Reading the following college admission essay made me remember the young hopeful days, when words were unpolished and honest. When we had nothing to lose and everything to look forward to. When we were raw and full of creativity, undamaged and unshaped by collegiate systems.
My own college essay is lost in a forgotten hard drive (though it would be so fun to reread it now), but I do have the early-days online journaling archives to turn to. I'd like to think that my writing has improved since then, that the general thoughts-to-words transitions are easier now. That maybe, I might even have some wisdom to impart. But looking back on our writing styles, they weren't all bad. We allowed ourselves to be shamelessly creative, I think, and it even usually turned out pretty well. Which only really says that it's all downhill from here.
P.S. Ok, I just went back and actually read some of the old journals, and all I can say is: MY LIFE WAS A TOTAL TOOL! Things seriously get better, people. Stick it out. The heartache makes the aftermath that much sweeter.
And I bet you didn't even expect such a message of hope from me around this time of year!
[19 December, 2008]
[18 December, 2008]
Я не знаю вас, больше
Drawer: life equinoctial 0 sighs or salutations
I am trying to manage the expectations of both cultures, I really am. But I think I am going to break.
***
The other day, we sat at a hip (and expensive) San Francisco restaurant; I only slightly enjoyed the company and downed the wine. Across, in a booth, sat a group of young carefree girls. They laughed over their seafood dinners, played with their hipster jewelry and took silly photos. There, I thought. There is the epitome of the urban 20-something American perfection. Friends, fun, bright smiles. It doesn't work when you are lonely or grumpy or don't like to show your teeth. It doesn't work for me and I don't work for it. No matter how hard I try.
The next day after dinner, my mom picked up a book of Akhmatova's poetry from my bookshelf. It was dark outside and my mom began to read her words, which was soul-wrenchingly lyrical and slightly uncomfortable. There, I thought. The epitome of the Russian-intellectual evening. The generational passing down of quiet wisdom. Something I long to belong to and something I'm not sure I'll be able to do myself.
They say this duality is a blessing, an extra set of skills. But I end up feeling estranged from both sides. Not reading the right books, not playing the right games, not laughing at the right jokes.
***
I'm sorry I can't be a better member of either of your cultural circles.
***
The other day, we sat at a hip (and expensive) San Francisco restaurant; I only slightly enjoyed the company and downed the wine. Across, in a booth, sat a group of young carefree girls. They laughed over their seafood dinners, played with their hipster jewelry and took silly photos. There, I thought. There is the epitome of the urban 20-something American perfection. Friends, fun, bright smiles. It doesn't work when you are lonely or grumpy or don't like to show your teeth. It doesn't work for me and I don't work for it. No matter how hard I try.
The next day after dinner, my mom picked up a book of Akhmatova's poetry from my bookshelf. It was dark outside and my mom began to read her words, which was soul-wrenchingly lyrical and slightly uncomfortable. There, I thought. The epitome of the Russian-intellectual evening. The generational passing down of quiet wisdom. Something I long to belong to and something I'm not sure I'll be able to do myself.
They say this duality is a blessing, an extra set of skills. But I end up feeling estranged from both sides. Not reading the right books, not playing the right games, not laughing at the right jokes.
***
I'm sorry I can't be a better member of either of your cultural circles.
[15 December, 2008]
Bracing myself: Holidays 2008, Part I
Drawer: unsent letters 2 sighs or salutations
Dear predecessor of every feeling I will ever feel,
Remember that time a few years ago, when we were driving down Huron Parkway in that old little beat-up car of yours? You were at the wheel, of course, always in control. While I was probably deemed too young to operate such dangerous machinery. (Little did you know of the devious things I did operate.) I was in the passenger seat, looking out the window, spacing out to the blurry passing images. Not even stoned. It was claustrophobic in the car, suffocating, and I would have done anything to open that door and jump.
You spoke first. You reminded me of my ungrateful nature. You explained, albeit screaming, that you are not required to love me. That everything beyond food, clothing and shelter was extra. Just an extra effort from your twisted imagination.
Oh, you don't remember? Interesting how these things turn out. It must have been engraved into my young impressionable mind that day, as hot tears rolled down my cheeks. I expected a passionate slap across the face, too.
And now I am fighting every instinct not to follow in your footsteps, when I have to bite my lip so that "how was your day?" does not come out as "get the fuck out of my house". Because I am only required to send you a card and everything else is an extra effort. A special effort to make you feel accepted and to show you that, despite the distance, you have a family to turn to.
You're not required to love me, but I would like it if you did.
Consider this my olive branch,
Your daughter
Remember that time a few years ago, when we were driving down Huron Parkway in that old little beat-up car of yours? You were at the wheel, of course, always in control. While I was probably deemed too young to operate such dangerous machinery. (Little did you know of the devious things I did operate.) I was in the passenger seat, looking out the window, spacing out to the blurry passing images. Not even stoned. It was claustrophobic in the car, suffocating, and I would have done anything to open that door and jump.
You spoke first. You reminded me of my ungrateful nature. You explained, albeit screaming, that you are not required to love me. That everything beyond food, clothing and shelter was extra. Just an extra effort from your twisted imagination.
Oh, you don't remember? Interesting how these things turn out. It must have been engraved into my young impressionable mind that day, as hot tears rolled down my cheeks. I expected a passionate slap across the face, too.
And now I am fighting every instinct not to follow in your footsteps, when I have to bite my lip so that "how was your day?" does not come out as "get the fuck out of my house". Because I am only required to send you a card and everything else is an extra effort. A special effort to make you feel accepted and to show you that, despite the distance, you have a family to turn to.
You're not required to love me, but I would like it if you did.
Consider this my olive branch,
Your daughter
[04 December, 2008]
Вернись мой друг
Drawer: musical musings 0 sighs or salutations
I don't know if I'll ever forgive myself for missing Zemfira in concert in San Francisco. I mean, seriously. I found out THREE DAYS AFTER THE SCHEDULED DATE that the only US cities in which she performed were SF and LA. (...Excuse me while I rip a little part of my heart out here...) Ahem. No, but, I don't think there will ever be another time when she and I are in the same city at the same time. And I missed it.
I can't even think about it.
But, I can dwell on her music and general brilliancy. Like this and this:
And for all of one of you who speaks Russian, watch a 6-part interview with her and feel in the presence of greatness:
Part I, Part II, Part III, Part IV, Part V, Part VI
Also, I think this is how I'll be spending the holidays (English-speaker safe!):
I can't even think about it.
But, I can dwell on her music and general brilliancy. Like this and this:
And for all of one of you who speaks Russian, watch a 6-part interview with her and feel in the presence of greatness:
Part I, Part II, Part III, Part IV, Part V, Part VI
Also, I think this is how I'll be spending the holidays (English-speaker safe!):
[01 December, 2008]
Moving on
Drawer: smorgasbord 2 sighs or salutations
Wow. I just reread yesterday's bout of depressive craziness, and yeah...
But.
I am leaving it up, because, well, where else would I be able to whine and complain if not on my own personal blog? So it stays. If for nothing else, then for history's sake.
Anyway.
Now, let's talk about something far more benign and neutral: seasonal fruit!
First up is the much-loved pomegranate.
Mmm. Have you noticed how popular it's become lately in indie circles? Or has it always been that way? I don't know. I just know my mom used to make me eat pomegranates as a anemic sickly child for their nutrients. They must've been brought up from the warm lands of Georgia and Armenia to frozen St. Petersburg. That was one of the perks of the Soviet Union. Also, isn't it strange that we eat this fruit's seeds. And that it has essentially no flesh. Is there even another fruit that is consumed solely for its seeds? I can't think of any. I am trying to find out which other animals use pomegranates as part of their diets, and if so, how they go about eating them. Bash them open? Poke a beak through their hard shell? Or gnaw it off? It is unclear.
Up next are persimmons (though technically berries), in all their sweet juicy tart fleshy goodness. Who can resist a nice ripe persimmon on a cool wintery day? Luckily, persimmon trees grow in northern California, along with oranges, tangerines, and lemons. Here, there is always vitamin C in your diet.
Also, I thought I'd make a pitch here for the avocado: pretty much the best fruit (also technically a berry) EVARR! Eat with them lemon juice, salt, peppers, tomatoes, sour cream, or sugar, or in a smoothie. Yummy!
Now that I've made myself sufficiently hungry for one of my favorite food groups, you tell me: what's your favorite fruit or seasonal food?
But.
I am leaving it up, because, well, where else would I be able to whine and complain if not on my own personal blog? So it stays. If for nothing else, then for history's sake.
Anyway.
Now, let's talk about something far more benign and neutral: seasonal fruit!
First up is the much-loved pomegranate.
Mmm. Have you noticed how popular it's become lately in indie circles? Or has it always been that way? I don't know. I just know my mom used to make me eat pomegranates as a anemic sickly child for their nutrients. They must've been brought up from the warm lands of Georgia and Armenia to frozen St. Petersburg. That was one of the perks of the Soviet Union. Also, isn't it strange that we eat this fruit's seeds. And that it has essentially no flesh. Is there even another fruit that is consumed solely for its seeds? I can't think of any. I am trying to find out which other animals use pomegranates as part of their diets, and if so, how they go about eating them. Bash them open? Poke a beak through their hard shell? Or gnaw it off? It is unclear.
Up next are persimmons (though technically berries), in all their sweet juicy tart fleshy goodness. Who can resist a nice ripe persimmon on a cool wintery day? Luckily, persimmon trees grow in northern California, along with oranges, tangerines, and lemons. Here, there is always vitamin C in your diet.
Also, I thought I'd make a pitch here for the avocado: pretty much the best fruit (also technically a berry) EVARR! Eat with them lemon juice, salt, peppers, tomatoes, sour cream, or sugar, or in a smoothie. Yummy!
Now that I've made myself sufficiently hungry for one of my favorite food groups, you tell me: what's your favorite fruit or seasonal food?
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