Marseilles cards.

'I'll always picture you with a book in your hands.'

-Grandma

Now, if you too have been puzzled by the bizarre reasoning of a certain popular song of 2007, you had better read this. Right now.

Haven't written in a long time (I guess it's pretty obvious), although I'm not short of ideas. Short of discipline, maybe. But I've been scanning some stuff, so Flashback is being updated again....

Oh, and one more thing you should check out: Reverse Graffiti. Another 2007 treasure -- I think it's one of the coolest things I've seen in a long time.

Beauty is a sudden radiation of inspiration.

And I quote from our horrible, horrible history manual.

'Est-tu supérieure à ta mère parce qu'elle est allée au couvent jusqu'en neuvième année avec son costume bleu [...] parce que tu deviendras peut-être électrotechnicienne, cardiologue ou même Premier ministre, alors qu'on lui enseignait à elle l'art ménager pour qu'elle devienne une bonne mère de famille?'

Obviously, I can't take that as a personal insult to my mother, but their sweeping generalizations are like spiders burrowing into my skin. Ma mère est cardiologue, for your information.

Man I really want to go outside again.

I have thirteen finals this year. That is not cool.

Me in front of school this morning: 'I accidentally left my clarinet in the music room. Couldn't I please get into the music room for two seconds?'
Janitor: 'School's closed!'
Me: 'But I have a playing exam on Wednesday. Look, it won't take long.'
Janitor (over roar of snowblower): 'I can't hear you.'
Me: 'I HAVE A PLAYING EXAM ON WEDNESDAY.'
Janitor: 'SCHOOL'S CLOSED.'

At first, I was convinced that the inflexibility was because I'm not stunningly beautiful, but I'm not sure anyone would be able to counter such a ridiculous policy. I came to school, I'd have been supervised -- hell, I even had my student ID -- and I wasn't allowed because I'm a delinquent sixteen-year-old and who knows what I could have done. School is an institution established for the benefit of the student, so it's only logical to make sure that the student has as few rights as possible.

High school has been fun and all, but it's also worn pretty thin in places.

Can you see the real me?

Confessions.

I didn't grow up with invisible friends. I grew up with my beloved stuffies. Now, I have more invisible friends now than I ever did before. They aren't invisible in that only I can see them, but rather in that I have never seen them and can rarely communicate with them. Some I know very well; others I feel that I will never completely understand.

I have four mains. Cold, detached Arcturus; angry, cynical Fletcher; mysterious Silvia; and 'F', who I met in a dream. Silvia exists in our world, Arcturus does not, Fletcher can't seem to make up his mind, and 'F' isn't even human.

It's all so big.

Man I love snow.

'When you get the test, you'll think it's really long. It's not. The first twenty questions....'

-Orlando on an upcoming math test

'The first said I was going to die; the second said I had breathed my last; and the third said I was already dead.'

-Chopin on his doctors

My English project on The Pianist is due on Friday, and here's what I have so far:

-Ten pages of rough literal notes and quotes (I really, really like quotes)

-Four pages of notes on symbols, style, setting, irony, theme, intended audience, music, jump cuts, the point of no return, and guiding principles

-Six very rough paragraphs, three of which (somehow) are about Chopin. Six out of a future fifteen to twenty. It seems to be a very long report.

I have, however, come to the conclusion that Wladek is a pretty cool name.

Just jammin'.

For those who haven't already heard me talking about how great my English teacher is (which I do every day)

Instead of watching the film version of Lord of the Flies in class and comparing it to the book, we're going to watch The Matrix.

You taught me how to sing.

Snow is heaven.

Art can be a real pain in the ass.

Ninety percent of the time, you feel like you’re going nowhere. You work and work, and nothing seems to improve. Sometimes you’ll have a small breakthrough, and sometimes whatever you’re putting together – be it painting, poem, or piece of music – will turn out quite well, and you can be somewhat satisfied, but you still feel a little twinge of doubt in the corner of your brain, a little voice that says ‘Hm, that’s alright, but couldn’t I do better?’

Every now and then, though, there’ll be a real surge. True inspiration doesn’t build up over time, and it won’t come very often, but every now and then you’ll feel a real compulsion to do something. All the emotion you ever felt has flared up in one instant and is begging to be free. You’ll set it free in one long burst, singing, or pen flying across the page, or playing your guitar until you can’t play anymore, until your fingers are numb and the pain in your shoulder spreads across your back, until you crumple under the weight of all that passion.

And then, you’ll sleep. Or you’ll doze for a little, trying to sort out what just happened. You never will be able to pin it down exactly.

The thing is, nothing you create during that ninety percent while you’re actually working is ever as good as what came out in that one explosion. It’s frustrating to think about, but nothing in the world seems to make you happier than those surges.

Well, I think you can subsitute all the you’s for I’s and me’s. Obviously I have no idea what anyone else feels like, but it felt better to write it that way.

Man, my shoulder hurts.

Fi-ire!