Today was my only day off; after school I work on Monday, Friday and Saturday, Tuesdays and Thursdays are spent with the boyfriend, as are most of Sundays. Wednesday, however, is mine to spend as I see fit after I finish school at 5.

A frenzy of school work and bills has caught me in its rushing grasp, delighting me with the thrill of true progress and burdening me with hours of school and work that takes 6 days of my week. This one day, as redundant as the epitaph is, is my escape. I am free to watch TV, eat a bag of popcorn, or work out if I so desire, all in an attempt to forget the deadlines and be lazy for an evening. My routine, however, has robbed me of that leisure. Only a month of school has gone by and already I get anxious when I’m not hurried. A nervously psychotic smile explodes onto my lips and fades the second I think of how to best utilize the free time. I want to do everything I’ve forsaken in sight of work and end up bogging myself down in a flurry of 5 lazy activities I foolishly endeavor to do at the same time. It honestly took me 2 episodes to figure out that exercising, watching sex and the city, eating fruit snacks all while trying to stuff my face with popcorn is simply not a good idea.

My bedtime has come and a wave of nausea settles throbbingly on top of the usual exhaustion. My head aches from the sugar of the 4 packs of fruit snacks, and all I can think about is the studying I could have done.

I suck at this game.

We have met the enemy and he is us: I am positively fascinated with symbolic philosophy. e= object of observation. t= logically inconsistent but empirically equivalent ideas. To explain all I have struggled to articulate about relativity in 3 variables is nothing short of brilliance. Oh, sweet stimulation, how I embrace thee!

Dearest reader: forgive my absence. On the 22nd of August I started school, and I have toiled laboriously ever since. My classes are splendid, I am soaring through every one of them, and I have found a certain delight in life that's been missing for a while.

I will write, though not as frequently as I once did, and my posts will be mostly academic dialogues required for classes. There is merit in everything, I have come to see, thus I will post all that I can.

Till then, my darlings, let us remember to live well. Life quivers with beauty; do not forsake that which longs to tempt you.

Scarlet Johansson is adorable. The extraordinary talent she displayed in 'Love Song for Bobby Long' has secured her as a keeper, really it has. So why am I so disappointed to read the dialogue in this interview? Why does she come across as completely disjointed and, well, 9 years old? It makes you think of the reporter as an exceptionally obsequious special-ed teacher.

"Where do you call home, Scarlett?"

"I bought a house in L.A., but I got lonely and sold it and moved into the Chateau Marmont. Then I got a fish, because I was lonely there. He was a Japanese fighting fish named Cassius. I cleaned his water every three days, but somebody took care of him for a week and they let his water get dirty. He got a skin disease and died. I was mortified. I dug a giant hole in the garden at the Chateau Marmont and buried him. I know it was just a fish, but somehow he became a good friend of mine."

"Very Good, Scarlett. Now why don't you tell me about your new puppy, Maggie?

"She's this little bitty thing. The first three days, she didn't make a sound. Then the fourth day, she started barking incessantly. It was irritating, so I taught her not to bark. You spray them in the butt with a water bottle. It doesn't hurt."

"That's wonderful, sweetie. Please stop eating your glue."

Today I received a post that was written in the casual yet ornate script I recognized immediately to be my mother's. Inside was a birthday card and white tissue paper that held my present. I had asked my mother for a cash gift, simply because I'm 18 and in need of a new cell phone. When she reluctantly agreed to consider it, I thought she was being somewhat selfish in wanting to buy me a dress or some such gift. As I unfolded the tissue and saw the glistening of an exquisite necklace tumbling from the wrapping, I felt greedy and pathetic. Money is easy; my mother wanted to give all that she could by ransacking salt lake for the perfect gift before delivering. I left a thank you on her voicemail, and felt proper and polite, but softly distant. I miss her.

"I bought you the most elegant necklace I could find for your 18th birthday. What an important day for you. Just as you have far's wedding ring and the golden heart pendent from mor- both priceless heirlooms- this necklace can become an heirloom for your posterity that is handed down again and again. It's so you and it's the one way you can always be remembered. But...until then, wear it when you want to be especially beautiful. I love you and miss you terribly. -Mom"

My eyes stung as I thought of my previous selfishness, of my eternally animate pessimism, of my ingratitude. Half of the cutting beauty of growth lies in the flippancy from which we grow.

Mom, you are a phone call away, but it's late and I don't mean to wake you. Hopefully my need to tell you this will not dwindle with the passing time. Be happy, darling. You are so dear to me. All hallmark cards aside, friction and tribulation is what makes us appreciate what we have. I have my issues that I've allowed to push me to thanklessness, but please excuse the crimes of a child; I know, and will never deny, that you are a fantastic mother.

I saw Batman Begins. I hesitate to critique, but simply because the painful recognition of Batman and Robin springs to mind. I still can't talk about that catastrophe; it insulted my very being and left scars carved deep into my fanatical batman-loving skin, and I'm simply not ready to talk about it. Batman Begins was, well, better, but I still had plenty to complain about.

I am an avid devotee of the crusader and the massive amounts of money he utilizes as opposed to crazy super powers. This is mainly because of the brilliant, beautiful, breathtaking perfection of Batman TAS - never before has an animated series done such justice to the original idea; the dark, deco animation and eloquent screenplay converted me into an active aficionada- reminds me of what can be done. It glorifies its hero, but doesn't stop short of pointing out the fact that the dude's a wack (for example: batman's penchant for dealing with the death of his parents by fighting strangers and donning spandex). The villains are ostensibly metaphoric yet superbly developed, conveying the gamut of human obsession and vice, equipped with stylish dress and moderately bad puns.

Imagine my dismay when a multi-million dollar movie with Michael Cane, Morgan Freeman, Gary Oldman and Liam Neeson fell short of doing half as fantastic a job as the crew of TAS. Come now! The batmobile was a hummer? Does that not fight the very existence of batman? Katie Holmes, a romantic interest? Ra's Al Ghul the principal villain?

Poppycock! The movie put me right to sleep.

Just in: My 'profile views' have just topped 1000. That means that a year and a half of piddling about on the intrarweb have resulted in 1000 people stumbling upon my rants, reading a couple words, and promptly returning to cosmopolitan.com to see what Jen is really feeling about Angelina's progeny and his crazy hair cut.

W00T.

I awoke this afternoon with tears in my eyes. They glistened with the sheen of broken defeat and slid down my face and onto my pillow, drenching the cloth and cementing my torment in physical condition. The light did not welcome me; I had retired the night before pleading that the sun would never rise.

Is this the experience I've begged for? In my foolish conquest for adventure did I silently bargain to cripple myself? Will I rise, will I find courage, will I inch forward towards whatever it is I want to be yet can't fathom becoming? I've glorified deceit, cunning and duplicity because I fear that I can accomplish nothing more. Where will I find the strength to change when I've outgrown the witless antics of the insecure? My pretension has distorted who I am; I haven't the courage to discover what that is because I'm too afraid nothing is there. Surely there's a hidden compartment from which I can draw support. Surely behind these masks and lies stands a woman worth cherishing.

May I do justice to the affection that has been showered upon this undeserving little girl. I stood thirsting, starving for acceptance under a cascade of devotion and tenderness, but instead of scurrying to collect every sacred drop I allowed it to run off me and I rendered it useless. How thankful I am for the pain my tears sear into my being; may they stand a reminder of the unconditional love I've taken advantage of.

I am weak. I have no option but to beg for mercy that extends above justice.

Movies to see:

-Mysterious Skin
-Batman Begins
-Charlie & ChocFac
-Havoc
-Brick

I hasten to bury a scoff in apology and agreement. How foreign this all seemed to me; foreign and meaningless, dancing between a border of reflex and imbecility. My hands rush forth with biting words that are dressed to the nines in the finest indifference I can muster. You are smug, you are confidant in the passion you spread about thickly like jam on toast. Scorn rises to my mind but is quickly pressed back inside by the most peculiar longing. How I miss that blind passion, how secure I felt when I could wrap my belief around me and find stable warmth. I've accepted what I don't know in an act of honesty. I miss it, though, I miss knowing, undeniably knowing....I can't mock you, even if I tried. You're happy blazing ahead in flames of pretension and self righteousness, of secure arrogance. You so confidently chase your words of allegiance with tones that are subtler, but still alight with the same bright flagrancy. How doubtless you are, how so very knowing. There are a million insults and debates I want to toss at you, something to tear you down from your elaborate soapbox.

But there's no point. I'm so hurt, I'm so wounded from leaving a path and starting anew. I have no answers but you have volumes of certainty. I have a closely-studied and complex void, whereas you face me with a monstrous, prefabricated edifice that you've cut-and-pasted into my life. Your faith made me worthless

I am of the opinion that all kitchen appliances should ding; microwaves. toasters, coffee makers, they'd be so much better if they completed their valuable services with a friendly ding.

My grandparents have a microwave that probably dates back to 1971 and is, I'm almost sure, the envy of the entire staff of the Hamilton Beach Antiques Museum. It does quite well, however, and when the desired time is up a ding rings through the kitchen, alerting you to its completion. I couldn't be more fond of this.

This microwave goes above and beyond the call of duty. It has endeared itself to me with the quaintest of sounds. I've decided to name it Franklyn. This would seem odd, but upon remembering our old refrigerator- the poor thing needed to be defrosted like mad, but we enjoyed its birdlike whirs so much that we ignored it's misgivings and referred to it as 'birdie', responding to the sputters and hums with friendly chatter- everything seems to fit into place. I think I'll refrain from talking to the microwave, however, but only to spare the nerves of my grandparents.

I'm sure that a toaster complete with a dinging sound would be easy to find. I'm not too sure about a dishwasher, however, and I don't dare reckon the chances of a phone charger complete with affable ding.

Update:

I have a piece of bread lodged in my gums in the very back of my mouth. Normally I wouldn't be so crass as to, well, post about it, but I'm making an exception to my decency rule. Mainly because it's been plaguing me for a week and a half.

Understand, dear reader, that it's not really bread. I suppose I would more concisely express myself if I were to say that it's a piece of a chip. Flatbrød is traditional Norwegian fare, and it's basically a wheat chip the size of a piece of paper. A slice of bread paper. I don't know, eloquence fails me. Like this but much more menacing

I was not opposed to the idea of bread paper. I found it delicious and oh so fun to play with. That was until I discovered that it is, in all intents and purposes, whole grain shrapnel. I wish I was joking. This sliver of, well, a sliver of a slice of a sheet of bread, is lost to the deepest crevasse of my mouth. I have never been more vexed in my life.

Wouldn't it be something if I were to die at the hands of something I couldn't even describe? How horrid! Just think; no bitingly witty elegies, no eulogies rife with carb puns. Nothing. How is one supposed to draft a satiric will about a sliver of a slice of a sheet of bread?

And this one. It just died! Poof, it's gone!


**note: please see previous post.

I hate sites like this. Hate them, hate them, hate them. They're witty, smart, the layout is beautiful, and they haven't been updated in a year. Argh.


**note: this post was written while I was suffering from the delusion that the current year is 2006. Please interpret accordingly.

The day I left Oslo we went to Vigeland's Park. I was eager to go, of course, though somewhat bitter at such a blatant display of my tourist-ism (my aunt tried for 15 minutes to get me to go stand by a guard at the palace for a picture, but I do have my dignity, after all). We had a short time in Oslo that day, and I had allotted a strict and relatively short time period for the park. I regretted this the moment I arrived.

There is no purer form of art than to capture the emotion, the beauty, and the pain of every single feeling that might ripple through our existence in 192 granite and bronze sculptures. The architectural design of the land and the pathways were breathtaking, but I was withered to tears as I gazed at some of the statues before me.



A man clutching a woman in a steeping gaze, an elderly woman cradling a man, women with their children, men with men, relationships and friendships drawn up in simple lines upon the cold stone. The day was gray; rain fell down on me, I was touched and inspired. How better to express the complexity of our natures than with brutal, perfected simplicity?

Gustav Vigeland, the sculptor of all artwork in the park and designer of the grounds, displays such understanding of the human enigma. One of my favorite pieces, with man and woman touching foreheads together, made me cry. I stood there, thankful for my huge aviator sunglasses, staring at the sight, tears streaming down my face. Children run up and down the steps, laughing as the mount the sculptures, sitting in the laps of the stone men, cheerfully patting their heads and chuckling together; there are no guards to prevent you from touching the statues, it is permitted. I enjoyed this; one of the most beautiful parts of the experience was witnessing the interaction that was encouraged.

The metaphors implied are insightful, from "The Wheel of Life" to "The Monolith", to the fountain, interaction is encouraged past the visit to the park; Vigeland clearly hoped to leave a lasting impression on all those who happened upon his artwork.

And that, my dear reader, is exactly what he did.

"I was a sculptor before I was born. I was driven and lashed onward by powerful forces outside myself. There was no other path, and no matter how hard I might have tried to find one, I would have been forced back again."





Read more here

Think of this world, breathing possibility and innumerable chance, waiting for you to change the face of your humanity, waiting for you to pick up your capacity and carve something beautiful. Think of the chances of emotion and adventure and achievement, think of the thrills that lie just beyond the initiative. Look at the great conquests of your kind, why would one shun the beauty that we have strived to create, to articulate, to captivate, and to hold, even if for the shortest of moments? These moments will come and flee in a heartbeat, and leave you with heartbreak and one slurred, concise reverie that will hopefully fuel adventures to come. Do not let the absence of your momentary exaltation burden you; you were meant to rise again, you were built to persevere, you were created to live! Breath the air around you, and do not settle for anything other than immortality. Emblazon yourself on your past, present, and the future that is yours to mold. The only sin in this world is mediocrity, and the only entity you insult with such is yourself. Wake up and make a masterpiece, do not let excuses rob you of your happiness. Do not deny the progression you were created to engender.


(Listening to "One I love" by coldplay)

There are times when I hear a song and it inspires a whole paragraph of just thought, thought that connects to nothing in particular but is an expression of mine. I suppose it only makes sense to add the title/artist of said song with the post. I shall endeavor to do that.

Naturally, if you have said song, or are sexy, unscrupulous, and totally down with stealing in (limewire forever, yo), put it on while reading. Seeing as the post was constructed to complement it, things might make more sense.

That is all.

Due to the fact that their songs cascade upon me 50 times too many on a daily basis, I've never paid attention to the band. But coldplay is wonderful. PS: I go home in 5 days!!

I hadn't heard what Tone had said. This must have been clear, because she repeated herself.

"What?"

"I can't dress like this for a former model!" Her words finally worked their way through her accent. Tone's english was perfect, I simply hadn't understood her. She hurried off to go dress before explaining and I, lounging on the couch while gazing lazily at the tv, decided to stay where I was. Maybe that would mean something to me later on in the evening, maybe not. I doubted the relevance, to be honest.

The life span of my television watching abruptly came to expiration, as do most things that require my attention, and I drifted about the house in search of something to do. I went out to my Aunt's beautiful back yard, complete with manicured hedges and a view of the fjord, and jumped on the trampoline for a bit. Thia, my darling cousin, came out to join me and we instead began a fierce badminton competition.

We whittled away the hours until my cousins disappeared and I was once again at my leisure on the couch. A conversation in the hallway found it's way to my spot on the couch:

"Emilie, stop eating all those sweets, we eat in 10 minutes."

"But we're having company, and it always takes forever to get to the food when company is over."

"Emilie!"

The conversation continued but was busy working its way to the other side of the house, away from my unconcerned ears. I caught the words 'work', 'client', "Persia". I sat up as the sound of a light bulb turning on resounded through my mind.

Dearest reader, you must understand: I am vain. I don't try to deny this, and I certainly don't apologize for my overt acknowledgment of such, but you should know that it's rather extreme. The only thing I hate more than Yanni is a woman who is better dressed, better connected, or better looking than I. I take all possible measures to avoid said encounters. Hence my speed as I rushed to the bathroom to make myself beautiful.

I went for the painstakingly natural beauty look. Foundation, light powder, no eye makeup except for the liquid eyeliner I applied to the backsides of my lashes to conceal the use of powder, a soft gloss on the lips. I let my hair down, threw on some casual clothing, and went upstairs.

My first reaction was annoyance with myself. I knew she would be older, but why was I competing with a 40 year old Persian American? I'm with family a million miles away from anybody I really need to impress. I need to get over myself.

Natalie was incredibly polite, and smiled widely while introducing herself. I did likewise, while happily glancing down at her expensive but regardlessly horrible jeans, the trendy magenta sash she had thread through belt loops, the plummeting neckline of her shirt and the birkenstocks. Her skin was incomparably flawless, but her only particularly striking feature was the darkness of her black hair. Though cordial and somewhat affable, her haughtiness shone through her like a flame behind fine silk that felt no need whatsoever to hide. A select few have said the same about me, and I deny this blatantly apocryphal tidbit with the same vigor Bush has shown in liberating Iraq. Rubbish.

Emilie was correct in the annoyance she had displayed earlier; the group fiddled about with introductions and small talk before sitting down to eat 25 minutes later. Little did I know I would find intrigue along with food when dinner finally came around. Natalie was positively fascinating, a big city socialite through and through. The fact that she had been a drama major came as no surprise, and her incredibly intelligent way of speaking robbed her degree from Oxford of any surprise it would normally harbor as well. I was impressed to hear of her scholarship from NYU and Oxford, though merely annoyed with her name dropping and the casual comments about the ease in which she found herself into Wolfgang Puck. She had been traveling the world since she was 17, going to school, doing documentaries, writing. All in all, she was fascinating.

I sat a little taller at that meal. When an American visits a foreign country, one of two things normally happens: either the traveler is true to form, bustling about in the haughty, proud way of American civilization, turning noses at inconveniences and the lost benefits that sit solely in the states, or either plays it low, almost embarrassed of his or her homeland, marveling at the country and the beautiful simplicity of the single bathroom. I act in the latter way. Natalie, it was clear, was quite fond of the former type of behavior.

" I swear to God, it's as if manicures are against the national religion here. In Hollywood you can get one for $7 while waiting at the stop light. New York is more expensive, naturally, but a remarkable salon is always near by if you're willing to fund such pampering...

....I miss wearing heels. In Rome, and Venice, London, Paris, everywhere else in Europe a pair of stunning Manolos are mandatory, but here they're impractical...

...Why Eric, this fish is positively amazing. It reminds me of my favorite dish from the Essex House...."

Her ostentation revolted me at times, yet surprisingly enough everyone else at the table raised eyebrows and nodded appreciatively. They had better things to worry about then Masa in New York; they were sensible people and would have found such silly places to be pathetic. I wondered, then, why she bothered to drop the names of the most exclusive restaurants and clubs in LA in New York to a table full of unconcerned Norwegians.

She was well traveled, and in many ways just what I want to be. Already, I thought, at 17 I've acquired the tact she is in such desperate need of. I glance down once again at the shirt stretched across her chest and noted I also have taste. She started to talk about her jewelry line and burst out in exclaim at her newest idea (Sandals with a 4 inch transparent heel in the shape of an icicle that light up when you walk). I laughed at my sudden desire to choke on my salmon.

Natalie left after hugging everyone, calling them by name, offering insightful comments that reflected on what they said during the meal. I was thoroughly impressed with her courtesy that extended beyond propriety, that almost made you feel like she cared. I was impressed with the fact that not once did she use the word "fabulous", but rather found adjectives that were actually relevant and original. I was impressed with the way she positively refused to cut anyone out of the conversation, and, when such action did occur, the way she promptly leapt back with a "what were you saying? The tribal civilization interested you because...."

Those around me were impressed with the posh way she mused about wine, even though she was far from the connoisseur. They were impressed with the fact that she owned her own jewelry line, though it sounded tacky and badly designed. They were impressed with her condescension, though she would do well to forsake it. They were impressed with her self proclaimed obsession with clothing, though she dressed horribly.

Her company adored her. They marveled at the work she had done, which I'll admit, was impressive, but also smiled when she dallied on about the 'vast cultural wasteland' that was the space between LA and New York. I could see it in the faces of those who listened to her haughty laugh and watched her gold jewelry flicker in the candlelight: they admired her. True, she found ways to amaze, but mostly, the admiration was for her distinctly American personality. Their eyes glimpsed down when they heard mention of the manicures they never felt need for and thought of their different, simple country.

I was perplexed; a month and a half I had spent applauding their lifestyle, marveling at the wonderful food and the slow pace, all while leaving the bustling culture of the states behind in muffled apology. Why is it that this woman, as well read and captivating she momentarily allowed herself to be, has made such a wasteful lifestyle en vogue for me once again?

To be honest, it felt wonderful. It felt great to be a Yankee, to proudly parade about in clouds of excessive technology and ignorance, too oblivious to realize I was starving myself for air. I felt trendy again. Perhaps everyone is quick to admire the panache and pomp of a culture, despite its present standing in the world. I come from the land of extremes; it's easy to make those around you gleam with envy if you illuminate the positive side zealously enough. I wonder why I've never favored the zealous propagation that could make my land the envy of those around me. I'm not shy, nor am I modest, so why am I the one in a state of awe while abroad?

More importantly, I suppose: is this wisdom or naïvety?