REPORT A PROBLEM
January is my favorite month of the year. It's snowy, white outside, and cold. And that's just how I'd like it to be. I tell people that it's because I like skiing and snowboarding, which is true. But the real reason is that I feel like that. Cold, covered in a blanket that's taking too long to melt away. I want to be happy, but this freezing cold afghan covering me prevents me from feeling any warmth. I have friends, yes. But I've never had anyone that really loved me in a, romantic way, I suppose. It makes me sad.
I watched a short film about the son of a mime. It made me realize that sometimes, putting on a happy face actually makes you happier. More so, it made me realize how much I would like to be a mime. I don't care for how they dress, but I like their attitude towards the world- make yourself happier and you make the world happier. I think if more people lived like that, everyone would be happier. What I truly want is happiness- and I don't mean that in the 'I want to be in love and puppies and kittens.'
I don't know if there is such a thing as not being naïve. I think everyone is naïve, and when they say they aren't they are just trying to hide their fragility. I think all humans underestimate how fragile they are, how little their emotions can withstand. So they drink early, they do drugs early, they have sex early. Then they realize, maybe five, maybe ten years later that they shouldn't have, that they should have tried to stay innocent. But what is innocence? Is it natural, or is it the result of idleness that stems from the Industrial Revolution?
I want to be a flapper. I want to wear my hair short and messy, to wear thick dark eye makeup, to have cupid's bow lips, to wear loose flowing frocks, to wear my stockings rolled below the knee. I want to dance wildly, drink prohibited drinks, take illegal drugs, listen to loud jazz music, act expressively in a silent film. I want to write about freedom, I want to pout, I want to sing love songs, I want to dance in risque outfits. I want to be the romanticized concept of flapper that I have ingrained in my mind.
“You don't know what pain is!” Does anyone? Is it subjective, or can we measure it? Can it be approached scientifically? Maybe we should make a graph, and at some point say, “Here. This- this is pain.” If we did do this, what would the purpose be? Maybe there is no purpose in science, science, with its graphs and charts and scientific papers. Maybe we should just rely on instinct, although- is instinct really reliable? I had a teacher once that said humans don't have much instinct, although leaders are often exceptionally instinctual. Maybe we should all be leaders, then.
I bought a video camera. I've been watching lots and lots and lots of films lately. I think I want to be a filmmaker. I want to make movies about characters who struggle, characters who don't always win. I think sometimes sad endings are the best endings; sometimes it's best not to be too hopeful. Because, if you're too hopeful, too optimistic, you get crushed. Sometimes it's not the results that crush you, but the realization that the results are not going to work in your favor. I prefer to be a pessimest, and save my hope for other things.
I don't understand how people flitter from relationship to relationship. I've only seriously like two people in my entire life, and neither of those have resulted in anything that could be called a 'relationship'. As my best friend puts it, 'Joanne has a tumultuous relationship with someone she doesn't talk to anymore.' And it's true. The boy in question is so awkward and unsure of himself that he can't even talk to me, instead just gazes at me across the lunchroom. Sometimes it feels like he's teasing me, other times it feels like he might do something, then he doesn't.
I like making play lists. Once I made one featuring love songs, from the beginning to the bitter end. I made one with songs to dance to, starting with fancy remixes, moving through happy chiptune, then closing the circle with some more club songs. The last one I made didn't have a theme, no. It had a sound. It sounded like love dying, the sound a guitar makes when you play high notes on the low strings. Sad, melancholic drums with raspy, creaky vocals singing about death and dying, or not. Singing of how it's only just love, that's all.
I noticed that I write in the first person almost all the time. I'm not sure if it's a good thing, maybe indicating that I'm in touch with my feelings and thoughts, or a bad thing- maybe it emphasizes how big my ego is. I sometimes worry that my ego is too big, and that's why boys don't like me. I consulted my sister- she disagreed. She mumbled about how I'm too alternative for a teenager. I told her I don't think that it's possible to be too alternative. Besides, I'm not even sure what it means to be alternative.
Willow, weep for me. Willow, weep for me. A line from a song, I don't know which song specifically, I just heard it, though. I never liked weeping willows, they always seemed a bit too sad for me. I like happy trees, like the giant oak in the backyard of my old house, the house I grew up in. I liked the pine trees that lined the back fence, the long tall trees in the woods next to the house. I liked the bushy tree in the front yard of the neighbor who lived on the corner. I like trees.
I think actors from the Jazz Age- that of silent films and speakeasies- were more talented than those that appeared after talkies became famous. They were so expressive, yet subtle, in a way that mimicked the true behavior of humans. Look- if you look at someone walking down the street, even if they're alone, you can see the intricacies of their behavior without much effort. It's an interesting thing to observe. Actors now rely on words, and words alone don't make a story. It's like that saying- actions speak louder than words. I think silent films stars understood this best.
I don't like the feeling of drowning. I don't know what if feels like when one is in the water, but I know what it feels like outside of the water. I felt it once after reading a book about how one can never express their thoughts 100% accurately because of the lack of proper words for most of one's thoughts. I think of it like a scatter plot; you have your emotions spread out all over in the quadrant, quadrant one, and the words you have to describe all those emotions are just little, tiny dots on the graph.
Sometimes I think about how romantic it would be to be a poet. Or even just a writer, although writers always seemed a bit more scientific to me. Poets seemed creative, bold, even a bit elusive. I have known good writers, despite my young age, but I have never met a good poet. It might be an art that is hard to make until one has gathered a large amount of experience, as well as a large amount of words with which to write about that experience. And certainly a seventeen year old does not have that much of either.
I love pop music. Not that top forty crap, but real, bouncy, sunny, happy pop music. I hate to say 'indiepop', but people always misunderstand when you just say 'pop'. I don't like to stick the label of 'indie' on anything; it's something that's liable to change and really means nothing about the actual music. I really don't even like labels, I think that most people are too complex to lump together into groups, although I can see the social motivation- make everyone easier to tell apart. Still, I think it kind of robs people of their chance to impress.
I have long fingernails. They aren't sharp, and I certainly don't scratch people with them. The tips are sort of rounded, and the bases of them are broader than I'd like them to be. My nailbeds turn deep purple when I'm cold, and sometimes the color changes before I even feel cold. One time, I was sitting and writing and they changed color rather suddenly. I didn't feel cold at all, I felt fine, even a bit warm. I looked it up on one of those 'diagnose yourself' websites and scared myself into thinking I had a real, legitimate disease.
I waste so much time. I could be out doing prolific things, making things, or at least socializing and advancing my 'social position'. I'm not quite sure what that is, but I think it might affect who wants to talk to me in school. Not that I care, really, because I only want to talk to about five people. I only tell about five people anything, and even then- nobody gets the full story. I like to spread out my story so that if you line up those five people, they can tell you bits about exactly who I am.
I find solace in film. Characters not like me, experiencing a life I don't- and probably won't- know. Beautiful, rich, full-bodied characters that make you wonder what they're thinking, instead of real life in which you mostly know what others think. Or perhaps I'm wrong. Maybe you can never really know what someone thinks. Even if they tell you. Perhaps everyone is lying in everything they say. Or perhaps the limitations of language don't allow them to every really tell the truth. Maybe there is no such thing as truth, just true lies. Or perhaps I'm just being paranoid.
I have thoughts of dancing in a field, wearing a brightly colored frock and mary janes. I have strawberry blond hair that curls down my back, and pale skin with freckles. I dance around and around, and nobody watches me. The flowers nip at my ankles, and I giggle with joy. I sit down on a blue plaid cloth and eat a sandwich from my picnic basket. I am alone, but not lonely. I am enjoying the company of nature, of flowers, of butterflies, of bugs. I don't worry about not having a boyfriend, friends, or family. I am happy.
I'd like to finish my January batch tonight. But there's only so much one can write in one night. Maybe I should talk about what I think. But if I do that, I'll only talk about Steve. Maybe I should talk about all the movies I've seen in the last week. But that would take way more than a hundred words. Maybe I should talk about my exams in school. But I don't want to bore you or myself. Maybe I should talk about my family. But I don't want to start crying. Tonight isn't a good night for crying.
My best friend is my only real friend. She brought my a cupcake for my birthday. She bought me sunglasses that all my other friends said suited me excellently. She pays for me when I forget my money, cheers me up when I'm down, encourages all my quirky little habits, listens to me when I'm feeling chatty. She tells me her problems, and I tell her mine. She doesn't complain when I'm sad, and I don't complain when she is. We are in a sort of platonic love bubble together. And I think we are both quite happy about it.
I don't know how I feel about female lead singers. I have a suspicion that they are vocally held to much higher standards than males are, which saddens me. I can't sing, and I wish I could. Then again, I can't write a song either, so having a singing voice wouldn't do me much good. No, I have a throaty voice that only sounds good when it speaks French. It sounds snotty, not intentionally, although I wouldn't be surprised if that's why some people don't like me. Not that it's a good reason, but people don't always have good reasons.
I don't much feel like writing today. I feel like watching another movie, which reminds me that I need to update my Netflix queue. I hate the word queue. It looks so British, despite the fact that I'm sure it's a French word. I don't care for French words, there's a certain quality about them that ignites distaste. I wish I were Swedish- now that's a pretty language. Very musical, slips off the tongue easily, and isn't very difficult to write in. Sometimes I think that I would have been better off born European. I wouldn't be an American then.
This was an excellent week, as far as crushes go. Very cute, sweet, attentive. No real progress, though. Why do I like someone who can't even talk to me? I should like someone sweet, cute, attentive. But maybe that's not enough. Maybe I should like someone that charms me with their words, not their eyes. Perhaps my situation would improve then, and I would no longer feel hopeless. And maybe if I no longer felt hopeless, then I'd feel a bit better about being me. But then again, I already like myself. Maybe he needs to learn to like himself.
I like monsters. Not real monsters, mind you, but fake, cute monsters that fake scare you. They don't lurk in closets, they sit on your dresser and smile at you when you put your contacts in. They guard your cds that you can't find space on the bookshelf for. They compliment your hair after you brush it, then tell you that cardigan doesn't match that shirt. They tell you that you look dashingly beautiful in that pink shirt with the lime green shirt under it, despite the fact you look like a watermelon. One has to wonder what they want.
I'm enjoying the freedom of writing whatever it is pops into my head. It's starting to become a good stress reliever, the way a long walk on the beach or a long bike ride might relieve stress in an athlete. But I am not an athlete, except in the summer, and even then- I'm not a good one. I don't eat healthy food, and I would rather sleep in than get up for a morning run. But for me, perhaps some exercise would be good. I'm not overweight, but if I don't do something I'm bound to end up so.
Today is my birthday. I got a netflix subscription, two scarves, a hat, and sunglasses. I got an adorable, realistic comic from a friend, and more 'happy birthdays' than I could count. But I did not get flowers or candy. He did not say happy birthday. And I do not want to see him anymore. I don't want to like him, I don't want to smile at him, and I don't want to exchange glances with him. I want him to disappear, and I want someone better to replace him. I want to disappear and someone better to replace me.
I love candy. I think it's one of the most joy-inducing things in the world. I like fruity candy, chocolatey candy, crunchy candy, chewy candy, melt-in-your-mouth candy. I like Mike and Ikes, Dots, Hershey's bars, Skittles. I saw a spoof on that show, Intervention, once. It was about a kid with a Skittles addiction. It was a hilarious piece of student work. I wish I could make something hilarious. My friends say I'm funny, but I don't think so. I think it's more that they're laughing at me rather than at something I said or did.
No school today. Normally, I would be excited. I would have been a pessimist the day before a grumbled at people who were buzzing with talk of staying home, then been pleasantly surprised about not having to get up in the morning. But today was the day of my math midterm. I was not excited about the snow day because I like math, I want to take the midterm, and now I have to go to school on Friday instead of today. I really, really don't think it was worth it to not go into school today, despite the snow.
While I do enjoy this site, I think that the format almost forces one to write what amount to mini personal narratives. Or perhaps I'm not creative enough to write anything else. Maybe I should try write a story that spans the month of February, and my hundred words each day could be dedicated to moving the story along. I could write surreal poetry, or I could write sonnets, but I don't think I will. I am not a poet. I'm not even a writer. Maybe my participation on this side is me pretending to be something I am not.
The Pepsi commercial about how each generation refreshes the world puzzles me. I don't think the people of my generation are in the least bit original; we just copy our predecessors. The hipsters, the cool kids, they wear eighties clothes, then the stoners, who claim to be hippies, dress like they're from the sixties. The kids listen to bland rock music, bad pop music, or old music that their parents used to listen to. It's like teenagers cannot see beyond what has already been done; they end up stale copies of the past. They're nostalgic for things they didn't experience.
The Hearts of Age is a short film made in 1934 by Orson Welles. He plays death, and pretty much stalks an old woman until the end, in which she dies. I was thinking about how I would like to make a movie in which an abstract concept is personified. One friend told me to personify love, another- greed. I think greed might be more difficult, but also more interesting. What is greed like? What does greed do, where does greed lurk? But the biggest question of all: what problem could greed have that would be worthy of a film?
The Tip Jar