Wandering Hormones

It is nice to not to be thinking about her for the past day. It has been difficult to concentrate with the new image in which I see her. A- F- is a woman who plays the clarinet in the beginning woodwinds class that I’m taking this semester. My initial impressions of her were positive, and so are those now, however with a different frame of mind. Before, I was fascinated by her beauty. My intentions were only to get to know her better. Now, I am fascinated not only by her beauty, but by her sexuality. My frame of mind towards A- now has this disturbing desire to know her sexually.

As I said, I previously only saw her as a beautiful human being. Her face portrayed the young, innocent, beautiful daughter that turned twenty-three years of age. For all I know, I realize, she might not be so innocent, but the sweet implications of her face makes abstaining from such a stereotype difficult. Her eyes, for example, are enchanting. They are large and bright, but it is not simply the size that makes them so unique. It is their composition. The small pupil of each eye is pitch black, set in a circle of light brown, like a drop of dark chocolate in the center of a cup of latte. A thin line of black outlines the irises, and around that outline, like the sun storms of an alien sun, is an aura of light blue-green. Other attributes play to her enchanting beauty. Her lashes are long and thick, and her hair is cut short, like a carpet of fine, auburn fur. Her skin has a soft, milky tone, as if she has been protected from harsh beatings of the sun’s light. And, probably the most enrapturing of her characteristics, the aroma that veils her never fails to trip my nose. “China Musk” she calls it, her perfume. I would be walking through a line of people, concentrating on my destination, when all of a sudden, like an invisible wire, something catches my nose, something pleasant. I cannot mistake it for anything else. I attribute it to her, her scent, and I search for her presence.

Interestingly enough, this fascination with A-‘s beauty does not give me any sense of guilt in regards to my committed relationship with J-. I cannot deny the fact of her unique beauty. However, I do feel guilty with how I think about her now. On Thursday, after our day’s session with Lee’s woodwinds class, A- needed to retrieve her English book back at her apartment. We have had previous engagements before, and I knew the whereabouts of her residency, but not exactly the place, let alone the looks of the place. So she invited me to come along.

The apartment was very homely, very comfortable. She invited me into her room. It had clean intentions, but my horomones still projected fantastical possibilities. I suppressed it. Upon entering her room, I was immediately intrigued with the small photos she had placed on her walls. They were pictures of women. Nude women. My suppositions were somewhat confirmed. She has a sexual affinity to women. I was not offended, or repulsed. Rather, I was all the more intrigued. Her sexuality is taunting me just as J-‘s has constantly throughout my days and nights since I left for Humboldt. There were nude pictures of her, too, I believe. It was a standard size picture, but in black and white. In fact, all of the photographs along the wall were in black and white. But this picture was of a woman in crutches, with her shoulders hunched, and her torso bare. I didn’t see at first, for the hair was of a lighter color (perhaps, blonde) and longer and ruffled in a sort of way not too different than a famous character in the Japanese comic series, “Dragonball Z.” But upon closer examination, the face looked a lot like A-‘s. I wanted to confirm it, but I feared it would put her in an awkward situation since, if it is true, I would be looking at a naked picture of her.

(Entry continues on 11/11/97)

The Inspiration of Malcolm X & Mr. Campbell

Dear Miri,

I hope you like your name. It’s short for Miriamele.

It has been a long day for me. I woke up early to get ready for Student Congress. I impressed many people, except maybe the woman who got first place. I didn’t even place, as far as I know.

L- Y- was there at the tournament. She believes she can’t become a debater. I asked her why, and she said that she’s intimidated by the varsity-level debaters.

I’ve finally gone to a DCM (Divisional Council Meeting) after a long time absent. I’ve practically forgotten the other Key Club Presidents. Wilson High Key Club seems to be doing well. J-, president of Rosemead KC, informed — confirmed, rather — that their Kiwanis advisor/president/school principal died. What a shock it was and is to their school. Their flag was half-raised for a week.

Watched the last two hours of Malcolm X on Channel 13. He is an incredible orator. He is an incredible man. I use the present tense because I believe he exists in spirit if not in body. I sit here wondering if I could ever become such a great man. Not a revolutionist, nor a man of power, but just a man who has influenced people. I want to be remembered. So many people come and go. There are so many children born, that grow up and never aspire to anything. Correct me if I’m wrong, I feel that part of the joy of living is being able to change the views of people, turn them towards a path better than the one they were walking. Of course, in reality, no one can be changed by another person unless they want to be changed; one has to change one’s own self. However, it is the joy of “pointing out the path” for the person to choose. I guess that’s why Mr. Campbell loves coaching debate so much. It must be a great joy for him to see a student change from a meek, self-conscience freshman to a confident, assertive and self-responsible senior. I would like to teach one day.

My Reasons for a Journal

Cover of "The Diary of Anne Frank"
Cover of The Diary of Anne Frank

Dear Diary,

I really have to find a name for you. The idea of talking to a book, (an intangible presence, really), doesn’t appeal to me. Maybe I can find one from one of the novels that I’m reading?

I’ve kept journals before, but it has never worked out. In those past journals, I wrote in a flow-of-conscience style. Maybe if I give a journal a sense of existence, or persona, maybe this time will turn out better. This whole idea of personifying a journal came from Diary of Anne Frank, whose author adapted it I cannot recall, right now. I like the idea of writing about myself, the things that happen to me, my thoughts and showing my “poetic side” so that, when I die, people can read this and gain an insight about me.

Probably another fact that has urged me to start another journal was my brother’s death. He died on Saturday, December 2, 1995 — right before Christmas and the New Year. You can just imagine the Christmas spirit then. He died from the fatal combination of alcohol, sleeping and caffeine pills. These chemicals caused a seizure, then a heart failure. Without any further evidence, we could probably conclude he was “just stupid,” and accidentally took those substances at the same time. But, there was evidence. When my mom came home that morning from the hospital, she found the bottles that contained the alcohol, and the crushed beer cans in his back pack. She traced the cans back to a stash that my father kept for “special occasions.” My dad doesn’t drink much. The beer in the sports bottle (6 cans worth) were stale, meaning he probably planned this, but didn’t have “the guts” to do it. The pills were in a stash, the empty containers in a pile. It looked as though he took more than two, my mother had said. My brother wasn’t that┬ástupid to take an overdose and not know it. Also, he did not drink. If he did, he wouldn’t have poured six cans into two sports bottles, knowing very well the carbonization will go away. It was the duct tape and note that finally convinced me that it was a suicide. My dad swore the duct tape didn’t belong to him, (it did look fairly new). So, my brother must have wanted it kept as a secret. The tape looked as if it was about to be used. It looked as if he was pulling for a strip, but dropped it before he could cut it. So, it was crumpled and wrapped together in a tangle. My guess is that he knew the combination of substances would result in some kind of “noisy reaction,” so he planned to quiet everything by covering his mouth with duct tape. (He studied medical topics and subjects of such sort before he “turned bad”).

The other evidence was the letter, which stated: “Sell my CDs, CD player and my chair for money, (maybe for a tomb)… I’ve reached ‘the point of no return’.” He quoted that last phrase from “The Phantom of the Opera.” He and I loved it very much.

So, when he passed away, I thought it would be a good idea to have a journal that my descendents may read. My brother didn’t keep any journals I could read. Everything I had to “dig up” and analyze and figure out the details. It would have been… easier for all of us if we knew what he was going through. But, I guess when you’re about killing yourself, you don’t think much about anyone else.

Thanks for listening, Miri.

Bonelli Park

Dear Ms. Ellis,

In Sunday I had a whole day of fun we went to Bonelli Park near Raging Waters we didn’t get to go their [sic] instede [sic] we gone to Bonelli Park we had barbeque chicken it taste [sic] good we went to the beach side and got some shells only clam shells my dad saw a dead fish in [sic] the beach side near the brige [sic]! He said it was still fresh, and he opened the gill side and said… it really is fresh then my cousin found two clam shells stick [sic] together and thought it was still alive I said it’s not then it really wasn’t!!

%d bloggers like this: