Stardust

If I could trade my art and writing skills for physical strength and a strong understanding on math, I would become an astronaut.

It seems better to just be in the void of space and learn about the stars instead of staying on this little marble.

If I seem disillusioned to you, it's because it feels like a better outcome than just being angry, even if in anger I can still feel the potential for home and change.

Or maybe I'm confusing anger for passion.

Instead of becoming passionate about the world against all odds, I'm just becoming sad.

Which is even more depressing, since I cant help but view those who don't care as bad people.

"But why would you view them as bad people?!" No one said I chose to. I'm a human being with a very narrow and linear thought process--anything highly against my ideals is viewed as "less worthy" or "bad".

If I seem nutty to you, it's because I am. We all are. Take solace in the fact you're not alone in this madness.

And because I become angry at those less compassionate than I-- because I valued that passion that came with compassion for so long--I became a nuisance.

Do I care less now? No. I'm just tired of no one understanding or being as upset?

Should this have passed years ago with me integrating into society with everyone else? Why is compassion and thinking things can and should change seen as childish, anyhow?

I can tell you now what I'm passionate about isn't a coincidence. And that it really does effect a ton if people--namely me, and everyone I've ever cared for. I'm a female minority in a state with no voting power! I focused on making myself educated because I deemed myself unlovable as a baby!* What else did anyone expect me to do?!

Maybe someday the people I live with will understand, or I'll move in with people who do.

Who knows. I'm only 18.

With love
Nick Strange.
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*what I decided the first time in picked up a Harry Potter book (elementary school; six or seven years old) is a telling sign of what we teach young girls and what my personality is: I was not barbie. I wasn't going to be popular or beautiful or loved by boys, so I decided I wanted to smart and powerful instead. I wanted to command boys and demand things from them like a boss.

And I decided I'd focus on good stuff, too.

Life, the Universe, and Fairy Tales (or "Why I hate debates.")

I recently got really into Douglas Adams and started reading the Hitchhiker's Guide, which quickly became one of my favorite things ever conceived be a human being!

This series was actually one of those I had been meaning to pick up for a really long time but never got around to, and it couldn't have come to be at a better time, since I was going through a bit of a crisis at the time.

An existential crisis.

Try and imagine what it could be like to realize you're pathetically insignificant in the grand scheme of the entire universe which most likely is no scheme at all!

It boggled me and I couldn't focus--I couldn't do anything!

Want a better idea? Danisnotonfire's got a great explanation of the feeling!

Point is, I was hitting an all time low and needed a pick me up, and lo! The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy was waiting for me in movie form. It was exactly what I needed at the time!

After absorbing its story plot and getting to read the novels, including buying the books, I was cured! I felt better right away. I even try and find strength in the fact nothing I do will ever matter in the grand scheme of things.

It makes failure easier to settle with, which is important for me to learn to live with.

There's just one problem.

I now hate arguments.

This wouldn't be a problem if college classes didn't involve so much debating.

And the sad part is, my English teacher told me it's a good thing I learned this lesson now while I'm still a budding adult in legal terms.

Let's think about this one for a second: a high school English teacher of mine once said "I'm not right, I just know I'm not wrong." With this in mind, try and do a legitimate research paper. There's no word count and you love the topic. Just be satisfied with your decision.

I honestly can't do that. There's no such thing as a right answer and if you're open-minded enough, common consensus aside, almost every point can be validated!

Why do we debate? Why do I have to debate? To make more consensuses in the world?

Well I don't feel like it! I just can't muster up the energy necessary to try and shoot down the rest of the world.

We're a marble in the uncharted backwaters or the unfashionable end of the western spiral arm of the solar system. Don't even begin to try and pit me against the rest of the universe.

CS Lewis once said ". . .someday, you'll be old enough to start reading fairy tales again."
I think this is what he meant.

It's easier to create consensus with good fictional tales based on reality than debating endlessly. And sure, maybe once in a while a silly argument or a fresh debate could be fun to have, but a full-scale mock-congress? Or a mock-trial? Or more research papers?

Jesus Christ no.

I am done with these stupid research papers.

With love
Nick Strange

Respect for female humans. :)

I got catcalled today.

I am a vampire.

It's odd how relaxing music can be, yes?

During the last few days I've been stressed out of my mind for random, stupid things. A simple song, maybe three or four chords, acoustic, with lyrics on being a vampire has helped sooth.

We've all been there, I think. Where a stupid song you haven't heard in years comes to mind and you suddenly can't stop listening to it because it pacifies your emotions, whatever those emotions may be.

Well, I have ideas as to why: the song takes you back to better times? This particular song by Ansty Pantsy brings back memories of Juno, one of my favorite movies, and middle school. The song's tone expresses your emotions? It sounds pretty calm and slightly depressing to me. The song either simplifies or complicates your feelings as to make them easier to cope with? Well it is very chill. Four chords. Definitely less stressful than my own abstract thoughts!

I might as well say right now I don't own Ansty Pantsy, Juno, or this video above. In fact, my youtube name's the same as my blog name. Thanks, Google+!

With Love,
Nikola Strange.

A death in the family.

                My grandmother is terminally ill with breast cancer, and although this may be a dreary topic for Valentine’s Day, it seems to be all that’s eating away at my thoughts this week.

                I don’t think I should be posting this, simply because I have this misfortune streak, where whatever I say is both out of line and horribly misunderstood, but I feel like I should post this anyways. It’s a bit of a catharsis, one might say? Either way, I feel like I should get some things off my chest regarding the issue:

                Now my grandmother and I were never particularly close, so I wouldn’t benefit from “I’m sorry” notes, but I still can’t help pondering her death.

                In all honesty I am happy for her.

                That may sound like an odd thing to say in regards to the death of an individual, but I truly am happy for her. She’s made it. This is the final chapter, and she’s made it to the end.

                I might as well express my feelings towards death now, before everyone reading decides I’m a heartless bitch: I prefer to feel a sense of comfort for the end of a life—an end regarding old age, mind you—this person, grays now adorning their tired heads, have lived and experienced life. I like to think—I genuinely hope—they’ve experienced live to its absolute fullest. That they have done everything they would have liked; that they’ve had both pleasant and unpleasant surprises; that they enjoyed living. And that this last chapter is a bit of comfort for them: it’s over. All the bad things one experiences, all the fears: I like to think they evaporate and only the good memories are left. Or if they have no good memories, that they take comfort in the fact the bad things won’t matter anymore.

                I like to think they’re visited by loved ones, if they believe in such a thing. That their souls drift to give little presents to the living, if they believe this is so. That they see their own version of the pearly gates, if that’s what they believe in. My grandmother believed only a finite number of people make it to heaven.

                I genuinely hope she’s on the list.

                My grandfather died a few years ago, and I like to believe they’ll be nagging each other in the heaven they believe in again, grandfather cooking grandmother her meals, despite the pain he felt in his joints, all because of love.

                Grandaddy was a blue eyed devil from Texas whom ran away to Mexico from being drafted to Vietnam. He spoke enough Spanish to survive and hold a job, and was content mining the land alongside his friends, ‘til he met a woman in a laundry mat and fell in love on sight. He nagged her into marriage, despite her many children, and raised them as his own, along with a pair of twins he had with this woman together. His name was Anthony, but everyone called him “Antonio” or “Tony”.

                Grandmother grew to love that “charming” man eventually. He was her second husband, and a much harder worker than her first, a charming musician (another white boy, ginger, green eyes). He put bread on the table. He took care of the kids. He was kind to her (I think. No one has ever said otherwise).

                One day, he let it slip he was from Texas, and she demanded they immigrate to the United States. He received pardon and brought his family over.

They were never saints. They were never the perfect parents. They never treated all their children equally, but grandfather was always a kind man when we visited (of my sisters and I, I visited the least. I still don’t know why). Grandmother was a slightly different story.

                She never loved me, and I can’t blame her. Like I said, I was never there. I was not there enough for her to know me at all, and she was known well for her quick temper. She gave me the time of day, and in retrograde, I’m grateful for that.

                My father is the oldest child of her first marriage. I’ve grown up hearing many stories from his childhood, and the childhoods of his siblings from the first marriage. Some were fun, some not so fun. Despite this, I don’t doubt she loved them. I also don’t doubt they all love her.

                Now, in her final moments, there are tears and quarrels and silence, but above all else, there’s love.

                I’m glad.

                I’m glad they’re all worried over trying to be there during the end. And I’m glad they’re mourning.

                There’s love in that family.

                I don’t think I’m of any use during these last moments, besides maybe a bit of comfort. So I’m not completely sure why I go on the visits to my grandmother’s myself. I’m glad I do, though. I want to be there with everyone else when it happens. I’ll be weeping too, but I’ll be weeping for them: for her children, who loved her so dearly and won’t be seeing her again for quite some time.

                I pity the living the most.

                In the end, I don’t think there’s much I could ever say to my grandmother, spare maybe a “thank you”. Thank you for giving birth to and raising my father. Though you were never the best as far as I can tell from the stories I’ve been told, you must’ve done something right, because I couldn’t ask for a better father.

                “Thank you, and I’m sorry.” I’m sorry for never being there, I guess. I’m sorry for not being what you wanted, if you expected anything of me at all. I’m sorry for not existing (I don’t know what this means yet)? I don’t know what I’m sorry for, but I feel as though I should definitely apologize for something.

“Thank you, and good luck.” I still genuinely want you to see heaven.

“Thank you, and goodbye.”

  [edit] She just pasted on.

Nikola Strange.

Empathy Dependency

After a load of (positive) peer pressure from my favorite dick of a best friend last year for not having watched the movies, I had finally given in and decided to read the Lord of the Rings novel—and I meant read. It’s my moral belief to always read a book before watching a movie! The school librarian, earning a spot in the awesome people of the world list, instantly dropped everything to help introduce me to Middle Earth: He flat-out rejected me the Fellowship until I had read the prequel book what started it all—the Hobbit. This book, along with its sequel, instantly became a favorite of mine!

In fact, I went out to purchase a copy of the Lord of the Rings book* as soon as I had money in my hands! I got a copy of the Hobbit on my Kindle and set out to learn all I could on the rich history of Middle Earth, gobbling up information over the Undying lands, the Istar, the different races of Elvenkind, and the men of Gondor, and Middle Earth herself.

You can imagine my sweet elation at finding out Bilbo and the Dwarves would be brought to the big screen by director, Peter Jackson.

Instantly, I began gorging myself on all the articles I could find, sharing them on Facebook, spamming my friends with the movie, and absorbing every released image. I ate away at the differences between the book and movie, along with its similarities.

One moment among these stood out to me the most, however. As per usual, I was very much late to the news of two fandoms of mine crossing, and began hyperventilating and squealing uncontrollably at my discovery of Bilbo Baggins being portrayed by Martin Freeman, better known to the Sherlocked at Dr. John Watson.

I was jumping for joy and scaring the neighbors when everything in my world came to a screeching halt: Tumblr was down.

By the Valar I was devastated! That beautiful site was my outlet! There are no LoTR fans in my family, and I only had two friends whom really liked the books and movies! I needed these strangers there for me, to understand and share in all my feels! I needed those hilarious images crossing the fandoms to feel complete—to relieve my happiness. Then it hit me:

We’re all really damn spoiled.

As a society we’ve all gotten so spoiled by this miracle technology, we expect people to care about things we care about, even if they’re complete strangers—we assume as fact this will happen. Caring! I was so amazed that this word could be reduced to something so trivial yet blown up to something so vast by the internet: the feeling and exhibition of concern and compassion for others looked for in people behind the clacking of a keyboard.

I remember when my elder sisters felt special and privileged when one had to give up the phone for the other to use the internet (why the hell were they on the internet anyway? What did people do on here then?!). Hell, I still remember sucking up the courage to sit through and weather the storm of the dial up modem and the happiness that ensued after the (seemingly) warm voice saying “Welcome!”

I began to wonder if, as a generation, we were too indulged by this sense of self-worth. Do we really love ourselves too much as to expect empathy? Or was this a coping of sort of mechanism to make ourselves feel closer to others? Have we really become so anti-social strangers are more welcomed than people we know? And how much do we really know about either side? The argument could be made that we’re more open to strangers, but when did the classic “stranger danger” safety tip become null and void for the sake of our self-expressions? And how much of that is really us?

I remember being genuinely scared of sights like Facebook and Twitter since people could follow you on them. I found it disturbing a site would name the connection of two separate pages “following”. The term “stalking” on the internet has become something of a joke; a quick laugh, to downplay you’re admiring of another individual. This is what we’ve come to. We expose ourselves to the world in a matter that would probably make Narcissus blush, yet we can’t help but do so.

And in a sense, who could blame us? The internet was initially created as a way to share information to massive number of people at once. With a slight tweak of the definition of information, you have the very basis of our social media structure.

But what of our attachment to this?

I don't think I would ever leave. I don’t think ever could.

I can slowly but surely feel myself losing my sanity, but I'd never leave this place. It's a society within a society, thus explaining the success of the anime Sword Art Online. In this world, we are who we wish we were, not who we really are . . . . . which is also concerning. I don't think I'm much different here and, well, here, but I enjoy the company of strangers, be they lovely lies or beautiful people. I don’t know what that says about me.

With Love,
Nikola Strange.