Another Childhood Nostalgia Goes "THBBBBTTHHHH"

I can't write for crap when I don't have any inspirations.  I really just can't.  I've tried.  It's hard.  It's like trying to break a really bad habit; you rarely succeed.  Maybe I need to read more.  Or could it be that my creativity has disappeared along with my childhood?

I remember that I was always writing in a journal or a notebook of some sort when I was a kid.  Always scribbling away and drawing in ridiculous cartoons in accordance to the stories that I had written.  Creativity overflowed within me when I was a kid.  There was not a day in my life that I failed to write a short story or finish a funny little drawing.  

I don't write like that anymore.  Neither can I draw so freely.  Hell, I hardly draw these days.  All I do is mope and complain how the world is out to crush me and divide me into a gazillion bits so that I will never again have the motivation to rise up and face my fears.  Or is it because I'm just lazy?

Talk about deterioration.  Gone are the times when we were curious about everything, when we were truly thirsty for knowledge, when we were active and alive.  Now look at us.  We look withdrawn, jaded, and dead.  Zombies and sluggards.  We don't even have the willpower to read books anymore.  We prefer to listen to audiobooks.

How many times have I heard people say "I'm working on this play!" "I'm filming a movie!" "I'm writing a novel"?  How many of those projects have been finished?  Hardly any.  

I hate how people, myself included, have so much creative energy, yet they never do anything to make their creativity become a reality.  When will this cycle end, this endless Catch-22 of innovation, procrastination, and resignation?

The reason for the downfall of innovation is because we are afraid of failure.  We are afraid that the amount of time and commitment we put into a project will turn to dust when the project does not turn out favorably.  And even with creativity bursting from within our minds, once we set out to initiate the preliminary procedures necessary for the successful outcome of the project, we feel the gravity of the workload and effort required for the creation of a magnum opus and we procrastinate and give up our dreams.  I have experienced this predicament many, many times, and so have others.

Why do we fear failure so much?  We never felt this way when we were children.  It did not matter who won or lost.  It did not matter who was better or worse.  Is it our competitive academic environment that has destroyed our child-like thirst for knowledge and achievement?  Is it the pressure from our parents?  From society?

Why do we have to ace our SAT's?  Why do we have to ace anything?  Why must we study for exams three hours a night every single day?  Why can't we be allowed to rest for a change, to sleep, to breathe, to live?  Everyday I come home and I devote myself to hours of aimless studying and review.  I would much rather watch a movie or read a book during that time. But duty calls.  It's all a phase, I tell myself.  Just do it, or fail.

Guilty Pleasures?

Sometimes, all I want to do is shut myself up in my room and read books all day.

Terrorist

Novemeber 18, 2009.  The sun rose at 6:00 AM and greeted the slumbering residents of a New Jersey suburban town with its warm embrace.  At 7:00, approximately 1100 students of the local high school had emptied their breakfast bowls.  At 7:35, they were in school, shuffling through hallways to get to class.  In the mean time, teachers straightened out desks and chairs, anticipating another bustling session in the midst of an even more bustling environment.  Janitors began their grueling work, and the school kitchens came alive with the salty aroma of French fries and hamburgers. Yes, it was just another typical day in West Windsor Plainsboro High School South.  Everything was going according to the schedule.  Then a terrorist paid a visit.  That terrorist was I.


I wore thick sunglasses, a white surgical mask, and a purple hooded shirt.  My objective was not to simulate terrorist activities nor demonstrate my ignorance of Halloween’s actual date, but to challenge the common belief that a masked identity indicates terrorism.


A mask holds many meanings.  It can mean secrecy.  It can also mean sickness.  But many times, people associate masks with illegal activities, the most favorable one of them being terrorism. 


Terrorism is omnipresent.  In the news, we see Al Quaeda militants beheading innocent bystanders.  In the movies, we see Russian extremists hijack Air Force 1.  In the papers, we read about American soldiers getting mangled by the dangerous traps set up by the Taliban.  The motives behind each terrorist organization may vary, but one thing for certain is that all terrorists wear masks.  So says society.


I put on my mask because I wanted to show other people that underneath my disguise I was still Minjeh Lee, a 16-year old Korean American sophomore at West Windsor Plainsboro High School South.  No one believed me.  They all thought I was a terrorist. 

“Who is that kid?  Is he a terrorist?”

“Oh my god, a terrorist!”

“Dude, you look like a terrorist.”

“Why are you dressed like a terrorist?”

“Hey, when’s the next Jihad?”


I didn’t understand.  Why did my mask make me a terrorist?  Don’t non-terrorists also wear masks?  Take superheroes for example.  Batman, Ironman, Green Lantern, and Spiderman all wear masks.  Nobody calls these guys terrorists.  So why did not people think that I was a justice-defending, liberty-loving masked hero?


I walked into my American Studies class to find out why.  My teacher, Mrs. Schomburg made no initial comment on my appearance but stared at me for a good amount of time.  Then she began teaching.  After five minutes, she paused abruptly and asked me to take my mask off.  I asked her why.


“It’s creeping me out.”


I tried to reason with her why my mask should not disturb her in anyway. I was not pretending to be a “creepy” figure nor was I trying to gain attention from other people by blatantly acknowledging my new “outfit”.  I was only sitting in class, listening to her lecture on the Continental Congress.   I also told her that my external appearance had nothing to do with my objectives.


“I don’t care,” she replied.  “You look very intimidating.”


Still, I did not take my mask off.  I just did not understand why she could not disregard my appearance and continue teaching.


“Please, please take it off.”


At this point, I felt compassion for the lady, because from the way she was begging me to take my mask off, she must have found my appearance genuinely frightening.  I acted accordingly, and took off my mask.


The next day, I put on my mask again and went to school as usual.  I had chemistry first.  I walked in nonchalantly and settled down on my desk.  Mrs. Jaworsky, my chemistry teacher, glanced at me and then told me to take off my mask. 


I did not answer her.


“You have to take it off or you will get a zero.”


I still did not take it off.


“Look, you stay here with the mask on you will get a zero.  You really want to keep that thing on, you will have to go the counselor’s office and tell her why you were excused from class.  You will still get a zero though.”


Way to hit my weak spot, Mrs. Jaworsky, I thought.  I did not want to give up on my project easily, but I did not want to take any academic repercussions either.  I thought hard with both hands on my head. 


“Stay here!  Stay here!”  My classmates exclaimed.  The room filled with raucous chants and hoots.  I knew what I had to do.  I took off my mask and stayed in class.


The purpose of transcendentalism is not to conform.  Had I stayed in class with my outfit on, I would have conformed to the desires of my classmates.  Instead, I followed my inner thoughts and concluded that academic excellence was the priority motive.  I took off my mask. 


“It’s the rule,” Mrs. Jaworsky said.  “You can’t wear anything like that in school.”


Why? 

Because it obviously means you’re up to no good with that thing on your head, you pesky terrorist.


Her harsh blue eyes seemed to bore that thought into my head.


My friends thought I was terrorist.  My teachers thought I was a terrorist.  Pretty much everyone in WWPHSS thought I was a terrorist.  I only had to put on a mask and shades to enjoy such a grand conviction.  I came to realize that people associate masked figures immediately to terrorism because society makes them believe so.  The media shows countless images of battered streets and destroyed buildings, followed by even more images of masked men with guns and knives.  The media pumps fear into people by consistently channeling information of the latest terrorist activity on screen.  Even the Board of Education prohibits the wearing of hoods in campus.  Why?  It is because they are afraid.  They are afraid that a hooded or masked student will come to school and shoot everyone, because that is what hooded and masked people do on the television.


What is surprising though, is that not all terrorists mask themselves. The men who were responsible for the 9/11 bombings did not wear masks. They were dressed like average businessmen.  The men who bombed the Alfred P. Murrah Federal Building in Oklahoma City were not masked.  The gunman Charles Carl Roberts did not wear a mask when he held the Amish school kids hostage.  The two boys who wreaked havoc at Columbine High School did not wear any masks.  They headed right in with their guns and shot at everyone.


If my peers and teachers at WWPHSS had reasoning skills, they would not have associated my disguise with terrorism.  Instead, they blindly believed what society told them to believe.  Mrs. Schomburg’s remarks and Mrs. Jaworsky’s icy looks were not derived from their thoughts.  They were reflections of society’s stereotype on terrorists.  If I were an actual terrorist, I would not have elaborated my appearance in such a way to draw so much attention.  That would have greatly hindered my motive in destroying the school or kidnapping a faculty member (hypothetically, of course.  I would never do such things).


Fear of terrorism comes not from a genuine fear of terrorism, but from the crude images that society provides for the masses to absorb.  Because of this irrational fear, people continue to believe society, as if believing is the only protection from harm.  Yet, people “must not be hindered by the name of goodness, but explore if it be goodness” (Emerson, “Self-Reliance”).  They must see through the masks and the headscarves and find out for themselves what truly defines a terrorist.  Once they realize the true characteristics of a terrorist, they must work to understand the mindset of a terrorist.  Through peaceful negotiations and tolerance, the violent urges of even the most vicious terrorist can be pacified.  It has been proven that FBI agents were able to extract much more valuable information from terrorists and terror suspects by speaking to them in their native tongue and treating them with respect, than the CIA who tried to milk the information from the terrorists through water-boarding and other forms of torture.


As the project came to a conclusion, I realized that transcendentalism was an impractical and overly idealistic concept for the 21^st century.  I certainly agreed with the idea of self-reliance and some parts of civil disobedience, but I noticed that the general concept of transcendentalism did not stress the importance of being compassionate towards other people.  I am not one to ask, “Are they my poor?” (Emerson, “Self-Reliance”) when I am asked to donate for charity.  I took off my mask when I realized that I was tormenting my teacher. 


I had stood up for my beliefs at the expense of making others feel uncomfortable. When my peers avoided me and called me terrorist-related names, I held my head high and thought myself as a rugged individualist.  As my experiment progressed, no one accosted me.   I certainly did not like that.  I learned that I greatly appreciate human interaction.  I realized that I am much more sociable than I thought I was, and preferred developing friendships to obsessing over personal convictions.  Emerson said, “It is easy in solitude to live after our own, but the great man is he who in the midst of the crowd keeps with perfect sweetness the independence of solitude” (Emerson, “Self-Reliance”).  I am not courageous enough to follow this philosophy at a daily basis, and I certainly do not wish to alienate myself from other people just to convey my sense of self-reliance and civil disobedience.  I love my friends and I love life too much to become an insensitive hermit.  After all, even the most self-reliant person cannot do everything on his own.  His nonconformist ideas will not take care of him when he is ill, but his friends and family will.  Sorry Waldo.  I think it is time you went looking for a different audience. 

SNOW

I absolutely love snow
There's something about it
The way it changes how everything looks
And somehow smooths the edges, makes everything look cute and happy and sparkly and clean

I remember in elementary school they would always make us write those fun little poems
Nowadays we only write essays (my transcendentalist essay was a pile of whale crap) and essays are not fun at all because really who cares about how much I fail at being Emerson? Exactly. No one.
So anyway I'm going to write a 2nd grade poem (I suck at poetry but it's still fun, even if I sound like a retarded 8 year old)

Soft fluffy blanket
Pure and white
Giving the world
A great big hug

YAAAAAYYYYYYYYYYYY

I really wanted to just go and do a bellyflop into the snow this morning
But I decided that it wasn't worth catching pneumonia
So I put on a million layers of sweaters and a gigantic puffy jacket that electrocutes me and waterproof gloves that make my hands bigger than my head and waterproof snow boots and a hat so that my ears wouldn't fall off
And I drew a whale in the snow
And I helped shovel
Even though I hate shoveling because it ruins the beautiful continuity of glittering whiteness :(
Then I went inside
And I was all cold and my toes were tingling
Only to discover that WE DIDN'T HAVE ANY HOT CHOCOLATE
I was pretty devastated
Because hot chocolate is an integral part of my life
Not really
But sometimes when I'm really sad my sister makes me hot chocolate
I'm not sad though
Because it SNOWED
And snow makes me happy
So do whales and goats and chocolate and yarn and cookies and michael jackson and queen and singing and casting and sparkles and birthdays and happy endings <3

The Kids Are Not Alright

Never felt so empty in my life.  There was music playing, uplifting, sonorous melodies swirling in the atmosphere...faces lit from glittering lights and the children, the dancing children.  Dancing and singing, more lights and more songs to enrich the occasion.  I should have been smiling.  I should have been singing.  I should have been dancing.

But I could not feel the music tonight.  My friends were enjoying themselves and I told myself  "Hey man, it's your night.  Let it all hang out!"  So I did.  At least I tried to.  I smiled and laughed and joked with the rest.

I like making people laugh.  I get enthralled when my friends giggle at my stupid jokes.  I feel an unexplainable joy when the room roars with laughter after I do something ridiculous.  But I'm not a clown.  People think I am, but I am not a clown.  I only act like one.

The clown's sole purpose is to humor people.  His personal convictions and emotions do not matter as long as he is funny.  So the clown puts on an everlasting smile, while his heart deteriorates slowly from his unspoken anxieties.  I am not like a clown.  I put on a smile, but my heart bulges with contempt instead of sadness.

In the cosmic sense, people's anxieities are completely irrelevant.  But we center our lives around our worries and become self-absorbed.  I'm one of the most self-absorbed people you will meet on this planet.  Yet, I berate other people for being selfish and apathetic.  Forgive me for my inconsistency.  I am only human.

But nonetheless, hurt is hurt.  And one knows when he is deeply hurt.  I don't know what got me tonight, but it was certainly a deep stab to the heart.  I can't quite explain.  The music was playing, children were dancing, people were laughing and loving one another.  I should have been happy.

When am I truly happy? Is it when I'm playing music?  Is it when I'm writing?  Or is it when I'm talking to the people who mean so much to me in my life? 

I don't know.  Come to think of it, I don't think people mean that much to me anymore.  I'm a void.  I don't feel anything.  I just suck in everything that solely benefits myself at the expense of hurting other people. 

Do I feel bad?  Yes...sometimes.  Not always.  As I've mentioned before, I tend to be inconsistent.  I'm the kind of person who would stuff a 10 dollar bill into a homeless man's can and then proceed to destroy the people who I love. 

But no one cares.  That's fine.  Apathy is a great protection.  If you don't care, it can't hurt you in anyway.  I care too much.  And I hate the word "care" with a passion, because to me, it sounds insincere and empty.  I'd rather have someone openly express his hatred for me right in my face than have him "care" about me for sometime, then stop caring about me all together. 

I must sound like a self-pitying bastard right now.  But everyone has a self-pitying bastard within them.  Whether it be the greatest man on Earth or the worthless beggar in the streets, we are all on the same boat.  We are all trash sometimes.

Although I smile, my eyes remain rigid with animosity.  Contempt is my best friend these days, and I've never loved to hate before.  Contempt is my protection against my fears.  It does not always work, for there are times when I wished that I've never been born at all. 

I don't want to listen to anyone anymore.  All the past advice and tips and bullshit that people pumped into me in the past few "exciting" years of my life have no right to exist in my soul.  Only I know what I know.  I'm going to make my future.  Only I can accomplish the grand task.  Hence, the beauty of ego rises far above the masses. 
To my self-absorbed, arrogant, insecure, superficial, and emotionally disturbed brehteren.  If there is hell below, we are all gonna go.  So keep on smiling and dancing and singing.  I will join in this time.

It's okay though.  It's fine.  That's how life goes for me.  It will get better hopefully, but really I'm fine.  I'm okay.  Guess it's better to turn this way than become another Pagliacci.

"Dad we are gonna be okay aren't we Dad?  Dad why won't you wake up?  Dad, there's singing...we are gonna be fine aren't we?  Don't worry we are gonna be fine...don't worry we are gonna be fine...don't worry we are gonna be fine.....Won't we?"

Motivation

Well.
I'm glad that's over.
NaNoWriMo turned out pretty oddly for me. I ACTUALLY WROTE 50,000 WORDS IN A MONTH!!
But as I was writing the novel, I discovered that I had more plot to cover than would fit in 50,000 words. So I finished, but I didn't finish. I got the goal, but not the novel.
During the month of November, I was under a lot of stress, thinking about word count and how horrible it sounded and how I might not finish. But all of this stress also allowed for a sort of creative fervor. I needed to crank out that many words each day, and I bashed my brains around until some idea came out. No matter how stupid, it was still an idea, and I would write as much as I possibly could about it. I didn't worry about logic, I didn't worry about how it sounded, I just wrote and wrote and wrote.
Now I'm really relieved that it's over, and I can stop freaking out over trying to find a way to make up random bs out of thin air. I can relax and write about whatever I want. But the creative rush that came with the freakout is gone too.
I still want to finish my novel, but every time I open a word doc, I find other things to do. Eat chocolate. Study for my math test. Actually practice piano for once. All these end up taking priority over writing now that I don't have a word-o-meter to fill.
I don't know why numbers and goals have such a strong effect on me, but that crazy goal ended up being reality because of the extreme satisfaction I got out of updating my word count added to the normal happiness that comes with writing in general. Somehow, just enjoying the story I'm writing is not enough to get me writing it again.

Priorities.
I do things that I need to do, things that will make me feel bad if I don't do, rather than things that I want to do or things that just make me happy and relaxed.
Unfortunately blogging falls under the second category and I have a math test tomorrow. So much for finally being able to write about what I want to again...