I originally put this image on my flickr oriented vertically, which is how I took it. I decided to rotate it this way because it looks more surreal, like some sort of menacing book sprite is haunting our shelf of classics.. The previous orientation has different connotations, like I'm being CRUSHED BY THE SWEET DICTION OF DEAD AUTHORS. I was working off of my desire to consume as much classic literature this summer as possible. I stopped reading profusely starting in freshman year, I think. Iolani just sucked me dry of motivation to explore books outside of class. Although I've been getting better at consuming and analyzing books, I can't define myself as a book worm. Yet! Until recently I viewed our Classics as furniture, because they are floridly ornate and we've had them since before I was spawned. You know, looking at this image, I just realized that three of these books are required reading for AP English next year. I have to tackle Crime and Punishment as summer reading, MAN I'M PSYCHED.
In other news, I have exactly one page left in the journal I started for Creative Writing this past semester. I'm a little sad. I chose a 64 page moleskin because the thickness wasn't intimidating. Now that I'm actually done, I wish it were longer so I could look back at my previous "golden nuggets"as I continue my ever-changing scrawl.
My last page, sighs/cries. Also my boutonnière from prom which is aging
My CW teacher would read our entries every few weeks and send us evaluative comments. She always told me that my writing is visually interesting, and actually suggested I handwrite my final portfolio. I would've loved to do that but I woke up at three in the morning to revise and write introductions for my five pieces the day it was due, so I stuck to my pal Microsoft Word. My handwriting has seriously evolved over the past year because I switched to almost exclusively writing in pen. I take tests in pen, even in math. Because you all know I don't make mistakes in math. Hah, yeah but when I took the SAT last Saturday I almost had a heart attack when I realized I had to write the essay in pencil, but I managed to crank out two pages without my hand cramping up.
I'm currently revising a poem I tried writing in iambic tetrameter, but it's not quite ready to share yet. So instead, I will share the introduction to my portfolio:
I remember spending twilight on my swing set in Kansas until I couldn’t feel my legs propelling myself forward. I swung through the fading of the sun’s gold, the pink and orange stain of light, and into the blue hour. I wasn’t thinking about anything in particular. I just wanted to see how long I could swing out there before I got tired, or before someone would notice me and bid me come inside. It could have only been an hour, but time moves the way a flower opens at dawn when you’re a child. I thought it was strange that I existed in that moment, swinging on a clock’s pendulum, and I felt myself turn inward. I became, probably without ever hearing the word used before, introspective.
Junior year of high school is never a swift one. The nature of this penultimate epoch breeds confusion, anxiety, and more identity crises than should be confined to a period of nine months. Up until this year, I had been slacking on my writing. A poem would emerge now and then, hastily scratched onto paper and forgotten. I started to wonder if it was still appropriate to list Writing as one of my favorite pastimes. The threat of applying to college and displaying my self-worth for a board of admissions officers made me feel physically ill and caused me to reevaluate my priorities. Like so many melodramatic writers, I examined my mind. I journaled frequently, and plan on continuing to do so. My entries are sprawling and often proclaim fatigue and hopelessness. But there are moments of clarity, small fragments of literary gems lodged in angst and stone. These words come from me, and I need to know that. It is possible to commit my life to sifting through my words and refining them until they glisten and exist the way I want them to.
Each of these pieces reflects a way I’ve tried to understand my voice and myself, whether it was written through a facet of my mind or through experiences with souls who’ve tried to help me along. The pieces are lugubrious and hopeful, fictionalized and truthful, and each of them is a small step towards ossifying my identity.
Does that make you want to actually read what was in my portfolio? I'll share that later maybe. For now I'm going to clean my rooM MORE AND MORE and continue reading Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close by Jonathan Safran Foer (I'm not very far in but wow it's good).