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melissalaneous
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Name: Melissa
Birthday: 4/23/1987
Gender: Female
Interests: naps in the band room, bowing down to my ben folds shrine, xanga stalking, filling my ipod to its maximum capacity, playing piano for money, collecting useless expensive crap, and CRATES that's right CRATES.
Expertise: bell-ringing, bad singing, speaking in clang, diagnosing myself and others with psych disorders,untangling wires, defending lewis carroll's honor, finding nonexistent symbolism in ordinary occurences, and uh, being AWESOME. psh.
Message: message meEmail: email me
AIM:  theduchess423
Member Since:
7/4/2003
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| i'm DYING. this is BEYOND amazing. this is a level of excitement i can't even measure.
Dear Melissa,
I would like to congratulate you on
being accepted into the Philippines Volunteer Program.
As requested, our volunteer partner
in the Philippines
has indicated that they can place you in the program for 1 month
starting in June 2007. Our Philippines
program requires that volunteers are in Manila
by the 1st or 20th of the month for training and orientation. Please advice us
of your preference.
We have noted your preference to
work in the Teaching program. Please be aware that
the specific details of your project will not be determined until the training.
Elementary and High School: Subjects
taught include English, maths, science, health, and basic computer skills (only
in schools where computers are available).
I look forward to hearing from you
in response to your acceptance into the program.
Regards,
Colin S******** etc, etc.
my parents are like .... "we'll talk about it," but i don't see how they can make me turn this down. i feel for the first time that i'm standing before something so much bigger than me.
i know that whatever happens there isn't meant to service me. because i'm not going there for me, i'm going for them, whoever they are.
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| my sister just asked me "how much my flute was an if it was any good" because her friend is thinking of buying a new flute.
so i was looking stuff up on flute world to make sure i knew what i was talking about, and i really, really miss it. not just the playing (since i was never really that great and i didn't work hard enough to be that great), but that huge culture of music that comes with being a classically trained musician.
i miss being a Musician. i'm not anymore. i'm a Writer. with a capital w. i'm a Writer of Essays and a Scholar of Literature and a Future Teacher of English. i miss MUSICIAN being a huge part of my identity.
i'm very out of the loop, and i can already feel my musical aptitude dwindling while, well, others keep building on theirs. the only thing i'm really good at, musically, anymore, is playing piano at church, which admittedly is no big challenge. and YET, i manage to mess up.
i never thought i'd be that person who "sort of played in the band in high school." i always thought i'd keep up with music as i grew up. and it's not that i don't want to--i do. it's just this vicious cycle. i have no reason to play, and then by the time i HAVE a reason, it's been so long since i picked up my flute that i'm intimidated by it.
that's one thing i haven't been able to translate into my new life. i
can't seem to find the place for my flute. it's sad how i've omitted this big part of my personality in order to make room for a lot of development in another section of my life. i wouldn't go so far as to say i regret it.
(but in some ways, it's true.)
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| ::being brave::
::is nervous::
::wonders if anyone reads this anymore anyway::
i want to start not being shy about the stuff i write. i'm hoping to one day be published. i need to know if i suck or not. i figure hey, if not on xanga, then where?
this is what i'm turning in for a creative writing assignment called
"surface and depth." it asked us to write a very short narrative in
which we represent a feeling of solitude using only sensory details.
it's called Thursday
Wakefulness comes to him abruptly. He suddenly sits up, rigid, eyes wide open, like a marionette whose strings have just been pulled.
The VCR blinks in green, 12:00. 12:00. 12:00. 12:00.
His watch reads 3:36 PM. Another day half over, he thinks.
Gingerly he reanimates, placing one foot, then another, on the cool wooden floor.
He is keenly aware that he is standing in the dark. 3:36 PM is not this dark. It's not so much a thought as a feeling. He jerks the shades open.
White light stampedes the room, revealing the dust in the air, illuminating the colonies of empty coffee mugs scattered in clusters around the room like toadstools.
Immediately he wishes he hadn't bothered with the shades. Not only does it remind him that he has woken up ridiculously late, but it's a terrible, gray day as well. The sky is overcast, remnants of a stormy night and a rainy season that is not quite over yet. The sky has looked like this, opaque and blotchy white, for the past 4 days.
The main structure visible from this window is the bridge. The view had been the main reason he bought the apartment, because on a temperate day, the bridge was like a beacon, a great symbol of modern invention, red and enormous and nearly alive. But today, in the sinister light, the bridge is looming, spiny, spiky, bloody scarlet against a snow-pale backdrop. He shudders.
3:42 PM. Suddenly driven with purpose, he charges through the living room, collecting the various coffee mugs lying on the floor, 15, 16, 17. They clink together loudly in his arms and hands. The ceramic-meeting-ceramic sound echoes repeatedly throughout the mostly empty apartment, filling it with raucous music. He drops his collection into the empty stainless-steel sink, all askew.
Silence buzzes in his ears now. Not a single sound--no muffled voices from downstairs, no angry honking from the street, not even the ticking of a clock. It's not a peaceful silence. It is deafening. It is the sound of stagnation.
Quickly he turns on the faucet, the initial blast of water breaking the quiet like a geyser. Instead of washing the mugs, he rinses one out, fills it with scalding water, then scoops instant coffee granules straight into the mug. The smell wafts to his nostrils and fills him with heavy heat. The room settles to silence.
Turning from the sink, he looks back at the landscape in his window. He thinks for a moment that the world looks very much as if it has been covered in waxed paper.
4:00 PM. Defeated, he walks away from the sink, clutching the coffee mug to his chest. He pulls the shades closed again.
The dark
surrounds him
warmly.
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| today on wonderpets, linny, tuck, and ming-ming took a vacation to puerto vallarta.
oh, cruel world.
why must you mock me?
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| hokay, so
within one week of being back at school, i have
-been to target twice
-watched 3 movies (brick, bring it on, and bridget jones' diary)
-bought $43 worth of posters to take up the vast amount of wall space we have in our air-conditioned, fabulous, personal bathroom'd room
-(unfortunately) discovered what can only be called a Mystery Stain on the side of our bathtub.
-eaten an entire bag of hint of lime tostitos
-gone back to classes-- seemingly a success!
-heard that freaking song by jojo about 6 million times
-met someone who works at target too
-written one essay
-decorated my lamp (that came with my room) to cover up the fact that it is cerca maybe 1978
-had my hopes promptly dashed that the dining hall food may have improved slightly over the summer
and much more
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