Emily Dickinson: Selected Poems

Yesterday was not a fun day.

When I woke up, the first thing I felt was a nice ache in my foot. That's because when I went for a jog the day before in the little woodsy area behind my dorm, I tripped on a rock and tweaked something in my foot. So I woke up not very happy. And then, brilliant person that I am, I wrote down my home phone number instead of my cell number on a job application...let's just say things aren't looking too good in terms of employment now.

At the end of the day all I wanted to do was read a good book. Do you ever actually crave a book? I do. Some people go home and all they want to do is eat some ice cream and go to sleep. Yesterday all I wanted to do was go to my dorm and read some Emily Dickinson. Yes, I'm a dork. That's what this blog is about: literary dorkiness and how awesome it is.

Lucky for me, my roommate is taking a class on poetry, and even luckier, one of her textbooks is a flimsy little thing called "Emily Dickinson: Selected Poems." She doesn't need it for a while, so I borrowed it and took it with me today to read in between classes.

I think the last time I sat down to read a book for fun was when I read Bel Canto right before I took off. That was a good read, but there's always something totally comforting about reading a book where you already know what's going to happen, when you know it so well that all you need is a little prompting and you can remember exactly what happens in a chapter or, in the case of Emily, read a first line and know exactly what the last one is before you even turn the page. So today I sat in the common room outside the bookstore and read for an hour before I had to go to class, and it was the best idea I've had in a while.

Sometimes when I read all of the words start to blur, and I finish a page without even knowing what I just read. That happened today, but it was ok because I just felt what they meant. It's weird to say, but it's true. You can look at a painting and know it's a Degas just because of what the paint looks like; it's the same with Dickinson. I can read a stanza and I know it's her writing-- it's that unequivocal style and the random dashes and line breaks that remind me what I'm doing when I get eaten up by comfy chairs and incessant thinking.

So today has been a better day, partly because my foot isn't quite so annoying (though I do still hobble around like a viejita after I have to brave the staircases), and partly because I got to take an hour off and just do something that I know. It's like sitting in your favorite place in the world-- when you're there you're fine, and when you leave, you know everything will still be fine because you're taking a piece of that place with you for the rest of the day.

Mini Book Review!

So I just finished reading Bel Canto, by Ann Patchett. And all I can say is, "WHAT DID YOU DO THAT FOR, ANN??"

It goes like this: The President of an unidentified South American country wants Mr. Hosokawa, a businessman, to build a factory in said Country. So he throws Mr. H. a big birthday party and invites all kinds of international dignitaries, including Roxane Coss, the opera singer that Mr. H. adores more than anyone simply because of her singing. Roxane reluctantly shows up and sings a few arias, and everyone is happy until a bunch of terrorists (mostly kids, under the command of a few adults) quite literally fall from the sky and take over the party. They want to kidnap the President, but alas! the President is at home watching his novela instead, and the only one there is the VP. So to avoid looking like total failures, the terrorists decide to take everyone hostage anyways. Four months later, everyone is still there. The terrorists and hostages are actually friends-- waaay more than friends, in some cases.

The novel is very nicely written. The narration stays in third person the whole time, he said/she said etc., but shifts every so often to another character's perspective. A lot of the time it's Mr. H.'s translator, Gen, who speaks every language imaginable and is therefore the only way for the hostages, negotiators, and party guests to talk to each other. What I liked was that each character was incredibly distinct, even the numerous terrorists. You'd think it would be difficult to tell Ishmael from Cesar from Benjamin, but Patchett gives each one such a unique personality that it's easy.

A lot happens within the four months: like I mentioned, people fall in love, but they also make friends, learn new things (like how to play chess and speak Spanish), and learn a lot about themselves. If there's a moral to the story, it's that time is all relative. When the days are spread out like leaves on a palm tree, time is long. When you realize that your days have always been numbered, time takes on a frantic, now-or-never feel. It all depends on what you want to do with your time.

The book is funny at times, serious at others, and always thought provoking; the kind of book that you hesitate to close the covers on. When Patchett describes Roxane Coss singing and how it affects all of the other characters, it's impossible to imagine that such a person didn't exist; she is only a collection of other singers, she borrowed other people's hair and eyes and confidence.

Eventually I looked at how many pages I had left and realized that the happy-go-lucky thing the terrorists and "hostages" have going on can't last until the end. They don't live there in the Vice Presidential mansion forever, even though some want to, so it has to end somewhere. It's clear that neither the terrorists nor the government want to give in, so something big has to happen.

And boy, does it.

The big dénoument is what left me screaming at the book (and Anne Patchett) "WHAT DID YOU DO THAT FOR???" Because it just doesn't make sense why it had to end that way. Nothing could be perfect, but it didn't have to be so far from it either.

Aaaaand I've probably given too much away, so I'll end here. If you get the chance, read it. It's a fantastic book.

If You Give a Sam a Cannoli

Once my dad and I went on a search for the perfect notebook. I don't remember why; he needed a notebook for something and I just plain wanted one, as I often do. So one school night--I think it was a Wednesday-- at 7 0r 8, after dinner, we decided to go to Borders and look. It was like going out for dessert, only this time of a literary sort.

We checked the store closest to home first but didn't find it. He was looking for something very specific and so was I, and I think it's funny that even though neither one of us told the other that we were looking for a hardcover black Moleskine, we both knew that that was what we were out for. So we checked the clock and decided we had one more stop in us before we had to get home to bills and homework and kept going.

I remember laughing in the silence of the car just because the whole thing was ridiculous. Here we were, following our treasure map in what felt like the middle of the night, when we were supposed to be home and working. School nights were not made for playing authors.

The second stop was the charm, thankfully, and in the tiny revolving display on the counter by the cash registers we found them. I ended up settling for the soft cover blue books instead, solely because I'd be getting three notebooks to write in instead of one. I've always been that way-- get more for your money, even if you don't know what to do with the more. But either way, we both went back happy and talked on the way home, and my dad's hardcover book went to work and back with him every day and mine (most of mine) stayed at home in the clear plastic bin upstairs labeled "Small Notebooks."

If there's a point or a moral to the story I haven't found it yet; I have no idea why I'm deciding to post this. If I had the energy I would fluff it up more and weave in all kinds of lacy metaphors and images. Maybe I could turn it into a short story one day. For now the point is that there are two cannolis defrosting on the kitchen counter right now, which reminded me of the notebook trip, another thing that no one was interested in except for my dad and me. It's like those If You Give a Mouse a Cookie books, where one thing triggers a memory of another thing and another and another. Maybe the point is that if I think hard enough, I actually remember a lot.

The Original Social Network

So today I went to something called a "Freshman Year Send-off." It was in Pacific Palisades at this absolute PALACE of a house-- the thing took up three lots, easily. And there was a garden in the back and a waiter walking around with itsy bitsy chicken taco appetizers. Ritzy? Totally.

I met a fist-bumping priest that called us Freshlings and made us name the state capitals that the Missouri River goes through for no apparent reason. And then he started off on a tangent about his days as a football player in St. Louis, prompting my dad to turn around and tell me that this guy was either drunk or senile. My fellow Freshlings thought that was a riot, and to be honest, so did I.

Hanging out with all these kids made me realize how much I love talking to people. It seems silly, but it's true. There are times when I'm sitting here at home at night by myself randomly clicking around on Facebook and Twitter looking for something, and I wasn't really sure what I was looking for really. And-- allow me to get transcendental philosophical etc.-- I found it today. I'm looking for people and social stuff beyond inane updates about parties and other cryptic "Why don't u just explain urself fool" things. (Side note: dude, these updates directed at anonymous antagonists are not going to do anything other than annoy people. Stop. Por favor.) It was incredibly fun to talk to all of these totally new people about myself and next year and roommate drama.

At one point there were five of us sitting at a table eating mini red velvet cupcakes and making fun of the music (stuff like "Too Little Too Late", by two-hit wonder JoJo), so one of they guys asked what we listened to and pointed at me to start. At which point I kind of panicked, because I was like, "I'm going to say swing and Sinatra and they're going to be like, 'Whoa, really? Do you listen to like, normal stuff too? Because that's weird.'"

But they didn't.

Instead they all thought it was the coolest thing ever. And honestly, I thought it was the coolest thing ever that I'm going to be hanging out with a lot of these kids from now on. Twentydaystwentydaystwentydaystwentydaystwentydaystwentydaystwentydaystwentydays...

Things You Should Know About this Blog (Or, Hi!!!)

1. If the title of this blog sounds vaguely familiar, then we have very similar musical tastes. The title is a revision of "Crazy Beautiful Life" by Ke$ha. I have a slight obsession with Ke$ha, though I NEVER EVER act/dress like her. At least, I don't think I do. Anyways, you can expect a fair amount of Ke$ha references on this blog.

2. The title is in pink and Courier font because I like pink and vintage-y things like typewriters. Typewriters are incredibly cool (when they're working, at least.)

3. The background is books because I love love love books. Do not say the words "Kindle," "Nook," or "e-reader" around me, because you might a) get yourself a lecture about why paper books are as cool as typewriters, if not cooler, and b) I'll probably cry. Ok, I won't cry. But I'll be sad.

4. Fridays you (and I!) will be treated to Fictional Crush Fridays, in which I lament the fact that all of the best men are, in fact, fictional. But this isn't Seventeen magazine-- you can expect analyses and like, full character breakdowns. We are doing intelligent crushing here, people. (Again...I think.)

5. But don't worry, this won't all be Key-dollar sign-ha and crushing on fake people. I happen to be MOVING TO BOSTON in exactly 21 DAYS (yes, I counted. Of course I counted!) which is going to be complete and utter craziness and fun and I'M ACTUALLY MOVING TO BOSTON!!!!!! I'm incredibly excited, in case you haven't noticed. Also, as I mentioned before, I adore books. So you can expect a lot of bookish posts. Also, my best friend happens to be a writer with her own publishing company, so you can expect to be hearing about/from her often.

Aaaaaaaaand I think that covers it. Stay tuned for the next post, in which my little sister breaks into my Facebook to find potential boyfriends for me. Ay dios mio de mi vida...

In the meantime, look! Sparkly Ke$sha shorts! I promise I didn't buy them...I just found them at the mall and took a picture to show you that yes, other people do dress like Ke$ha.