"Mental" Notes: The Freshman Years (Pt. 1 of 2)

With this post, I premiere my new column, "Mental" Notes. It's meant to be a public way to flex my brain lobes during an intense period of writer's block. "Mental" Notes, although it is meant to be a type of public forum, won't have the same kind of grammatical attention as other posts will, as it's meant to be a stream-of-consciousness form of brainstorming. "Mental" Notes won't be a weekly column, and there's a chance two posts of "Mental" Notes might follow the other on the next day or have a space of a month without another post. 

College was a wonderful experience, at least during the first weeks. After that, it became increasingly difficult to get inspired enough to write anything so any idea that would cross my mind, I would immediately type it via Evernote, even if it meant getting certain details to be very specific or vague enough that I could recall it later that night. I would continue to complain to everyone I knew how most of my ideas were either repetitive, blockbuster-ish, nonsensical, or just terrible, although everyone still wanted to hear about it. If anything, the only thing holding me back this year was my own self-criticism. There were several projects that I've been working on for weeks, Semaphore being one of them, but the writing process has been such a pain that these once entertaining projects have now become a burden, one I wish I could just do away with. Despite my negativity, I plan to finish Semaphore this summer. In fact, every single time I type anything, it feels like I'm just regurgitating someone else's ideas and passing them off as my own. Maybe I'm facing reality at this point, realizing that since I'm in college, I have to think about a likely career which at this point is being a writer, but that's as ambiguous a career as you can get. Now that I've bored you all with my incessant negativity, let's get to the point. The following ideas are some of the bright points of my wallowing, obscure beginnings as a writer in college, the few times when just considering how an idea could work have been a joy to figure out. Since I acknowledged it, one thing I will work on over the summer is improving my outlook on life. Whether it'll make a difference by the end of the summer, I'll have to see. I'll post more information about the individual ideas in the comments. Enjoy!  

(1) An average, normal day at Case Western Reserve University goes on as a junior takes a break from studying to read his favorite short story by Ray Bradbury. All is well and peaceful until a car drops from out of nowhere right into the middle of the street. The care lands nose-first and scrapes along for a few feet until stopping and dropping its back wheels onto the street. The junior looks away from the book and rushes over to the car. After struggling to open it, he uses his book to smash open the window, and opens the door with the door handle. He looks around for a second to see if anybody is inside when his entire arm is being held up a loud, growling noise. A dog leaps from the car and starts attacking the junior.
"This is what I get for saving your life?" he retorts as he slips off his jacket and drops it, which the dog continues to chew on. The junior cautiously enters the car, and notices something in the back. There are a stack of paint cans that cover most of the back seat. When the junior touches the can, all of them collapse on him and the junior is completely drenched in paint. After checking the labels, he's relieved in knowing that the paint is non-toxic but astonished when he realizes what year the cans are from: 2100(The current year is 2011). One of the dogs waits in the front of the car, shaking nervously, until it sees the junior approaching him carefully, and finally embracing him energetically with many licks on the cheek. The dog who attacks him tries again with the junior grabbing the dog's body and forcing it to behave properly. The dog gets half its body doused with "future" paint, as a result, so other people only see its backside instead of its front. The junior doesn't realize he's invisible until he notices a curious police officer paying no attention to him as the officer investigates the crash. The officer bumps into him and gets frightened, claiming that there's something in the car that can't be seen. The group of students try to approach the car but the officer threatens to punish anyone who does. The junior sees the dogs leaping out of the car and tries to follow them. The crowd screams in horror at the sight of the attacking dog's hind legs and tail.
"Where are you going?" says the junior to the dog. "Come on!" he picks up the two dogs and runs away.

One morning, when I was walking to class, a quick scene played out in my mind that involved a car landing nose-first and dragging itself on the road for about 8 seconds while the hapless college student can only watch. From that point, ridiculous plot points kept making more connections to the idea until reaching the conclusion that the car was part of an experiment that went wrong(not horribly wrong, mind you). At one point, during the original draft, I made an unnecessary joke about that the paint cans covered by the shroud resembled a corpse, scaring the junior to fall back on the car horn. To be fair, the plot is rich enough that I could consider it for a short story in the future, but far too advanced and technologically demanding for a short film.

(2) An R-rated movie for kids. A poorly timed music festival goes horribly wrong when riots threaten to destroy the entire city. The riots end after a week but the effect on the city doesn't. No one dares to try to leave their homes in fear of looters and graffiti artists. Two brothers, 13 and 8, do the unthinkable and go to the site of the music festival. They notice a banner that has been ripped from its pole but is still in pretty good shape. They go back home and try to make a kite of the banner. At the same time, a powerful gust of wind takes the two brothers, working in the garage, out of it, and into the skies, all 1000 feet of it. Hanging on tightly, the brothers begin fearing for their lives until they get high enough that they are able to see beyond the city and are amazed at the sight of it.  Brothers paragliding across the country using many large fabrics to get to their destination. Later on, they improve the design of the first banner, are able to find a second banner, and begin a ludicrous cross-country journey around the US. A frightening moment: bullies start chasing the two brothers and obtain a weapon to try to pierce the fabric.

This idea came about in a vivid dream I had one night. It began with both me and my brother running away from a manic who's shooting at us. A few bullets pierce bits of the fabric that we're holding. The maniac starts reloading bullets, just as my brother and I notice a steep drop ahead of us. At that moment, two of the maniac's cronies drop in from nowhere with automatic machine guns and RPG's. We have no choice but leap from the edge. We let the fabric unravel, open up, and the wind currents miraculously carry us into the skies. The maniac pulls out his own fabric (from out of nowhere) and chase us. The dream skips the chase and ends with my brother and I flying next to some hot air balloons. The background, about the ruined music festival, was included afterwards for the concept. This is a concept I'd love to return to in the future, possibly when I have a large enough budget to film it. 

(3) A man watching television is verbally assaulted by the television personality(TP) he's watching. After a few seconds of futile insults, the TP starts hurling glass bottles at him(that don't break)-(the man has difficulty reacting to the bottles hitting his head, only being able to slur out an inaudible word) until, finally, the man decides to turn off the TV and go for a walk. He opens the door, and takes a step, and falls 10-15 feet in a ditch that surrounds his house. For the next few minutes, the man struggles to pull himself out of the ditch despite his broken bones.

3) This idea came to mind shortly after a ridiculously long study session. I was walking back to my dorm, and an image of a man, whose fluids have been replaced by rancid toxins, watches an increasingly boring program. It was one of my many inspiring daydreams that temporarily replace reality with an unusual premise. It becomes a problem when I act out the scene in real-time to people in passing. The idea for the man to fall in the ditch was a way to surprise the viewer in my hallucinatory fantasy. Shortly after, I preceded to watch an entire web series, CrackedTV, from beginning to end…and it was still Wednesday.

(4) A college student, upon realizing he's becoming less and less social, decides to overcome his fear of greeting everyone while walking by deciding to embarrass himself and say "Ripe figs" repeatedly while walking in numerous tones(whispering and shouting).

After a brainstorming session about programs to consider airing on the college television station, I thought about an unusual PSA that encouraged people to say "Ripe Figs" as a way to break the ice in the college community. I would be the unfortunate guinea pig in the skit for Case Jackass (a show that sounds exactly like what you'd expect) and says "Ripe Figs" in a large crowd of people while someone would be filming from a distance. This is still currently a "private" idea but would be worth a shot as an abnormal experiment or at least a conversation topic for the cynics at Case Western.

(5) A short story/short film describing your trouble with making mac and cheese in college. It'll be called "Mac and Cheese".

This was my idea for my first short film before writing Semaphore. It would've starred myself as the hapless college student who forgot to practice making mac and cheese before coming to college. It would've been a combination of slapstick, visual gags, and exaggerated facial expressions (just like every other comedy). It was based on my actual first attempt at making mac and cheese one Friday afternoon when I was too lazy to head over to the dining halls which was a 2 minute walk from my dorm. I followed the instructions very closely but still made the mistake of drowning my macaroni in boiling hot water, causing the individual pasta pits to mend into a clump of fabricated greed. I poured the cheese on it and ate it, clump and all. It was the most embarrassing thing I'd eaten up to that point but I only had to wait two days for more disgraceful examples of sustaining myself in college.

(6) A short "foreign" film about someone who is with his friend, but then cuts his lips deeply. Done with gibberish and body gestures.

After writing the first draft of Semaphore, I took a walk and had this scene play in my head. It was supposed to be a heightened example of gestures being a way to express emotions coupled with buckets of blood pouring out of the lips (because that's funny, right?) Overall, this was more of an amusing thought than something I would consider making.

(7) Possible idea for a Spanish short story: the tale of a rat who survives a nuclear blast.

After I took Introduction of Spanish Literature, I realized that I didn't give enough attention to the Spanish culture as I should have all these years and in the spirit of the work of Julio Cortázar, I decided to write my own short story in Spanish. This was the first idea I considered. To be fair, it never went beyond this sentence and a quick little sketch I drew to visualize the impact, but it would've been a combination of prose and poetry, giving an impression of the explosion but never explaining where/why it happened. The rat would've been an interesting analogue for the aftermath of the blast. For some reason, I'm inspired by explosions, the look, sound, and feel of them, and like Hollywood, it's something I tend to heavily abuse during my daydreams.

The Only Part I Remember From The Good, The Bad, and The Ugly

I wrote this in 11th grade for English class. Up to this point, it's the only essay I've ever written that got an A, even though it's very flawed. We were assigned to write a personal essay, and could write about anything we wanted, and as soon as I got the approval, I immediately started writing. Normally, in this section, I would divulge every single detail I can remember about writing this, but this time, I'll let you, the reader, make those inferences if you wish. Today, I return home and my first year of college is concluding. I'm posting this completely unedited, as it was originally written when I first turned it in.

I’m a pessimistic person. It’s a known fact. I can recall maybe a few things of my childhood that are precious enough to exhibit on a photo album with Precious or Treasured Memories already printed on the cover, with the same elegant font. You would think companies like that wouldn’t switch it up every once in a while. My whole childhood does resonate in my mind frequently, but it’s a painful, killing motion just like firing a pistol in an enclosed space and hearing the booming noise of the Liberty Bell smacking against both sides of your brain. Don’t get me wrong, the whole freedom of being a child was certainly enjoyable(along with the occasional tantrum), but I seriously can’t find many defining moments in the past 17 years that would be worth mentioning casually at dinner. But…there have been some.

Toy Story is my favorite film of all time. Many would scoff at such a decision, same as I would scoff at them for laughing at the “funniest thing ever” only for that position to be usurped in a day. I can imagine the emperor, in the shape of a banana peel, choking and coughing on a drink served to him by “knock knock joke”. I still remember, vividly, when I was only 3 yrs. old, the family took out the new Nissan ‘95 model for a spin, which is no longer as magnificent and powerful as it once was. We drove to a Jons marketplace, though not the one close to where we live, my parents saw the cardboard standup of Buzz flying as high as his aspirations, with Sheriff Woody, tightly grabbing Buzz’s leg, and praying that he doesn’t fall. My parents just couldn’t resist that tempting cardboard and bought the movie, in Spanish. We came home, we turned on our television set, vrrrring then clicking to reveal the snow, turned on the VCR set, and then I fell in love. I was captivated by the characters, the colors, the humorous actors and situations, the wonderful music, and finally, the credits. The whole movie was absolutely perfect, and it was a position that I never challenged, even in my later years, as an obnoxious, pessimistic teenager.  There are just too many classic moments to recall in that film: Woody’s meeting with the toys, the plastic army men performing an impressive espionage mission, and John Ratzenburger with his amazing voice, being supplied to the classic know-it-all, Hamm. It wasn’t just a small role for John. And who could forget ol’ Forrest Gump himself, Mister Tom Hanks? Tom is my favorite actor and though I’ve seen him in many movies, I hereby declare his career defining performance to being the voice of Sheriff Woody. I know some will disagree…I know many will disagree, but I can’t help but just want to state that as a fact, since it is a fact, a factual fact. Anyway, Toy Story is one of the few defining moments of my childhood. After seeing that movie, I began drawing and haven’t stopped yet. It’s become one of my most enthusiastic endeavors, alongside writing. My dream is to create as a story as beloved as Toy Story, and one that makes its permanent mark in the film industry and the world. Such high aspirations for such a low thinker.

Something happened upon re-watching Toy Story upon finally becoming seventeen. People claim that I obsess over the most ridiculous details. But one particular detail from the movie struck me like a harpoon, piercing the durable flesh off a whale in the middle of a thunderous storm. For much time, I enjoyed the joke that Etch N Sketch draws the lamp that Woody used to push Buzz out the window. Oh, wait. It’s not a lamp, is it? For most of my life, that’s what I wanted to imagine it was. Toy Story was a cute film with adorable characters that had problems that get resolved in the end like a fairy tale. Toy Story is also an unapologetic human drama that explores the rawest emotions that toys can develop. It was then, I realized but refused to accept, Etch N Sketch drew a noose, fit for the most bastardy scoundrel. Even the most wonderful part of my childhood had grown up. (There’s also a kiss ass joke and a vulgar joke but that doesn’t pertain here.)

Growing up is a challenge. That sentence has been written and typed by many people, in different ways, and can be considered as the eponymous statement of the century, but only since it’s true. For a long time I wanted to consider the noose as a lamp, not only due to its shape, but because it would just make more for sense for me as an ignorant 10 year old, who wanted to believe that everything was okay when his mother told him so, even when it clearly wasn’t. Toy Story is a film that has grown up alongside with me over time. I can now find different, sophisticated reasons to appreciate the wonders that this film delivers. However, the first time I found out that it was a noose, I laughed. Hard. At 11: 00 pm. With no one else around to ask me what the joke was. But after laughing, I started shivering. Shaking. I felt like my joke was macabre, offensive, as a badly worded Holocaust joke which for the record, I have tried on several occasions. I always get blank stares. When at one point, as a kid, I thought about how awesome the rocket scene in the movie was, now when I think of Toy Story, I thinking about Bo Peep saying, “why don’t I get someone else  to watch the sheep tonight?” and then Woody laughs as awkwardly, yet as teasingly as he could. What a horn-dog. I can’t even blame that kind of thinking as simply being immature, now I’m challenging the logic of reproduction with these plastic figures. I can’t even believe I just typed that sentence.

It’s a difficult transition to go through in gaining such responsibility, a word I hereby nominate as severely overused. When, at an early age, you begin to draw outside the lines or play in the sandbox with the kid and his little red truck, suddenly you’re presented with explaining why you drew outside the lines and designing that same red truck or even improving its design. Much like my progression with the movie, it seems that many of the films choices are no longer adorable or frightening just because that’s how the movie was made, with no previous planning. Now, I realize the guys at Pixar are geniuses at what they do, but they fight and struggle with their choices as much as any other career does. The guys at Pixar are the same as the race car driver, the choreographer, or the scientist. Woody wasn’t the handsome cowboy we know and love at one point, originally he was a cynical, snarky, rude, short-tempered ventriloquist doll who looked frighteningly like Chucky. Also, my idol, director John Lasseter and his team went through hundreds of drafts for Woody’s first line in the movie. His first line! To think it must’ve taken weeks for them to come up with, “Pull my string. The birthday party’s today?” Geniuses. That’s the only way I can describe them. I’ve decided, half-heartedly, that I want to become an animator, but I’m still not absolutely confident I can pull such a thing off. Hell, it’s taken me 16 years to realize that I should write my thoughts down…on paper. Not just say it to people and hope they like it, but to…write…it…down. And it took me 17 years to finally understand what I’m supposed to be figuring out for essays, which is still such a struggle. In trying to articulate my thoughts as coherently as possible, I have taken the first step towards maturity. But if seeing those moments in Toy story makes me uncomfortable and even traumatic, am I capable of taking that step? Can I fathom what a drop that step will be? I predict it’ll be, at least, a 30,000 foot drop, with the cartoon smoke that always dooms Wile E. Coyote.               

As a little kid, I found myself negatively obsessed with Toy Story. Now let me explain what that means. Just like any franchise, I found myself purchasing whatever product I could from the toy store that was about Toy story. I even bought the Luxo ball so that I could bounce on it, even though the weight distribution would prompt immediate death and a frightening squeal from the ball. I was as abusive as the psychosomatic maniac, Sid, when it came to the treatment of my “prized” Toy Story figures. I remember on a cloudy day, nothing like Andy’s room’s wallpaper, where if weather reflected emotions, it would be pitch black. For no impertinent reason, I walked to the middle of the driveway, holding my Buzz Lightyear with both hands, and shouting “To Infinity and Beyond!” hurling Buzz through the air almost 20 feet. He was a spaceman and had been trained to handle such intense forces of gravity, but he was also made of PLASTIC-Kkk and couldn’t survive the flight back down to cruel mother earth even he tried to. I was always careful, and when I knew I couldn’t catch the spaceman, I didn’t try to. I would be absolutely traumatized if I saw Buzz penetrating the rock-solid concrete at such a frightening speed, no one to help him as his carefully designed buttons and features would scatter across the place, cracking and breaking into indiscernible bits. I rarely swear in public if it’s only a stream of curse words with no subject, verb, or meaning. Saying it just for the sake of saying it, but I promise that I would frighten the poor bastard for daring to rape the integrity of that beautiful film by doing just as the film’s villain had, and not realizing the significance of these wonderful characters. Then again, I was 4. I wasn’t thinking about rape nor did it ever occur to me to type, write, or say the word. It even confounds me that such a word even exists or that it’s always thrown out in public like “the” or “and”. I’ve never heard of a conversation that didn’t contain either word, and can’t imagine anyone trying it, even for some kind of viral recognition. YouTube is making just too easy for anyone to become recognized, and that wouldn’t be a problem for me if the people being recognized were worthy of being recognized. Such random exposure to things like in YouTube would’ve confused and possibly annihilated the curiosity of a 4 years old toy torturer/space explorer that he would never want to think about anything else since he’d realize just how horrible and unapologetic any word, term, or phrase can be. What he had once thought as innocent, millions of others see as a destructive, poisonous force.

But I’m being pessimistic. The film, no doubt, has some of its morals intact, memorable life lessons that I will remember forever since people won’t stop repeating them. You can stop telling me to be myself; I learned that lesson a long time ago. Strangely enough, I can’t find myself to stop making the connections between Toy Story and A Streetcar named Desire. At first glance, yes this comparison is not worthy of being compared. The two movies have absolutely no possible way of being compared, and without even…Okay, I’ll stop now. Blanche Dubois was someone who didn’t want to let go of what her life had established, a reputation of a life that had no chance of evolving into this time period, a woman with her moth-like gestures trying to suck up as much of the spotlight as she can, yet not allowing it to consume her in a blanketed inferno that no soul would try to put out. I know that sounds confusing so…let’s try that again. Blanche is a misunderstood woman, living in a city she misunderstands, trying to find an explanation that justifies all of her torment. As it turns out, Blanche never finds this justification and is thrown into the mental institution, even though she was the sanest of the other characters. Arguably. Favorable spaceman Buzz Lightyear went through the same mental scenario; arriving in Andy’s room, he captures the attention of all but one toy, the most resilient one who won’t dare to move from his established position. Yes, Woody is Stanley Kowalski and better yet, Marlon Brando would’ve seen the connection as well. Heh, imagine if Woody shouted like Stan-oh wait… “YOU… ARE… A…TOY!!!” Brando would’ve been proud. Anyway, both Buzz and Blanche search for their identities without doing so, but are forced to confront reality when it is the most and only appropriate solution to their ongoing conflicts. Pixar took risks by placing Woody and Buzz in that dramatic and Oscar-worthy scene, where both on the toys “death row”, contemplate their previous actions and (realize what they had been missing all their lives). It’s truly a noteworthy scene that…well, I don’t remember if I did cry the first time I saw it, but I promise that it would make me emotional if I saw it today or even years or decades later. Woody is talking the whole time, but Buzz never looks up, even to relax his neck, just…thinking. Even the actors mention that Buzz is legitimately depressed at this moment and it seems that nothing can pull him out of it. This moment is Blanche’s moment at the very end of Streetcar, though not done quite as graphically, but just as emotionally, and on some days, I feel like I’ve been strapped onto that rocket, and I don’t care about how heavy or volatile the rocket may be, but all I know is that rocket is the only thing it takes for my life to end, in a fiery explosion, in a blocked out state of mind, in a reality that has lied to me for the last time. But…Pixar does what I can’t even do without some kind of help. They remind me that there is someone nearby who can help, a cowboy, sitting under a crate just a foot away, standing as the brightness of the morning sky clears away the thickest fog painted onto the window, pushing with all of the might his stuffy arms and delicate exterior can exact onto the crate. Woody pushes, the uplifting music joining him, pushes, pushes, and then Buzz joins him, and they push, and push, and then Woody is freed, and then Buzz keeps pushing and then… Classic movie moment. The moment is purely physical comedy, but it’s done with such finesse and nostalgic brilliance that I promise I will laugh at that sequence every single time it happens. Woody may be my favorite character, but you have to have to laugh at yourself every once in a while. Woody’s expression just as the toolbox falls on him is just classic. God, I love this movie!

Yes, I have been…a little pessimistic throughout the whereabouts of my life, and now that I think about it, I’ve been unfair to myself. But it hasn’t been my entire fault. Life has been a constant struggle that challenges me every day to do something worthwhile. Life can be pretty damn annoying in that sense. I mean, I can’t even take a 5 minute break without life telling me that I should stretch out my arms in order to get more comfortable. I just typed a…2, 637-ah, make that 8, word essay and life still wants me to keep working. At this point in time, I will freely admit that I have been disappointingly lazy, despite my sudden interest in everything except academics, so that could be a factor for not wanting to work. But, also, work can’t be the only factor of my life, and Pixar knows this. Their careers encapsulate everything I dream of accomplishing in the future, and my appreciation for their remarkable and ingenious contribution to films will be everlasting. But that’s not what my childhood was about. No, my childhood was about the story of two toys, which were different from one another, who learned to accept each other as individuals, and become lifelong friends. I will admit part of that sentence was said by Tom Hanks in a television interview, and I paraphrased it…a little, but I do respect Tom that much to confess, and to acknowledge that he explained the meaning of the film better than I could. All right, I give it another shot. Toy Story is about a group of toys that have an undying appreciation for their imaginative owner Andy; it’s also about human struggles, the search for oneself in an ever-changing world, and the complications that plague their lives constantly. It’s a wonderful, beautiful film that I cannot help, but look back on sometimes when I want a simplified explanation to life, and sadly, for this, the film no longer delivers. But that is my fault since my personal philosophy can be connected back to the movie (and Curb Your Enthusiasm), and everyone knows that philosophy tends to be complicated. What it does deliver is something that, even after all these years, I still can’t directly explain, gives me a renewed appreciation for the wonders of life, and reminds me of the imaginative potential that everyone is capable of. There are exceptions, small ones. It’s a movie that reminds me that toys are not just a product of commercialism as we’ve forced ourselves to believe in trying to seem mature, but that toys are the only aspect of our lives that we have an eternal connection to, a never-ending wire that can reach long and beyond the end of the universe, a cementation of our souls that we will always love, no matter how much more complicated the world becomes. I love Toy Story, and… will never forget the permanent influence it’s given me, for it is not simply a 76 minute long strand of film. Toy Story is me, and as far as I know, that’s a pretty good thing.

Now What? - Fixing the Flat

November 8, 2011...
Nothing serious to report this week, or from last week, for that matter. I had some schoolwork to do and I did it. Most of it, at least, there’s a pressing Art History paper due next week that I have yet to start on, but that’ll change tomorrow. All goes well, I might get to stay in the museum on Friday to research further. That’s not to say that everything was fine last week. As the first week of November, it became my first test of endurance and ability, if I was truly capable of starting an assignment and finishing it within a week or two weeks, instead of having another all-nighter. It may be a college tradition to pull off the all-nighters, and drink obscene amounts of caffeine to do it, but I’m simply not capable doing that since I usually pass out on cue at 10 or 11pm. Also, realizing the all-nighter is the only thing holding my grades from improving is another incentive to get procrastination out of my system. I read once that it takes 21 days to fully break a habit. Seems as though I’ve got some work to do. Saturday was a depressing day, and it was all my fault, of course. I invited someone who I was interested in to help me study for an Art History exam, and when she arrived and realized I didn’t have any actual questions about the exam, she got understandably upset. Of course, it took two days to rationalize her reaction as anything other than bitter hatred. I can safely say that the hours following the awkward meeting were various. I felt like a pregnant woman whose emotions kept switching unexpectedly: first from sadness to anger to understanding to humorous to bitter to vengeful to spiteful to rational and so on and so forth. I saw her yesterday and when she decided to talk to me, despite running a few minutes late to class, I knew I had overthought the whole situation. A huge lesson was learned this week, one that, since rejection is as natural a part of life as hunting, will help me improve my understanding of others. Maybe.

November 15, 2011...
Thanksgiving is a wonderful time of the year. It’s one of the few holidays that most schools accept as a day worthy enough to have classes closed for. It works out well for the working student as he can forget about his failed Chemistry quiz for one second, and think about what actually matters: family, and being the one who breaks off more of the wishbone. After this especially difficult semester, it’ll be wonderful coming back to LA for a few days. I’m kind of disappointed, however, that I will be bringing work back with me so that I can stay ahead of the curve. But on the first day, Wednesday, college and responsibility will not exist, and for good reason. It’ll be wonderful seeing my family again. Until it happens, I can only speculate on the amount of wonder those four days may or may not have. I’ve found it unusual that on the first day I saw snow falling from the sky, and landing on the ground, I was probably the most wide-eyed, child-like student that night. I have seen snow before but never from the beginning of the snowfall. It was a beautiful sight. And then there’s school, which will continue to be a part of my life for a few more days, but boy, are those days packed! SAGES final draft, math exam, Art History paper, Philosophy realization. It seems to me that school wants to make Thanksgiving break a well deserved 4 days of rest, but I’m probably not the only one who’s made that connection. Either way, it’s gonna be a difficult battle, but with Thanksgiving break this close to happening, we’re going to see if it’ll be a triumphant march back home.

NW? - A Death in...                                                NW? - Departure

Now What? - This Room Keeps Getting Bigger

October 4, 2011...
I am alone again, naturally. My roommate is gone, and now I have a whole room to myself. I didn’t want my roommate to leave, but I knew why he had to. He’s been having a lot of medical issues recently and spent most of his time sleeping at home instead of sleeping in his room. Plus, he’s saving a lot of money by leaving, and he’s not the biggest fan of the meals offered by the university. As a self-proclaimed food lover who can point out the best meal in every restaurant, he has lots of reason to back up his argument. Because of his calm and free-flowing nature, he was the perfect contrast to my studious and agitated nature, and he was the first person I felt comfortable with in talking about anything. He’ll still go here, but I will miss him. Ever since my Spanish teacher told me to relax, I’ve had a chance to find some necessary breathing space every so often just to think about life or to hang out with friends. Yesterday and for some of today, I’ve used that time to feel increasingly homesick. It never occurred to me of the amount of people I had left behind or about how much everyone mattered to me until, well, as I type this. Because of the amount of work I’ve had this month, I can understand why I haven’t had enough time to reflect, but now that I do, it’s painful. Back in Cali, when I could’ve talked with anyone over Facebook over the summer, for some reason, I could never develop enough courage to try. My theory is that I became claustrophobic over the amount of faces I’d see at one time, but again, just a theory. Suddenly, being 2000 miles away from everyone has given me some amount of courage that I might try to talk to someone next Saturday night. Things might change, but one thing’s for sure, there’s no way in hell I’m studying for anything on a Saturday night. In Philosophy, someone brought an interesting point regarding the Apology by Plato. The Apology is about Socrates’ trial in Athens, where he tries to persuade the 500 jurors to realize the charges against him are unjust. Someone asked if Socrates discredits himself as an accomplished orator, does that make him an accomplished orator? I’ve asked myself that question many times before, and even though it sounds like a broken record, any amount of success I’ve ever had I constantly question. Why me, of all people, go to a university as prestigious as this one? Why does everyone relate with, and enjoy my stories when sometimes, I wish I never created them? Why do I have as many friends as I do? What do I have to contribute to society? Do I have to contribute anything? By the end of my college years, I might be able to stop questioning myself as much, but as it stands, it’s still a relevant issue. Occasionally, I feel like I’m having an identity crisis with myself where at one point, everything is normal but sometimes, I seem to escape from my body and possess someone else's, out of curiosity, never for nefarious purposes, and wonder what the other person may be thinking, if anything. Since the question, “Do I matter?” may be one repeated often in Philosophy, it does seem to be the right time to finally answer, but when I do, will it be a truthful answer or a reassuring lie? Only time will tell.

NW? - I Shouldnt've...                                        NW? - A Death in...

Now What? - I Shouldnt've (Insert Stupidity Here)

September 27, 2011...
I’m screwed. Theoretically, I am. After taking two hours off work(I mean, school) to plot out every single assignment I will turn in the next few months, I can conclude that I am totally screwed. Like a nut and a bolt. Boy, those $19,000 in tuition suddenly seems less valuable right now. I would pay a million to turn in each assignment but with no pesky due dates. Work at my own pace, you know. Great idea, right? Absolutely not. That could be the single worst idea I’ve theoretically come upon. 100 years to turn in something I could’ve done in 2 months? No, that’s just continual torture and how fitting would it be to eventually succumb to procrastination as both a bad habit and a cause of death. I will thank college right now, because I know I will be cursing it continuously, for giving me the privilege to complete so...much...work. Now, my brain is thinking consistently on getting the work completed, trying to make space for fun, and other things I could do with my time like...sleeping. Thank you college for allowing me to think for myself and realize the only cushion for a bad situation is my own body. Now if I can just be just as assertive towards laundry... In a few days, I have to turn a Spanish paper that I should’ve started on weeks ago. Nowadays, I’ve found the phrase “I should’ve (blank)” to be an excruciating reminder of my constant mistakes, whether large or small. Examples: accidentally spilled a sand structure as I left a teacher’s office (I should’ve been more careful), going outside of my dorm to find a pleasant place to study with one unfortunate detail forgotten regarding temperature(I should’ve brought my sweater), or just missing a frisbee(I should’ve stopped watching that bee). To be fair, these constant reminders do help, but in a nagging way. For all three examples, of course doing the right would’ve been better than the obviously wrong, but even for small incidents, repeating it to myself distracts and frustrates me constantly, enough that it might derail my progress and make me regret another thing (I should’ve told myself to shut up.) A small problem, but one I will have to deal with since it’s college (I should’ve drank from the cup I ordered instead of the red one.) No progress yet on the project for IgniteTV yet. I have to send a copy of it to everyone so that we can talk about on Wednesday’s meeting. Even for its simplicity, it’s a very ambitious project that may or may not interest the board(or IgniteTV members). I got to talk to my best friend from my old neighborhood. It might’ve been just a few texts back and forth but I was glad to hear from him again since we couldn’t hang out for one last time in the summer. He’s a good guy, probably the best guy I’ve ever known, a little eccentric here and there, but that’s why I love him. I really hope he’s doing well. It’s his senior year. I hope to be able to attend his graduation. I hope he gets to graduation. Yeah. I hope all of my friends get to take those immortal steps up the stands and reach out for a document that decreases in wealth but exponentially increases in value. A moment of absolute triumph that can only be captured once. No offense to the college graduation but that event is just a more exaggerated celebration with more people, more everything, really. The high school graduation is a truly intimate moment of victory. Will I ever reach my college graduation? As I’ve promised before, we’ll just have to see.

NW? - Phonograph                                             NW? - This Room...

Now What? - Registering information...

September 6, 2011...
Just as my fears of college had begun to assuage by wonderful friends and wonderful times, reality struck again. Looking at my calendar of future events, I realized that that my school days would begin to accelerate at unfathomable levels. Two projects due in two weeks, then a Spanish paper, then something else...it just keeps going! What’s highly surprising is how accurate the explanation of college was, but we didn’t want to believe it; two hours for every hour in class, what the hell could that mean? Realistically, every day in class is very doable but...the rest of it...why would they do this to us? I might be complaining but even for the upcoming workload, it isn’t impossible to finish. My first art history paper is only two pages long and double-spaced, and Math exams have always come naturally to me. So what am I worried about? Recently, I had an appointment at ESS, the education help services, about time management and it turns out I’m doing everything right...so far. I have many mistakes in my first week, which I will point out here: never listen to a comedy album while studying at the library, never take a nap at the reading room where everyone can see you, never forget to double-back all over your essential files in case a certain computer program can’t read a Pages file, and never forget to learn the schedule of every building so that you're not standing outside of the Cleveland Institute of Art on a Saturday morning in 100 degree weather like an idiot. Also, there’s girls. They’re every-where. Also boys. There are over 3,600 students here at Case. That information can make anybody claustrophobic. It hasn’t been completely terrible. After much rearranging, I’m finally in a suitable Spanish class, Intro to Spanish Literature, with a great professor and 10 other classmates. I saw Clerks this weekend, probably the most disgustingly entertaining film I’ve seen. Seeing how terrible the clerks‘ jobs were, it made the ridiculous situations they got into more bearable. I participated at the fraternity rush and unexpectedly met this amazing troupe of characters from Delta Chi. I wouldn’t be surprised if they were my friends for life. Plus, I finally got the textbooks I needed so I’ve been catching up on the reading for my first-year university seminar, very interesting material. It might be too soon to ask this question but when will I become an official college student, the person brimming with responsibility, ambition, and confidence? So far, I still feel like a high school student with all these obligations that have to taken care of. Do I become a college student when I begin to enjoy working on these projects? Well, that would make the workload more bearable. Friday was the worst day of the week. Class was fine, but it was after class where things just didn’t feel right. I ate a hearty breakfast and lunch, and then headed up to the library to read my Philosophy book. I just couldn’t do it; all of the undergoing pressures of the day just fell right upon me and boredom overtook every thought. For the first time at Case, I felt completely abandoned of mind and spirit. Thankfully, an appointment at ESS and a 1000-pc puzzle temporarily misplaced those thoughts but I don’t know what I’ll do if I experience it again. This is a four-day week so it’ll move by quickly. We’ll just have to see.

NW? - Intro                                                               NW? - Progress

The Twentininth One

My second semester of college began a few weeks ago. Rather than talk about that, I'll continue another forgotten tradition of the many funny/depressing things people say in their normal lives. I have noticed how much more defeatist some of these quotes are, but sometimes, facing negativity is the only way to prevail in difficult times. Well, maybe not the only way. Acknowledging it at least makes it easier to swallow. Enjoy these quotes for now, think about them or don't.

A)+Try to keep a positive spin on-
    -BAH!
B) The end of time is near, about a trillion of years near.
C) I hate everything. Today, at least. I don't know what I'll hate tomorrow.
D) The wheel of life continues to spin on a flat.
E) +Where do you find a lot of lives?
     -I don't know. Where?
     +The casino.
F) Laughter is our medicine. It can also be our suicide pill.
G) +What do you mean it technically wasn't a date?
     -I'm not sure.
H) +(overheard) I feel like such a bitch sometimes.
     -I hope you get your bitchiness cured.
I) We all walk into love blind, but eventually, we all find our glasses.
J) +There's a lot of memories in here; this is where we have our brains watered.
    -Wait, did you say watered or slaughtered?
K) He's metaphorating with chocolate?
L) Every smile is a lie.
M) Squares aren't squares without circles.
N) I'm tired but that shouldn't surprise anyone.
O) My dream in life is to piss off a lot of people.
P) Ha-ppiness.

More quotes to be posted soon. Special thanks to Arley Rodriguez, Gary Rodriguez, Eric Eisner, Christian Wargo, and Random Person #1 for originally saying the quotes.

Middleness

Originally written in 12th grade.

In the creative writing club, one of our most popular projects had our group creating characters only with a few descriptions that defined them and then writing a story about these characters. I ended up with a bitter old man living in Russia and a 14 year old girl trying to find some kind of connection in the world. The story itself doesn't make much sense since the old man and the girl meet in Russia under serendipitous circumstances and an drunken Russian boy who can communicate perfectly with the old man and girl, as well as a planned subplot of the old man being a spy undercover who is trying to behave like a 95 year old when he is in fact, 72. And if there's one thing Russia is known for, it's drunken people and spies. Clearly, I have a very biased perspective on Russia and in order to complete the story, i would have to extensively research Russian culture and give a hint as to what would invite the girl to come to such a place. The story also deals with the problem of acceptance in a complicated world that rejects others, in this case, the innocent girl running away from the law, and the old man who couldn't stand to be around people he understood and moved to a country where he can remain as the foreign treasure. Originally, I wanted the girl to fall in love with the old man, but I realized that spinning a story with that kind of angle would be difficult to believe. I might eventually complete the story but only when I'm not boggled with other projects to worry about. Please leave comments and thanks for reading, if you do.
 
Characters by Creative Writing Club ’11

Masks of different kinds lined up his closet. Each looked like a fog of color that oversimplified its meaning.
“Rrrg.”
He trotted towards his drawer and picked up his glasses shaped with dark, thick frames and a 5-cm diameter circle. With the glasses, he could see beyond his field of view. He stumbled back to the closet and picked out today’s mask, a bleak expression that could remind someone of a fierce and unholy battle. Upon the slipping the mask on, he left his house and walked to a bar. He hated using a cane; he thought it was a sign of weakness even though he could seriously bludgeon someone if he wanted to. Occasionally, he’ll stumble off and get to a liquor store though he doesn’t figure it out since both places have similar odors. The bright lights confused him, the swear words even more so.
“You’re too young!”
“So what if I am?”
“Go away! And don’t come back!”
Kye stood for a while outside of the bar. Every time she saw the bartender, she made a face.
“Nyag!”
Inaudible. John bumps into Kye.
“Jesus! What the hell is wrong with you, old man?”
“That’s a first.”
“What do you mean?”
“Old man,” he said while adjusting his glasses. “People usually call me a geezer or a wiseass but not old man. You’re not from around here, are you?”
“What-uh-whadda ya mean?”
“I’ve walked on this street for the past 47 years; never have seen someone as thin as you. Did you move in recently?”
“You can say that.”
“Now why did Frank do that earlier? He doesn’t give a damn about the drinking age.”
“Oh, he saw me staring at one of his sons, it seems, and got worried that they might be taken by my beauty.”
“Frank’s son is almost 20.”
“Well, he’s still a man.”
John slowly nodded his head. Compared to the lesser-minded individuals he was forced to interact, day after day, there hadn’t been a reason to nod at anyone. For a moment, John thought he was nodding incorrectly.
“What’s your name?”
“Kye. What’s yours, old man?”
“John. John Smith. You can laugh at the mediocrity later, ok?”
“What’s mediocrity?”
“Literally middleness. Halfness.”
“(chuckles) Seriously?”
“Very.”
The bar door swings open, smacking and dividing Kye away from John. A blue coated boy stumbles out of the bar, carefully choosing his next step. He opens up his coat and sees a broken bottle.
“Aw, shit! That was for my (burps) mother.”
“My fucking nose!” yells Kye, closing the door.  “You little-“
“Easy, Ki. Don’t’ forget you walk this way to go back home.”
“Right. I always go-um-wrong way.”
“Tell you what,” says John holding his cane with both hands. “How ‘bout I take you home?”
“Ok.”
John holds the little boy’s hand and walks carefully so the boy doesn’t throw up on his shoes. Kye, still massaging her nose, walks behind them. It’s a wonder, she thought, how much more attractive the old man was compared to the bartender’s son. Has it really been that long, she wondered.
“Mommy wanted the bottle. But it’s broke. She wont want it now.”
“Well, maybe I can take care of that, too.”
“Jesus, it’s cold out here!”
“Well, how long were you in there?” insisted John to Kye.
“A few hours, maybe minutes.”
The sidewalk remained consistent with the same pattern, gray, black, gray black. The walls of each street were colorless in nature and display, even the paint cracking under was a bleak eggshell white, not nearly as exciting or as whimsical as the snowflakes vibrating above their heads.
“We’re almost there. Keep your head up, boy.”
“I’m try (spits)’n. It’s (burps) nasty.”
 “Ki, how much can you lift?”
“Uh…some amount.”
“Would you mind carrying the boy?”
“Nnnno…if he doesn’t spread his mouth shit.”
“Sure. You’ll be careful, won’t you?”
“Yes.”
Kye approached the boy carefully. Never had she seen a more delicately constructed creature. His features were perfectly symmetrical, eyes were a glowing green, and even the little spittle at the side of his mouth reminded him of a teardrop that only a sensitive person could create. She gently lifted him up and carried him in her arms. Like holding a feather.
“Brooul!”
“Ugh, uh, ew!”
“You shouldn’t have picked him up that fast.”
“I..couldn’t help myself! He’s so cute. Ugh!”
“Urp…sm…I’m sorry.”
“It’s..okay, I guess.”
They continued walking; leaving behind the only original color the sidewalk will have for a week. In a short while, they arrived at John’s doorstep.
“I thought we were going home,” exclaimed the boy quizzically.
“We are. I just don’t want you to come empty-handed.”
John opened the door, and Kye stepped in, wanting to drop the boy on the couch. What surprised her, aside from the house smelling appropriately, was the lack of furniture.
“Jon, where can I drop him?”
“On the floor, I guess. Just don’t make another mess.”
As he commanded, she carefully placed the boy on the floor, unusually colorful and confusing from the repeatable tessellations she’d seen before.
“Here we go,” said John, looking at the only furniture at his house: a liquor cabinet with a beautifully engraved handle of a dragon on it. “Have a little vodka left over from my birthday party. Hope your mom likes this.”
“Thanks. I hope she does, too.”
“Do you want to leave now?” asked John.
“Not yet. Thank you.”
“This feels like Kindergarten.” replied Kye despondently.
“How so?”
“Sitting on the floor like misbehaving shits. Looking up at the teacher and listening to her. Or watching her lips open and close. Like a fish.”
John chuckles.
“What grade are you in, little boy?”
“The one you say. Kinder-garter.”
“Do you like it?”
“I no know. I was there once. But not again.”
“Hmm…mmm.” So innocent. So little.
“Ki.”
“Hm?”
“So what’s a sweet, innocent girl like you finding drunk, impotent men in Russia?”
“Well, (clears her throat), I’m an emancipated minor, my parents…were horrible people, and I’ve been traveling the rails, as they’d say in the 1800’s. I was at a library once, looking at pictures of buildings, when one of Russia’s (put her hand on her chest) in-credible buildings caught my attention. I was flabbergasted at its design, its colors, its inventiveness. I just had to see it. Just once. Touch it once. Oh. Crazy, huh?”
“No. Not at all.”
John was a detail-oriented person, in thought and execution. He cross-examined Kye’s words, dissected every gesture and pulse she made. If Kye was aware of John’s ulterior motive, she would’ve been flattered.
“It was tricky, but luckily, I was able to sneak onto a flight and was on my way. To touch that building. I couldn’t wait, but life had other plans. Shortly after, the airline became aware of the stowaway and I ran, till I got to the bar. Eh, shit happens, Jon.”
“Amen.”
“By the way, is it J-O-N?”
“No. With an h.”
“That’s all right. Like I give a damn about my name, anyway. Yours is K-I?”
“No. K-Y-E. I give a bit more of a damn, but enough, it seems.”
“Thing is,” said John, sitting upright and moving his hands, “if you corrected your name every single time someone mispronounces it, it becomes a chore and your name’ll lose its initial significance.”
 “Huh. You’re right.”
“This time, Kye.”
One spoke, the other responded, an instinctive act neither of them had accomplished in a while. Inside, both of them wondered why the other hadn’t left yet.
“Hungry, Kye?”
“Oh, fucking. Whaddya got?”
“Well, let’s see.”
(TBC…)

The Twentithird One

Ladies and gentleman of the jury, I may or may not be losing my fucking mind right now. At this point, I have no evidence to confirm either diagnosis, but I'm pretty sure I'm losing it. My back aches right now, the pain is mostly around the right shoulder blade, due to the amount of crap I lugged around yesterday for some goddamn reason. And I'm swearing a lot, another thing to check-mark. Why is this relevant, ladies and gentleman? Where's the connection with losing my mind and having back pain? As it turns out, I have also been shaking uncontrollably for the past hour and a half. Now this may have something to do with the window being open, but most likely, my thoughts have been racing incredibly fast, and my body has to compensate for it. As each thought makes its way across my body, I can feel each thought blazing right through.

I apologize in advance for this post. As you can tell, it's more disorganized than my posts usually are. I've had several conversations with some close friends and each of them, whether they were a sophomore, or a senior in college, convinced me that my life in college was only an illusion, and that I'm only taking on a separate personality. It's fair to say that, if you're someone who studies more often than you sleep, and if all of your classes are terrible and complete wastes of time, but for some reason, I never thought of college this way. I've enjoyed the 2 months I've spent in college so far, and yes, they have been a difficult two months, but at no expense to myself as a human being. Maybe I was wrong. When I realize the things I've had to give up in order to turn in a certain assignment in on time, it's really depressing. Most of the time I spend on weekdays is in my room or at the library studying. Is that a fair reason to complain about not having a life? I think my real problem is that I'm gullible, superficially gullible. I've never considered the negative aspects of a person, and when I hear them for the first time, it's always a shock. Why? It's true. So-and-so instead of being this, is actually this. We all have the skeletons in our closet about disturbing things that wouldn't be acceptable in polite society. I'm afraid of having sex. Deathly afraid. Why? I've been having an identity crisis for quite some time, between my adult self, the crazy, swearing, cynical 18 year old, and my past self, the crazy, sweet, intelligent 10 year old, and when I think of myself in a bedroom with someone, I'll hesitate because of the 10 year old self. It's the same reason I'm always shaving, and trying to stop swearing. It's just so damn confusing. One more thing, it took me years to break my habit of not saying "so", since I thought saying "so" would make me sound stupider; well, I don't have to sound like a brilliant person every day, especially when formulating the thoughts precisely enough to make sense of it is complicated and frustrating enough as it is.

Is there any reason to be complaining right now? Is my life, at this point in time, better than it has been before? Of course it is, and yet, there's still something wrong. I woke up this morning, thinking about someone's request of no longer asking invasive questions, and I don't know what to do about it. I've asked a lot of unusual questions before, but how can anyone react politely with that kind or request? You'll only be spurred into asking more "invasive" questions, such as "What kind of questions wouldn't be invasive?" Frankly, I feel terrible that I made them feel this way, and I imagine they've felt this way for a long time, and finally had the courage to ask that question. Should I feel insulted by the fact that they asked it? Personally, I've always asked questions like that, so being asked not to do that is an attack to my personality. Maybe I'm reacting childishly about it; I'll admit I had a tantrum just a few minutes ago, and yesterday when I was at the park. Maybe the reason I'm asking all of these questions is only because of their request. If asking invasive questions isn't an appropriate way to develop a friendship, then what is, and if it's supposed to be really obvious, why can't I understand that?

Life can be complicated, sometimes. All the time.