It’s October aka the Halloween month, so I thought that it’d be fitting to share and reflect on some of my favorite horror movies of all time. First, I’d like to talk about a rather peculiar movie that is Eraserhead. I first came across it when I was only twelve years old and it was also my first time diving into one of David Lynch’s elusive worlds.
The movie is Lynch’s debut work and it was first screened at the Filmex Festival in 1997. The plot tells the story of a single father, Henry Spencer, who has to take care of his mutant, deformed child. The setting is Lynch’s favorite- small and isolated, industrial town. However, most of the movie is an insight into Henry’s mind, full of hallucinations, nightmare-like sequences, and his dark fantasies.
Eraserhead manages to alienate the viewer from the real world into a dream world. Lynch perfectly depicts nightmare logic and that’s what makes this movie truly terrifying. This movie is also perfect if you want an authentic insight into Lynch’s mind, he directed, produced, wrote, edited and designed sound for Eraserhead. Lynch refuses to explain anything to the viewer, however, he did say that he still hasn’t read an interpretation similar to his.
I would highly recommend this disturbing, claustrophobic body-horror classic. Perhaps, you might be the first to have an interpretation that matches Lynch’s.
It was oppressively hot, but it was worse inside. The idea for the party had been born earlier that month, straight out of the heatwave, full of desperate loneliness and braised, salted wounds. He had thought that the heat had been bad when the party was thought up but it had gotten worse, the end of summer was supposed to bring promise of a cool refreshing fall, but instead the dog days were holding on.
Partygoers were wilting like flowers, falling and rising in dance on a phantom wind born and nursed by too-expensive-booze, and sweat dampened morals, the peace was tenuous. It was just too hot for a party, even the breeze was like licks of fire on his cheeks.
The rail of the balcony scorched his forearms, but it was better than dancing in the heat. He dropped his head back and looked for stars he would not find, but before the search even truly began the click of heels sounded behind him, the echoes of a last ditch S.O.S in consistent and aggressive morse code.
He did not look, she came up to the railing next to him. He still did not look at her, but in his peripheral he could see she was reasonably tall, dressed in unseasonal black, sleek. She inclined her head and stared out into the darkened hedge maze below them, all shadow. He could sense her grace rather than see it, there was something indescribably elegant in her presence, but she was incredibly still. She was pensive in a way that only people dressed in finery and malcontent can be.
She looked on as a couple stumbling their way through the doors below them, tipsy, glittering and very much in love made their way into the maze. Both were dressed in crisp autumn colors, one a in deep burgundy gown that splayed behind her like a trail of fire and the other in a warm burnt orange that fell like water.
Photo Credit: previously.tv via Penny Dreadful
Two leaves dancing in the too warm night, lost to the world and unregistering of the weather outside of their perfect dichotomy.
She glanced sideways up at him through the leaden air, her sharp, slanted eyes caught him off guard, caught him staring at her with the sideways glance of someone interested but unwilling to admit it, but her interest was clear.
He slid his eyes lazily away and turned so his back was to the railing. She turned her head to see his profile, if he glanced at her out of the corner of his eye again he would see almost her whole face, a dangerous temptation. He hadn’t really seen her yet, the tendons in his neck lightly pulled him to look at her, but he resisted, he vowed not to look. He didn’t want to talk to anyone, especially not at this party.
She sighed, a light huff of hot air in the even warmer atmosphere around them, the air around them weighed heavy on him, even the light seemed dragged down. She leaned her narrow gloved hands on the bannister the stem of a champagne flute nestled in her long, lithe fingers.
She was made of long lines like an artist had just drawn out the essential curves in stark black strokes, she flowed like fine ink.
She swirled the champagne in her glass, light winked off it catching the light like a star on earth.
“This is the expensive stuff and what a glass to put it in.” Her voice was low and rolling over him, lulling him into a stupor, “The cost of the wine almost justifies the dressing up, but this glass, the glass definitely justifies the dressing up.”
A sudden shattering caused his trance to break, his vow forgotten his head snapped to look at her.
From her elegant and bewitching fingers the glass had fallen, no, he realized as he looked at her small smirk in profile, the fine crystal glass had been dropped, on purpose.
A galaxy now lay on the stones beneath them, the leaves in the maze had also turned suddenly at the clear cold noise cutting through the heat, but they were once again lost to themselves within moments.
He was now staring into her eyes, unable to look away, pinned like an insect to a scientist’s board, her dark brown eyes looked almost black under shadow and tapered lids.
He spoke one word, his voice rusty and thick with the overly warm air, “Why?”
She glanced down and turned on her heel, her sharp cheekbones and nose flashed in the light of the windowed doors she was headed toward, now that he had looked at her he could not look away. Those inky outlines were nothing on the amorphous night she was truly made of.
“So you would look at me,” she walked through the doors then, the promise of a cool fall night disappearing into the light of a too hot summer party.
Fasten your seatbelt, because I’m about to speed into the different theories of one of my favorite tv shows ever, Riverdale.
Riverdale first aired on January 26th, 2017, and immediately after the first episode I was hooked. It didn’t take long to become obsessed with the mystery of who killed Jason Blossom. But while trying to put together the pieces of the puzzle that was his death, we followed many other characters on their crazy journeys through their sophomore year of high school or their parents that, in fact, were the main causes of the most extra drama that existed on this show.
Now I’m going to fast forward to the season 1 finale, and wow… that was a plot twist. While we did figure out Jason Blossom’s murderer was his own flesh and blood, Clifford Blossom, the writers decided to have one of the purest characters in the whole show shot.
FRED ANDREWS!!!!!
WHY???!!! I don’t know, but the ending of the episode had many angry, distraught Riverdale fans desperate to know who would do this to the nicest character in the whole show. Seriously, what has he done wrong? He’s the only parent in the whole show who hasn’t freaking manipulated their kid or messed them up psychologically. He’s supported his son’s music career (and come on, just because Archie is cute, it doesn’t mean we have to pretend his singing is that good). But he still supported him, and yet he’s the one kicked to the curb, and SHOT?! Not okay, writers, not okay.
Now I know there are lots of other mysteries that need to be solved in season 2. Who’s Cheryl’s unexpected love interest? Who’s Betty’s long lost brother? What’s Hiram doing back in Riverdale? Who’s Veronica’s ex, and how is he going to affect Varchie?
But that’s what I’m not here to talk about.
Who shot Fred Andrews? Who would WANT to kill Fred Andrews? Clearly someone had enough beef with him to attempt first degree murder. And how do we know it wasn’t just Mr. Andrews being in the wrong place at the wrong time? Well, no money was taken from the register at Pops, and who would go “rob” a restaurant without taking money? It wasn’t just an accident. It was pre-meditated.
Now onto theories. I’m writing this because I want to know who shot him. I have multiple.
Sheriff Keller. This theory is simple. As I was watching the season 2 premiere, I noticed the sheriff had the exact same eye color as the robber, and it was scary. The same bright, green eyes full of evil!!! If you look closely at the robber’s eyes, and then his, you’ll see it too. Also, it’s not just a coincidence that he sucks at doing his job. How are four sophomores able to solve Jason Blossom’s murder before the sheriff of the town? So far the case is going no where either, but maybe it’s because the guy in charge of the case is the shooter. Coincidence? I think not. Plus, he’s the last person anyone would suspect, and in this show you must always except the unexpected.
Even though the sheriff has the power to cover it all, and the eye color, one thing he doesn’t have is the motive. So, now I’m onto my second suspect, Hiram Lodge. Hiram Lodge’s eyes are brown, so he may have not been the shooter, but he has the motive, and the resources. He has the Southside Serpents working for him, and probably many other people who owe him favors and would do anything to stay on his good side. He also has a motive. Fred was having a fling with Hermione Lodge and he wanted to take over his construction site, what reason did Hiram Lodge have to not kill Fred Andrews?
Now I’ve been focusing only on Fred Andrews, but we all know someone else was killed in the season 2 premiere: Miss Grundy. The teacher we all loathe, but she was killed, and what do Miss Grundy and Fred Andrews have in common? Archie cares about them both. A lot. So, maybe the murderer has been targeting Archie, and everyone he cares about all along.
So, here’s my third and final theory on who could be the green eyed murderer hiding behind a ski mask because he’s too much of a wimp to show himself; Miss Grundy’s ex husband. The guy who scared Grundy so bad that she thought the only way to ever get away alive was by running off and changing her name. Maybe when he found out Archie and Grundy were having an affair together, he wanted revenge. He could be planning to make Archie’s life absolutely miserable by hurting everyone he cared about before taking him out himself at the end of season 2.
Yesterday, I went to an escape room with my friends in the Ventura Harbor. Out of pure stupidity, we decided to sign up for the hardest room, The Wizards Lair, with a 25% success rate.
The amount of hidden clues in the room was incredible.
We headed into the room, which we first thought was the only one. There was a desk in the middle of the room with an array of things on it, but the main thing was a box with a fairy in it, which was the object of our escape.
We were to free the fairy in the box because the fairy gave our town good luck and fortune; but, when the fairy was stolen it cursed our town forever.
Our group started off by unlocking the first box which granted us light to our dark, murky room; and gave us wands which helped us unlock another box.
There were many more clues in the room. The last major clue was the bookshelves, which corresponded with the symbols and number on the potions and scrolls. After we figured out the code that corresponded with the books on the bookshelves, the bookshelves moved revealing another hidden room.
We were so excited because we thought we had beat the room, only to discover we had only made it through 50% of it.
Sadly, we did not make it fully through the room in time, but that is only going to make us want to go back again, to try and beat it next time.
The Ultimate Escape Room Ventura, CA From: venturabreeze.com
I’ve never been in love before, but I know what it looks like.
This Saturday night I went to a bowling alley with my brothers and friends. We were there for nearly three hours, and in that time lots of people came and went.
As I was waiting for my turn to bowl, I inadvertently noticed a couple move into the lane next to mine. They must have been in a relatively new relationship; they still had that air of flustered, nervous excitement. They were probably somewhere in their thirties.
The first thing that caught my eye was her chevron striped, orange and red and dark green skirt that came to just above ankles adorned with bright pink socks peeking out of chunky bowling shoes. Somehow, though, the outfit wasn’t really what stood out. She had wispy blonde shoulder-length hair and thinly framed round glasses.
The second thing that caught my eye was her date. He was just a few inches taller than she was and he also had glasses. His didn’t have rims though, just two lenses that floated in front of his eyes. They complemented his square jaw and short-cropped brown hair.
Since they were right across from me, I got to observe the couple for quite awhile. I was captivated.
It wasn’t because they were stunningly handsome or eccentric, in fact they were just sort of plain, normal looking. They weren’t unattractive, but weren’t strikingly beautiful either. She was probably an Anne or Jane or a Cathy, and he might have been a Scott or maybe a Mark or something along those lines.
She first stood up to take her turn. She trotted up to the line and made a very uncoordinated attempt at throwing the bright orange ball, which almost immediately went into the gutter. She spun around on the balls of her feet, and shyly laughed at the unfortunate result of her inability. He watched her as she walked back to him and he was laughing too.
Image via Pinterest.com
Plucking a ball from the rack, he began demonstrating how to properly throw it. And he didn’t put his arms around her in that uncomfortably corny way movies do. He just stood in front of her, swung his arm back and forth, explained his technique.
She tried again, extending her arm out in front of her and throwing the ball towards the pins. It slowly made its way down the lane and knocked over two or three pins on the outer right side.
“See!” he exclaimed with genuine pride. “That was already so much better!” They were both beaming. She scuttled back to their chairs, he rose to his feet, wrapped his arms around her and lightly kissed her forehead.
Over the course of the night I became very sure that they both enjoyed science and books, rainy weather and went to large public high schools where they maybe played in the marching band. As I pieced together these imaginary details I also realized some obvious truths in that they were completely enjoying each other’s company and they were completely happy.
As Scott or maybe Mark returned back to his chair he stopped midway to dance to the Britney Spears classic “Womanizer,” pointing his fingers in the air and bouncing from side to side. She threw her head back, laughed. This made me smile, too, because right then another thing became very clear to me: they were in love.
I don’t know if they knew it yet, but I definitely did.
I’ve seen lots of young couples out on dates before, but for some reason this was the first one that has made such an impact. Being able to see these two people who seemed to be so plainly normal and were out on a plainly normal date. But they were so, so happy. Bowling really isn’t a very exciting activity, but they were perfectly content just being with each other.
They probably could have been anywhere in the world and still showed that same subtle adoration. It didn’t matter that there were people all around them in that bowling alley because they were only looking at each other.
There have been earthquakes and avalanches tearing down my old trees. Pushing them over like they’re nothing but toothpicks. There have been tsunamis flooding what used to be my home. Now it is just a house that I live in, with rotten walls and moldy water dripping from the ceilings.
Photo Credit: favrify.com
But you came to help me fix the dams and fences that once kept me safe. You handed me your broken bricks and cracked windows and we built ourselves a new house, with dirty floors and clean beds. We planted flowers in our garden without a lawn, and fed the singing birds that never ended up coming.
Our house kept falling apart, but we would fix it with the clay that we still keep in our drawers. In our neighborhood without neighbors, we’ve had parties without guests. But we turned up our music and managed to dance without tripping over broken lamps.
One day we will have to move out. Not because we will run out of music and clean sheets, but we know that there will be another earthquake and a tsunami and a hurricane. There are no black clouds yet. The earth is not shaking yet. But in the distance we see the birds flying close to the ground, ready to bring the storm that will destroy the home we love.
Most people that know me can agree that I’m an outspoken feminist. They know that I stand up for women’s rights, try to be politically correct, the list goes on. They know that I love to write or that my favorite color is yellow. They know my face, the way I smile or laugh. To most people, I’m just an average teenage girl. Thank God that’s all I am. What most people don’t know is that this image could completely disappear, tarnished forever in a matter of minutes.
How?
Rape. Already I can sense one of two reactions: fear, a freezing shiver down a spine or bile pushing to the surface, or exasperation, a sigh because this post is going to be one of those posts.
When I think about sexual harassment, I think about the horrifying statistics. One in six girls will be raped in their lives. That means that out of the girls in my grade, at least three of us will get assaulted. One in 33 boys will be assaulted. That’s at least one boy in each grade. Yes, these are just statistics and all, but most of the times that’s all we think about.
Over the summer, I read Louise O’Neill’s Asking For It, a story of a girl named Emma who was gang raped by four boys. At first, Emma is portrayed as self-centered, egotistic, and promiscuous. She is mean to her friends, constantly degrading them.
Photo Credit: cornflakegirlmusings.com
It frustrated me how rude she was, but as the story went on, the rudeness was actually unmasked as something else, self-degradation. Her entire life she was called pretty, fawned on by boys and envied by girls. She was constantly making sure to cover up, but simultaneously show off. Her mother would always tell her to put on a jacket or a longer pants, while her friends surrounded her with shorter and shorter skirts. She internalized something most girls have to.
Nowadays, the Internet is filled with selfies, pool pics, and photoshoots. Sleek hair and tanned, toned legs become a requirement before sending out an image on Instagram and Facebook. Emma’s world was filled with those kinds of pictures. She went to parties just to say she did, trying to keep up this delicate image of a girl who was respectable but still had fun.
However, that image was tattered when she was raped. She showed up to the party in a too-short dress, drank dozens of tequila shots, and tried a drug a boy gave her. Common ingredients in the recipe titled: She was asking for it.
It’s interesting to think that someone could be assaulted and instantly presume it was the victims fault. Even if she was wearing nothing, her body doesn’t become something to claim, to take advantage of. It’s sad that rape becomes so black and white, either the girl did something wrong or the boy made a “childish” mistake. No one ever gets into the nitty gritty. It’s always “She was asking for it” instead of “She was raped.”
Modern society has a fear around the word rape. People want to mask what that word means, mask the disgusting feelings around it. People hide behind anonymous names, jeering at victims, trying to make it less real. If she wanted to, then how can it be bad?
Louise O’Neill and many other have taken a stab at this ever-present issue, trying to raise awareness. I condemn these brave souls, as talking about rape is so taboo. Rape is an international issue, as this book addresses, and is not just some “feminist issue.” Rapists are let out of prison within weeks, while the victims are left with a lifetime of shame and painful memories.
Rape needs to become an outrage. Homicides are treated with heightened media attention, the deceased becoming a saint in the eyes of the public. Where is that same sadness for victims of rape? Yes, they didn’t die, but a part of them was lost when they were raped. Many are left chained to a life of stolen glances and hushed conversations.
It’s hard for people to talk about rape because they’re misinformed or it simply makes them uncomfortable. Personally, I agree. I would like nothing more than to talk about the weather report or to compliment my friend’s shirt, but sometimes I’m left fearing about out of my friends and me, who’s going to get hurt next? That’s why we need to talk about rape culture. We need to make rape not okay, make rapists see the wrong in their actions, as not to encourage repeated offenses. We need to make rape as scary as being killed, so that young girls and boys can go about their lives with one less thing to worry about.
While it may sound vain, despite being relatively confident, comfortable, and even sometimes feeling rather pretty, I don’t think I’ve ever felt fully represented as “beautiful”. It frustrates me that so much of my already fragile confidence could be tied to media, movies and t.v shows but it kind of is.
Part of me feels like the culture I grew up in does not believe me to be “beautiful”. I’m not western enough, in fact in personal experience when I see an East Asian in a show or movie, while my heart does glow, they are usually mixed race or distinctly more western looking than I or many other East Asians look, so in a way I guess I’m used to feeling sidelined for a more western standard. Which is probably why I’ve never felt that en masse the American.
I often wonder: have I have been conditioned from childhood to see myself as too East Asian to be considered en masse “beautiful”? I have this fear that there will always be that “for an Asian” tacked onto compliments about my appearance or just the “oh she’s Asian” exclamation. I’m not sure when this would/has befall/en me but it’s still become a very real insecurity.
Photo Credit: Martin Taylor Home Page
The older I’ve gotten the more I seem to notice that I’m not sure where I fit, there’s always a twinge when someone asks if I’m an exchange student or to translate something for them, that’s in Korean *cringe*, but hey perhaps understandable transgressions, but still, really?
I don’t see myself reflected back when I see “beautiful” people on the t.v or in books or in American pop culture. When people make lists East Asian are woefully lacking, the part of me that is fed off of pure media is constantly being told that people who look like me aren’t really that beautiful.
I’ve talked about white washing before, but this year I was hit with a whole new wave with the twitter #expressiveasians.
An unnamed casting director is cited in Nancy Wang Yuen’s book Reel Inequality: Hollywood Actors and Racism, as having said, “Asians are a challenge to cast because most casting directors feel as though they’re not very expressive.” As much as this statement kind of makes me want to laugh, because who even says sh*t like this? The more I sat and thought about it the more it shocked and … hurt.
Photo Credit: Twitter
I’ve always been slightly insecure about my smile, how small my eyes get when I laugh, I mean just my face in general, but this comment, despite the amazing retaliation from many proud Asians on the internet, just hit hard and not even where it was necessarily directed.
It hit me in a way that I can only liken to feeling like taking a photo with friends looking at it and going, “Oh god why do I look different, why do they all look good while I look so ugly?” It’s just the feeling of being the odd one out, in the case of Expressive Asians it’s being the perpetually non-expressive race.
It’s a kind of reminder that says even if you feel the same you definitely don’t look like it!
While I am in fact Chinese-American I’m not mixed race, I am full blooded Chinese, but I’ve grown up in America with Caucasian parents, in relative white privilege, so I’ve always been stuck between two worlds. I think and act like an American but I realize that people don’t see me as American until I open my mouth and even then sometimes they don’t. It leaves me to wonder about how I feel about myself, how does America as a culture feel about me?
Is it too much for me to want to see myself reflected back from the screen without the aid of cartooning? Is it too much for me to see someone like me be considered “beautiful” in American pop culture?
There are many things I love in life, and one of those happens to be animals, more specifically horses. I’ve grown up around horses since I was young. Horses are amazing, and if anyone knows me, I talk about horses all the time. My aunt had five of her own horses, and her retired off-the-track thoroughbred named Maggie was one of the first horses I ever learned how to ride on.
Horses have always been a very important part of my life. In sixth grade, my uncle told me that he signed me up for horse camp, and at first I thought “Ha. Very funny, not happening.” But I never would’ve thought that that camp would’ve been an open door that led me to one of my true passions. I never thought I’d be owning my own horse.
It was in April of my freshman year. My aunt came up to me and asked me if I wanted to go to an auction to see baby horses. I knew, logically, I should’ve said no, because I knew we were going to fall in love with one of them and then we’d want to buy a new horse. We already had five horses, but you can never have too many horses… right? Well, neither my aunt nor I believed that because when we left the auction, we already had our hearts belonging to one horse.
His name is Scapa. Right now he’s two and a half years old, but he was just a yearling when I got him. It was less than a month before I was getting my back surgery, and I was not sure if I’d have the chance to ride for another year, but I knew I still wanted to work with horses. My aunt got him for $1500, and over the summer before my sophomore year it was my job to help train him for his first halter class, where he won third place.
Though I’ve only had Scapa for a year and a half, I’ve realized several times that Scapa will most likely live into my forties. While I’m in college, going to law school, and even afterwards, my horse will still be there. Horses will always be there for me, and the fact that as I grow up Scapa will be also, it’s something really special that I’m incredibly thankful for.
People who’ve never been around horses are never really able to understand how much of a treasure it is to form a bond with a horse. Horses have always been my best friends in animal form. Any time I’ve had a bad day, I would go down to the barn and my horse would immediately make my mood happier. From horse shows to camping trips to Ireland, the highlights in my life have always involved horses, and it’ll probably be that way for years to come.
With sports comes a tedious amount of dedication, which does not always correspond with school; because, despite the amount of dedication sports require, school requires a thousand times that amount.
Many kids who wish to pursue their sports throughout high school, college, and even the rest of their lives have to make a choice; they either have to give up part of school or part of their sport. Most parents would never let kids give up school, because normally parents’ motto is “school comes first.” But to some kids, their parents let them follow their dreams and chose sports over school. Some of my very close friends, who I developed through horseback riding, have parents that permit them to chose their sport first by allowing them to home-school and dedicate their life to the show circuit.
Even though I still continue on the show circuit with my friends, it sets me back in school with the amount of days I have to miss to attend some of the shows. For example, coming up in November, I have nationals in Las Vegas and if I am to attend, it will make me miss a week of school at least, meaning mounds and mounds of homework, tests, and in class assignments to make up. After missing just three days of school last week, it still was a major setback.
As the years continue the amount of homework I will have to make up after missing just three days of school will only increase. Thinking about this only makes me more stressed out and worried about my future with my sport. I would like to think I would never allow myself to quit because I have devoted over ten years of my life to this sport; but many kids, have to give up their sports in high school in order to maintain their grades and prep for college. I hope I don’t have to become one of those kids, but sometimes I just wonder if it would make it all easier.
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