Interests:Art, being antisocial, The Simpsons, Neopets, macs, animals, rock n' roll, figuring out how to not get caught chewing gum in class, getting chummy with teachers, sitting in on make-out parties (and then writing about them so scandalously that I never get invited to them again), documenting chin faces, perfecting the Smile of Pain, reminiscing about my first Rawk Box, knit caps, smushy cookies, my disco beatz, tchotchke.
Bands I Like: The Beatles, The Rolling Stones, The Who, Bob Dylan, Cream, Bob Marley, The Doors, Jimi Hendrix, Led Zeppelin, Blondie, Ray Charles, Nirvana, The Ramones, The White Stripes, The Clash, The Postal Service sorta, The Cloud Room (!?), The Fictions, Franz Ferdinand, The Killers, U2, My Chemical Romance, Interpol, The Shins, Modest Mouse, Blind Faith, Say Hello to Symphony, Hard-Fi, Mew Expertise:Drawing, photography, biology and writing, selective listening, not showing up on film
If you want a set of totally random pictures that just SCREAM the meaning of life, go to The Javascript Source
I just feel completely isolated from the world. True, deactivating my Facebook hasn't helped, but still. I shouldn't need that for people to talk to me. In class, everyone seems to have gone from being indifferent to me to moving away from me; I can't tell you how many times I've sat down at a table in math and have had people get up and move away from me. I wander around aimlessly during lunch and often end up scrambling upstairs to do math review because I have nothing better to do. Most days, I just don't understand anyone, I don't care, I fall asleep in class, I play with my hair. But at other times, like when something is annoying me or the reality of my preparedness for the regents hits me, I begin to feel panicked and angry, like I'm trapped in a cage and the rusted bars are drawing ever tighter around me. How can I endure two more years at a social, collaborative high school as, essentially, a loner?
I've taken to hiding in my room: trying to study for the regents, playing video games, waiting for people to IM me, teaching myself guitar chords. Maybe someday I'll be able to write some semblance of a tormented song, which I'll keep to myself, because if I tried out for anything it would be like, oh! It's Pincus! I forgot about her! Why is she copying us? Why is she doing this stupid imitative thing that everyone else is doing? Who does that little bitch think she is? The same thing would happen if I tried to do anything the cool kids did. So I hang by the sidelines with that blank expression plastered to my face, being an Exemplary Individual Who Is Trying To Get Into An Ivy League College With No Credentials Whatsoever, when in fact I'm just as resentful of authority as everyone else, when I want to be leading protests against every facet of our high school education.
I'm sorry if this post has offended anyone or made them feel left out of my mind. But it's how I feel. All I want is one friend, one good friend, one person who show me that I'm doing something right in this world.
Okay dudes. Anonymous commenting has now come to xanga. So, if you like (or even read) my posts but don't like the idea of making a xanga, please feel free now to run around and comment rampantly. YAY!
Have you ever felt like you could fast-forward through a chunk of your year? That's how I feel right now. Somewhere at the end of the dark, coal-powdered tunnel of geometric proofs, video projects, shifting deadlines, social awkwardness, food allergies and regents, there's summer and salvation for me. And someone special, I hope
Anyway, I might as well report on my week. Lunch on Monday would have been a miserable, rain-soaked mess if not for Max Wang's new find: an abandoned laundry cart. I don't know where it came from or who let him take it, but Max led his friends across Eighth Avenue pushing a rickety wire cart with wheels like warped records and a wire holder in the middle that was on the verge of falling out. He picked up speed once he hit 17th street, zigzagging back and forth on the slick pavement to avoid oncoming cars. Kyla, then a succession of tiny kids, hopped on the frame on the contraption and Max took them for free rides. It was easily the highlight of my day.
On Wednesday, I found an olive green homework planner on my desk in Health. I ignored it at first, thinking it belonged to someone else at the table, but as we were leaving to the sound of upended chairs being placed on the desks, I realized that no one had claimed it. In English, Alyssa determined that it belonged to Suzie. Unable to return leave the room to return it to her, I flipped through it at intervals, amused by her little doodles and notes. After class, I found her standing with Maggie and Gintas by the water fountains and handed it back to her. "Thanks but... oh fuck! Someone unfolded all my pages!" she cried, referring to some old pages she had used in the front of the planner to pass notes to her friends. "Where'd you find this? Someone read all my notes. This is so embarrassing!" I stood speechless, somewhat ashamed that I had glanced at them myself, not that I could make any heads or tails of the fragmented conversations in day-glo pink pen. Meanwhile, Gintas was completing a stress-management questionnaire that looked relatively easy and fun. "What is your age?" it asked. "15-16" was circled. "What do you do to reduce your stress level?" "Music and drugs," he had written in huge letters. At the suggestion of either Suzie or Maggie, he hastily scratched out "drugs." "When I'm more stressed, I play HARDER, LOUDER AND FASTER," he explained about the "music" part to us.
On Friday, Shannon came to school wearing a black t-shirt adorned with intricate medieval lettering. If one stared intently enough, words became to take shape in the sweet motif. "Shit fuck," it said. "Dick cunt pussy motherfucker bastard bitch skank." Bored in English, I began to read the words out loud, mumbling them to myself. "Yeah, no one's really noticed them before, but my t-shirt is covered in curse words," said Shannon. The rest of the group members began to gather around and remark on the matter. Mr. Biss soon appeared and remarked on it, but took no punitive action. By Bio, Shannon's profane shirt had been forgotten.
So yeah, those were the highlights of my week. Talent show was all right, Suzie's performance was pretty good.
I know it's been a while. I know that Say Hello to Symphony has already played another (21+) gig. But, now that I'm burning a set of discs for various members of the band of my dad's impeccable cinematography of this event, now that I need a non-mind numbing way of procrastinating on reading Othello, I think I'm ready to blog about this fun but awkward Friday night.
First off, I wasn't even sure whether I was going until the last minute. The day before, Suzie, who is a comforting same-age presence at even the rowdiest SHtS concert, had suddenly told me she wasn't going, and that had thrown me into a tailspin of indecision about it that was exacerbated by the stress of hours of homework and multiple tests. Judging from the scene at Say Hello to Symphony's last Lion's Den concert, which seemed to consist chiefly of random guys from Greenwich Village who had probably bought a ticket for some show and decided to stay all night, there was going to be no one my age at the concert, and it was going to be super-sketchy. Despite my suspicions, at 7:00 PM on the night of the concert, I decided I was going. My little brother's friend was over and my mom had to supervise them, so my dad was chosen to go with me.
My father's presence, though it lent me some protection (and the band some high-quality footage of themselves performing), led to considerable awkwardness. When we arrived, Sasha, Vasu and Gabe were hanging around outside the Lion's Den, smoking cigarettes. The music streaming out of the club was highly changeable, ranging from old-fashioned blues to butt-bouncer house music in the space of five minutes. "Yep, that's Ava Luna – you should go check them out," said Sasha when I remarked on this, except it wasn't them. Except for this short exchange, however, I was scarcely able to get a word, even a greeting, in edgewise between dad's tales of New York in the 70's. Gabe was particularly captivated by them, swooning and swaying slightly as he listened. All I could muster was an overexcited "I'm gonna see you guys PLAY!" in response to a "What's up?". As my dad continued to chatter, Reuben and David appeared. Reuben waved silently with a grin of pity on his face; David waved as well, then stood and stared blankly. At that moment, Jason, his brother Eric, Damon, and many other friends swaggered up, and waves of relief spread over me. (Emira and Alanna later arrived as well). Various members of the band went over to greet and tackle them. Then we all realized that everyone under 18 had to get in the club, as it was nearly eight. We weaved our way through the empty red-roped line and into the land of the booming bass. "Long time no see," I said to Damon. "Yeah," he said absently. We'd gone to preschool together across the street.
We entered the beer-smelling dankness of the Lion's Den with crude X's drawn on our hands (except for my dad, who passed for over 21) and, in the boys' case, a lot of excess energy. Ava Luna soon came onstage and began to play. My dad trailed me closely for most of their set until David pounced on some guy (Lincoln?), nearly forcing my dad into a pillar. That got him to back off and start setting up his camcorder. Ava Luna have an interesting and experimental sound; they kept switching off and playing different instruments, and almost every member of the band took a turn at the microphone. They are also quite well-dressed. The keyboardist wore a woolen tasseled hat, and two members of the band wore pinstriped button-down shirts with duct-taped in large X's. The weight of their guitar straps, however, caused a couple of buttons to come undone.
At this point, I noticed a tall, skinny guy with greasy hair and overalls, the hems of which didn't quite meet his shoes. The details in my mind added up: It's Sebastian! With a freshman fifteen! I waved eagerly; when he didn't notice, I called "Sebastian! Sebastian!" When he turned around, I waved again. "Did you just wave to me?" he asked with a degree of impatience. "Yeah," I replied. "Who are you?" "What's your name?" "Sam." I threw my hands up in mortification. "I thought you were someone else!" "Don't worry about it!" he comforted me, touching my lower back lightly. Then Sebastian arrived a few minutes later (with the asymmetrical haircut that I should probably now consider his trademark) to a group high-five, and it was all right. Still… awkward!
Then Say Hello to Symphony came on stage. They had some kind of new distortion-making gizmo that added an extra touch to their songs, and they played around with the rhythm of old favorites like "Dig Into Me" and "Goodnight Moon." Having forgotten his cowbell, Sasha used a blender pitcher in its place. Unfortunately, however, there was a lot of fuzz and feedback on his microphone. Throughout the first half of their set, Eric and company kept shouting out requests for "Gong song! Gong song!" while Eric threw in a few yelps of "I want your body!" and "Do freestyle, freestyle!" They eventually did bring out a gigantic gong, which Sasha presided over for an entire song. For some reason, I have absolutely no recollection of Sasha hitting it, even though he most likely did. It was then carried off the stage as swiftly as it had appeared.
Their most elegant moments actually came after my dad's camcorder had run out of batteries. Their second new song, which is very intense and danceable, didn't make it onto Mini DV tape. Neither did their finale, "Hands and Feet," whose shift in time signature caused Sebastian, who had been curiously hanging by the sidelines for the entire concert, to jump into the middle of the mosh triangle, pushing, shoving and twirling. Even the girls who always hog the row right in front of the stage and speakers and attempt to call and text their friends throughout the concert joined in on the fun. All in all, it was a solid performance.
As my dad talked to the new object of his fascination, Reuben's grandmother, I waited for the members of the band so that I could compliment them on their playing. David appeared first; after wading his way through a densely packed group of people, he seized me in a huge bear hug. We began to teeter back and forth. "Ah! I'm all… sweaty! Sweaty! Ah!" he kept stammering, even though I didn't feel any sweat. Then he dashed off. Vasu appeared afterwards and my dad chatted him up as the next band began to set up their instruments. All of a sudden, Vasu leapt up and ran to the right side of the stage, where the keyboardist of the new band was setting up an aluminum-clad, expensive-looking Nord Lead keyboard. "Whoa! Did you see that? Did you see his keyboard? I'm totally staying for this band," he raved. My dad and I left not long after that because it was almost 11:00 and I stay up late enough on Friday nights as it is. Despite my fatigue, I'd had a pretty good, if socially awkward, time.
I've had enough. Enough of school, home, everything. I feel like there's no sanctuary that I can look forward to going to. I regret going to Lab more and more every day. The building smells, the classes manage to be simultaneously dull and difficult, and, with a few exceptions, I still seem to be a people repellent. Every restaurant I eat at during lunch that seems to have a decent social scene is nigh abandoned within a few weeks. I don't know what it is. I guess I'm just a boring goody two-shoes whose mind is on school all the time, not "fun stuff" like climbing the fence into Kelly Park or wandering out of bounds during lunch. But my mind isn't on school, either. I'm in a constant state of escapism from whatever I'm doing, be it math homework, waiting for the train, or even something so mundane as brushing my teeth. I haven't done anything artistic or enjoyable in so long that half my 10th grade teachers don't even know that I have creative leanings, that there's a person behind the numbers. But they're not even very good numbers. I toil and toil and toil over homework and classwork and, in the end, my grades aren't all that much better than anyone else's. There are people who get averages in the very high 90's with, it seems, little effort, while I have weekly anxiety attacks over the cumulative threat of three Regents at the end of the year, the SAT's, and everything else I have to worry about.
I just don't know what people do FOR FUN anymore. Nothing constructive or creative, I guess. I wouldn't know. Everything either has to either involve putting some harmful substance in your body or an all-important marking on one's college transcript. I don't know what to do with myself on weekends, breaks or during the summer except procrastinate on homework, refreshing Facebook. I don't have the courage or confidence to write or take my pictures much anymore because I am so frequently berated with corrections, "don't do this" and "don't do that." I guess I need a new interest... I've always wanted to get into music, but I've been procrastinating on taking voice or guitar lessons literally for years.
I also learned today at my Newspaper Club meeting that we won't have ANY electives in our Junior year, which makes me feel angry and deprived. As if my mind hasn't already become enough of a sterile reposity for facts and formulas and finalities, now there will be no academic light at the end of the tunnel in high school, nothing to bring my mind back into the classroom, back onto the teacher's well-beaten path. If I'm lucky, maybe Sociology, which seems somewhat interesting, will still exist when I'm a senior. But that's about it. No AP courses, nothing to match my highly specialized interests. Just that daily grind, Math, English, History, fucking Science, maybe Spanish because what I heard probably means I won't be able to drop that dreadful course for Advanced Art or something. I really, REALLY don't want to spend the rest of my high school career being dragged around, 8:00 (or possibly 7:15) - 2:15 or later, like an overgrown middle schooler. How I hate Lab. Every day I think about what it would have been like had I gotten into Stuyvesant or LaGuardia.
