Monday, April 18, 2011
I've been going through some personal problems and the level of stress right now it's reaching it's peak. I have decided that for right now, I need to go on a bit of a hiatus with my posts. I'm sorry and I hope you understand. Thank you.
Saturday, April 16, 2011
Here's my performance of Concrete Streets at an event at UCI with Nghiem, the vice president of the Uncultivated Rabbits, which was before a Blue Scholars concert on campus. Let me know what you think!
Wednesday, April 13, 2011
"Dare to step out of your comfort zone today." ~ Joel Olsteen
What's one time you stepped out of your comfort zone, good or bad?
Monday, April 11, 2011
(This is a small piece I wrote for Take Back the Night on campus, but since I didn't get a time slot with the Uncultivated Rabbits for the event, I'll just share the piece on here. It relates the men, who sexually assault women, to the boogeyman.)
Let me tell you something that you would've never guessed,
The boogeyman exists
Just as much as shadows
He crawls up behind you
Wearing human skin
Has sincere eyes but they are placed in his skull to shine like jewels to deceive because they are fake.
He tricks women into falling into bed with him
You think there is nothing up his sleeves
He hypnotizes and stuns them with fear
He has these long hands that are as cold as the dead’s
He whispers the things girls love to hear but they all mean nothing to him
He steals more than their hearts
He burglarizes their bodies
Taking away their passion, their feelings, and leaving them with nothing
Except in the dark and wanting to go back home or time way before they ever saw the beast.
The boogeyman exists,
He lives even after he disappears
Inside your head
Infecting your mind
Repeating those memories, those nightmares, and that night,
He is a monster come to life--
And you begin to see him everywhere
Across the streets or behind you in the mirror
There waiting for another round
Smiling and licking his mouth
Can’t help but try and forget that night and the sounds of screams
And the powerful wishing for it to stop,
And how everything went all wrong.
Breathing is heavier than it ever was before,
Lungs feel like they are about to explode like dynamite inside,
Your mind swallows all that has just occurred
Because you just saw a real-life monster.
The boogeyman exists
But now instead of living in the outside world
He takes residence inside of you
And will forever be there until you vanquish him
Like the way you did when you were a little kid
By taking it one step at a time
Hiding underneath the blankets won’t protect you this time
Turning on the lights might help,
But the only real way to stop him
The only real way of keeping him away
Is to beat him at his own game,
Make him frightened of you
By being stronger than him
You have to stop hiding underneath those sheets
Have to stop wishing
And start doing
By becoming stronger and fighting off the monster
Admit you were defeated once,
But know that you will thrive again
Like a blossoming flower against the snow, the wind, and everything else
You will eventually bloom
You will outstand all those others
By speaking your mind
By letting go of the monster on your back
In your mind and in your eyes,
All it takes is to move your lips, breathe, and speak
Tell others your stories
Warn them of the boogeyman
Because he exists,
But not underneath the bed or in your closet anymore
He lives on the streets
Disguised as us,
Real human beings.
Who is the boogeyman for you?
Saturday, April 9, 2011
(Lately, I haven't been one for cute, lovey-dovey poems or just love in general because I'm still trying to figure out what that means, but here's one from a while back that I wrote about some random girl that I met and had a few good times with.)
I want to write a love poem for you,
But I don’t think every word in this language and every language in the world is enough
To describe how much I really like you.
How about a picture then,
They say a picture is a thousand words,
But to describe you for what you really are,
For who you truly are,
I would have to take a billion of a million pictures with a trillion photographers and painters,
Just to describe one side of you
And for those of you wondering,
That’s a lot of zeros.
But I’m not good at painting or photography,
So I have to stick with just words for right now
And might as well start with those words that I know
And I’ll start with English,
Move my way into Armenian,
Learn all the romantic tongues
And work my way down to the dead languages, like Latin
So, here it goes—
Your eyes are gentle and are like dark lakes that have a glimmer of light as if the moon was reflecting in the darkest of night,
Your eyes seem like that they can pull anyone in and they ripple every time you see a familiar friend,
They shake and you open the door to your soul whenever you have your eyes meet someone else’s
You invite them into your mind.
You took me in one time—
But I never got out.
You know how to write, you know how to paint, you create music for everyone to hear
You want to make a noise
So people can hear you,
But you don’t like all the attention
Because you’re shy
And I find it funny every time
That you burst out into laughter
And turn as red as the beautiful rose that you are,
And the way that you crinkle your nose
When you think something is up between the two of us,
Especially on my side
Because you know I always want to surprise you with something new.
And I love how you stand up
And always want to try something new
Like really exciting and spontaneous things that actually kind of scare me,
But it’s okay as long as I’m with you,
But do we really have to go bungee jumping or wave riding?
Sky diving is cool with me as long as I can share my parachute with you.
And you know how to listen,
Your ears point up as soon as you hear a voice
You take all their words into memory
Imagine the stories that they are telling you
Give them advice and make them find their way again through the dark
All they have to see are those glimmering whites in your black eyes
And they’ll find their way out of the shadows
Because your eyes are like lanterns.
Your hands are not soft, but rough
From all those battle-scars you hold,
And when they grasp mine they are warm
But I didn’t mind holding them
And dancing with you.
Oh, and dancing,
That’s another thing you just so happen to be good at too,
So passionate that even though the guy is supposed to lead,
You started to lead me,
I was about to do some twirls and spins,
But you stopped me with a smile
And said that you will follow me.
You think you are weird,
But I think that we are all a little bit kooky on the inside,
I’m especially crazy around you
But that’s just my normal self,
Because I know that I can trust you enough to see the real me.
And we do have those endless talks,
But they are always about something new
And something deep to think about,
And sometimes I end up running my mouth
But I love how I got to know you
And you got to know me
And yet there is still that hint of mystery behind each of our histories,
But there is still time
To figure out all the pieces of each other and
All the secrets between us
So just give it more time.
Every time I’m around you I’m nervous,
And after all of this,
I still haven’t admitted a single word
Of how much I really want us to date,
How much I want us to be together,
But right now, let’s just keep it like this,
Because I don’t want to screw anything up,
But yeah, this is only the first part of the story
And I have a few more languages to continue it in,
So now, onto Armenian!
What is love to you? It can be a symbol, action, sign, something that happened in your life, anything.
Wednesday, April 6, 2011
"The unreal is more powerful than the real. Because nothing is as perfect as you can imagine. Because its only intangible ideas, concepts, beliefs, fantasies that last. Stone crumbles. Wood rots. People, well, they die. But things as fragile as a thought, a dream, a legend, they can go on and on. If you can change the way people think. The way they see themselves. The way they see the world. You can change the way people live their lives. That's the only lasting thing you can create." Chuck Palahniuk, Choke
What do you think is immortal? What is something you've done that you think will last a very long time, whether it is an action, piece of art, etc?
Monday, April 4, 2011
A girl asked me
In a moment of my life
When most of my beliefs disappeared like the way the dust disperses in the wind
And I didn’t know how to respond or answer
So, I hesitated and gave myself some time to think about the question by asking her what it was that she meant,
And she said to answer the question as I see fit,
“So, what do you believe in, Stitch?”
I thought of a lot of things while I stared at my own two feet
I told her that I believed in concrete streets
Things that I can touch and that I can see,
Things like human beings and their capabilities
To do both good and bad
I believe in the angels that live on these streets,
Because angels are people like you and me,
They don’t live in the sky,
They live and they die,
Perform miracles almost every day
By smiling and saying the right thing to the right person and giving a hug when it’s needed.
They take their time and make it someone else’s
Sacrifice themselves but not for God but for you and I,
And they don’t have wings or halos that we can see,
Their wings are not made out of feathers but out of the hands behind their backs from all those people that they helped and touched,
Those hands are things that lift them up
Higher than the sky,
And they fly into people’s memories and swim through people’s minds,
Where they can live forever,
See those hands on their backs are the things that make them more divine,
They have the support of all those that they never left behind,
Their halos are bigger than their heads and it is the circle of people in their lives that encompass them,
These angels are greater than you ever imagined.
And the more that you believe, the more you begin to see what their halos and wings look like and what makes them so divine and so different from you and I.
And then I told her, “You know there’s a chance that we can become street angels too,
All we have to do is smile and press our own hands against people’s backs
Help support them and become their crutch when they need us,
Do things like offer our place in line or sacrifice our time to help others,”
But the girl stopped me there,
Shook her head and said,
“What about the devils of the streets?”
And I told her that just as much as angels exist, devils do too,
They live to kill and to destroy all those things that human beings and street angels create,
They rather solve problems with violence and guns,
They rather solve problems with violence and guns,
Rather sacrifice others than themselves,
And their horns are made from all those bones that they broke,
And their tongues are cut into two from all those lies that that they spoke,
Their tails are those chains that they carry in the back of their pockets that don’t hold wallets but are used to choke people’s throats,
Their eyes are bloodshot and yellow from all those injections that they took filling themselves with all sorts of drugs that cloud their minds and make them think they are flying when they are not,
Their skin is the color of red painted by all the blood that they spread on those very same streets that they live in,
They call themselves kings and sit on make believe thrones,
But if you live there, it really isn’t a place you can call home,
But a nightmarish hell even the devil wouldn’t want.
And then the girl asked me,
“Who will win between the two?”
I told her that it isn’t a competition or a game,
Because people’s lives are at stake,
And just as much as angels can live and die,
Devils aren’t immortal-
They make mistakes and they can fall,
Everyone sheds blood and tears
And they all know the true meaning of fear,
They know how to feel, how to love, and how to hate
They just strayed down the wrong path and it’s never too late, because they can always come back from where they are
And switch sides as soon as they want,
Because they have that choice
To start building those wings made out of hands
And break off those horns and make them into halos,
Sew that tongue of two with a thread of truth,
Wash off the blood that colors their skin
And break those chains of punishment.
The girl stopped me again,
And asked me, “Can street angels become devils too?”
I sighed and said it works for both sides.
And that she just needs to realize what’s right.
Maybe not until we die
And maybe a few more generations later
When they all see how much of the streets actually bled
And see how many bodies were lined in chalk,
How many of their friends would actually fall,
How many graves they would count until it even outnumbered the stars
And wishing that they would’ve done something sooner,
And then, only then, they will notice it all,
They will notice their horns and their tails,
They will notice their wings and halos,
They will put their differences aside
And make it a fight
But not against each other or one another
But fixing what they had done and start cleaning up those streets
At least, that’s what I believe.
I believe that the only things immortal are those streets and its history,
I believe that angels and devils can coexist,
But they have to understand each other’s differences
And comprehend that they can all do right and all do wrong
I believe that we need to stop all the fighting and crying
I believe that we need to stand tall like those street lights that illuminate these streets at night,
Rise up against all the hate and discrimination across the streets of the nation
And build a better future for tomorrow
By starting today.
I believe in sharing these beliefs not between you and me
But with the entire world
And that’s what I believe.
And I also believe that you, you can share this story too
So start singing, whispering, talking, laughing, and screaming in the streets for what you believe in.
Because, I believe in peace.”
What do you believe?
Saturday, April 2, 2011
Writing a journal isn’t the easiest thing for me. I’ve attempted and reattempted many times, but I never got around to it until this year, when I was required to do it for a class. It’s a great way of keeping track of my memories, my anxieties, my ideas, what’s going on in my life at the time, and just another way to release some of the demons of my mind onto the page.
And I think I’ll keep up the habit of writing a journal until the end of my undergraduate year of college, so I could look back on how much I’ve grown, how much I’ve been through, how much I’ve seen, and all that’s in between.
I have already snuck a peek at it once or twice and couldn’t believe some of things that I had forgotten. You know I always had this feeling in the back of my mind that somehow I’m going to contract some sort of memory losing disease and never remember who I am, what I have done, who I am friends with, or my family. Being all alone in the world with nothing or no one is probably one of my greatest fears in life, which is probably why I save all my adventures down in my journal or on my blog, which is why I collect all this junk on my Memory Wall, or why I try to remember everyone’s name that I meet.
I have the fear of forgetting.
I’ve written probably a handful of stories of people with no pasts or who had lost their pasts along the way of their journeys. They try to get by and make themselves new lives and I guess I truly look up to people who can do that to survive. I don’t think I can ever be capable of doing that. My characters are composed of the people I’ve met in my life, in fiction and in reality that I admire.
So, keeping a journal was always a tough thing to do because I didn’t want to write in it every day and fill it up with useless information, so I decided to write down only the necessities or major things that I’m going through. However, I think I’ve hit a speed bump on this road to journal writing, which I’m sure that some other journal writers have hit as well.
I can’t seem to write anymore in the journal. I feel unmotivated and lost. I have all these thoughts that I want to put on the page, but I can’t seem to organize them down into words. I just wish that I could pull out the words from my brain, heart, and tongue and slather the page with all those memories and thoughts, but I am hesitant. As soon as my pen lightly dots the page and I’m prepared to write a word— I just freeze. The lines start to look like prison bars. The pen is glued to my hand, but won’t write a single word.
And I tell myself, “You can write.”
But I doubt those three words. My anxiety has reached its peak. One of my friends, Dalia, advised me to try and wait it out with the journal writing. So, that’s what I’m planning on doing. Sometimes good things come to those who wait, right?
Do you keep a journal or diary? How do you feel about it?
- Now, a college student attending University of California, Irvine. A new journey begins, new friends will be made, new obstacles will be challenged, and a new mind will be created from the remnants of the old. Follow me on my journey, just take my hand, blink once, and start reading.
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