Friday, December 18, 2009

Letting it Out

Today I was thinking (yeah, big shocker) about Vincent Luu. It's sad beyond words, but it brought to mind how little we say to those we admire, and how the only time your admiration may come to light is in their obituary. I tried making a list of how many people I admire who I've never said a word to, and who might never know. As a teenager, I know firsthand there will always be dark moments when you think nobody cares. I don't want people I know leaving without knowing that somebody thought they were cool, even if that somebody was just a freshman sitting in the corner or a little girl watching from the sidelines.

If you are on this list, I may not know you that well, but you may have made an impact on my life that I will never forget, you may be someone I admire, or, in a lot of cases, I may not talk to you a lot, if at all, but I think you are really cool.

1. Thomas
2. Mike
3. Rachel
4. Alix
5. Ben
6. Wolfe
7. Stephanie
8. Ava
9. Sushii
10. Keien
11. Alex
12. Yuling
13. Ali
14. Amanda
15. Sara
16. Aldrich
17. Juan
18. Thais
19. Saadia
20. Mr. Marra
21. Ms. Hill
22. Ms. Couper
23. Ms. Paregian
24. Ms. Trombley
25. Keisha
26. Tim
27. Elliot
28. Ryan
29. Mike
30. Maya

Disclaimer: If you are not on this list and call me a friend, then know you're not here because you should know that I love you and think you are amazing :)

This isn't some stupid chain letter, something I saw and felt bad about and posted, this is something I thought might make a difference. Guys, tell people you respect that you respect them; even the awesomest people have their doubts, and need to know that someone, somewhere, is better off because of them. Do this yourself if you feel like it, or not; just please think of the people you know, and let them know that they make a difference to you. No anvil's going to fall on your head if you don't do this, but if you do, post a note, make it your own, and spread the word. Thanks for bothering to read :)


Thursday, December 17, 2009


Sitting on the swings with my best friend next to me at Deanza Park, hair undone, giggling as we pass each other, a vibrant blue sky and the familiar park around me, memories swirling from youth, from swingsets past and teeter-totters and playing in the sand and lying in the grass, from falling off the swings to running on the wheel to playing Tickle Monster on the metal slide.

My iPod is on Shuffle for once, and yet manages to read my mind, playing mellow, sweet music as I fly up, and swoop down, holding my arms straight out and tilting my head back, closing my eyes and mouthing the words to my favorite songs. For the first time in my life, I think: I could die right now and be happy. My stomach no longer hurts, my mind is free of emotional restraints, and I am content. I am free. And, forgive the cliche, but I am alive.

Wednesday, December 9, 2009

Life? Complete.

Dear god, I cried laughing. I remember watching this as a kid with my parents, and only recognizing Elphaba and the Phantom.

After loving clips of Avenue Q, becoming obsessed with RENT, and picking up countless other references over the years, I finally found this again, and I GET IT.

"Hey everybody, I'm Mark, from RENT!"

"But then, we'll all join hands and sing the anthem of the 90's!" "Oh, please don't." "525,600 minutes..."


Peace out.


Sunday, November 29, 2009


In a fit of anger, or perhaps sadness, or maybe just insanity, my fingers ghost over the keys, playing over the lesson book, choppy, unattentive, as I hear the happiness outside. Maybe it's jealousy. My mother walks in, and my rendition of "Deck the Halls" ends on a sour note, then morphs into a fiddling of keys, a machine-gun massacre of music as I jumble the notes and make the lesson book bleed out its ears.

My mother leaves, and my "music" instantaneously becomes sane, or something similar to it, again. I play my favorite chords, the first 9 to Coldplay's "Viva la Vida", and smile. The smile is wiped off when my father, as per usual, yells from outside, "Play the next chords!" Instead of shouting "No!" and teasing, as is normal in banter, my chords become a rapid succession of Db Db Db Ab x 4 Eb Eb Db Ab x 5, over and over again, faster and faster, eventually morphing into a mash-up of notes and random outbursts frighteningly similar to my compositions as a 7-year old, pounding on my grandparents' old piano.

I finish off with a half finished sliding of my fingers from the left, then all the way from the right, and then, like an afterthought, a middle C, quiet and alone. I turn off the piano, turn off the light, and leave.

Music is art, so I suppose mine is fingerpainting.

Tuesday, November 17, 2009

That Girl

Hey, mister .
Yeah, you.
You read the paper today?
Yeah? Which one? The New York Times?
Doesn’t matter.
Did you see that story? About the girl who jumped off that bridge?
“Oh, that girl,” you say. Just that girl? Do you even know her name?

Well, let me tell you something about that girl.
That girl’s name was Kimberly Ann, and she was only 18.
Oh, now you’re looking at me funny. No, I ain’t hitting you up for money. I just want to tell a story.
Where was I?
She was only 18, fresh outta high school.
She had her whole life ahead of her.
“Then why’d she jump?” you ask. I’ll tell you why.
Kimberly Ann, she had no hopes or dreams.
From the day she was born, to the day she died
Nobody told her to dream.
Nobody told her to hope.
Nobody was there for Kimberly Ann except for her lonely old self, or so it seemed.
Well, I guess I was wrong. She did have one dream.
Kimberly Ann wanted to be a fashion designer
And make clothes for all them girls
And she’d spend hours at that sewing machine, making all sorts of pretty things.
But things never seemed to go right for Kimberly Ann.
Her daddy came home drunk one night
And smashed her baby to bits
Ripped up her masterpieces
And stomped on her dreams.
Poor, sad Kimberly Ann.

Kimberly Ann liked watching movies, though, and music.
Her favorite color was yellow, because it reminded her of the sun.

She was my best friend.

I’m sorry for taking up your time, mister. As I said, I’m not hitting you up for money.
I just want you to help me remember that girl.

Thursday, October 8, 2009

Of Muses and Mumbling

Lately, I've realized just how often I find myself muttering little thoughts and things to myself (and consequently getting weird looks for talking to myself), and thought, "Hm, maybe I should write in my journal more often, get these thoughts down for... posterity, I guess?" I then realized that I had failed, once more, to keep my thoughts to myself, when my younger brother told me to shut up. After many scientific processes, including hitting my younger brother with a calculator, and doodling owls, I came to the conclusion that I should start... (wait for it)... a blog!

And thus, Spouts, Spiels, and Assorted Miscellanea came into existence, hoorah, hooray, and let there be much rejoicing.

Anyway... I've lost my train of thought, having left and come back after being distracted, but... well... I'll shut up now.

Peace out.