Oh, by the way, It's december now.

Hey people, remember me?
A myriad of exciting things have all happened within about a month and the subsequent chaos has been unmeasurable. It's been fun, but I'm glad that everything is cooling down. What has been going on you ask? Well...

• I moved: The new house is wonderful. Very old and quiet feeling. I kind of feel like Darcy or Rochester is going show up at any moment. And the yard is so lovely. There is a little creek out back and all these trees and an orchard and blackberries surrounding the whole place. Oh, and we live next to the cemetary.

• I turned fifteen: You would not believe how affected I am by this. Usually I don't notice the change in how I feel when I am officially a year older. But at fifteen I definately recognize it. When I was 6 and 7, fifteen was the year. That was grown-up/teenager/young adult business. All the books I read at that time involved characters at fifteen. I was excited for fifteen. It's weird to arrived at that age, after waiting for it.

• Christmas was celebrated: We didn't have much time to shop because we were still moving in, but buying Christmas gifts this year was really fun none-the-less. The snow made it all seems so-forgive the cliche- magical. Christmas itself was amazing. I got a lot of books that I had been waiting for and some I didn't even know I wanted. And I got my new coat. I love that thing. So much.

• Had a chamber concert: Not much to say about that except much practicing was done and that I have not been much more stressed out than that. Still, that doesn't mean I'm not dreaming of going back to symphony. I mean that literally. I had a dream involving the symphony two nights in a row.

And that's about it. Goodness. Looks like a lot less on paper.

Moving

Every time, we drove up the hill, Mum made a point of driving past this one house. It looked like something out of pride and prejudice, with a gliding yard that curled into a orchard at the edge of a cemetery. It is quiet there. The house up the hill is one of the only houses we would ever consider as an alternative to the house we live in now. Which is why it is really weird that it went up for sale, last month. Even more strange, was my parent's reaction to this oddly palpable possibility. They both knew, what with the approaching holiday season and our seemingly endless obligations, that this was going to be a busy few months. And yet, despite the logic of staying in our already comfortable home, they started making preparations, meeting with real estate agents. My siblings and I would have two acres to run and laugh and pretend on. There was a barn in the back. And trees. A whole forest of trees. And maybe the house would smell of the smoke the previous owners left behind, and maybe there would be more painting to be done. Maybe there is anger in that house, and carpet again. But you don't dream about something for nothing, do you?
After all of my parents hard work, I'm happy to announce that we will be moving into our new home on December 8th 2008.
I'm so excited.

The girl who listens

The room is green. And she has headphones on. When she listens, she thinks to herself, someday, I'm going to write a song like this. And it will be beautiful and I won't have to carry around the meaning of it anymore. She listens.

"Be my friend. Hold me."

She knows she is tired. That it's probably the lack of sleep that is making her sad. But this acknowledgement of reality, however acurate, doesn't do much to remedy the situation. The song comes to an end and she puts it on repeat. She feels her eyes filling up, again. She sucks in breath and says to herself, No, you are not going to cry. You are going to get up and go be happy. You are not going to think about a boy walking down the street in the rain. You are not going to think about the things that you would say, the words that line up in your head, impatient. You are not going to think about what you are missing. About what you failed to do.

"I have done it again. I have been here many times before."

Even though she is only thinking to herself, she still feels embarrassed for being so dramatic. But then again, she reasons, love is supposed to be embarassing. Especially when it sneaks up on you and you remember again. Because now, she remembers what it is like to love his hands and to laugh without obligation. I sound silly, she thinks. But that's alright.

"Lost myself again. And I feel unsafe"

She goes back to listening. She sees that face in her head, the one she thought she couldn't remember and this time she lets herself cry.

Someday she will write a song about it, and everything will be okay.

September? Where did you go?

Okay. So I haven't posted for a month. But I have a wonderful excuse.

I got into the fall play this year. It was so exciting. And the rest of the cast and crew were so lovely and supportive. It's really desolate that it's over now. I'll miss the adrenaline of being able to become my character, figure 15, whom I love. I'll miss the excitement of trying something new with a certain scene. I'll miss getting notes from our great director and assistant directors so that I can improve my acting. I'll miss going to practice after school. I'll miss anticipating performances. I'll miss being with Emma and Demi and Tyler, my closest friends, because during the school day I don't get to see them much. I'll miss the comrarderie. But at least my eyes have been opened to how wonderful being in a play is. It was sure beautiful while it lasted. Maybe I'll get to experience it again some time.

WiPod

I do believe my Sansa is toying with me.
I love my mp3 player. It was my biggest birthday present last year and it was my father who doctored it up and added a plethora of songs that he knew (Or thought he knew) I loved. He added clips of my favorite movies and a picture each of my Mother, Basil, my Brother and my Sister. Mum beamed when I opened the present.
When I am upset, I curl up in a fetal position in my bed and I listen to Breathe Me by Sia. When I am energized, I spin around the house listening to Frou Frou or (recently) Madonna. When I am sick I listen to anything and I begin to feel better. When I am thinking about the boy that I am still holding onto I listen to Rootless Tree by Damien Rice.
I do not own a fancy-pants iPod. And though I guiltily covet them, I could never quite replace the little sansa that has been with me through every hill and every valley of these days.
And now, strangely enough, my mp3 player is turning against me.
The headphone jack is acting up. I can only hear in both ears if I hold the cord of my headphones in a very exact position.
Also, more vexingly, the little meter that shows me how much battery I have left is completely wonky. Sometimes after twenty-four hours of anticipating and agonizing charging, it will inform me that it is still a little tired and that it would like to be charged again thankyouverymuch. Sometimes, the meter will flicker between charged and ready to die. It seems that every time I glance down at the screen of my sansa, it has changed from green to red. I break out in a sweat, until the little red bar sneakily fills up to green again. I breathe easy for awhile until I happen to look down, and see that once again, the battery is red.
It is a tension-filled existence.
I keep expecting to completely lose it and start screaming manically at it, and it's fickle little meter.
Really.


This is Rootless Tree by Damien Rice. It's the perfect combination of exasperation, love and desperation.
I think, anyway.

Two weeks in.

School has started. As you guys know, I was reluctant to go back. This upcoming school year, perhaps more than any other, did not have a very appealing future. But I have been pleasantly surprised. It has been easier than I ever would have imagined to get back into the routine. And being at the top of the school certainly does have it's own subtle perks.
He is not around, yes, but life goes on. Chances aren't taken. Feelings go unnoticed. We keep moving.
My classes are mostly enjoyable. My social studies class is a extraordinary improvement on last year, obviously, and orchestra is, as usual, my most comfortable class. The english curriculum this year seems to have been thought up with exactly me in mind. It's as though all the english teachers in the district got together and asked themselves what exactly Miss Pip would like to write about this year. It is early days yet, but so far I am pleased.
This year in the youth symphony I am in the third group. I am also second chair cello, which was a complete surprise. My audition, apparently, went better than I thought. We are playing some very emotional pieces, which, I think, will turn out nicely
I went to the fair with my friends on Wednesday. We went on a lot of rides and did a lot of random and impulsive things. I got to spend some quality time with my best friends. People in my life that I love and trust. It was a good day.
Homework is not excessive, though, of course, it is still too early in the year to tell. I have to lug my geometry book back and forth which is really annoying. I enjoy doing the english homework.
All in all, the first two weeks of the school year , excepting a few events and conversations, have been the same as past years. Simply put: normal.
But, then again, not. Not normal at all.
With him gone, it feels as though I have lost my center. Like a clean cut has sliced something out of my being. I am not lost, per say. In fact, I am more sure of myself now, than I have been in months. No, it is more a sense that there is less to aspire to. Nothing to grasp. And yet, ironically, I'm still holding on. Stupid me. Stubborn me.

Destined to fail, I relish my tiny, inconsistent triumphs.

End

I should just start out all my posts with an apology. I am far too lenient with the regularity of my posts. So, Sorry.

Also, for those friends of mine who are wondering when reclusive became my middle name, I direct you to a pain-in-the-arse teacher who, during the school year, never allowed me a moment to do art or read. Thus, summer leaves me with a lot of creative ideas and plans and probably annoyed friends.

The last few weeks have been rather eventful. Music Camp was a lot of work but worth it. I totally improved and met new interesting people. My audition was last Monday. I freaked out, but was okay, once I started playing.

My siblings and I went to our friends farm to Par-tay, with our friends and we had a really lovely time. We all ate fudge and swam and tried to write music and it was a lot of fun.

My sims had twins. Which leaves me with a dilemma. I've also started playing Dracula: Origins. (It's a good game, if you like adventure, puzzles, romance, vague instructions, and vampires)

So.

The fall is coming. I got my big white envelope in the mail, announcing that prep day was coming up. I really wish I didn't have to go. Can't we all just show up on the first day of school and sort things out then? Or better yet, don't show up at all? I kind of understand the neccesity for seventh graders but, by the time your in ninth grade (Like me) you know the drill. Get to class on time, never wear hats (By the way, what's up with that? We are in the 21st century. I love hats, and unless one is wearing flamingo on the crown of their head I honestly don't see the "Distraction", but whatever), and make sure you turn in your homework. On. Time. I don't want to go back yet. It makes me really sad.

I went and saw the Dark Knight. The Joker, was obviously amazing and kind of reminded me of V, which is a very good thing in my books. I thought it was fast-paced and interesting and powerful. All the makings of a very good movie. It did seem to have a bit of the middle movie/video game effect (Two towers, Prince of Persia:Warrior Within) but all in all, a pretty good movie.

Part of the reason I haven't written in so long was because of the following story. I've wanted to post it forever and haven't really gotten down to editing it (I still really haven't). But, now. Finally here it is. Be wary. See you guys.

Miss Pip



The Adventures of Sleek Hansen





“My name is Sleek Hansen, and I am.. Violent.”
The men and women around me looked confused. One person murmured “Okaaay.” Several others looked strangely sympathetic. The leader of the circle looked at me intently as he had with everyone. I could almost see weariness there. He spoke calmly and efficiently.
“Violent in what way, Miss Hansen? Physically or in a looser sense?” A woman to his right nodded emphatically, inviting me to go on, wiping her already flowing mascara with her hand and sniffing in a dramatic sigh. Ready to pounce on my story, to involve herself in it. She had been crying off and on throughout the hour now. She had volunteered her story first, basked in the glory of it, and then spent the rest of the time interrupting the other speakers with cries of
“Oh I know exactly how you feel” or “My husband would have beat me for a trick like that” or “You are so lucky to have a supportive family!” Her story was the most tragic of all. But, of course, that was all it was. A story.
“Physically.” I said, very nearly wincing at the way the words sounded. Admittance is the first step towards recovery.
“So you hurt people physically. What people, Miss Hansen?”
“Just-Anyone. Male, female. Younger, Older. Strangers mostly, but there has been no real pattern.”
“I see” I heard the evident doubt in his voice. He was humoring me. I am skinny thing, tall, but seemingly weak. Not someone who could kill full grown men. Someone who could abuse children, perhaps. From the beginning he did not believe me. Silly man.
“How many times have these incidents happened, Miss Hansen?”
I hadn’t really counted. But I knew the “incidents” were many. I shaved down the number.
“Only a few times. Three or four.”
“Do these people ever provoke you, Miss Hansen?”
“No. It is a random impulse.” I said and he sighed. He had heard this before, maybe. It was a rare occurrence in a woman, but I was merely a curiosity to him. To him there was nothing truly unique about my story.
“Such things sometimes happen when one is under the influence, Miss Hansen. Alcohol, when taken in large doses, clouds one’s judgment, as I’m sure you know. But in this program, we take precautions so that you no longer have to reach such levels of intoxication.” He sounded dismissive.
I frowned. This is where it got things got tricky, awkward.
“Well, actually, I don’t hurt people when I’m under the influence.”
“Oh.” He hesitates for a moment “Well, then is it before or after you drink, that you become violent, Miss Hansen?”
“I actually- I actually don’t drink..” I admitted. There was another pause from the man, then:
“You don’t need to be afraid of telling us about your addiction, Miss Hansen. You are safe here. No one is going to get you in trouble.”
“Addiction isn’t my trouble..I’m just violent. And I know that’s not what you really treat here, but I’m kind of at the end of my rope and you guys were open and close by. Surely you know someone who could help me?”
“When you say addiction is not your trouble, does that mean that you think you can control your drinking problem?”
“I said, I don’t drink. But I hurt people. Please. You’ve got to know someone who can help me.”
“You don’t drink at all, or you don’t have a drinking problem?” He was still hung up on his job. His little mind was trying to find if I was lying, and he was confused. He watched me, infuriating. I could see his mind working: This is not what she is supposed to be saying.. He made me suddenly angry. He wasn’t going to help me. He was caught up in himself, and his precious protocol.
“Please. I need help. You must know someone”
“We have many people who are willing to help you shake your addiction, Miss Hansen. The first step is admittance.”
I felt fury prickle underneath my skin, covering me in gooseflesh.
I stood, envisioning crossing the room to his chair, launching my fist into his throat and feeling the warm blood spurting into my face. I could almost feel my fingers finding his severed windpipe and crawling up, up, splitting the fragile tubing of his trachea as I went. My fingers, tunneling through the gore and coming out though his mouth. The stunned face of the weeping lady and her companions. I was comforted by the thought. But standing there, again in reality, I resisted.
“I don’t think this is a good fit for me.” I picked up my coat from behind me and walked to the door, apprehensive as I passed the leader. It would be so easy. He stirred, wanting to stop me.
“If you ever want any help, Miss Hansen-“
The door closed before he finished his sentence.

I was walking home, hands deep in my pockets, my mouth spinning off curses, when I heard it. I will never forget that scream for the rest of my life. It was a little girl scream. But I could tell it was a man. Admittedly, a very desperate man, but a man none-the-less. I was in the bad part of town. There were few people about, and those who were out were either too scared to intervene or found the screaming commonplace and not worth their time. I turned at the end of the seven eleven and bent forward, looking for the struggle of the screamer. There were some dumpsters, some overflowing and others ominously empty. The commotion was coming from behind the farthest one from me. Something was being banged repeatedly into the dumpster’s side and I ran to it, feeling ridiculously like a vigilante. The attacker was not particularly big. But he was fit.
I could not say the same for his victim.
He was a sorry little thing. Black hair. Maybe brown, but it looked black from all the dirt and grease. His skinny little frame was masked with layers of sweat pants and smelly sweaters. Neither seemed to notice me. Then the larger man hefted the obvious hobo onto his shoulders and dropped him onto the ground. The slight man’s back fell onto the concrete and his head banged against the pavement.
And then Felix Loper’s eyes opened, and my already screwed up life broke a little more.
I looked up from the injured man and my eyes met his attackers. There was no fear there. Of course not. Best fix that.
In a few quick steps my hands were around his waist. I was aware of his muscle. His fragile bones. I squeezed and heard agony echo from his lips. I twisted and felt his spine break. His thick, strong arms flailed crazily. He was screaming and his arms were confusing me. So I ripped them off. He was dead a few moments later, but I held onto his still, even as he slumped onto my shoulders. I was scared by the homeless man’s eyes, and the feeling they sent shivering through my being. I didn’t want to see those eyes again. But then again, I did.
With every molecule of my body, I did. I was confused, battling with myself. Wondering if I should kill the whelp, this man who was making me wonder. Making me doubt. The seconds ticked by. I let the corpse fall to the ground. And then I turned around to see what the man with the eyes made of me, and I of him.
But Felix Loper, to my acute distress, was gone.

Before I go to Music Camp

I wanted to share this very special video with you.







http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7XKwX194gYI



Observe the comments. I am not actually sure what is more pathetic, the video or those who comment on the video, berating it's "Fak", the average Internet muskrat's word for "Fake", nature.

And, please feel free to enlighten me of your feelings on this controversial matter. Is it bad that Ginny looks about 5 years younger than Harry? Do you think Ron was hurt by the cat Hermione was holding?

Now that I think about it, I'm kind of the pathetic one. I just wrote an entire fucking post about the thing.

Summer

OK. I'd like to sum up the school year, a bit. Because I haven't really done so myself and I like to share such expieriences with you.
See how generous I am?

This year in school I:

• Had some really amazing teachers. My math teacher was infinitely gentle and had a wonderful sense of humor. My orchestra teacher put up with me, considering the nervous basketcase I become in her class. (Thank you) And my science teacher was pretty awesome. My english teacher had nice taste in music, and a strangely fitting attitude. My gym teacher somehow managed to remain in my good books despite the class she taught. And that is hard.


• Had some other teachers, who shall remain nameless, but who tend to teach about government and history, who are ignorant turds.


• Learned that one A squared plus B squared equals C squared stuff, and was finally able to understand what Dad was talking about in math.


• Participated in that musical I talked about. And didn't end up vomiting in the middle of the performance. (Bonus!)


• Got straight A's ( I know. I think some of the teachers had a bit too much drinkee-drink too.)


• Fell in love with a boy, who, unknowingly, broke my heart, sometimes on a daily basis. I forgive him though, because he is so damn wonderful.


• Performed many spleen operations on my ever eager and willing patient, Logan, with my assisting doctor, Demi.


• Was reunited with said perpetual friend Demi, who never failed to make me laugh, even on the verge of tears. I do not know what I have done without her.


• Managed, though shakily, to maintain my friendship with my dear Emma, despite our separation throughout the entire year. She is so creative and wonderful and I am so glad this year worked out, despite the less gossamer beginnings.


• Tried to subtly change the school gym uniform several times. Only one of them worked.

Yep. Pretty good year.

Looking backward

I'm a bit of a journal/diary/lifestory fiend.

I've aways kept journals. Locked journals, opened journals. Handmade Journals, storebought journals. Writing Journals, Personal Journals. Journals in English, Journals in languages that I barely understand, even though I made them up. I've had a lot of journals.

Unfortunately, none of them have been very long lasting. At the beginning of the year, I brought a journal to school with me. Everything that happened to me was written. If you wanted to blackmail me, that's probably the journal you would want to get a hold of. Everything written there was written quite rashly. Nothing was very well thought out. It stopped being written in at about January. By that time, I didn't need it so much anymore. And that's the way it usually goes with my journals.

I have kept one journal longer than any other (Except for this this blog) . It's by far my most personal journal. I'm always a little melodramatic when I write in it. Mostly because I'm usually compelled to write in it because I'm upset. The thing about this journal is that it makes me sad. I sound so childish when I write in it. I'm a little too raw. And the problems that I read that occured months ago don't feel nearly so painful. Truthfully, I'm rather amused that I was in such upheaval about them. Which makes me sad. I look back to seventh grade, and I read about that boy who I liked for 5 months. I can remember why I liked him so much. And why his abundant girlfriends and his sometimes ridiculous attire annoyed me. Even now, when I pass him in the halls I think, as everyone around him erupts into laughter, "See, he was a good boy to choose. He wasn't that bad. He didn't mean to hurt you. Of course not."

But this is the biggest problem of all.

I worry that when I sit in bed, with puffy, red eyes and true pain heavy in my mind, and write in my journal about you, and how mean you can be sometimes, and how amazing and wonderful you are, that someday, maybe soon or later, I will be amused.

Surely you are not a blip on the screen. Surely.

The Bass Line in this song is awesome.

Do you have have those days, when you feel that anything and everything in the world is going to make you cry. Not because you're particularly sad or anything, more because your eyes haven't filled with moisture for awhile, and you throat hasn't felt as though filled with cotton. It's more physical than emotional.
I have had three days of that, for some weird reason. It makes me feel sleepy too.
I blabbered on to Demi just now. My poor girl. Sorry. It's the bizzarro lack of weepage.

Y'know one of the things I worry about the most, is that my children will look pictures of me from Jr. High and will go red with shame at the outdatedness of me. That's partly why I try to avoid trends. I am so grateful that I can look at pictures of my parents and say "Yep, those are my parents. How hip are they?" because they were so them.

I haven't read a book in ages. I realized that yesterday. I know exactly what I'm going to start reading when I stop getting given these dumbasamuskrat projects from school. And when the musical is over. Oh, did I mention I got into the school musical? Yeah. Yay me! It's actually a collection of a lot of songs from a lot of musicals. It's pretty fun, and my thespians (That has nothing to do with homosexuals) are very awesome. The proceeds are all going to a fund to help a kid who my school has adopted, because he has a terrible disease that needs fighting. So we're raising money for a good cause too. I feel very much apart of something. It's almost fellowship-of-the-ringy-like. But the difficult, and enjoyable practice comes at a price. My feet are so blistered and sore at the end of the day. I mean they are painful; Purple-heart-deserving painful.
Anyway, I will go sleep now. Sleep is good.

I have to say some stuff... A lot of it won't make sense.

1. Monday was an incredibly great day. I still haven't burned it though. I hope you won't forget. I act like I have, like it isn't a big deal for me. But it is. I could hardly sleep on Monday night.

2. I did what was right. It was a weird kind of right. The kinda of right that is like killing a dying animal. I never would have gone out with him. And the idea that he could get me to change my mind and make me cast away a year's worth of affection for someone else, in 25 days, is insulting. It was better for me to talk to him, before he talked to me. Putting yourself out there is hard, and being rejected is very painful; I wasn't going to impose that feeling on someone, just because I was too lazy or embarrassed to do something about the whole thing.

3. I was scared at first, and I still am in some ways, but not nearly as scared. Camaraderie is powerful.

4. I will never ever promise to write a post again. I will promise to write half-posts. I'm sorry guys. My memories of Easter are not as sharp anymore, and I would not do it justice. Keep wondering.

5. I like the smell of summer. But I prefer the cold.

6.Why does anime have to be so fun to draw? I'm rubbish at it and I hate the faces, but it is so easy-peasy-lemon-pie!

7. I am scared about my cello recital. Wish me luck. I'm playing a Sonata by Franck. Very pretty. Very emotional. I wish you could hear it. My fingers hurt.

8. Fable 2 is coming out. Look it up. I mean it. Now. It's going to be the best video game ever. Seriously. And Twilight! It's coming out! on December 12th! Oh. My. Goodness.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xBvOhfL4mYw

9. You have the most beautiful hands. I love them.

city escape

Sorry that my promised Easter Post hasn't come yet. I haven't forgotten, I'm just having some problems getting a hold of the pictures that I want to include.

If you play a video game, you should play Myst. It is so fulfilling and beautiful. I'm playing Revelations (The fourth) right now and I'm delirious, it's so pretty and mind boggling. And gamespot rated it 8.5 so.. Ha.

Today I went into the City. It was cold, but the sun made everything fresh. I watched pigeons waddle daringly close to humans, only to claw into the air as chubby hands reached too close. I discussed suicide, on the side of a bridge with my brother. We both agreed that if we ever became sad enough to even contemplate suicide, we would definitely not jump off a bridge which gave way to a highway. I ate mango licorice, and dried fruit rolled in coconut. I went shopping in a funky thrift store and beheld just about the most beautiful dress I have ever seen. I left it behind. Where would I wear it ever? I watched a young father push his twin infant children on swings. I read some of The Pilot's Wife by Anita Shreve. I rummaged in my mother's bag for her sunglasses so she could see in the Bug. I walked through the market and watched the performers, wondering if maybe my brother and I would be in their place this summer.

It was a wonderful, amazing day.

But throughout the fantasy that was today, I could not help but be interupted by that strange little longing for you to show up, for some reason, in the same city.

The post would be on the bottom row of class pictures. This title, not so much.

"Will you still call for me,
When she falls asleep?
Or do we soon forget,
The things we cannot see?" Tori Amos, Happy Phantom

Easter is coming. And I am enormously excited. I love Easter. But in a way, I am also terrified of it.. (That's all I'm going to explain at the moment. See Post-Easter Post-age)

I have kind of run out of books. All the series I have been anticipating *Cough*Twilight*Cough* are finished and reread. And then there's the other series' where the plot is fine until the eighty-billionth book is published and the plot has been sucked dry of any interest anymore. There is no conflict or sorrow anymore. Don't get me wrong. I love happy endings. I almost require them. But I love happy endings not happy beginningsmiddlesandends. Y'know what I mean? Does anyone know any good books?

Happy St. Patricks Day

Is it really that day already? This year is going by too fast. I caught myself equating the phrase "A few months ago" with the beginning of the school year. I want the year to stay for all the wrong reasons. Reasons that don't have anything to do with schoolwork or extracurricular activities.
Isn't it weird how we equate certain gestures, such as steepling one's fingers, as contemptious or superior, but we equate other gestures, which essentially mean the same thing, such as lacing one's fingers, as meek and polite? Is it because we subconciously choose to do one or the other, because we are feeling that way? It's interesting to think about. It makes you suddenly monitor your gestures more closely. To make sure that your not coming off as a arrogant jerk.
Everything in the garden (Which resemble a giant mudball at the moment, due to the trenches being dug right now.) is getting ready to burst into bloom. I can't wait. I want the little bluebells to spring up everywhere and the cherry tree to bring in a storm of fingernail pink petals. I want perpetual springtime and falltime weather!

God.. Where is she?

Where am I? I am under a towel, burning my eyes out by trying to crack through my clogged sinus'. I am trying to keep warm in my freezing bed (Freezing to me. Probably would be fine for normal human beings. The flu will do that to you.) I am stumbling around, getting seriously dizzy whenever I stand up. I am watching many, many episodes of Project Runway (I love that damn show. And it's very ironic, seeing it's about, well, fashion. Jillian is my favorite, just so you know.)

So that's where I am. Or was. When I was being all sickly and pasty-like. And now.. I'm trying to catch up on my school work. Which is really hard because I was sick for the standardized testing days, so I have to make it up-whenever I have a free moment.

Does anyone else just vomit when those eHarmony commercials of the happy couples dancing to that that Everlasting Love song with these ridiculously plastic grins on their movie star faces. They assure us that they are 100% Real and I laugh at them. Not that I have a vendetta against happy, romantic people. No, no. But I've seen the ads for online dating sites. It's basically variations of the same voluptuous woman in black lingerie. Suddenly, everyone is dating and chatting and getting married. Without actually, well, knowing each other. But they can never say that on air!
"I saw her on my sidebar, and the magic of love just enthralled me!"
"Marie and Jessica caught my eye immediately. I broke both their hearts and turned them against each other! They don't even see each other at Thanksgiving!"
"Desirey said that her avatar was an anime drawing of herself. It turned out that it was a still from a Sailor Moon episode.. We're-Eh.. Not together anymore."

It also kinda makes me sad in a way. Especially now that I've just made fun of those head-over-heels lovebirds.

I'm not very nice today.

Lapse

I'm sorry for the long stretches between posts lately. And the large spaces in between paragraphs. I don't know what's going on with the computer, but it makes me look like I've written a novel instead of a post and I'm most apologetic.
I'm writing a speech for my english class at present. And I'm watching Pride and Prejudice on and off throughout the day (They condensed 6 hours of one of the most amazing romances into two and still managed to get Darcy right, even though he's not Colin Firth and Lizzie is -Eww- Keira Knightly. I would tip my hat off to the director if I had one on.) Seeing as my speech is on Euthanasia, it's rather depressing stuff. I'm talking about dying people a lot, and then looking up dying people, and seeing what hell their life is, and then writing about dying people. And I'm watching that rain scene over and over again and wishing that for one moment, I had some of the romantic felicity too. Just on a small scale.
And I'm watching you letting her turn you into.. Something. And I'm hoping that you won't disappear like others I've watched, just so that you can become something that everyone else will approve of. And I'm loving the fact that we can be friends and that, I think, you trust me, and that I can trust you, and that you are kind. But I'm hating the fact that I may just be the "friend" forever, and that all the effort and struggle and time I've put into this relationship is just going to leave me feeling used. I love being your friend. It's one of things I am most proud of. And one of the things that brings me the most happiness. But I can't help being dissatisfied by the whole thing, and being angry and jealous and thinking that everything is unfair. I don't want to come home and be sad for the rest of the week anymore, just because of some small conversation which probably meant nothing to you. And in your defense, I've been too aloof for your transitional teenage-boy mind to wrap around it all. That it hurt to give you dating advice and for you to make fun of me for not having any boyfriends. That it hurt when you fell for my friend, who didn't care. That I was trying to tell you something the whole time. And I'm just tired of it all. Just tired. But I don't want to let go yet, because I don't know what I'll do when I finally get to it.
And you tell me that you think I'm sad.

Me and My Cello

"Who would be interested in the cello?" The teacher, with her great spiky grey hair, looked around at us.

So many of us were crowded into that room. I was wearing a yellow dress, with flowers near the hem. My sister wears it now, in the summer.

Four of us raised our hands . I was the only girl. All my friends had chosen the smaller instruments. Violin and Viola. But I knew I wanted the cello. The teacher played the cello, and it was elegant. Beautiful. True.

The teacher measured the other potential cellist's hands. When she came to mine she remarked that I was going to need a very small cello. My fourth grader hands, next to her wonderfully spindly and knowledgeable hands made me feel insignificant. Those were musician hands. Those hands were magic...

"Hey girli." She snapped her gum and smiled. I closed the door behind her. She took off her shoes and I marveled how any one's toes could fit into those pointy things. My teacher sat down in the green chair in our living room. I sat down next to her and put Suzuki book two on the wire stand. She tucked a strand of her long blond behind her ear and wrote the date down in my notebook.
"OK. Play me allegretto."
I loved Allegretto. This song was my song. My cello, whom I'd named Peasblossom, was an old beater cello from the school district. I loved that cello. The song sounded good. My teacher put a star next to it...


I held my cello next to me and glanced at Mum. She smiled and my new private teacher's previous student walked out of the music room and untightened her bow. My new teacher followed. We were are introduced. My mum thanked her and I followed my teacher into the music room. I set up and she asked me about myself and then explained the curriculum. I played with nervous fingers, not wanting to disappoint her or myself. We tried out new music and she found a book at my level. As I played I decided I liked it there. It was organized and calm. And she wore slippers. I loved her slippers. And the fact that she wore them.
The songs were friendly and the cover of the book was that wonderful combination of blue and brown. Its weird how things like that stick in your mind. She played perfectly, without making me feel horrible about myself.
She's my hero.



I glanced back at DemiDawn (http://www.minavstand.blogspot.com/) and she smiled and gave me a thumbs up. I looked at my brother, who was, quite literally turning blue from holding back laughter because Dad was doing something funny with his hands and he couldn't make a sound, due the cellist performing in front of us. My hands were shaking, and I'm not even near the stage yet. My Mum took one of the books my sister was reading and opened to one of the blank pages near the back. She wrote in black pen, which has faded now, to brown. Her handwriting was unsteady suggesting that she was as nervous, if not more so, than I was. I read the inscription, and my pride hummed. I took her hand and squeezed. I waited.
Then, in what felt like mere seconds, I was up. Ready to meet my impending doom. Suddenly my cello was anchoured on the rockstop, my book in it's place and I was ready. So exciting. So fufilling. My fingers were shaking, and my tone was scared, but I did it. I beamed as I finished. I did it.


The curtains went up via a holister jacket-clad stagehand. Someone might have vomited on my cumerbund because there was a nasty tan stain on it. My orchestra teacher raised her baton and the whole Orchestra knew what was coming. This was what we had been waiting for. This made listening to the whole concert behind sweltering velvet fabric worthwhile. I felt my body moving with my instrument even before the intro was over. I laughed inside. Comrarderie swelled in us all, and for now no one could complain.


Different stage. Tuxedo shirt. New cello. A book of music now. Adrenaline thrums through my body. The conductor of the youth symphony raises her baton and the violins start. She cues us in. I've been waiting for this. We strike a high note. Our first in the song. My cello sings. And it is beautiful. It is shameless. My face is warm with the light that shines down. It is like a floodgate being opened. Beautiful. Free.

Notes from 11:56 AM Wednesday

I think, optimism is both good and bad. If an optimist goes for a picnic and gets lost on their way to the park and then realizes they packed a can of beets instead of some nice fresh scones with jam, and then it starts raining......an optimist can drop everything and go dance in the rain.



And then you can say you had a wonderful day playing in the rain, instead of saying you had a horrible day during which your picnic was ruined completely.



It's nice to be around an optimistic person. Though they might not be particularly down-to- earth, they have a bounciness that emanates from them like the sun. No one wants to be the only mourner at the party, so optimism is contagious.

Optimists have a nice balance with pessimists. Together they find what is really true. That half the water has been drunk, but you still have the water to enjoy.



The bad thing about optimism?



The occasional vast ocean of false, unreal hope.



Optimists set themselves up for it. Hoping. Feeling that they know that something good is going to happen is almost like a trusting the enemy. If everything is going to work out in the end, what happens when the end is devastating? Then what do they do? What if the events the optimists are given to work with are so sad that they can't find anything good? They give themselves more false hope, and while a lot of the time it makes them better to be around, sometimes, all it does is delay the realization that they were mistaken.

Tales from the Kitty-Catkin Tent

The transparent flap that was the door let the light filter through. I wished for snow. Read some book that my sister had left in her little world. As I turned to the back page, I read a inscription from my mother, encouraging me before a performance. I remembered a solo cello recital. My first....
I heard my North calling me. I ignored my brother, asking me to watch him play the xbox. I ignored him. But I needed that moment. Waiting for the normal week's ritual to set in. For the breath-stealing speed of busied life, the anticipation of seeing, and the heavy that I knew would soon take my mind. No more clay under my fingernails for awhile. No more raiding thrift stores until it all calms down. More meanlingless tasks that mean nothing to their master's.
Good-bye Winter. Please snow..
I crawled out of the tent. Moment shattered.

Year in review

Yes, I know New Years was awhile ago, but that doesn't mean that I can't post resolutions still right? This year privately, I came up with this.

• I will try finally, to stop biting my nails.
• I will practice cello more religiously.
• I will get Lorielye to level 30!
• I will start putting out material creativity, instead of just keeping it bottled up inside my head, waiting to have something done about it.

If I need to add on later I will. I'm dreading the interview and related paper I have to do. Why would you ever give students homework over winter break. Doesn't that send you straight to hell? I mean that is a wonderful example of bad karma right there.

My sister got a video camera for her birthday, (The third birthday in December in my household, which makes for makes for a stressful holiday season..) While trying to set it up, my Mum found movie maker and proceeded to make a movie. Here it is, it's basically our year in review. I'm really quite proud of her.