Archive for March, 2012

Paris Amour iv.

There becomes a permanent furrow in his brow as he spins the paper, viewing the pictures from different angle as if each degree will be closer to comprehension.

“Most people don’t understand,” she says boldly.  “Paris will bring words to it.”  But the man has trapped his attention within a specific drawing, a lock that has engraved its shadow throughout the entire notebook.  The detail present makes him jump, as if he can feel the cold metal against his skin, as permanent marker is smudged by the trickle of French rain.  In frustration, the man returns to the woman her beloved notebook, to which the key is one’s mind.  Her satisfaction in her wit is evident, particularly the frustration in the man.  The man has turned away in deep thought over the past moments on the train, and the woman has finally turned to the peace of a silent page.

The woman in the asphalt-feathered peacoat who writes until dawn breaks hums Gershwin’s Rhapsody in Blue in a timid volume, afraid to wreck the crafty chords rather than to wake anyone up.  The man has drifted off on a cloud, and the woman realizes, much to her dismay, that he radiates the slightest bit of attractiveness while asleep.

Paris is called above the intercom, as the woman scribbles the last calligraphic letters into her book.  She considers waking the man up, simultaneously considering the fact that she can talk to him again.  Excusez-moi, she hears in a bustle of falling suitcases and rumbling tracks, and the man has woken from his peaceful abode.  He wears that tiresome look, as if the sun has been waiting for him by his bedside in the early morning.

“Puis-je—-can I help?” he says in a quick shift in tongues.  The woman holds in her hand the last cigarette of the pack, shrugging nonchalantly while balancing her purse and duffel in one grip.

The woman can’t seem to remember when she last smoked like this, and she can feel her body revolting silently and in a deathly manner.  She hopes for some godsend for inspiration, although her notebook has covered itself in sweat smudges in the form of some sort of inspiration.

“Paris, are you ready?” Asks the man, sighing his own breath of relief as one would do at home.  That’s where he was; he was at home.  “Paris, such a beautiful city.”  He breathes again, taking in the air as if it were a drug.  “Would you not agree?”

The woman can see barely beyond the train tracks in this misty morning, and her breath has yet to be struck by the memories she left behind once.

“I suppose,” she agrees tersely.  The man has nodded, returning to that once-curious face again from it-seems-like-years ago since they first met.  “I suppose, but I’ll never know until I can see it.  This damn fog.”  The man laughs as the woman exposes her personality the slightest bit.  He looks into her eyes for maybe the third time in the entire trip, gently caressing her hand and reaching to kiss her cheek.

“It was a pleasure.”  The woman is dumbfounded by these un-American ways.  Yet, she is simultaneously pleased, and she explains this with a symbolic smile.  As the plastic doors close behind the man, the woman straightens her asphalt-feathered coat and runs after him.  He has left nothing behind, and she has nothing to say to him, yet she runs until the wind catches between the strands of her hair.  Before she can yell something, she realizes she doesn’t know his name.

Attends!”  Her French reeks of Americanness.  The man is laughing as he turns almost involuntarily to her voice.  A few hours, and his mind has trained itself to react to her mellifluous voice.  “Attends!” She whispers in a diminuendo when she reaches him, until she is eye-to-eye with those striking green pupils.

The man is silent, looking down at her with his immense height, with a gaze so captivating, as if they can understand all.
“Ma cherie!”  The woman hears, as her body is retracted from the deep connection between the two, jostled by the interruption.  “Ma cherie!” There is another woman, seemingly a mother, holding the man’s face, cupping it in fragile hands, and kissing his cheeks amidst custom.

The man has not shifted a muscle in the way he smiles, almost in a daze.  He pulls the woman’s arms closer to his mother, introducing her in a tangle of foreign syllables.  She is uncomfortably fidgeting like one’s lover fidgets in the time of new introductions.  For a second, she is so lost in the moment, amidst strangers in an unknown station, amidst new acquaintances in an almost familiar country, amidst her past and present, that she begins to play along, until it all becomes real in her mind.


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Louis, My Darling


It’s been a while since I’ve just written about life.  With France and my video blogs and whatnot, I haven’t just ranted, I suppose.  I mean, I would probably call my usual musings rants….wouldn’t you?

I’m turning 16 in a week!  April 2nd—I was an hour away from being an April Fool’s baby.  16 doesn’t really have any significance, except maybe it signifies growing up.  Every year, I pretty much consider myself a year older.  Like for the past few weeks, with friends who are 16, I’ve considered myself to be 16.  Right as I turn 16, I’ll be looking straight ahead to 17.  Eyes on the prize.

16, however, does mean license.  License means car.  Car means life starts.  For the past few months, I’ve unofficially owned a car, since my parents got a new car.  He’s a 5 year old Jeep Cherokee, and his name is Louis (like the French version).  At first, I would jokingly call him Louis, but now it’s just natural, I guess.  Anyways, the past few days, I’ve been the designated driver, and that means we take Louis.  My family isn’t a fan of Louis, who’s much older than the other cars and much less high-tech.  Nevertheless, since I’m driving, we get to take him!  I’ve felt so incredible walking in with jingling keys in my hand, twirling them and showing the world.  My parents have let me park by myself and drive out of the driveway, and that little bit of freedom is enough.  Of course, there are times when they become skeptical of letting me get my license (which I’ll, hopefully, get April 9th).  But I’ll get better, I promise!  (I have two weeks to do that).


In other news, this long awaited science fair is next week!  Of course, I’m cramming in last-minute tests and whatnot, but believe it or not, I’m actually excited.  I realized that I get to talk to people….as in talk and talk and talk.  Maybe this’ll scare away judges and I’ll have to present less—which’ll be good as long as they give me some good scores!  My project’s official and tremendously boring name: The Effects of Flow Rates on Water Purification through Sand Filters.  I hope to god I never, ever create a title like that ever again.  Unfortunately, I can’t be super creative and call it something like, Let’s Clean Water! because all I can imagine is someone giggling right after saying that.  Anyways, I would invite anyone to come see it, but I highly doubt driving an hour to see a science fair on a Saturday is really of interest to anyone.

Simultaneously, everything else has started up at the same time, piling up on my stress.  Tennis has officially started!  Our team has twenty people—twenty.  That’s intensely large.  Last year 14 was a large number.  Anyways, our first match is on MY BIRTHDAY!  We definitely need more people at our matches!  We’re not hockey or football, but tennis can be…fun too.  Sure, it’s not as riveting as those other sports….there’s no rush.  But we have bagels.

The past week, Vermont has seen a massive heat wave.  We’re not complaining, since now it’s 30 and raining, but it was just so bizarre.  I took out my shorts and tanktops, sunglasses, and, of course, ice cream (wait…I eat that in winter too).  Now I’m back to drab sweaters, boots, jackets.  Ick.

OH!  I watched the Hunger Games.  Wow.  Wow, wow, wow.  It was one of the best movie adaptations of a book that I’ve ever seen.  But simultaneously, I don’t think I will ever watch it again.  I can’t handle it.  I can’t handle the thought of what the movie is about, even if it’s an amazing story.  Although I didn’t like Peeta in the book, the movie made me like him a lot.  Of course, there’s no way I will ever approve of Katniss-Peeta.  Not to make this like Twilight, but I’m Team Gale….all the way.  Of course, the actor in the movie who played Gale contributed to my support too 🙂

My favorite parts of the movie: Rue.  Rue, Rue, Rue.  She’s absolutely adorable.  When she died, it was the first time I ever felt like breaking down [I didn’t].  There were many times I was hidden beneath the turtle neck of my sweater, flinching as Cato trapped Peeta in his burly arms or as the Tracker Jackers stung Katniss.  I was mostly disappointed to see the Red-Haired girl omitted from the movie, since she was one of my favorite characters in the book.  I loved Stanley Tucci.  I love him all the time.  I love him the most with Meryl Streep, but that’s irrelevant.  I actually wonder if Meryl Streep would’ve been a good Effie Trinket—probably not, because Elizabeth Banks did a fantastic job with it.  Okay, I’m done being a movie critic….

I guess other than this, not much more is new.  I’m finally back to writing more often (as you’ve seen from Paris Amour).  As well as that, my final letter for Opal was published in the paper yesterday, and it seemed to be very well-liked.  I’ve had a lot of people telling me I should write a book about Opal, but I just don’t think it would be the same as my five letters.  The train story (temporarily Paris Amour) was something I had been playing around with during the entire trip to France, and even before.  Now, I’ve taken just bits and pieces of it….and I haven’t been so excited about writing something in a while.

Off to a band concert, tennis match, and then homework for me…..



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Paris Amour iii.

“Writing is a way of talking without being interrupted,” Jules Renard 1895.  I feel like this quote describes every bit of me….

Anyways, wow, this is honestly one of the farthest spots I’ve gotten in a story without feeling frustrated and feeling rushed.  I’m up to almost 2,000 words for my train story (name TBD, temporarily “Paris Amour” [Paris Love]).  Writing a paragraph at the least here and there is motivating.  More than that, posting to my blog commits me to it, which is something I need once in a while when writing.  Hope you enjoy it!  If you like it, PLEASE comment.  If you have suggestions, again, PLEASE comment!  I thrive off of constructive criticism when it comes to my writing.  


There is no need for an apology or superficial gratitude in this moment, where time has captured words in the way she looks at him with those melancholy eyes.  He has trapped himself in her embrace far across the seat, in the embrace through her speckled glasses.   He says words one would say to a lover to a woman on the train, a figure who stood in the way of him and his light.  Yet, he is to blame, for he was the one who sparked the conversation.  That reminds him of her notebook, which has printed her finger-markings across its cover.

The woman has noticed the shift in his gaze, and has buried herself in her notebook, scribbling furiously at the page.  The man watches apathetically, though there is nothing apathetic of the way he feels.  She places her notebook on the table eventually, striking him as he commits himself to the first chapter of her life.

“No words,” he smiles.  “Of course, here is the true story.”  He brushes his fingers over the cave-painting-like figures in her notebook, revitalized by the coolness of the fresh ink and the start of a new book.

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Paris Amour

Added to my train story, though it’s not much

“Oh, and what makes you say that?”  She feels rebellious.  She feels free as the wind whooshes against the window, rustling leaves in a different realm past the thick glass.  She feels as if it’s her hair caught in the grasp of the wind, her body tumbling on empty fields.  She feels rebellious.  She feels as if she is on top of the world.  She feels this way in the presence of his striking green eyes, and at this point she has noticed more features about him—the way his nose curves over his face.

“Death.  I’ve seen the face of death with….that.”  He seems disgusted, and the woman can feel her cheeks flush with rosy hues.  Yet, she has grasped onto the cigarette even tighter, as if to protect herself from the face of death.

“Death?”  Her voice trembles, and she is not so rebellious anymore.  “How so?”  She had meant to say this in her head, but soon finds herself jump at her own voice.  Her hand has reflexively stretched itself over her mouth.   Yet, she is genuinely curious.  The man has looked down at his hands, blatantly frustrated at ever having been reminded.  His lines loosen up, as he whirls into thoughts upon thoughts.  Suddenly, she is regretful and apologetic.

“It used to be a friend of mine,” the man pauses, looking up at the woman’s eyes.

“It?”  She whispers.

“She.  She used to be a friend of mine.”  The woman has caught on thus far.  The man continues, and while the woman listens, she finds herself drifting away to the base-heavy voice of his.  There are times when his eyes cease to live in the present and dance into the past, when his stories are illustrated with the way his lip curves up on his face.  And other times, she can’t help but lose herself in the vivid greenery outside, in thoughts of her own.  But she listens, and she hears, and she empathizes with the surprisingly soothing words of a complete stranger.  In fact, she has yet to have learned his name, and she has already felt connected to him.  She is so lost in the past few minutes, with French-accented words lingering in the air, that she doesn’t realize that her cigarette is crumpled in the ashtray, and her pack has crawled to the trash can.

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I was going through some old writing, and, although this isn’t old, I came across the podcast I made of my piece about Ila.  Her birthday is in less than two months, and who knows what I’ll post then.  But for now, she’s always in our thoughts.

Sometimes we can take advantage of so much around us, of people around us.  Sometimes we can forget what some people mean to us in our presence, until they slowly fade away.  I always have people like that in my life, and it’s sad.  Open your eyes and see what you’re missing.  Open your eyes and just look around.  Open your eyes and see those who love you, and those you love.


It never hurts to think back to those we love who aren’t with us anymore.

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Classic Me

Hey everyone!

Hope you thoroughly enjoyed my France posts, and I hope you subscribe soon!  I tell it all with my video blogs, and I have another one here!  Going through it, I’ve realized how random I can be, to the point where I don’t even complete my sentences.  But hey, that’s me.

I’ve been writing a lot lately—personal and fiction.  I posted a few things of mine a few days ago, but 750 words (the site) has been a godsend in the past few days.  It’s okay, because spring is coming and the sun is smiling more and more—which always makes me happy.  I swear I have a minor case of seasonal depression—in fact, don’t we all!

No vacations for a while now, which I’m surprisingly okay with, as I just need to stay at home for a bit.  I am actually going to Houston in May for ISweeep, an international science fair that I was selected for!  I’ve never been to Houston, or anywhere west (except Hawaii and LA for a day), so this is actually as exciting as any other place.  I have to get a cowboy hat and boots, not to generalize or anything.

Okay, here’s the vlog (I actually prefer saying video blog)….and below it, I’ve posted the song I talk about (the one I’m auditioning with).  It starts around 2:58….Enjoy!

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I’ve been working on a story for a while, but I just can’t seem to get anywhere with it.  I’ve decided to post what I have so far, which is hopefully okay.  Comment if you have any suggestions/comments!

“Beautiful landscape, isn’t it?” The woman in the asphalt-feathered peacoat perches a lit cigarette between her fingers and looks skeptically at the man across from her.  She fiddles with her half-empty dark brew coffee.  The window with the early morning dew has designs engraved, stained by her fresh coat of nail polish, as the lush rolling hills are gently revealed.

“Beautiful, yes?”  The man repeats.  The woman realizes he is talking to her.  She nods with a half-risen smile, turning back to her mushroom cloud of smoke.

“Writer?”  The man asks, caressing her coffee-stained notebook.  She feels her hands defensively pull the notebook to her chest, scowling fiercely.  Perhaps she can convince him she’s uninterested.  “What do you write?”  The woman curls her fingers around the metallic spine of her notebook.

“I don’t know yet,” she whispers hoarsely and with hostility.  Yet, the man is basking in satisfaction at her American accent; he had assumed correctly.

“What do you want to write about?”  Simultaneously, the woman notices his French accent.  She looks him in the eyes for the first time, taken back by the striking vitality of his green pupils.  She sits up, appearing much taller.  She has unconsciously folded the cigarette butt within the ashtray.  Her trimmed nails are tapping against the window, and she appears to be amidst thoughts and decisions.

“Love.”  The woman flinches as she finally mutters this, a trite aspiration for a starving author.

“Paris for love,” he whispers knowingly; yet, there is no condescendance in his tone.  He is intimidating in the way that he doesn’t blink when he says this; he is captivating in the way his eyes fervently circle around her eyes, her lips, her well-rounded nose.  He doesn’t move as the woman shakes her head.

“Paris for memories.”  She is more confident.  She is confident in her ways, she is confident in the nostalgia that strikes her momentarily.  “Memories,” she repeats for herself, under a breath concealed by the silence.  The man looks at her curiously.  He has leaned his body in towards the center table.  The woman does not notice her own eyes, dark-rimmed with melancholy, unraveling words in the form of a story.  Rather, she only finds herself leaning backwards, devouring the last drops of dark brew.  She uncomfortably averts her attention to passing landscapes.  The man, laden with businesswear, sits back, eyes glistening with reflections of the woman.

The woman in the asphalt-feathered peacoat wears rouge on her cheeks, self-conscious of the presence of the man.  He stares at the window as if all the beauty in the world is concealed within the morning dew.  The woman fidgets with her red beret, pulling i over her eyes to hide her life story.  She lights another cigarette, furiously blowing drifts of smoke as if to constrict the man with whiffs of tobacco.  Ironically, smoke constricts her throat as she begins to cough.

“Yes, it’s been a while since I’ve smoked too,” says the man, handing a glass of water to her.  She refuses with her expression, half irresolute, half disgruntled.  “It’s not good, you know.”  The woman looks at him after her fit of coughs.  “Smoking,” the man points his chin to the ashtray.  “It’s not good for you.”

This is all I have so far!


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