the fall of creativity

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Digging up those middle and high school creative writings is always an amusing experience. I stumble upon the most ridiculous stories and bleak poetry from those emo, angsty teenage days. Here is something particularly interesting that I came upon.

Long before I ever watched the Bourne series, I conjured up and wrote a short story about a killer wrestling with his guilty conscience and then unexpectedly apologizing to the loved ones of the people he killed. So when I finally saw Bourne Supremacy last semester and on came the scene where Bourne found Neski’s daughter and apologized to her for killing her parents, I was thinking…. wait… this seems familiar for some reason… ohh yeahh, I wrote a story like this in 8^th grade! Here is an excerpt of the beginning and ending of my short story, if you care to read what is possibly the apex of all my creative literary achievements. (Sadly high school and college had squelched all those creative tendencies in all forms of writing since then.)

            “It was damp and dark in the cave. Memories flooded in his mind… Screams filled his head, those of a woman. The woman. Her face of pain and grief was imprinted in his mind forever. The screams of a dying man. The soft cry of a baby. The yelling of the police. Dazed pictures of blurred red. Again the woman’s face. Swiftly, something took over him. Was it an earthquake? No, it was only his head that was making him dizzy and sick. He noticed his trembling hand that gripped the pistol. It slowly slipped from his hands, and he turned and ran. There was silence, only the dashing thuds of his footsteps, or was it his heart?

            And suddenly, the pictures were gone. All was black and silent in the cave as was his black coat and facemask. It was cold. He bunched up and hid his face in his arms, looking down.

            “Why couldn’t I take it this time?” he thought to himself. “I have killed before and ran away without even thinking about it, but why did this time make me dizzy and disgusted?” The shaking picture of the red, red that was spilled everywhere seized his mind. “Why do I feel pain?” Now the woman’s agonized face popped up, while the cry of the baby echoed in his ears. His memories had answered all his questions for him. Before, he had only killed at pitch dark, where there was only a soft blast and the man was still and dead and alone as he quickly pilfered his wallet and snatched the suitcase of cash. This time, he’d only shot his victim on the shoulder, and to silence him, he fired more and more until blood gushed out like a river. The police came and hovered around and he shot out more to escape. One bullet had landed on the baby.

            “I killed a baby, I killed a baby, god damn, I killed a baby. An innocent, precious child.” What had he become? Slowly he slouched into a troubled sleep.

The yellow sun came up and he aroused also. He lifted his head up, pulled off his black facemask. Out shook a young face of a teenager with brown hair framing around it. It would have almost been a fresh, lively face if it hadn’t been murdered and hardened at such a young age.  Blinking in the bright sunlight, he looked around him. There was a dark cave or ditch of some sort, well hidden from the rest of the evil civilization and the hated, uncaring people it possessed. He caught a glimpse of his black attire, and all the memories flooded in again. He forcefully fought them away, but it was his sudden realization of his hunger that chased those thoughts away. In his awakening, hunger roared at his stomach. Nearby, tattered bag of random items he had stolen was sadly lying. He rummaged through it and found a wallet. In it was a small pack of strong mints. Through his hunger, the murderer fairly chucked the whole box into his mouth. As the mints were burning through his tongue, the memories came again. This time, it was only that woman, that poor, poor woman with the shattered look on her eyes. He had killed her husband and her baby. Another life ruined liked his own…

[Skip to the ending of the story where he goes to apologize to the woman] 
Now he was face to face with the plain brown door [of the woman’s house]…Trembling hands that once gripped a gun now trembled more violently as it lifted to push the doorbell.

            A small woman with straight brown hair creaked open the door. Although quite beautiful, her skin now had a tint of gray.

            “Hello, Ms. Would you like to purchase some candy to help…” Her eyes met mine now. A scream let out.

The woman dashed in, fumbled the phone, and dialed 911, thought for a while, then slammed the phone down.

“If you want to kill me like you did to my baby and my husband, you can do it now. I haven’t much to live for anyway.”

Silence.

He stood there and his brain froze. She knew who he was…

“How did you know…?”

“How do I not know the eyes of my baby’s killer? Your eyes are imprinted in my head forever.” she said calmly. “ But I couldn’t imagine you to be so young. You can shoot me now, or else the police will be arriving.”

Neighbors were pacing around in a frantic outside now as they heard the scream and now saw the police cars arriving. Hubbub swarmed all over outside. The police quietly pushed the neighbors away as they circled the house.

In the quiet gray room of the house, he was just standing there as the memories came back in a slide show this time, piece by piece. It was silent but peaceful in the room. Outside was a world of havoc with sirens and frantic yells.

“So aren’t you going to shoot me now? Or what else did you come here for?”

“I’m… sorry.” Before tears could bulge out, the murderer dashed right out the door leaving a shocked woman standing in the room.

He ran right out, dropped his gun, and stood there while the bullets silently and slowly drained life out of the young, fresh-faced teenager.” The End.

I think sharing and posting this short story is much more for my amusement value than for your own personal value of how much you even care about this. But what more is a blog than a channel for self-absorbed musings and to spit out fiercely rebellious statements that won't amount to anything? As I see it, a blog is just the height of one’s own narcissism. But that’s ok! Ever since those English teachers told you to write concisely and clearly using concrete details and omitting the first person “I”, the creative and expressive side of writing was already all but destroyed. That is why the advent of the personal blog, a medium for self-expression, is then so crucial to keep people like me sane.

I am rambling. But I hope you do enjoy the story written by 8^th grade Sandra. I have to say I was a rather morbid kid. But all I can say now is  that Jason Bourne completely RIPPED OFF of my story. Just kidding. Jason Bourne would totally own any murder story I can come up with. He pretty much rocks. In fact, he's probably watching you right now.

I feel like blogging only when it's after 2 am

Every morning I wake up to find a cup of a mysterious orange-brownish concoction sitting on the counter glaring at me. My dad makes a mean shake every morning by blending everything and anything supposedly healthy. Every morning I am forced to pick up this cup, place it to my lips, and gulp this viscous mixture as it oozes down my throat. After I chug it down, I wash out the remaining bits with gulps of fresh water but there is no way to get rid of the pungent taste that still permeates my mouth. The drink immediately fills up my stomach and steals away all my appetite for cereal and milk, toast and tea, or whatever breakfast I had otherwise planned on and looked forward to eating. This is what I wake up to every morning when I'm back home, when I finally decide to drag myself out of of bed at around 11 am.

Every morning, my dad wakes up at 8 am to make sure his family starts the day with something healthy. He carefully washes and chops up all the organic fruits and vegetables he had picked out earlier that week from the market. He had studied up and learned to do all this from a book on nutrition that he had been reading for months. He patiently prepares everything and makes 3 cups; 1 for himself, 1 for mom, and 1 for me, and then rushes off to work.

Every morning I wake up to my dad’s cup of love for me. No matter how much it makes me gag, I still drink it every morning.

Knowing God

Knowing God "We must learn to measure ourselves, not by our knowledge of God, not by our gifts and responsibilities in the church, but by how we pray and what goes on in our hearts. Many of us, I suspect, have no idea how impoverished we are at this level." "We are, perhaps, orthodox evangelicals. We can state the gospel clearly; we can smell unsound doctrine a mile away... Yet the gaiety, goodness, and unfetteredness of spirit which are the marks of those who have known God are rare among us... A little knowledge of God is worth far more than a great deal of knowledge about him." - J. I. Packer, Knowing God. Many churchgoers know about God; few know God. We can spill off verses, recite the gospel front to back, and maybe even understand eschatology and apologetics, but few of us claim to have known God and be known by Him. In our devotions, devout study of the Word, and services to God, how horrifying it would be at the end if we were to enter the kingdom of heaven saying "Lord, Lord" yet He answers "I never knew you; depart from me, you workers of lawlessness." (Matthew 7: 23) Though we pride in having the accurate gospel, it is not enough to merely know about God. We must desperately seek after Him, understand Him, and have a personal relationship. "This 'knowledge' puffs up, but love builds up. If anyone imagines that he knows something, he does not yet know as he ought to know. But if anyone loves God, he is known by God." (1 Corinthians 8:1-3) "Let not the wise man boast of his wisdom or the strong man boast of his strength or the rich man boast of his riches, but let him who boasts, boast about this: that he understands and knows me." (Jeremiah 9:23-24) Of course faithful and diligent study of God's Word is crucial for any kind of spiritual growth. We cannot possibly live for Christ and if we don't even know what His Word says. But what is our aim of reading God's Word? To know more answers to things? To give proper Christian answers? To gain theological knowledge? "To be preoccupied with getting theological knowledge as an end in itself, to approach the Bible study with no higher a motive than a desire to know all the answers, is the direct route to a state of self-satisfied self-deception... Our aim in studying the Godhead must be to know God himself better. Our concern must be to enlarge our acquaintance, not simply with the doctrine of God's attributes, but with the living God whose attributes they are. As he is the subject study, and our helper in it, so he must himself be the end of it." - J I Packer. Studying God's word is merely a tool, albeit an important one, that leads to personal fellowship with God. We cannot take our knowledge lightly, much less pride ourselves in it. Once we know and understand the gospel, there is no turning back. We either accept it or reject it. The more we know, the higher standard we have to uphold, because we cannot plead ignorance. "And the servant who knew his master's will but did not get read or act according to his will, will receive a severe beating... Everyone to whom much was given, of him much will be required, and from him to whom they entrusted much, they will demand the more." (Luke 12:47-48) Sometimes I fear gaining too much knowledge, not because I fear knowledge itself, but I fear the condemnation that comes when knowledge merely puffs one up and produces no fruit. So instead of inundating my head with sermons and theological terms, instead give me one good sermon, let me digest it and examine myself and renew my heart to repentance. At the end, knowledge, even accurate knowledge about the gospel and saving grace, does not save. How then do we know God, you might ask? "And by this we know that we have come to know him, if we keep his commandments...By this we may be sure that we are in him: whoever says he abides in him ought to walk in the same way in which he walked." (1 John 2:3-6) A heart that seeks after God's heart, a life that rests solely upon Jesus, the Firm Foundation, and holiness and love that radiates from a transformed heart are the marks of a true Christian. Do you know God? Does He know you?

and no... I don't want to graduate so fast

With less than 30 days of high school left, a part of me feels itching to get out. And if you've talked to me this whole year, you might have noticed how many times I've mentioned that I'm so ready to graduate and leave.

But hold that thought.

4 years of life at Walnut High School... 4 years of walking to classes, lunch with the group, club meetings, of 12-hour school days, sunrise to sunset. Can I really just take all that and walk away? Of course I'm not idealizing my 4 years of high school. There was much uncomfortable fitting in, embarrassing moments, hard work, and wanting to give up. But yesterday during lunch, I was reminded of how much I have taken for granted. It was a truly enjoyable lunch, with friends I've known for 4 years, and laughter and jokes. I was comfortable and happy with where I was. There was no more bitterness, resentment at coming to Walnut (and not my old school), frustration at myself and my environment. And even as I walk around campus, I don't even see how everyone complains about it being so ugly. It's not that ugly, when the weather is perfect and the flowers are in bloom. And all the people I've met the past 4 years... the people who make me smile with their silly quirks, are all going to part. Of course I can meet up with them again after I graduate but it's never the same.

and no...I realize, I don't want to graduate so fast.

Part of it is because I've been involved in activities that's been very dear to me. Only two school activities really dominated my senior year: MORE Club and Astronomy Club. Last week was my last MORE club trip to Vejar and my last time seeing my 3rd grade buddy, Katelyn, whom I had for the past 2 years. MORE Club was always strikingly different from my other mundane school activities that I forced myself to do... every Wednesday I'd be excited after school when the bus reached Vejar Elementary and my buddy and all those kids would be there waiting. I'd forget everything else and just be so happy to be with kids. a breath of fresh air. And for the last MORE club, I just played with Katelyn and tried to be happy. I didn't want to press on her that this was the last time I would probably see her. So as I watched her walk away from school for the last time, I felt sad but I thought... it's all worth it. I was so grateful to be in MORE Club because it made my whole high school career so much more meaningful. To know that I've had a lasting impact on another child...and that the memories will always be there.

Tonight was another monthly star party for Astronomy Club. The sky wasn't too clear because of smog and light pollution. But Charissa, a Philipinno girl with a round face, is always faithful in showing up. She is always off to the side and not talked to often. But she tells me that she is reminded about the majesty of God when she looks up at the stars. She tells me that she's learned a lot from her two years at Astronomy Club... and now has the habit of looking up when she steps outside, just as I have. And at this moment, I know that it is all worth it... being president of Astronomy Club, organizing star parties, and getting to know Charissa. It's worth it if all it did was to touch one person with the awe of the universe, the presence of the all-powerful God. For one individual to find her place in the cosmos and be at peace with herself.

These are the moments that make up life.

How personal is your UC application essay?

I have written a lot this school year, though I admit not much of it is for this blog. As gross as it may seem, I spent a good amount of my time this year writing for college applications, scholarships, and TOK. Many were very personal.
Prompt 1 for my UC application, for example. I wrote about my persectives on my dad, and while I was doing this I realized... if my parents don't even know I feel this way, why am I sharing so much about myself with total strangers-- those people in some admissions office far off? How strange that I am willing to show my true feelings to total strangers and not to my own parents. Enough said, it is time to share some of my thoughts with you and to challenge myself to share this to my own parents, though to them, it would not be through these words but through my actions.
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It was a typical Sunday night and my family was eating out at another Chinese restaurant. I was dragged out of the house, because my mom didn’t cook on weekends. The meal passed by in silence and I ate sullenly. I would have much rather been at home, chatting to my friends and finishing the weekend homework. I don’t have what you would call a perfect family. Everyone is so consumed with his or her own affairs that we barely talk to each other. It’s like we live four separate lives all under the same roof. The meal went on in silence, and I tried to think of something to say to Dad but could find nothing. This troubled me deeply. Why couldn’t I even talk to my own dad? I glanced at my Dad’s face and began to study the wrinkles around his eyes, and suddenly the whole situation changed. For the first time I saw the world through my dad’s eyes. He had grown up in communist China and was sent to work in a factory during the Cultural Revolution. But he still studied hard on his own to make up for the high school education that he had missed, passed the college entrance exam, and entered the University of Shanghai. He then moved to the United States for a better life, even though he knew no English. There he helped form a small computer company and soon became a successful man who was able to raise his children in a two-story house in the suburbs. His life was one of hard work and perseverance, but to me my dad seemed old-fashioned and absurd in his habits. That night, however, I saw a my dad as a man who went through much hardships and came all the way to America just to raise an ungrateful daughter who couldn’t understand him, who even scorned him because she grew up in comfort he had never dreamed of and was immersed in a foreign culture he knew nothing about.
On the car ride home, I cried silently in the dark. I finally realized how narrow my mind had been. I thought of all the times I grew frustrated when my Dad tried to speak English. I even resented him because he held so strongly to his Chinese beliefs and could never seem to assimilate to American culture. My dad loved me so much yet I was trapped in my ungratefulness and didn’t take the time to really understand his point of view. When I got home that night I felt a burning desire to write. So I put pen on paper and scribbled down all my thoughts in my journal, a habit I’ve kept for the past ten years. Writing has always been a therapeutic device for me to make sense of my own thoughts and the world around me.
Through my writing I began to understand that the truth of things had many sides. That ordinary night changed how I view my world, especially how I view my family. Whereas before I resented my family, now my whole mindset has changed. Though my family is still not perfect, I can at least change my attitude and appreciate them fully. And this, a subtle recognition on an ordinary night, has made all the difference.