How To Be A Poet

During my time in college, I've started to write a lot of poetry. I can't help it-- whenever I start to feel any kind of emotion, I need to write it down, and before I know it I've zoned out through half a lecture and written some derpy poems again. Right now, my poems' primary purpose is to help me journal my thoughts rather than be of any artistic value, so they're usually awkward and clunky. But the process serves me well, and sometimes, people even think that I'm doing serious note-taking.

But of course, this often leads me to be dissatisfied with the quality of my poems. Sometimes, I wish I knew more about the art of the craft, so that I could write work with real substance. After all, I can't rely on pent up emotion forever. I need a sustainable source of inspiration and thought.

But poetry is hard. In one of my classes, I've had to opportunity to read some modern poems, and I don't even know what I'm reading half of the time. I try to look for some deeper meanings in them, but instead, I just get really confused.  I think it only goes to show the extent of my ignorance.

It's disheartening at times.
But in my defense, with lines like:

"I lovely lady lumps
your lumps as lovely",

what am I possibly supposed to extract? Poor grammar? Uncreative word choice? Possibly even plagiarism, from Fergie? There are times when I can appreciate a little mystery in poetry, but these kinds of things are not mysterious-- they're just weird. I often wonder how certain pieces make it through editing and publishing. There must have been some interesting deliberation behind the scenes.

Maybe the goal is to make the reader as confused as possible. After all, we are most susceptible to new ideas and influence in moments of confusion and weakness. In fact, it seems like a pretty smart move. I'll keep it in mind for the future.

I've also noticed that my name isn't cool enough for me to be a poet. All of the most accomplished, reputed masters have names that sound like poetry themselves. Honestly, who has a last name like "Frost" these days? And what kind of parents would you need to get a name like "William Carlos Williams"? These people got a lucky draw, in my opinion. In my case, there is no such happy coincidence. If anything, my initials are just one letter away from being "KFC". 

But maybe that could be my pen name. I think "Kathy Chicken" sounds kind of legitimate. I could write some pretty good poems about farm life with it, and then I would be famous, and people would marvel at how coincidental it all is. (Like writing about snowy evenings, with a last name like Frost. Dang you, Frost!)

Lastly, I think I don't experiment enough. My poems all align to the margin, follow pretty set rules of rhythm, and stick with a central idea. But look at the beautiful work of e. e. cummings (another cool name guy), or Gertrude Stein. These people are real masters. Who else could think to write an entire poem misspelling the word "grasshopper", or come up with a line like, "Sugar is not a vegetable"? These concepts are simply beyond my capabilities. Perhaps for this reason alone, I could never become a world famous poet.

But for now, I will still try. So far, I've established that my poetry isn't confusing enough, and that I need a cooler name, and that I need to get really funky with my format and wording. So here's my best try. I've worked pretty hard on this, but it's still not perfect, so I'd appreciate it if you all gave me some feedback. Here it goes:

Deep, Fried.
by Kathy Flora Chicken

Chicken.
chicken-- fried?
          Fry: to fly.
to fly the chicken.
Wherefore do I
                    F     R     Y    THECHICKEN?
It must be golden,
for licken'.
And if not: chikiecn
To where
                    "ba-gok"
must I-
find                the              C:hi:ck:en?
Ohlisten.
D o y o u h e a r t h e 
THE
thehhe--

sqUAwk
in.

I think it's the start of a beautiful career. Let me know what you think!

______________________________________________
But in all seriousness, I don't mean to disregard the incredible work that poets do, classic or modern. In fact, a lot of the writers I've made fun of in this post have written some of my favorite poems. I highly recommend them to those looking for some interesting work to read!

The Truth About Short Hair

A lot of the girls I've talked to think short hair is awesome. It's clean, it's chic. It gives off an air of elegance, grace, and maybe even maturity that doesn't come as easily with longer locks. Plus, it's super easy to manage, so you can even save on shampoo!

However, these notions are false. Short hair is nothing but an illusion. Today, my goal is to bring forth several terrifying issues to light, which remain veritably unknown to those who have never had short hair. Behold, the truth about this phenomenon, disclosed in public for the first time.

Myth #1: short hair is neater than long hair.
A lot of people first chop off all their locks thinking that short hair is tidier, doesn't need as much brushing, and can save them a lot of time in the long run. I know when I first got short hair, that's what I was expecting. However, this cannot be further from the truth.

Let's talk physics for a bit. When you have longer hair, it has a greater mass. Weight = (mass)(force of gravity), which is relatively constant in the downward direction. Thus, as you can see, having long hair automatically encourages your locks to fall towards the ground-- that is, the direction it's supposed to be in. However, when you reduce the mass of your hair, this downward pull is absent. There is no longer a force encouraging your hair to go the way it should. Instead, you end up with things like this:

When this unfortunate event occurs, the only solutions are to artificially weigh your hair down with water (which is pretty bad for its volume and consistency), or to wear accessories like your life depends on it. Sometimes, you simply have to take a full shower to bring your hair back down to base level.

However, it is also important to note that it is simply impossible to sleep with wet, or even slightly damp, short hair. That's a horror story on a different level altogether.

Myth #2: short hair doesn't need much care to look presentable.
Another point related to the "tidiness" of short hair is its supposed ease of care. This notion is also completely false, and almost entirely for a single reason: one cannot competently put short hair in a pony tail. It simply isn't done.

Before my hair was the length it is now (still pretty short, but by no means how short it was before), I simply accepted bad hair days as a fact of life. In high school, if you woke up at 6:45AM with a ridiculous cow lick in your hair and had to be out the door in 15 minutes, there was no way to salvage your appearance. You simply walked with your head held high, hoped that gravity would do its job, and forgot about it during the day. 

However, once my hair started growing somewhat longer, I discovered a neat trick, known and beloved by every long-haired person since the beginning of time: ponytails.

How versatile. How easy. How glorious! With the right clothes, a ponytail can even make it seem like you put more effort into your hair that day-- what a wonder.

But when you have short hair and you try to fashion a ponytail, the results simply aren't the same. The few times that I wore a pony tail with short hair, I didn't feel glorious at all-- I simply felt like a samurai.

And finally...
Myth #3: Short hair makes you look more mature.
Ah yes, the vaguest myth of all. I'll give some credit to this one: oftentimes, having a shorter cut does indeed make you look a bit older. If you manage to avoid all the horrors listed above, it can definitely bring about a certain elegance to your look.

But maybe I just have a bad history with short hair. For me, short hair does not make me feel older. Ironically, a horrible short hair cut that I got last year was almost exactly the same as my hair when I was six-- that is, it was the infamous Asian bowl cut. Thus, when I had short hair, instead of feeling older, I rather found myself questioning if I'd aged at all in the past 11 years.

Thus concludes my startling report. Perhaps now when you see a person walking down the street rocking a beautiful pixie cut, you can recognize their efforts. Give them a high five. Buy them an ice cream or something, because a beautiful, well-groomed short hair cut is not an easy feat to manage-- literally.

Snoozy Review: Pride and Prejudice

Yahoo! Pretty much everyone knows that, as a horrible romantic, Pride and Prejudice is one of my favorite classics of all time. So I guess this review is going to be pretty biased... But deep down, everyone appreciates a good love story, right? Read below for more! 

Review: Pride and Prejudice

Jane Austen, 1813

Plot: 
Elizabeth Bennett is one of five daughters in a middle class family. As such, she is constantly being urged to marry for money-- something she considers an abomination to true love. Thus, when she meets the fabulously rich Mr. Darcy, Elizabeth has a lot of doubts about him. Darcy himself has developed some personality issues from being so rich his whole life. From their first meeting, it's evident that they don't get along well.

But Elizabeth's sister ends up falling for Darcy's best friend, and chance brings them together again and again. Will Darcy and Elizabeth ever be able to reconcile their pride and prejudices against each other?? (spoiler alert: yes)

By The Cover:

I accidentally own three copies of this book... 
But anyway, each cover is lovely, and offers its own take on the book's elegant, yet playful tone!

First Line: 

"It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune must be in want of a wife."
So iconic! It's pretty much the driving force of the whole story. 

Last Line: 

Darcy, as well as Elizabeth, really loved them; and they were both ever sensible of the warmest gratitude towards the persons who, by bringing her into Derbyshire, had been the means of uniting them."
To be honest, this isn't one of my favorite last lines. It's not terribly compelling at all, given all the stuff that happens in the last few chapters. But I like this book so much that it doesn't really bother me anymore.

 A Quote:

"I cannot fix on the hour, or the spot, or the look, or the words, which laid the foundation. It is too long ago. I was in the middle before I knew that I had begun."

*sighs*

Favorite Part:

When Elizabeth destroys Darcy.

Least Favorite Part:

Some of the ball/party scenes can be long, monotonous, and frankly confusing. Perhaps some may take them differently, but those were definitely hard to get through sometimes.

Final Comments:

I like to think that I'm a huge Jane Austen fan, but maybe I just really like Pride and Prejudice. It's such a fabulous read! I love the characters, their relationships, and how evidently they grow as the book progresses. I love the social commentary on class, family dynamics, and the role of women. And of course, I love the happy ending. If Pride and Prejudice has been on your list of books to read for a while, but just never got around to it, this is your cue-- give it a try!

Rating: 4.5/5

Why I Can't Watch Horror Movies

It's not an unknown fact that I'm very scared of horror movies. Some people can sit through them, enjoy them, and even think some of their attempts to "scare" you are funny. Not me. I just sit there and prepare to die.

The fact is, horror movies scare you on an entirely different level than other things. For example, when your friend jumps at you from behind a corner, you're extremely frightened for one second, but afterwards, you just want to punch someone in the face. But horror movies can scare you just as badly-- and then continue to do so for weeks. That's why I consider horror movies the scariest thing on the planet: because they have fear in both intensity and duration. 

Now, I used to always just take this fear of mine as a fact. Lots of people don't enjoy scary movies, and I was just one of the many. But looking back, I've started to think that maybe my extreme fear of horror movies comes from a scarred past. Perhaps I am still put- off by the one time I allowed myself to experience the horror genre-- and the startling revelation that followed. 

It was several years ago, on a crisp fall day. My mom and I were talking about scary movies. The thing is, my mom loves them-- she went through a whole phase where she watched every notable horror movie on the planet. As such, we eventually got on the topic of Psycho, the famous thriller by Alfred Hitchcock. I had never seen it, and didn't plan to. But for some reason, I was still curious about it-- so I asked her to explain the plot to me.

As many people who get easily scared would know, sometimes not seeing is even scarier than seeing itself. Looking back, I really should have changed the subject. But the thing was, as she was explaining it to me, I didn't feel that scared. In fact, I felt compelled to listen, and even, for a brief moment in my life, understood why some people might consider watching horror movies to be "fun." We ended to conversation on a fine note, and I proceeded to go about my day as usual.

Later that night, I practically sobbed my way through my entire shower praying someone wasn't waiting behind the curtain to stab me to death.

But even from this obvious example, I hadn't fully understood the truth. I simply thought that I was scared of horror movies. The only thing I had to do was stay away from them, and I would be fine.

Just a few days later, I got home from school and decided to watch some TV. At the time, one of my favorite shows concerned a group of intense fishermen who dedicated their lives to catching crabs. Looking back on it, it was a strange premise for a show, but at the time, it seemed rather natural.

But when I turned to the normal channel, I was not greeted by my beloved fishermen. Instead, the show had just finished, and another show was previewing: it was called "A Haunting."

Immediately, my logical mind began running. I had just scared myself silly a few days ago. I had discovered that I disliked horror. Now, there was a horror TV show in front of me. As such, my conclusion was very simple.

I continued watching.

Something was strange. Even though I knew I would definitely regret this choice for the rest of my life, I had no desire to avoid the imminent disaster in front of me. I sat through all the commercials. Then I sat through the opening sequence. And before I knew it, I was watching the documentary by my own will. 

The episode started off innocently enough. It took place in a comfortable suburban neighborhood, much like mine. There was a normal family, much like mine. There was a nice, yellow house, much like mine. Then all of a sudden, people started getting possessed and cups started flying all over the kitchen-- much unlike mine. 

Soon enough, I snapped out of my trance. I was scared-- very scared. There was no more curiosity, no more piqued interest. If I wanted to sleep that night, I had to turn off the TV immediately. But at that moment, I realized something even scarier: I couldn't move. I was literally so paralyzed with fear that I couldn't get close enough to the screen to turn it off.

So there I sat, in utter fear, until the whole episode finished. 45 minutes and several gory scenes later, I crawled back into my room, a hollow shell of my former self.

At this point, I finally resolved to never watch anything horror related again. There was no more lingering confidence, no more second chances. Something weird happened to me whenever I was exposed to the genre, and I was not like myself. It was best to avoid it entirely.

But of course, I still had no problem watching TV. A few days later, I eagerly turned on the TV, awaiting my heroic crab fishers.

Instead, "A Haunting" was playing again.

Again, I could feel something strange drawing me in. Again, I felt like convincing myself that the last times were no big deal, that I could handle it, that all I needed was one more try... But I snapped out of it. I screamed and ran out of the room, pleading my very confused brother to turn off the TV in my stead.

I had finally realized the truth: my relationship to horror films is like that of a moth and a flame. I know they're horrible for me, and I take no delight in their aftermath, but for some reason, once I'm exposed to them, I become incredibly curious and eager to watch. Thus, my only solution is to avoid them entirely, and thus, safe myself from a life of fear.

And that's why I can't watch horror movies.

THE END

Traveling

To my beloved readers,

Thank you for keeping up with my blog! The Snoozy Cat will be on standby during my travels, which will be from now until August 17th. When I return, I will try my best to fit in one more post before the next big chapter of my life-- my first day of college! 

I have started a post already, which I estimate will be finished within a week or so of my return. So stay tuned, and as always, happy reading!

Your grateful cat enthusiast,
Kathy

Snoozy Review: A Farewell To Arms

Do you like books about wars? Do you like books that provide almost no extravagant detail? Do you like books with conclusive yet somewhat unsatisfying endings? Then you should probably read something by Ernest Hemingway! Today we cover one of Hemingway's most acclaimed novels, A Farewell to Arms. It's pretty much all of the things I mentioned above, plus a little more. More information below!

Review: A Farewell to Arms

Author and Year:

Ernest Hemingway, 1929

Plot: 
A Farewell to Arms follows "Tenente" Henry, an American lieutenant serving in Italy during World War I. After being injured on the front, he meets a nurse named Catherine Barkley, and eventually falls in love with her. The novel chronicles the struggles and joys of their relationship, as well as Henry's growing desire to drop out of the war altogether.

By The Cover:

I actually read A Farewell to Arms out of a collection of books by Hemingway, so the picture above isn't the real cover. In fact, I would've chosen something less nature-y for a collection of his works (three of the four novels included are about wars, and they decide on mountains??). But the color scheme was well selected, I'll give them that!

First Line: 

"In the late summer of that year we lived in a house in a village that looked across the river and the plain to the mountains."
This line pretty much has nothing to do with the book. I do not even know why the book starts this way.

Last Line: 

"After a while I went out and left the hospital and walked back to the hotel in the rain."
So atmospheric. So emotional. So good. Bah.

A Quote:
Let me just begin by saying that there are so, so, sooo many good quotes in this novel. That's the way Hemingway's style works-- it's so sparse that the already good lines become even more powerful and resonant. Here are some of my favorites:

"When you love, you wish to do things for. You wish to sacrifice for. You wish to serve."

 "'It's all nonsense. It's only nonsense. I'm not afraid of the rain. I'm not afraid of the rain. Oh, oh, God I wish I wasn't.' She was crying. I comforted her and she stopped crying. But outside it kept raining."

"But we were never lonely and never afraid when we were together. I know the night is not the same as the day: that all things are different, that the things of the night cannot be explained in the day, because they do not then exist, and the night can be a dreadful time for lonely people once their loneliness has started. But with Catherine there was almost no difference in the night except that it was an even better time."

Darn, these quotes. You gotta read that last one again, really.

Favorite Part:

Okay, I am totally awful, but I really enjoyed the latter half of the book more than the beginning, even though it was (highlight for spoiler: a tragic ending). Henry and Catherine's relationship became so much deeper, and everything felt surprisingly solid for a Hemingway novel.

Least Favorite Part:

Do you even have to ask?

Final Comments:

A Farewell to Arms was a mixed feeling read for me. The beginning seemed to stop and go for a while, but once things began to pick up (which was conveniently after school ended), I couldn't put it down. I love how my perception of the characters changed as the book progressed, as well their occasional honest, pent up confessions of emotion. Again, if you're a fan of Hemingway''s "undercurrent" style, you'll like this book! On the other hand, if you'd like to try something of his for the first time, I might start with something else, such as The Sun Also Rises. But make sure to come back to A Farewell to Arms! It isn't strong from beginning to end, but the end is really something worth reading, I mean it.

Rating: 3/5

The Horror, The Horror

I don't know how to bake things. I never have. When I watch shows about competitive baking, it simply blows my mind. How do people mix raw things together to make less raw, edible things? How do you even mix so much stuff without getting tired? Do you really need that much butter? My few ventures into baking have never been done alone, and even then, I feel terribly awkward about it. I feel like Einstein's fish, being asked to climb a tree.

Perhaps it runs in the family. Sometimes, when I'm feeling down about my lack of baking skills, I simply remind myself that the opportunity to do so was absent from my childhood. My mother did not bake. My grandmother did not bake. There seemed to be no reason for me to catch on to baking at an early age, either. 

I do remember one incident in which my mom tried to bake something.

It was a fine spring day, and for reasons completely unknown to me, my mom decided that we should try to bake some cookies. No one in our family had ever tried to bake cookies. We did not have a recipe. We did not even have a complete set of measuring cups. But I was young, and I trusted my mom's discretion, so we went ahead with our cookie baking plan.

At first, things went well. After all, between my mom and I, we at least had some experience with the simpler ingredients, like eggs, sugar, and flour. However, we soon encountered our first problem: butter.

I'm pretty sure that I'm not being racist at all when I say that Chinese people hardly use butter. It's simply absent from any traditional, common Chinese dishes. Such an unfortunate circumstance is rather inconvenient when trying to bake mostly anything. Sadly, we had already mixed together an entire bowl of ingredients when we realized our house was completely devoid of the ingredient.

Now, my mom has no problem with improvising with recipes. Sometimes, this leads to interesting, but surprisingly tasty creations. Other times, it leads to her using condensed vegetable oil instead of butter. 

Surprisingly, the vegetable oil mixed well with our "cookie dough," at least in terms of texture. I was beginning to think that we could fake our way through the whole recipe. But it wouldn't be long before we hit another road block: vanilla extract. Vanilla extract? What was that? Our knowledge of "vanilla" went as far as the ice cream flavor, which, as far as we knew, was white. My mom, with her lovely improvisation skills, decided to grab the nearest, white-ish colored solution in our fridge: a can of coconut milk.

We poured it in liberally, not exactly sure about what was enough. You see, we had never baked anything before, so we had no idea how to measure things. When we saw terms like "cup," or "teaspoon," we literally used cups and spoons. Surely, they would be close enough.

Several questionable ingredients later, our cookie dough (?) was ready to be baked. But of course, things at this point were not meant to go well. We didn't have an actual baking pan, but rather, a small mini platter, that just happened to be oven-safe. Undeterred, my mom and I lined the tiny tray with aluminum foil, scooped out what we thought was a proper amount of dough for each cookie, and then put them into the oven (after figuring out what pre-heating meant).

If you have read Joseph Conrad's The Heart of Darkness, you may recall Dr. Kurtz's famous anguished cry of, "The horror, the horror!". If you would imagine him doing the same exact thing, but rather, in front of our finished tray of cookies, you will have a proper idea of the monstrosities we had created. 

Our little tray had proved to be an utter failure as a baking pan, letting the finished product spill out of the sides. We also completely underestimated how much the dough would expand; the entire tray was covered in it. As a final smack in the face, the aluminum foil stuck to the bottom of the cookies, making us resort to prying our creation off piece by piece. I say "creation" because there really wasn't any other way to describe it. Rather than being cookies at all, they were like dark brown, brittle disks, barely thicker than paper, and so fragile looking that you couldn't help but feel a little bad for whoever made them. Which, in this case, happened to be us. 

I felt an immense sense of shame yet amusement. My mom called them "cute," which was surprisingly appropriate for their pathetic condition. And then, since my brother and some of his friends were over, we fed the crisps to them for a taste test. 

From what I remember, the cookies themselves actually didn't taste that bad. In fact, the only real complaint was the strange coconut after-taste. 

THE END

Directionally Challenged

When I was younger and sitting in the backseat of my parents' car, they would sometimes quiz me on what road we were on. I assume they simply wanted their child to grow up aware of the world around her, being the good parents they were. For example, if we were driving to the supermarket, they would ask, "Kathy, where are we right now?" And I would say:

My parents were awfully distraught, much to my confusion. 

Nonetheless, I was not alarmed. I assumed that it was all a part of growing up. Just as I couldn't imagine being able to drive on my own, but knew I would be able to someday, my younger self simply rationalized that a good directional sense would come with time. After all, how else did everyone else seem to know where they were going without a map? Thus, I patiently waited for the knowledge of roads and intersections to dawn on me one morning, when I was mature enough to handle it. 

10 years later, as I was in the middle of getting hopelessly lost in a neighborhood five minutes from my house, I considered the very possible reality that this sense would never come to me. Perhaps I missed some kind of learning milestone, but to this day, I am quite directionally challenged.

I think the problem is that I have the brain of a bird. To me, every place is connected to another in the most efficient path-- a straight line. In this sense, I always have a very clear idea of where I want to go.

However, once I deviate at all from my brain's interpreted route, my intuition goes haywire. I seem to be simply unable to accept the reality that is regulated transportation. 


This condition of mine has caused me to be late to numerous functions, or become lost in the most public of places. Once, my brother and I were walking our cat in our apartment building, and somehow, we managed to get so lost that we wound up in a completely different building without ever going outside. I think by the time we finally got home, even my cat was displeased with me. 

Either that, or you simply shouldn't take cats out for walks.

Another time, I almost encountered a social crisis due to becoming lost in one of my beloved hangouts: Barnes & Noble. 

I was about 10 years old when I realized in the middle of reading a book that I needed to go to the bathroom. By this time in my life, I had already realized how poor my directional sense was, and knew that I would get lost trying to find the restroom. Thus, I decided to tough it out and simply keep on reading until we went home.

But it's strange, the urge to go to the bathroom. For the first fifteen minutes, the need is completely controllable. And then suddenly, out of nowhere, it's pee or die. This was the situation I soon found myself in, when I finally shelved my book and realized that I needed to find a bathroom-- fast.

My first mistake was that I insisted on maintaining a sense of pride. Even in my obvious peril, I made every effort to walk slowly and calmly, as to not give notice to my inner suffering. I also neglected to ask a store associate for directions-- partly out of dignity, but also because I knew I'd probably just get lost after asking anyway.

Thus, combined with my slow walking and disdain for seeking help, the situation was becoming dire. At some point, I hastily wondered if anyone had ever peed their pants in a Barnes & Noble before, but decided that was a scenario I'd rather avoid thinking about. Thankfully, by chance, I crossed paths with a store associate. No longer concerned about my pride, I asked in my most polite tone to inquire where the restroom was, please.

She was a nice lady who seemed to be happy to help. But I had doomed myself. By waiting for so long to ask her, I was now in so much distress that I couldn't clearly process what she was telling me. All I recognized was that she said it was "really close," and that she had vaguely pointed in the northeastern direction. With only this information at hand, I tried my best to make a map of a possible route to safety.

But as soon as I hit the first bookshelf, the usual thing happened, and my plans were compromised. 

With nowhere left to turn to, I walked around aimlessly in hopes that I would stumble upon the bathroom by chance. I crossed rows of books. I made it back to checkout. I eventually found the self-help section, which told me nothing about how to help myself when I was about to publicly pee my pants. And with each wrong turn, I became more resigned to my eminent humiliation.

Now I wish I could give you all the ending you're hoping for, but that wouldn't be the truth. Eventually, I did find the bathroom. It was actually just a turn and across from the children's section, where I started. I guess the one thing I learned from this experience was that, indeed, the best things in life, such as public restrooms and the ability to pee, are free.

But our shortcomings don't make us. Think of any faults you may have, and I'm sure you'll see that my awkward sense of direction is really not a serious problem as it seems. I simply need some more help than usual in this area.

So please: if you ever see me walking around, looking lost, or the same car driving back and forth on a random street, do not simply be entertained by my struggle. Please pull me over, and help me get to where I'm trying to go.

Snoozy Review: The Bell Jar

Ta-da! This time we have The Bell Jar, the only novel by the famously tortured poet Sylvia Plath. This was actually the first "classic" book I ever bought for myself, but since I was so young, I don't think I was able to properly appreciate it at the time. Thus, 5 years later, I've finally finished The Bell Jar, and am ready to share my thoughts with y'all. Without further ado, here it is!

Review: The Bell Jar

Author and Year:

Sylvia Plath, 1963 

I would advise giving her a quick look-up before reading The Bell Jar, since so much of this novel is semi-autobiographical. 

Plot: 
Esther Greenwood is seemingly the perfect young lady, who has a sharp wit, a prestigious New York City internship, and an enthusiastic suitor from Yale. The one thing she lacks is a sound mind-- and as a result, her once "perfect" life is rapidly spiraling out of control. 

 

By The Cover:

I really love that cover photo! It's just so elegant in a creepy kind of way.

[fun fact]: The book's title comes from the distorted perspective one would have when depressed, as if looking at the world through a bell jar. 

First Line: 

"It was a queer, sultry summer, the summer they executed the Rosenbergs, and I didn't know what I was doing in New York." 

Last Line: 

*warning: this may be a spoiler! But make of it what you will, if you'd like to read it anyway. 

"The eyes and the faces all turned themselves toward me, and guiding myself by them, as by a magical thread, I stepped into the room."

A Quote:
"The floor seemed wonderfully solid. It was comforting to know that I had fallen and could fall no further."
Beautifully phrased, but also really sad to think about. Yes, she's literally just kinda lying on the floor.

Favorite Part:

Kind of hard to nail down, but I probably enjoyed the beginning of the book more, since she was still interacting with a lot of characters then, and there was more suspense with her growing insanity.

Least Favorite Part:

The whole time she's committed to mental facilities, and the people she meets. Just super depressing.

Final Comments:

This read is not for the faint of heart! Despite her general lack of emotion, Esther's long monologues ended up pulling out a lot of sympathy from me. Literature wise, it's definitely clear that Plath was a poet by trade: nearly every other line is a beautiful, poetic statement that explains something in a way I would've never thought to explain it. Overall, beautifully written, very provoking, but somewhat lacking in plot sophistication, since everyone kinda knows where this book is going.

Rating: 3.5/5

Show Me Your Moves

Imagine a video game. Now, imagine a video game that involves physical activity. Finally, imagine that all this physical activity is limited strictly to your lower body, and is supposed to vaguely mimic dancing. You, my dear friend, have just imagined an accurate picture of one of my favorite games in the world: Dance Dance Revolution.

Dance Dance Revolution was really popular during the 90s, but with the dawn of new technology, it seems to have fallen out of the times. It makes sense. After all, who would want to restrict their dancing to the four cardinal directions when other games let you look even more ridiculous by using your whole body? (Perhaps I am just biased because I have trouble dancing.) Nonetheless, I remain faithful to DDR. It has enough game play for me to forget that I'm getting close to exercising, as well as enough weird electronica songs for me to realize I have a really broad taste in music. Most of all, DDR is challenge. The truth is, ever since I was a small child, one my lifelong dreams has been to become a DDR master. 

 Now I know it doesn't sound too impressive. What, with its friendly colors and encouraging announcer who repeatedly tells you to "show [him] your moves", DDR can seem relatively harmless to the unassuming player. But hear me out: the game is downright brutal. 

You see, on every DDR game, a player unlocks songs one by one. The songs get progressively harder, but not to an extent that one would consider them impossible. Thus, when I unlocked one of the last songs of the game, nothing seemed amiss. The only thing that seemed somewhat unusual was the fact that this song's title is appeared in a menacing red text, compared to the usual white. But no matter. I was feeling pretty confident unlocking the song as it was, so I casually hit "confirm" with the setting still set on the max difficulty. 

However, something else soon struck me as odd: the way the song began. Usually, a song begins immediately, with one's avatar liberally dancing around the screen. But in this song, the avatar was in a desolate, industrial expanse. It looked dramatically towards the sky. And instead of music, there was total silence. 

Now at this point, I was beginning to get nervous-- something was about to go horribly wrong, and yet, I couldn't place my finger on exactly what. Then, suddenly, it happened: the sky exploded and the avatar literally jumped off the metal platform and began flying in something that could only be described as a technicolor black hole (seriously, I'm not making any of this up). And after that, the music started blasting, the arrows flooded the screen, and before I could even register my sheer terror, I was bleeding profusely and collapsed on the floor. 

It was, quite frankly, a terrifying experience for the unprepared. 

Nonetheless, despite the imminent danger in doing so, I have always wished to complete such a song. One song in particular comes to mind-- it was in fact this song that inflicted on me the pain I mentioned above, when I was 12 years old. I was naive-- I had no knowledge of "boss songs" on DDR. I thought there was no way a catchy tune with a name like "Kimono Princess" could inflict such damage on my self-esteem. But my failure was inevitable. It also didn't help that, while the announcer is very encouraging when you're doing well, he is notoriously cruel when you do poorly. 
 

Since then, I have tried for years to master this song. I played it back to analyze the arrow patterns, I tried it on easier difficulties to start with, I even got water breaks in between. But it was no use. No matter what I did, I would always fail. What was I doing wrong? 

Eventually, in my endeavor to learn from the true masters of Youtube, I realized my error. It wasn't that I was using the wrong speed settings. It wasn't the type of dance mat I used (although, to be fair, a lot of the people in the videos bought these expensive looking arcade stands, and I wasn't sure if I was ready to get that intense about it). It wasn't even because I couldn't read the screen fast enough. 

It was because I was unathletic. 

The more I tried to complete the song, the more I realized that I was simply physically incapable of moving my legs as fast as the true DDR masters could. At the same time, considering my current level of athletic ability and the level I needed to attain, the gap between the two was too great for me to overcome. Thus, my dreams were crushed. It has taken many years, but I have finally accepted my fate. And that, in length, is the reason why I will never be able to become a true DDR master. 

But should any of you happen to love DDR, or would like to aspire to become a master of the craft, let me know. Complete "Kimono Princess" for me. Achieve greatness in my stead, and perhaps then, my pain will be slightly assuaged.

THE END 

____________________________________________________________________________________________________