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| Taken from tumblr.
Over share.
One. What is your middle name? Don't have one.
Two. What are you passionate about? photography, baking, certain authors, jake gyllenhaal!
Three. Zebra or leopard print? Hmmm I'd never wear either. But I guess I like leopards more than zebras.
Four. Do you have any fears? Yeah but...nothing too different than the usual. Fear of failure, being alone, and rodents.
Five. Silver or gold? Gold for earrings, silver for necklaces.
Six. Top three places to visit. France, Japan, Ireland.
Seven. How many siblings do you have? Three.
Eight. Where are you from? Born in Israel, grew up in CA.
Nine. First career you wanted as a child? An astronaut.
Ten. What’s your sign? Libra!
Eleven. Future names of your children. Nah. Except i love the name Matan for a boy. Hebrew for "present".
Twelve. Do you have any pets? Not an animal person.
Thirteen. What are you listening to right now? Red Ribbon Foxes by A Fine Frenzy
Fourteen. Do you believe in fate/destiny? not reallyyy.
Fifteen. What are your career goals? something with photography. I wish I had a better answer, seeing as I'm on my penultimate year in college. Talk about terrifying.
Sixteen. What is your favorite color? Green.
Seventeen. What is your favorite flower? daisies, mustard flowers, morning glories. they give me so much happiness.
Eighteen. What was the first concert/show you attended? John Mayer in 08 I think it was.
Nineteen. Something you are working on right now. Finishing my current journal by December 12th...
Twenty. Have you ever had a near-death experience? Yeah. I almost died when I was born.
Twenty-one. Are you a procrastinator or do you get things done early? The former.
Twenty-two. Left or right handed? Lefty.
Twenty-three. TV Shows you watch regularly. Modern Family, Community, Private Practice, Grey's Anatomy.
Twenty-four. Where do you work? Nowhere.
Twenty-five. Halloween costume idea for this year? I was a girl scout. And I went trick-or-treating. I'm twenty.
Twenty-six. What is your relationship status? Single and hating it.
Twenty-seven. Last movie you just watched. Room With A View. So good.
Twenty-eight. Your best friend’s name. Right now, it's my wonderful roommate named Jamie.
Twenty-nine. A song that’s been stuck in your head. Nothing right now. Although White Winter Hymnal by Fleet Foxes just randomly came to me.
Thirty. A book you want to read/have recently read. I'm reading Ham On Rye by Charles Bukowski right now. It's pretty great. | | |
| Yes, the title of this is from the Avril Lavigne song "Anything But Ordinary" Make what connotations you want about her; it was playing during my talk about the stomach and it fit.
A dream from has gone unwritten and I think it's a crime to the dream world. It can't get ignored. I doubt that it has any significance because it's not like it's recurring and I haven't drawn any parallels to my real life at all since the night I dreamt it, but I can't not write about it. I'm trying to do what all the guest speakers at literature symposium tell us: Write about what frightens you, that's where the best stuff comes out. Write about what makes you uncomfortable.
I woke up November 5th absolutely terrified. My heart wasn't beating fast, but I was quickly running the dream through my head, over and over, trying to snap out of the mood and comforting myself that it wasn't real. It was about my family. I haven't seen anyone from my family in months, ever since my mom and brother dropped me off on September 19th. Actually, I have seen my dad and it wasn't too long ago, but he wasn't in the dream so peu importe. They were fighting. They being my brothers. I don't remember what role my mom/sister played, probably ineffective pleas to stop. It never works, both Beeri and Asher are headstrong and are intent on getting their opinion heard before the other one finishes so they talk on top of each other which only heightens the tension and opportunity for a fight to break out. As for me, I felt like I was watching all this happen without actually being there. Maybe that's why it was so powerful, because I couldn't say or do anything to stop it. But, let's face it, if I had been there, nothing would've be different. My brothers ended up outside and I think my mom was too exasperated to follow them. She didn't know Beeri had a knife and that he would use it seconds later. She told them to stop, forcibly, again, but of course her words bounced off my brothers and into thin air. Asher stood against the tree, on its roots, so he was a little taller than usual. He was talking a mile a minute and I only remember one line. "I hated that piece of crap! I only said I liked it to be polite!" referring to one of Beeri's composition. Beeri's face stayed still, his whole body did in fact. Very static. Except for his arm that was holding a knife with an odd handle, in the shape of an L. He stuck it in Asher's forehead half-heartedly, not deeply, just enough to break the skin. Asher grimaced. I watched. Then Asher continued to talk and the knife came at his forehead again, this time making a cracking sound as it went through the skull. Asher cried out, but stayed still, like he was pinned to the tree, the only moving part of him being his facial features pulling together in pain as blood poured out. I could sense my mom running from the house and to the front yard where they were, but this wouldn't be visible to any passerby since Asher was on the side of the tree that faces the house. The second I heard the knife break the skull I knew 911 would have to be alerted. My dream, my nightmare, ended right before my mom computed what was in front of her, after the initial 3 seconds of shock but before the screaming. I don't know how I know that there was screaming. It still terrifies me, the image of Asher, his face bright red, moments away from, dare I say it, death, because don't head wounds bleed the fastest? Anyway, that morning I told some people about it but not in detail. And now it's here in detail and that was my goal.
On the phone with my mom, I asked her how my brothers were doing. She said they bicker here and there but nothing too bad has happened.
"Why?"
"I had a dream that they fought."
"Was there blood?"
"No." I didn't hesitate as I lied. This was just something she didn't need to know.
"Just hitting each other?"
"Yeah."
This year is run by emotion. Last year, it seems like the things I did made me feel something, but now, it's reversed. My emotions run my actions and constitute what I do and don't do. I don't like it, it deters from experiencing things and letting your mood come from whatever you did that day. I feel like a different humor (in the Medieval sense, you know, the whole melancholy and phlegm thing,) has taken over my body and is hell-bent on making me have a bad second year of college. That's not to say I'm not doing fun things. I'm still meeting people, I still enjoy orchestra and am thankful for the fact that I get to end my Mondays and Wednesdays with rich music-making, I still admire and photograph almost every sunset I deem photo-worthy, I still laugh more than anyone should because I'm one of the most easily amused people, but at the end of the day, I still feel an invisible film over my eyes distorting everything, putting a sad tint on even the happiest moments. I don't understand why and I can't shake it off. The more days that pass, the more feelings that control me, the more I feel that the stomach is where emotion is, rather than the heart. When I'm nervous, I feel sick. I literally feel pain in my stomach and it's harder to breathe. I feel like any sudden big movement will make me keel over. Nervousness = fragility. When I'm nostalgic or thinking fondly about someone/something, I feel a gaping vulnerability, like something has been exposed internally but no one can tell and I have to clench up my whole body to keep things from leaking out, figuratively. When I am excited or anxious, I feel like my stomach is a knot of bubbles all popping at once, I feel a sort of built up. The good kind. My heart basically has two modes, relaxed and not relaxed...the real core of feeling is found at the stomach. I know that doesn't work anatomically, but try it out. Pay attention to how your stomach feels during your most extreme moments. What is feeling more, your thoracic cavity or abdominal? What's changing?
The heart is a funny thing. I think the heart is where my ties are located. My ties to places, to people, to songs and memories. I can't comprehend how deep people can get inside you so when you try to get over them, to move on, to get closure, to do all those cliche things you read in books and see in movies, and you don't sympathize with the characters until you feel it yourself, you can't. The person, the memories you have with them, is in too deep.
List of what to do before I can go home for Thanksgiving break and do my best to come back to Santa Barbara anew and refreshed and ready:
-research French cheese and give a 5 minute presentation on it. And bring in samples of my favorites with sliced baguette for the class to make it memorable and to recreate the atmosphere of middle school French which I fondly look back on more often than I thought I would.
-take a quiz on the subjunctive tense and immigration vocabulary in French (by the way, I'd say my frenchaddict side is back and stronger than ever. It was dormant for a while. But now I feel like my username is utterly and beautifully appropriate.)
-write a 6 page paper on Chaucer and the Wife of Bath's Tale.
-memorize the first 18 lines of the General Prologue for Chaucer...somehow.
-stay on top of physiology
Is the end in sight?
Writing this was exhausting. I don't like my life without a writing class. Yet it will continue for next quarter because for literature core classes, that is, the ones that involve reading and analytic writing, not reading and creative personal writing, I am very very behind and need to take two every quarter to graduate. I'm really scared for my future in writing. I feel like ever since I got here I've been focusing on it less and less. Isn't the opposite supposed to happen?
In short: I need a break. Fifteen days. Also, I wish I cared about politics.
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| What is it about cloudy weather that gets the writing engine in me going? Something about the whiteness of the sky, the feeling of knowing that even with a sweatshirt on, I'd still be cold outside. The tip of my nose would be the coldest and possibly start running. I am staying inside all day today, my laptop is on my lap instead of on the desk and I am slumped down. From this position I can only see half of a tree and white sky surrounding it through the screen window. Like there is no street below, just sky all the way down. If I sit up I have a more real perception of Isla Vista. But still, it isn't totally real because I am so shielded from it. Something about knowing what the air would feel like on my face and hands makes me want to write. I see fireplaces, tea, Thanksgiving tablescapes, those beautiful fall colors that make me feel cozy and remind me of childhood. My family doesn't even celebrate Thanksgiving that elaborately, so why does Fall do this to me? I see steam rising from a dish I've never eaten from but that I want to try. It has a lot of rice in it. I see a woman with a manicured pair of hands taking it out of the oven. I have no idea where these images are coming from. It's as if scenes from an un-filmed movie are going through my head, yet they must exist somewhere. The mom is wearing a red apron and it's spotless, despite her having cooked a full meal for the entire afternoon. In the episode of Project Runway that I just watched, the designer's moms come to visit them. Their dialogue is so orchestrated it annoys me and I want the family part to end. They all cry when their moms walk in and as fake as it all feels, I want to hug my mom too. To be enveloped by that cozy, safe, loving nest moms provide. I wonder what would happen if my writing style wasn't so straightforward, if I knew how to include intricate words and more complicatedly structured sentences...see, even that one ended awkwardly. The thing is, I live for straightforward descriptions of things. They are graceful and their only mission is to make you feel or see what the sentence is talking about. They aren't asking for any sort of analytical discussion, they just are. That is my favorite kind of writing, I just wonder what it feels like not to produce something so straightforward and one-sided. I am not taking a writing class this quarter. However, I will write about the classes I am taking.
Human Physiology: yes, I am plunging myself back into the world of science. Cells, membranes, potassium, sodium, bi-lipids, things I haven't thought about in years. I do like science to some extent and I hope I don't regret taking this. The professor is great, the amount of information he has stored in his head and the effortless way he delivers his lectures astounds me. He has analogies set up that bring things more into focus and I don't think he's ever forgotten a single thing he's learned. I am quite the opposite. He is tall and lanky and has buzz cut white hair. On Thursdays he wears Hawaiian shirts and never the same one twice, or so he says. I think I am taking one of the last classes he's teaching, and for that I feel fortunate. He is definitely an expert at what he does and he is truly fascinated with the human body. Even though he's been teaching about it for decades, I can tell he is still amazed by what he teaches us, how cells work together to maintain our various systems. He lives on the microscopic level and it's so intricate I can barely stand it. An hour and twenty minutes twice a week on that level is enough for me. My ability for copious amounts of memorization are pretty horrible, as are my multiple choice test-taking skills so we will see how exams go. Or I can just decide right now that I haven't had a history of failing multiple choice tests, I can study and remember his analogies about a boulder at the top of the hill representing the four states of membrane potential and be a new test taker. However, I do feel like I am the only non-science major in the class. On the first day of class I was half an hour late. I'd never been to the Recreational Center before and I left at 9:08 for this 9:30 class since it is across campus. I felt like a freshman asking where it was, and finding the classroom within the Rec Cen was a whole separate ordeal. I came across deserted basketball courts, little offices, even a hockey rink. I didn't see anything that resembled a classroom. Then I asked a woman whom I knew would give me clear directions - I could just tell by her face that she'd be sincere - where room 1501 was and the second she said the word "glass doors" I knew what she was talking about. To me, that area looked like a waiting room for check ups with a gym beside it, but sure enough, to my left was a room and in the room were students. I missed Professor Schwartz introducing himself in the class and kind of stared wide-eyed at the projector, a powerpoint presentation already 10 slides in as he threw around words like mitochondria, protein, and ribosomes. Then I turned on my laptop and focused.
Word Origins: this is going to be my favorite class, I can tell. By the end of the quarter, the class will be one big 60-person family. Everyone is very engaged and are entertained by my professor's quirks. He is also old and white, but not tall and lanky. He has a pot belly and his face is very pale. He is a grandfather figure, I can see him walking to the park with perfect-faced grand kids with blue eyes on a day like this - cloudy and beautiful. I write at least one quote by him every class, even the first one. He is from New York and says Dorothy "Darthy" and forest "farrest" and he thinks this is the right way to pronounce things, "because I'm from New York and we do things right there." We learned the International Phonetic Alphabet - practically a different language and that spaghetti comes from the word "spago" which means string. One time he told us to say "cents" and then "sense" and realize that our mouth does the same thing for both words. He has a hard time hearing things and walks right up to the student, sometimes up the steps of the hall and always does more than just answer the question, he adds more to it and usually ends up telling us an anecdote. He is also an expert at what he does and I feel so lucky to be taught by professors who have honed their teaching style from how they facilitate the class to what aspect of the subject they are going to teach us and how and what assignments to give us and how to make us remember what they are saying and most importantly, how to talk to us so that we care about it. However, for linguistics, it isn't hard because the subject matter is already so stimulating. This is the class I look forward to most.
Chaucer: back to the classics. I have to take this class to fulfill my major requirements. However, it links beautifully with Word Origins because it's written in Middle English. There isn't much to say about this class except that I will probably be silent in it and only react to what others say in my head. When I have to talk, I will make it short. Or, like before, I could decide that I don't have anxiety when I am about to speak in front of my peers, I could say what I'm thinking even if it doesn't come out eloquently, even if I stumble a bit. I could change. I did do that once, actually. On my birthday. I forced myself to say what I was thinking even though I felt it wasn't relevant and it didn't have to do with what we were talking about. The professor for this class is once again, old and white and male. And very into what he is teaching. He can say with certainty and passion that he loves Chaucer, he loves deciphering Middle English - though for him it's probably second nature by now. He even recorded himself reading the General Prologue (first 855 lines of the Canterbury Tales) and uploaded them as quicktime files for us to follow along while we read. That is a teacher who cares that his students will get something out of the course, that they'll learn something, maybe even like it, instead of slaving through and counting down the minutes in class. I can feel myself opening up to what this class will be. What I like best about college is that each class is such a separate world. I go from semi-permeable membranes to the different ways people say the word "when" in one day.
French V: yes, I have reunited with my one true love. For the first day I had the biggest grin on my face. I delighted in how well I understood what the teacher was talking about and felt some sort of comradery for each one of my classmates because they were also taking this high level of French for one reason or another. I don't think anyone was there because of a requirement...though I am probably wrong, I definitely believed that we were all there for the simple love of the language "la belle langue francaise" and nothing more. Class can get dull and too by-the-book, but I still enjoy it. My unexplained obsession with the language transcends all boredom of how class is structured. I am expanding my vocabulary - in fact "sans domicile fixe" (a homeless person) is in one of my French songs and now it makes so much more sense. I can't say that all the people in the class are at the level I thought they would be. Some of them still pronounce the "ent" that is supposed to be silent when conjugating with "ils" and I groan internally. I kind of wish I was in a higher level but review is good too, and the quarter is only 10 weeks long...we are on week 3. I look forward to this class too even though it isn't too exciting, again, the fact that it's French makes it all more than okay. I need to get myself to France pronto. But going abroad requires a daunting amount of planning, you have to start a year in advance! I'm not about planning at all.
Literature Symposium and Orchestra: I group these together because they're my baby classes, 1 and 2 units respectively. Orchestra is a different experience this year without Anthony. I am first violin which is proving to be quite a challenge - hope I don't embarrass myself too much at sectionals tomorrow. Playing Barber is unreal, I almost started crying right there in my seat as we made the piece come to life (shoddily and out of tune, for sure, but just the fact that it was recognizable was more than I could handle.) Emotion is jam-packed into every note. My second violin section is seated across the room, I can barely see them. I really do look at them as "mine", not because I'm the head of it but because I feel really familial with most of the people in the section and have affection for the seconds in orchestra in general. The helpers, the ones who do string crossings that no one can hear but that just adds texture to a piece, the section where getting a melody for 4 measures is the most exciting part..needless to say, more practicing is going to be put in this quarter. I don't know if I'll continue it next year because the dynamics are so different. I guess it will depend on the program for next quarter - if Tchaikovsky's 5th symphony is in the future of the UCSB Symphony Orchestra, nothing will make me leave. And literature symposium reminds me of my major (since I'm taking no writing class this quarter) my appreciation for words strung together to make me smile, put together so perfectly that I have to write it down in my planner. A weekly one-hour long sweet, eloquent, sometimes boring and too long reminder of why I'm here.
I'm going to stop talking now. The pictures are of my surroundings here in this beautiful place. You'll notice I emphasize sunsets.
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| I'm kind of scared to open my violin case. How out of tune will the strings be? Will it feel cold or room-temperature to the touch? It's been two months, at least, that I have not seen my violin. It's like I'm forgetting about its existence, neglecting it and letting it rot in my old room. If I opened it, what would I do? I don't have a set list of things to play, I don't know how to practice, I think the window of opportunity to improve on the instrument passed a long time ago. I am good with piano being my main instrument, really. But then a different part of me thinks, How mean can you be? A lot of the time I pretend my most prized possessions feel things like human beings do. When I think I've lost my iPod forever and then I find it under my pillow or in my bag or on the piano, I kiss it out of relief. When I hit my camera against a door window or chair or whatever I happen to clumsily bump in to, I say sorry to the camera. That being said, my poor violin is probably feeling like a malnourished cat in a dumpster. That might be harsh, but it's getting there.
I have discovered that whenever I want to do something, I start to think about doing it, and then I immediately start occupying myself with Facebook or another computer-related "task" that isn't a task at all, it's just preventing me from doing something productive.
Example: I should really clean my room...oh wait let's check Twitter. I should bring all the water bottles downstairs since I have 3 under my bed...but maybe I got another notification on my pictures on Facebook. I guess I am forever plagued by the computer - I complain about it, but I wouldn't have it any other way.
If each of my main interests in life were a line, it'd look something like this: Writing - climbing steadily in middle school as I realize that reading and writing are inevitably connected and I start Xanga. In high school, it spikes, reaching its peak in junior year of high school. It stays relatively high for a year or two, when college comes it's fighting to stay up but struggles. Now, the summer of my first year of college, it is dropping dangerously low and staying flat, completely inactive. Often, I think one or two sentences in my head that could develop into an entry, but I don't jump on it. That's what I'm doing right now, harnessing the thought as it makes its rapid one-time appearance. Photography - where to start. I took my first picture that I was proud of in sophomore year of high school. It has been rising ever since. It is off the charts, so above everything else that I can't keep it in control. It dictates how I experience everything - from the sunlight coming through a window to the pattern of my rumpled bedsheets to a street in San Francisco to a view to an interesting-looking person. With making a DeviantART account, my inspiration and passion only grew and now I don't feel complete without my NikonD40. When I see something, my camera is already in mind. I never see anything for what it is anymore. I think this is a problem, but I don't know how to get out of it. Reading - this line has been pretty high for all my life, ever since I read Junie B. Jones in kindergarten and upgraded to The Littles series in first grade. However, this summer, I took a break from reading. I still surrounded myself with them, borrowing many from the library, but they stayed closed. Thanks to public transportation which I took two days in a row for over an hour, the computer wasn't there to distract me so I finally read a chunk of "Slaughterhouse-Five" and now I am almost done. What a remarkable, sensitively-written, unique book. I am savoring the last few pages because I don't want to leave Billy Pilgrim. I want to hear more.
Stuff that needs to get done, both immediately, by the end of the summer and in between.: some letters, cleaning room before leaving, read a book by Hemingway, make a photo portfolio, showering, preparing, galvanizing.
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| People say I hide behind my camera. They say in an almost accusatory, somewhat annoyed tone that I don't really live things, I just document them. But with my camera, I feel like I become a more interesting person. Tonight I'm going to Israel. (Well first to New York, and then boarding a plane from there to Tel Aviv.) I don't know what to expect...usually I have a budding excitement in my core at the thought of once again being in this historically significant strong country that part of me is tied to, but right now I feel a sense of dread that makes me rub my eyes in all that is to come. This is the first time I'm going to Israel without my mom. After the ten-day birthright trip with 40 other people from Santa Barbara, I'm going to spend time with my extended family - alone. My mom won't be there to talk to them, it'll be me myself and I. The attention will be overwhelming. I won't get to play the role of the observer, I won't get to think thoughts alone in my head. I'll have to actively participate without the comfort of my sister beside me. This is where the camera comes in again. I will use it to make conversation, to bond with them over something because two people can respond to and talk about a photograph even if they are two strangers. Not to say that I feel like I'm strangers with my family in Israel, but there is certain tension, probably only from myself. A camera just adds another dimension to a conversation or outing that I value and am inordinately grateful for. My camera will act like my buddy, helping me out and not letting me panic about how there is nothing to talk about. Am I being dramatic and worrying too much and really making a big deal out of nothing? Yes. Maybe things won't be as bad as I'm speculating, maybe Hebrew will return to me faster than I think it will, maybe my throat won't get so dry from not knowing what to say...whatever the case, my camera will only enhance it, not take away from it.
Similar to what I did in 2008 during the Euro cup, I've been watching almost every soccer game of the FIFA World Cup this week. I latch on to a few (attractive) talented players and once again I am cheering for Spain, but, as the case was two years ago, without much reason. I am a pretty superficial soccer fan but that doesn't take away from how tense I got when Ghana was dangerously close to the US goal and the game was tied at 1-1 in 30 minute overtime. I still felt doomed when Ghana in fact did score in overtime and I let joy overtake me when Donovan scored the penalty kick earlier. It just shows how you don't have to know much about something to get completely invested into it, especially with my notoriously obsessive personality. Good luck on Tuesday against Portugal, Spain!
UCSB seems like a distant memory at this point. For the first week and a half or so I longed to knock on my friend Jamie's door down the hall to go to dinner, I missed the salty sea air, I missed CCS and Santa Barbara sunsets and waking up to the sound of skateboard wheels rolling on the smooth cement or bike spokes turning and the excitement of Friday nights and I even missed the smelly lagoon. But writing this list just now was difficult because I'm not missing things anymore. I had to put myself back in that mindset because now I feel like it almost never happened. Or like it was a camp, a few weeks long, and I won't return. The beginning of sophomore year should be interesting.
 I'm leaving for the airport in less than 10 hours and I'm not even halfway packed. A quote to end this: "I set a comparatively slow gait for us, in deference to the length of his legs. At the end of ta block or so, we were quite a good distance behind the others. I don't think it troubled either of us. Occasionally, I remember, as we walked along, my friend and I looked up and down, respectively, at each other and exchanged idiotic expressions of pleasure at sharing one another's company." (pg 58) -J.D. Salinger in Raise High the Roof Beam, Carpenters
How comforting to read about something you thought only you did, and then read it in such pleasant and eloquent terms. It is when I read passages like this that I am astounded, dumbfounded at how much books have given me.
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