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(Yet Another) Writer's/Artist's Club
- Thread starter Rose Flame
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Who Replied?~Ozy~
PC's Unofficial Poetry Critic
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Could you put up the intro? I'm almost done with my re-read of the Dark elf trilogy and I need something new.
~Ozy~
PC's Unofficial Poetry Critic
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Eh, I can probably figue it out. Please do.
Vampira
(Rose Flame)
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Ok, but uh, now that I'm trying to find it, it seems it's lost.(Don't ask me how someone could possiby lose a dictionary sized book; it takes talent ;) ). I can probably put it up by tonight though, assuming my brother hasn't gone though my books again (I always end up missing some when that happens)
Vampira
(Rose Flame)
- 366
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- Seen Sep 14, 2004
Ah! Found it; and just when I had stopped looking for it; anyway, here it is, word for word (after the first page, which only has book reviews)
Mark Z. Danielewski's House of Leaves
By Zampano
With introduction and notes by Johnny Truant
2nd Edition
(Here's the first two mysteries, right here. Who really wrote the book, and what ever happened to the first edition? This book was published for the first time in 2000. Ok, skipping the publishing info and the table of contents,)
This is not for you
Introduction
I still get nightmares. In fact, I get them so often I should be used to them by now. I'm not. No one ever gets used to nightmares.
For a while there, I tried every pill imaginable. Anything to curb the fear. Excedrine PMs, Melatonin, L-tyrptophan, Valium, Vicodin, quite a few members of the barbital family. A pretty extensive list, frequently mixed, often matched with shots of bourbon, a few lung rhasping bong hits, sometimes even the vaporous confidence trip of cocaine. None of it helped. I think its safe to assume that there's no lab sophisticated enough yet to synthesize the kind of chemicals I need. A nobel prize to the one who invents that puppy.
I'm so tired. Sleeps been stalking me for too long to remember. Inevitable I suppose. Sadly though, I'm not looking forward to the prospect. I say "sadly" because there was actually a time when I enjoyed sleeping. In fact I slept all the time. That was before my friend Lude woke me up at three in the morning and asked me to come over to his place. Who knows, if I hadn't heard the phone ring, maybe things would be different now? I think about that alot.
Actually, Lude had told me about the old man a month or so before that fateful evening. (Is that right? fate? It sure as **** wasn't -ful. Or was it exactly that?) I'd been in the throes of looking for an apartment after a little difficulty with a landlord who woke up one morning convinced he was Charles DeGaulle. I was so stunned by this announcement that before I could think twice I'd already told him how in my humble estimation he did not resemble an airport though the thought of a 757 landing on him was not at all disagreeable. I was promptly evicted. I could have put up a fight but the place was a nuthouse anyway and I was glad to leave. As it turned out, Chuckie de Gaulle burnt the place to the ground a week later. Told the police a 757 had crashed into it.
During the following weeks, while I was couching it from Santa Monica to Silvelake looking for an apartment, Lude told me about this old guy who lived in his building. He had a first floor apartment peering out over a wide, overgrown courtyard. Supposedly, the old man had told Lude he would be dying soon. I didn't think much of it, though it wasn't exactly the kind of thing you forgot either. At the time, I had figured Lude had just been putting me on. He likes to exaggerate. I eventually found a studio in Hollywood and settled back into my mind numbing routine as an apprentice at a tattoo shop.
It was the end of '96. Nights were cold. I was getting over this woman called Clara English who had told me she wanted to date someone at the top of the food chain. So I demonstrated my unflagging devotion to her memory by immediatly developing a heavy crush on this stripper who had Thumper tatooed beneath her G-string, barely an inch from her shaved ***** or as she liked to call it, "The happiest place on Earth". Suffice it to say, Lude and I spent the last hours of the year alone, scouting for new bars, new faces, driving recklessly through the canyons, doing our best to talk the high mountain heavens down with a whole lot of bullshit. We never did. Talk them down I mean.
Then the old man died.
From what I can gather now, he was an American. Though as I would later find out, those who worked with him detected as accent, even if they could never say for certain where it came from.
He called himself Zampano. It was the name he put down on his apartment lease, and on several other fragments I found. I never came across any sort of ID, whether a passport, license, or other official document insinuating that yes, he indeed was an actual-and-accounted-for person.
Who knows where his name really came from. Maybe it's authentic, maybe it's made up, maybe borrowed, a nom de plume (Name from...either feathers or that he came off badly with) or-my personal favorite- a nom de guerre (Name he got from being in a war or being a criminal).
As Lude told it, Zampano had lived in the building for many years, and though he mostly kept to himself, he never failed to appear ever morning and evening to walk around the courtyard, a wild place with knee high weeds and back then populated with over eighty stray cats. Appearantly, the cats liked the old man alot and though he offered no enticements, they would constantly rub up against his legs before darting back into the center of that dusty place.
Anyway, Lude had been out late with some woman he'd met at his salon. It was just after seven when he finally stumbled back into the courtyard and despite a heavy hangover immediatly saw what was missing. Lude frequently came home early and always found the old guy working his way around the perimeter of all those weeds, occasionally resting on a sun beaten bench before taking another round. A single mother who got up every morning at six also noted zampano's absence. She went off to work, Lude went off to bed, but when dusk came and their old neighbor had still not appeared, both Lude and the single mother went to alert Flaze, the resident building manager.
Flaze is part Hispanic, part Samoan. A bit of a giant, you might say. 6'4'', 245lbs, virtually no body fat. Vandals, junkies, you name it, they get near the building and Flaze will lunge at them like a pitbull raised in a crackhouse. And don't think he believes size and strength are invincible. If the interlopers are carrying, he'll show them his own collection and he'll draw on them too, faster than Billy the Kid. But as soon as Lude voiced his suspicions about the old man, Pitbull and Billy the Kid went straight out the window. Flaze suddenly couldn't find the keys. He started muttering about calling the owner of the building. After twenty minutes, Lude was so fed up with this hemming and hawing that he offered to handle the whole thing himself. Flaze immediatly found the keys and with a big grin plopped them into Lude's outstretched hand.
Flaze told me later that he's never seen a dead body before and there was no question there would be a body and that just didn't sit well with Flaze. "We knew what we'd find," he said. "We knew that guy was dead."
The police found Zampano just like Lude found him, lying face down on the floor. The paramedics said there was nothing unusual; just the way it goes, eighty some years and the inevitable kerplunk, the system goes down, lights blink out, and there you have it, another body on the floor surrounded by things that don't mean much to anyone except the one who can't take any of them along. Still, this was better than the prostitute the paramedics had seen earlier that day. She had been torn to pieces in a hotel room, parts of her used to paint the walls and ceiling red. Compared to that, this almost seemed pleasant.
The whole process took awhile. Police coming and going, paramedics attending to the body, for one thing making sure the old man was really dead; neighbors and eventually even Flaze poking there heads in to gawk, wonder or just graze on a scene that might someday resemble their own end. When it was finally over, it was very late. Lude stood alone in the apartment, the corpse gone, officials gone, even Flaze, the neighbors and other assorted snoops-all gone.
Not a soul in sight.
"Eighty ****ing years old, alone in that pisshole," Lude had told me later."I don't want to end up like that. No wife, no kids, no nobody at all. Not even one ****ing friend." I must have laughed because Lude suddenly turned on me. "Hey Hoss, don't think young and squirting lots of come guarantee you ****. Look at yourself, working at a tatoo shop, falling for some stripper named Thumper." And he was right about one thing: Zampano had no family, no friends, and hardly a penny to his name.
The next day, the landlord posted a notice of abandonement and a week later, after declaring the contents of the apartment were worth less than $300, he called some charity to haul the stuff away. That was the night Lude made his awful discovery, right before the boys from Goodwill or wherever they came from swept in with their gloves and handtrucks.
When the phone rang, I was fast asleep. Anybody else, I would have hung up on, but Lude was a good enough friend that I actually dragged my *** out of bed at three in the morning and headed over to Franklin. He was waiting outside the gate with a wicked gleam in his eye.
I should have turned around right then. I should have known something was up, at the very least sensed the consequence lingering in the air, in the hour, in Lude's stare, in all of it, and ****, I must have been some kind of moron to have been so oblivious to all those signs. The way Lude's keys rattled like bone-chimes as he opened the main gate; the hinges suddenly shrieking as if we weren't entering a crowded building but some ancient moss-eaten crypt. Or the way we padded down the dank hallway, buried in shadows, lamps above held with spangles of light that I swear now must have been the work of gray, primitive spiders. Or probably, most important of all, the way Lude whispered when he told me things, things I couldn't give a **** about back then but now, now, well my nights would have been a great deal shorter if I didn't have to remember them.
Ever see yourself doing something in the past and no matter how many times you remember it you still want to scream stop, somehow redirect the action, reorder the present? I feel that way now, watching myself tugged stupidly along by inertia, my own inquisitiveness or whatever else, and it must have been something else, though what exactly I have ni clue, maybe nothing, maybe nothing's all- a pretty meaningless combination of words, nothing's all", but one I like just the same. It doesn't matter anyway. Whatever orders the path of all my yesterdays was strong enough that night to draw me past all those sleepers kept safely at bay from the living, locked behind their sturdy doors, until I stood at the end of the hall facing the last door on the left, an unremarkable door too, but still a door to the dead.
Lude, of course, had been unaware of the unsettling characteristics of our little journey to the back of the building. He had been recounting to me, in many ways dwelling upon, what had happened following the old man's death.
"Two things, Hoss," Lude muttered as the gate glided open."Not that they make much difference." As far as I can tell, he was right. They have very little to do with what follows. I include them only because they're part of the history surrounding Zampano's death. Hopefully, you'll be able to make sense of what I can represent though still fail to understand.
"The first peculiar thing," Lude told me, leading the way around a short flight of stairs."Were the cats." Apparently in the months preceeding the old man's death, the cats had begun to disappear By the time he died they were all gone. "I saw one with it's head ripped off, and another with it's guts strew all over the sidewalk. Mostly though, they just vanished."
"The second peculiar thing, you'll see for yourself," Lude said, lowering his voice even more, as we slipped past the room of what looked suspiciously like a coven of musiscians, all of them listening intently to headphones, passing around a spliff.
"Right next to the body," Lude continued,"I found these gouges on the hardwood floor, a good six or seven inches long. Very weird. But since the old man showed no sign of physical trauma, the cops let it go."
He stopped. We had reached the door. Now I shudder. Back then, I think I was elsewhere. More than likely daydreaming about Thumper. This will probably really wig you out, I don't care, but one night I even rented Bambi and got a hard on. That's how bad I had it for her. Thumper was something else and she sure beat the **** out of Clara English. Perhaps at that moment, I was even thinking about what the two would look like in a cat fight. One thing's for sure though; when I heard Lude turn the bolt and open Zampano's door, I lost sight of those dreams.
It's a little...yeah. But I can put more up if you want. There's still about eight more pages in the intro alone.
I'm not completely sure about my french translations (Nom de plum, nom de guerre), since I've only had one year of French. btw, house is in gray, because that's how it is all throughout the book.
Mark Z. Danielewski's House of Leaves
By Zampano
With introduction and notes by Johnny Truant
2nd Edition
(Here's the first two mysteries, right here. Who really wrote the book, and what ever happened to the first edition? This book was published for the first time in 2000. Ok, skipping the publishing info and the table of contents,)
This is not for you
Introduction
I still get nightmares. In fact, I get them so often I should be used to them by now. I'm not. No one ever gets used to nightmares.
For a while there, I tried every pill imaginable. Anything to curb the fear. Excedrine PMs, Melatonin, L-tyrptophan, Valium, Vicodin, quite a few members of the barbital family. A pretty extensive list, frequently mixed, often matched with shots of bourbon, a few lung rhasping bong hits, sometimes even the vaporous confidence trip of cocaine. None of it helped. I think its safe to assume that there's no lab sophisticated enough yet to synthesize the kind of chemicals I need. A nobel prize to the one who invents that puppy.
I'm so tired. Sleeps been stalking me for too long to remember. Inevitable I suppose. Sadly though, I'm not looking forward to the prospect. I say "sadly" because there was actually a time when I enjoyed sleeping. In fact I slept all the time. That was before my friend Lude woke me up at three in the morning and asked me to come over to his place. Who knows, if I hadn't heard the phone ring, maybe things would be different now? I think about that alot.
Actually, Lude had told me about the old man a month or so before that fateful evening. (Is that right? fate? It sure as **** wasn't -ful. Or was it exactly that?) I'd been in the throes of looking for an apartment after a little difficulty with a landlord who woke up one morning convinced he was Charles DeGaulle. I was so stunned by this announcement that before I could think twice I'd already told him how in my humble estimation he did not resemble an airport though the thought of a 757 landing on him was not at all disagreeable. I was promptly evicted. I could have put up a fight but the place was a nuthouse anyway and I was glad to leave. As it turned out, Chuckie de Gaulle burnt the place to the ground a week later. Told the police a 757 had crashed into it.
During the following weeks, while I was couching it from Santa Monica to Silvelake looking for an apartment, Lude told me about this old guy who lived in his building. He had a first floor apartment peering out over a wide, overgrown courtyard. Supposedly, the old man had told Lude he would be dying soon. I didn't think much of it, though it wasn't exactly the kind of thing you forgot either. At the time, I had figured Lude had just been putting me on. He likes to exaggerate. I eventually found a studio in Hollywood and settled back into my mind numbing routine as an apprentice at a tattoo shop.
It was the end of '96. Nights were cold. I was getting over this woman called Clara English who had told me she wanted to date someone at the top of the food chain. So I demonstrated my unflagging devotion to her memory by immediatly developing a heavy crush on this stripper who had Thumper tatooed beneath her G-string, barely an inch from her shaved ***** or as she liked to call it, "The happiest place on Earth". Suffice it to say, Lude and I spent the last hours of the year alone, scouting for new bars, new faces, driving recklessly through the canyons, doing our best to talk the high mountain heavens down with a whole lot of bullshit. We never did. Talk them down I mean.
Then the old man died.
From what I can gather now, he was an American. Though as I would later find out, those who worked with him detected as accent, even if they could never say for certain where it came from.
He called himself Zampano. It was the name he put down on his apartment lease, and on several other fragments I found. I never came across any sort of ID, whether a passport, license, or other official document insinuating that yes, he indeed was an actual-and-accounted-for person.
Who knows where his name really came from. Maybe it's authentic, maybe it's made up, maybe borrowed, a nom de plume (Name from...either feathers or that he came off badly with) or-my personal favorite- a nom de guerre (Name he got from being in a war or being a criminal).
As Lude told it, Zampano had lived in the building for many years, and though he mostly kept to himself, he never failed to appear ever morning and evening to walk around the courtyard, a wild place with knee high weeds and back then populated with over eighty stray cats. Appearantly, the cats liked the old man alot and though he offered no enticements, they would constantly rub up against his legs before darting back into the center of that dusty place.
Anyway, Lude had been out late with some woman he'd met at his salon. It was just after seven when he finally stumbled back into the courtyard and despite a heavy hangover immediatly saw what was missing. Lude frequently came home early and always found the old guy working his way around the perimeter of all those weeds, occasionally resting on a sun beaten bench before taking another round. A single mother who got up every morning at six also noted zampano's absence. She went off to work, Lude went off to bed, but when dusk came and their old neighbor had still not appeared, both Lude and the single mother went to alert Flaze, the resident building manager.
Flaze is part Hispanic, part Samoan. A bit of a giant, you might say. 6'4'', 245lbs, virtually no body fat. Vandals, junkies, you name it, they get near the building and Flaze will lunge at them like a pitbull raised in a crackhouse. And don't think he believes size and strength are invincible. If the interlopers are carrying, he'll show them his own collection and he'll draw on them too, faster than Billy the Kid. But as soon as Lude voiced his suspicions about the old man, Pitbull and Billy the Kid went straight out the window. Flaze suddenly couldn't find the keys. He started muttering about calling the owner of the building. After twenty minutes, Lude was so fed up with this hemming and hawing that he offered to handle the whole thing himself. Flaze immediatly found the keys and with a big grin plopped them into Lude's outstretched hand.
Flaze told me later that he's never seen a dead body before and there was no question there would be a body and that just didn't sit well with Flaze. "We knew what we'd find," he said. "We knew that guy was dead."
The police found Zampano just like Lude found him, lying face down on the floor. The paramedics said there was nothing unusual; just the way it goes, eighty some years and the inevitable kerplunk, the system goes down, lights blink out, and there you have it, another body on the floor surrounded by things that don't mean much to anyone except the one who can't take any of them along. Still, this was better than the prostitute the paramedics had seen earlier that day. She had been torn to pieces in a hotel room, parts of her used to paint the walls and ceiling red. Compared to that, this almost seemed pleasant.
The whole process took awhile. Police coming and going, paramedics attending to the body, for one thing making sure the old man was really dead; neighbors and eventually even Flaze poking there heads in to gawk, wonder or just graze on a scene that might someday resemble their own end. When it was finally over, it was very late. Lude stood alone in the apartment, the corpse gone, officials gone, even Flaze, the neighbors and other assorted snoops-all gone.
Not a soul in sight.
"Eighty ****ing years old, alone in that pisshole," Lude had told me later."I don't want to end up like that. No wife, no kids, no nobody at all. Not even one ****ing friend." I must have laughed because Lude suddenly turned on me. "Hey Hoss, don't think young and squirting lots of come guarantee you ****. Look at yourself, working at a tatoo shop, falling for some stripper named Thumper." And he was right about one thing: Zampano had no family, no friends, and hardly a penny to his name.
The next day, the landlord posted a notice of abandonement and a week later, after declaring the contents of the apartment were worth less than $300, he called some charity to haul the stuff away. That was the night Lude made his awful discovery, right before the boys from Goodwill or wherever they came from swept in with their gloves and handtrucks.
When the phone rang, I was fast asleep. Anybody else, I would have hung up on, but Lude was a good enough friend that I actually dragged my *** out of bed at three in the morning and headed over to Franklin. He was waiting outside the gate with a wicked gleam in his eye.
I should have turned around right then. I should have known something was up, at the very least sensed the consequence lingering in the air, in the hour, in Lude's stare, in all of it, and ****, I must have been some kind of moron to have been so oblivious to all those signs. The way Lude's keys rattled like bone-chimes as he opened the main gate; the hinges suddenly shrieking as if we weren't entering a crowded building but some ancient moss-eaten crypt. Or the way we padded down the dank hallway, buried in shadows, lamps above held with spangles of light that I swear now must have been the work of gray, primitive spiders. Or probably, most important of all, the way Lude whispered when he told me things, things I couldn't give a **** about back then but now, now, well my nights would have been a great deal shorter if I didn't have to remember them.
Ever see yourself doing something in the past and no matter how many times you remember it you still want to scream stop, somehow redirect the action, reorder the present? I feel that way now, watching myself tugged stupidly along by inertia, my own inquisitiveness or whatever else, and it must have been something else, though what exactly I have ni clue, maybe nothing, maybe nothing's all- a pretty meaningless combination of words, nothing's all", but one I like just the same. It doesn't matter anyway. Whatever orders the path of all my yesterdays was strong enough that night to draw me past all those sleepers kept safely at bay from the living, locked behind their sturdy doors, until I stood at the end of the hall facing the last door on the left, an unremarkable door too, but still a door to the dead.
Lude, of course, had been unaware of the unsettling characteristics of our little journey to the back of the building. He had been recounting to me, in many ways dwelling upon, what had happened following the old man's death.
"Two things, Hoss," Lude muttered as the gate glided open."Not that they make much difference." As far as I can tell, he was right. They have very little to do with what follows. I include them only because they're part of the history surrounding Zampano's death. Hopefully, you'll be able to make sense of what I can represent though still fail to understand.
"The first peculiar thing," Lude told me, leading the way around a short flight of stairs."Were the cats." Apparently in the months preceeding the old man's death, the cats had begun to disappear By the time he died they were all gone. "I saw one with it's head ripped off, and another with it's guts strew all over the sidewalk. Mostly though, they just vanished."
"The second peculiar thing, you'll see for yourself," Lude said, lowering his voice even more, as we slipped past the room of what looked suspiciously like a coven of musiscians, all of them listening intently to headphones, passing around a spliff.
"Right next to the body," Lude continued,"I found these gouges on the hardwood floor, a good six or seven inches long. Very weird. But since the old man showed no sign of physical trauma, the cops let it go."
He stopped. We had reached the door. Now I shudder. Back then, I think I was elsewhere. More than likely daydreaming about Thumper. This will probably really wig you out, I don't care, but one night I even rented Bambi and got a hard on. That's how bad I had it for her. Thumper was something else and she sure beat the **** out of Clara English. Perhaps at that moment, I was even thinking about what the two would look like in a cat fight. One thing's for sure though; when I heard Lude turn the bolt and open Zampano's door, I lost sight of those dreams.
It's a little...yeah. But I can put more up if you want. There's still about eight more pages in the intro alone.
I'm not completely sure about my french translations (Nom de plum, nom de guerre), since I've only had one year of French. btw, house is in gray, because that's how it is all throughout the book.
~Ozy~
PC's Unofficial Poetry Critic
- 5,246
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- White Sword Tower
- Seen Jun 12, 2012
Looks like an interesting read. I'll be checking it out.
Anyway, school is starting soon and I'll have to be getting off soon.
Anyway, school is starting soon and I'll have to be getting off soon.
~Ozy~
PC's Unofficial Poetry Critic
- 5,246
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- Age 36
- White Sword Tower
- Seen Jun 12, 2012
Review: First day of school.
Lemee make this clear: Get me up early and I hate quite literally everything. Fortunately, a shower usually takes care of this. So I'm usually as bright and cheerful as can be expected by the time I get on the bus.
I go to my World Lit class first off, it seems like it'll be enjoyable enough. Lot of philosiphy type stuff, that's cool.
Japanese is next off, we have a small class. 13 people total, and due to scheduling troubles only about 5 show up. We spend the class chatting.
Brit Lit is third period and we start reading Beowulf first thing. I already read it and I'm told ,to reaad some other epic poem. I'm considering Gilgamesh or Sigfried.
History is cool, two of my friends are in the class and we have a real character for a teacher.
Unfortunately, Algebra is next up in the most depressing room I've ever been. No windows, no decoration and grey paint. Even if the teacher is cool, it'll be a boring year.
I'm off for the next two periods, which give me time to grab a pick-me-up Chai tea at Starbucks.
I wrap up the day in Newspaper. Looks like it'll be a pretty interesting crew this year and I'm out of layout and the tyrannical control of James Warren, the editor in chief. SCORE!
Overall: 8/10.
Lemee make this clear: Get me up early and I hate quite literally everything. Fortunately, a shower usually takes care of this. So I'm usually as bright and cheerful as can be expected by the time I get on the bus.
I go to my World Lit class first off, it seems like it'll be enjoyable enough. Lot of philosiphy type stuff, that's cool.
Japanese is next off, we have a small class. 13 people total, and due to scheduling troubles only about 5 show up. We spend the class chatting.
Brit Lit is third period and we start reading Beowulf first thing. I already read it and I'm told ,to reaad some other epic poem. I'm considering Gilgamesh or Sigfried.
History is cool, two of my friends are in the class and we have a real character for a teacher.
Unfortunately, Algebra is next up in the most depressing room I've ever been. No windows, no decoration and grey paint. Even if the teacher is cool, it'll be a boring year.
I'm off for the next two periods, which give me time to grab a pick-me-up Chai tea at Starbucks.
I wrap up the day in Newspaper. Looks like it'll be a pretty interesting crew this year and I'm out of layout and the tyrannical control of James Warren, the editor in chief. SCORE!
Overall: 8/10.
Vampira
(Rose Flame)
- 366
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- Seen Sep 14, 2004
Sounds like you had a descent day. It's cool that you have a class with a few of your friends. As far as I know, I'm roughing it alone until lunch. And I can't believe your school has a japanese class! That must be nice.
I'm dreading school tomarro. Even though the principal said he thought school should be postponed until monday because of the mess in the student parking lot, the transportation office decided against decided it (I found out first thing this morning since I was doing some sectetarial type stuff at the bus company. Just barely got back. been there twelve hours and that phone never stopped ringing. You'd think by now, parents would know where to send their kids).
I'm dreading school tomarro. Even though the principal said he thought school should be postponed until monday because of the mess in the student parking lot, the transportation office decided against decided it (I found out first thing this morning since I was doing some sectetarial type stuff at the bus company. Just barely got back. been there twelve hours and that phone never stopped ringing. You'd think by now, parents would know where to send their kids).
~Ozy~
PC's Unofficial Poetry Critic
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Ouch. But every time a kid enters a new school the parents get paranoid I think.
Good luck for tomorrow! Semper fi.
Good luck for tomorrow! Semper fi.
Vampira
(Rose Flame)
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Yes, true. But still, it's no fun having to answer phones this close to the start of school :\
And thanks ; I think I'll need all the fortune I can get to get through tomarro unscathed. Uh, btw, I have no idea what Semper fi means :nervous: But I am kind of excited about getting back to school, as wierd as that may sound.
And thanks ; I think I'll need all the fortune I can get to get through tomarro unscathed. Uh, btw, I have no idea what Semper fi means :nervous: But I am kind of excited about getting back to school, as wierd as that may sound.
~Ozy~
PC's Unofficial Poetry Critic
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Samper Fi=Always loyal. Marine motto. Yeah, I'm kind've a military nut.
And I know what you mean about wanting to get back to school, after three months of nothing it's nice to have to work. Plus there's the whole "acquaintence-friends" thing.
And I know what you mean about wanting to get back to school, after three months of nothing it's nice to have to work. Plus there's the whole "acquaintence-friends" thing.
Vampira
(Rose Flame)
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Samper fi...always loyal; I like that. Loyalty is an admirable trait.
Shall I give you a review of my first day back?
Woke up about 5 min. before the alarm went off do to a very strange dream. Spacey as usual, as I got ready for school.
Ran into Monkey when I was going to my locker. We chatted for a few until she decided to find out where he first class was.
1st period-choir; got a teacher who talked to us as if we were in kindergarden. But I don't mind so much since it's better than a hard teacher for that particular course. Tested my voice to see what set I was in, since I've never been in choir before. Found out I was a Soprano, which isn't surprising considering the high pitch if my voice. But they say I can also pull of Alto.
2nd period-creative writing; got Mrs. Estrada, one of my fav. teachers. Kind of wild. She said she's going to be pretty loose with the class, letting us write what we write best; not going to make poets write fiction and vice versa. She's such a nut XD. She doesn't mind if anyone swears in front of her Except for "the f-word"...I'd tell you what how she got her class last year to stop using it, but I think you'd be slightly disturbed ^_^.
Lunch, sat quietly as monkey, sun shine and some people I didn't know chatted until a pretty good friend of mine found me; problem is, monkey and her don't get along...uncomfortable situation.
Geometry-absolutely nothing worth mentioning; well, except that my teacher's from Okinawa; that might interest you.
Biology- my teacher knew me on sight; he always though it was strange that a high schooler was into music from like, David Bowie, Rolling Stones, Queen- I guess I kinda stuck out in his mind. I was the only one in that class who didn't have dreams of becoming a doctor, and who he knew from one of his last classes (just slightly embarressing)
Went to the bus company, answered phones for a while; until people started getting nasty and a child went missing...they found her though.
Overall, a pretty rough day (sorry for such a long read)
Shall I give you a review of my first day back?
Woke up about 5 min. before the alarm went off do to a very strange dream. Spacey as usual, as I got ready for school.
Ran into Monkey when I was going to my locker. We chatted for a few until she decided to find out where he first class was.
1st period-choir; got a teacher who talked to us as if we were in kindergarden. But I don't mind so much since it's better than a hard teacher for that particular course. Tested my voice to see what set I was in, since I've never been in choir before. Found out I was a Soprano, which isn't surprising considering the high pitch if my voice. But they say I can also pull of Alto.
2nd period-creative writing; got Mrs. Estrada, one of my fav. teachers. Kind of wild. She said she's going to be pretty loose with the class, letting us write what we write best; not going to make poets write fiction and vice versa. She's such a nut XD. She doesn't mind if anyone swears in front of her Except for "the f-word"...I'd tell you what how she got her class last year to stop using it, but I think you'd be slightly disturbed ^_^.
Lunch, sat quietly as monkey, sun shine and some people I didn't know chatted until a pretty good friend of mine found me; problem is, monkey and her don't get along...uncomfortable situation.
Geometry-absolutely nothing worth mentioning; well, except that my teacher's from Okinawa; that might interest you.
Biology- my teacher knew me on sight; he always though it was strange that a high schooler was into music from like, David Bowie, Rolling Stones, Queen- I guess I kinda stuck out in his mind. I was the only one in that class who didn't have dreams of becoming a doctor, and who he knew from one of his last classes (just slightly embarressing)
Went to the bus company, answered phones for a while; until people started getting nasty and a child went missing...they found her though.
Overall, a pretty rough day (sorry for such a long read)
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~Ozy~
PC's Unofficial Poetry Critic
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Ouch, not such a nice day indeed. Your teachers sound pretty cool, though.
~Ozy~
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Today is all my bad class. But it wasn't so bad, my luch falls right in the middle of Algebra. Unfortunately, I start the morning with three hours of English.Normally I love those clases, but having them straight in a row...Uggghh
Vampira
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I hate Algebra; I took Algebra 1 last year. Barely passed with a D.
So you have that type of schedule where you alternate classes? I like the four classes a semester better than that one, but that's just me.
You know, It's nice to be able to "talk" to someone like this. Really didn't appreciate it until I had to go to school and deal with a lot of empty headed people. But thanks. At least I know there's one person out there who undertands me at least a little. ;)
So you have that type of schedule where you alternate classes? I like the four classes a semester better than that one, but that's just me.
You know, It's nice to be able to "talk" to someone like this. Really didn't appreciate it until I had to go to school and deal with a lot of empty headed people. But thanks. At least I know there's one person out there who undertands me at least a little. ;)
~Ozy~
PC's Unofficial Poetry Critic
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Thanks, glad to help.
I prefer alternating, gives me more time to slack off on homework.
Oh, have you done any online RPing? I think you'd be good at it.
I prefer alternating, gives me more time to slack off on homework.
Oh, have you done any online RPing? I think you'd be good at it.