One of my articles ran in the newspaper today. I debated whether to link to the online version because it gives away my *really real* name and city, and decided, screw it. Not as if there’s anybody reading my blog who I wouldn’t mind visiting me sometime. So here it is.
There are parts I don’t like that were the professional decisions of the editors above me, so I’ll just say, anything that sucks isn’t my fault. :)
[The beginning of chapter 7 of… that’s right… Lost Time. Has since been edited.]
I posed. I was to appear haughty, aloof, perhaps aristocratic; I dared not laugh at the great irony of being a princess mistaken for a commoner, now trussed up as exotic royalty. No harem girl should be thinking amusing thoughts – we were mere decorations, girls to sensually lounge around and provide a pleasing atmosphere. It was a good existence for a captured slave – we conceded to the occasional fond touch, but little more. I was immensely grateful to the green-eyed Prince for arranging for me to reside in his father’s harem rather than become a lowly servant like other prisoners. He told me they would not have allowed such a pretty face to go to waste scrubbing floors or serving food, and he might have been right, but I knew he specifically requested that I be treated with respect. And so they dressed me in fine clothes and called me a foreign beauty, a mystery who never removed the veil that covered her face, and I lay among plush cushions and rich textiles, pretending to be… well, myself.
I remembered little of my sun-maddened days in the Persians’ caravan, only yellow sand and a kind face. When I recovered my senses, I was relieved to discover that my identity had been disguised by a hundred small injuries, as well as the sand that clung like a persistent nightmare to my hair and skin. I obtained a scarf to cover my head and face – allegedly to protect me from the harmful sun, but in truth, it offered protection of a far greater sort: the Persian capture of an Indian princess could shatter the tenuous peace between our nations. So I called myself Sandhya, because my persona would be as vague and fleeting as dusk. Once I was able to speak to the Prince alone, I could reveal myself and regain my regal authority.
Driving myself crazy (as usual)
I’m so sick of missing Ning.
Other great revelations:
I never mentioned that I hung out with Khuffie for a while this past Saturday, when I was in Toronto learning how to tango. And by “hung out with,” I mean he gave me, my dad, my sister and her ex-boyfriend a little tour around Ryerson to see his class’s New Media exhibitions. It was very interesting, and we all agreed that he is a very nice guy. I neglected to tell my father that I met Khuffers over the internet two months ago… I think I’ll sneak it on my parents once they figure out he’s not an insane child-molester. My mother saw me webcamming with him before and expressed strong disapproval; she believes everyone on the internet is evil by default, especially 22-year-old men talking to 17-year-old girls. As long as my parents don’t talk to each other, I’m golden. It’s nice to be able to rely on their failed marriage for something.
On that note, I’ve talked him into coming to Hamilton this Sunday — I’ll meet him at the station under the pretense of going to the mall while my parents are at church. Could I be any more of a sinner? Le snicker.
Speaking of snobbishness, the reporter at a desk near mine is covering the Juno Awards and asked me today if I like the Black Eyed Peas. I said not really (I had to stop myself from wincing), and he mentioned Broken Social Scene would also be playing, which made me happy. Another reporter across from him asked what my musical tastes are. I told him I like “snobby people’s music,” which after coming across this is something I’ve come to terms with. I’m not a rich suicidal indie freak, but I sure do love me my Radiohead.
But despite all the incredibly friendly reporters there, journalism is definitely not for me. I hate going through an editor who needs to butcher my writing in order for it to be digestible to an audience of adults with the intelligence of bored ADD-afflicted middle school students. It’s no fault of the editor’s — my editor/supervisor is an awesome person — it’s simply necessary to write that way to reach my city’s adults. Which saddens me for many reasons.
Because it’s the only thing I write anymore
Bitterness I
Our tongues, our voices
Taste bitterness, and with words
Create something sweet
Bitterness II
We see bitterness
and selfishly exploit it
to write lemonade.
Co-op articles are going slowly, the high school “literary magazine” I edit is going even slower, and my back hurts. But I have a chocolate chip oatmeal cookie and I LOVE chocolate chip oatmeal cookies.
I hope that part of me never grows up.
After touring Laurier today, I’m approximately three times more excited to go there in the fall. My parents’ fears are also slightly lessened. And my future room is twice as big as Ning’s. Giggity.
I ran into a high school friend of mine who’s in her first year there. She showed me around her residence, which happens to be the one I want to go into, so I got a lovely little private tour. She’s moving into a house next year, but at least we’ll be in the same city again.
Ning and his roomates and I played Soul Calibur II for a while, and I’m proud to say I held my own decently well against the older Asian boys. Although I should learn to block one of these days. Agressive strikes and quick dodging can only take me so far.
I don’t have much more to say, so I shall leave you with some more lemon haikus. They’re not as good as the other ones.
Lemons on the Tongue
Sharp, awakening
Taste the new ideas here
Lemons on the tongue.
Artificial Lemon
Teenage poetry
It makes you cringe, makes you groan
Fake lemon extract.
Expert Writing
The harsh sting of truth
Thinly covered by sweet words
Lemons in disguise.
Also: Happy St Paddy’s day and happy 23rd birthday to my sister.
I dunno why I joined this site, but they’re having a contest and I entered. Enjoy my six haikus about lemons and/or writing, all of which were written tonight on no sleep.
Lemons can
Lemons can brighten
a summer day, or make you
pucker a tart kiss
Lemon Juice
Have you ever licked
lemon juice? It’s like a taste
of cynicism.
Bitterness
We taste in lemons
that satisfying prick of
a bitter spirit
A Lemon
As your mouth puckers
to match the fruit’s dimpled skin,
Become a lemon.
Invisible Ink
Lemon juice secrets
on paper, by candlelight
Here revealed to all.
Lemonfingers
Words that sting, that cleanse;
lemon scent on our fingers
refreshing dry minds.
I got my offer to Nursing yesterday, or was it the day before, I can’t remember. I’ll be sleeping soon for the first time in two days, and why? I don’t know, laziness I guess. Anyway, the offer looked very pretty, came in an impressive envelope thing… suffice it to say I had more than a few second thoughts. But I know where I want to go, and a fancy folder won’t change that. Plus I’ve already accepted Laurier’s offer and I’m pretty sure un-accepting it to reconsider invalidates it.
Zero was right: N approaches dangerous levels of awesome.
I’m sure there was more I wanted to say. But head hurting, need sleep.
It’s sort of tingy-fuzzy-clumsy-feeling. Silly throat lozenges. I wonder if it’s doing strange things to my brain?
Must stop singing. Bad for throat. Must stop singing high notes especially. Ahh but Ben Folds and Radiohead and Snow Patrol are all way too tempting…
I created a “Blocked/Estranged” group to ignore in my MSN list. Is it a small social failure or a progressive step towards not living for the approval of others?
I got an early admission letter to English from Laurier yesterday and a rejection letter from Mac today for health sciences — just a notice of ineligibility because I didn’t submit the supplementary application. I have an online offer to nursing, but no paper yet. This is all a lot less exciting than I thought it might be, because the one program I want to go into isn’t exactly exclusive, and I don’t care about the others now that I’ve decided what I want to do. But going through residence information is fun; I’m counting the days until I leave.
I’m probably late on this, but I just read that the release date is fall 2006. GROWL!
In all honesty, though, I’d much rather they release the thing when it’s actually ready than stick to a deadline regardless. I don’t want no buggy half-finished Zelda game to disgrace the fandom.
Dancing was fun, meeting Khuffie was fun (only slightly awkward!) and now A Beautiful Mind is on TV. Tis been a good day.
I’ll try to drag Ning out to dance sometime, but I don’t foresee much success with that. As long as he doesn’t get jealous, I don’t mind dancing with other people, but it’d be nice to share with him sometime.
My Yahoo horoscope says I’ll make progress on Lost Time tomorrow
Hehee, horoscopes. The deepest I’ve ever gotten into astrology has been doing research to pick signs for the Prince and Farah (Aries and Sagittarius, respectively). That was fun, but I don’t believe a word of it. I’m way too introverted and self-conscious for a Leo, and the stuff they say will happen either doesn’t, or does so vaguely that it could’ve been anything.
My hands smell like icky workplace lotion. Too much lanolin or something. Co-op was very dull today… I made a bunch of phone calls, didn’t get through to anyone, and didn’t get “contacted shortly” by the one person who told me she would. The highlight was a photographer asking me to pose for him in a sunny hallway because he needed someone around 18 to carry suitcases. Does this mean I don’t still look 10/12/15? That’d be nice. Anyway, it was a casual thing, no release form because my face isn’t shown (I’m silhouetted from behind, it’s rather cool-looking) but it helped break up today’s monotony. I’m afraid to play internet games at my desk, even though everyone is too insanely busy to notice or care, so when I have to stay there and wait for a call it means a lot of sitting doing very little. Whenever I try to distract myself, I feel guilty for not being productive, even though there’s nothing I can do at the time but wait. I could try asking someone for work to do, but half the time half the people are on deadlines, and you do not want to disturb a reporter with a deadline. It can be dangerous — fatal, even. The nicest people turn into short-tempered, crazy-eyed snapping turtles. Or y’know, something else that snaps.
OUAC just told me that my academic information has been received, forwarded and processed, so I checked it out and apparently I have 95 in lit studies, not 92. Isn’t that nice.
I’m going to see Khuffie this Saturday while I’m in Toronto learning to tango. Eye are ell! I’ve never met an internet friend before. This be exciting for me.
Speaking of whom: Blobby! All credit for finding goes to Khuffs. Took me about five tries to get the hang of it, but then I got up to lvl 15 pretty easily.
On March 2 2005, I started this blog and joined DA. Happy birthday to me. I’d like to say I’ve come a long way or something, but I can’t think of much that’s different. DA’s been a good experience though. I feel like I learned stuff about art and the fine arts in general, which was totally unexpected.
Update: I celebrated the anniversary by moving most of my pictures from Photomanipulation to Darkroom as per John’s suggestion. It wasn’t so bad, and the categories have actually been bugging me for a while, so I feel relieved in a small way. I worry about these things.
In real news, I’ve determined that I do not want to be a journalist. This comes as a bit of a relief since I didn’t apply to journalism anywhere, but it means I still have 15 or so weeks at a workplace that doesn’t interest me. Going through an editor I disagree with is not a pleasant experience, nor is changing my writing style to suit an uneducated audience. Even going through an editor I agree with gets frustrating around the fourth revision.
My writer’s craft teacher suggested I could write for a more intellectual magazine or some such thing. Sounds fun. He also mentioned university-level teaching, which is the only demographic I’d consider teaching.