty rotation of Zwan," and replicate this some manner in their love-making. I study this tonight. Must remember to wash well. KORORAREKA - Something Billy said has troubled me as he hoisted me leisurely out of the shark infested Key West waters. "Lost tribe," he whispered into my ear with his moist, mint-scented breath. But now I think I have perhaps found what he was referring to, the Zwan key. I have trudged the hostile terrain to find a tribe of Maoris who have regaled me with such tales, (it is good Billy taught me Maori before I left. He learned this ancient language from Kiri Te Kanewa.). It is a kink in the genitals that ties in to both the immorality and immortality of the soul. And from what I can ascertain it correlates directly to that 90% of the brain we don?t use, that apparently a kink in the genitals of this lost tribe represents, being that most folks with this kink would use 90% of their genitals in their reproductive and pleasure seeking activities. But this tribe, alternatively viewed as either accursed or, as the medicine women know, blessed with this deformation, cultivates use of that 90% of the brain; it fosters an experience quite akin to Peyote, few outsiders survive the trek to study this tribe, to ascertain how they use the Zwan and I am told by a heavily tattooed Maori, "Just because you think you are ready to revive Zwan does not mean you will be able to take it. It will come, but not on your terms. It will never look like what you expect, but if you undertake this journey, you will be changed." Paz is really cute, maybe getting the Zwan will help me score. Will settle for Sweeney tho. TASMANIA - Made contact with lost tribe. I took part in the ritual of bestowing ZWAN. It fuck'in hurt. There are no words to describe, but I am sure there are some hacks out there who will try. I can now play a mean riff with my penis, however. Returning home, record company is freaked. Wish I could sit comfortably. There is a violent hurricane imminent behind us as we approach the port of Key West. We've made this whole journey without many storms (it helped that we had some Pumpkin Kegs stowed on board) but this, this is terrifying. I am standing on the ship's mast; the wind is whipping furiously at me. Through the spyglass I glimpse the figure, bowed like a tree limb thrust through concrete. A guitar in hand, it all flows as if sculpted from the same slab of marble. It is Billy. He stands at the Grotto of Saint Mary at the Saint Mary Star of the Sea. The last hurricane that killed anybody was in 1919. 300 people in Key West died. Since the building of this Grotto (modeled on its twin in Lourdes, France) only a category 2 has ever passed over Key West and not nobody has died. "SAVE ME!" I wail! "SAVE ME!" and the fingers move faster till they are a blur of waves and tears and terror. "So you think you got the Zwan," comes the rusty chuckle above me. I spit out a chunk of green water on the blackened boots. Billy's hand on my arm pulls me up, guiding me to rest on him till I find my land legs. I can only shrug and lean into him. "What happened to the storm?" I sputter. "She took care of it," he says pointing to the Mary Star of The Sea over his shoulder. "I don't know." I drop down to a crouch. "I don't know if?" as Billy kneels beside me, his hand resting on my back soothing the words out of me, "if I can say what Zwan is." "Ya had a good time on this journey, didn't you?" His eyebrows rise, pulling his whole face into a welcoming rhetorical question. I nod. He throws back his head and his laugh comes, resonant as his guitar. And soon I join him. Just laughing. And I know, I got the Zwan. I got it, and all I can do is laugh. --JT LeRoy

I have always had a fascination for Tolkien and Lord of the Rings. This year, when I realized I was just a few yards down the hall from a fellow Tolkien enthusiast, I was very pleased. Over the months, we have converted our fellow girls into somewhat LOTR enthusiasts, and we now have time to read, and refer to often, things like this:

--Older LOTR humor.
--Newer LOTR humor.

Fun times, kids. Fun times. :)

I have this overwhelming need to reconcile things. I am not sure what it is, but as of late, it is all I can think about.

Usually when a relationship ends, it's not because two people do not care for each other anymore. Most cases, it's just a miscommunication: somewhere along the way signals were crossed because communication was not open. I know from the relationships I have been in, one in particular was excrutiatingly painful because I was not open. I got one impression from a few words he said and then closed off completely. Case closed. Next story. Yet, I still think him an intriguing person, and I am not sure if things would have been different had I actually seen what was going on.

It's all very confusing. I do not want, by any means, to change what I have now. But--I am curious to see how the others are doing.

Ouch, man. Ouch.

It's odd how I never realize how much one person depends on me until, for one reason or another, I am not there at the exact moment she needs me.

I came back to school excited to see my girls, so naturally it slipped my mind to call home as soon as I got my foot in the door of Ronc 221. After many conversations and trips to Dunkin Donuts later, I remembered. I ended up leaving a voicemail message saying I would call Wednesday night, like I always do. No problem, right?

Wrong.

My mom is just now realizing how she considers me her best friend. Before, it had always been, "Yes, this is my oldest daughter. Yes, she's helped me out a lot. Yes, she had to grow up fast." The end. No elaboration.

Now she is seeing I am my own person, an advantage to her and I not living under the same roof. She and I can overlook our petty squabbles when we are not in each other's space, and concentrate on what the other needs, whether it be emotional support or some inside joke from ten years ago. That being said, she was very hurt by my not calling as soon as I got in. Understandably so, I should have remembered.

I guess what it comes down to is, I am disappointed in myself and I feel terrible; my mom is upset that she cannot control me anymore, especially not from 975 miles away.

Tonight, I called as usual. I talked to the twins first, then my brother, who then handed the phone to my mom. She answered really quietly, like she was about to burst into tears, or something. I asked her what was wrong, and she told me she was 'just tired.' That is was 'nothing.'

Yeah..right.

It was then that I realized how much my mom needs me to listen to her, how fragile she is. She is going through a hard time right now, and really needed my support Sunday night, at a scheduled time when she knew she could have my full attention. Except--I let her down. So for the past three days I have added tension to a recent, escalating situation in the office where she works. Her boss is a proud racist, and often makes comments about the faults of 'colored folk,' even if it's just in passing. My mom has repeatedly explained that she is offended by her words, if for no other reason than she is married to a full blood hispanic and has four children by him. Instead of acknowledging her mistakes, this woman has decided to make my mom's work environment a living hell, waiting to see which straw will break the camel's back. Usually, I am the one my mom vents to, as my dad has his own problems and my brother and the twins never give her the time of day. So, her not getting to talk to me did not help.

::sigh::

So tonight's conversation was less than stellar. My mom is still very upset that I blew her off for my friends here at BC, and it was no use explaining that it was not intentional. What it comes down to is, I hate disappointing those whom I love most. I am enveloped by selfish interests all too often and it distracts me from those needing my support.

Even at my most fulfilled moments I remain an incomplete individual.

Kirsten today, after getting back to BC:
First...

"Chris Strader ripped off my pants!!"

and then...

"My God is a crouton....and a little cup of grape juice."