Mercury.
It flows like water over my face
Silvery metallic beads rolling
Over my broken nose, catching
In the hollow of my throat.
Mercury seeps through my skin
One molecule at a time,
Killing me and rendering me whole.
The quicksilver gaze of the man haunts me
His eternal eyes behind the spectacles
Following, stalking me beyond
The river Styx.
He will come for me when the sun sets.
He will come for me,
And I will die.

there was a house in the woods
with eaves like my grandmother
all worn and cracked and dying
shutters closed against the world
or perhaps against the terrors within
for nobody knows what is in there
there is a house in the woods
where even the monsters won't go
where the children all run away screaming
when you wake up in this house
you'll wish you were only dreaming

I wrote the first things that came to mind.

I called one of my friends today to invite him to go ice-skating with a bunch of other people. He said he wasn't interested, which didn't surprise me, but when he declined I suddenly realized that I have to face this school year without him. I have no idea what I'm going to do.

He was the first person I felt comfortable being myself around. I can still remember that day in seventh grade when I somehow summoned the courage to sit next to the him as he was reading in the garden. I remember the way he would tease me and push my chair around in French class until I lost my temper and yelled at him. I remember sword fights in his backyard, and long rambling discussions about ethics, books, and society, and slowly suspecting that this girl was really too much of a tomboy to be a girl. The day he came out to me, I wasn't a bit surprised. His trust in me and the idea that there was someone out there who could understand me and be my friend was amazing.

He's been in at least two of my classes for the last three years. I've changed a lot from the shy, painfully lonely girl I used to be, but in that time I always had him at my side. He would always be a reliable presence at school, playfully stealing my belongings, teasing me, annoying me, but always ready to offer comfort and understanding when I needed it.

I know I'm not his best friend. He has a best friend, and while I think she's one of the luckiest people in the world, I'm not jealous. I wouldn't wish my lonely childhood on anyone. He'll be fine in his new school, and he has plenty of other friends to keep him company. I have other friends too, but I don't feel as close with any of them. There's a disconnect and a sense of alienation, of being different that I experience with almost everyone I know but him, and I don't know how I'll find another person who I feel so completely at home with.

It's not like he's moved across the country or anything. He just transferred high schools. But school was the place I saw him and kept in touch, and his presence made school seem less empty and superficial. There was actually someone I could look forward to seeing, someone who understood and agreed with all my rants about the government, capitalism, and social injustices. There was someone intelligent I could talk to about the things that matter to me.

I can see why he hates my high school enough to want to transfer out of it. All the people there seem so shallow, the whole building lacks warmth, and the teachers never assign anything important. Maybe he felt as alienated from the general student population as I do. I don't want him to wither in my school, where most people are white, middle-class, self-centered, and conformist, and the GSA only has about four regular members. I just don't know what I'll do without him.

I've wanted to be a writer since fourth grade. Every time someone asked me what I want to do when I grow up, I said I wanted to write. The things I wanted to write would change, but the writing remained constant. But do I really want to toil away for years, working and refining my skills and collecting a room full of rejection slips before I finally get published? Do I really want to do homework every night for the rest of my life with uncertain pay and a most likely hostile publishing market?

The answer is yes. I want to be a full time writer and creator, even if I have to write ten unpublished novels to do it. But when I examine the reason I want to do this so much, the reasons are nowhere near as clear as the desire.

I love writing. I love putting words down on usually virtual paper, making them sing (if possible) and losing myself in whatever I'm trying to express. But is that really the reason I want to write? I love music as well, and while I don't intend to quit, I don't want to make my living as a musician.

When I come down to it, the primary reason I'd rather be a writer than a musician or scientist is plain old stubbornness. I've wanted this since I was nine. I'm not going to give up now just because of persistent writer's block and disillusion about the difficulty of the craft. It would take something really drastic, like blindness combined with paralysis of my hands to make me want to give up, because I made a promise to myself six years ago and I'm following through.

It helps that I really do enjoy writing and no one is forcing me to pick any career, but right now I feel kind of stupid for wanting this so much without any reason than "I've wanted it for years".

I'm sick of my mom constantly talking about how great China is, how Chinese censorship isn't so bad, how sweatshops don't exist, and more China, China, China. Pride in one's homeland is perfectly understandable, but this is getting seriously excessive. I love Seattle, but I don't spend every waking moment extolling its virtues and denying its faults.

I don't have anything against the Chinese people; how could I, considering both my parents are Chinese? I'm very proud of the fact that my ancestors are from the country that invented the printing press, the magnetic compass, and built the Great Wall. I am not proud of the current Chinese government, the ridiculous levels of pollution, or the appalling treatment of sweatshop workers. Even my mom can't completely deny all of China's problems, but she tends to downplay them and take China's side in everything. I wish she would shut up. I'm not Chinese. I'm a Chinese-American, I'm ethnically Chinese, but I am not Chinese, and no matter how long she goes on about China, I'm not going to start worshipping the Middle Kingdom.

I also wish she'd stop talking about how much she hates liberals, loves family values, and thinks I should pretend to be straight so I don't disappoint my whole family. I'm supposed to be a good Chinese girl and sacrifice myself for my family and community. Well, I won't.

After whining about how I didn't want to practice yesterday, today I played my flute for the first time since getting my braces off. It was amazing. The notes just seemed to glide out and sing, when before I had to force them and hope it wouldn't sound too awful. I could even slide up to high C with hardly any effort at all. My fingers cooperated perfectly, and I let myself get lost in the magic of the music, letting it dance and sweep me away.

I haven't played my piccolo, but I'm waiting until I get earplugs. Piccolos are surprising loud for such a diminutive instrument, and I'm sick of having my ears ring. It's probably really bad for my hearing, it gives me a headache, and it makes me wonder why I continue to play the incessantly out of tune, shrill, irritating little piece of plastic and metal. It's like a yappy little dog that you want to strangle and turn into meatballs, but who you love despite its habit of eating all your favorite shoes.

What I really want to do is learn how to play trumpet, but I want to get decent at piano first. I'm also worried that playing trumpet will detract from my flute practice time, and my parents probably aren't willing to pay for a third private teacher. Last year I tried my friend's trumpet when we were supposed to be doing sectionals in band, and I fell in love with his instrument. Maybe I'll get a used trumpet somewhere and teach myself when I have time and money.

I'm turning into more of a music freak every day. A year ago I was planning to quit after high school, but now I'm considering majoring in music. I really regret not auditioning for the Seattle Youth Symphony Orchestras two years ago, but probably won't have time to participate this year even if I audition and get in. It would also be nice to learn a string instrument sometime in the distant future, if I have time and energy.

Right now I feel really guilty. I should have practiced my flute and my piano today, but I kept putting it off and now it's too late. I'm afraid I'll show up for my lessons and completely fail and disappoint my teachers. I'm probably going to practice a lot tomorrow to make up for not playing my flute today, yesterday, and last Friday. I haven't played piano or piccolo since Thursday. I should have forced myself to practice even though I didn't feel like it, because I'm not getting any better sitting in front of the computer wasting time, and my parents are paying for the lessons.

I also feel like a complete failure regarding my ambitions of becoming a writer, since I haven't made a serious attempt to write a story in almost a year. Whenever I try to start, I'll either feel too tired, or start obsessing about how bad I am and freeze. I'm afraid anything I write will turn out to be crap and no one will ever want to read it. I tell myself that if I never write anything there won't be anything for anyone to read, and when I can forget my stupid feelings of inadequacy I really enjoy writing. Unfortunately, my stupid feelings of inadequacy won't leave me alone.

I know I'm not bad at writing. I know I'm not winning any prizes at my current ability, but I'm not bad. In fact, I took a philosophy class the summer before seventh grade, and the teacher, who also teaches at the University of Washington, said my final essay was college level work. I took an online essay writing class in the beginning of ninth grade, and the teacher said some of my compositions could have been written by the college students she teaches. Everyone tells me I have potential, but what use is potential when I can't write a simple short story? I'm not even sure if I have potential. I don't feel like I do.

I know the solution to writer's block is to sit down and write. I try. I really do. Whenever I do manage to start something, I stop halfway through, read it, decide it's complete garbage, and don't finish it. Then I try to go back and can't think of anything to say, before giving up and feeling like even more of a failure. Then I feel guilty because I should have kept going and know I should have at least one infinitesimal speck of faith in my writing ability, but most of the time I don't.

I also feel guilty because I'm sitting here feeling sorry for myself while people are starving and getting raped, murdered, and abused. Why am I not using my resources to help other people? Getting straight A's is a completely useless achievement. I haven't done anything worth doing with my life.

So I wrote this really long journal entry, then accidentally deleted it just as I was about to post it. It was really annoying but what can I do? I guess all those words will just have to disappear to whatever graveyard lost writing goes to collect dust, because I am not going to attempt to rewrite it.

Today as I was walking back from my piano lesson it started to rain. This is apt to happen in Seattle, where the weather is actually an interesting topic of conversation, but I wasn't expecting it today. There I was, dressed in a short sleeved shirt, knee length skirt, and sandals, and a great gust of wind slammed into my face and sprayed my face with water. I thought, oh dear, I'm going to get wet. And started giggling.

I watched people walk by me carrying umbrellas or with hoods pulled over their head through my rain speckled glasses, and the situation seemed so absurd. I don't like walking in the rain without at least a jacket, but there I was, wearing less than ninety percent of the people walking by, trickles of water running down the inside of my shirt, with no one to blame but myself. All my life I've been avoiding the water, and now, with nothing to protect myself against it, it's fun. God, I'm an idiot.

At first I crossed my arms to keep my belly warm and dry, but as I walked on, I let them hang loose by my sides. It wasn't that cold, and I was wet already. I thought, what the hell, this isn't going happen that often, so you might as well enjoy the experience while you can.

So I did. I'm sure anyone passing by would have thought me crazy, walking through the wind and rain with a broad grin stretched across my face. I let the rain wash away my troubles, and reveled in the joy of not caring.

Maybe I should do this more often.

I'm reading Bonk: The Curious Coupling of Science and Sex. I love it.

Mary Roach is one of my favorite nonfiction writers. Her first book, Stiff: The Curious Lives of Human Cadavers, will forever stand as the funniest book about dead people ever conceived, researched, and put on paper.

No wonder my friends think I'm weird.

Oh, why is my heart
So terribly treacherous and
So painfully uncooperative?
When I look into her eyes
I see falling stars, each one a wish
Far too big to come true,
Each one a heart broken, a hope crushed
And I know, I know
That I have no chance. Then I see
The way his glance flickers
And lingers
On my face
My pulse quickens, my face grows warm
As I sense the way our eyes dance
And connect, that electric spark,
Before I remember my promise
To take a break, a reprieve, a time
Free from the confusion of
Love, desire, ecstasy, and pain,
And I lament the fact
That I can never seem to keep the promises
I make to myself.

I'm taking a math class this summer which covers a year's worth of material in five weeks, so I'll be in precalc this year as a sophomore. I was supposed to be in seventh grade honors when I was in sixth grade, but as a result of transferring schools I couldn't get in. Anyway, I finally finished the chapter on trigonometric identities and functions, which has to be the most confusing, difficult, and poorly explained chapter in the book. For some reason math textbook writers insist on writing explanations which are ten times more complicated than necessary, then giving examples which are impossible to figure out without a thorough understanding of the topic, which of course you don't have since the examples are supposed to help explain it. As a result, I ended up rereading explanations about ten times without a single word penetrating my brain while wondering why I was crazy enough to elect to math over the summer. Now I'm doing logs, which make a lot more sense. Trigonometry gives me a headache.

I really want to see bare, which is a musical about gay kids dealing with being gay and in a Catholic school. However, my mom seems to be convinced that exposing me to "alternative cultures" will make me value love and respect less, while making me more likely to get killed by angry mobs or the police, so I don't think she'd let me go if she knew what it's about. As a result, I'm planning on having one of my friends pretend to invite me without telling me what it is so I won't have to tell her what I'm seeing or how I found out about it. I hate sneaking around and lying, but I want to see that musical and I'd rather be safe than sorry.

I find it pretty ironic that she keeps talking about how important love and respect are considering how little of both she gives my dad. She said herself that she didn't marry him because of love. She married him because she thought he'd make a good husband and father, and probably because he's obviously in love with her, and then she proceeds to treat him like a servant whose only purpose is to please his master. She's not necessarily mean, but she takes him for granted, and while he buys her presents and bouquets of flowers, she doesn't even give him Christmas presents or celebrate his birthday. She never asks him what he wants before ordering him around. I think the saddest thing is when he tries to kiss her or hug her and she just laughs and turns away.

I wonder if he knows that she doesn't love him. He's the wisest person I know, but he's in love and love blinds people. Still, is love powerful enough to blind someone for over twenty years? I think he deserves better. I never thought I would say this, but I wish my parents would get divorced so my dad could find someone who loves him and appreciates him as much as he does her. I wish he'd just realize that she'll never reciprocate his feelings, and if he knows that already, I wish he'd either fall out of love enough to leave her or just decide that he's had enough.

A lot of the recent journal entries have been about love. To all those happy lovestruck people out there, never, ever stay in a relationship where only one party's in love. If you stay with someone you don't love, that's just cruel. And if you're the one with unrequited love, end it. It'll hurt, but some day you'll find someone who loves you back.

Our modem broke, so I'm currently accessing the internet via dial-up. It's only just barely tolerable. I'd forgotten how slow dial-up is.

Today I and a bunch of my friends went over to one of my friend's houses and watched Hot Fuzz and The Rocky Horror Picture Show. Well, we only sort of watched the second movie, since people kept complaining about how bad it is and we didn't have time to finish it. I was the one who wanted to watch it. At first it was out of curiosity, since I've heard about it a lot and wanted to see what all the fuss is about, but after my friends started complaining about how they won't be able to sleep for a month, I decided torturing them was an added bonus. As a result, I wouldn't let them switch movies, and they didn't try very hard anyway.

It was kind of weird, because my ex boyfriend was there. My friend T invited him about half an hour after everyone was supposed to have shown up, which didn't matter because about half the people were an hour and a half late. I'm still not sure how I should behave around him. I mean, we both agreed to be friends, but how do you make the transition from being a girlfriend to just a friend? It's also awkward because I still like him. I wish I could just make myself fall out of love, but my emotions don't like to listen to my rational, sensible self, which tells me that we're incompatible and I would have broken up with him if he hadn't done it first.

After spending several hours baking in front of my friend's TV, I went home and read random stuff for a while while my parents made dinner. When they were done we went into the backyard and ate outside in almost total silence. Ever since I came out to my mom and she freaked out, told me that she doesn't believe in political activism or questioning the status quo, I've been very reluctant to say anything relating to politics, activism, or my opinions, which covers most of what I used to talk about. This makes dinner boring, uncomfortable, and an exercise in eating quickly while avoiding eye contact with either of my parents.

Tomorrow my mom wants to go some sort of kite festival. I don't, since I'm not that enthusiastic about kites or driving around and wasting gas in order to spend a day with my parents, but she'll probably get her way. If we don't do that, she wants to go hiking. Once again, hiking with my parents isn't my idea of fun, but I'd prefer it to a kite festival. Neither thing is really bad, but there are things I'd rather do, such as stay at home and read.

I'm also taking a summer math class, so I could be doing homework. I have to cover a year of material in five weeks. I took the midterm three days early and actually enjoyed it, which was surprising. I guess math isn't that bad after all.

I first noticed that I'm attracted to girls around seventh grade. At the time I don't think I even knew what bisexual means, and since I'm definitely attracted to guys, I assumed I'm straight and was ashamed of the way I couldn't seem to keep my eyes off girls. Anyway, I had more important things on my mind, such as finally making a friend after a year spent buried books and longing for some kind of human companionship. In eighth grade I was too busy rejoicing in the fact that I had friends (more than one! it was amazing) to care much about whether I like girls, boys, or orangutans in flowered diapers and fluorescent pink sun dresses. I just pushed the matter to the edges of my mind, where it could fester without bothering me too much. The first time I seriously considered the possibility that I'm bi was in ninth grade, when one of my friends asked me whether I'm gay or straight. I said the first thing that came to my mind.

"Well, I'm definitely not lesbian."

"So are you bisexual? Being bisexual's cool."

I stared at him, mumbled something incoherent, and fled. I had meant to say I'm straight, but somehow my mouth disagreed with my brain. Not long after that, I told one of my other friends that I'm straight, but the words felt sticky, uncomfortable, and false. I started wondering and remembering.

When I was six I kissed a girl. I was standing in a crowded hallway filled with other first graders, and this girl somehow ended up right next to me. She was shy, cute, and looked so adorable at that moment that I just leaned over and kissed her on the cheek. My memory from there is kind of hazy, but I remember my classmates making it clear that that was not socially acceptable behavior. I was embarrassed and bewildered. That was the first and only time I've kissed a girl, and I don't know if it counts because she certainly didn't kiss me back.

In elementary school I used to draw a lot. Now I only doodle occasionally, since writing and playing my flute took priority, but when I was younger I used to love drawing. I'm still apt to cover the margins of my homework with random swirls, geometric shapes, and faces. I used to go to the YMCA after school program, and once I got in trouble for drawing women's breasts there. After that highly embarrassing incident, I never drew naked female torsos again. At least not where other people could see it.

After considering these and other things, I came to the conclusion that the reason saying I'm straight feels like a lie is because I'm not straight. After sitting on that knowledge for a few months, I finally decided to come out to my ex boyfriend in the last week of school. He was totally fine with it, but he broke up with me a couple of weeks after that for unrelated reasons.

After coming out to some of my friends and getting encouraging reactions which ranged from "You're not straight? That's awesome!" to "Oh. That's it? Well, I also think I'm bisexual," I decided to come out to my mom. It didn't go very well.

I'd talked to her about gay people before, and while she didn't seem to love the topic, she also didn't show any signs of homophobia. As far as I could tell, she was fine with same-sex couples, and even told me that she had friends or acquaintances in high school and college who are gay. She seemed slightly dismissive at times, and I was nervous about her reaction, but I didn't anticipate what did happen.

I was talking to her about what I'll study in college, which seems to be a favored topic of hers, and I mentioned that maybe I'll study queer people. I think she asked me why I'm so interested in that subject. Whatever she said, I remember saying "well, the reason I'm interested is because I'm one of them."

She looked at me. "You're queer?" she asked incredulously.

"Actually, I'm bisexual." I held my breath and waited for her reply. When it came, I was hurt and unpleasantly surprised.

She didn't believe me. She kept asking me if I was doing this to get attention, because according to all our neighbors, girls say they're bi to be cute. She told me that the reason I think I'm queer is because I've developed an unhealthy fascination with gay people, which has caused me to imagine things which aren't real. She said I'm far too young to know, and she'll only believe me if I'm still "interested in women" when I'm married to a nice man who loves me and I have a screaming two year old. She must have mentioned me getting married and having babies at least fifty times, and told me that after I have sex with a man, I'll forget all these fantasies. I'm apparently too feminine to be bi, because I used to be obsessed with Disney princesses and pink. Then she told me that she doesn't want me going to a queer youth support group because I'll be overexposed to "alternative lifestyles" which aren't as good as the mainstream because the majority is usually right, and anyway, I'm too young to think about sex.

She went on and on and on, and I just wanted to punch her and scream. I ended up yelling at her, the first time I remember doing so. For her to insist that the conclusion I reached after years of pain and confusion was a ploy to get attention or some sort of strange delusion made me angrier than I had ever been in my life. We argued for days, and for the whole time I trembled with barely contained pain and rage.

After two days I called my (queer) friend and begged him to let me go to his house before my head exploded. While I was over there, my mom called his mom, implied that he was corrupting me, demanded to know what I do at his house, and kept insisting that "my daughter's not bi, she's just a normal girl." Now my friend and his mom think my mom's psycho. I don't blame them.

After four days of hell we finally reached a sort of truce. As long as I pretend I'm straight, she won't go crazy. Maybe she'll get used to the idea, but knowing my mom, I doubt it. I'm joining my school's GSA when tenth grade starts whether my mom likes it or not. Not that it will matter, because I don't intend to tell her. My dad's fine with me being bi. He didn't say anything out right, but he told me that Eleanor Roosevelt was gay, which I take to mean that he doesn't have a problem with my orientation.

I've been out for less than a month, and haven't had a chance to tell all my friends. I intend to, and I don't anticipate any problems. We're a pretty liberal bunch. My mom tried to make me promise to pretend to be straight at school, which I answered by saying "I'll act the same as I always have." Since I've always been bi and very vocal about my opinions, it would be out of character for me to hide my identity and political views at school. It's not like there are video cameras all over the school monitoring my behavior so my parents can watch it. They probably won't even meet most of my teachers, so it's not like my mom's likely to find out what I do and don't say at school.

Right now, I'll concentrating on surviving the summer without strangling my mom.