"Like fleas or the smell of cheap cologne, she is hard to get rid of. Smiling, smug, arms crossed, her pixie-toes tap out a tap out a metal rhythm that sounds like the smack of surgical tools falling onto a metal try. Like genius or sorrow she has curled up inside me and censors no evil, no criticism.

Sometimes she's British. Sometimes she is a poet. Sometimes she has a drawling southern accent when she mocks me. Other times she is long-nailed and pure JAP. She's got a rough cat's tongue and a debutante smile. She's got a Chanel bag, and outdrink me any day, and is the skinniest girl I know. But she is always, always right.

She likes to skip around and wear transparent victorian nightgowns even on the coldest nights, in order to mock my shivering mortality.

Occasionally, late at night, she is kind: she lights my cigarettes, pours me drinks, and waits quietly for some mutual banter to emerge.

But more and more, she resembles a lion-woman: her hungry iron gaze is trained on me, never wavering. Her eyes penetrate; she is always prepared, always ready to pounce on the slightest vulnerability. When I stumble on the street, she laughs: proof. But when I slip into my clothes, and they hang a little looser, she pats my back and hands me an extra sweater, my lion self.

She is incomplete, a succubus: trigger-happy, toilet-mouthed, knife-wielding, blue and white and sometimes green in the face from screaming, from telling me all I cannot have. When I manage to beat her down, tie her into a chair on the far side of the room, get her to eat some food, she smiles her sanguine, toothless grin. She starves proudly, waits, like a saint, she waits for death by fire or baptism.

--'This is when' she spits, when it is three o'clock in the morning and I can't sleep from hunger

She is holy, wholly my own, and when I reach out to touch her image in my face, she hovers an inch or so before my skull. Then she flicks her tongue out at me like the enraged lion she is; she snaps my fingers between her feline jaws; a barrage of dead spiders, splinters of wood, and bone.

--'This is when I love you the most' "

Even after I had finished reading the book "Skinny" by Ibi Kaslik, these two pages out of all 256 were what stood out the most to me. Like a poem or a catchy song, I had them stuck in my head for weeks-- or at least parts of them. Everything from this excerpt, in my opinion, is beautiful, real, raw, and completely and utterly heart-breaking. This girl that Giselle describes is everything she is, desires to be, or fears the most in the world.

This girl is her.

She is each fragment of her imagination.

She is her perfect self and her weakest self

Her beautiful self, and her hideous self.

She is her conscience and confidence or lack thereof.

What I think is so interesting about this is the whole concept of a war against yourself, of you being your own worst enemy, of your greatest fear being yourself-- what you can or cannot do to or for yourself. I know that this is something I've experienced- maybe not as deeply or vividly as Giselle, but an experience is an experience, right? Though I've never felt an image like this one so graphically or robustly, I know what it's like to be afraid of yourself or what you've done or become, and I think that most others do as well whether they realize it or not.

Some may think that the notion of battling yourself seems silly. Now, think about it some more. You know yourself better than anyone or anything else in the whole world. You know every single strong point and each and every weakness. You know what makes you vulnerable and what will have no affect at all. You know what has happened to you and what hasn't. You know what you want and what you fear. You've spent more time with yourself than anyone. You could navigate your mind or your heart with your eyes closed, you could even do it asleep.

And, you do.

Every day.

Which is, when you think about it, the key to defeating anyone- knowing every single nook and cranny of their inner workings like the back of your hand.

And that is what's so terrifying about a battle against yourself-- you will never win.

Sometimes, I Wish I Could Forget

Time is relative. When you're 14 years old, the last 4 years may have seemed like the longest, best, worst, most important, most painful, what-ever-it-is years of your life. Then, as a 50 year old, your life has been steady, settled for a while and the last four years seem unimportant, a nonentity. A senior in high school may think that the year can't go any slower- that it seems like a lifetime before they will graduate when, in the big picture, this year is only one tiny fraction of their life. We all live and die, and go unnoticed by many. four years mean nothing in the grand scheme of things, but can define someones entire life.

Now, take a moment to think about the last four years of your life. Think about what they meant, what they did, how they changed you as a person. Think about what things would be like had they never happened, what you would be like if they simply disappeared. One moment they were part of your history, a chunk of your memory, and the next, they were just gone. It would be as if a part of your life never even existed, you suddenly rewinded. this is what happened to Naomi Porter.

She hit her head on slippery steps and in a split second, four years disappeared. Anything from after the age of 12 was simply erased from her memory- her mothers affair, her parents divorce, her boyfriend Ace, her best friend Will, her love for yearbook, her love for tennis, her ability to drive, her lost virginity, her new house, her half sister- everything. The most eventful, vital years of her life were forgotten. Her world had become a mystery- why did she drop that class? Why did she fall for Ace? Where did she wear that dress? How did she have her hair? Who was Will, really, to her? She begins to search for clues to piece together her history with. She had to trust people to tell her pieces of her life, and to tell them honestly. Naomi's life became a complete nightmare of question and wondering. At the same time, though, her amnesia had given her a fresh start. At sixteen years old, she had basically no past. She could choose to simply start over, be a whole new person. She didn't remember the old one, and no one would know that it ever existed. When Naomi finally does remember everything, she hides it. She doesn't tell anyone that her memory is back because, she doesn't want it to be. Starting over felt good, she didn't want to face the reality of her real life.

This book, Memories of a Teenage Amnesiac, makes me think so deeply about what it's like to forget. Is it better to forget your mistakes? To live with no history? To start with a clean slate? Or, is the point of life to live with the decisions that you make? At one point in the book, Naomi comments that she thinks perhaps the only reason that her significant other, James liked her is because she has no past, because the present and the future can be what she chooses, what she wants them to be. There are times in my life, and I'm sure yours too, when I think that nothing could ever get worse. When I feel like just giving up on everything and everyone. At such a time, I would kill to erase my mistakes. I would literally do anything to go back in time and just start over. But, maybe everything happens for a reason (I know, that sounds corny and stupid and over-used) but, perhaps it is true. Perhaps, every thing you do happens for a reason. Every mistake you make is meant to be nothing more or less than a mistake. I often wonder, should Naomi start over? Should she take this golden opportunity to be a whole new girl? Or, should she accept the person she was and live with it, with what she was supposed to be, for better or worse. What would each of us, as flawed human beings do?

I need to get inspired

I've spent aproximately three and a half hours staring at the blank space where my entry should be. Occasionally I will take a break from that oh-so-hard work and get some water or a piece of gum. Then, of course, I will go back to my staring and thinking. I have no idea what to write. None whatsoever. This had never happend to me. Ok, that's a lie- it's happend to me a million times but, it never went on for this long and never for a reading response. Reading responses are fun to me, easy- I love writing essays and responses and entries- fiction is what I have trouble with (basically anything that requires the artistic side of my brain). I don't know why I have suddenly lost my ability to write.

I can't help but think that perhaps it has something to do with (go ahead, make fun of me) Harry Potter. After re-reading the seventh book a few weeks ago and then seeing the movie three times since then, my life has been practically filled with the best book of the best series, ever. I feel like it's risen my standards. I've picked up and dropped at least three books since then because they just don't draw me in as much. It seems as if nothing is or ever will be comparable to Harry Potter. I've noticed this in the past as well- everytime I read one of the HP books, it takes me a few weeks of no reading to be able to thoroughly appreciate the next book that I pick up, like a cool- down period almost.

The trouble with this is that I want to read. I love reading. I want something that will draw me in as much as Harry Potter does every single time. I want a book where I feel just as connected to every single character introduced. I want to be able to laugh and cry and think deeper into every word I see. Harry Potter is the perfect book and I don't expect anything to ever top that. but I wish that there was something just as good for me to read.

Molly Weasley And The Power Of Love *SPOILER ALERT*

Molly Weasley is not perfect. She is not rich or beautiful or flawless. But, she's strong- she's a fighter, and she's smart, and loving, and the most amazing mother that anyone could ever wish for. Mrs. Weasley lives for her kids. She doesn't love anything in the whole world as much as she does those six boys and one girl.

She's not the kind of mother who give their children whatever their hearts desire- even if she could. She pushes them, and disciplines them, and teaches them. She's not the kind of mother that kids dream about, hope for. The kind that let their children do whatever, the kind that leave them alone, let them go their own way, whether good or bad. The kind that let them have what they want, watch them make their mistakes and let them. The kind that can't be bothered- the kind that kids think they desire. She cares too much to be that type of mother.

She's the human kind- the kind that makes mistakes, the kind that knows what is best even if it seems like "the meanest thing in the world". The kind that's not afraid to be the bad guy once in a while if she knows that it will help her kid. The kind whose children complain about her endlessly- the real kind.

The realistic nature of this character is what makes everyone love her so much-- she's the mother that we all have or know or have met in our lives. And before the seventh book, that's all she was- just that motherly character. But, J.K. Rowling made an extremely intentional and strong choice that most people overlooked. The one and only curse word actually written in the entire Harry Potter series is said by Mrs.Weasley and it's said in defense of her child. After Fred is killed, all bets are off- her child is dead- she won't be calm anymore, she won't just watch as Bellatrix attacks her only daughter. I cannot help but wonder- is it love or hate that helps her kill Bellatrix? Because she is a powerful witch but, let's face it- Bellatrix is more powerful. So how does she kill her?

My first thought was hate. Is it hate so strong that builds up so much to her limit that it bursts through in a surge of power, of energy, of a sudden passion for what she's fighting for? Or is it the power of love? Does love, the same way that it helped Lily Potter, help Mrs.Weasley kill the cruel woman that poses as a threat to her family? Did love, something that Bellatrix most likely does not possess, defeat her?

The whole idea of Lily's love protecting Harry always seemed a little far fetched to me. It just didn't seem like something powerful enough but now, all of the sudden, when Mrs.Weasley put herself out there to save her daughter, it all made sense. Her love for Ginny and Fred was shining through. In this one split second of complete chaos and utter loathing, everything fit into place for me. And suddenly, I believed that Lily's love could protect Harry like it did.

Because, Molly Weasley showed me how strongly and fiercely a mother could love their child.

Silly how things end, isn't it?

SPOILER ALERT!!!! IF YOU HAVE NOT READ HARRY POTTER AND THE

DEATHLY HALLOWS, STOP READING HERE.

But seriously, what earth are you waiting for????

When I read over the scene of Hedwig's death I cannot help but be dissapointed by it's length and lack of intensity. The first time I read it, I felt so overwhelmingly confused and guilty. Why wasn't I crying? What the hell was the matter with me? This was Hedwig- Hedwig who just died and I was just sitting there. When Sirius died I couldn't contain myslef- my mom thought I was having some sort of attack, locked up in my bedroom. I cried when Cedric Diggory got killed and I cried when Hagrid's hippogriff nearly got killed, and god knows that Hedwig is far more important than Hagrid's Hippogriff. The last 100 pages of the Half Blood Prince is destroyed from my tears. So why couldn't I cry when Hedwig died? Her death was certainly important enough- that wasn't the issue. Was it simply that the way she died wasn't important enough? Sure, she can't talk so, it can't be dramatic in that respect- last words and all. But, somehow I feel like it should be more than just:

"No - HEDWIG"

A second's relief, and then another burst of green light. The owl screeched and fell to the floor of the cage.

"No - NO!"

"Hedwig - Hedwig -"

But the owl lay motionless and pathetic as a toy on the floor of her cage. He could not take it in, and his terror for the others was paramount.

And that's it- she's dead.

Hedwig who has been with Harry always- through thick and thin.

Hedwig who was with Harry wherever he went- who stayed with him at Howarts and who left with him in the summers.

Hedwig- who served as his only connection to the world in which he belonged during those long months spent with the Dursleys.

Hedwig who was given to him by Hagrid days before beginning at Hogwarts for the very first time when he was 11 years old. And now, 6 years later, only 53 pages into the 7th and final book, she's dead. And, no more than a half a page was dedicated to this tragic event.

Now, you may say that I'm overreacting- she's just an owl, right? Not even a major character. Not nearly as important as Sirius or Dumbledore or Ron or Hermione or Lupin or even Ginny. She doesn't deserve so much attention. But that's not true- if I've learned anything at all about what Dumbledore or Ron or Hermione or Sirius or Lupin thought was right, it's that all creatures are equal- all types of living things should be treated with the same respect and, going by that rule, Hedwig is possibly Harry's very best friend in the world, right?

So why does she get this pathetic ending? It's as if she almost fades away without anyone even noticing, anyone even caring. Had someone skipped a paragraph of reading, they never would have even known she died. They would have assumed that she was just mentioned less or left behind on their grand adventure or killed so unimportantly that J.K. Rowling didn't even bother to mention it. I don't think that Hedwig deserves that, do you?

Real-world Mudbloods

Harry Potter is perhaps the most realistic fantasy book, ever. I know what you're thinking- I'm crazy. And though I do love Harry Potter with all my heart and though it pains me to say this, no- I do not believe that dragons exist, or hippogriffs, or giant spiders or 3 headed dogs. And though I pray to be proven otherwise everyday, neither does Harry. He's not real, Ron's not real, Hermione's not real, and Hogwarts is not real.

So, you're now you're thinking "ok, she's not crazy but, I still don't get it, if none of this is real, then what's the realistic part?". The realistic part is the people (and no, I don't mean that werewolves or giants or wizards are realistic) but, the realistic part is that the basic way that their society works is so similar to ours, especially as young people. Which is what, I think, make this books so universally loved- everyone can connect to it.

The feelings that go on in adolecents are similar to those of the ones in real-world teenagers. Fame still exists, stores and banks and schools still exist. It is our world, with an added element- magic.

But what makes it the most like the world we know is perhaps, discrimination.

The discrimination against muggles or "mudbloods" perpetrated by certain pureblood wizards throughout the series is similar to the discrimination that has been going on in our own world since the beginning of time. The thinking that they are superior to muggles is the same thinking Hitler had with killing so many jews, it is the same thinking Americans had in enslaving African Americans. It is the same thing that went through the settlers minds when they invaded and took over the Native Americans' land and resources, and when the English colonized America. J.K. Rowling took something very true and used it to make this book more human, more... well... real.

I turned page 607 and prepared to read the next word- I remember feeling so wonderful at that moment, curled up in a sleeping bag beside my fellow classmates on the hard but inviting floor of Ms.Wexlers 6th grade ELA classroom. I was the only one really reading in the reading marathon- it had just begun and i was already deep into my book while everyone else scanned magazines and ate starburst. My eyes searched the next page- nothing. There was nothing. Nothing at all. That was it. Then it hit me.

Harry Potter was over.

For good.

And that's when I started to cry.

In the middle of 7th period ELA I started to cry like a little girl.

I'd hit the end of the line- there would be no more long nights just reading Harry Potter for hours on end, there would be no more opening fresh pages and fresh books with words and and themes and ideas just waiting to happen. No more running out of rooms and hiding in closets with my ears between my knees singing Jingle Bells as loud as possible when my mom and brother talked about The Deathly Hallows to avoid accidental spoilers.

And at that moment- in my dorky flannel pajama's and L.L bean sleeping bag, in school with all the tears and running mascara and strange looks- my heart just broke into a million pieces. I've never quite been satisfied with any book I've read since that day. Nothing has ever had that strong of an effect on me. Don't get me wrong- I still have books I like and books I love, and reading remains on the top of my facebook list of hobbies and interests- there has just never been a book that touched me in the way that Harry Potter did.

So naturally, you would think that as soon as The Tales of Beetle The Bard came out I would, like every other devoted Harry Potter fan, snatch it up, ecstatic and devour the stories that were as close as I would ever get to another Harry Potter book. However, I did quite the opposite- since my brother bought it, it was on our living room bookshelf right next to the rest of the series- but, I avoided the book at all costs. I hated it. I really really hated it. It felt like a fake book. Like one of those books that are written by other authors once the original one is dead (even though J.K. Rowling wrote it). The kind that are written when everyone knows the book cannot continue and that's the next best thing. It felt like that book was just created for money, which disgusted me- I thought that Harry Potter was an amazing piece of literature and if it was over, it was over. It shouldn't be stretched out for more money. But, more than this, it felt like a tease- it wasn't Harry Potter- he wouldn't be in it, and neither would Hermione or Ron or any other character that I missed having the company of. It was just stories from their world- there would be no mention of how they were doing or what had become of their friends- it was just there to tease me.

The other day, however, rushing out of the house in the morning, impulse made me reach up to that shelf and take down The tales of Beetle the Bard. I'm not sure what or why but, something inside of me kept saying "why not? go for it! give it a chance, just a chance". And now, I'm about halfway through it, giving it a fair chance, and I'm honestly so glad that I did. I'll admit that about this one thing, I was wrong. This book is not a tease, not really. And it is, in a way about the characters that I love- not directly but, about their childhood. When I read these stories I can see them being read to Ron by Mrs.Weasley, Hermione studying them as a teenager, and Harry reading them to his own children, giving them the magical upbringing he never had and remembering his journey as a kid and young man.

'The World's on Fire' response

I've never cried at a music video before. That is, not until I watched 'The World's on Fire' a second time.

Honestly- at sad movies I'm a wreck. But, songs? Music videos?

Never.

I guess it's just that music videos are usually no more than 5 minutes- I don't have enough time to get connected enough to the character to make me upset when something happens to them. And that's what was different about this video. I was already connected to the characters and the people and the issues in a sense. I'm not sure if it's just because I'm so familiar with the topic of poverty or maybe because these themes are so much deeper and more urgent and important than most you see in hollywood music videos theses days which was the entire point of the whole thing.

The images and footage of the people and places in poverty combined with Sarah McLachlan's writing, and ideas, and just the point about how the world is so corrupt that the amount of money spent on average music video can really make a difference in the world and on individual peoples lives, all together make such an affecting image that I am not likely to forget.

Lyrics are something that cannot stand alone, as we discovered last year in ELA. They need their matching music, they need what makes them what they are, what gives them meaning.

In this case, the lyrics needed it's video which is the whole purpose and inspiration of the song. When we first glanced at and annotated the lyrics, they didn't mean much on their own- there were so many theories as to what the words were meant to say in that context. Until, of course, we watched the music video and it became abundantly clear. It's amazing how the meaning can change like that- one moment we had people thinking it was about her own world falling apart due to heartbreak and the next, it meant so much more because of those three minutes of inspiration.

This song was written sung and presented beautifully but, the thing that made it really truly unique was the idea that this song really was giving back to the world, materialistically, financially and emotionally.

It's Kind of a Funny Story

This book is so real. I've never seen a book that's truer to teenagers relationships or parents vs. kids. It always monitors what is going through the 15 year old boys head which some people might think is crude or gross but I love it because it's so right on. The thought about how teenagers all want to be like each each other- like if one boy is depressed they all think "hey that sounds cool, I want that, I can have that, I can do that" or if one kid has asthma or low blood sugar or a broken arm they all do because "he can miss gym class" or "eat during school" or have people write all over his arm". I experience this practically every day and that is why I love this book- because i honestly believe that any teenager could turn to any random page and make a connection.

Craig's character is normal. He is not an Ellen Hopkins character, he is real. He's just a normal guy who lives a normal life and suffers from some depression. He thinks normal teenage thoughts and does normal teenage things which is what makes this book so brilliant- it's serious and sometimes depressing but, always light-hearted and funny. One night, Craig almost kills himself which gets him checked into the mental ward. There, he meets so many people who change his life, including Noelle, a girl who cut her face with scissors. Craig, like most 15 year old guys, is unpredictable and confused. Just when you think he's over Nia, just when he thinks he's over Nia, he's not. Just when you expect him to make a move on Noelle, he doesn't. Just when you think he's getting worse, he gets better or just when you think he's getting better, he gets worse. This book may be one of my new favorites, I really rushed through it because I wanted to see the movie but, I'm looking forward to reading it a second time with annotations and much more time. It really does require it's own category- I've never seen anything so depressing by nature but yet, so funny.

I just wanted to apologize for the giver post, the format is being all messed up so it sort of looks like a blob right now, I'll try to fix it when I'm not half asleep :)

The Giver

I could talk about memory. I could talk about pain. The givers pain, Jonas's pain- both emotional and physical. I could talk about my empathy- my sympathy for Jonas's character- for all his frustration and loneliness. But, I feel this has all been covered before- I feel I've written and thought about all these topics before, whether in fourth grade or in seventh.

Every single person who writes one of these entries or essays talks about Jonas, talks about the giver. But, more interesting than their characters almost, more heartbreaking than them, I think, is the rest of the community.

They do not feel.
They do not feel pain or hate or stress.
They do not hug or kiss.
They do not see colors.
Everything is the same- Everyone is the same.
Spouses are chosen, children are given, jobs are assigned.
Feelings of passion are prevented with a pill.
There is no hurt, but in return, there is no love.

To deprive so many people of these things is, I think worse than to let one feel it all. And although many people will argue the point that they don't know what they're missing- so it's not so bad, I think that that makes it even worse because, at least Jonas can feel the good in addition to the bad, at least his life was not a lie. There is a point at which Jonas is talking to The Giver about his parents life once Jonas and Lily grow up and move out of their house-
"They'll go and live with the other childless adults and they won't be part of my life
anymore. And, after that, when the time comes, they'll go to the house of the old. And they'll be well cared for and respected and when they're released, there'll be a celebration"

"Which you won't attend" pointed out the giver.

"No, of course not, because I won't even know about it. By then, I'll be so busy with my own life. And Lily will, too. So our children, if we have them, won't know who their parents-of-parents are either"
This quote broke my heart into a million pieces. It, to me, is worse than anything else in this
community or this book. The fact that they would simply forget about their family without a
second thought. The fact that they would erase the people they have spent their entire lives with from their from their future, forever, and never look back. Many people in our world today do the same, including my own dad. Many people, like the people in Jonas' community, never talk to their family again, try hard to forget. The difference is, they have to try hard, the difference is it's not the automatic thing to do, the difference is, they have the choice. The people in The Giver were taught to do this, they were told that it was the way- the only way- anything else was dangerous. These poor people are trapped in this tiny world, there are so many things that they don't know and never will.

Some say that ignorance is bliss. It's a trade off, though, when you think about it- all or nothing.
Personally, I would chose all- the good and the bad, the happy and the sad, the mad and the
glad. And, maybe the people in The Giver would chose nothing, maybe they would chose all but,
that's not really what matters- what matters is that they didn't get the choice.

Where to begin?

I'm not really sure how to start this sort of thing, since I've never successfully kept a blog before, in fact I've failed every attempt at a diary as well, but that's another story. Technically speaking, this is a homework assignment, I'm required to keep this blog for ELA class, and I highly doubt it would even exist without Ms.Robbins but, now that it does exist I hope it can be more than that. I'm hoping that there will, at times be more than just the required entry per week on here. I hoping that there will be a poem here and there or an essay or entry or a random thought or feeling. I'm hoping that this will be kept up long after eighth grade ElA class as a place for me to keep in touch with middle school friends, compare old work with new, let my thoughts be released and most of all, write.