She & Him - Sing

She & him - sing by auenarel

Something about Zooey’s voice reminds me of a time before I was born. She & Him has the wonderfully uncanny ability to sound both nostalgic and refreshing at the same time. Zooey Deschanel is the quintessential “girl next door,” who captures your eye because she seems so close to you, but you know that she’s out of your league. She’s the type of girl who you innocently had a crush on growing up, but would never do anything because you were still so young.

She’s the girl in the summer dress no matter time of year it is, and damn can she wear that dress.

She’s that girl, and you have called her any number of names. She’s Summer Finn, Winnie Cooper, Elizabeth Bennett, Josephine March.

She’s the girl who you don’t want to sex, just love.

And in my own little perfect world, She sings, and I am Him.

Mams

The other day, as I picked her up from work, I had a very interesting conversation with my mother. I had dropped her off earlier that morning so I could use the car during the day and had seen some of her coworkers walking toward the building. I had noticed that some of them were Indian. Their race, however, has little to do with the story.

In the car, my mom, who always drives due to her crippling fear of my driving, tells me about her coworker.

"So my Indian friend," she begins. Again, the race has nothing to do with the story, and I only mentioned it before to provide a context to her statement, I suppose.

"My Indian friend found her son looking at sex websites," she told me. That definitely got my attention. Why was she telling me this?

"And?" I replied, carefully and nonchalantly. I really hoped that she didn't ask about my personal viewpoints, even though I would probably tell her anyways.

"She said she caught her son looking at the websites, and she didn't know what to do about it," my mom continued.

"She doesn't have to do anything about it," I told her. "How old is her son?"

"He's a junior in high school," my mom replied.

"Oh," I said. "Then leave him alone. His hormones are raging and that's normal."

Of course, this begged the question, which I mentally begged her not to ask:

"Do you have that urge to look at those things?"

"No," I said (lying? haha). "I'm older now so I don't have those raging hormones anymore."

But no answer is ever enough for my ever-inquiring mother.

"Did you do it in high school?" she asked, to my chagrin.

Of course, it is these moments that I thank my quick wit.

"Of course not," I replied almost immediately. "I had a girlfriend."

My mom laughed, but I could tell it wasn't going to end.

"That's disgusting," she said.

"Tell your friend that she has to choose, right? It's either those websites or her son getting a girlfriend. I think from a parent's point of view, the choice is obvious."

"So you're saying you didn't look at those bad websites?" she asked.

My reply was again immediate.

"Why settle for digital when I can have the real thing?"

My mom paused.

"Don't tell those things. I think I'm going to vomit."


Ironically, if my mom told me that, I would feel the same way. Love your parents, guys. They're just like you, except older.

Ignition

Perhaps the time wasn't right. She thought it wasn't right, but that doesn't mean it wasn't right. Perhaps, though, it wasn't. She didn't know what to know anymore. She thought about it some more. No one would see her here, at the front door, right? Well, maybe the people driving down the street might see her, but to them, she was just getting ready to knock. There was no way a passing car would stare for long enough to realize she was just standing at the door, staring.

Even if they looked for ten, fifteen seconds, they would still assume she knocked and was simply waiting for the door to be opened. From a third party's perspective, she was certainly not acting out of the ordinary. Actually, it would be a second part's perspective, she thought, because "third party" would assume there was a person other than her in the situation. Regardless, a second party's perspective certainly would still place her in a situation of normality. Somehow, though, this thought was not comforting.

It wasn't comforting because she knew that if the second party was him, he who made her angry and joyous and sad and nervous and excited all at once, she would be anything from normal, far removed from average, and certainly well above the level of casual surprise. If he saw her there, standing like an idiot with his letters in her hand, he would certainly be baffled. Why hadn't they spoken in months? Where were his due responses to those heartfelt letters? How come she never contacted him? Did she get his other messages?

But the thing that made her most nervous was not that she would be dumbfounded by those questions, but rather, that she had answers to all of them but knew them to be inadequate, at least by her own standards. She knew that anything she said would not justify how wrong she was, how immoral her actions were, nor how amoral her complacency must appear.

She clenched her fist and leaned her hairline on the door, placing her head's weight just below the old-fashioned knocker, and to her bewilderment, it opened. She put her hands up to push herself on the door back into her natural vertical stance, but the door was no longer there, so she took a step forward and nearly fell right into him.

She regained her composure as quickly as she could as he stood there in bafflement. This, however, was not the kind of surprise she had in mind.

"What...uh...hello?" he began.

"I'm sorry," she said. "Not for almost falling on you, but...well for almost falling on you, too, but not just that. I'm sorry, uh, for everything. You know, before...this."

She looked away to hide her embarrassment, now both for her physical blunder and her past mistakes.

"It's okay, I guess. Do you wanna come inside?" he offered, opening the door wider to welcome her.

"Oh," she said, mildly surprised. "Were you going somewhere? I don't wanna stop you. I just came to say sorry and maybe talk about some things, you know, but I don't wanna do it if you're busy, right?" She chuckled nervously. He did not.

"No, I wasn't going anywhere. My friends down the street called and said there was a lady in yellow standing at my door. They thought I didn't hear you knocking, which, to be honest, I didn't."

"I didn't," she replied. "How long were they watching me?" She turned around to see if she could find any faces at the windows, visually intruding on her embarrassment and thereby compounding it.

"I didn't ask, but they don't live on the other side. I don't think they could have seen you from their house. They said they saw you on the way home and as they were leaving, so I assume you've been here for awhile?"

"Yeah," she said, looking down. It's amazing how long you can avoid looking into someone's eyes when you're really committed, she thought.

"So..." he muttered. "Come inside?"

She looked around, back at her car, checked her cell phone for the time, did not pay any heed to it, and replied, "No, it's really...It's okay. I'll call you, uh, or something."

"No, please, come inside. You look tired. I'll make some tea or something. I was just watching The Wonder Years on DVD. You used to love that show as a kid." He smiled his famously familiar and warm smile.

She paused. It was the same smile that snared her mother, the same one that made sure she slept well every night before turning off the lights.

"No, it's really...it's okay, dad," she said, starting to back up. "I just, you know, have some things to do. I'll be in town for awhile, so we can hang out or something."

"Yeah," he said, still smiling. "That'd be cool. You have my number, right?"

"Yeah. I got it from mom. I'll call you!" she was turned around now, walking on the sidewalk, toward her car. She didn't look back. She knew he would wait until she left, to make sure she got on her way safely. Tears started to line her eyes. She furrowed her brow and clenched her lips, stuffing his letters in her jacket pocket. She opened the door to her car, and from the periphery of her vision, saw that the front door was still open, that vague yet familiar figure still standing there to watch over her.

And, somehow, to Ellie, the car's ignition never sounded so sad, like it somehow knew it was never meant to return.

The Whore's Core

Voldemort *shudder* was an evil man. For those of you who haven't read all of Ms. Rowling's insanely popular books, please be forewarned that I am about to reveal some aspects. In short, this is your obligatory spoiler alert. Also, if you haven't read them, please know that I am unsure as to how to judge you. Are you resistant to the insanely popular phenomena? Or are you a bit on the ignorant side? Or do you just not care? Fair enough.

In the series, You-Know-Who, the quintessential antagonist, takes various steps to secure the most secular of desires: immortality. While he should have been dead, he was still a part of the world. In addition to his unicorn blood diet (less calories?), Ol' Voldy took his soul and split it into 7 pieces. He then attached these soul parts to various objects, both living and nonliving. It is in this way that He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named ensured his survival, albeit oftentimes a measly one. The combination of his soul and the object is called a Horcrux. Normally, even making one Horcrux in which to place your soul is a daunting and harrowing task, and in Salazar Slytherin's last descendant's case, usually someone had to die. Even if the physical body of the person is destroyed, the person will still live as long as the Horcrux is not destroyed.

In this way, I have found that I am somewhat similar to the Dark Lord. I spill little secrets here and there to one friend or another, but I don't think I've told everything to one person. I just don't think there's anyone in my life who is around me often enough for that to happen.

In a sense, I am a secrets slut. I give a little bit of my personal thoughts to a lot of people, but I have yet to unload all my emotional baggage to one person. And it is in these thoughts, these emotionally charged tidbits of information, where I suppose my identity resides. I am a prostitute for secrets and all to often, arbitrarily so. While I can attribute some of it to my incessant ramblings, there is still some part of me that knows that I am reserved and candid all at once.

I am candid in that I am willing to give someone personal details about my past, but I am reserved in how much I give one person. And make no mistake, it is our past and our experiences that make up the most important parts of who we are. It is the foundation, the basis, of our identity.

And, interestingly, like Tom Riddle's segmented soul, I have divided myself, or at least the most important part of myself: my identity, my core, my crux.

A Single Child

I just watched A Single Man with Colin Firth and Julianne Moore. For all the high praise it got, I'm not too sure what I expected, but I was definitely less than satisfied when it ended. But I suppose the ending fit the general feel of the film. The whole affair is pretty pompous and melodramatic, not helped by its stringy and long-winded score. It's not a particularly poorly written soundtrack, nor a poor movie for that matter. It's just that I feel however poignant it gets, the build up takes too long to allow it an equal payoff.

That being said, it's a wonderfully stylish film. 2.5/4.


The other day my mom and dad and I were eating outside. It was dinner time, and my dad was on his laptop outside, as he usually is. Being summer, the sun had yet to set for a few more hours, and hunger struck our bellies like a lightning storm above a volcano. My brother was in Vietnam at the time, so he couldn't join us, naturally. My mom and I saw my dad outside and we decided to join his lonesome on the small table we have in the backyard next to my dad's makeshift hammock.

Our backyard was large, and where a patio could have been, we instead had cement laid out with a wooden roof I believe my dad made himself when we moved first arrived. We had two sliding doors on opposite ends of our house that led into the backyard. The roof covered the width of our house so no matter which door we slid open to enter, we'd be covered. One door was in the family room. When we first moved in, opening that door led to a clear view of the backyard. However, over the years a large ivy-like bush of flowers had extended from the ground to the room, providing shade onto the patio area. This was where the hammock was fastened, behind where the roof ended and covered by the big plant.

The other door, behind our kitchen, was opened and led right near a table where my dad was sitting. It was through this door that my mom and I exited to sit next to my dad.

"Who do you think is better-looking, bố?" I asked my dad during dinner. The sun was still up and the lack of humidity in the clear California weather was a blessing I never took for granted. The occasional breeze hugged my skin like a quiet lover, always gentle and soothing.

To his children, my dad is a generally reserved man. He projects the persona of the dominant male figure of the household and generally doesn't indulge us when we are silly. However, through the years, my brother and I have found that around his friends, he is extremely social and jovial, so we know that he can be very easygoing. Thus, unless he's giving us direct orders, we love joking around with him and being as ridiculous as possible.

"Me or you?" I clarified.

"Andrew, you can't be serious," my mom interjected. "Bố is much better looking, especially when he was younger. He was so handsome." She smiled.

My dad stared off, quietly, as he is apt to do. He spoke as if he wasn't really listening and answered as if he only heard the question in passing. It always seemed like he was thinking about something else, distracted even when talking to his children.

"Bố don't know. Probably you," he replied quietly before taking another chopstickful of rice.

I laughed.

"See?" I told my mom. "Even he admits I'm more handsome!" I told her jokingly.

"No. Definitely not," she said, looking at my father lovingly.

"Well," I said, thinking aloud to my dad, "who's better looking, bố? You or Matthew?"

There was less hesitation this time.

"Matthew," he said, more quickly, but still in his special reserved tone. "He's taller and has long eyelashes."

"Oh, Matthew is so handsome!" my mom said. "And he has those beautiful baby eyes!"

I thought about what she said for a second. It was then, I realized, that my mom thinks I'm the ugliest guy in our family.

Sad times.