Thursday, August 7, 2014

New York to Chile

Just another update. I'm leaving for Chile tomorrow, to visit family. I haven't been in seven years, so it should be memorable, and I'm going to try and enjoy every second. And take photographs to post on this blog, of course. I'm predicting a good bit of culture shock, and a bit of actual shock because it's going to be cold. I'm applying for college, so that's fun (not) and exciting (admittedly). It just scares me, mostly. I've also been reading a lot, and writing songs maybe kind of. I watched The Virgin Suicides for the first time. I'm such a freaking teenage girl. Anyway, here are some mid-summer snapshots.


Washington Square Arch.

Favorite place in the United States.

Re-reading my favorite book.

Skater boi sighting at the marina.

Suburban vibez.

Besties and stuff.

Current mood:

Saturday, July 12, 2014

early summer colors

A little early summer photo diary of pictures I've taken with my phone and edited accordingly.


I saw The Cripple of Inishmaan at the Cort Theatre and I'm really passionate about how spectacular Daniel Radcliffe was. Lovely little theatre, too.

Le Pain Quotidien, my favorite food chain EVER.

Fun ocean time with my brother at Cedar Beach.


Possibly the best rice pudding to enter my mouth in my lowly seventeen years. See also: unironic Maraschino cherry.

Being social.

A suburban tiki torch. (Should "tiki torch" be capitalized? Is there a patent holder clutching his heart somewhere, screaming, over the genericization of his trademark?)

PRETTY MUCH THE BEST TYPE OF PEN TO EVER EXIST. My friend bought me one in Flushing a year ago and I used the angelic writing utensil dry. I found another one in an art supply store this weekend. *cries*

Current mood:



Love,
Ana

Tuesday, July 8, 2014

journals

I thought I'd share some pages from my journal today. They don't make a lot of sense, but I think journals that do make a lot of sense are like the end products of paint-by-numbers sets; very pleasing on a shelf, but lacking in scope/passion/ART. I try to write at strange hours, when my mind can forget to care about conventions and judgements and the like. So yeah. Normally I would end this paragraph with some kind of apology but I'm trying not to do that so much.





P.S. I'm going to start ending my posts with a song or two that I'm currently f~e~e~l~i~n~g.

So, current mood:

Monday, June 23, 2014

on school newspapers

I thought I would bore you all with a bit of creative nonfiction-y stuff today. Maybe it'll end up in my imaginary memoir one day, Girl Writes About Life and Other Inconsequential Things. Oh wait, I'm not supposed to apologize for my work before you read it. In that case, ENJOY. 


We arrive in my grey car, the windows blurred with raindrops and smudged color. I step out on to the grey pavement. The grey sky hovers above my shoulders like a polyester tent heavy with rain water. I pull my hat over my ears and head towards the front doors of the school, thinking about the absurdity of my being here on a Saturday morning, about how exactly one week ago I was asleep under my thick cotton duvet, alarm clock unplugged, a furry mass of legs and ears and knees breathing steadily at my feet. I pull open the door and walk into the lobby. The wooden heels of my boots are too loud as I walk down the empty hallway. There is no one here, but the posters and flyers on the walls remind me that every Monday 1,600 minds come here to live and 1,600 (wild) souls come here to die. I near the end of the well-lit hallway and I hear fingers crashing into white keyboards. Only I don’t hear white keyboards, obviously, only keyboards, but I know those white ones like I know my fingertips. (I wouldn’t call the backs of my hands much more than close acquaintances.)
The clacking gets louder and I enter into the room on my left. Rows of tired, drooping heads sit behind rows of sleek, bleached monitors, the boxes of concentrated light painting strange shadows under their eyes and chins. I walk over thirty-two small black linoleum tiles to my seat, the last computer in a row of six. My hand runs over the smooth back side of the monitor looking for the power button, taking two seconds too long because my laptop at home is a clunky Dell the kind of primary blue only a seventh-grader would choose.
The dark screen explodes to white. My well-loved fingers find their places on the keyboard and type the account password. While the account loads I pull open the drawer behind me and lift out a wrinkled page of names and phone numbers. They are invisible tethers to writers drifting in unknown space, their pieces long overdue.
Around me people breathe in and breathe out, their voices still dormant in their throats at eight in the morning. But when one person talks it punctures the watery film between us all and conversations crop up and swell. I talk about inconsequential things, like spaces after periods and dog training and the weather. When I turn my attention back to the articles and InDesign layouts sitting on the screen, it’s reluctantly. Dotted grids and lines of thick black text assault me. But  I acquiesce and spend the next couple hours editing, clicking, nudging.
At eleven, we decide that we are hungrier than usual and send someone out for bagels. Half an hour later he comes back with a steaming brown paper bag the size of his chest and sets it down on the radiator, under the window, with a carton of orange juice and some cream cheese.  We rush towards the food like to a drop of honey, cramming and sticking.
When I eat, crumbs fall between the edges of the keys and I have to brush them off into the trash can, straining the coated keyboard wire as I hold up the flat white tablet towards the tall black bin.
I finish the page I was working on and select print from the drop down menu. The printer is worryingly silent for a minute, and I sigh at the prospect of pressing random buttons until the machine boots up again. But then I hear what are probably ancient, steampunk-esque metal gears whirring inside the Xerox printer and I breathe another sigh, this one of relief. The tepid page crawls out of the dark slit. The paper radiates heat and the black lettering is crisp and dark, thankfully. I take a moment to look over the page. There’s an article about the ugly, towering power lines erected down the road. It looks fine.
After, I walk across the hall and pass the page to our staff advisors to edit. When I walk back I meet my co-editor as she passes through the doorway of the computer lab too. Her cheeks are flushed from the cold, and she is as cheerful as ever as she hums the closing number of Les Miserables. She clicks aimlessly for a few minutes and asks me to edit an article that just came in as she walks around the room, squeaking out a few ebullient little hellos before returning to her seat. We clack for three more hours, talking about David Foster Wallace and cronuts and trying to project our voices up and over the still-bulky masses of our monitors.
Closing time is a while after two in the afternoon. Computers fade to black and heads rise, still rosy because it’s too hot in this room and because we’re too young to squint and go pallid before pixelated screens.
My co-editor is still perky as we walk out. She is a self-proclaimed drooping mess during the school day, but bubblier than a bottle of cherry red soda as we work on the paper. Not as much can be said for everyone else, but we trudge through our work in her shadow, with our heads half-high.
I’m here every other Saturday, and, as much as I twist and turn before getting up and opening the blinds, I find refuge in the consistent clicking and muted conversations of the early morning. And as much as I claim blood rushing through my veins and clean air and adventure and all that livens my soul, I’m a fat, indolent calico cat at heart. Words comfort me in the same way. Numbers attack the right side of my brain, and algebra, that unnatural blend of letters and numbers, leaves me at a loss. But my fingers sink into a keyboard with ease. Lines comfort me, as does the immediate usefulness of the vocabulary I gleaned from the piles of books I read as a kid. Not that I’m not still a kid. Just a kid slightly more familiar with Adobe InDesign and Photoshop, trying not to sink under the weight of looming college applications.

Saturday, June 14, 2014

summer and PLANS

My last day of classes was on Thursday. I have to say that I am wholly impressed with the amount of work I had to finish on Wednesday night, and with the conscious determination with which I put it all off until one in the morning on Wednesday night. But all that is (more or less) done now. Summer plans include: completing a psychology research project for the Intel Science Talent Search, even though I have no intention of being a psychologist or a researcher or a scientist, reading a lot of things (mainly Crime & Punishment, because that is one of those Books To Read Before You Die and, you know, I might die on my way to Starbucks later, so I better get on that), painting a lot of things, filling out college applications, and collecting a sizable vial of tears shed over college applications (scientific value to be determined). But I ALSO plan to be posting on this blog a lot more often. Cool? Cool. Just another update.

Love,
Ana