Listening to - All sorts of Country Music by Shania Twain and Carrie Underwood.Lot of random blogging to be done, so bear with me here.
The most important thing that happened this week would be that I returned to school. Now, if you can ignore Stropko's loud whoops of extreme joy and victory. One day of school made me more tired than two weeks of holidays. I went to school on Wednesday, and spent most of Thursday morning agonising over strained leg muscles, then I did school on Thursday (I would NEVER miss school on Thursday), then VOICE, then Chem. and then I collapsed. So much so, that I skipped Friday.
We've more or less entered the last term of school. Ever. And Winter terms are always the shortest, so by all standards of sentiment, I should have a countdown up somewhere. People have already started doing that, by the way. Every event that we have is greeted with the shout of "This is our last in school!", followed by some dopes who start bawling their guts out.
It happened on Teacher's Day, when we had that really amazing programme. While the majority of the student body was most fussed about the teachers leaving for lunch so we could feast on the leftover food, some dumbass yelled out this thing about this being "Last Teacher's Day EVER", and that-perfectionist-in-Humanities started crying, although I didn't really notice until after I was done stuffing my face with the cake.
In any case, my point is, it didn't really matter to me. Somehow, all this talk of leaving, and of farewells doesn't really bother me. It's a little scary to sound so indifferent, especially because I have absolutely NO idea where I'm going for higher studies, or whether I'm passing at all (which would make all farewells futile). I know it sounds callous. On numerous occassions, Anushka's asked me to stop being such a black-hearted-nutcase and show some feeling. Even over talks of the VOICE farewell. I don't get it. I really don't. Like I keep saying, I'll be happy to get out of here. It's not as if I'm not going to miss school, but quite frankly, 12 years is kind of an okay point to give it a rest. It's been a great 12 years, and I've loved all the three schools I've been in, and I've never regretted any of it, but I want to move forward now.
Maybe that makes me an "Stone-Queen", like my mum puts it.
Whatever. I'm just choosing to focus on the 'entering a new phase' more than the 'leaving of an old one'.
I don't even think it makes me emotionless in any way. People who know me well enough know that emotionless is not really my kind of label. I'm more of the throw-yourself-into-it-with-all-you-got-who-cares-what-happens sort of person. I'm just throwing myself into the other side.
At the start of 2008, I decided to keep a diary, because the conformist-sentimentalist in me wanted to record the events of my last year in school. It contains -
Some entries from that brief phase when I dotted my i's with hearts.
Entries from when I was completely pissed off because I wasn't made a prefect, when some other people were.
An entry cursing my Hindi teacher (Quote - "I hate you, you killer of English thoughts. I could curse you in a thousand vernaculars, but I'm afraid I'll spell them wrong. I hate you, Hag-ess.")
One page with the words of 'Hey There Delilah', a song that now annoys me.
Lots of scratched out doodles.
And finally, lines in multiple pages saying "I love bio. What would I do without bio? Bio should just marry me." etc. in a similar vein.
I don't know why I would choose to put up this on a blog. The six of you don't really need to read this if you don't want to!
<3,>
P.S. - Shania Twain and Mark McGrath's 'Party for Two' is stuck in my head. It's extremely nondescript, but oddly infectious. Don't listen to it.
On second thought, Do.
If VOICE members are reading this, please campaign for a larger cake. I guarantee we have funds.
Snow Patrol's new album releases in less than seven days. I need to conserve bandwidth for downloads, UNLESS..
Before I begin, I just would like to say that I am jealous of the story-telling ability of Sahana. I am not nearly that poetic or eloquent. Anyways...
It's about midnight here in Southern California, and my little brother is just getting around to doing his science project. He needs to find out a way to make an object more four meters without pushing it off...he's using a small tank of CO2. Now, it is extremely hypocritical for me to be telling him to do his homework, as I myself am still working on AP US History. The difference between us, though, is that I am a reasonably responsible student, while he is a slacker. I have mostly good grades, all of which the result of self-motivation, while he is always at the risk of being sent off to boarding school. No joke. If his grades fall below a B- average, he is sent to boarding school. Because of this, I (due to some form of pity for my brother) helped him search for a vehicle to be propelled by the CO2, and have motivated him through the night. Whatever, he'll probably end up in boarding school anyway.
Oh, and in other news, I found an AMAZING website for classical sheet music. www.imslp.org has a ridiculous array of sheet music for all kinds of instruments, and as they're all public domain, they're all free. Hooray!
Just a quick post on how I'm getting my new laptop. I'm VERY excited...it should be here in about two days. I doubt anyone cares, but I thought I would inform all six of you anyway. Cheerio!
-Stropko
(Note - I didn't publish this, Stropko did, but the typo was too painful.. sorry Nick, but I'm a maniac like that. - Sahana)
Making Enemies (When It's All Over, We Still Have to Clear Up)
4 comment(s) Posted by VelocityGirl (tm) at 10:21:00 AM"I never knew the taste of blood till now,
It's clear I never should have known."
"If you shut your eyes very tight and you try to forget something with all you might, you might, End up eventually erasing the condemning memory, but all that effort will almost make you taste blood - make you feel the strangely intense power of the blood that flows within you,that makes you feel red, make you see red., and the realisation will make you feel giddy; it shall empower you, it shall frighten you, because it is in that fascinating moment that you realise what you truly are capable of doing in you anger"
She shut the book and flung it across the room, stunned and slightly pleased to hear a sorry 'thud' as it hit the wall and slumped to the floor with a crumble and crackle of pages. The blood, her blood, was rushing through, humming pleasantly in her ears, and she stared at her ink-stained hands all red and sweaty from the arguments and the subsequent writings.The clammy warmth was new - now she looked up, now she saw him.
He saw her writing furiously, her hands a blur as she struggled to pen the thoughts that raced in her head. He saw her fling the book across the room with a carelessly powerful flick of the wrist. She saw the glimmer in her eyes, and he watched transfixed as she stood against the window, staring incredulously at her own hands. She was wild, she was a silhouette as she stood, a black figure against the glaring sunlight pouring through the windows, her hair a mass of wispy flames that looked both incongruous and perfect against her face.
She saw him at the edge of the room, he was looking at her, as if he had never seen her before, in a way that he had never looked at her before. He cut a lean figure in the shadows, a face too childish, and an expression too serious. He had always been so secretive, and everytime he spoke to you, you felt special, because it felt like you were good enough to know what he was telling you. He had always been distant, she'd never understood it,
she had admired it, but never been envious. Today, she wanted nothing more to do with it.
No one ever understood why they had ever bought that house - the hallways sliced through the architecture, cordoning off parts of the house, relegating sections to permanent illumination and total darkness. They fell in love with it instantly, it was a house, they thought, built especially for them.
She was a creation of the Sun, she was born for the daytime, for all the spotlights, she was born to shine, she needed to glow, and the light was hers.
And the darkness was his, he revelled in the shade, he revelled in her shade. He loved to hide, to observe unnoticed, always the queer half-smile, always the slightly supercilious expression.
She was the fire, he was the darkness - he was that darkness in the heart of her flame, and they co-existed;
precariously,
dangerously,
wonderfully.
Everyone was slightly afraid of them - jealous of them - amazed at them. They were a whirlwind, chaotically impulsive, inexplicably destructive, one's presence sparking off the volatility in the other, at once it was calm, they were serene, silent, separate, and it was
just the calm before another storm.
But that was all in the past, the final storm had raged through, even they could not withstand it, and even now, the debris lay strewn.
She had smashed his favourite record against the wall - "I never really liked it anyway", she had whispered, with glittering eyes.
He had ripped her favourite book, the cover in one hand, torn pages flying out of the other - "I didn't like it either", he smiled back, with
cold, cold eyes.
He had pulled the curtains shut, closed all the windows - "Hurts my eyes". She had set his desk on fire, "Likewise."
They stood, he having cast darkness where she had shone, she having brought light into all his shadows.
They felt exultant, they felt feral - he could see how madly her eyes glinted, she could feel his cold wrath rising, and it was exciting. They realised then that it was all over, she had burnt it down, he had covered it, and there was nothing left.
He saw her now among the ashes, while the torn pages whistled around. She looked up at him defiant, and as he shifted his weight from one foot to another, she heard the faintly satisfying crunch of broken vinyl.
"I'm leaving tonight", she said, flatly.
He nodded, "Alright", then clicked the door open,
And walked out into the sunlight.
(Note: First off, this isn't really inspired by anything, if you must know. I just wrote it last afternoon because it was too hot and I didn't feel like doing Math. I don't like it anymore, but whatever. The opening paragraph on blood is something that I actually wrote a while ago. I promised you an Alter-Ego post, and here it is. And yes, it's in a story-format, not actually inspired by Anushka's story, just a startling coincidence. Much thanks to Snow Patrol's song 'Making Enemies' (Album - When it's All Over, We Still Have to Clear Up) for the title, and also the song 'Ways and Means' (Album - Final Straw), because the first two lines are lyric quotes. They're also very nice songs, in case you're looking for downloads.
Oh, and specifically, the argument didn't really happen, but I would, oddly, love to have such a ferociously enervating fight. Yeh, yeh. I'm done.)
Ahh, I walked outside the other night to accompany my brother on a drive, when lo and behold, it was cold. Not just cold, frigid. This was the first day in recent memory that I have been able to say that it has been truly cold. and I am exuberant. The cold weather brings back fond memories of Christmases passed when life wasn't so complicated. It's soothing, cooling, and it makes you feel so amazingly comfortable and cozy once you hurry out of the car, throw off your shoes, and dive under a blanket. Ahh, the winter.
And there's more. With winter (at least in Southern California) brings rain. While this may not be true for some, I absolutely adore the rain. It makes me feel like the whole world is cleansed, at least for a little while. Its drops fall on my skin and I feel at peace. Perhaps it's just me, but whenever this time of year rolls around, I'm overjoyed that at last the heat has passed, and it's time for another cup of hot chocolate and a warm blanket. I'm already wondering what this Christmas will bring. Ahh, the memories.
Sleigh bells ring, are you listening,
In the lane, snow is glistening,
A beautiful sight,
we're happy tonight,
Walking in a Winter Wonderland.
Gone away is the Bluebird,
Here to stay is a new bird.
He sings a love song,
as we go along,
Walking in a Winter Wonderland.
My name is Nick Stropko. Or Stropko. Or Jesus-lovin'-white-boy, depending on who you talk to. I'm 16, and I live in the famed Orange County, California. I'm a bit of an odd one (one of the prerequisites to writing on this blog, of course), as I like a combination of playing/writing songs on my piano, writing lyrics that I can never write a satisfactory piano part for, messing around on my computy box, and generally geeking out. Oh, and listening to music is also a huge part of my life. I don't want to get too much into who I am, as I feel it would be better to let my personality develop over the course of my blogging career (would be considered a career?...oh well), so just be expecting some posts fairly frequently from me in the future. Be expecting updates soon!
-Stropko
(No, that does NOT refer to Chetan Bhagat's movie.
YOU get over it.)
Dear Six People who Read my Blog,
I now have a co-writer. While yes, it does mean that I get more publicity (because two people know more people than one person), it also means that you get double the crazy on this blog.
I'll let him introduce himself, if he wants to, or whatever, the thing is, I now have a co-writer. Please be nice to him. (*snork*).
Oh, and here's his awesomely pointless blog with four posts, written over the period of about 10 months. But, he promises to update more often on JuvenileSenile, and I believe him, for now.
Tagged Announcements, Sahana's Posts
Do kiddig, I agjually sound lyg dad ryd dow. (You may have to read that out loud to understand it.)
I'm pretty sure Chetan Bhagat read my blog and pronounced a teeny little death-wish upon my soul. But seeing as he's incoherent and rather stupid, the powers-that-be sort of screwed up his request, and gave me a common cold.
Either that, or the DAMN viruses FOUND ME!
Anyhoo, the point of this post was to blog about a couple of things from my twisted past. This morning, my mum and I were in a (rather rare) talkative mood, and basically, she told me about the first real school I ever went to, when I was three, and this girl next to me kept stealing all my pencils, and one day my mum got so tired of buying me new ones that she went and complained to the teacher, who then yelled at me in class the next day, reminding me every five minutes NOT to lose my pencil.
Which didn't help.
When I was Class One, my parents realised for the first time that I was a real smart-ass. We were doing homonyms in class when my teacher (who, by the way, is called CRYSTAL, AND she was a nun. Go figure.) said that Air, Hair, Hare were pronounced the same. Following her logic, I said, so, add Heir to the list. She refused to believe me.
The next day, I dragged a dictionary to school.
And when we were in Darjeeling, I had this really mean Hindi teacher who yelled at me all the time. Once, in her class, I had this really awesome colour-changing eraser, so I was playing with it, while she screamed in the background, saying, "Look at this girl! I'm yelling at her and she's playing with an eraser!!". So I smiled a little smile to myself, thinking how hilarious it was that the kid who was getting yelled at was ALSO playing with her eraser.
But she meant me.
I'm SO tired of sneezing. I'm sure the air around me has these toxic virus-thingies that are going to take over the world and infect other people. All I want to do is sleep, but my nose keeps acting up, and now it's all red and drippy, and I can't smell anything, and I can't taste anything, and my head is throbbing - I've reached that point of exhaustion where it's impossible to rest.
I'b siiig. >.<
Yes, yes, I know, and I apologise to all of the four people who read this blog. I haven't been updating for a while. First the holidays started, then my father came to visit and kept snatching the laptop so he could play Freecell *snarl*, and I do have ideas in my head for one of my Alter-Ego posts, but I haven't really formatted it out in my head, so bear with me. All in good time.
This week has been pretty good, seeing as I basically gave up on studying and the mother has been quite alright with it. I had a Lotus Buds Editors Meeting the other day, which was rather fun, except for the fact that the Junior Editors are lazy pain-in-the-asses. I also survived getting hurled to death, because I was supposed to go on the Deshpriya Park ferris wheel with SGpt and Sood the same afternoon, but we were too contented after lunch to walk, so we decided to stay indoors and stalk people on Facebook, which we didn't do, but the thing is, the next morning I read in the papers that the ferris wheel had catapulted three people to their death the evening that we were supposed to go. So, yeah, I thwarted Death.
I also attended the birthday party of a three-year-old. While the child is question is one that I am quite fond of, birthday parties for toddlers aren't exactly the hippest place to be, but to salvage that, there was a ball-pit (!) in the room, and although no one let me in (on account of me being completeyl capable of killing a few children while in the pit), it made for some good daydreaming. And there was Chinese food, which is always a treat.
Oh, and an ant got into my ear that same day. I know it doesn't sound like a big deal, and even if it is, in fact, a big deal, it is ordinarily something that people DON'T post about, but how many of the four people who read this blog have had an insect go into their ear? And FYI, it hurts like bloody murder. Slightly more painful than if you decided to saw your leg off and hopped one-legged around the world on a blood-stained stump of a footless leg. Ants that generally die because of my thumb's wrath finally got their revenge when one of their bravest ventured into my ear, and scrabbled all over my eardrum, causing me to writhe on the floor, having painful spasms. And my parents, (yes, both of them. My dad's visiting, remember?), well, both of them, for a good while, thought that I was being a whiner, and that I was throwing a tantrum because I didn't want to go to the party of the aforementioned Three-Year-Old. I think it was my repetitive cry of "MY EAR! DAMMIT MY EAR IS ON FIRE!!! *silently* FCKFCKFCK!! *loudly* MY EAAAAAAAAAAARRRRRRRR!!!"
At which point they probably realised, that me yelling about foreign objects in my ear is probably not the strongest argument that I had, and that maybe, just MAYBE, there was something in my ear?
I also went book-shopping today, and bought a wonderful new sketchbook for myself, because the old one that I had finished, besides, the pages were so big that it was becoming very hard to draw things that covered it entirely. The new sketchbook is so pretty that I'm actually a little afraid of drawing in it. And I went out and bought One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest by Ken Kesey, and The Wonderful Story of Henry Sugar and Six More by Roald Dahl. The first out of curiosity, the second because I've been waiting a while to finally buy it.
On the way to the bookstore, I passed a cinema-hall which was promoting "Hello!", based on Chetan Bhagat's One Night at the Call Centre, or as rabid fans of the book/author say "ON@TTC". And at the store too, there was some shiny version of ON@TTC the book. Shiny book versions are only reserved for those books which are actually good, which essentially makes my blood boil, because Chetan Bhagat, quite frankly, is a SHIT author. His books read like the journal of a half-wit. The vocabulary is uninspiring, so uninspiring that in the course of reading, I am tempted to throw the book at the wall, because reading it is like working at an assembly line. You drag yourself through it because of no real reason, there is no brain activity involved, and each new thing you see is exactly the thing that was before.
My mother (who at least tries to be less opinionated, or maybe she just doesn't argue as vociferously as me) says that his books are meant for people who don't generally read, for people who aren't that naturally interestedin literature, and for people like these, it's an enjoyable read. Fine. Maybe. I'm not classifying his books are BAD literature, because (like this debate topic we once had), there really IS no such thing as bad literature. What I am APPALLED by is the singular fact that although someone as dimwitted as Bhagat pens his books, there are still people who read his drivel. Seriously, I know his writings are directed towards and centered around the common man, but all his three books deal with somewhat fat, loser-like Caricatures who, in the beginning, start off as highly useless and detrimental to general well-being, and then, somehow, normally unavailable Hot Girl becomes friends with them. Caricature will also have stereotypical friends - the Cool Dude (gets all the girls, is rich and is a poster boy for promiscuity and Brylcreem), the Total Loser (who is good at heart, and just like protagonist, only WAY lamer). Then, Caricature will sleep with Hot Girl, and no matter what the situation, things go downhill from here, everyone argues, screws up, cries blah-blah-blah, someone tries to kill themself/kill someone else, or some other life-altering change happens, Hot Girl and Caricature get back together, and the friends return too, and The End.
Once was enough. But if this guy tries to go all Bollywood of the 90s on readers and taints literature by mechanically selling us assembly-line drivel, SOMETHING'S got to give.
And all this, just because I saw a shiny edition of a shit book.
I just know it now. I'm going to become one of those short-haired spinsters with a cat, who lives in a sterile apartment, goes to bookstores to purposefully knock over stacks of crap books, and writes mean Letters to the Editor in the newspaper. I'm going to become one of those bitter old hags (who blogs).
Or, I'll become one of those women with more children than she can count, in a bookstore trying to buy good books while all the children slide across the store's floor - the woman who 'accidentally' knocks over a stack of crap books and blames it on the kid who happens to be running the fastest.
In either case, the thing is, stacks of books by Chetan Bhagat are never safe when I'm in the store.
While I have, for a long time, believed that I am rather diverse in matters of music, I never thought my love for songs extended this far.
Yesterday,I was scouring iTunes for free things that were actually of any good. I swear, iTunes is rather useless. I know they're trying to make profit and all, but would it kill them to put up some good music on free sharing once in a while? All the good stuff is just way overpriced and the things that are free are basically junk. But during my search, I did come across an extremely interesting Podcast series, called Tempo Rock, and surprise, surprise, it's free, so I did download it, and surprise, surprise, it was not as crappy as I thought it would be. So much for pre-concieved notions, I'm sorry iTunes, I didn't mean to be so mean before. Although, your interface does kind of suck, and you are somewhat painstakingly slow.
In any case, Tempo Rock is fabulous, and it has all kinds of music on about half-an-hour long Podcasts, which make for enjoyable light listening, but what I didn't notice at first is the fact that it was called Tempo Rock FR. I did think FR stood for FREE, but surprise, surprise, FR stands for France. So, I have now, in my possessions, three Podcasts from a French Radio Station. The songs are English, but the radio jockey dude speaks French, and the song introductions are in French.
It's actually sort of fun, really.
"Le nouveux chanson, le artiste Flobots!". Ok, so I totally just made that up, but I do know now that 'chanson' means song, and that French spoken by native speakers is just as nasal as I thought it would be.
Still, it's a fun ride.
P.S. - My font is like the yellow polka-dot-bikini. It's itsy-bitsy-teeny-weeny. *snork*. But if you do want to enlarge it, you can hit Ctrl and + together, and it becomes a little larger. <3
Tagged Music.
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