February is the Pluto of the Roman Calender

This is how I figure it will go:

February is a great month! It's short and sweet and every four years there's an extra day added to February and everything is all good, right. Well, eventually people are going to be, like, February is like Pluto. It was cool for awhile, but then people decided that Pluto wasn't a real planet. Only 28 days? February isn't a real month! So then they're just going to break February up and add extra days to all the other months.

AND THEN THERE WILL ONLY BE ELEVEN MONTHS! And we all know that odd numbers are MUCH better than even numbers, and anyone who says otherwise doesn't know what they're talking about.

Time goes by fast these days. I don't like it. I'll be nineteen in less than three months. I feel like I just started college, yet I've only got about four months to go until I'm officially a second year. I'm getting an apartment... TOMORROW. I don't even know what I want to do with my life.

But it's all good. Nobody ever knows fershure what they want to do because THERE'S TOO MANY THINGS TO DO! I want to do everything! But I want to be a writer first and foremost, so that's where I'm at. I'm trying to get better.

In fact, today I resolve to write at least one thing everyday, short long poem story dialogue

--ANYTHING--

as long as I'm writing.

I'm probably going nowhere, but as long as I'm happy, nowhere's a beautiful place. :)

(P.S. I'm going so many places it's un-frickin'-believable!)

That's all I really have to say right now. I just got off the phone with Zachery and I'm talking to Jessica now, and then I'll do homework with Anthony and Ben and my crew of peoples, and then I'll go to the gym and it will have been an alright day.

Farethee well, February. It's been a cold month. Happy half-Birthday to Aydin, because the 29th isn't for two years. Two days of celebrating? Once they abolish February you'll have to move your birthday to March 1st officially. :P

AIGHT. PEACE.

Wednesday is a heartattack.

I am exhausted. I don't know what's going on, but I've just been really really tired for the past couple of days. I would write about what I've been doing but the only thing I would be writing about is homework and working out and hanging out with my friends while they play Call of Duty, which isn't very exciting. I WILL post an exciting blog this weekend, though, because it's been too long since I've reflected on the things that I've learned (or, maybe just a week) so it's about time I do that (and keep the fam updated through this stupid internet journalmajig).

But, yes. I'm tired. So very tired. I woke up at 9, decided I wasn't going to psychology (at 10), but then at 9:50 I woke up and felt guilty for even saying I wasn't going, so, of course, I got up and threw my shoes on, grabbed my backpack, and ran out. I didn't even have a chance to change my clothes because I might have missed Brittany and Jason (but not Ben because he missed class because he thought I wasn't going too, haha) on their way out. So, I went to psych. This is the first time in a week I haven't fallen asleep in that class. She's a boring lecturer and it's hard to stay awake through the drone of her voice, even though she thinks she's being exciting. I don't really fall asleep; when I hear her say something that I think is important, or when I know she's changed the slide, I'll open my eyes, take some notes, and then go back into my quasi-slumber.

Following psych, I went to physics, which was just another day in physics-- boring and confusing. Michael, Max's friend who is in my physics class, is probably the only reason I'm surviving in that class. Without his help, I would definitely fail everything in that class. The title deceived me: Color and Sound Dimensions in Communication! Oh cool! But no. What it meant was, "Let's spend 10 weeks together learning about light waves and sound waves, and let me do my best to confuse the living hell out of you." Physics has been successful in doing this.

After physics was Islam discussion. Harold (my T.A.) is a really cool guy, and it's great that we have him as a TA all year. Professor Aslan, although a well-respected, famous scholar, and a fantastic lecturer, is... a douchebag. I said it. He's an ass. He's so pompous and egotistical that it makes me sick. I have been excited for months for him to be my professor because he's a Creative Writing major-- and at first, it was awesome. Don't get me wrong, his CLASS is great, but his personality is definitely not what I was expecting. Reza Aslan is MEAN. He's publicly humiliated my peers in class, making them seem stupid. He doesn't care about any of us like Dr. Muhamad Ali did. I'm not sure if he cares about anything but Iran, Islam, his physical appearances, and his salary. He dresses really hip, super casual, but he's always got his nose turned up in the air, and he never looks any of his students in the eye-- he lectures to the back wall. Yesterday, Tuesday, was what officially made me stop and say, "Hey, Aslan is really not that cool at all." Yesterday, Professor Aslan was talking to our Harold about office hours, which we are required to attend for the program Islam is part of, and I heard him say this: "It's a cute idea, really it is, but I don't have the TIME to sit and talk to sixty KIDS." He has open office hours for a reason: for us to come talk to him, to ask him questions and clarify anything he says in lecture. But, really, who WANTS to go see a professor who intimidates you and makes you feel like crap because you're not the same level of brilliance as he is. At the end of lecture yesterday, here is another thing he said, "Oh, and one more thing. I swear to God, if I see another person texting while I am talking, I will take their phone and I will throw it out the goddamn window." Word for word, that's what he said. And I find it funny because the classroom doesn't even have windows. There's two doors, and that's it. So, I'm disappointed, but what can I do but accept the fact that he's a jerkface and move on.

After Islam discussion, I did homework for an hour, then walked to the student services building so I could take care of scholarship business, then did more homework. Then I went to the gym and did cardio for an hour. I've been good about going to the gym regularly, even on weekends (although I didn't go at all this past weekend, which I felt pretty guilty about) and I'm definitely getting into a lot better shape. My muscles are strengthening, and I can work out for an hour consistently and feel tired afterward, which is good. Tuesdays and Thursdays are ab attack still, and I have gone to every ab attack this quarter, and I'm going to buy her video so, when there is a time that I won't be able to go to ab attack, I will still be able to do it bi or triweekly so that my abs don't get super weak again. But, yeah, I actually like going to the gym. It helps me keep my stress down, or helps me get my mind of off problems when I am stressed, and it's healthy. I'm trying to eat healthier too, which is still pretty difficult with the meals served in the dining halls (tonight, they had potatos and fried chicken, haha), but I'm drinking lots of water and eating fruits and vegetables throughout the day instead of Cheez-Its (even though they're AWESOME). So yeah.

After gym, I did laundry and took a shower. Went to dinner. Got back, finished my laundry. Did more homework. And now, twelve hours after waking up, here I am, and I don't think I'll be going to sleep soon. It's a pretty chill night after this is done being written, but I'll probably be working on homework for another while-- Creative Writing and maybe psych.

Picking out classes for next quarter is going to be really hard. Everything's filling up fast and my registration date isn't for another week. Ugh. But, after that, I get to head up north for Germain's wedding, for King Tut, for Pancho and Aaron and Jessica and everything that is Perfect, everything that is Home. It's only two days, but it's going to be great.

It's coming quick too. I can't wait.

Creative Writing Project Part 2

Portrait of a Turkish Flower

Part I: Father and Son

When you were a boy in Turkiye, your father would pick you up, his great hands embracing yours, still young. He would wrap his fingers securely around your wrists and begin his tumultuous cycle, spinning in circles like a carousel, the world a blur surrounding you with his laughing face the only clarity before you.

“You,” your father encouraged, “are you going to fly someday.” You believed him.

Those days were always sunny and warm. Because you lived close to the sea, you reveled in being able to run free, shoeless and shirtless, basking in the warmth, soil clinging to the soles of your feet. Your gaze never turned away from the clouds.

As you grew older and nobler, your line of sight shifted from the sky to the sea, and you grew quiet, inquisitive. When your father noticed, he asked, “What’s wrong?”

“I want to sail.”

He stood beside you, his hand lightly squeezing your shoulder, overlooking the cerulean waves. “Then you will sail,” he affirmed.

He never twirled you around again, and you were perfectly fine with that.

Part II: Plumeria

When you were fifteen, your parents moved you to California and you had to put your shoes back on. Even though you lived within walking distance of the Pacific, the steaming asphalt scalded your feet and the water was dirty and the guffawing of seagulls frustrated you.

Once, you dared to lay your head to the ground to listen for a healthy, thrumming heartbeat below the surface. You began to notice how your soft breathing rustled the blades of grass, and you blew harder and they rocked like palm trees in a hurricane. For a moment, you were omnipotent, ferocious.

But then you closed your eyes, took a deep breath, and listened. Nothing. The rush of traffic and the chattering away of people on cell phones was all that reverberated in your ears. Everything was ragged and uneven and ugly.

“California is a death trap—an asthma attack!” you thundered, and you ripped a clump of grass out with your first and sobbed until you were hoarse.

But one day, after you had become accustomed to the static and monochromatic concrete city, you witnessed a miracle. From the withering palm bush in your front yard, a dying creature you never deemed revivable, bloomed a kaleidoscope plumeria, the most beautiful flower you had ever seen—and you realized there was still Hope.

Part III: Kissed by the Sun

Your father used to pluck dandelions and rub them under your chin. Once, as he performed this ritual, as the petal’s playful nipping teeth tickled your neck, a grin (usually the reflection of sunlight on the moon) broke across your face like a sunrise (this is the real thing). His eyes softened as he smiled and inquired,

“Do you love her, son?”

to which you responded, “I love the idea of her.”

You must have lived outside that summer because your hair is sun-bleached, your head the embodiment of the laughter of summer. Head held high, you tilt your chin towards the lens of the camera as if to say, “I do not fear today or tomorrow.” The sun cups your cheek in his strong hands, humming congratulations.

Your father took you Home that summer, and the caress of Turkish sunshine on your skin was the same as in California.

Part IV: Rebirth of the Phoenix

Poised solitary, barefoot on the seaside cliff, you gazed toward the horizon where sky meets sea. You plucked a wish flower from the ground and proclaimed, “My only real motivation in life is that everything has the potential to be beautiful,” before a tempest rushed from your lips, scattering the feather-fingered seeds like newborn spiders parachuting into the world.

Part V: Tenthousand Princes

Standing on a street corner, waiting for the light to turn green, you suddenly panicked, throwing you hand up to your mouth, eyes darting back and forth suspiciously. It was too late, though. You had coughed and a monarch had escaped from your lips and fluttered away. I had seen it. “What just happened?” I asked, eyebrows arching, but you protested,

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” coyly wiggling your way out of the predicament.

But I understand. I know what you are composed of:

Ten thousand butterflies. Ten thousand princes of the earth and sun. Each unique. Each distinct from his brothers, but all singing joyously the same philosophy:

“The Earth is my Mother, the Sky is my Father.”

But the light turned green before I could say anything more, and you disappeared smiling into the crowds of phone-babblers and chit-chatters.

Updates, Updates (Boring Part 1)

Good and bad news.

I've been really homesick. REALLY homesick. Like bawling my eyes out everyday. It really sucks. Nearly all of my friends got to go home this weekend, or get to see some sort of family member or friend who comes to visit them or takes them away. I've been stuck here and I will continue to be stuck here until Germain's wedding, and even then it's only a day. I guess I should stop complaining. Some people don't even really have homes to go home to, so, really, I'm lucky. I just miss it so so so so so so much and it really sucks not being able to see Pancho and Aaron and everyone. I miss Moma too, and it's going to be even longer until I see her! As soon as I get a car, though, it will be so much easier to go Home. I know I won't be able to go Home every weekend, but it will become so much easier.

Chanel and I are looking into housing this week! We're going on an apartments tour this week so we can hopefully pick out one that will be suitable for both of us and then we'll submit an application and we'll be roomies. Chanel is super duper awesome! You would all really like her, I think. I hope that everyone has the chance to meet her eventually (Mom and Budda, mostly, though, and all you homies that read this-- Anna, Jessica, Jessica, Zach?).

I didn't do so well on my midterms. I got a D on my Physics (which was the class average) and a 75% on my Psych (which was higher than the class average). Both of these classes are going to be curved, now, but it still really sucks because I studied and I actually thought I was going to do alright. So, now, because I didn't do well, I'm dropping out of SJA, which really disappoints me, but I have to do what I have to do. I'm here for academics, and that's what I have to focus on. I've been making sure to do my homework everyday and get help from friends if I don't understand something. Creative Writing and Islam are both going pretty well, but I need to get AT LEAST B's in Physics and Psych, and hopefully I'll be able to bring them up to A's. I've never NOT been an A student, really... I even got all A's last quarter, so this is going to be really hard if I get B's in two of my classes. I can't let that happen. I really can't. So, I really am quitting SJA (I was deliberating, but I think actually writing it and saying it out loud rather than questioning it out loud solidifies the decision). Also, they are cancelling all English 1C classes for freshmen and sophomores, but we can replace the requirement by taking Intro to Western Religions or Religious Myths and Rituals, which could be interesting but I was really looking forward to taking English.

Now, I'm looking into taking these classes: Spanish 4, Islam Cultures, Math for Humanities Majors, and another class that I haven't figured out yet. I'm trying to compile my tentative schedules (another reason I had to drop out of SJA was because our big March 4th protest conflicts with my Creative Writing and Islam classes AND my registration period for classes, which can't happen. I HAVE TO REGISTER AT THE TIME ALLOTTED TO ME OR ELSE I WILL MISS OUT!!!). Ugh. This really sucks. I don't want to have to quit because I made a commitment and I feel like such a jerk for quitting, but I have to do what I have to do to make sure my grades stay up and I get the classes that I need next quarter.

I just realized that this is really boring, but it's nearly 3 in the morning and I'm tired and grrrr arrrgh, so I guess I will close with (until tomorrow when I write one that's in greater detail and more upbeat)

I want to get a hamster for next year, but I don't know if it's really a good idea. I guess I can go into more detail tomorrow. I guess all this really does is serve as a reminder to write about getting a hamster. Alrighty. Until tomorrow.

My Name is Frickin' Awesome

It's raining.

This morning, I sat down in my Creative Writing class. I was fashionably early today, although I am usually early for that class. I wasn't paying attention to the clock today, though, and the previous class was let out early, so I sidled into the lecture hall and took my normal seat (front row, third from the right in the middle section). As I listened to the heavily-accented biology professor scold one his students for not completing the reading assignments, a neighbor two seats away from me turns and says, "Grey screen animation never really caught on." (This is the same guy who turned to me the first day of Psychology class when the lights went out and said, "Dark places for dark business.")

I turned to him? "What?"

"Grey screen animation never really caught on." Again, I repeated, "What?..." However, this time I meant, "What?" as in, "What are you trying to say?" "Grey screen animation never really caught on." "What are you saying?" "Grey screen animation never really caught on." "What ar..." "Grey screen..."

"Stop! I know what you're saying. I don't know WHAT you're saying," I interrupted, "You've said that five times, now tell me WHAT you're trying to say."

"Nothing, it was a bad joke." I shrugged and looked back toward the line of the students and the professor, wondering what they all wanted to talk to him about. I thought for a moment and turned back toward my neighbor.

"Your name is Jason right?" I had convinced myself the previous lecture that his name was Dan or Mark or something like that.

"Yes. Your name was?..." I answered, "Heaven." Pretty straightforward, although I usually have to repeat it once until people believe me. He looked at me inquisitively. "What?"

"Heaven." Once again, I said my name. His face didn't change however. "My name is Heaven." This time, as I am accustomed to doing, I pointed the chewed cap of my pen toward the ceiling. He looked at me stupidly, his face scrunching up a little bit, eyebrows going up. "You're talking to an Atheist, so..."

"So?"

"You're talking to an Atheist?"

SO WHAT IF YOU'RE AN ATHEIST?! Seriously. Just because you don't believe that people are going to Heaven after you die doesn't mean that you can refuse to acknowledge my name, especially when you ask. I didn't really say this to him, but it was running through my mind. Instead, I said something about my mom being an atheist and how I still had a biblical name, although it was not from the Bible itself.

"Your mom has a twisted sense of irony, no offense." As we all know, no offense is just the way to say, "I'm going to be rude now, but I'm hoping you won't take it the wrong way." Well, anytime anyone says ANYTHING about my mom, or any of my family, I get heated up. First he refuses to say my name because "he's an atheist" (oooh i don't believe in God ooooh what now!) but now he's saying stuff about my mother. I quickly shot back,

"You don't know my mother so you better not say ONE MORE THING about her." He opened his mouth to say, "I was just saying your mom has a twisted sense of irony." At this point I said, once again, "You don't know ANYTHING about her, so I would suggest we stop talking altogether now." I nodded my head vigorously with finality and turned my attention back toward the book in my lap. And that was that.

Seriously, though, what kind of a JERKFACE can ask my name and then NOT SAY IT just because it's got to do with my name, and then go and start talking nonsense about my mother.

My name is frickin' awesome. I used to think it sort of sucked because everyday I get a new joke about my name, everytime I meet someone new I get a song sung to me. But you know, it's not so bad anymore. I let it slide the first time and just point out the fact that nearly nineteen years of jokes is enough and it's starting to get annoying (especially the one where they say "You have a first name for a last name and a last name for a first time." No, I really think I have a first name for a first name and a last name for a last name.)

Anyway, that's enough of my ridiculous banter. My name's awesomesauce. Ye-uh!

Social Justice and Making Myself Vulnerable

I joined a club, I am proud to announce. The club I joined is called the Social Justice Alliance. We're like the small number of kids on campus who actually seem to care about equality among people (all people) and what the government is doing to the education system, especially in California. We're organizing a huge protest and day of action (well, we're the ones who are trying to get it going in Riverside/The Inland Empire) but it's a statewide thing. It's called "March Forth on March 4th" and basically we're going to be protesting the tuition hikes/budget cuts, and how more money is going to the federal prison system than is going to schools now (if I got that right), or it might have been the same amount of money is going to school as is going to prison. That's seriously an issue, I would say. We're paying for an education that keeps getting worse and worse while the people who teach us (if they're lucky enough to keep their jobs) are also getting their salaries cut and the people who are above them, the UC Regents, keep getting pay increases. In fact, UCR is looking for a Vice Chancellor. As if we need a new one when half of the English department is getting wiped out, without even mentioning all of the other classes that have been eradicated or cut-back. It sucks. We're all paying a crap ton of money to come to this school and pretty soon everyone is going to be feeling the affects of it. I'm rambling and getting off topic. The point was that I joined the Social Justice Alliance, and that I'm helping to organize a protest. Everyone's really nice that I've met, and everyone's super passionate about what we're doing. Tomorrow (Saturday), we're going to be making signs and t-shirts, writing letters to the editor and drafting up more flyers, while also making little crafty things to sell. What I've noticed is that the leaders of the club, especially the ones that inspired me to join, are all super hippies. They're the dudes who rock dreadlocks and cotton shirts and sit in drum circles. I've always wanted to sit in on one of their circles but I've always been too shy, but now I'm learning their names and getting to know them, so maybe eventually I'll be able to.

Oh no. Aaron always warned me about staying away from the drum circles in Golden Gate Park, but look at what I'm doing! I'm trying to get in on the only one at UCR. I always knew that's where I was going. Maybe I'm not one of them, but it's okay to be friends with them, you know. I don't see a problem in trying to meet the people whom I admire. So, it's pretty cool.

I'm actually going to be a security person at the protest (hopefully). It's a peaceful demonstration, so what I have to learn how to do next week is to manipulate someone who could be getting in my face or the face of someone who's in the protest. Eddie (one of th leaders) did a pretty good impression. His eyes got wide and his palms went out in front of himself a little bit and he kind of backed up, saying, "Dude, you're scaring me." It's going to be pretty cool to learn how to do that. I can implement the training in different situations in life too. Hopefully it will help me be less of a confrontational person. I'm not a fan of confrontation, but at this point I have no problem with standing up for someone (verbally or physically) when the time calls for it. I have to learn how to not be like that. It's not a good mindset, and I don't REALLY have that mindset often, but sometimes it just comes out. Anyway, that will be pretty neat. It will help me judge my reactions better as well as those around me who are also confrontational.

In other news, I have successfully become a Jew. I've been saying I was Jewish for the past seven years (because I am!) and people here (the Jews!) are saying, "Yeah, you even look Jewish! Except your nose!" My friend Anthony (not a Jew) and Danny (super-Jew) were talking about it and they said, "Jewish girls either look super Jewish, or they look like Heaven." I thought that was really cool. Danny went on and said, "Except for the nose, which is weird because that is usually what gives Jews away." But, seriously, I feel totally Jewish. I have stopped eating pork 100%. Yesterday, I went to get sammich at the sammich shop by my dorm building and the sammich I got was deceiving: It said Turkey and cheese but it was really HAM AND CHEESE! The Turkey and Cheese sticker had been stuck over the Ham and Cheese sticker and I didn't notice until I had already paid for it and gone back to my room. Luckily it was unopened. It was busy in Logo's (sammich shop) that afternoon, and when I went to tell the student lunch ringer that I couldn't eat the ham for cultural reasons, she said, "Did you get it today? I don't remember your face." She had looked me right in the eye when she rang me up, yet she didn't remember my face not five minutes later. "Seriously, I don't remember your face." What I had to do was go dig my receipt out of a trashcan FULL of receipts, show it to her, and then I was able to switch my impostor sammich for a REAL turkey sandwich. And then I ate it and Rawr. It was good.

So, I guess now I'm going to share somethings that I wrote in my Creative Writing class. We're doing this project called "56 Publishing Project" and this was the first REVISION draft that I did (off of the topic : write about a picture you see everyday). Tell me what you think!

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In this photograph, you are a prince in commoner’s clothing. I have always suspected that was the truth, but you would never admit it, even if I were to ask politely. You hold your head high, chin tilted toward the lens, as if to say, “I do not fear today nor tomorrow, and neither should you.” Your yellow shirt, dyed by the dandelions your father used to rub under your chin, absorbs the sun’s rays ; for a moment, it seems as though they are actually pouring from your heart and emanating from your skin, engulfing the yellow in purity.

That was the day your father asked you, “Do you love her, son?” and you responded, “I love the idea of her.”

Golden thread is spun into your black jacket, braids of fountains and flowers. Your jacket reminds me of the courtship of the phoenix—they are the true hidden Mahdi—and the potential that this burning love could last until the end of days. These embroideries are memories of when you would sail your ships, proclaiming a life of piracy. Whoever said a pirate had to be a scoundrel? The only one I’ve ever met is a gentleman and a star-gazer, a puppeteer and a philosopher. You teach children weather conjuring incantations in their native tongue, and someday you will whisper these same spells to summon a wind that will take you to the middle of the Mediterranean. I think once you get there, you’ll stay.

An intricately woven sash is tied around your waist, a carefully cultivated botanical garden. Here grow tulips and butterfly bushes, plumeria and splashes of lavender. I think you wear it to keep your secret garden locked within; one time you coughed and I swear I saw a monarch flutter from your lips. You played it off like nothing happened, but I know of the beauty you conceal.

“My only real motivation in life is that everything has the potential to be beautiful.”

This garb, you said, belongs to your father from his village at Home in Turkiye. When you stay too long in California, you start to feel trapped. This is home, but it’s not Home. Home is where your spirit runs free, where you can hear the sound of your Mother’s breathing. Here, her voice is raspy from a recent asthma attack. At Home her voice is soft, singing, rejoicing, “Holy, holy to the Lord.”

The Earth is your Mother, the Sky is your Father. That is how I know you are a prince.

Your surroundings are really unimportant. Vines grow up a trellis and a fern stretches its fingers toward the wooden patio planks beneath your feet. The misty blue sky is imprisoned behind stretching branches of red and green leaves. I would usually say that this composition isn’t all that great, but it’s your posture and the angle of your chin and your hands tucked behind your back and the slight curve of your eyebrows and the calm written on your lips that really get to me. They are enough to make me break down and cry for “what is not but could be if.”

All I can really think to ask these days are trivial questions. Why? I feel as though I’ve wasted too much time and I’m never going to be given the opportunity to ask you what really matters. Why couldn’t I have just called your name that afternoon I saw you, if only to just smile and wave before continuing on my way down the hummingbird trail. If only: two of the most bitter words on my tongue—they break my heart a little bit every time I sigh, every time I get lost in the weaving of my shoelaces or the cracks in the sidewalk.

How do I stop loving this stranger, this prince of supernovas and shadowpuppets? Will there ever be a starry night when I am the manifestation of the cotton princess? Will I ever be the one to hold you back when you try to walk into the deep to hear the talk of the sea? The girl that runs beside you in a pack of wolves? It would suffice, even, to gaze into your coffee eyes and find my home away from Home—you—my prince of dreams, my prince of possibility, my prince of…

My prince of…

I don’t know. It doesn’t matter. You’re just perfect and your mother is lucky to have you. There is no chance that I ever will.

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I guess that's all for now. I'll add more as the weekend goes by