Wednesday, October 24, 2012
A trick of fate....
Been absent because I've been writing and re-writing my tale of woe, want to make it absolutely good for me. In the meantime, an old classic by the great band Camera Obscura. Their song "French Navy" is my dream romance (read the lyrics) and the video is another dream romance I want to happen to me. And yet, I have always thought of this song in my encounters with certain guys, I may dislike them later but I will always love the song.
Thursday, October 11, 2012
I'm Burning (Itching, Twitching) for you
This is a simple something I wrote for class a while back, thought it relevant for this blog.
He twitched and scratched and moved around in the leather comfortable seat. He took out his phone every other second and scratched his eyebrows, scratched his shaggy hair, scratched the back of his neck. He crossed his legs, he uncrossed his legs, he stroked his eyebrow with his index finger, and took out his phone again to browse for nothing. These nervous twitches seemed unnoticeable to the people looking for their seats in this high luxury cinema. All but one noticed these ticks and she couldn’t help it was because of her. It’s not that she had a big ego, she had seen this before. She began with the question: why would someone have a nervous tick while waiting to watch a movie? It wasn’t a scary film, it was “The Descendants.”
She had seen this a mile away or at least a few feet away, as she walked to screen seven she saw him walking in front of her. He was her type, the school boyish type, from what her eyes could see, he looked like Ian Curtis. She repeated the word no in her head at warp speed integrating it with “don’t go into screen seven” she repeated this phrase like a mantra until she uttered an expletive as he went into screen seven. She checked her ticket in the assigned seat theater and they were a seat apart. As she waited for the film to start and checked her cell phone for nothing, “occupying” herself, she could see at the corner of her eye his tics. She knew this technique to a tee. She blamed it on her big eyes but she could scope out her surroundings without making her head move. It’s one of the things she found proud of but in reality, her proud ability actually was one of the factors of her loneliness. Why was he doing that? It made her laugh, could it be her? Was it her hair, her stained beige raincoat that she never got to wash because she forgot or the intoxicating perfume that she dabbled on the back of her neck and wrist. She wished she could look to her right, to see more of this mysterious man’s face but her painful shyness got the better of her.
As the reader, you might think that this girl must think of herself as the fairest of them all. Far from it. She noticed her beauty but believed it only attracted stalkers and perverts. She believed her beauty really came out at night. When she washed all her make up off, or was out in the cold night at some concert as the frigid night air gave her the illusion of cheekbones and the soft man made light gave her an ere of night loveliness, mysterious and mischievous that if someone described her the next day, only good things would come out of their mouth. In the day however, she looked at herself and like the last soldier with his white flag waving in the wind, she gave up on improving her face and mechanically either put on liquid eyeliner or crayon.
The ticks minimized when the previews began and as he relaxed while he laughed at some dramedy film coming out in May, as the film began,she abandoned her thoughts and got involved into the story. As the sniffles became rampant around the room,she couldn’t help but smile. She wasn’t crying but the last time she had heard and seen bawling in a theater was when she watched “The Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants.” As she sneaked a peek to her right, she could see “Tic” guy trying to take something out of his eye, there was nothing there, but it was just a manly way of trying to stop the tears from coming into his eyes.
As the film reached its end, he took a small notebook, writing something, as she looked in his direction, he seemed like a cute studious guy but why was he writing in the middle of the film? The film had come out months ago, the reviews were already written. As the film ended and I got up from my seat,she quickly left as what could be seen from shadows him following me, she entered the ladies room and mentally put him to the ever growing list. Another “one that got away,” another story to tell to someone when I feel sick of myself and want some pity, one of many. And of course the questions that would linger for I don’t know how many months would come into my head: what was he writing? Why did he have those nervous ticks before the movie but not during? Was it me? was it not me?
He twitched and scratched and moved around in the leather comfortable seat. He took out his phone every other second and scratched his eyebrows, scratched his shaggy hair, scratched the back of his neck. He crossed his legs, he uncrossed his legs, he stroked his eyebrow with his index finger, and took out his phone again to browse for nothing. These nervous twitches seemed unnoticeable to the people looking for their seats in this high luxury cinema. All but one noticed these ticks and she couldn’t help it was because of her. It’s not that she had a big ego, she had seen this before. She began with the question: why would someone have a nervous tick while waiting to watch a movie? It wasn’t a scary film, it was “The Descendants.”
She had seen this a mile away or at least a few feet away, as she walked to screen seven she saw him walking in front of her. He was her type, the school boyish type, from what her eyes could see, he looked like Ian Curtis. She repeated the word no in her head at warp speed integrating it with “don’t go into screen seven” she repeated this phrase like a mantra until she uttered an expletive as he went into screen seven. She checked her ticket in the assigned seat theater and they were a seat apart. As she waited for the film to start and checked her cell phone for nothing, “occupying” herself, she could see at the corner of her eye his tics. She knew this technique to a tee. She blamed it on her big eyes but she could scope out her surroundings without making her head move. It’s one of the things she found proud of but in reality, her proud ability actually was one of the factors of her loneliness. Why was he doing that? It made her laugh, could it be her? Was it her hair, her stained beige raincoat that she never got to wash because she forgot or the intoxicating perfume that she dabbled on the back of her neck and wrist. She wished she could look to her right, to see more of this mysterious man’s face but her painful shyness got the better of her.
As the reader, you might think that this girl must think of herself as the fairest of them all. Far from it. She noticed her beauty but believed it only attracted stalkers and perverts. She believed her beauty really came out at night. When she washed all her make up off, or was out in the cold night at some concert as the frigid night air gave her the illusion of cheekbones and the soft man made light gave her an ere of night loveliness, mysterious and mischievous that if someone described her the next day, only good things would come out of their mouth. In the day however, she looked at herself and like the last soldier with his white flag waving in the wind, she gave up on improving her face and mechanically either put on liquid eyeliner or crayon.
The ticks minimized when the previews began and as he relaxed while he laughed at some dramedy film coming out in May, as the film began,she abandoned her thoughts and got involved into the story. As the sniffles became rampant around the room,she couldn’t help but smile. She wasn’t crying but the last time she had heard and seen bawling in a theater was when she watched “The Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants.” As she sneaked a peek to her right, she could see “Tic” guy trying to take something out of his eye, there was nothing there, but it was just a manly way of trying to stop the tears from coming into his eyes.
As the film reached its end, he took a small notebook, writing something, as she looked in his direction, he seemed like a cute studious guy but why was he writing in the middle of the film? The film had come out months ago, the reviews were already written. As the film ended and I got up from my seat,she quickly left as what could be seen from shadows him following me, she entered the ladies room and mentally put him to the ever growing list. Another “one that got away,” another story to tell to someone when I feel sick of myself and want some pity, one of many. And of course the questions that would linger for I don’t know how many months would come into my head: what was he writing? Why did he have those nervous ticks before the movie but not during? Was it me? was it not me?
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