Rage. Fury. Frustration. Humiliation.
You know that feeling? That second best feeling? That feeling you get when you're good, but not good enough? Good enough. An enigmatic force I strive for, to be good enough. To be better than good enough would be bliss! But I never seem to reach that stage, to satisfy all tastes, not mine, not others. French: I came in fourth. One away from the recognition of a special certificate and a lot more applause. Orchestra: I'll be first chair "for sure" next year in Varsity, but it's a no-go for Chamber. Art: my rose vessel was "beautiful" and "ornate", but not good enough to be recognised in the art show. ARGH!
Why? Why am I like this, so different from my usual cheery self? Well, I already talked about my anger from French. I'll move on from there. You see, I'm in my highschool's Varsity orchestra. Woo-hoo. It's a second-rate orchestra full of slackers in back, hard-workers in front. We're taught by a favouritism-practising teacher. Every single year until this year, I have been last chair. My teacher has never liked me, so he's always put me back there, assuming I'm the worst cellist in the school. This year, because of complaints of favouritism from the rest of the class, he held blind auditions. This time he seated us without knowing who we are. I got first chair (I've since moved to second). Not so bad, huh? No, I'm a good player. I can play basically any song I want by ear, and I've got a really good tone. My friend, first chair second violin, is even better than I. We both want to go to Chamber, the good orchestra, and we didn't try out because we hadn't heard them play until long after the auditions! So she asked for the both of us (while I ran to Physics), and he told her that there wasn't "enough room" for next year's class, but promised us first chair next year. Next year when all of the terrible tenth graders come into Varsity and bog us down even more. Grand.
And my rose vessel, the one I've been slaving over was in an art show a few nights ago. Not the art show, the big one. A tiny, school-based show where they gave out about ten ribbons. Granted, there were quite a few pieces there, but I didn't get a thing. After all that, after all of the congratulations and praise and work and everything that went into it, I didn't get an ounce of final recognition. It wouldn't bother me so much if all this effortless (in the worst connotation possible), ugly artwork weren't entered against it, beating it. There was this one piece, 2-D, of an Indian girl in a red head-wrap that people from India wear in front of a sidewalk full of bustling business men, clad in black suits, weilding black briefcases. Nice idea, huh? It was a most splendid idea, the colour difference and message spread, but it was the most simple minded five-year-old drawing I had ever seen. It looked like something I'd sketch on my math homework, it was that undetailed, a complete lack of effort that you see in art that was made just to get it done for class. And on top of that, parts of it (the girl's hair and some of the suits) were in graphite, in pencil! They just drew it on in pencil! The rest was done in coloured pencil (that's fine, I've done stuff that's beautiful in coloured pencil, but it's not the same as graphite-- especially when you mix the two, it looks so inane). I took weeks on my vessel, painting and scultping, to the point where I'm days behind the class, and it's not perfect, but at least it's not in pencil. That's utterly ridiculous. The 2-D I described won first place (second in line to "best in show"). I got squat.
I'm fine. I'm back to being happy! Whew, I've got to update some of my other diaries. I've got (besides this one) four others. That's supposed to be a secret, so I'll let you guess which other ones I've made. But they're secret, so forget I brought that up! Forget it!
I want to paint something else... I've got an extra canvas, and some paint. I think I'm gonna do an old-photo lookin' thing. Pay homage to Angela's Ashes or something. That, by the way, is a very, very, very good book. It's hard to find such terribly sad books told with a humour that turns out to be very uplifting. Like when Frank (Francis) McCourt described his father. He said he had to run from Ireland to poverty in America because of a price on his head, and then he said that he'd look at his father as a child, his missing teeth and soiled, wrinkled skin, lost and greying hair, and wonder, "Who would pay money for a head like that?" That's not a direct quote. I lent my copy to a friend. That's the second book I've lent out! And both people don't seem to like them very much. Well, one girl I lent The Hobbit and she never even talked about it again, and then Kelly borrowed Ashes and said she couldn't "get into it because of school." I read it in three days. But I can understand how it might be more interesting to me, having grown up in a prominently Irish family for my entire life. Living off corned beef and potatoes and soda bread and... ohhh... I'm hungry. But Kelly's Italian, so I'll give her a break.
Why don't people like corned beef? I could eat it all on its own. But whenever I do, people proclaim, "Oooh! Sick!" No! Try, "Oooh! Yum!" I know it's not the most expensive taste in the world, not like salmon to the French or anything, but most Irish food was for impoverished Irish families. I don't fall into that category, but it must be an aquired taste because I've been eating it since forever. Sometimes I do like to break out some bitter, steaming tea, too. Iced tea is nothing. Nothing! It has to be good tea. Yes. I also like Brie, because I feel French when I eat it. I'm not French, but I speak French. I even came in fourth in a competition, did you hear?
Anyway, that's all I've got. Must run, time for supper. Toodles!
Hmm... meatballs, huh? Nah, too messy. Kinda way too creepy, too. Even if it is Elijah Wood. I think this diary layout is enough for now. I don't have a real shrine devoted to anyone. My friend Lliz (yes, two L's) has one devoted to Manson. I should do something like that, but for someone no one knows of. Hmm... Tito Jackson! Nah. That's creepier. Donny Osmond? NO! Ooh! Ooh! Boy George! YES! That's definetly creepy enough! And if I were to stalk someone, I'd have to pick Kevin Bacon because if Jack McFarland can do it, then so can a teenage girl like me, right? I don't even like Kevin Bacon that much. I hated Tremors. And Footloose is funny. Am I rambling? Wait, what? When I get famous and revered and lionized on red carpets the world over, stalking won't be "stalking," it'll be "mobile eccentricies." Then I could stalk anyone I want to, but they'll have to like me because I'll have money!
By the way, I don't actually plan on being a stalker any time soon. But I will be rich and famous and then I'll be stalked. Right? What?
And today's title is an approximate quote from last night's new Will & Grace!