A continuation.

With the sudden influx of death in my life, true to my generation’s nickname, I can’t help but reflect on myself. As an individual.

How selfish.

Does it matter much [if I’m selfish right now]? I don’t know. I like to think it does.

My view on the topic at hand is not a common one in my family. In fact, it might just be mine alone—I don’t mourn the deaths of others. In fact I’m happy their sufferings are over, if they were suffering to begin with. I’m happy they lived their lives, and they had their happy moments and sad moments. So long as their lives were, for the most part, pleasant, I’m happy they’ve lived at all. And I’m happy they’re now resting. Or in a heaven. Or reborn. Or simply gone. Whatever suits their taste while alive.

I don’t know how my family would take that.

I pity the living instead. That’s the real reason why I cry in funerals.

How strange, maybe.

Mulling over these beliefs brought back memories: memories of childhood—a bookworm, refusing to put down novels twice her size, itching to get out of the kiddie’s section in the library. A loaner, whom spent time talking to imaginary, opposing sides of herself. An outgoing kid who loved to show off victories—something as small as being a “super student”—like trophies on a shelf. A kid that hated being told what to do if it wasn’t a teacher instructing her. A kid that liked work, most odd of all, I think.

I remember a teacher once asked what we had to be thankful for on Thanksgiving. While most kids said they were thankful for their toys, their rooms, their parents playing with them, I remember thinking those were stupid things to be thankful for. I raised my hand and proudly said I was thankful my parents worked for me. I was interrupted by a kid I don’t remember (lies. I still know his name) shouting “You’re mean! That’s like your parents being slaves!” I never got a chance to mention I was thankful I was fed and clothed before receiving toys (which I did receive whenever my parents could afford them, mind you).

Was that a strange thing to say? I’m not sure. I wonder what that says about me.

I don’t think I was that off. I still liked childish things, and I still love them now! I was never allowed to like Belle from Beauty and the Beast because my older sister claimed her as her favorite. Being the darkest of the three sisters, I was always stuck being Jasmine, whom I couldn’t relate to. I tried instead to be like Cinderella: she was a hard worker, and I liked that toil more than I liked her ending with Prince Charming (his name is Henry, by the way).

I remember I tried to learn to wash clothes or scrub the floors on my hands and feet, or dust the house. Mother never let me.

I also remember trying to lighten my skin with flour, and contemplating if the material would sink into my skin if I dipped my hands in egg first.

Esmeralda’s my favorite now.

Mother once said I was so sure I was a princess as a kid, I would tell her about running off to England to meet my relatives and be friends with Anastasia (bonus points if you can tell me what my favorite childhood movie was*). I remember that. I remember thinking I was a lot of things, because a gap existed on both ends of my family, grandfathers on both ends. I’d spend ages trying to imagine myself as a wizard or princess or superhero because of those gaps. I look onto those memories fondly.

God I love stories.

Mother found it strange I preferred my imagination to people most of the time. She insists to my older sister her baby boy is perfectly fine, since he’s largely the same as me. “Every child is different—you three are as different as could be. He’s just fine.”

Love you, mama.

Daddy always tried to soften the blow, though. I wasn’t your average kid, and my family has the bad habit of saying “not normal” over “not average”. He’d always tell me that wasn’t the case with me, “You’re different”.

Normal is just a state of mind, and “different” doesn’t mean bad.

Thank you daddy. I wouldn’t have come up with that without your chats.

In fact, there are times where the strange things are truly the most beautiful.

                Yet I feel that in certain situations, like a death in the family, whether it be good or bad is irrelevant.

With Love,
Nikola Strange.

*it was Jurrasic Park.

Books from the 99 cents store

                My sister and I had taken a trip to our local 99 cents store a while back, after shopping at a number of other stores for her groceries.
                “I love that store because you can find everything and it’s so cheap!” She remarked.
                As a self-confessed cheapskate, I have to completely agree. I flipping love the 99 cents store! It’s like heaven on earth for me! You can find nearly everything your heart desires from cheap ‘o frozen dinners to plastic containers, to hats, glass goods, and even books! Yes, I did say books.

                While walking through the aisles of the 99, I naturally ended up scanning through the items with an artist’s eye—yeah, it sounds obnoxious, but I draw a lot. It’s pretty much all I do when I’m not reading or writing—and as second nature, no matter the store, I always end up stumbling into the books.
                Though most may have been the cheap and beaten copies of smalltime authors you might expect to appear at the 99, I was taken back some by the starkly contrasting black and white photo of an elderly man in dark rimmed glasses. With a bright smile, I picked up the pleasantly surprise: it was a hefty 357 paged biography on the year 1973 in the life of Henry Kissinger.

                As a history nerd, I found this find fascinating! As a U.S. history buff, I was instantly absorbed into the book, and marveled at the apparent credibility of the author, and the subject—Kissinger was the head of the National Security Council and the Secretary of State during the Nixon administration, and his right hand man for foreign policy! Who would not be interested in the year the Watergate scandal broke loose through the eyes of Mr. Henry Kissinger?!

                Move over, who would have thought such an impressive looking book would be found at the 99 cents store?
                For the sake of authentication, I decided to look up some information over the author of the biography, Sir Alistair Horne (yeah, I said “Sir.” This dude’s the grand-nephew of the 13th Earl of Kinnoull. I dunno how important that title is, but it sounds cool!) is probably the only historian alive admired by Republican and 43^rd President George W. Bush, famed English Journalist Robert Fisk, and right-winged Israeli statesman and retired General Ariel Sharon. A British Historian focusing on modern day France, Sir Alistair gained a high reputation, it seems, from his book A Savage War of Peace: Algeria 1954-1962. He was also knighted in 2003 for his work on French History. . . .not relevant, I know, but damn is that awesome! The book Kissinger 1973, a critical year itself was reviewed (I think) positively by The New York Times and The Telegraph, yet the author was slandered by the Washington Post (specifically for his utter misunderstanding of Watergate).

                Interesting note.

                The whole book itself, especially where it came to be bough, made for an interesting buy, and from the beginning, didn’t disappoint. It IS as the Washington Post remarked: Sir Horne adds in fragments of his own life to liven up the text, which I don’t mind. At the risk of sounding rude, I’ve always imagined a friendly old historian in a tweedy jacket, button up vest, and clunky horn rimmed glasses inserting his own life and life lessons into a story. It comes with the territory, damnit!

                 Yet what does confuse me a bit is the allusions to French History. This is great for followers of his other books, I’m going to assume—they know what he’s talking about! But considering the fact this book would appeal more to U.S. History buffs, it makes this confusing. Working past this using my own historical knowledge has been a tad of a difficult process, but it’s been well worth it for a read which only costs me a dollar.

                 What I am enjoying greatly is the loaded diction, particularly in Horne’s description of the Vietnam Memorial on page 36:

“It lies, buried—decently, or indecently—out of sight, tucked away in an artificial ravine on the edge of the city’s monumental Mall. Only a couple of hundred yards away from the superb World War II monument, as triumphantly magnificent as the great obelisk to George Washington or the Lincoln Memorial. . . .proclaiming in pride the sacrifice of the last conflict where America stood undivided. . . . In sad, but eloquent contrast, the Vietnam memorial lies hidden away, as if in shame. . . a war which draftee farm boys from Iowa were simply not educated to fight; a nightmare world of jungle ambushes of unseen enemies of inhuman tiger traps where. . . . [a]GI could lie, screaming for death.Then the lucky ones would return home, not as the feted heroes from the Pacific. . .bur shunned—and even spat upon—by a populace that simply did not want to know about that war.”

                Currently I’m on page 43 and can note some bias towards Henry Kissinger, writing him up as a brilliant human being, which I’m sure he is. . .  .I’m only 17, so I could just not be reading this book correctly.

With all love,
Nikola Strange.