Half Past Midnight

From Lena, entry October 7th, 12:41am

I'm about how I get uglier and uglier everyday. About how I take all these damn photos for no real reason. I'm thinking about much prettier I was last year than I am right now. And how the year before that, even better. I'm thinking about how I can see it, how it creeps its way into the pictures. And how I can only see what I am now, which is ugly.

I'm thinking about I've had two relationships in the past two years and how those people are not even relevent to me anymore. How is it that something that seemed knit together before it nothing but frays?

I'm thinking about how I haven't made any lasting friendships in the last two years (in real life). About how I have met no one new and actually been able to catch them. No one wants to be and stay my friend.

I'm thinkign about how people tell me my anxiety and depression doesn't define me but that actually is it. That's why there is so much running away. That's why I'm uglier everyday. That's why no one wants to be with me. That's why no only wants to stay my friend. It's not you, Keshia, and it's not even me. It's your anxiety. It repels me.

I'm thinking about how much I hate myself and how no one can really tell how much I do and how no one would believe me even if I tried to tell them.

Fin.
-Keshia

Life in Metaphors.

For as long as I've know myself I've never been good at expressing myself, particulary my feelings and particulary in words. And yes, that sounds so silly, right? I want to be a writer and yet I can't express myself in words. But here's the thing. Words are one of those things that hold a lot of meaning, you have to be careful with them. And even then, you there are different forums in which words can be expressed. 

Take speaking, for instance. Speaking is terrifying. Trying to properly convey thoughts or emotions through the spoken word and doing a good job of it is truely a gift. I can't do it. Speaking is weak to me. The thing about speaking my thoughts and feelings is that I get flustered. I stutter and I'm usually under so much pressure that I just can't physically find the words that I want to speak and everything I say comes out into some utter garbage. And so I can't speak words. I can't tell people how I feel when speaking. And so that's why, most of the time, I choose to write. But even in writing there are tricky parts to it. It's hard to tell people straightly, "I am depressed, I do not like my life right now and I'm beggining to realize that I don't think I ever did." People have such a sense of justification, and are so suspicious of everything. One thing that I have a love hate relationship with in writing is the fact that you can't just tell people something, you have to show them or they won't believe you otherwise. And even then, even when you show them in the best possible way you can people will still say, "Whate are you talking about? You're perfectly alright, you're not feeling that." There is too much disbelief in the human race for people to be honest sometimes. The problem is that people whipser the lies and everyone clings unto that, but when they're shouting the truth they are told to shut up. 

For me the solution I have always found when expressing myself, particulary in writing, are metaphors. From the time I learned what a metaphor was I have been using them. And even before then, I realized, even before I knew their proper definition. Because I surrounded myself with books when I was a child, I engrossed myself in literature that was overflowing with metaphors. I remember, distinctly one of the first metaphors I made. I was five, I had hurt myself, a bruise on my leg from running into something. Instead of telling my Mom I hurt myself I told her I felt like a horse kicked me in my leg. I may have had metaphors before that. I probably did. I had read the horse kicking in relation to pain one in a book. A lot of my life came from books back then. A lot of my life still does. And so even today I use metaphors to describe my feelings. The thing about metaphors, it's like wearing a mask while telling the truth. And in some simple way, that makes it seem a little better. Because I paint my pain or happiness or wonderous nature behind these words, behind the connatations of like or as. They seem prettier somehow, not so raw and terrifying. And they seem more relatable, because I think that's what metaphors were meant for. You take something that not everyone is feeling and compare it something that everyone has felt or can at least imagine what it feels like. But even then, even in metaphors, they have their faults. Because not everyone understands metaphors, not everyone understands the sometimes fault of speaking the plain truth. I've actually had someone tell me once how bullshit my metaphors were and that I should just say my feelings. And then I did, and then I was told I wasn't. Shut up, Keshia, you don't know what you're talking about.

Do you wanna know a metaphor now? Do you want to know how I feel?

There's a difference to everything. It's like I'm stuck in these waves and they're just beating along. And I just let them hit me, over and over. But sometimes, I catch myself. I get surprised because I thought I was on shore and I'm not. I'm not nesscarily sure how to get back there or why I even want to get back there. I just know, really, that I'm tired of the waves.

Fin.

-Keshia

Dog Sees God

*note: I stopped posting blog posts in here bc they were basically taking over my blog, but there are still really awesome books that I want to talk about and so I decided that books I rated five stars via goodreads are worthy enough to make it to my blog

I make valiant efforts to rereads things that are my favorite works of literature at least once per year. As Dog Sees God lands in my rank for my favorite play, of course it is one of those things I endevour to reread. Let's get a little background history, I first read Dog Sees God my senior year of high school, nearly three years ago, after picking it up in the stores of random assorted plays on the shelves of the drama room. I instantly fell in love with it the moment I read it and pulled my two friends in it for a ride. We convinced our teacher to do a cold reading outlloud in class and got into some serious trouble because we severly underestimated how people would responsd to all the cursing and sexual innuendos in it. That little tussle only made me love it even more, it became like a bby to me. Something I wanted despretly to defend.

Dog Sees God : Confessions of Teenage Blockhead is a dark comedy that follows the life of a teenage 'blockhead' called CB. All the characters, the events, and themes suggest that these characters are the characters of Charlie Brown, but all grown up. In my opinion this concept is brilliantly done. You have these distinctive characters from childhood, things mostly associated with holidays like Halloween or Christmas. Regarless of how you found yourself in the world of Charlie Brown there is sucha stark contrast here in the play. The characters,the language, the scenes are so breath takingly real. And also painful. It's kind of a hard thing to grasp, that these happy go lucky hcaracters you watched dance around the screen are thrust into this world that is actually real, a world that is fucked up, that bad things happen in. And that's the beauty of it, it's in this juxtapostioned place that shows you how our world is compared to the made up ones we watched on tv screens at a young age.

The play opens w/ CB (Charlie Brown) writing a letter to his penpal, telling of the death of his dog, his dog who killed his little bird of a friend before having to be put down himself. He asks his penpal, do you think God goes to heavan? And it is this question that resides in his mind through the whole show. This question is the driving background of the whole story. Bert V. Royal introduces the rest of the cast throughout the play, doing a brilliant job of adapting them to their lives. These children have grown up and things have happened to them. Marcy and PepperMint Patty are accused of being lesbians and spike their milk cartons w/ alchohol.Pig Pen is a germaphone and in general, a douchebag. Linus lives off pot, he smoked his blanket to 'become one' with it. Sally undergoes a daily identity crisis. All of them become character types, people that we can see or can almost see in everyday life. They are more than just cartoon characters in this way, they become a representation of ourselves, or the good, bad, and absolutely hilarious things of life.

I won't say much more, because I really could go one forever, but at this point I'm trying my best to keep spoilery free. But I will say this, the stroy is stunning. Bert V. Royal is so clever, so in touch with making a story that holds so much meaning with just recogonizable characters milling along in life. I laughed my head off while reading this, I sobbed my eyes out while reading it. It was beautifula nd wicked and such a great story that when I first read it, three years ago, I had to sit there when I was finished and just be there. I had to just exist, I had to keep myself to graps by the qualms of reality. Okay, maybe I'm overreacting, here, maybe just a bit. But you have to understand. I love this play. And I think I'll continue to love it.

Fin.
-Keshia

Blue Collar Blues.

"I am not mentally prepared to go into work today."

"I am not mentally prepared to go into work today."

"I am not mentally prepared to go into work today."

"If you make me fucking go into work today; I will have a mental break down."

I'm sorry, but mental illness is no excuse for not going into work. Being hurt is not reason for not smiling. Feeling so stressed that you literally have thoughts about killing yourself is not an excuse to be as an ass to the customer who was an ass to you first.

I've worked for the past two years of my life at the same place. It's not a place I'll mention here because I'll at least have some form of delicacy on this thing called the internet. And it's reached the point where I've become absolutely miserable at my work place. And yes, I'm not the only one; you don't see sincerely happy people loving their life working in retail/food. Those aren't careers, they're jobs. And no matter what anyone says they can't be fully happy in them. Anyone feel free to correct me if you think I'm wrong, for now I'll just believe this.

They thing is about my job, I did love it, at one point….at one point work was something I looked forward to. Things were shitty at home, things were hurting me there. And work was where my friends were at, where there were people who were there for me. And then it wasn't, not really, I moved, I transferred to a new work place. And things were okay, but not really. And now things aren't good. Things aren't good at all.

Let me bring you back to October 2011, I was working Subway. I had only been there for about two weeks and I knew people there didn't like me, I was annoying and obnoxious, you know, the type of person I am. I didn't think, though, they would dislike me enough to tell the manager to fire me. But they did. And I had rent due, and I couldn't go without a job. Over the course of a day I applied to nineteen different places. And the next day, one place took me for an interview. This is the place that eventually gave me a job. And you have to understand, at this point, I was desperate. I would've scrubbed the floors with a toothbrush I needed a job so badly. But of course, one develops standards after a bit. My standards didn't even have to be developed, rally. They were just there. I work in one of those places that isn't fast food but isn't really a restaurant either. It's the perfect kind of in between that isn't too stressful under any situation. And the people there were great, I think I was instantly enamored when my trainer sang Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory to me on my first night of work.

"Come with me and you'll see a world of imagination…"

I worked there for nine months and it was sincerely the best nine months of working in my life. The people there were great, and I sincerely got along with pretty much all my coworkers and managers. I genuinely felt well liked and liked people in return. I loved that we could work hard and still be silly at the same time. There was this one coworker of mine who I would always sing cat songs with, to the customers, right after we closed. Sometimes we would laugh so hard that we would literally fall to the floor. And there was a magic time of day when we all had to stop and pause and just look at the sunset streaming in. The thing is about that place, I mean, there were bad times too. There was once when I was so stressed and angry I hid and the back and threw around dishes. There were times when someone was perhaps badmouthing someone else, or I accidentally hurt someone's feelings with my foot in mouth disease. But those aren't the times I really remember from it. I really remember all the times my coworkers would wait around for me and my ride. I remember the time I cam in sick and all my coworkers jumped on me, telling me they wouldn't allow me to work and I needed to go home and rest. I remember the going away party they threw me where they bought me gifts and everyone was hugging and crying. I'll remember that. I remember that it was wonderful and that I loved the place.

But then I had to go to college, I had to transfer stores. And it wasn't the same feeling at all. Everyone on this new crew was negative, no one liked their job, no ones wanted to be there half the time. When I spoke I felt like a nuisance. And they made jokes about me, how I was scary because I was such a fast worker. A lot of them (not all) really didn't care much about work ethic. This was just a job they had, not something they really tried at. And I don't know, it just kind of dragged everything about work down for me. And it was hard to make friends; they're only a few solid people who I actually consider friends from this place. Everyone else is just someone I work with. And it was bad, for a while, but then I got used to it. Because I suppose that's just how it was going to be. But then summer happened and everything just went, to use the phrase, from bad to worse.

And now, now it's at the point where it's hard to describe. Only that I hate work everyday I go into it. It's making me miserable.

I had a point to everything, I did…

Meh.
Fin.

-Keshia

Slumps for the Chump.

Halfway trhough August already? No, really, I'm having trouble wrapping my mind around this concept. Today is August 15th, this is what I'm writing on August 15th. Because it is, and it's scary. It's also scary that 2013 is nearly over. But that's cool. That's cool. This has probably been the fastest year of my life, to be honest, and I really don't think it's the whole current time thing. You know, the thing where the time you're living in is the fastest and so because of that it seems the fastest. And I know this, because 2012 felt significantly slower than 2011 or 2010. But then my concept of time is all strange.

I've been in a slump lately, a slump of bad proportions. This slump is basically came about from feeling useless as fuck about everything. It happens almost every summer, a summer lull that ha sbounced back and forth across every summer of my entire life. Reason for the summer lull have included lack of school. I think I've made it clear in this blog before just how much I love school and how much self meaning it gives to me, so I won't give into that. There's also the fact that I have worked this summer more than I ever have in any summer of my life. (Edit: I worked more the summer of Washington but that time was such a confusing clusterfuck of things) And lastly is that I always make these empty promises ot myself during summer, like I'm going to write so much, I'm going to read so much, I'm going to get so fit. Every damn summer I make them and every damn summer I don't keep them, in fact I probably recede on them. I usually am only active at work, so I get fatter. And even though you would think,that logically having more time, I would read and write more, but somehow I don't. And this summer, this is has probably been one of the of the worst summer lulls of my life (Washington was worse, along with the summer between eighth and ninth grade, it being the worst). And I don't know why. I have this particular way of hiding mysef away from the world in music and pretending I don't exist. I've been doing that so much this summer.

And school starts in eleven days. And I just can't wait for it. Because I'm tired of slumping.

Fin.
-Keshia

Same / Not

Hullo there...it's been slightly a bit.

So I've been doing this thing lately where I'm reading through my old journals. I've done it before, plenty of times, but mostly just skimming and reading certain sections. I have never just sat down and read through them all. And this is my intent this time, though it's probably going to take a bit...a while. I have filled up twenty-six notebooks, some tiny and some massive. And then there's all my regular reading and writing and all this stuff. Plus I want to take my time with it. I really want to examine the person I used to be and the person I am.

The thing about reading journals is that you learn so much about yourself. I was so terribly ignorant when I was younger and I really fear that I'm going to be reading my journals five years in the future and think about how ignorant I am now. Well...no, I know this will happen. It's not really a fear more of a, 'God, what am I doing wrong now that my older self with judge and laugh at.' And some people may think, no, you won't. The different between being twenty and being twenty five isn't that much. Whereas the difference in between being fifteen and being twenty is massive. But I don't like to think it that way, I like to think that I'm always changing and developing. That I am always a different kind of person. I am not even the same person that I was five minutes ago. But it's also funny, reading through them about how different and the same I am. I have these habits that never die, like making piles and piles of lists I hardly ever use. By always promising myself to get better, by always complaining. My journal is just a rant fest sometimes. And cheesy, I'm one crazy cheesy person. I was when I started my journal and I still am. But so much is different, I know so much more about the world. I can comprehend so much more. I read my journals in my head in the voice of a silly girl, because I look back at so many of the things I said, so many of the things I did and think about how silly it all was. And think about hwo beautiful it all is. It's life. And it's wonderous and scary and silly and great. And I just love that I have my journal, I have things like my blog. I love that I can record and know so much of it.

Fin.
-Keshia

The Little Woods

This book is about is about a girl, Cally Woods, who goes to a boarding school where her sister had gone missing ten years earlier. She meets people, she makes friends, stirs up some random love interests, and tries to figure out the mystery of her sister's dissapearence/death years before. Over all it wasn't that impressive.

First let's talk about Calista (Cally) the MC. She is boring, transparent, and really has no personality at all. She's what I like to call a blank slate character, one who is written in such a way that the reader can 'metaphorically' put themselves in their shoes. Half the time while reading I managed to be so annoyed with her that I couldn't concentrate. And then the rest of the characters, the massive group of the them, all fit into the cardboard cutout stereotypes. The only character at all, who had any sort of real personality at all was Chealsea. She was brilliant. But as for the rest of the characters, they were all dissapointing.

And for the writing itself. It wasn't very descriptive, it wasn't something that held some deeper meaning between the words. But it wasn't bad either, just your typical run of the mill YA that could have the opportunity to be so much more. And then there were the random expositions of vocabulary. Some 'big words' put in every now and then to perhaps sounds more well written, I suppose. But it breaks up the flow, it breaks the story. You know those aren't the thoughts of a seventeen year old girl.

The story wasn't rapidly interesting either, most of it was predictable. But it was at least interesting enough to keep my attention enough for me to read to the end. And I found that the final chapter was my favorite chapter, but not good enough to redeem the book. Overall it was okay, but probably not something I would suggest to anyone.

Fin.

-Keshia

(So I've been posting YT videos about the books I read. And in between goodreads and that I just don't have the effort anymore. So my brief efforts to put book reviews into my blog shall stop here. this will be the last one.)

The Shining

“Sometimes human places create inhuman monsters.”  I accept that Stephan King in one of the best and most influential writers of the 20th and 21st century. I do. I also accept that his style of writing is not the style that I enjoy. And yet he receives five stars, here's why. This is my third Stephan King book I am reading. The first being Misery and the second being his book about writing, On Writing: A Memoir of the Craft. And even through just these two works I could tell he was a talent beyond others. Misery was enticing and thrilling. And I consider On Writing as my second favorite book in the world about writing, which is, in fact, quite an accomplishment. And this story, The Shining, it is absolutely brilliant. His descriptions are so vivid, they grab hold of your by the neck and pull you into the story. There were so many times while reading this book that I had to catch myself. I would look up and gaze about, wondering why I wasn't with the ghosts of the Overlook Hotel. And then there was the characters, so finely detailed I felt like I had grew up with all of them. King has this brilliant gift of writing something so rich in word and plot and character, that I am baffled. But…there's always a but. I didn't thoroughly enjoy The Shining. Yes, the description was incredible. The delicate nature at which he approached the psychotic break down was absolutely amazing. And I read this story at break neck speed; it pulled me in so much. But it's also not my kind of story. I found most of it boring. Does that make any since? Something that bores you yet fascinates you at the same time? I loved this story, I loved this novel. And yet, I couldn't really get into it. Horror/thriller just really aren't my genre of book. Mystery is only a close second. And since those are the types that Mr. King specializes in I don't think I'll end of reading many of his works, but I will try. He kind of had this talent that's too hard to ignore. Overall, though, The Shining was brilliant and terrifying. I read most of it in the late hours of night and it had me peeking over my shoulder more than once. And even it's not necessarily the genre of book I normally go for, it is, in fact, a brilliant story. Fin. -Keshia

Everything I Needed to Know about Being a Girl I Learned from Judy Blume

"I wonder if Judy Blume really knows how many girls' lives she affected.""

Everything I Needed to Know about Being a Girl I Learned from Judy Blume is a fantastic collection of essays from multitudes of writers, talking about Judy Blume and her novels and how they affected her life. Growing up I was a huge Judy Blume fan (although I have yet to read what she's probably most well known for,'Are you there God, it's me Margaret') and reading through these essays only brought back all the wonderful memories I had of reading Blume's works for the first time. It really makes me wanna go find a copy of Forever or Tells of a Fourth Grade Nothing to dig into.

Overall this collection made my little English Major/writer heart swoon. Not only is it an examination of some of my favorite works, but it also tells how the writing changed people, helped them, and taught them a lesson in some way. And that's just the most wonderful thing, when someone takes something out of writing. I'm a huge fan of reader's response to writing, and so I loved reading through these essays. I felt like I was in some sort of book club dedicated to Judy Blume where we were all sitting around sipping tea and discussing how shocking it was for us to first read about Deenie masturbating or Katherine having sex.

Even though I'm a generation or two behind most of the women in here, and behind the Judy Blume empire itself, I still relate to most of the stories. Judy Blume was one of the names I most sought out in my elementary and middle school libraries, and when I couldn't find them (mostly because they were banned) I would look for her in the town library. And I really think this book felt like a big thank you note to here. A thank you note for being such a wonderful woman and writer.

Fin.

-Keshia

Just thoughts.

I have this theory that because I'm so upset now and have been off and on for several years now I'm not going to have a mid-life crisis. Because those are essentially people who go through life normally and finally have some kind of realization of how fucked up their life is when they reach a certain age. But for the people who are depressed a lot, for the kids who started hating themselves when they were young and who continued to into their young adult years, I think they can get better. I really think I can get better. I really do. I mean, I've been like this for 12+ years now but I think I'm growing out of it. It seems so horrible now because the emotions are so horrible and vivid and true and right now. It's really hard to go back to when I was eight years old and try to just feel the emotions I felt when I decided my whole family hated me and it wasn't worth living anymore. It's hard to think back to my middle school self on the Pride Night Dance sobbing my eyes out in the bathroom. I can't bring myself to think of what it was like in high school and my friends basically told me I was a piece of shit and I just didn't know what to do besides cry and beg for their forgiveness. It's hard to bring myself back to Washington, being so excluded that even talking on the phone was a big fucking deal. And then there's the beginning of the school year when one of my closest friends decided he wasn't going to talk to me anymore and when all my other friends suddenly made new friends and left me behind. Fuck, I can't even think back to a few months ago when I was so messed up I engaged in self harming again, something I hadn't done since I was that sobbing fourteen year old girl in the bathroom. But it feels so strong now. The presence is so much rougher and harsher than just memories. But it's odd, because I feel like after every time something happens I feel better. The relief I feel, the happiness that comes after these depressive stages is better. And I'm somehow stronger every time too. Like, I can make them last shorter amounts of time; I can talk myself out of self harming. I am getting stronger. And one day I hope, I can get fully better. Which is why I think this mid-life crisis thing won't happen to me. I've already had all this shit it my life, if I ever do get rid of it I see no fucking reason why I would ever even allow it to seep back.

And this is not saying that people who aren't depressed in this age are definitely going to have a mid life crisis. I'm just saying it's more likely. But there are some people, I know, who can go through life being perfectly content for most of it. I envy these people; no one should ever have to feel this.

And fuck, I'm not even really sad right now. It's just that I can smile and be happy and worry and be sad. Everything is good, nothing is too terrible. But I come home every night and listen to sad music, watch sad scenes, I cry almost every day for no particular reason at all. And I don't know much why.

Fin.

-Keshia

The Help

“Ever morning, until you dead in the ground, you gone have to make this decision. You gone have to ask yourself, "Am I gone believe what them fools say about me today?” 

The Help is a powerful book about one young white woman and a group of black maids working together to create something that has never been seen before. It's a study of how it feels to be black and a maid in 1963, at the height of the civil rights movement and in the heart of the southern United States. The story is told through the perspectives of Skeeter, a 23 year old fresh from college graduate who is strong but not confident in herself. She claims to have been 'raised' by her maid Constantine and through her wants to learn more from the other side. Then there is Minnie, the fiery mouthed black maid who creates a powerful voice for the story. And finally Aibaleen, the strong backbone of the story, I think she's really the main character, the one who brings the whole thing together, she's kind and endearing and yet strong. All together they create a story that is true and strong, one about strength and friendship that passes the boundaries of color.

I came into this book already a fan of the movie, having fallen in love with it. Of course I expected it to be better, as I always expect books to be better. But really it was around the same level for me. But that's not a bad thing, because you see, I absolutely adore the movie. The book only put things more in perspective for me, particularly from Skeeter's perspective. While Emma Stone did an amazing job in the movie, it really takes the inner dialogue you can only get with a book, to see how much Skeeter was really falling apart. But she didn't let herself fall apart, and I think that is key for her character.

What I admire Kathryn Stockett for more than anything in the help is making such strong characters. They are so admirable in the things they do, they are people to really up too. And the messages she puts in the book are just grand, it's not just a book about race but about feminism as well. Not only does Skeeter not fit into the 'standard' idea of the time because she sees blacks as her equal, but also because she isn't out to settle down and find a husband. She wants to be her own woman. And I think she is such an admirable character for that, particularly in the time that she lives in.

Stockett also did a great job in dialogue. As someone who grew up in the south myself, I pretty much admire any other southern writer. But one who can capture the south in such delicate little ways that it's almost scary it's so real, I really…really admire that. And while I didn't grow up in the south in the 1960's, I did feel like a lot of this book was something I can relate to. A lot of good and a lot of bad. Things have changed and things haven't.

Above all, I really enjoyed this book, and now I have to go back and watch the movie. The voice, the dialogue, the anticipation…everything was so brilliant and lovely, and I don't think Stockett could've done any better with a debut.

Fin.
-Keshia

I love a lot.

Most of the time I'd like to consider myself a non confrontational person. I mean, inwardly I'm probably one of the most confrontational people ever. Outwardly, though, I keep my mouth shut most of the time. I just have this thing where the anger of other people, whether justified or not (and now matter the level, scares the shit out of me. But there are a few things I will stand up for, and when I do so, I think I do it in a calm enough manner so that I'm respectable. I never want to be the person yelling at someone for what they believe in. But, I will, however, explain my opinion in a calm manner. Tonight I did this; tonight I was proud of myself.

Tonight one of my coworkers asked me some stuff about one of my books. This not only excited me because I'm always happy to hear anyone with the slightest bit of interesting my story, but also because this coworker has been grumpy for the past several days. He's one of those wishy-washy types, who you don't want to be around at all when they're not in a good mood but who are decent when they're happy. The only problem, though, is that he's kind of in a constant flux. And for the past week I'm been having to deal with him be a dick around work because he's been grumpy, and honestly I get that people have bad days, but constantly having to work with negative people is a bit upsetting.

Anyway, as the story goes of tonight. So I was telling him about one of my characters and how the character was gay but eventually gets married when gay marriage is legalized in certain states. It was at this point he said to me, "Um, yeah, can we not talk about that, I think its wrong?" To which, of course, I responded, "What?" He then goes on, in brief statements how it is wrong and he doesn't like it and doesn't support it. The 'it' being gay marriage. The thing is about me, is that I have so many liberal friends and go to such a great open-minded college like Montevallo that I forget I still live in the South, which if you don't know, is probably one of the close minded places you can be. And it just really upsets me when I do realize this.

So I ask him, very calmly, why he thinks this…to which he answers every time that it's just not right. Finally, I get some variation and he says, "Because they can't have kids, they have to adopt." And I'm just baffled, because "Why", I ask him, "is adopting such a bad thing?" I tell a little more, tell him there are hundreds of kids every year who have no families, kids who will never have families. And he somehow comes to the defense of all the kinds in orphanages and says some people can't afford to keep them. To which I answer "Then why can't gay families adopt him?" He tells me that it's wrong and they don't need to be raised in that kind of situation. This statement really gets me, how cruel he was being. But I kept my cool. And why I asked him raised what way, he can't answer, he just shakes his head. And then after a bit he says that it wouldn't really be their kid so it's not as important. And I tell him, "Being together and being in love isn't just about having kids, you know. And I'm to a kid that they adopt, it's pretty darn important that they actually have a family."

He's silent for a bit more and then says that all of earth was started by a man and woman, because it was natural and right, so that's why he believes it. If it was started by a guy and a guy and then he would believe that. I don't say much to that because I didn't feel like getting into the religious aspect of it. I think people being in love and religion are two completely different things, and that religion shouldn't determine who you love. But after a while I ask him something, "I don't mean this is an offensive way. But you know, not that long ago, people would've looked at your parents and said it was wrong." His parents are interracial and he says he knows. But I can tell he's made because he doesn’t say anything and only talks an hour or so later. He asks me if I'm mad that he doesn't believe in the same things as him, he says it with a joke in voice, like he's trying to lighten things up a bit. I told him no, I'm not. I'm just upset because it's 2013 and people still aren't letting people be with who they love.

And it is sad and it is upsetting. And while I'm not really mad at that coworker anymore I'm also not really going to look at him in the same way. I just don't see why people who love each other can't be together. I think love is probably more precious than anything in this world, so why can't we cherish all types of love. Why are there rules and guidelines to follow for an emotion that comes naturally, so instinctually to every single one of us? It's stupid, and it's hurts my feelings. I love so many people; I love all my friends not matter who they love. I'm just tired of so many people being oppressed for simply being who they are.

Fin.
-Keshia

Criss Cross

“I know I'm still young and there's a lot of time for things to happen, but sometimes I think there is something about me that's wrong, that I'm not the kind of person anyone can fall in love with, and that I'll always just be alone."

So let me tell you a story about this book. It currently sits at and has, since I first read it in 2006, in the position of my third favorite book in the world. And as someone who considers herself an avid books reader, being in third place is a big deal. Along with several of my other favorite books, Criss Cross is one of the books that I re-read each year. With Criss Cross it's at the first sighting of fireflies each year. Now sit down, are you sitting? Let me try to explain to you, as much as I can though I promise I won't be even touching on it, how much I love this book.

The most common complaint I have seen about Criss Cross is that is has no plot, that nothing really happens. But can't you see that is where the beauty if at? Lynne Rae Perkins did a fabulous job of capturing life for what it really is. And that is my favorite thing about this story, that it is life, and I think there's nothing more beautiful than reading about a human life. And for people who do point out how simple it is, they don't really see it, they don't really understand the true essence of this book. Criss Cross is such a wondrous piece of literature that is upset me so much that people can't see what's it's really about.

Every little moment in this book is a beautiful little kindling, a little spark, but together it's a fire-something great and wonderful and amazing. Hector's satori and Debbie's wishing, Lenny's brain overflowing with information, and Dan's donkey self, all the comparisons of people that ring so true to life. This books captures the very essence of adolescence, it captures the in between feelings of life. I read this book for the first time when I was thirteen years old and even now, seven years and twenty years old, I can say how much this book still resonates within me. It knew how it felt then and I can still feel it now. This novel is so deep in such a subtle way that it's easy to miss it, easy just like in life. People just don't see how so many seemingly insignificant moments can mean so much.

Now let's talk about the description. The description of this story is so wonderfully written that it melts my heart. It's simple, and not overcomplicated but yet so wonderful. But even it's simplicity you can see everything, you can feel it. And it's all so unique, unique in the way that you just want to take the scene in your head and gobble it up. It's beautiful.

Okay I'll stop rambling now, there's so much more I could say and never really enough. Never enough to show how much this book really means to me and how much it has helped me in life. It's incredible. It has my heart. 

Fin.

-Keshia

Bruises

"Bruises fascinate me, they way they are seem to exist in their own universe, streched somewhere between my vital organs and my top layer of skin.They're like their own dry, desolate purple brown continents in the sea of my skin. 

Sometimes bruises spring up like fresh daisies. I'm taking a shower and I see them there in their new glory, being rinsed under the streaming riveluts of water. These always surprise me, because I'd like to know where my pain comes from. But i suppose they aren't that painful, though, if I didn't feel them when they happened.

Other ones I remember, remember them from the early the early day of when they were newborns, pink packages just blooming. It's because of a mistake I made, a wrong word I said, or a disinterested look I showed. The sound always occured to me first, the dull smack that barely even left an echo. And then the pain, sharp and incessant at first and then the throbbing that seeps into my very bones. I looked down at my arms, at the purple blue mass above my elbow. He had asked about dinner as I reached into the cabinet. I didn't answer quick enough. The door of the cabinet was  wooden blur. And then there was the one on my cheek, alreayd aged and yellowing around the edges. This bruise was an old man, a remmant of a swift punch delivered with a heavy fist.

And then there are the ones I give myself, in the fits of rage, when hot tears are spilling down my chheks. I'll hit my head, my arms, anything. I just don't like the feel of it all. I just want to beat the me out of me. 

Just now, I had looked in the mirror. I saw the bruises, the young and old. My eyes seemed to bulge out of my head, outside of my sunken eyelids. And I couldn't stand, so I smashed my face into the mirror. It was different and more pleasing that being hit. Something peacefull in the echoing cracks of the shattered mirror. 

It's so easy to drown yourself in bruises and blood"

All the time I have these monologues, these little tidbits of scenes appearing in my head. I can never quite capture them and I can never quite tell them where they came from. A lot of times, I don't know what stories they're from, a lot of the times they become stories. I'd like to imagine my head like this, like this massive expanse of characters and stories begging and searching for a way out. They are squirming little things, some of them beautiful, some of them scary. And they are itching to escape. And so I write about them. I think they're really what it's like to be a writer. And if makes me seem insane, the way I describe it. But it's also the way I feel. 

Fin.

-Keshia

The Bell Jar

"If you expect nothing from anybody, you're never disappointed."

The Bell Jar surprised me in a lot ways. First, that I liked it so much, that no; I have come to adore the book so much. I feel like this invisible string of attachment to this novel and myself, and it's going to feel like my heart is ripping out when I return it too the library.

All I can really say about the novel is that it is beautiful; it captures the essence of Esther's depression right down to its very bones. And unlike many novels that embark upon this theme of depression, it doesn't sit there and whine and cry about how depressed it is. It's one of those beautiful works that has the magical trait or showing and not telling, a gift of a true writer. It's the thing, I'm telling you, that all writers need to have to be any good. And through The Bell Jar Sylvia Plath did a fantastic job of it, on more than one occasion I related to Esther. I felt her emotions, I felt her toiling, and pain. And sometimes even her utter lack of emotion. Everything is silent, everything is dead.

And Esther, she's this wonderful character that Plath created. Many say that Esther is based off her own self, and I'd have to believe it was true. The depth to which this character is explored is not something which any person could do, you have to be a person who really knows the character, who really understands her. And it's just brilliant.

The problem with me and stories that I really like is that I often have trouble expressing myself with them, but really, I can say this; The Bell Jar is a wonderful story. Not wonderful in the sense that amazing adventures happen and everyone gets a happy ending. But it's wonderful because it's a story that captures such intense, raw human emotion it's almost hard to believe. It's like reading from your own self or hearing your own thoughts. They aren't just words, but a gripping story that resonates in your very being. And I think above all, that is what makes it so beautiful. Is that Plath's ability to capture this, to capture the hills and rampages of human emotion is a wonderful thing. And it makes for a story worth reading.

Fin.
-Keshia

The Nanny Diaires

"If you're going to do something, darling, then do it all the way."

Sometimes I get in this mood where I want to read books that just aren't going to be really deep. Do you understand? Books that won't weigh on me and cause emotional turmoil, you know where I can't do anything for several hours after finishing but think about the book. I picked The Nanny Dairies looking for a good, light read.

In a way it was, and in another way, it wasn't.

I became a fan of The Nanny Diaries through the movie. Scarlett Johansson played this gorgeous yet down to earth character and I was aboslutly applauding during her speech to the teddy/nanny cam. And of course, when I like a movie based off a work of fiction I must go out and find that work of fiction.

Emma McLaughlin and Nicola Kraus do a very good job her of examining human behavior and putting it to play in a story. The characters range from witty to cold, and all seem homespun in such a way that they are some combination of believable and unbelievable. The story itself is great, there were so many times I was angry, and so many times I wished I could have jumped to Nanny's defense. But I understood her character. I understood why she saw it through. And I really think that's what was so wonderful about this, how it connect you to a character. And then, the closing monologue to the nanny cam is brilliant, wonderfully written. It takes all the things Nanny has learned and understood and puts it in this little neat package.

I will say however, this isn't a book for the detail hungry and description frenzied readers. It's not eloquently written, but still good. It's written simply, in a way that pulls you in and makes you want to read more without rattling your brain too much.

Fin.

-Keshia

Pathetic

Pathetic.

Do you know that's my favorite word to apply to myself? And it's because I really am. I have this ability to do nothing but bad. The hardest part about being positive is attempting to sort through the piles of negative shit I think about myself. And really, not just piles, but mountains. I know they are silly to have. But I can't help it. But I think of it like this. How can I be good when I feel bad about being good? I grew up in such a way that feeling confident with yourself was tagged along with words like narcissistic and selfish. It's playing the blame game, though, isn't it? Because by the time you're twenty shouldn't you have grown out of, or at least had the opportunities to grow out of, the senseless things from childhood that made you the way you are. It's about being tall enough, tall enough to see beyond the problems that keep me bound. And it's like I'm jumping with all my might but not even being strong enough to peek over the edge. And I'm so damn sore and tired. And the 'I can't do it' phrases are crushing me.

Fin.
-Keshia

The Postmortal

"Death is the only thing keeping us in line…"

PostMortal is a complex and unique read that takes a new spin on the 'apocalyptic' genre. Because Drew Margary created a world that isn't teemed with disasters and deprivation but instead one where everyone is young, no one ages, and hardly anyone can die. And it is that, the concept of forever and longevity, which ruins the human race.

PortMortal is a book set in the future, a very near future of 2019 where a 'cure' for aging has been created. It is not immortality; you can still die from murder or disease. What the cure assures is that no one will ever die of a ripe old age; the age that you get the cure at is the age at which you stay. The story follows John Farrell and the sixty years of his life after getting the cure, twenty-nine forever.

This book is brilliant in its deep understanding of what a cure for aging would essentially create. It seems like something fine and dandy but it is not, because as with anything in the world there is controversy, and the controversy around this is enough to tear the world apart. The books gives this away in style, in the several time skips that happens, because while more and more people clamp unto eternal youth the world only gets worse and worse. And it really questions the morale behind, how good is it to actually get the cure. One of my favorite things about this book is that is leaves me questioning, because hypothetically, if this cure was real, would I myself get it? And it's really hard to give a straight yes or no answer. And I think that's what Margary was trying to get at with this book, if you were given the chance to essentially be immortal, would you?

Magary also does a fantastic job in developing the character of John Farrell, because while he does in fact remain twenty-nine throughout the story he is not really twenty nine. Everything that happens in the world, every death that comes upon him, changes him and matures him in some way. And so at the end when he was eighty-nine years old, I really felt like he was eighty-nine years old. Character development in a specific art that can be done so eloquently sometimes that it just shocks you how well a person can write it, can really show it to you, can really make you feel it. To think of this, particularly when his character had the eternal age of twenty-nine, makes him brilliant.

Overall it is thought provoking read more than anything. The style and balance of the story, the way the character grows, it was all brilliantly done. 

Fin.

-Keshia

Middlesex

“Even back then, the Great Books were working on me, silently urging me to pursue the most futile human dream of all, the dream of writing a book worthy of joining their number…”

Middlesex is a story of young girl who later becomes a man, an intersex, all because of a tricky little gene hidden in her grandparents blood. But the story is so much more than that, it is a journey through a lifetime, from escaping the Turks and Greece, race riots in Detroit, and burlesque shows in San Francisco. It's incredible because of it's expanse, of the little everyday ups and down it captures, and how of it rounds into how Cal came to be.

First off to say the story just covers so much; sexual and physical identity, race issues, and the boundaries of what love can really be. Can a brother and sister really love each other, can two cousins-one of them the offspring of the brother and sister be together? And those are just a few of the simple questions written, explored, and tasted in this story. What I love most about it is that none of them are really answered, because they are too hard to answer. Human life, especially one such as this, and spanning over the whole of three different generations, is too complex to grasp. It's like sand in your hand. And I really think that is what Jeffrey Eugenides accomplished with this book. It was like sand tricking through your fingers as you read and afterwards you're left with the feeling of it still slipping through your fingers, it is all gone but you still question it.

Calliope is a brilliant character and reading the story through her/his eyes was wonderful. There was the delicate balance of reading through the young eyes and seeing it through the older eyes. And it was just perfectly done. I cherished every little detail of the book, gobbling up the scenery and emotion in here. Nothing is lacking when it comes to writing style, Eugenides is a powerful writer. But powerful in the way that he is terrifying. Because he can make you feel so much, he can wrap his hands around you and pull you in, dancing between the words in his story.

Above all this book was splendid. If anything can be said it is that this probably isn't a book for young people to read. But it is lovely in all way. My favorite thing about it, above all, is that is spans more than you just a lifetime. Because to really understand a person, to really understand Cal, you have to know his past, present and future.

Fin.
-Keshia

The Name of The Doctor

"Run. Run you clever boy and remember me."

So let's talk about "The Name of the Doctor", the last episode of the most recent season of Doctor Who that ended just a few weeks ago. And yes I realize I'm a little behind on this train, but with a full time job and until the recent summer break, going to school full time, do you really expect me to have time to watch Who a lot? So it took me a bit to catch up on. (And now even more on Supernatural, which I also plan on reviewing in here, when I eventually catch up). And I'm really trying to review more in here, and review more in general. It's to improve not only my writing skills but my observational and comprehension skills. I mean, I'm an English Major; I take everything and tear it apart to little pieces that somehow string it together in this great big ball of metaphorical meaning. So why can't I do that with TV shows, eh?

Pre-warning, spoilers ahead!

So let's talk about Clara first. Above all in Doctor Who I think that the story isn't really the story of the Doctor but more of the story of the companion. When you think about it really, the Doctor's life is shaped around the people he takes with him and what they learn from him and what he learns from them. With Clara as a companion, I have to be honest, I'm a little wishy-washy. She's clever and strong willed, but not really to the point of being annoying, like I sometimes found Amy to be. And obviously there's something special about her, the girl who had died twice but still lives on. I was really interested to find out about her and had a great time reading all the random theories around about her, I was a particular fan of the one where she was actually the Dalek emperor from Bad Wolf. But my biggest problem with Clara is that while she is lovely and all there was really no character development for me in her, to mean, even in this episode where she willingly died to save the Doctor's life, I think she is same girl he picked up in The Bells of Saint John. But what I do like is that she eventually turned out to be just a normal girl, a girl who went through pain and loss, but saved the Doctor anyway. Some of what has started to annoy me about Who is that is has come to the point where the Doctor only likes mysteries and big exciting things. I miss the time when he was fascinated by humans, just them in their everyday lives. So in the end when it turns out Clara was just human, and a very brave one at that, it made me happy.

Then there was the whole part with the Great Intelligence. I'm not a huge fan of Classic Who, I've only watched a bit of the Fourth and Fifth Doctor (and some of the seventh and the eighth), so I feel like viewers like me, who are mostly fans of modern day Who, may have been a bit confused. I mean, I myself, because I research Who too much, knows what The Great Intelligence is, whereas I think others will not know, or at least not know to the extent as they should know.

In general I think a lot of the episode was a bit anti-climatic, because there wasn't really a lot of running. As to say the action in this story was kind of a minimum and they just kind of willingly went a long with The Great Intelligence and his minions. And when he was about to jump into the Doctor's timeline and everyone was just standing around I was like, 'Why won't anyone stop him or you know just do something besides staring?' I guess you could say I missed some of the action that we usually see in season finales. I just feel like a lot of the climax was built up to Clara, like this is her, this is what she is. Which was good and all but it ended up with me being two thirds of the way into the episode and going, "What, it's really nearly over?"

I loved Madame Vastra, Jenny, and Strax in this episode; they provide quite a bit of comic relief to what might have been an otherwise a dark and serious episode. I just love the friendship between the three. And I'm just really fond of the scene where Jenny is dead and Vastra begs Strax to bring her back, and he does almost in an instant saying 'Matters of the heart are always simple.' And Vastra answers back 'I have found that they are not'. GOD DAMMIT, HER AND JENNY ARE SO FRIGGIN LESBIANS! THIS SHIP IS MY FAVORITE SIDE SHIP IN ALL OF WHO! Except for Sally Sparrow and the cop in 'Blink'.

Now let's go into the River and the Doctor part. Now I'm just going to say, this episode was teeming with oodles of fan service for River and the Doctor shippers. There was the fact that he had told Clara about her, a little about her. And did you see the expression on his face when he saw her tombstone? He was in agony. And then of course the way he just casually says 'They wouldn’t bury my wife here', it's just too perfect.  And of course when he admits to seeing her, when the he talks about the pain it would cause him and how yes, it does. Because this is after 'Silence in the Library', this is after her death. And the kiss, well, it gets a 110% on a scale of 10%. And I'm sure I sounded like a rambling fangirl in this paragraph, but to be completely honest I'm mostly on the fence with the RiverXDoctor thing. Sometimes I like them together, sometimes I don't. In this episode I liked them quite a lot.

And some last general things with this episode: I loved the Doctor's tombstone, the way it was the Tardis, and standing more massive than anything in this creepy eerie fashion. Cinematography wise is was stunning and chilling, I'm used to seeing this Tardis as this brilliant blue box and there is in Trenzalore, like the ruins of some lost city. And the clever jokes in the mist room, I can't help but thinking they were a group of friends sitting around the table playing pass the joint. The subject was very serious but I couldn't help but thinking it. And then Matt Smith's face when he asked 'Are you sure he said Trenzalore?' He was going to cry, the Doctor in tears. And when boys cry, I cry, and it's just not a pleasant thing.

Then there's the whole mystery of Clara, how it was finally solved. I thought it was brilliant. She's scattered across the universe, destined to save the Doctor. I loved the clips of her in all the Classic Who episodes, as cheesy as the effects were, they were brilliant. And when she told the Doctor he was stealing the wrong Tardis, it gave me chills. More appeared when she was lost in the fog, hearing the Doctor's voice and watching all of his different reincarnations running by. Then there was the leaf, the most important leaf in all of history, the one that brought her into the world. And I was thinking, this is some nice neat little package to wrap Clara up in. But then, no, it wasn't. The man, the questions. How it is him but not the Doctor. And then the 'Introducing John Hurt as the Doctor', what was that. WHAT WAS THAT?!?!?!?

You wanna know what is it was?

PROBABLY THE BIGGEST AND MOST MYSTERIOUS CLIFF HANGER IN ALL OF FUCKING DOCTOR WHO HISTORY!!!

Overall I really enjoyed this episode, not my favorite season finale, but definitely a good one. And I loved that the mystery of Clara is solved, but hate that about ten fucking million more were thrown out. But it's good, BBC is clever. Now all this Whovian can do is wait and wish and hope for what's to come in the 50th Anniversary Special.

Fin.

-Keshia

The Problem of Being Twenty and Being Me

At eight years old I thought I would have done more with my life by now. At eleven years I thought I would've had some things figured out by now. At fifteen I thought I would have made some people proud by now, proud of something that mattered. And now at twenty, I'm just confused. There was a common pattern in my life, one where I have always no matter what, expected more of myself. However it seems as the years have gone on my expectations have only risen higher while the effort I put in has decreased.

The problem in being me is that I like to say that I'm hardworking, that I'm going to make something of myself, that I'm not just going to go through my life. I'm going to really live, right? But then I do nothing. I just don't. So Keshia's the quite hypocrite, right? Who would have known? But it's hard, because I really believe I'm this strong willed, determined person. I really believe that I'm this person who can do things. But I can't. And it depresses me. It makes me feel horrible how little I can actually do and how much I should've have actually gotten done.

And I know there are people out there shouting, 'For God's sake, you're only twenty, give yourself a break!' But I don't hear that. I hear how pathetic it sounds, the 'only twenty' part. Yes, I am only twenty years old; I haven't even lived on this planet for a quarter of a century. But that's just it to me; people who do great things are young. Most of the time these things are so great because people did them, they accomplished these things when they were 'only just' something.

The thing is, there was a time two years ago when I had several people calling me inspiring. And my whole time, I was like, what the hell for? And if I had to consider it someway I guess I was 'inspiring' (even though I am not in the least bit) because of the things I was going to do. But guess what, its two years down the line and what have I done? What have I done? Nothing. And some of those people, those same people who called me inspiring, they have accomplished great things. They've become great, and I'm lucky if I even manage to pull myself out of my bed with a positive attitude.

You see this is what I'm scared of. I'm scared of waking up seventy-five years old someday and wondering where my life went, wondering why I haven't done something significant. And the only thing I can think, that older Keshia in her bed can think of, is because she didn't do it while she was 'only just'. She had her window, she saw how it looked. There was a field full of flowers, all dancing in a wind that she could not feel. The sky was dark but bright at the same time. There were all these multicolored stars, dancing and rearranging themselves in the night sky. She looked out the window and she didn't go out there. She just stared and stared and eventually all the flowers died, all the stars stopped dancing, and the window closed.

Fin.

-Keshia

A Thousand Splendid Suns

"Of all the hardships a person had to face, none was more punishing than the simple act of waiting…"

A Thousand Splendid Suns is a beautiful story that is part historical fiction, part social commentary, but really, all wonderful. Through the stories of Mariam and Laila, the last thirty years of Afghanistan are projected and see in a way more intimately than you could ever get from reading an article on the matter. The story is one of life and heartbreak in an unforgiving time. But above all the story is one of companionship, a companionship that breaks through the tide of generations and forms through a mutual understanding of pain and tragedy.

I think Khaled Hosseini did a beautiful job of painting the struggles of these two Afghan women, and gave the situation more perspective than you would have seen before. The politics were touched on, however, the real demonstration with them were the true effects the politics had on human life. Mariam and Laila both start the story at a young age, a whole generation apart, but growing in a world that in practically imploding on itself everyday. This fact, along with the sudden and rough thrusting out of a world they knew and loved, is what Mariam and Laila hold in common. And the marriage to a wretched husband by both only strengthens it.

All the characters in this book were written well. Mariam was a silent pillar of strength, a woman who despite her best efforts became quite like her own Nana, but who showed the most endurance to the end. He story, her evolution, interests me more than all. At the start of the story she is nothing but a young, naive girl pitted with the name of harami, a bastard. And by the end, with the "war", what the life she lived turned her into, is something both beautiful and terrifying to read. Then there Liala too, the passionate and sometimes hotheaded, girl. She grows up far too fast, her story cut in half when compared to Mariam's, but all the same it engrains deep changes on her that she could've never predicted. Liala is the girl forced to grow up too soon. But her strength was admirable, the tenderness for her daughter incredible, and the love she has for Tariq wonderful. The character of Rasheed, the horrendous man to whom they are both married, was well written. I came to despise him, as I feel you should with characters such as him. But in being written well, he was complex, someone who I wanted to understand even in his worst moments. Then there were the 'Soviets', the 'warlords', the 'Taliban', and the 'Americans', all of these characters who weren't even characters at all. And yet they were always there and always present, playing with a game with some Godlike hand, giving the characters spare bits of hope here and there, only to slap them in the face when they grab for it.

This story was wonderful. It had my emotions all mixed up, I hope so deeply for the characters. I winced at their pain, became angry at their oppressors, and cried in all the deaths. It was moving beyond anything else, that is was just a story of life, but one so complex and admonishing that it's hard to think that while this is a work of fiction it probably is an accurate representation of the lives that people had to live. And that's what so beautiful about this novel, and so hard too.

Fin.

-Keshia

*This is the exact same review I posted on my Goodreads Account, but I've decided I'm going to start sharing these in my blogs as well*

Pieces of Perfection

I think and internal journey for everyone has to be one towards perfection. Almost all human beings, in general, have this push factor to us where we strive for perfection with our every labored breath. Then there are other for whom the word 'motivation' doesn't even penetrate the thick walls of their being. Think about it in this way, because I think about it a lot. Are you happy with the person you were before? Are you happy as the person you are now? Do you think you will be happy with the person you hope to be in the future?

Most people, I think, will answer no to the first one. It's kind of a general rule that people generally get better with age, knowledge, experience, and etc…But we also lose parts of ourselves as we go on. There are good, amazing parts to us that life either forces us to leave behind and forget about. And while, like I said before, I think most people will say they don't want to return to the person they were in the past--they don't mean that to its full extent. Because think about it, think about the way the corners of someone lips tug up into a smile when they think about a memory, think about the dazzle in their eye when they look at a younger picture of themselves. "Look at how cute I was then, and look at me now," they'll tell you, clinging on to the pictures of the past.

And then there's the you that you are now. Do you know, there is no one around who is youer than you? That last sentence all goes in credit to Dr. Suess. But it is true, you know? But do you like yourself? My guilty conscious reveals, hey, I really don't myself. I try, and there is so much to improve upon, so much I could be better at. I spend way too much of my time thinking about how pathetic I am. And I know it's bad and horrible and thinking about how bad and horrible it is only makes me feel even more pathetic. It's kind of like this eternal self hating maze to be stuck in. And so, you don't like yourself, change yourself, right? It's really not that easy. And I always feel always on the brink of perfection. And I'm too Gatsby crazy at the moment. So think of it like the Green light, Gatsby can never really reach it. But he's right on the edge of almost reaching it, or so he feels it.

And the future self. The one I'm sure is flowing with perfection. The one who is in your mind the one who has everything worked out. This is the one you're going to be, right? But when? That's the relevant question.

I think in small ways that pieces of ourselves are left scattered across all of our time, all of our time, from start to finish. The you from before, now, and then. And there's too much changing with being a human being. You can only perfection if you catch all the pieces all over the place. But that's the thing right, the human life is more of a line than a circle, you can't loop back to the past and pick the pieces up you left behind nor can you drive forward and snatch the ones there. You have to go forward, trying to gather the pieces. And I'm telling you, there are far too many to hold. What again, if perfection anyways.

Fin.

-Keshia

The Great Gatsby

So, The Great Gatsby, what did you think of it old sport?

So I think I am now in the right mind to give a proper judgment to the newest version of The Great Gatsby. I have now seen the movie twice and am almost to the point where I am not overwhelmed by feels….almost. The hardest part, though, is giving one of these things without giving spoilers. Spoilers are such inane little things, particularly when it comes to reviews. Such as I can be like, "It was incredible!" But if you asked me why I probably couldn't tell you easily because the reasons why I like things are spoilers! Does that make sense? It's frustrating. But alas, I am trying. I really think that it’s a soft spot I need to harden up in my writing skills, how to explain things without really explaining them, you see? So here it is--my general overview of The Great Gatsby.

So first off, it was incredible; oen of the best book to movie adaptations I have ever seen and believe me when I say I've seen a whole lot of them. What captured me right off was the cinematography; it took the story above and beyond what I could have ever imagined in the book. The Gatsby parties were amazing, full or colors and pizzazz, and the houses in the film were just breathtaking. Gatsby's place itself was so grand, like the castle I always imagined living in as I grew up. The acting was superb in all parts, but particularly in Gatsby and…wait for it…John Buchanan. Leo stole my heart in this film, as he does in everything, and his portrayal of Gatsby was beautiful, because I was literally in tears for the last fifteen minutes of the film, on both occasions that I watched it. But Joel Edgerton, the actor who played Tom, really impressed me. He just became Tom, and in that I mean his acting made me despise his character in every single way possible, even more than in the book. And the soundtrack, the soundtrack to the film was incredible. I have literally become obsessed with it; the music put soul and feel to the film. And yes there was rap music; hardly a single piece in the whole film was related to the true sense of the 20's at all. But it really fit well, and it's hard to describe without revealing spoilers. But believe me when I say, it has been several years since I've heard a soundtrack pair so well with a film.  The rest of the production, the costuming, the makeup, the script, were all flawlessly done. It kept true to the book for the most part and what little changes they did make only enhanced the story, not took away from it. In a way I can understand some of the bad reviews, as Gatsby currently sits at a 49% on Rotten Tomatoes. But at the same time I don't understand them. People who are fans of the book, who are fans of the true heart of Gatsby, and believe in the hope of the green light, will enjoy this film. People who look towards this as an expectation of boring, don't see the true breadth and concept of this film, will not like it. It's a simple story really, a story of a very hopeful man.

EDIT: I did have a whole other section to this one, one that contained spoilers; I decided to cut it out. Limited writing will train me up.

Fin.

-Keshia

Are You Really?

As of late I've been having these moments where I think too much about my life. It's kind of like this. I always think, you're twenty years old, and what the fuck have you done? I amaze myself in my hypocritical ways all the time. I tell people I don't want just an ordinary life. Like really, my longtime goals are not to settle for normalcy at all.  I like to imagine myself as Belle from Beauty and the Beast a lot, you know the whole "I want adventure in the great wide somewhere" line? But what do you do Keshia? You get up and go to school, making A's in your classes and pretend it's something to be proud of. You work at a job where people probably don't really care for you. And you spend the rest of your time lost on the internet or in a book or in your writing. But do you really do anything?

It's all because of this. I have a bad habit of re-reading my old journals and thinking about what a little shit I was when I was younger. Sometimes I wish so badly to go back in time and just let myself know some of the things I know now. Maybe it would have fixed everything, made things so much easier for me. Or maybe it would have made things harder, made me too scared to live. The common theme, though, no matter what I think the results would be, are that I somehow contact my younger self. But what if it was the other way around. What if my younger self somehow got in contact with my older self? Imagine if fourteen year old me suddenly came across the journal of my twenty year old self? Would she be proud? I really think the answer is no. The person I was when I was fourteen is exponentially different than the person I am now. Hell, even the person I am from last year is exponentially different from the person I am know. And it's hard for outside people to see, I guess, but despite always being full of questions, I know a lot about how I am. And I know how different I am now. The thing about being a human being, every second of everyday you are a different person than the one you were before. Not just in thought, because every second, every thought is different, but even in body too. You take a different breathe; your heart beats a different beat. Everything is different. And time goes on. And there has never been a way made, not one, where you can contact your older or younger self. And everything is different, it really is. And I just can't imagine. If I had the chance to go back in time I know the exact speech I could give to my younger self. But as for what my younger self what say tot he me now, to what she would even think? I have no clue. 

Fin.

-Keshia

Spinning.

So it was like I got really tired, and there were finals, and moving...and I'm still not completely moved in yet, but yeah I just didn't want to blog for the rest of April so I chose not to. Does that make any sense at all? I failed my BEDA goal. Woohoo!! And that is that and now it's May. 

So do you think about life sometimes, and how odd and strange and unlikely things are? I mean, that doesn't really make sense right. With people it is harder too. Can you imagine how someone who is so important to you today can become so easily ignored with just the passing of time? And sometimes it's not on purpose, because things happen and people have to leave.

There have been a lot of people in my life, people who I was once close with that I have lost touch with. There was the Vietnamese boy from elementary school whose named I can't remember, who told me he was going to marry me in kindergarten, and who I remained friends with till fifth grade when he moved to a different state. I'd like to meet him again one day, see how he is, and see if he ever came out--because the whole marry me thing faded quick enough, and it was quite obvious the reasoning was in him being homosexual. He left his school jacket behind in the classroom; I took it and kept it for a while. But eventually, just like him, I lost it. Then there's my best friend from fifth grade, Josephine, who I went as far as calling strangers in the phone book with the same last name as her to find her. She was my first real best friend, or least someone who I consider today as the real concept of best friend, not someone who I knew for a few days and claimed was my best friend. Josephine and I had a real connection. And the phone number thing worked, I got in contact with her cousin who gave me her phone number. And for a bit we got close again, despite living an hour and half away. We even had sleepovers and she came to my thirteenth birthday party with my new middle school friends, and we hung out at this same place called 'The Mug' sometimes. But it didn't work that much. Also in middle school there was Abbey, who I knew from Church, who was the only other young girl in the choir with me. We would hang out in the nursery on Wednesday nights, even though we were much too old, and would listen to Alex (three years older than us) ramble about his girl problems and ask for advice. But eventually she stopped coming to church, and like that, I lost her.

There was Christy too, the one I've probably missed more than anyone. Christy and her sister Carrie were in the foster program, and they were fostered by an older couple in my church. For the roughly half year that she and her sister were with them I became very close to her. I learned about her life, about how she hated the foster system because she could never have a real family in that way. People were always set to give her up, and since she was older no one wanted to adopt her or her sister. She really inspired me, a lot. Because one of my goals in life is to eventually adopt someone, but someone who is older, not a toddler or baby like everyone wants. One reason being that I don't particularly enjoy small children and the other being that I want to give someone a family, someone like Christy. Someone who deserves a family, because I just find it horrible that children in the foster system are thrown into the streets if they don't get adopted by a certain age. I think everyone deserves to at least have a family. And Christy taught me that, and I really miss her. 

Then in high school there was Marcelo, wonderful, beautiful Marcelo. The Brazilian boy who gave more confidence than perhaps anyone in my life. He always told me I was beautiful, he always told me I could do whatever I wanted too. He was at Bryant on a foreign exchange program and the night he left was one of the saddest of my lives. I wrote him this letter, something I wanted him to wait to read later on the plane but he didn't, he read it right there in front of me. And I was crying and he cried too, and he hugged me and told me I was beautiful and that he loved me. And it really was one of the hardest goodbyes ever (the hardest actually being Marina pre-Washington). For about a year afterwards we stayed in contact over email, but eventually, like all else, it faded. And it makes me sad, because no one has ever really made me feel as good about myself as he has. In high school too there was Kelia, someone who became one of my closest friends in my sophomore year. She wanted to be a writer too and we used to share stories. No one in my life has ever supported my writing as much as she did. She was the first person to ever really care about my writing, and I hope I did the same for her. The last thing of hers I read before she moved away was this story about a blind girl, a story that I would love to read now, see what she had made it become. Part of my sophomore year was a really, really hard part of my life. The best things that Kelia ever did for me was take care of me, particularly on this one certain day. I was usually so good at hiding my emotions in school, but Kelia saw that day, saw how much I was hurting and she asked the teacher if I could be excused and she as well. And she just took me to the bathroom and let me cry it out; she was really there for me. 

Life is kind of like this spinning cycle, people are thrown in it, and sometimes the spinning sucks them down the vertex, down and gone. And it hurts sometimes, because life spins faster when certain people are there, certain good and brilliant people. And sometimes it's slower, with harder people and harder things. But I think in little ways we have the ability to slow it down or speed it up, one of them being cherishing the people we have, and remembering that one day they may be gone.

Fin.

-Keshia