NoLeafClover // Indigo Fantasy . 2.oVersion

Wednesday, May 5, 2004
The Things I Carry Imitation

I carry a light pink Victoria’s Secret paper bag that is wrinkled and replaced every three weeks. It carries my lunch and approximately weighs three to five pounds when I use my thermos. I carry the weight of my backpack. In it, I can find my binders and books that I read on my own free will. Hanging from the zipper of my backpack there is a key chain that has a joke written upon it. During class, I carry my thoughts that control whether I listen or if I do not listen at all. On my left hand, I carry a black and blue ink smudge below my pinky. Upon the bridge of my nose, I carry a pair of glasses with thick lenses, as long as I can remember. I carry my mother’s nose and my father’s eyes. I carry the blood of my ancestors who lived in the Philippines and Hong Kong. I carry the knowledge of justice and faith, as learned from my parents and teachers. I carry experience drawn from being courageous and tough, but also by being honest. I carry lessons and memories that weigh down my freedom of thought and action. I carry the fear of judgment and of pain. I carry regret from holding back and wasting precious time. I carry the remembrance of promises that I could not keep.

Everything that I carry creates my outward appearance. All these things influence my actions and thoughts. They make me independent and my own distinct person from the inside out. They carve the first impressions that everyone sees when we first meet. The things I carry create hundreds of embossed layers that I barely know, yet alone the public. I carry a myriad of personalities, all with their own ineffable traits and talents. I carry works of art and stories inside my mind, waiting to be put down on paper in any shape and form. I carry the freedom that my grandmother never had when she was in Hong Kong. I have the ability to marry whomever I want and to become the person that I want to be. In the end, I am the only one who carries my heart, my soul, my mind, my smile, my tears, and myself.

MidoriChi teleported to another world @ 05:39 p.m.

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Friday, March 12, 2004
“How it Feels to Be Colored Me”

I am Chinese and American. Sometimes, I am one or the other; other times, I am both. I must admit that I fit the stereotypical Chinese American teenager. I wear thick glasses, play piano (although I rarely practice), attend Chinese school, and am extremely devoted to my schoolwork, as is every other Chinese American teenager in the country. At home, I am every bit American: I think American, speak American, and feel American. My parents and I constantly clash with their traditional Chinese ideals and superstitions, and my western thinking. For an example, during the winter, my father constantly scolds me for wearing not enough clothing.

“Wear another jacket, jei jei,” he commands in Cantonese, “Or you will catch cold and be sick for a week!”

“I’m fine!” I shout back defiantly in English. And off we go into another argument. My American ways tell me that bacteria and viruses cause influenza, not one’s lack of jackets. Although wearing little clothing may cause one to be vulnerable to pneumonia. My father firmly believes that if one does not wear five layers, two jackets, and a scarf, one will truly catch the flu. Ironically, he himself is wearing a shirt and a thin windbreaker.

In school I feel very Chinese. Since I am exactly five feet one-and-three-quarter inches tall (every bit counts), I must constantly look up to speak to anyone. I often feel very self-conscious when I walk into a hall full of fashionable, blond-haired beauties. I eye their soft golden locks with envy and hopelessly wish my own black wire-straight hair would suddenly transform into theirs. I notice their designer clothing and despise my usual bright red Stanford sweatshirt. Don’t think about them, I tell myself, you are Olivia, and no one else. Indeed, I have successfully taught myself to be Olivia. I am Olivia. I am either American or Chinese: just Olivia or Livy the Liver or ollau—just me. “What is Olivia like?” You may ask. Consult my best friend, Katherine, and she will describe me as “independently creative.”

by my dear friend ollau

MidoriChi teleported to another world @ 03:52 p.m.

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Tuesday, February 24, 2004
Harmlem Renaissance Imitation Poem

“Answers?”

We wear the smile, but why?
When we receive a hug or a kiss
We smile because we have to or because we just do
Which do we smile more for or does one not think of this?
Was a smile ever automatic or does it require a try?
We wear the smile, but when?

We wear the tears, but when?
Why do we cry when we miss?
We cry because we love or when we hanker after those who are above
When tears stream do others not dismiss?
Which reason do tears form for then?
We wear the tears, but where?

We wear the anger, but where?
Wanting more or not wanting anything at all
We express our anger to bring dismay in different forms and ways
With anger is it positive, is it clear, or does it cause appall?
Whether anger is expressive or hidden, it is a power impossible to bear
Why then, do we wear the anger?

We claim to have the answers, but is it the truth?
Whether we are right or wrong, do we care?
We care too much or too often like a chick to a mother hen
Wandering aimlessly for the answers to all questions, should we even dare?
What do we achieve when we worry over a loose tooth?
We claim to have the answers for every tear and smile, but is it the truth?

MidoriChi teleported to another world @ 03:15 p.m.

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Monday, February 23, 2004
Mindframes Entry

Rainy Day Outing

A forest of wonder and a forest of sorrow lay before him. He could not turn back now for there was nothing left behind him. The only choice available was to go straight and follow the weaving path into the forest. His chest ached and his mind raced as he thought about this life-changing decision once more.

Just a few hours ago, he would have never thought about making such a choice. He belonged to a loving family in a small village. The boy, Mark, had lived there all his life and generations before him had set up a sturdy household in the village as well. All his life, they taught him how to become a successful blacksmith, hoping that he would honor the family and take over the family business. He would have it no other way. His only wish was that he could make his family proud.

Then came the day when his parents introduced him to a family friend. She was young and beautiful and just about the same age as he was. Like the boy, she was destined to follow her parents’ dreams of becoming a well-educated schoolteacher and marry a fine gentleman. At least, it was what everyone believed as what she wanted. The girl, Susan, very well knew what she wanted to do as soon as she reached the fine age of eighteen. She was set on leaving the small village and traveling the world to learn if there was more to the world than what she was taught in her small household. Her mind was yearning for adventure and romance. She wanted a fantastical life that resembled the characters from the books she read when she was young.

As Mark and Susan spent more time together, they changed each other, influenced one another. Mark developed an imaginative mind of his own, filled with science and discovery. Susan began to see the positive outlook of the small village they had both been raised in. Time passed, and soon the two of them agree on marriage. Their lives were set and they were heading towards the perfect future. Susan was not set on traveling as she was before and began to think about settling down with the man she loved. While Mark on the other hand, began to explore the outskirts of the village, painting scenery and learning more about the wonders of nature. He never actually thought about leaving the protection of the village though. He had spent his whole life there; nothing was really going to make him leave it, nothing.

A week before the set wedding, a storm brew and released its anger upon the poor little village. Nothing could keep young Mark from painting the violent scene on his canvas. That night he trudged up one of the highest hills west of the village. Being late, Mark fell asleep upon the hill leaving his dreary painting, unfinished. He never dreamed of what would happen within the next hour.

The storm had overflowed the river north of the village, his home. It was inevitable. Nobody could have seen it coming. The river had been faithful and had never let them down. Who would have thought that the village of old age and traditions would fall to a natural disaster? It was only fate.

Mark awoke the next morning with a devastating surprise. His beloved home had been washed away and everyone he had loved dearly along with it. With nothing left but his canvas and paints, he turned away and headed towards the vast, haunting forest that was west of his home. What else was he supposed to do, but walk?

MidoriChi teleported to another world @ 03:17 p.m.

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