Rosalie and Lauren ... and Jess

So, I was asked this.

How easy is it to get into the minds of your characters, `phfina, then to step back out?

I don't get it. Or you don't.

Or something.

See, I don't get into the minds of my characters, then get out. I think ... I think a lot of writing is exactly that, however.

"Oh, Bella needs to fall down some steps, then Edward needs to say, 'Silly Bella' and dazzle her, so they can fuck and I can get my rocks off writing that and rereading it, and then I can get 10k+ reviews."

Right? Well, not exactly like that, but that's what you read, story after story. Bella has to go to the Lakota store, so the Native there has to hand here the one and only book in the entire book store that says "Edward (or Alice) is a Vampire, so tell them and make passionate Bella-squeaks when you get it on."

How many stories have you read that? People do just off-the-wall things because the plot has to move forward and because it's Bella, so she has to know, although this is the first time these two are ever meeting.

I don't read fanfiction fics anymore, not even the good ones, not even the ones rec'd to me. Not even yours, because you want me to.

Because they're filled with that, things (bad things) happen to Bella, because things (bad things) happen to you, and you take it out on her, but she, somehow stupidly, makes it in the end, because she's Bella, and if things turn out okay for her, they'll turn out okay for you. You know what I mean. You read it all the time: stories with bad things like Bella cutting herself because you, dear authoresse, hate yourself so much you have to hurt yourself to breathe, or daddy Charlie rapes Bella because your dad raped you. Or ... winner! Edward rapes Bella, forces her to have an abortion to save her life, and she's hopelessly in love with him, because he treats her like shit, rapes her and makes her have an abortion she didn't want, because Edward knows best and is a whole lot smarter than stupid, clumsy you, I mean, Bella, and if she doesn't love him, he'll leave her, and that would be bad, for some reason.

See, you can read my stuff and see all that in there, yes?

Or no?

Why is my stuff, where bad things happen to the characters ... why is my stuff compelling? Is it compelling for you in the same way that you can't take your eyes off the people going into the ambulances that happened at that three-car pile-up you passed today?

Or, is it compelling to you because you're going through the same shit I'm going through, but instead of me saying 'oh, this bad thing happened, but it's okay, because it'll turn out well in the end, because it's Bella.'

I write instead, 'this shit happened, and now Bella has to deal with it.'

This shit happened, and now Bella has to deal with it.

This shit is happening, and now I have to deal with it, because I'm writing about it, and I'm crying like the little baby I am, and that's all I can do to deal with it, write about it, and cry.

But I'm not writing about it where it's going to be okay, because it isn't okay. Bella's dealing with real issues and she's really hurting.

And you're dealing with real issues, and you're really hurting.

Or you're not dealing with real issues, and you're really hurting, but you see Bella dealing with it, as best as she can, and she sucks at dealing with her issues, but she's trying.

And if Bella can try, maybe you can try. And maybe I can, too.

That's a rather long route for me to say what's the appeal of my writing. Ick.

But, so, if I don't push my characters around in the plot, then what am I doing?

Having a conversation with them? Having them drive the plot?

Nope, not really.

Here's what I'm doing. Here's the secret to my writing.

I am my characters. Every single one of them that show up on the page, I am them.

I am fucking Lauren.

See, nobody understands Lauren because nobody wants to think of themselves as her. She's the bk, the bad kid, and if you think of yourself as her, you're a bk. And you can't possibly be a bk.

I'm Lauren.

I so didn't want to write this chapter, because I never 'got into the mind' of Lauren. I didn't want to. I don't want to bring up all her shit and now that I have, I have to deal with it.

You don't. You don't write Lauren fics, you don't read them. Too much shit in them for you to 'deal' with, so why bother?

Except for the little fact that you have too much shit in your life you have to deal with, and you don't want to bother with it. You just want to leave it on the floor and have somebody else: your mom, your friends, me, deal with it, and say you're 'fine' and that you 'don't want to talk about it, because it's private.'

And you go on sticking that knife in the back of your mom and your friends and me in everything you say and do, because you have all that undealt-with shit in your life, and you think you can push the people around in your life like you push around Bella in the fics that you read and write.

You are Lauren.

I am Lauren. The difference is: I acknowledge it and now I have to deal with it.

You don't, so you don't have to deal with that dirty little shit that you are ... just everybody else does in your life.

"You don't know what you're talking about, `phfina."

Yeah, whatever. And nor does your therapist, even though there's over one-hundred years of studies into your fucked-up psyche, but you know better about you, because you're you, and all those psych-os are old fogey-pervs.

Whatever. Keep at it, Lauren.

But, okay, that's not very empowering to you, the one or two people (still?) reading this. What is?

Rosalie is Lauren.

Everything, pretty much, that Lauren has gone through, Rosalie has gone through.

But what's the difference? None, really, Lauren's hurting, Rosalie's hurting.

It's just perspective and what they do with their past. They are both living in their past, it's just that Lauren uses her past to hurt other people, because she's hurting.

Rosalie uses her past to fuck-all everybody else, and do what she wants (just like Lauren, by the way), but Rosalie is functioning, in her fucked-up-ed-ness, whereas Lauren is frozen in it.

I'm fucked up, you're fucked up, we can either function or freeze. Our choice. We can either lash out and say "I'm dealing with some shit here, leave me alone in my misery" or we can comfort.

And we can comfort codependently ("Love me because I'm crying and holding you") or freely.

There are so many layers to living. You can be hurting and hurt people from that hurt, or be hurting and help, but then be all weird about it, or be hurting and help and really make a different in somebody else's life.

That's the measure. Not how you're dealing with your shit. Everybody has their own shit, but some people actually are like, wow, I want to be with them! I want to be like them! They are so nice, genuine, friendly, helpful, sweet, loving, caring ...

And they, being all that, still have to get through their day, every day, same as you and me.

And they do.

Just (un)like Rosalie, just (un)like Bella, just so unlike Lauren.

But Rosalie and Bella and even Lauren try to make it through their day. They have alternatives: they can check out, big-time, or they can check out of the conversation, but they can also try to make it through the day.

So, in that regard, Rosalie, Bella, and even Lauren deserve a measure of respect from me.

I have to treat them as persons, with thoughts, feelings, hopes and fears, and so when somebody says or does something, it affects them. Don't you see that?

When you say or do something, it affects the people in your life.

Try that on for size.

Now, ...

The real surprise for me is Jess.

Because I so ...

There's one in every school, isn't there? There was one in my school, which may or may not have been Tolland High where I may, or most definitely was not, a cheerleader.

Just like Bella. eheh. ;)

But, so I just so dismiss the Jess's in my life. Fucking thoughtless ditzes, laughing at everything, popular, and so not deserving it. I work for my grades, I don't sell out my feelings, my emotions, my opinions, my ... body just because I want to be liked.

But I did.

I so want to be liked, and I so sell-out, by checking out, when I'm not liked, and when somebody likes me, I so...

Sell myself.

I would do anything, with anybody, when they like me. You know that feeling, being liked? And you know what you're willing to do to keep them liking you, and not to be alone?

Anything. Right? Anything.

And, yes, I mean anything, and yes, you can read all about it in my blog, my useless, wasted, empty life in my blog, if you want to. Read about me, and read about that girl who ...

Well, you know. Maybe even personally. We do things, sometimes, to feel this now, and we know we're going to pay, but that's later, not now, and we so, so want to be loved. Now. Because we so, so know we're going to be alone later, and maybe this now will make later a little bit more bearable, that we were liked now. And felt something, and was connected to somebody else.

Even if it's just going for lattes at sbux with your friends.

Go to sbux and have a latte with your friend. It means so, so much to her.

And Jess. I hated her. I hate her. Because she's a sell-out, and she does it without thinking.

But no, she's not a sell-out, and, yes, she thinks, and she worries about it, too. God gave her a brain and an conscience.

No, the reason why I hate Jess is because all I have to do is to look in the mirror to see her, now that I've written her, and recognized her in me.

I am Jess.

And I love her. And my heart hurts for her. Because I know what it is to be liked, and I know what it is to be alone.

And I hate Jess so much, because she is surrounded by her friends all the time. She's not alone. She's never alone.

Because she can't handle being alone. She knows what that feels like, and it sucks.

I know what it feels like, to be alone, and it sucks.

I don't 'get into the mind' of my characters, and get out.

I am my characters, and my characters are me, and when I write them, I love them, understand them, and respect them.

When I write to you, I love you, I understand you, and I respect you. And it so hurts when you don't to me, so I know it so hurts when I don't to you, yet I do it over and over and over. It's just too much, isn't it, to really listen to someone and open your heart to them.

But I see the alternative every day at work, in PMs and in stories and reviews. And ...

And not listening? It hurts me so much when I'm not listened to. And when I tune someone else out, I hurt them. I see it. And I hurt me.

Rosalie is Lauren, Lauren is Rosalie. And they have their best friend Jess, who needs them more than the next breath, although she's cool about it, everything's good. And, actually, Lauren, you need Jess back. Can you admit that? Can you admit you need a friend, too?

Good morning, my lovelies.

Dancing in the Rain (at work)

Call me shy and quiet, 'cause that's what I am.

Call me wild and crazy, 'cause that's what they think I am.

And maybe I am, too.

So, rain. Rain like the end of the world, rain coming down in sheets, sideways!

And everybody stopped work and ran to the windows, and delighted in it.

"Oh, I love this!" one said. Another: "Is it going to be safe going home?"

All that.

So, what did little `phfina do, huh, pray tell?

I looked out at the rain, I looked at all the people inside, then I ...

Went out the guarded security doors, walked out of the atrium, and ... went outside.

I went to the self-same window that everybody else had gathered around inside, and, in the rain, I began to dance.

I am μέλισσα (Melissa), I am the bee, and I am the honey.
I am Sita, I am Lakshmi, loving and loved, and so, so sad.
I am Freya, I am Frigg, I am Sif: I am warrior and a huntress.
I am wisdom and I am fertility.
I am Mother Mary, delighting when baby boy Jesus took His first step.

And as I danced, the rain fell in sheets and permeated my being.

And the people inside saw me, and gasped in shock, and laughed and laughed at me and with me, with joy at and with silly, silly, powerful, crazy, little me.

And then ... well, ... so, `phfina what are you doing at home writing this entry, instead of crunching number on your spreadsheets?

Well ... I didn't pack extra clothes for work today, as it wasn't raining cats and dogs and antelopes, so ... yeah. My wet tee?

People would get the wrong idea about me as my wet tee dried, and, you know, ... teased them.

Or, maybe they'd get the right idea about me. Who am I to judge them? idk.

So, home, changing clothes, eating self-cooked lunch (latkes), and now, dashing back to work.

Can't wait to hear what the have to say about me, but that doesn't matter.

For, after all, I am `phfina: shy and quiet, strong, and powerful.

I am me.

Work: see `phfina cry. Cry, `phfina, cry!

Work.

Sucked.

They called a special meeting today just to chew me out, and I was almost crying, because everything was working on my spreadsheet, but the accounting package still wasn't working and everybody was waiting on my fix. Only right now, at three am, do I now realize that I put in all this work, but I never called the new formula!

So that's why all the numbers are wrong, even though I fixed it and tested it.

So, I'm gonna go to work tomorrow morning, put in the fix, and everything is gonna work, and explain to everybody what an idiot I am and really, really hope they don't fire me, because it's been weeks this hasn't been working and people's pay have been manually adjusted this whole time.

Sigh.

Sleep helped. I basically came home from work, said hi to the family, ate a little, and went right to sleep, and then my mind kicked in and said, whispering ('`phfina, you did all this work, but you never called the new formula') and I wake up just now and finally realized it.

Oh, well.

SO. No matter what happens, tomorrow will definitely be a better day. They can even fire me and tomorrow will still be way better than today 'cause I just sat there not knowing what was going on, and everybody else was like: `phfina. This has to work. And I'm like, yes, I know and they're all staring at me. So, today, it will work, and I'll know that all that work I put in actually did work, and I'll feel better, knowing I did something good and right, and I'm not crazy, so I don't have to go crazy, worrying, anymore.

Bad, `phfina, bad! Sad, `phfina, sad!

You silly little girl! Write a whole new formula that fixes everything but never call it in the accounting package! What were you thinking? About Ridden because it sure wasn't accounting, I tell you what!

:p

WHEW!

... so, that was my day at work. That's why I didn't write word one for that new chapter you've been waiting for.

And you? How was your day at work or school?

Have a good day! I hope, hope, hope way better than mine.

... and the fourth marriage proposal ...

So, I just got my fourth marriage proposal on ffn.

But that's okay, because she was just kidding. Or she didn't know what she was saying. Or kids these days (or Americans these days) don't know what love and marriage is anymore, just look at the statistics, right, so no biggie, `phfina.

Right?

I've heard this before, particularly from my European friends, but love, to me, is love, and it's a phenomenon, that if even if somebody says, well, it isn't, they know, in their heart, that it is, and it is serious, and making light of it only makes it more serious, not less. So, maybe a review of epistemology may help your argument, because this is a track that many, many people have trod, including philosophers, so, as you think, you have many others who've thought over this, very diligently, to help you form, or to counter, your arguments.

'Love isn't love, marriage isn't marriage' doesn't work. If your statement held (F-logic allows paradox), and they weren't, why are you giving any thought to what isn't?

Cognitive sciences help there, too.

It comes down to accepting responsibility for what people say to you. Do you accept it, or belittle it? Empower them, and yourself, for taking them at their word, or use logic and reason (sophistry) to distance yourself and themselves from their words by draining them of their meaning, paradoxically, by using semantics to argue that a thing isn't what it is?

When you embark on that path, you embark on viewing people as things, as 'it' spouting nonsense, and not 'thou' speaking from the heart.

And either are valid views. One is entirely materialist, and I, and Martin Büber, take exception.

When someone makes you especially giddy? Don't you see that as something special, for them at least, and if so, why not for you? Because you don't want the entanglement, the complication of a relationship with depth and honesty?

But then if you don't want the consequence of another person feeling something because you've opened up to share something of yourself, then ...

Well the obvious alternative is not to share yourself, or to shut them down, hard when they do get giddy, by telling them: "oh, you're just feeling silly; you'll get over it."

Ouch.

So, go ahead, say: oh, they're young. They're a fangirl. They don't know what they're saying.

That helps me, dealing with a girl who's just broken down and told me she loves me, because I wrote something that touched her heart in a way nobody else has ever done, but you, you adult, mature, reasonable people, instead of acknowledging her fear and her feelings, say: 'get over it, grow up, little girl.'

Leaving another breaking heart, or, worse, another person who hardens their heart, vowing never to open themselves up again like that and get hurt, then get ridiculed for it.

Today is the day someone truly dared to live, and got on her knees, 'pretending' to tell me she loves me.

Please don't make today also the day she closes off her heart, regretting her own daring, and dies, just a little bit, just a lot, because that cold, cruel world actually is, and is actually populated by jaded, hard-hearted people who 'know better.' Please don't be one of those people who sees hope in a naïve, sweet, young, inexperienced girl, and crushes it aborning. Please don't make her one of those people.

Someone opened her heart today. Can you dare to open your heart to hers?

I love you.

kisses, `phfina

The Color Purple

There was a little Jew-boy, and he touched millions of people around the world.

I'm not talking about Jesus ... He was one of Us, remember that my Jewish brothers and sisters? You don't have to, you just know. Everything Jesus did was Jewish. He was a Jew down to his bones and marrow, and He didn't come to overthrow the Law (the Torah), not one jot nor tiddle. He didn't.

Jesus was Jew, and you don't need to remember that. You know that. But who were raised not to be Jews, we have to remember that, every day. Jesus came from the Chosen People. You.

Hi, Eli. I miss you. How are you? (I think if she weren't in Israel right now, on the fucking front, she'd be raping my bones ... right in front of her mother, too, and that's saying something).

But, no, I'm talking about another Jew: Steven Spielberg.

Okay, it's wrong how that guy gets it so right all the time, from Jurassic Park to Schindler's List to The Color Purple. But he does.

So, there it is. Proof that God exists: the Color Purple. God invented the color purple to show us that there's something good, and pure and beautiful in the the world, and if we just stopped, just for one second, and looked, we'd see it. We'd see God and His creation, and we'd see God in His creation, and we'd see it as He sees it: good ... and beautiful.

But we don't, do we. We never, ever do anything ... except rush to get to the next thing, and while we're stuck in that next thing, we fidget until we get to that next, next thing.

But ... purple. So beautiful. You could fall in love with it, couldn't you? It is God's color, after all, so what's not to love.

Nothing. Go for it.

But, as for me, I disagree. Purple is nice and beautiful and elegant and pretty ...

... but I like ... beige, and tan, and pale, creamy white, and mocha, and dark chocolate ...

that is ... I like, flesh tones, uncovered from purple cloth.

Just me, and her, and no purple between us.

...

So, whacha think, huh? That was me, raggin' on purrpleluver19 and her, okay, her obsession with purple. So, snaps for me, amirite?

But this is what she wrote back:

Aww but wait she wears that purple for me only and guess whats under that first layer of purple is purple sexy purple underwear that she lets only me take off so sorry I guess all your girls should probbly hate purple or ill find them. LOL

Oh, man! `phfina went for the shot, thinking she was all that, and she got stuffed by purrpleluver19.

Um, so, I guess: go team purple! sigh

...

Oh, and this was purrpleluver19's blessing to quote her in this post:

That was AWESOME I LOVED it. Plus i didnt mind it at all it blew me away.
P.s. it always takes about hw long you can write out the alphabet with your tongue to get to the center......LOL

Uh, um ... `phfina reels and everything dims. THUD! (`phfina faints or has a heart attack, I don't know which)

Grimasch om morgonen

Saga, Saga, Saga!

Each time I think your name, I die.

(and, yes, in the Shakespearian sense, too. You can look that up, sweetie)

Years ago...

YEARS ago, you gave me this song, "Grimasch om morgonen," by Cornelis Vreeswijk.

Do you know that every gift you gave me, your words, your looks, your love, I have treasured in my heart? Always?

Well, a while ago, something happened, and I thought I lost this song.

I thought I lost you.

I did, didn't I?

But, now, today, right now, I found the song again, and I've played it and played it and played it, and smiled, through my tears, remembering you and remembering me, with you.

I remembered how I sparkled and shined for you, and how I was your baby.

I still am your baby, Saga, but now I'm lost and confused and heartbroken, I don't think I sparkle or shine much anymore; I think I'm just here, and you're just there, and ...

... and that's that. The end.

Even as I don't let go.

Saga, you said you'd love me forever. No matter what. What is the what that ... did this?

Two songs I'm listening to "Strange & Beautiful (I'll Put A Spell On You)" by Aqualung, because you put a spell on me, sweetie, and I don't know how to take it off. And "I Really Want You" by James Blunt, because I really want you. I really, really do.

But ...

... well, it's Saturday. I guess I'll go to work, nothing else to do, ... or watch the latest Star Trek flick. I hear it's good.

I guess.

One Life

My day was ... eh.

I don't want to talk about it. I don't want to talk about yesterday, today, or tomorrow. They all run together and are pointless, anyway. The only thing I want from my day is just to get through it, and if I don't, because I died, then thank God! and FINALLY!

But one thing I found today is this.

Im just me. A lost 23 year old girl, trying to find her way, her path. But its not so bad, cause I have Sham. Cause I have Justin. Cause I have mom and Izzy. Oh, and lets not forget Phfina, lol.

If you're reading this, Phfina, lets make a deal. Lets try to be happy. Lets try to live and save a life, like, you saved mine.

Smh.

— PussyNinja

And no matter what my day was or is before, now it's different, because, one day, because I existed, a girl is alive, and has a gf and joined the Navy, and everything, where she wouldn't have done any of that. But somehow, I, and what I've written, made a difference of one life.

I don't give a shit about my day any more. It's different now.

And that, no matter how I feel, good, bad, whatever, will never be taken away from me. I won't be here anymore someday, and people will forget me and move on.

But I won't forget. Ever.

Kevlar Soul

"Så länge hjärtat mitt slår
så minns jag dig när
du stack ett hål
i min kevlarsjäl.
Och så rev du mitt sår
och jag blöder ihjäl.
Kom, gör ett hål i min
kevlarsjäl..."

"For as long as my heart beats
I will remember you when
you pricked a hole
in my kevlar soul
And then you're ripping at the wound
and I'm bleeding to death.
Come, make a hole in my
kevlar soul..."

I miss you, Saga.