short and sweet (unlike obama's 43-minute speech)

Hey everyone,

You see the Democratic convention last night? What a great speaker! I don't think the guy who wrote the NY Times article I read was as enthused about it as I was.

And I didn't read the article about it yet, but did you hear McCain picked a woman for VP on his ballot? Wannabe much?

finally I can nap

I have finished The Chosen!
I have run three miles in 30 minutes without stopping!
I have had a fully efficient and effective day, which, believe it or not, has only been going on for five hours so far!

Also, I have used up my daily reserve of exclamation points. Phew.

the unexpected

You never know when someone's going to do the unexpected.

It's interesting.

the houses may be prefab, the mindset may be postfab, but I'm fab for all eternity

I am kidding.

I know it means prefabricated. God.

Develop an appreciation for humor, wouldja?

Well, I went to MoMA on Thursday--for those of you like my friend who came with me and had never been to MoMA, that's the Museum of Modern Art in NYC--and saw a couple of awesome things there. I've been dying for some intellectual activity ever since I got back from New England, and I was only too thrilled to go. All I did for a month was walk and bike and hike--and of course, forget the book I was supposed to read for summer homework. The only museum-resembling place I got to go was the Loon Center, meant a hike, which was only supposed to take us about 45 minutes but ended up taking three hours when we got lost.

So anyway, see the first picture? That's something I took on my phone of the description of one of the housing units, System3. The structure, my least favorite, captured my mother's eye because of the text here highlighted: the units may be STACKED. Stacked! How thrilling! I've always wanted to have the freedom to stack my living space.

My favorite was Burst*008, the one created with a computer formula, but I didn't get a picture of it, and I don't believe in finding pictures on the Internet from things at which I was physically present. (Of course, if I could only be there in spirit, bring on the Google images.) Instead, I provide ici a photo of the Micro Compact Home, 76 square feet of living space. I thought the irony of me liking that one was harmonious with the irony in my life: similar to the way I prefer the tiny house, my favorite friends and guys tend to be short. Even my sister, my life consultant, is short for her age.

Sorry. I know it can get dangerous when I talk about irony.

Well, I'm going to go figure out how to scan drawings onto my laptop, because it's making me sad that the latest ones on here are from January. Don't worry, the reasons for that are not because I've stopped drawing, they are that

a) MY BAT MITZVAH, HELLO, NEED I SAY MORE?

b) midterms/final tests/projects/4th quarter report cards flung me into a time-sucking pit of stress

c) suddenly I decided I wanted to join the track team

and

d) after that whole crapload of work, I was off and running on a long summer of travel.

But I'm back now.

But now I'm going to the scanner.

So bye.

how does it feel to be a problem?

Yeah, I'm asking you! The pressure is on!

No, but actually, that's the title of this book I heard about yesterday on my way home on WNYC. The full title is How Does It Feel to be a Problem?: Being Young and Arab in America, and it sounds great. They interviewed the author and one of the subjects--I don't remember her name, but her story is that she won for high school president at 15 against all odds and then was forced to resign because her religious beliefs wouldn't allow her to attend the dances, and she was supposed to be present at every school event.

This guy supposedly just asked around his Brooklyn neighborhood in the Arab community, and, by word of mouth, it turned into enough stories to write his book.

So... here's the WireTap article. If for some reason you do read it, not that anyone who reads this blog would want to, but if you do, please tell me how it is--I still have to finish my summer reading. That's me, the bad student.

I love my dad

There are two wonderful things my father did for me today.

1. He drove me home, at longest last, from New England back home. It was an eight-hour drive, but I'm thrilled beyond all possible expression to be here.

2. He presented me, God bless him, with a copy of the 2009 Poet's Market!!!! Over 1600 listing for presses, magazines, journals, contests and more! WHERE AND HOW TO GET YOUR POETRY PUBLISHED! Oh, I am so happy.

i love not camping

Well, I'm pretty much done with the country. Between the water bugs, ants, crickets, and spiders all keeping us company at the breakfast table, I think I've had enough.

"Fill in the U.S. for both the fattest and the most coked up nation on Earth."

That's a quote from this article, Highest Traces of Cocaine Found on US Bills.

Ironically, I am feeling too creative to post right now, so check out the list of poetry and prose websites on the right. Sorry and ciao.

very very little italy

It's like my dad said--once you've lived in New York, you can never appreciate anything. And I hate to admit it, but it's so true. I went to Boston today, and we went to the Museum of Science all day. We saw the computing exhibit (which, of course, my dad found greatly interesting), a little of the heart-stopping electricity show, the childish 3D bugs-going-to-the-moon movie, the planetarium presentation, and the Imax sea monster movie. Wanna hear something bizarre? We also breezed through the baseball exhibit. How much more out-of-place could that possibly be? Are they seriously in that much of an idea rut?

Then for dinner, we went to The Pour House, a bar and grill with a cool casual atmosphere--paper towels on a holder adhered to the wall instead of napkins--and good food, but absolutely horrific musical choices on the radio. It hurt to listen. Plus it seemed like if we'd gone there anytime later than we did--around five--it would have been packed with partying yuppies. However, my taco salad was delectable.

Then for dessert, we headed to Mike's Pastry in "Little Italy," which made me sad about not being in New York. It was cute in a way because of what I described to my dad as its "non-Little-Italy-ness," but mostly just funny. The Italians there seemed to be trying really hard to be Italian, whereas in the NYC part of town with the same name, Italian people are just existing, being and speaking Italian. I got a great apple square--sounds stupid, but it was quite tasty--which I vowed to save for breakfast tomorrow morning but liked so much that I ended up gobbling it all. Mmm.

Related Links (click away, please!):
Boston Museum of Science
The Pour House
Mike's Pastry
Paul Revere House

We wanted to get a quick look at Paul Revere's house, but it was sadly closed. Did you know it's the only 17th-century building remaining in Boston?-->

women with babies

Right now I am reading The Cider House Rules, which I love. It's John Irving--I love him--and it is about obstetricians, or birthing doctors. There is a lot of medical stuff in it, which I don't love but don't mind either.

Anyway, the reason I'm writing this is because--if you haven't noticed already, most of my posts are spurred by sudden anger or other emotion--I am mad. There is a women a computer computers down with a very loud crying baby. Why would you bring a newborn to the library? Just have some consideration for other people, please.

poignancy

So we're in the post office, sending my little sister at camp four packages, and my brother finishes his root beer, the purchase and consumption of which my mother strongly discouraged. She's kept talking about the 14 teaspoons of sugar in one soda and how models' number-one way to stay skinny is to abstain from drinking soda, as if my 8-year-old brother would care. Anyway, though, he finishes the root beer, and he's looking for somewhere to recycle it (he's an eco-friendly kid). He spots a blue plastic receptacle labeled "Recycling" by the table and heads over to pitch his soda can. Unfortunately, it is only for paper products, which my mom begins to say, when a woman standing by the table stamping her letters says, "It's for recycling, not trash."

Trash. Even my little brother knows that can wasn't trash. It's a recyclable material. But not to the people of this state. Oh, no.

Five seconds later, we're walking through town, and we pass the souvenir shop. Beneath the blue awning of the store lies a small platform with a dog bowl of water. However, people have been using it as a trash receptacle, and it's full to the brim with garbage.

My mother and I are simultaneously struck by the same thought: Oh my God. Does it get any more sad and poignant than this?

You know, in this state, you have to pay for recycling? That's right, you have to drive a while to the recycling plant and pay to recycle. I can't wait to get home.

All right, I'm done with my italics. Comment on the poem, please.

Quick news update--I felt somewhat obliged

16 people were killed in China and now they're all freaked out about the Olympics

Did you know that it starts on 8/8/08 because 8 is the lucky number of the Chinese? I learned that when I was in Hong Kong 2 months ago. Then at camp everyone was saying the Olympics had already started, and I was like, No way man, you got your facts wrong!

Poem for my stranger (composed on a BlackBerry)

I hope if you could see me now,
You'd still think I was cool.
Hair piled high in a messy bun
(--I know you like it
The other way--)
no
earrings
today.
A sweatshirt drags below and drowns
My hands,
Jeans muddy and wet
From the dog
Whom I hate.
Toes gritty from wearing flip-flops
Oh-so-brilliantly
(You
Would probably poke fun at me)
On that two-hour hike through
The New England woods.
Eyes puffy and miserable
From waking sleepless at four.
Head throbbing
From crying my eyes out just before bed
and not having the energy to get up
and take out my lenses
and brush the pie I'd eaten in an attempt to cheer
myself up
off my teeth.
For reasons indiscernible even to me,
I am reading
Seventeen magazine
For the fifth listless time in a row.

I guess I hope you remember me
For what you saw me as:
Clean, pretty, cheery, witty,
Showering at six in the morning
And going to bed at eleven
Or one
Or two.
I guess I hope you liked how
Spiffy
I was.

On the other hand
(--men
de--)
On the other hand I hope that
Wasn't what you liked.
On the other hand I hope you remember
The sarcasm and snappiness,
The flippant lack of care for the rules,
How a notebook cover
Could not just be a notebook cover,
But had to be a canvas.
How I tried to read
The Cider House Rules
But ended up with my forehead nestled between
the pages,
Too relaxed to do anything
But lie there
And listen intently
To whatever happened to be playing
On my iPod.
How,
When uninterested,
I would take whatever hapless piece of paper happened
to be lying there--
Drawing book, notebook, handout on which it was
vitally important
Not to draw--
And draw on it.

I hope you remember
That intense, foggy look I would get
When misunderstood
And how much more intense it would get
When communicated
Wordlessly
To you.
Through your eyes.

Stranger,
My stranger,
It isn't that I could forget those eyes
But that I could forget you.
Meaning falls from a page,
Leaks through a picture,
Slips away from clothes,
Seeps out of art.
The eyes
I have.
I know.
You cannot see a stranger
And forget his eyes.
Have you ever tried?
You can't.
But my stranger,
My stranger's eyes will not only be not forgotten,
But forever ingrained
Behind mine.

Bailey, you suck.

Bailey is my dog. A cockapoo, to be exact, is what she is, a five-month-old cockapoo. She makes me insane. Try six hours of the morning alone in a tiny cabin in the middle of the woods with no electronics, a five-month-old cockapoo, several different insect infestations, and an eight-year-old boy, and you will see what I mean.

Or try three and a half hours in the car driving to the animal hospital after said cockapoo has consumed a plate of 70% cacao truffles and is spazzing and panting and jumping up and down on your knees, giving you scratches and scars that look like you've been cutting yourself, and you will probably get the same drift.

Or better yet, try eating the first real food you've had all day while watching this very same dratted cockapoo vomit intensely for a very long time, and the same state of mind will most likely begin to grow on you.

Lucky me, I got to do all three yesterday when the fifth of a series of six guests to visit my family this summer left a gift arrangement of truffles on a low-lying table after--and this is the killer--already having seen Bailey jump onto that table. She, of course, had to promptly fly into disaster mode and interrupt my mom's class, yelling about "an emergency with the dog," which made my mom think Bailey had run away or been hit.

So we ventured off to the animal hospital--of course it had to be a Saturday, when the vet was closed--and the guest ventured off to the airport. Yes, she left. She stayed for one night, poisoned our dog, and left. Quite a pleasant woman.

Basically, I had such a wonderful day yesterday that I don't even have the energy left to tell you about it, especially because I'm working on some typing for my mom that she's paying me 20 bucks for, and I need the money.

Uh-oh, ominous wind. Sounds like another tornado, almost. Bye.