Valentines pt. II

With love to my Butterfly King and first Valentine, Michael. xoxox

Happy Valentine's Day!

I'm using an old forgotten blog of mine to host uploads for surprise Valentines' drawings for my friends.

UGU ~~~~~~~~~


Made in the style of the anime fanart I did when I was in high school. Burn brush, baby, burn brush.

Now I'm in college

I've finished up with my re-cap of high school journalism. Woo-hoo! It's on to the "continued autobiographical bits" that I promised in the first post!

Now I'm in college. Actually, I've been in college for over a year now (eep!) and have plenty to write about. In fact, I already did some writing, so why don't I post that first? I mean, I have a bazillion witty things to say about all aspects of my collegiate experience thus far, but the thing that inspired the most actual writing was...(drumroll please)...a boy! Well, less the boy himself and more the all-consuming anti-romantic existential crisis meeting him precipitated in me.

Yes, I have quite a bit of writing about that lying around this hard drive.

Let's get started with this:

I may have always had certain romantic tendencies, just percolating for who knows how long, but it was late last winter that I think I became a true romantic. Or Romantic, rather, as it was the literature of the English Romantic period that engendered the blossoming of such feelings in me: love of nature, love of people, love of love. I'd had these loves already, but now they were my whole world and there was a new feeling added to them: an intense desire to share these loves with someone else. Ah…

The big irony of my existence must now be addressed: I've never had the slightest bit of romance in my life with another person (just with dead authors and books and ideas, you could say). I've never even held hands in a romantic way with a guy (or girl, for that matter). I've been asked on a date twice (both in my freshman year of high school when I wasn't really into guys yet, and definitely not these two guys whom I hadn't gotten to know too well at the time and didn't ever attract me.) I've asked out someone once (it was very nearly twice, but, ah, you'll see) and he said no. I've yet to be in a situation of mutual interest.

There. That's that. I'm not going to use this diary to whine about my loneliness or pander for pity. For whatever reasons this is just what is.

I came to Berkeley with my head echoing with the assurances of friends, family, and even casual acquaintances whom I'd told of my romantic worries: "You'll find someone in college." I've always been incredibly studious and made academics and learning my top priority (possibly a factor in my failure to attract a boyfriend) -- but soon I found those convictions were taking a backseat to looking for that promised Someone. I became the giggly (though not flirtatious) boys-on-the-brain girl I'd never dreamed I'd become (in fact I always I'd previously loathed this sort of character in books and movies). So I ended up with an identity crisis on my hands as well as a love crisis. But this seems pretty natural given that I was striking out on my own for the first time and going through a sort of protracted late puberty.

Anyway, I found an object for my huge free-floating affections quite soon. This was a relief as I was still lying awake at night thinking of the last boy I'd liked (this is the one who turned me down -- I have written much about this experience already and can relate it to you separately) though I'd found a fair degree of closure with him and left him behind with the rest of my friends who were still in high school.

It was during Welcome Week in late August, the evening after my roommates and I got back from spending a hot and crowded day in San Francisco with a group of people from our dorm unit. I went with my roommates to get dinner at Foothill Dining after taking a shower. My hair was still wet and I was wearing frightfully old and linty pajamas, giant panda slippers and no bra. If I can take no other lesson from the experience that began that night it is to always dress for dinner. You never know when your roommate is going to pick the table with the man of your dreams on one end.

For the preceding nights the three of us had been trying to meet people (mostly boys) and tonight was my more gregarious roommate Natschja's turn to choose which diner we'd introduced ourselves too. She quickly pointed out a particularly good-looking young man eating a vegetarian rice bowl by himself. I was instantly struck by the features of him that were like those of my last crush: he was very tall and rail-thin, with a long, angular pale face (like the moon, I always thought of them both). He too was quiet, laconic, and solitary (thereby mysterious and attractively so). But within a few weeks of knowing him, he as a separate and unique (in many fascinating ways unlike my previous crush or anyone else I knew) person quite commanded my whole fancy.

But back to our first meeting: we took our seats at the table with him, with me furthest from him, at the edge of the table to accommodate my saxophone in its case which I'd taken with me with vague plans to practice in the rec room after dinner. Still, I had a full view of his face and was taken with his long pale eyelashes, thinly curling dark lips, lopsided white grin, etc., etc. But what really captured me, had me (and for the time being my roommates as well) in a flutter was his manner and, how shall I say? Oddness? Mysteriousness? For our conversation, which unexpectedly lasted for five or so hours, until we were kicked out of the dining hall at eleven, was strange, enticingly so. He spoke with a very tight economy of words, careful and stoic, while we three girls babbled and giggled and searched for questions to ask this neatly-dressed stranger who seemed to have stepped out of another time period or something for his politeness, reservation, and tastes quite out of the norm. We struggled to find some common interest to discuss. Natschja asked him right away if he listened to her favorite indie bands (her first test for every new acquaintance); he was unacquainted with them, just as we turned out to be unfamiliar with his musical preferences, which centered on classical and experimental music. We had the same sort of mutual unfamiliarity with movies (though my other roommate, Amadeia, was able to discuss some foreign films with him for a little while), his tastes again being for the arcane and artsy.

Finally, I had what I wrongly hoped for some time afterwards had been a "spark" when we got down the line to books. It turned out that he, like me an avid and knowledgeable reader and student of literature. In fact, he became the first (and as yet only) person of my same age to make me feel that my knowledge of literature was not cutting edge and that I should get out and read even more. Ach! I was doomed to fall for him as soon as I realized here was someone who knew even more about 19th century literary movements than me! And he was beautiful.

Graduatin'

The Final Column as it Actually Appeared in The Righetti High School Legend, June 2009

Well, folks, it's that time of year again. If you listen hard enough, you can almost here strains [of] "Pomp and Circumstance" echoing in the wind. This year, the song is playing for me. That means that this is The Last Issue. But let me stop before I go all sentimental on you. I hate to admit it, but I really am a sentimental person. I thought I was immune to the boo-hoo graduation sickness, but I guess I'm not. I actually wanted to give a speech at graduation. I tried my darnedest, but I didn't make the final cut. But with this big, empty page of newspaper before me, I can give my speech anyway!

****

So, here we are graduating. Here I am, giving a speech about it. Life is funny. But, before I say anything else, I must give thanks and commendations to the band. They are sitting right over there; cold, bored, and ruing the day Edward Elgar composed Pomp and Circumstance without a thought to the pain it would bring generations of band students. I was over there every year of high school and remember listening to speeches just like this and thinking APff. What does this have to do with me? I=m not graduating yet!@ and AHow could you ever feel sentimental about Righetti? High school is totally not that great.@ AWhen can I eat lunch?@ So, guys, I=ll be brief and try to stay away from sappiness and cliches.

When I first witnessed this ceremony four years ago, it was strictly business: I came with the band. I didn=t know the graduates that well and they seemed old and distant. And after 30 minutes of playing the same four lines of music over and over, I was tired, bored, and pessimistic. The rest of the ceremony floated over my head with the A>06" mylar balloons.

The next year, I brought my knitting and completed much of a shoulder bag as I listened to the speeches. I still regarded them and the whole event with disaffection, maybe even more than before. Sophomore year had been the height of my antisocial days. I rolled my eyes at school spirit and laughed at the idea that I could ever be sad or wistful about leaving.

But last year, something changed in me. That time, I felt different as I watched the stream of purple squares ascend the stage. These seniors were closer to me, and I felt more affected by their passing. But the bigger change was within myself: I was then aware that I was in the second half of high school. It was the better half, too. I felt wiser, friendlier, more open. High school was finally making some sense! We reach a point, sometimes sooner, sometimes later, when we groove into our situation. I did just as I realized that this was the last graduation I=d watch from the band bleachers. Next year, I=d be the one in purple, the one looking old and big and distant, maybe even the one given the sappy speech.

This revelation brought with it a wave of sentimentality. Oh, man, even me! Darn it all, I=m just a big softie. But I think there was reason behind my sudden nostalgia. I redefined school spirit in that moment. It doesn=t have to be this blind love of high school, the time or the place; but rather, it=s camaraderie (and sometimes commiseration) with the people who went through it all with you. After enough time, bonds develop regardless of where we fit in (or don=t). Until this time, I=d thought that high school and all its pageantry was just for the popular kids, the recognized names, the frequently pictured in the yearbook faces, the Abest of the best@ winners. But no, it=s not. Those methods of judging worth are bunk, utter and complete bollocks, because our experiences are way bigger.

I=m getting pretty philosophical, huh. Sorry. This is all to say that I feel impelled to give a speech so that I might reach out to all the unrecognized people, the also-rans, the non-winners. This speech is for you. I=m one of you, myself.

And speaking of this speech, well, geez. That day last June as I packed up my saxophone and first considered writing a speech seems so distant now. My head swarmed with ideas and I don=t even remember half of them. This whole speech writing thing is actually really, really hard. I am sorry I ever looked down on past speakers.

At this point in our lives, we seniors are feeling a great many strong emotions, some contradictory. It=s hard to say anything neat and nice and unifying about it. It=s confusing: we have joy, we have regret; we have excitement, we have fear; we are commencing, we are saying good-bye. We want to be cool, shrug this off and get on with our lives, but the people, places, and experiences we are leaving behind demand some recognition.

I can=t tell you just what you should make of these conflicting emotions. Graduation seems to be composed of antithetical ideas and there=s no escaping the push and pull of this growing up time. But, we shouldn=t even try to escape it. Now we must become the thing that lies between the opposing ideas, stoked by their friction into a greater sense of who we are and what we can be. As one of my favorite authors, F. Scott Fitzgerald, said AThe test of a first-rate intelligence is the ability to hold two opposed ideas in the mind and still retain the ability to function.@

Gotta stop myself before I get any more grandiose than that. We are all being tested and that=s a good thing. Sometimes, it gets really hard to function (I bet I=m not the only one that procrastinated like mad with that senior project). But function we did, because, well, we=re here aren=t we? And what better way to end my speech than on this obvious statement with convoluted existential undertones. Never stop pondering.

Thank you, everyone, for staying awake. My ego is much better for it. I hope you got stirred up or at least a trifle amused by that speech. If you didn=t; at least it=s over now. Good-bye, everyone.

****

So, you won't be hearing that speech at graduation, but if you go, you will get to hear me perform a certain march for 30 minutes or until I have an aneurysm, whichever comes first. Yes, I decided to play with the band this year as a volunteer. After all those years of loathing the performance, I realized that it was actually sort of important. And this year, with so many seniors leaving the band, we were very much in want of musicians. I decided I wasn't really interested in doing the rehearsed walk into the bleachers, anyway. My place is in the band. That's...nerdy. Darn right. This has been Confessions of a Nerd with Maya Garcia. That's all, folks. Thank you very much. You have been a very lovely audience. I'll see you in the funny papers. Live long and prosper. Good night, and good luck.

So it goes.

"College-Level Insight" or something like it:

I think I got a little egomaniacal here. It was hard not to -- I received more praise and social acceptance as the writer of this column than I as a nerd knew what to do with. So I got a little wordy and also used my page to give my graduation speech (which was deemed by the judges to be too long and too highbrow for the audience -- a pretty nice rejection, as far as they go) a place. It was also a convenient last-minute change from my big love confession. I'm still ambivalent about the whole thing. I like my writing in the intro and end paragraphs (minus that typo and the rambling towards the end...), but feel they were pretty extraneous and made the whole thing pretty long. But the Vonnegut reference at the end co-ordinates nicely with my drawing of a Tralfamadorian...(I had just read Slaughterhouse-Five). About this time I also began to take up a bit of a Tralfamadorian worldview -- life will be life and the past is past. I cannot change what I did, so I must find peace with it.

But unlike a Tralfamadorian, I can't see the future, so I look forward with interest to the nerdy experiences and humorous commentary in my life to come.

I even wrote a sonnet

The Final Column as I Wanted to Publish it, Until I Ultimately Changed My Mind

Well, this is it. My last column. I suppose it ought to be a sort of reflection or wrap-up, but you know what? That=s what everything else I=ve had to write/read lately seems to be. Yes, yes. The year, and with it my entire high school career and time living in Santa Maria and being a child is ending. Strains of APomp and Circumstance@ waft through the air. Somehow, I=m not feeling it right now. I haven=t even got my gown yet, and I=m tired of endless meditations on graduation. I bet that by the time you=ve gotten to this part of the newspaper, you=re a little tired of the whole deal, too.

My columns have gotten more and more personal, I=ve noticed. So, I think I=m ready to be absolutely frank and admit that my mind has been occupied by one thing in particular lately, and it=s not graduating. I=ve been thinking about graduating, too, but only because other people keep bringing it up. Darn other people. No, the thing that=s really on my mind is actually...a boy. Not a thing, but a person. It=s not the guy I mentioned last issue (we still haven=t corresponded since I gave him that lecture on Keats). It=s not Keats, either, though I do think of him rather often, I=ll admit. This guy is actually alive and physically present in my life (and probably reading this paper B er, I hope this doesn=t mortify you terribly much. I promise not to print your name). This is a bit of a departure for me, as you might have gathered. It certainly complicates things. It=s so much easier to be in love with a guy who=s been moldering for nigh on two centuries: you don=t have to worry about what he thinks or ever face rejection or embarrassment.

But as hormones would have it, I=ve fallen for a flesh-and-blood guy. It=s hard to say when it happened: we=ve known each other for years, but it wasn=t until probably two years ago that I first thought I liked him liked him just a bit. My emotions shuttled around obnoxiously for a while as a teenager=s are wont to do, but eventually settled on him. After months of reticence and tension, I decided to pull another ACarpe Diem@ maneuver (I wasn=t going to go through high school without a single romance if I could help it, by god!) and took the plunge. It was the single most frightening thing I=ve ever done in my whole goddamned life. Maybe that speaks more to the banality of my life, but geez, was it an ordeal.

He wasn=t interested in dating me, and I tried to take this in stride. You know how it goes: ha! I=m fine, I=m cracking jokes, I=m smiling, everything=s dandy, life goes on, don=t need him, ha ha ha...lies. Damned lies. My bravado eventually wore away and revealed me to be just as crushed as any other lovelorn adolescent. I told myself that I didn=t have those feelings for him anymore, but the bizarre and uncomfortable temperature changes and gut wrenching I found myself continuing to experience whenever I saw him rather disprove this presumed indifference (or signal a premature menopause).

I=m in a bad way. I=m writing frigging love poetry. But it=s actually kind of good, I think. Take a gander at this sonnet:

Why was it you, among the many fools?

While we're all sneezing pollen-love, you stand,

Your countenance unshook, your eyes clear pools

Not rosied with the disease by springtime fanned

To the lungs of the rest. You acted bland;

Aloof and pocket-handed when I was

High on dust from old poetry books and

Coursing all through with a day-seizing buzz --

Blame your blinks of smile and laughter like fuzz

(The soft wisps tickle my throat fever hot) --

But all my ardor was in vain because

I loved the only sane one of the lot!

Spring is love's season, I guess, for the ease

Of blaming one's tears on her allergies.

I think that gives you a fair idea of what I=m feeling. When a nerd falls in love, acrostic poems just don=t cut it (although the sonnet type I used is a reference to his name. Yes, I know that I=m weird). I hope you=re laughing with me, not at me.

And as to the addressee of the sonnet, well, this is awkward. Er, please don=t be too wierded out. It=s all true, and you know what? You should be pretty damn pleased with yourself. It=s not every guy who inspires sonnets and has girls confess their of love of him in the frigging school newspaper. I rather envy you, myself.

I would, I think, be O.K. with the whole world knowing how I feel about you. You=re pretty awesome, and, well, I=m a journalist, so I have this sort of compulsion to get the truth out. But, as a journalist, I know that if I was to use your name here, I=d be compelled to show you this before it prints and ruin the surprise. Plus, I don=t want to embarrass you. I suppose this will frustrate some readers, so I=ll give out a couple clues which will require some research: 1) As previously stated, the type of sonnet I wrote has a name similar to his. 2) His initials are the atomic symbol for my favorite element (when a nerd falls in love, it=s all chemistry).

Commentary:

Ah...yes. I so wanted to pull a teen cinema move and confess my love in the school paper in one big gush. I came really close. It's been ages and I've gone through so much (including a bigger romantic trauma...stay tuned) that I can't quite recall what exactly kept me from running this. I think it was a combination of new inspiration (I finally DID get a bit of that graduation introspection sickness that was going around) and (mostly this) the realization that despite my rationalization, this still had the potential to really embarrass my crush. He was a quiet guy who didn't like drawing attention to himself, after all. I decided to end our time together on a quiet note and that was that.

It took history repeating itself on steroids for me to finally realize one year later that falling for shy, introverted guys was not going to work for me. Oof. I tried to write verse about my last crush (and have a bunch of unfinished odes buried deep in my desk), but eventually gave up love poetry entirely. Hrmph.

I hate to end a post on a "hrmph." I'm not bitter about my high school crush, on the contrary, I think the way things happened was the best possible outcome for me. I left high school with no romantic experience, true, but I had at least one big crushing rejection under my belt, so I was ready for anything. OK, that's not quite true. But it helped. And as I looked around my new home at Berkeley to fill the void for a guy to pine for, I learned a lot about myself and love and, um, Russian literature. But that is a confession for another day.

A snapshot from back when the craziest thing I did for love was volunteer to be the only graduate not walking down the aisle so I could play one last song with him. I've come so far.

Confessions of a Nerd, Volume IV

Originally published in The Righetti High School Legend, April 2009

As long as I=m being confessional, I might as well admit that as I type this piece, I am making frequent trips to my internet browser to post and chat on Facebook. This is shameful, alas, but true. I succumbed, after years of swearing to abstain from social networking, at approximately 4:59 p.m. on December 16, 2008. How that happened is a funny story, actually. I didn=t realize I was making a profile until I had almost finished it. That afternoon, I=d received an email that read ACyndi Vasquez wants to be your friend on Facebook!@ with a link to take to verify our friendship. Or so I thought. I thought I would just be allowing her to use my name in a list of friends, and I was so very flattered that I immediately clicked the link and began filling out the information on the site. As the questions got more personal than just the standard name, age, and e-mail address, realization slowly dawned upon me. But I couldn=t stop now! I=d come this far, and boy, were the years of peer pressure getting to me...

Now I have been a steady user for four months. Almost every day, I make my offering of time and energy to the Facebook gods, updating my Status Bar with narcissistic trifles; commenting on the actions of my friends; and playing pointless, yet addictive, games. Yet, for all the hours that I could have spent reading, doing homework, or curing cancer; and instead spent on Facebook, I have been, at times, rewarded.

My social life (I actually have one, now, gasp!) has really kicked off. Facebook connects me with friends I previously didn=t talk with much or know a lot about. And getting Afriend requests@ and friendly comments makes me feel more popular and likeable than I=ve ever felt before. I have enjoyed many great moments of Facebook social magic, but my space and your attention span is limited, so I=ll stick to what is probably the funniest bit of serendipity so far.

Last month, I was searching the network for Afan pages@ (basically, groups of nerds with a common interest) devoted to my favorite poets. Inspired by the romantic impulsiveness of the likes of Shelley and Byron, a long-buried wish to use Facebook to contact my long-lost elementary school crush (he moved away in sixth grade and broke my heart) resurfaced. Shaking and sweating, I typed his name into the search bar, pretending he was just another English writer or snack food (I also subscribe to the fan pages for curly fries and Oreos). And there he was, unmistakably the same boy even after seven years of separation. I dizzily messaged my friend Becky (with whom I=d just watched Dead Poets Society for the second-and-a-half time), asking her if I should send him a message, and she said ACARPEEEEEE DIIIEEEM!!!!!!@ So, I seized the day and sent him a rather self-conscious and breathless paragraph re-introducing myself. Phew!

I went to bed that night feeling giddy with satisfaction and anticipation of the reply, which was there the next day. It was genial, if poorly punctuated and severly lacking in the Aby the way, I=ve always loved you, let=s meet up again in a café and read Keats together@ department. I responded, cordially discussing our old crowd of friends and college prospects. I inevitably mentioned my love of the English Romantic poets (the aforementioned Byron, Shelley, and Keats) as I=ve been talking about them ceaselessly to anyone who=ll listen (and some who won=t) since I got into their poetry in January. His reply: AJohn keats huh? i cant get in to that guy, hes to doomy and gloomy for me, not to mention a son of a gun to comprehend.@

I exploded.

I sent the infidel a Keats sonnet that=s uplifting and sweet, trying to convince him that the poet wasn=t Adoomy and gloomy@ and besides, he had every right to be depressed, he was dying of tuberculosis at 25 and couldn=t marry his girlfriend... I quickly apologized for this assault, but apparently still scared my ex-crush away. It=s been about a month and I haven=t heard since.

I can=t say I=m terribly broken up. Finding out that he doesn=t like John Keats was pretty much the last thing I needed to get over him once and for all. In all honesty, I have a bigger crush on the long-dead Keats himself. It=s sad and pathetic, but true. I carry his complete works with me almost everywhere I go and fantasize about going back in time and curing his tuberculosis (and updating his ideas about women=s liberation). Recently, I even confessed some of these feelings on one of the many Romantic poetry-related Facebook groups I=ve joined

An unforseen consequence of this gushing was another bit of Aonly on Facebook@ magic. I actually got a reply saying Aget your hands off my man maya [sic]@ from someone claiming to be Fanny Brawne, the also long-dead fiancee of Keats. I stared at the screen in amazement for a few seconds, then burst out in guffaws. I posted the rebuttal: A...Shall I dignify that poorly punctuated attack with a reply? No, but I will. Bring it, ersatz Fanny!@ I felt both proud of my wit (Wouldn=t Jane Austen be proud! Ersatz is such a good word, means Aphony,@ by the way) and conscious of the utter ridiculousness of the situation. Here I was, in my first ever fight over the love of a boy and it was a virtual cat fight concerning a dead poet. Even Rod Serling, creator of The Twilight Zone would think this is weird

The Brawne impersonator has not yet replied to my post, but if she (or he) does, I=ll be ready to again wield the blade of superior wit. What utterly ludicrous fun! And so, despite all the time I=ve lost to Facebook, I=m glad I made an account. At the very least, it=s given me great material for this column.

"College-Level Insight" or something like it:

This piece is probably the crowning glory of my very short stint as a newspaper columnist. Not only was it a joy to write and quite well received; it brought me to a new understanding of the creative process. By this point in my career, I had begun to see my life from the perspective of a self-satirical writer -- constantly forming commentary and seizing upon irony and humor in any situation. As the events described in this particular column unfolded in real time (and I reached a new level of openness about my personal life), the resulting piece practically wrote itself.

I have certainly kept up this perspective, and accordingly my life has not decreased one jot in zaniness where Facebook, failed romance, and dead writers are concerned. I've gotten better at not shoving poetry down the throats of innocent civilians, though, and am probably much better tolerated by the majority of my acquaintances for it. I've also stopped "fanning" (though now I think it's "liking") all sorts of useless Facebook pages (Curly fries? Really? Ugh.) and only join groups in order to accomplish something tangible. Usually.