NOTES / articles / formal: "thursday, november 26, 2005"

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NOTES ON NOTES

[BACKGROUND] a piece written for forensics of '05-'06.

forensics is... (an ellipsis, until i decide to write an explanation for it) in short and inaccurately, it's roughly a debate/theatrics club. i participated in original oratory (OO), where you write a speech and read it from your heart (awww).

it's not so awww worthy when you have to memorize all that crap.

[PURPOSE] i did OO after doing prose for a little bit in forensics. i wasn't really at ease reading another's words (i respect actors so much for the fact that they can truly be someone else and mean it), so i switched categories. naturally, when writing, you should choose something you feel strongly about, and my anguish towards the myspace trend had really been building up inside of me. i needed to get it out.

[EDITS] i removed the actual name and a piece of information in the second-to-last paragraph. i wasn't comfortable displaying the person's name on here, in case she ever reads it, since i wrote about her without ever really mentioning it. she will now assume the name of "blahblah" and her website will be "blahblahblah." besides, every good piece needs a hint of mystery that keeps you guessing.

THURSDAY, NOVEMBER 26, 2005

"Wednesday, October 27, 2004: It seems to be a (bad) habit that Bill's got …for he has the tendency of slapping Sam and me with his dirty magical color-changing socks. That's right, they change colors, but they're still not clean. Still. Not. Clean. Oh man, I really think they need to be washed about 4986 times right now, taking into account they've been on the heads of numerous people, and it's just not cool." Period. And end entry.

Those who are not entirely ignorant might have noticed the mounting preoccupation with the Internet. Right; in addition to free access to copious amounts of porn, our parents have the Internet to thank for etching the agonizing ring of an instant message bell into their minds. Then, on top of the dinging and sweet naked people, there's sexpistol425 who's ASL is "16/f/your pants" (and she's an alleged hottie with a webcam!). The Internet has thus unquestionably proved to be one awesome creation. However, it might be that the observant few in the world might be the only ones who are able to disregard the open porn and instead, notice those eccentric webpages online. Case in point: strange entry written on Wednesday, October 27, 2004 about some guy named Bill's socks - anyone seen any of those lately? When we finally look past the creepy (though, tempting) instant messages from sexpistol425, we actually then hold a what-should-be-precious opportunity - the ability to look through a window into another's life. And contrary to popular hobbies nowadays, this window is not a webcam, but one in the form of an online diary.

Dictionary.com identifies "blog" as "an online diary; also called Weblog." Definition seems good to me. Wikipedia.org defines "blog" as a "website in which items are posted on a regular basis and displayed in reverse chronological order." Now the reverse chronological order talk can be omitted, but both definitions are fairly accurate - at the moment. It seems as if a "blog" can now be practically identical with a myspace. A website plastered with half-naked photos of girls and boys and the undecided should really not be synonymous with "blog." To abuse the definition and say you're "blogging" so you can simply add more "friends" is not the same. Friends are not to be achieved by simply "adding them." Why is blogging the equivalent of this? I guess people just can't recognize blogs as what they really can be, what they really can do. How can the definition finally be accepted for what it really is? If they could just look past sexpistol425, and then if they could just look past the myspaces, and maybe, just as it had helped me, it will help them. Just as it had changed me, it might just change them.

For me, the online diary was once used as an outlet for real emotions - real anger, real pride, real depression, real passion. For me, I was never quite able to complain or protest or vent or scream to someone's face. But with my recurring want - and need - to complain and brag and cry, I found myself in a situation time and time again where I could not locate many friends who sincerely wanted to listen to what I had to say sometimes. And granted, screaming in Internet jargon reads like, "ah," which does not have quite as much oomph as those high-pitched girly shrills that makes one pray to be deaf. But I was satisfied with arguing and simply releasing thoughts silently through the means of a keyboard. At certain points in my wonderful life, the power of blogging was really all I had to keep me from going any crazier.

So, one might currently be thinking, "Crazy girl, definitely, is it really that awful you need to write things open to the public for strangers to read and then hunt you down? Why can't you just beat a pillow?" That would certainly be a question from elementary health teacher Ms. Giambrone, at the least. I recall in fifth grade, my rotund, corpulent health teacher (who did not appear to be practicing what she was preaching about diets) ticketed punching at a real person bad. She understood the frequent adolescent urges to express - it's natural and healthy, she would say - but taking anger out on people and walls is not acceptable. Thus, she suggested an alternative: knocking the daylights out of a pillow. Alas, my parents never quite appreciated or encouraged my one-man-pillow-fights, so today, the computer serves as my pillow.

They say the more you read the better writer you will become. But when seeking for the secret to improve one's writing, did anyone ever suggest just writing itself? Since the age of nine, I have had practice writing ridiculous rants online. Although my writings continue to be torn up by English teachers to this day, I am convinced it is improving, nevertheless. And besides showing off my extensive "booger"-filled vocabulary (which, you must admit, is better than the profanity we now hear in school), I turned to the World Wide Web for one more reason. There really truly exists a relatively sane, logical reasoning - I promise - behind why people continue to pour their hearts, their souls, their inner deep thoughts and secrets onto a page, which, in a sense, does not even actually exist. And here stands justification: they seek compassion, comfort, and for one person who will listen.

The Internet world might be the only world where I know someone is listening. And the listeners are not teachers who get paid to tear up my writing. Or you, someone who had the misfortune to wind up in the same room as me and are now forced to listen or at the least pretend to listen; they are actual people who actually voluntarily want to read what I have to say.

Alas, society these days has rendered personal websites as a great place to go all out in webcam pictures and to begin one's stalking days. Except, the gratifying, comforting aspect that is now sadly overlooked, is that window into another's realm. Since a big faction of the world today is now discourteous and will interrupt you as you speak, there is thankfully, no one to interrupt you online. Moreover, out yonder computer screen, there sits a real person (a real person!) with one heart and presumably two eyes. One with eyes capable of reading and ears to listen with, and one who was taught, at some point in their lives, the ability to sympathize and empathize. And type back.

(blahblah) is the founder of (blahblahblah) and has become one of my best friends since I was ten. People can continue to tell me how it is dangerous to talk to someone "like that," and they can continue to tell me how it is impossible to truly be her best friend. But then I tell them to think about all the reliable friends they have known for four years, ones that live two thousand miles away, but are still in close contact with. Tell me all the friends you can turn to when you have a serious problem - and still two thousand miles away, is that person able to instantly help you, instantly cheer you up, with a couple of e-mails?

Besides from encouraging students to plagiarize and look at nude chicks, the Internet does not have to be only myspaces. It can have websites with real blogs, blogs by real people who needed to release anger or real people who needed to find someone sincere to share something spectacular with. And they certainly helped me develop my very own style of writing, even if teachers frown upon it. So maybe my entry about Bill and his dirty socks (seriously, they were a guy's mysteriously pink socks) did not change me that much, but there definitely exists other entries (181, to be exact) that - as cliched as it sounds - shaped a little bit of me into who I am today. That's 181 published records for the public, 181 published records that kept me from going insane. 181, and counting. Please do not just jump on the we-don't-know-what-a-blog-really-is-bandwagon; please do not let yourself become one of the passengers. Start a blog of your own, leave a trace to the world of your life story, of how you changed.

stalker(s)