ella's garage.

hello!


i don't believe it will come as a surprise when i say that music is a rather enormous component of my life, therefore i have an awesome taste in music (to me anyways). last night, as an attempt to meet new, hipster friends at a coffee shop, i threw out a couple of band names to see if anyone would turn around. they didn't. so i have taken another approach, why not post my favorite songs of the moment on my blog. 


i can't say that this song is my favorite, but i do know that it is about to have a major influence in my life. 
i'm a counselor for high school camp this summer, and i've been stressing about how i would teach a group of girls that they were pretty (i've seen their facebooks, they are beautiful) when i don't believe that about myself. 


and then this song was playing on the radio this morning when i woke up. 


"don't you know you're beautiful" by seabird. 

mr. blue,

don't hold your head so low that you can't see the sky. 


in the words of diddy, welcome to my homecoming. and by homecoming, i mean summer. 
 but before i show you my "summa time" to-do list, i want to post my "so long, savannah."


"leaving on a wednesday"

cash in change at walmart (i saved 16 dollars in coins this year!)


rollerderby (the savannah derby devils hosted a bootcamp, just call me sarah nailin')


spanish oral exam


work all day 


pack the car (a real life game of jenga)


clean the apartment 


give florence to megan (florence meaning the "florence and the machine" cd, megan being my bff)


and now, drum roll please, the greatest list i've ever seen since my schedule for finals, 

"summer skin"


add to my skirt collection


sit by the pool and do nothing


go to camp


become well versed in music and blogs


be the star of my own cooking show


run kid run


brush up on the world of literary


find a use for the soda bottles


learn how to apply lipstick


say hello to north carolina 


act (be mistaken as) like a french woman. 


and finally, 

"cinderella, don't go to sleep, 
it's such a bitter form of refuge.
don't you know, the kingdom is under siege,
and everybody needs you."


a line from "dustland fairytale" by the killers, which is most certainly a favorite song of the moment. 


(just so you know, there are three (3) music videos hidden in this post,)

how drew barrymore changed my life.

consider this post a part two of sorts from the last one. 

for i have finally written an author summary!

can you believe that? i have been terrorized by writing an author summary!

because i'm an author!

ah!

but anyways, as i chatted with the editors of the literary magazines, they mentioned the idea of me writing a series. 

i thought, no way jose. i can't write  fiction. forget that. 

but then they kind of laughed, and told me that i have already started a series of sorts. 

i seriously thought they were nuts, my essays are like my dishware, nothing matches. not even a little bit. 

but then they said, "ella, dude, you write about boys."

i almost fell back in my chair. that thought was preposterous to me. there is no way in this world that i, ella greer, had enough boy experience to have already written a series on them. 

but alas, it's true. and i'm pretty sure you're nodding at the screen right now, because you know it's true as well. 

so there we go, the new york times can hire me now, i already have a column ready for them. 

but in the mean time, here is my unofficial author summary: (p.s, i had to write it in third person)

Ella Greer is majoring in English and Communications. Her interests include frozen yogurt, roller-skating, lower case letters, and dinosaurs. Her English class essay assignments have shown her that being socially inept is actually something she’s really good at. Inspiration behind Ella’s writing stems mainly from class assignments, music videos, movies such as “Whip It” and “Napoleon Dynamite,” and her high school yearbook. When Ella is not writing, she is usually eating frozen yogurt or learning the dance to “Single Ladies” by Beyonce. 

because i really wish i could be as brave as this kid. 

it's saturday.

tonight, i don't have the usual format of a post, because 


(wait for it.)


some of my essays have been accepted to literary magazines! 


therefore, i spent every waking moment trying to write a summary about myself (which makes me feel weird.) you know, the summary at the end of essays that tell about the author. like they only live organic, wear rain boots without socks, have three chickens named after characters in russian literature, and get inspiration for their writing after staring into the sun for a full three minutes. yeah, that kind of summary. 


BUT. i do leave you with a list i have just recently created. it is the ultimate list. it is a list of all the things i would do if i were to find myself at home alone for the night. but in reality, i kind of do them all the time. but i am also spending the night alone. so bummer. 


things i'd like to do tonight:

drink empress of japan 
(because i'm fancy, uh)


sing. loudly. (in the shower.) 
preferably britney spears. 


paint my nails. 


write a novel about awkward one night stands, peyote, three piece suits, mangos, and a man known as pepe. 

learn how to dance like beyonce.


save the galaxy from impending doom. 


pen an indie song about sweaters, beer, and summer love (that always goes wrong). 


and then go to sleep. 
the end. 


this song is rather fitting. don'cha think?

there was a man on fire.

and brick killed a guy.


but seriously. 


at the moment, i am greatly anticipating the arrival of five (5) books. three (3) of which create the single greatest series of all time (Inkheart) one (1) is required for english to teach us the dangers of human trafficking (because we have no idea) and the final one (1) is "Girls Like Us" which is a bio of three (3) foxy mamas (Carole King, Joni Mitchell, and Carly Simon) who changed the world of music and really just the world, speaking in generalities. 


And on that note, I would like to post an  "oldie" because it is a review on yet another book that i love dearly. 

Notes from a liar and her dog.

Hello, my name is Ella Greer, and I have the mark of Pollyanna on my forehead. According to my swell Literature teacher, this does not include the connotation that I wear my hair in pigtail braids or sport dowdy, ankle-length dresses. But I choose to believe that she picked this nickname for just that, because I choose to believe the good and I tend to forget that the world could be evil as well. This theory has been proven many-a-time, from my refusal to believe the true meaning behind May Day, to my horrific finding of the real character of Benjamin Franklin. But this article has nothing to do with celebrating fertility or one of our founding fathers walking around Pennsylvania in the nude (or, in the words of Mrs. Sellers, nak’d), but it does have everything to do with James Frey, the author of the oh-so-scandalous A Million Little Pieces, and how he betrayed me.

                It appears to me that not only is James Frey synonymous with fraud, but he is also linked with Oprah Winfrey’s scathing reviews. Let it be known, I despise Oprah Winfrey. No, really. I detest the woman. She is the one human that does not fall under the Pollyanna Effect, no matter how many cars she gives away. This being said, when the tumultuous situation of James Frey lying to the world and ripping away the hope for drug addicts was swirling about, I immediately jumped onto Frey’s side of the fence. Why did I do this?

                Dwight K. Schrute once said, “An enemy of my enemy is my friend.” So to put it bluntly, Oprah is my enemy, James Frey is her enemy, and therefore James Frey is my friend. Even though I did not even know who this James Frey guy was. Welcome to America.

                 A few Oprah episodes later, Winfrey found other people to humiliate and kids in high school focused on being indie snobs with skinnies and scarves; leaving Frey and his fifteen minutes of Warhol-deserved fame long forgotten.

                It was not until over the summer when I received my drivers license and headed off to the library (yes…I know, that is why I am Ella Greer and you are not) that James Frey, my friend, found his way back onto my “must read” list.

                The turquoise cover caught my eye. My heart dropped, I gave a cursory glance around the library (True Life: I am a ninja), hoping that no one else saw it. A Million Little Pieces stood there on the For Sale cart, and I dropped Brisingr to run off to my car to retrieve the fifty cents (due to stealing being frowned upon in our society).

                Armed with my new Manchester Orchestra c.d found in a sketchy used bookstore, I began to read the harrowing novel that had eluded me for so long.  I almost understood what Lost junkies feel like, for the next three days were a blur, and all I could think about was James, Lilly, Leonard, and all of the other you-almost-forget-they’re-addicts characters at a rehabilitation center in Minnesota. I grimaced when Frey underwent root canals and cavity fillings without anesthesia, I shared the joy when the guys were able to watch the UFC fight and eat hot wings, my heart broke when I read the last page, and I felt like I too, fell off a fishing boat.  His grammar (or lack thereof) and not-so-random random capitalization alone was enough, for it seemed as if he mapped out a Punnett Square crossing E.E Cummings and James Dean. His disregard towards indentions and quotation marks made the story that much more riveting, and was proof yet again that not all writing must be in MLA format, nor does a writer need to prove himself or herself as a writer before being allowed to throw those rather obnoxious grammar rules where they belong (in all senses of the phrase). He wrote his experience as he saw it.

Noticing my internal struggle with the ball of clay in front of me, my art teacher attempted to soothe the battle with these words, “It was once said that the great sculptors took a block of clay and simply carved out everything that was not a man.” They did not help, for I am Ella Greer and I am a wannabe artist. But, I like to think that those very words helped James Frey, for he took thousands upon thousands of words and characters (the grammar type) and simply deleted everything that was not A Million Little Pieces.  The writing style struck a chord within me, that for the entire month of August, everything I wrote for English was composed as such.

 Having already discussed the story with my Literature teacher, we established that there were nuggets of truth within the walls of Hazelden, and I desperately wished, in my Pollyanna way, that everything was true, yet just a touch exaggerated. I wished for it to be true, that is, until the last page, when I found myself thanking Frey that he lied his bum off.

For the first time ever, I almost found myself relating to the robot known as Oprah Winfrey. Here I was, knowing full well that the novel was a work of fiction, yet longing for it to be otherwise. It could be compared to the movie 500 Days of Summer. The narrator clearly states that it was not a love story, but did the viewers listen? No, and by the end of the movie, most sat in shock, staring at the blank movie screen, wanting with all of their little hearts that it was a joke, and the real ending would begin shortly. Like those who are infatuated with Romeo and Juliet, they wish that Romeo and Juliet stand up, shake the dust of the tomb off, and laugh as they shouted “April Fools!” But wake up those two star crossed lovers did not.

All in all, I believe James Frey and I can still be friends. A Million Little Pieces was still fantastic, regardless of the controversy that surrounded it. A person worthy of reading it, however, must have an open mind, and must not be a literature snob. 

listen to this because it is awesome. and it's wednesday. 

the panera chronicles.

in my english class, the study of confessional poets is full steam ahead. 
and my new assignment was yet another poem, so setting up camp at panera and writing with my regular french vanilla coffee and blueberry bagel made perfect sense. 

My skin is paper mache

Layers of newspaper 

are more malleable than clay:

even after the glue hardens. 

When we hold hands we combine

the articles of a 

preacher and a gay man.

Like us they stand side by side. 

I am Queen of the World,

I'm a whore on the street. 

With all these words glued onto

my bones, sleep is exhausting. 

There are times I feel you don't say all you mean

but I've never read you for a liar. 

The truth is written, right there, on your knee. 

I said, "I love you." You replied, "Two dead in fire."

listen to this song because it's great. the end. 

accidental activist.

today, in english class, i became a poet. 


bam. 


In the dog days of summer behind his parent's house
we lifted our faces to the sun and spoke of Aldous Huxley. 
I mistook the beer for wisdom and looked on in wonder
as he chain smoked and quoted Jack Kerouac. 
"I think Bob Dylan and David Bowie had a thing."


The water ran cold, and as we sat in silence in the bath-
a deranged novelty of sepia rust stains and a tired faucet-
I peeled off what was left of my summer skin. 


He snored behind me as I watched the street lamps flicker down below. 
I prepared for what was to be a cold December. 
Sometimes we're not as beautiful as we think. 

"feeling good was good enough for me."