prolixverbosa

Television

2012-01-26T22:24:00.000-08:00

This happens.
I put away the glue gun. I shut it up in the cupboard and I hope that I haven't disrupted the order of my mother's craft. I worry about it, at the back of my head. She would never say anything if I did, but it is precious to her. And I am someone who treads lightly in the worlds of others. I may be naive. I might not have a quick tongue. I am too concerned with aesthetics. Deposits of flaws crop up constantly in my being. But I do not stomp around in the gardens of other people's thoughts.
The TV is covered in scraps of newspaper, and it's face is vacant and empty. Hours from now, I will sit in a crowded classroom, rewatch tonight's event on another television, and I will feel the same way as this costumed piece of equipment does now.
I forgot to ask for someone to turn it on. I neglected (on purpose?) to ask for help. It didn't reach it's full potential, and after, everyone looked on, half-satisfied with something too normal and too weird. The worst part: it was not a misunderstanding. It was a valid observation.
The scissors return to my desk. I tuck the roll of scotch tape to bring to school. Accidentally stolen tape. I would like to say that I had a plan to make things better. That, given more time, things could have gone differently. But in this moment, I am not so certain. Benevolence was not given a habitat to grow. And it's awful that the bad weed destroys the garden, but it does. You can't not see the dandelion. Or perhaps that is just me. I fixate on it.
I have not learned to say, "You are wrong," with any sort of conviction. That sounds like an admirable thing, but it leads to apologizing. Needlessly. It leads to back tracking. To nights and happenings such as these. People get in your garden.
In the morning, we will clean up the mess, and it will be better, somehow, in the light. And in the labor. I can clean a place. I can keep going. I can keep my head down. I will sweep and laugh, and the sun will be shining, and on Saturday, I will go to the symphony and play.
But tonight, I am putting away the glue gun, and regarding the TV. When I see it, bedecked and bruised, I'm struck by the appropriate nametag. And with old, worn anger, and a someday resignation burning in the future, I start to peel the newspaper from it's face.

What is Art? they say

2012-01-20T16:18:00.000-08:00

Sometimes, art is hard.
I've been working on this book of poetry/illustrations for the last two snow filled days. I should be doing other things (senior project, FAFSA, applications) but I just kind of put my foot down and said to myself: It's cold. You're hungry. The power is intermittently going out. Make this and be happy.
And everything was going well, until, well, I brought out the embroidery thread, and began stitching words into card stock. Oi veh.
All supplies are now gathered on my desk. On probation until further notice. I will probably be back to them in half an hour, once they have learned their lesson.
Speaking of art being frustrating, I'm taking the craziest mini-term. It's all about art and indeterminacy, and how we can create art that is not fully centered on emotion. It's really uncomfortable, at least for me. I operate creatively based almost entirely on my emotional threshold. To take that away, to say it no longer matters is very strange for me. As I said, rather embarrassingly in a class discussion in front of sixty of my peers, my music can't be about "that boy last summer" anymore. Funny. I feel slightly robbed.
Other than artistic frustration, my life has been fairly rosy lately. Most importantly, I got this scholarship. And it means that next year, I'm probably going to be somewhere I really, really, want to be. I have been so frightened that I have left something out. That I am missing a huge piece of this process. And maybe I am. But I don't feel as frightened about it anymore.
Cello has also been really rewarding lately. Things are starting to feel easier than they were at the beginning of the year. I'm really excited about our programming for the next semester in school, which includes Phillip Glass and Gershwin (okay arranged Gershwin, but who cares?)
We have all this snow at our house. I haven't ventured outside in two days. I don't like the snow, and I know I sound like a total party pooper, but I just don't. I don't get it.

The Spring of Me

2011-12-18T22:19:00.000-08:00

It's been a long while hasn't it?
I'm very tired. It's the end of the semester, nearly, and almost Christmas too. I am not prepared for either event.
I feel like I am holding on to things by the tips of my fingers. Whereas I used to be able to plan things weeks in advance, I find that now, at most, I can only give myself two days. I never know what is going to come up, what pressing issue will derail me.
I'm an adult now, technically, but I don't feel like one. In fact, I feel more like a child than I have in years. I'm just kind of groping around for the right ideas, and practices, hoping that what I find will be alright, and not too costly, should they fail me.
It's not as bad as I'm making it sound. It's also exciting and empowering. It's just that I am used to being on top of my game, and completely in control. I've gotten too used to the security of it. Now, when everything is so profoundly shaken up, I find that I have no emergency plans. I'm drawing them up in trembling red ink.
In fact, I should probably be studying for a calculus retake right now. But I just kind of need to think a little. Like I said, I'm pretty tired. Exhilarated, but tired.
There is something infinitely nagging in the back of my mind lately, and I can't get it to go away, though there is much to distract me from it, more important things, I would venture. But, of course, it overwhelms me. I won't give it the satisfaction of being mentioned here, but I will admit that it is the reason I am writing. I'm combating it with other emotional thoughts, even if my analytical ones will falter against it.
My music, that which not the cello, is driving me crazy. I can't settle into anything. I'm trolling the recommendations of countless friends and pandora, scrabbling to find something to cling to, but I'm not finding anything. Maybe it's just something that I have to be patient with. Still, it frustrates me to no end. I wait all day for my bus ride home, so that I can listen, and then when I settle into the rhythm of the drive home, I find that I cannot listen without clenching my teeth.
I really should study calculus.
God.

Beetle Girl

2011-10-23T14:34:00.000-07:00

She ran through the hall, past the great window, without ashirt on, and wondered if he were in the field behind the house. A strangethought to coincide with the fleeing, for she was a deeply innocent type ofgirl.

The house was preparing itself for winter, and you couldfeel the grey, the color and texture of an old wasp’s nest, as it wrappeditself around it and settled in the cracks of the wood. The sweaters had beenbrought up from the basement, where the floor was freezing. The girl, maybewe’ll call her Charlotte or Nellie, stood on her rug in the middle of thatfloor and pretended that the snow, and first, the cold wasn’t coming. If shedidn’t step out into the concrete, it wasn’t.

She was smaller these days, and colder more easily. Winterwas frightening.

She ran through the hall of the graying house now, for oneof the sweaters brought up from the basement, to be a little warmer. And thethought of the boy could not be accounted for. It was ridiculous, and maybe, ifwe ignore it, it will hang its head in shame and go away? She brought thesweater over her shoulders and it rested on her hip bones. Nobody, especiallynot the boy, saw her flight past the great window.

The halls of that heathered house are haunted. In a goodway. The beetles will tell you so. She watches them, and takes care of them,and sometimes, they get stepped on, or their wings get pulled off the by thechildren that live there, and sometimes, when she tires of one, she’ll pin itup on the wall, and pretend that it never existed alive.

She pins up the beetle in the field the most.

There’s a labyrinth in the garden, and she wanders it. It’snot a proper maze; It’s quite easy to navigate if you know the way, and if youdon’t, it’s quite easy to learn. She will wander for hours sometimes, even inthe rain. Especially in the rain. She thinks about herself a lot while shewanders. She tries to fix that. The beetles swirl around her head, none of themquite palpable, and she can’t decide which one to watch.

Today, when she finds the end of the maze, in her sweater,she sees, that strangely, the sun has arrived, if only for a little while, andthe world is a peach again. She steps to the edge of the field and the last ofthe sunlight beats her hair into gold. All of the beetles have gone to thehouse, by now, but one, and she stands with it, hovering at her ear, for a verylong time. The world is a peach, and the field is only fuzz. She sees the boy outthere in it, and wonders if he can ever see her.

Sisterchild.

2011-09-09T17:04:00.000-07:00

I round the corner and she is in the hollow of the blackberries. She looks up at me and waves excitedly. This is flagging number four. And as my sister, she surely knows the steel look in my face, the one that she has grown up watching, staring out the car window, in the middle of the night in the kitchen. Those guilty minutes while I am intent and listening. I radiate inhospitable isolation.
This, she must certainly observe, as I round the bend. But the impatient waving continues. And I react, as perhaps she knows I will.
"Not now," I growl through a sore throat, "I can't right now"
I will apologize later, in the kitchen, like a sobered drunk. But for now her crestfallen face haunts my ascension to the top of the hill. She retreats to the hollow in the blackberries. I am comforted knowing that she will wave again when I circle back. I will get a second chance.
When she stumbles through the dark of the early morning, she is rosy and warm. She forgets her timer and the time, and reads. She calls out into the porch for her cat, and coos when he arrives. Scolds him if he is accompanied by a dead mouse. Sometimes, when he gets at the birds, she still cries.
When I arrive home from school, she will have exchanged her black attire for grey. The color is good on her. I have always been a little jealous of this easy beauty, growing up against a thistle like me. It is not a jealousy potent enough to be acted on, (she is my junior of six years) but enough to make me shake my head, as I do now, arriving at home. She is industriously setting up her meal. She will probably take it out to her blackberry hollow, where her cat will try to eat it. She will probably spill her food as she lifts it out of the animal's reach. I want to warn her, standing in the doorway with my tea, but I know that she would not likely listen. In fact, it would only motivate her more.
She heads down the hill and I watch her from the window. She will come back soon, breathless and flushed and lead me down. And I will not growl.

Small Town Girl

2011-06-29T11:23:00.000-07:00

Yesterday, I took a short bus ride to the next small town over. It is even more of a small town than ours is. The main drag, to me seems like more of a super-established crafters fair than anything else. None the less, I enjoyed myself.

There are so many strange things to be found in antique stores, and sometimes it brings me comfort; we hear the complaint ever so often, from those who collect antiques, that things are just not made the way they used to be. That products now, are made to be used and promptly disposed of and they have no real meaning. But then I see the things that are collecting dust on these shelves and I think, well, that item seems rather useless. And yet, I see it as being beautiful and useful, simply because it is more than ten years old.
Thinking that way, I have hope for the materials I surround myself with.
That's actually a concept that I've been toying around with a lot lately. Are old things really all that beautiful and quality? Or is it their age that lends them such preciousness? I read an article about the sudden need for the conservation of buildings from the seventies. The article noted that, in the past, buildings constructed in the seventies, or the dreaded "Seventies takeover" of pre-existing buildings were shunned and discounted by those that admired the architecture, of buildings built before those times. But now, these buildings are getting attention, because they've entered the realm of antiquities. But it's hard to wrap one's head around. When does something stop being merely outdated and become an antique?

And I start to think: When will I go through such a transformation?

And more naggingly: How can I avoid it?

Seattle Trip

2011-06-17T12:49:00.000-07:00

A couple of weeks ago, North and I headed down to the city. We took buses and made many transfers. It was scary. But we had a lot of fun.

This is the little "Fix-your-coffee-you-splenda-fiend" kiosk inside of Zeitgeist Coffee. I had played a show here once and the aesthetic is identical to mine. I love everything about the place and could take photographs of everything and post them all. But I didn't because a) I don't want to bore you further to tears b) it's really hip and slick in there and I didn't think they'd appreciate my tearful gesticulating and picture-snapping. In any case, if you're ever in my city, you should check out Zeitgeist. It gorgeous and the coffee is zingy.

North and I are both playing Fallout: New Vegas lately. It's a really good game, in case you were wondering. Anyway. I wanted this poster-thing to hang somewhere. But I figured that anyone serious enough to hang such a poster on the outside of a building could probably kick my ass in the event of me stealing said poster. So I left it.

Look it's a bird. A blue bird on a brick wall. Sounds like a haiku waiting to happen!

"A blank space on a brick wall,

put a bird on it,

and don't let anyone see you,"

Finally, North and I got this thing that allows up to three people (3!) listen to the same iPod at once. And it looks like a tree! On the way home, we were listening and North fell asleep while listening. I didn't really notice until he shot up from his seat, gasping for breath. Shostakovich was screaming into the headphones. I felt bad.

We'll get the hang of it.

Difficult

2011-06-11T20:49:00.000-07:00

This makes me sad.
This last week, for reasons palpable and also, somewhat intangible, has made me feel a disappointment in people. It's unlike me, I think. In general, I like people. They smile and say funny things. And if they're not funny or clever, at least they're kind, right? Decent.
Perhaps I'm just tired. Very often, for me, that is at the root of things. But it's a feeling that has been growing in me, I think, for a really long time.
I've been propegating this realization; that I prefer- need- to be around people who disassociate themselves from their pasts and from their self-indulgences. So often, it feels like people don't listen carefully. I leave places knowing that I have spoken but that nobody heard what I said, or if they did, they only had nasty things to say in return. Lately, this feels like it is the case. Maybe I'm just not interesting.
But again, I am tired, and this is the end of the year.
Mum and I think it might have something to do with the music too. I'm listening to a lot of Sufjan Stevens who, I think it is safe to say, thinks pretty deeply. It's hard not to want that in places other than music. Maybe, I've just got to switch things up a bit. Listen to stuff that's a little less heavy maybe? Gaga, can you hear me?
I have good plans for the summer, because, guess what, school is out. I don't really know when that happened, but I'm glad it has arrived. I have plans of things to make. Music to learn. I'll probably be working more than last year, but that is appropriate, I think. My peers have far more stressful and demanding jobs than I do.
So, the sun has come out and it's shining on things and making them clean. Everyone is upstairs and we are quiet and humming. Being with them makes me feel better, like I've finally been unknotted. I still don't really want to be with most people (save a few), but this is good.

Update

2011-05-22T09:17:00.000-07:00

Firstly, let's look at this utterly beautiful girl.

I don't like to be one of those sisters who is gabs about how awesomely beautiful their family is (even though they are). I seriously don't. But sometimes this one takes me by surprise.

Anyway.

School got busy and then trailed off. We had our orchestra concert, which went well even though the cellos rushed terribly. Many papers have been due. Registration was a couple days ago. And now it feels like the end of the year. Sunday marked my last youth symphony concert of the season. From now on, I'll be working at the market on Saturdays. Which is nice. I miss it.

Speaking of registration: I went to a registration sleepover on Thursday! Which constitutes a social outing. Maybe I won't be a hermit when I grow up. Anyway, the sleep over was lovely. We all got up super early in order to get to school and line up so that we could get the classes we wanted. It is one of the most stressful mornings of the year. Almost more than Solo and Ensemble morning. I was literally shaking until twelve. But everything worked out. I have all the classes I need, including some that I just wanted: Demi and I are going to be in both Creative Writing and American Poetry together! For a whole semester! With wonderful dedicated teachers!

I find it weird that I will only have two musical classes next year. All year. I'll practically have more writing classes than cello oriented one. Then again, this has been a very cello heavy year. Not that I've minded. It's made me a better player. And I love cello more than ever.

I'm editing Theory out. I guess that's the big change. Although Theory/Composition has really been a struggle for me, I think I'm going to miss it a little. I really liked my last composition and finally felt like I was getting somewhere as a composer. I guess the end of the term doesn't really mean I have to stop composing. Maybe I'll write some more pieces over the summer. We'll see.

Spring Break

2011-03-30T18:44:00.001-07:00

Spring break has been lovely. Made three trips to the city. Once with my family, the first day we've had off together in a long while. And then with Sean and Demi. We went to some of the same places my family had gone only a couple days before. And then just yesterday I went again with some friends from school. We'd been planning to go for awhile and it was nice. We brought food for each other and I ended up making peanut butter chocolate chip cookies, which I made at midnight the day before. There is something to be said about nocturnal cooking.

I also went to the Olympic National Forest for a hike, with Demi and another delightful girl from school. It was really nice to be somewhere totally cut off, although it does make you panic a little, the realization that you couldn't just call someone to make everything better. It made me feel very vulnerable. But a good kind of vulnerable.

Tomorrow we will be going to the beach to stay for a couple days. I will spend much of the time composing I think, but that's okay too. I have a big composition due on Tuesday next week. I have faith that I will be able to complete it, but right now I just don't feel up to it at all. Maybe I'll start my venture into productivity by packing first and then starting up on my actual work.

But first I have a blog post to write. I'm looking forward to the market starting up again. That means that Summer will not be far behind. Weird to think that I have only about two months of school left. But it will be full. I have a full recital of solo piece to prepare for and other concerts besides. And five more papers. And everything in between. It doesn't make me want to leave the safe harbour pf spring break. But I'm sure I will get used to it once I have started up again.

The Silhouette 3

2011-03-08T21:48:00.001-08:00

I started working on this series a bit ago. I posted the first here, and then did some really rough stuff later, one of which I am now going to post.

The Silhouette 3
People really do mean what they say about sunsets, she thinks, as the fire sinks and bleeds into the horizon. She lowers her gaze, to his form on the shoreline, standing perfectly still, his shoulders held in a way that makes her certain that he is grinning on the brink of laughter. Like a hunter, she steps, once, lightly, and appropriately, he darts. She will not run to him, though, and he knows that. Instead she waits, knowing he may not come back, that that would be just like him.
She waits in a world that suddenly seems more dark than light, and he is gone a minute too long.

And now she begins to run, but her body is so heavy and unkempt. She runs with the momentum of panic for a long time, until it runs out, and even then, she pulls through beach forest, step by step, her chest heaving. She lands on the other side, and of course, he is not there. She falls on fours and vomits up strawberries and bile and hard candies.
And maybe somewhere, she is crying again, but she can't tell anymore, because the sun has gone down. The sun of a day that had been good, and lazy and so precious. So precious.
She doesn't hear him return, but she sees, blearily, his feet. She reaches out and touches his ankles with dull fingers and he recoils, stepping, away from her, without the expected grace. She bites her lip.

He turns away and runs again and she isn't even sure that he was there, ever. She breathes, and without meaning to, an unwelcome hope creeps up.

Because maybe he will be around to sell her things again, at Christmas. Maybe he will come back with the snow.

Valentine's Day

2011-02-16T18:12:00.001-08:00

Just in general, I love holidays. I think I'm attracted to themes. Colors, symbols, traditions. The habitual aesthetics of holidays make me happy. I love looking forward to thing like that, too. I'm the kind of person who save her chocolate bar for days, hoping that it will taste better for waiting longer.

I like to bring things to school. I have such lovely, good friends and it's a good time to give them stuff. And it satiates a crafting craving for me. There's the Halloween party, obviously, and the subsequent handing out of invitations in October. In December I handed out little linen bags of peppermint candy. I made Valentine cookies this year, which totally was not what I had planned (Octagonal Yellow Chocolate Lollipops were the original objective. But, alas, chocolate dyes are utter crap and turn your melting chocolate into a gritty mess.)

I got a satchel of chocolate and a temporary tattoo on Valentine's Day, which I hid in my secret stash of magnificent candy. Which is, by necessity, hidden where no one can ever find it. God forbid.
Doing a lot of cello, but extra curricularly. Now that Solo and Ensemble is over, I've had everything that I was saving for afterwards is upon me. I'm doing a show at the Peabody Waldorf, with a band from my school. The frontman (is that what you call them?) wrote everything. He's come up with a lot of new content lately and it's pretty fantastic. So unapologetically different. It's refreshing. And we got to come up with some pretty cool cello riffs.
I also have Young Chamber Players concerts coming up. I'm playing a Mozart flute Quartet (with North). And I mean. You know. It's Mozart. But I'm also playing this gorgeous piece by Prokofiev. It's called Overture on a Hebrew Themes. It's a really fun and exotic piece. But it's really quite difficult, so I have to crack down on that quickly.
I want to go to the City so badly. I can actually feel it in my belly. I haven't been in a long while.
My family has been so busy lately, with so many musical obligations and renovations to the house and science fair. It will nice when we get a chance to just be around each other and go on some sort of adventure. Especially my parents. They are working really hard. They deserve a break.
Anyway, Happy Late Valentines Day. Hope yours was splendid!

Some Stuff

2011-02-02T19:33:00.001-08:00

First things first: Look at my beautiful case! It was given to me by my former conductor, who had just bought a new case for her wonderful french cello. I love this dear thing. It's so hearty. An I've never had a hard case before. I think it will keep my Jane a little safer. Also, it has blue velvet inside. Mum says it's like a volkswagen. And I don't know how to explain her reasoning, but she is so right.
I really love it. My conductor is so kind to have given it to me. I will take good care of it.

In other news: Miniterm is over. Which leaves me melancholy. I loved the course I took, which was all about musical history during the first half of the twentieth century, specifically in Germany, Russia and the USA. It's been an intense three weeks, because the class was college preparatory, but I enjoyed myself so much. I learned things about music that have made me feel a little out place, but I think that sort of uncomfortableness is good for me, once in a while. I had to write a final paper in the last week, six pages in all. I chose to write about Shostakovich (By the way, if you haven't to his Eighth String Quartet, do. Now. Please. And try to find the Emerson String Quartet.) The paper was difficult to write; do you know when you feel too insignificant to be writing about a topic? I was writing about a giant, and at times it made me feel small. But I ended up with a good grade and some really encouraging feedback from my teachers (who were fabulous instructors, really top rate)

Solo and Ensemble competition is just around the corner. It makes me extremely nervous. But I feel more prepared than last year, which is strange because I have been without a teacher for a while now. I've had to be working through the Lalo cello concerto without a guide really, which has been kind of scary, but has required a lot more self discipline. It's been a little frightening. But due to my schedule this second semester, I'm managing to get in an hour of practice per day (At least for these next two weeks) which is helping a lot.
I'm a little worried because Concert Performance Assessments are lurking, ever present, in the future and I do not want to be overwhelmed by them after solo and ensemble.

My second semester classes are good. I wish I could get my grades back from the previous semester, just so I can take a deep breath and concentrate on the present, instead of constantly worrying what might have gone bizarrely wrong in the final minutes of last term. In typical SotA fashion, though, last semesters grades were spirited away from the online database before anyone had a chance to digest them. Oh well. Just more waiting, I suppose.

I am happy the sun has been out, which is a first for me. It is making things clean, and quite beautiful. I will be wanting rain soon, but for now, this sun can stay without me minding.

Shine in the Sun

2011-01-29T18:04:00.000-08:00

My fingers nearly make it. As though they were climbing a building, they scale the fingerboard. But then at the last moment, they misjudge and fall off. The metronome keep ticking and I snapthe bow furiously against strings. Grating and melodius. That left over resonance of fifths. Always bringing me back, like a boy or a book.
I get back in position, bob my head for a measure, begin again. Repetition, everyone tells you, is key. It's also frustrating and defeating and leaves you feeling like it's never going to get better. Sometimes, after a day, it doesn't. Sometimes, you have start all over the next morning. It's a fickle thing.
I do forty more iterations and then look down at my watch. It's dinnertime and I weigh the pros and cons. Eating means fifteen minutes of walking, ten, more like twenty minutes of scarfing down food and inevitably getting sidetracked. Fifteen minute walk back. No extra practice time. On the other hand, food is nice.
I shake my head. CPA's don't pass themselves. I flip through some music, to the treacherous tarantella. Months from now, I will hear this in my sleep, when I come through the door of buses and whenever I play triplets. But my fingers will forget it.
I don't know when he appears in the small narrow window. It could've been a long time and I might not have noticed. But when I look up, my vision is blurry from staring at the same seventeen measures. He is smiling and it broadens when I look up, and he pushes open the door.
"You'd better go eat."
"I can't really do that right now,"
"You can't do anything if you pass out,"
"I'll grab something from the vending machine,"
He looks at me, with that sweet reproachfulness that only Sean can pull off. I sigh and put down the cello.
"Look, I'll go get a granola bar, right now," I smile and stretch. I push open the door, which is heavy, and Sean follows and grabs my wrists, yanking me down the opposite end of the hallway, toward that one fire exit that doesn't wail. I consider protesting, but, I don't know. Sean has this special brand of spontaneity that just makes you want to go along with him, no matter how unreasonable. He exudes calm reactivity. He pushes open the door and I say something about not going to dinner and he laughs. And the sun is blinding. I squint wildly and he laughs again. He releases my wrists. I'm not going anywhere right now. The light and the sticky heat is too good.
Our other friends drift by and form around us. Form around Sean. I've made myself a hermit and I suspect they all think that I am crazy. They may be acurate. But they gravitate to Sean, who will smile and laugh.
I look at my watch.
"You'd better get going. You're not going to have time," I say and Sean raises an eyebrow.
"Nope, I've got to go back," I say to the eyebrow. "See you later," I smile. He makes one more attempt to get me to go along and I shake my head. The group continues along to the cafeteria and I retreat back into the dark of the building, which has fallen silent. I can see Sean walking, through the blinds of the practice room. My dear friend, who will bring me apples and oranges later. A good, good boy.
He is the light, that boy. He is the light.

The Silhouette 3

2011-01-26T21:44:00.000-08:00

I started working on this series a bit ago. I posted the first here, and then did some really rough stuff later, one of which I am now going to post.

He turns away and runs again and she isn't even sure that he was there, ever. She breathes, and without meaning to, an unwelcome hope creeps up.

Because maybe he will be around to sell her things again, at Christmas. Maybe he will come back with the snow.

Christmas and Bits

2010-12-29T16:13:00.000-08:00

Hope everyone had a delightful holiday. Mine was quite lovely; though we mostly lazed about all day, me drinking gads of tea and watching my brother play this game..

Side Note: The game is called Assassin's Creed: Brotherhood and it is very, very good. Not so much for the single player campaign, which, if you are familiar with the series, is just more of the same, but for the multiplayer game, which is ridiculously addictive. Let's just say there is sneaking, backstabbing, chasing and customizable avatars involved and leave it at that.

Also, there is definitely a character that looks strikingly like Mr. Darcy/Matthew Mcfayden

I got some lovely things for Christmas. A little tea wallet to store the copious amounts of tea that my parents bought for me from England (My favorite is the Yorkshire Gold, in case you were wondering) and a little plug in electric heater that you can just toss into a mug of water and zap into a boil. I am, as I mentioned to someone the other day, practically a walking tea shop. Which suits me just fine.

I also got a sweater and a dress and some nice long socks to wear with boots, and a bunch of really good books (as usual, Sean has been doing much research in this department) I really enjoyed Hunting and Gathering. Like really. It's catapulted itself into one of my favorite books of all time. The characters are so good and pitted with real flaws. Just so lovely. I'm reading Shipbreaker right now, which is by the same author as The Wind-Up Girl, which I mentioned before. I think for now, I prefer the latter, but we shall see.
Today is Abbie's Birthday. We are planning on going out to a bookshop all morning and lazing about there. And hopefully dropping by the grocery store. I am seriously running out of cream and I find that a little bit daunting. How is that even possible. I swear we had an extra cartonful.
My little cow creamer has an empty belly for now.

And one last thing, I wanted to show everyone. We celebrated my birthday here a couple weeks ago and I got such lovely gifts and I wanted to show two of them, because I wear them everyday.

The first is a locket given to me by my aunt. You can't see obviously but there's a very beautiful picture of my mother and her in there. I carry them around with me, and I know it sound terribly stupid, but I makes me feel better.
The bracelet was given to me by my mother. She has a very similar one that is gold that her father gave to her when she was about my age. It's blends in perfectly with the ranks of other bracelets on my wrists. But the important part is that she got it engraved at the little stand in Portland, "The Stars of Each Night," which is part of a poem she writes in notes to us when we go away, or some boy breaks my heart, or I have an audition or something.
Anyway, it was just beautiful and it made me cry and I'm a wuss.

Hope everyone had a lovely holiday and has a good new year. Try to keep warm!

A Letter to My Future Partner

2010-12-19T10:50:00.000-08:00

Hey boy,
How are you? Notice I used 'how' instead of 'who'. In this respect, I am learning to be patient. I hope you are doing well. Maybe you're in high school still, though somehow I doubt it. It seems more likely that you are few years older than me. We'll see.
I addressed this to a partner, because even though sometimes that word is awkward and people at the PTA meetings give you funny looks, I don't need to be married to you. It might make things more convenient, certainly, but I think we'll know, without the law telling us, that we are devoted to each other. And maybe you're not into marriage. Maybe you come from a divorced family. You're probably not religious. Thus, partner.
A lot of the time, I think I have a type of boy in mind. Clever, honest, and creative. This is what I am drawn to, in my seventeenth year (My birthday is December 7th, boy. Don't forget it.) But obviously this changes: I have learned that I have hard time dealing with the upwardly mobile, or at least, the overly ambitious and that I find tempers extremely unattractive. I suppose really, it won't matter because I'm hoping that everything I want and every flaw that I can handle with manifest itself in you, so I don't really need to determine anything. Really, I'm just talking in my hat here. Moving on.
Just so you know, I want children. Not a ton of them. Three maybe. But there will be babies, boy, mark my words. Not right away. And if there are problems, we'll adopt. But children are a must and I am not willing to negotiate on these terms. Naming said spawn, is an entirely different matter. Your opinion in this and every other matter is precious, even though sometimes I am sure it will piss me off that you take the opposing stance.
Speaking of which, I hope we fight about important things. I don't want to quibble with you. Bickering is exhausting. Although our arguments can't be too all encompassing. That can break things too. We'll find a balance I am sure, if we have both picked carefully enough.
I am a little frightened of the world. There are opportunities out there that I don't want to miss. You, for example. And I've only got one chance. So if I falter and wander for a little while, I appreciate in advance, your patience. Really. I know that it will be hard. I will try to focus quickly.
Anyway, I guess I can't wait to meet you. I'm not really looking very hard right now (Teenage boys feel very young), but I'm preparing. I'm getting good grades, and trying to be a decent, benevolent person. I'm playing cello like a maniac. I'm molding a girl that you will love someday. And that's pretty exciting.
So I guess I'll see you soon. Be good and safe, boy.
I love you,
piper

Holidays Ushering In

2010-11-26T21:10:00.001-08:00

Have you noticed that my house seems to be home to an astounding array of decorative birds? They're everywhere I turn.
Thanksgiving holiday runs for a week at SotA so, I've been home all week. But then it's been snowing too, so my younger siblings got to stay home as well. It's been nice. I've been drinking lots of tea and getting work done and catching up, a little bit, on my reading. Again, now I have left from a mighty pile of homework is music theory. How does that always seem to happen?

Thanksgiving was lovely. It was just my immediate family and we ate and they played board games (I don't play most board games on principle, something that drives my Dad and my brother nuts) and then later a scary video game downstairs (Also, not my idea). Everyone was happy and full and tired and it was just a good day.

Earlier in the week Demi and I took the train into the city (which was freezing) and spent the day poking in and out of shops, trying go quickly from store to store in order to stay warm. It was lovely if surprisingly tiring day. We laughed at some ridiculously overweight pigeons.

Today my sister and my Mum and I walked down to a park in search of some very specific pine cones. We looked through two parks to no avail. Dismayed, and cold and tired we decided to walk into town and find some tea, and then, just as we turned the corner, we saw the tree and the pine cones we needed. We shoved twenty in a plastic bag and went to go get some celebratory tea anyway.

We went to this little tea shop down town and I just about died. Seriously. You could order scones and a pot of tea, which had a tea cozy (!) and then there was this little gift store where you could buy the same tea and tea cups and pots and any kind of tea paraphernalia you could possibly want. It was just perfect. I want to go there for my birthday, which strangely is in just eleven days. I don't when that happened. But I'm excited anyway. Anyway, it was a beautiful place. I'm going to take my friends there soon.

I'm a little frightened by the encroaching finals week. I've been doing all the work that I can to ensure that it isn't as awful as it was last year. We'll see though. There's only so much I can do. It'll be a race until the end, probably as usual.

Earth Treasures

2010-11-08T07:45:00.000-08:00

It's been awhile, hasn't it? In my defense, I've been super busy. I had Concert Preparation Assessments at Youth Symphony this last weekend (ie. personal hell), which pretty much forced me to become a recluse for the week. In retrospect I probably seemed a little funny. Holed up in my room, nastily shooing anyone who interrupted me. I apologize. I get a little worked up. And I had two important essays due and a book to read and a prelude to write. And Halloween. Oh God Halloween.

Just scary stuff. But it's over now.

I went to see Sufjan Stevens on the thirtieth. I cannot impress upon you how much I loved it. It was so perfect. He was playing a lot from his new album the Age of Adz (Which is the only thing I have listened to for the last week. Nothing else.) I've gotten to the point where I can't even distinguish my own feelings from that of the music. He inspires that level of empathy. There are songs that still continually bring me to tears. Seriously. It is just so beautiful.

The songs are about heartbreak, at least to me. And I think he's been hurt really badly. I hope he gets better.

I'm writing a piece in Music Theory that I actually enjoy, that actually makes me happy.I haven't really had that happen. It's a prelude as I mentioned before, which is basically a big long chord progression with the same rhythmic patterns over and over again. I added some seventh chords and quite a few diminished chords in there as well. Should make things interesting. I have to turn it in on Tuesday.

It's getting really cold. And the leaves are really starting to turn, delighting me. Although I love Halloween, I'm excited to get to the more relaxed holidays. I'm already starting to find items from Christmas. Abbie is particularly easy to buy for.

I really wish I could take songwriting two next semester. I can't, my schedule is just too full. But it would be nice. I like songwriting. But I'm not very good at either piano or guitar so that makes things difficult. It's weird to play a bunch of chords on the cello. Maybe that could be my winter project? Learning to play piano or guitar a little?

In the Slate

2010-10-14T18:42:00.000-07:00

It is cold, on the sand, and windy. The moons hangs like a incandescent fruit in the sky. They run, full pelt, out towards the waves, which are somehow not as threatening in the night. She sinks into the sands, watching them, running, laughing and loving each each other assuredly. They reach out and it is there, grasping, and constant. She rubs the rim of the coffee mug and smiles as they call out her name. She shakes her head, even though they won't see her in this all slate world. Not right now. They shrug and run farther, faster until in the distance she can't tell which of them is which. But she can still their laughing.

And they are so happy. Lucky to wake up in the morning, clinging to the images of their subconcious and letting willingly go, because in realityit is so much better and they are yours, yours, yours.

To belong to someone, she thinks. And maybe it's because she doesn't but she thinks that it is the most beautiful thing to be in the world.

She lies back in the sand and strains to hear the laughter, which has moved away farther still. And for now, she thinks, maybe listening is enough.

Afraid of the Dark

2010-10-03T18:10:00.000-07:00

I am trying so hard not to do my Music Theory homework right now. My entire body is rebelling against the thought of it. And so it is that a new blog post is born.

I just finished reading a book called "a Crooked Kind of of Perfect" by Linda Urban. It's a children's book, meant for fifth graders, but I loved it. It was very poetic and the characters were all very human. It was just so good. You should read it. I've also been listening to two wonderful songs: Your Ex-lover is Dead by Stars (which was recommended to me eons ago by my friend Sean, and which just recently got around to listening to) and Wait It Out by Imogen Heap. The former uses strings prominently and well, which I always appreciate, and the lyrics are terrific. The latter is a song on Ellipse which I got in the early summer, if you recall. I just kind of glazed over it because I'm not overly fond of the beginning, and am just now discovering it. It's lovely once it gets going.

I'm trying really hard not to procrastinate, and to be efficient. I think it's working, though this blog post is no indication of it. It's hard work and a lot of late nights but it makes me much calmer and happier in the long run. And it allows me to enjoy my truly free time much more. But this week has been difficult. I had a school obligation on Thursday and then I had a dance on Friday (Which was fun; lot's of great music) and then, on Saturday there was symphony and a gig and I ended up wandering the aisles of Uwajimaya Village in Seattle, buying tea and almonds with my family. I couldn't really edge in time for work. I will pay for it at nine tonight when I'm still doing counterpoint.

Last weekend, my Mum ran a half marathon. She did really well and I'm very proud of her. She is like solid muscle, I tell you. The anti-me. The run was in Bellingham, and afterward we went into Fairhaven and had lunch and hung out around there. A lot of my parent's courtship took place there and I think they enjoyed seeing it again. They got engaged nearby as well. We bought the October edition of Martha Stewart Living and I read it cover to cover soon after. It's a good'un. Made me want to go back and read some old October issues.

Hey remember when I had a kitten? Yeah. I still do. Except, now, it's a girl and it's name is Ellie. I'm not really sure what I think about this. The whole I-am-the-owner-of-a-rodent-slaying- warrior-cat thing. But she purrs when I pick her up. And sits on my shoes in the morning. And plays with the camera lasso when I'm trying to take halfway decent photo of her. I'm not saying I'm a cat person or anything. She's just kind of nice to have around. Sort of.

Just so you know,

2010-09-27T21:28:00.000-07:00

I told you so. I told you these next posts would be few.
But I have a few quick things to say and photos.

First of all, these guys have been invading the house lately. I don't they're very smart, though, to me, they're name suggests that they are: Crane Fly. I think they get in the bathroom and the the shower steams up the room and they get discombobulated, because they hop around sluggishly and barely register your presence. I saw a drowned one the other day and it made me sad.

I love my school supplies. My journals are all moleskine. And my pencil box is an old tea tin. Which is appropriate because 90 percent of the liquid in my body is tea. Coconut Chai. Gingerbread. Pumpkin Spice. Fall teas that I can't get enough of. Speaking of which, I am embracing Autumn fully. I have waited so long to bring out my long dresses and sweaters and the time is finally here. And it's nice to feel rain on my head.

I just finished the Hunger Games Trilogy and I haven't been able to get it out my head. I just keep on reading the epilogue, making sure everyone who lived through the three book is still okay. It's a brutal group of books. I think it really demonstrates the monstrosity of war. No one is sacred. People die violently and unnoticed. I didn't even really like the third book, Mockingjay, but I spent all of Saturday holed up reading it because I just needed to know what happened. I didn't want to have to wait for the ax to fall.
And boy, did it.

School has been good so far. Maybe not everything I expected of it. But good. I'm working very hard to stay efficient and to do my homework on the night it is given rather than a day later when I absolutely have to do it. I'm pretty tired. But it mostly worth it.
Speaking of which, I'd better go iron my clothing for tomorrow. Talk to you guys later.

Beginning

2010-09-04T17:28:00.000-07:00

I just want to warn you people. The posts aren't going to last. Their days are numbered. School is here, and with it, numerous obligations. Don't say I didn't warn you.
Working on some old and new pieces right now with cello. Sonata in A major by Franck is what I learned a few years ago. It's a beautiful piece, my favorite movement being the fourth. Very emotional. I like Jaqueline Du Pre's recording if you get it into your head to pick it up. The Lalo Cello Concerto in D minor is what I'm currently concentrating on and I'm learning the first movement of that right now. It's more dramatic than anything I have ever played before. Seriously, I didn't think a cello could make that much sound. Certainly not mine.
Going back to school is simultaneously exciting and wearying. I love to see people that I know, interesting funny focused people. But I've been a recluse for much of the summer and it makes it a little difficult to hold coherent conversations with people I haven't seen in a while. I'll get into the swing of things soon though. At least I'm hoping that's the case. As for the school work, I'm a little daunted. I'm starting to remember the nights of sprawling music theory homework. Of projects being finished at 3:00 in the morning. But it's all part of the process I suppose.

I watched the Princess and the Frog with my sister this morning. Have you seen it lately? It's adorable, one of the best Disney movies I've ever seen. By far my favorite Disney prince. I think the draw is the philandering, insulting bastard bit. But I'm just musing.

I also read this short story. Again. It's called All of Summer in a Day by Ray Bradbury. It is a remarkably well written and beautiful piece. It spans only a few hours, and yet encompasses so much. Please read it.

I'm looking forward to the changing of the season. The sun makes me want to shrivel up. But the rain makes me feel alive. And I'm looking forward to Halloween. I have a plethora of ideas for costumes. I think I may have decided well enough to actually start working on it.

Melancholy

2010-08-27T17:20:00.001-07:00

For some reason, I've been feeling a little sad lately. I don't know what came over me. It's not the end of the summer. I'm looking forward to school. I hope it goes away though. I'm tired of being weepy. Maybe I'm just tired. I don't know.

I've been reading more lately. The first from the top was lent to me by a friend. It's a fascinating account of the Bach Cello Suites, when they were written the mysterious composer, how they were brought out of obscurity by the famous cellist Pablo Casals, and finally how the author himself found the suites and decided to write a book about them. I loved it.

The second is about the Siege of Sarajevo. I hadn't actually heard about it before reading this, which is shameful, I know. I just shy away from news and from history sometimes because, it kind of makes me feel ugly to be a human. We do such terrible things to each other sometimes. Anyway, the book is about hope and humanity and living in a war zone. It was beautifully written. Beautiful. I found it kind of reminiscent of the Book Thief by Markus Zusak and if you haven't read that one, well, you should.

I just bought The Wind-up Girl. I'm very excited about it. It describes a future in which calories represent currency and people are grown and used as slaves. The reviews are all stunning.

I've been buying some tea from this woman, the Harbor Herbalist. She's the most lovely lady, very well educated on the medicinal uses of herbs. She tells me which teas to buy and I go home and try them and she's right and then I go buy more. It's a wonderful system. My favorite of the three is strength, a kind of tonic tea. I drink it all the time and it's been one of my first ventures into loose leaf. I love tea culture. The history and the weird little shops full of bags and tins.

I got a henna tattoo at the market as well. It's was darker now, but it's an umbrella, can you see? I love it. The woman who did it was so talented, said she's been henna-ing people for fifteen years. She's very good at what she does. I like the way it kind of looks like a birdcage at the top.

Well, that's it for now. I think I'm going to go work on my school supplies. Bye.

I think this will sum things up.

2010-08-23T09:51:00.000-07:00

This week, I:

Completed my Youth Symphony auditions. And wore blisters into the back of my feet as I paced outside the judgement room. But I had the power of chamomile tea and anger and months of the hardest practice in my fingers, and guess what? For the first time ever, I wasn't nervous.
Took a rather unplanned trip into Oregon, hanging out in Portland, wherein, I bought a pretty kick ass purse and some school supplies. Twas super fun.
Ate half a container of Au Natural Jiff with a spoon. By myself. And it was glorious. How my mother can possibly have kept this beautiful spread from me, for all these years, eludes my logic.
Played D and D with my family and played a character that wasn't a lithe elf, human or half elf. But a mighty and adorable dwarf. Her name is Aisling. Please don't ask me how I pronounce that. At this point, I truly don't know.
Ate only eggs and cheese for about three days. Also Jiff.

And so much more. Not a bad bit to end summer with, though I still have a week left. And half a container of Jiff. And some kittens. Hmm. Yummy.

A Poem, for which I apologize in advance

2010-08-17T23:56:00.000-07:00

In the sun spattered,

and soaked day,

restless and petulant,

I wait.

Make efforts to keep,

the images in my head,

(those of walking,

head down)

from speaking to me.

Don't make a mind,

for him,

that isn't his.

Don't slather your skin,

in hyperboles and

inauthenticities.

These would be

well worn missteps,

and I know better.

armed with the idea

that this may only be

futile,

I face a clear day,

as though the sun,

is finally

finally,

coming up.

Vanilla Mint

2010-08-08T09:40:00.000-07:00

More trending going on with my life. I'm unknowingly pairing with peppermint and vanilla all the time. I just found a packet of cocoa in the cupboard: White Chocolate Vanilla and Peppermint.

I think I might have been swindled into buying all three of these. I went to the cash register at Bath & Body Works with just the lemon and left the store with the other two and a rather heavy booklet of coupons. Also, I think I may have given them my phone number and email address.
Anyway. They're great. The lemon one tastes like Lemon Pound Cake but without the guilt.
Gosh. I should be in advertising.

I've started making my school supplies. Two of the binders I will be using this year are finished and I'm very happy with them. One of them is finished , but it's purposeful and determined ugliness irks me to no end. I might just start completely over. But last night, while watching Arrested Development, I made this little pouch to hold the nick knacks that fall inexplicably to the bottom of my bag.

I don't know if you can see in the picture, but those are adorable green polka dots on that fabric. I got it from Wal Mart. And I'm ashamed, because there's a great fabric store across the street that probably would have been worth the effort. But Wal Mart held up astoundingly well selection wise.

I'm off to Centralia for a couple of days to spend some time with some very old friends. It is going to be a blast. I can't wait to see them and spend some time on the farm where they live. It's beautiful there. Maybe I'll take some pictures and show them to you when I get back.

This is where things get a little weird

2010-07-31T21:15:00.000-07:00

So much has gone on in the last little bit. It's been a tad bit insane.

First of all, Sean, Tyler, Demi and I took this wild trip in Bandon, Oregon. Tyler has some family there. It was a small, convoluted and simply wonderful little town. It was on the coast too, so we got to spend some time on the beach (Although I still won't touch a bathing suit with a ten foot pole)
I really tried to keep the number of photos down to a minimum. But it was bloody difficult. There were just so many cool ones.

I kind of picture a barber shop trio going on here. Tyler on bass. Sean a tenor. Demi as our blossoming soprano. Sorry. That analyzing went past the point of being sane. I apologize.

We ate at the restaurant owned by Tyler's grandfather. The food was absolutely amazing. Seriously. It took all my non-carb eating strength not to eat gads and gads of food. All of it.

The suite we were staying in was utterly gorgeous. Seriously. I could fill an entire blog post with the pictures I took of the suite alone. There were clouds painted on the walls of this room. Clouds! Lovely, fluffy, billowy goodness goin' on right there.

And then, almost immediately after that leisurely trip down into Oregon, I was off to music camp with my brother. Thankfully I had no camera, so you will be spared any pictures.

As usual, camp was a lot of work. My fingers and upper arms are still sore, and I keep on waking up with nightmares about CPA's (Concert Preparation Assessments). But at the end of the week, I felt accomplished. And I got to hang out with some of the coolest, most genuine people I know. For a whole week. It was awesome. And bonus! I fell in love with the Elgar Cello Concerto.

It's weird. I'm going to be going back to school in a matter of weeks. But I'm okay with that. I'm perfectly fine with it. I've had a fulfilled summer.

A Post of Celebration

2010-07-15T08:53:00.000-07:00

I'm deleting my illegitimate facebook today. The one someone else created for me. I've been using it to stalk one person. But today that all ends.
Really, it just got to the point where it wasn't worth it anymore. My mark did not appear to have a whole lot going on (online anyway).
I, however, do. I painted four doll house chairs a couple days ago. They turned out nicely, I think. I'm not much of a painter though, which is funny, because both my parents are talented in that field.

I'm writing this post with Arlo in my shirt pocket. His eyes are wide open. They have been for a about three days. He was being kind of bratty a few seconds ago when Kelly passed by, because she gets all protective. But now that she's gone, he's calming down. Little dork.

Y'know what I always forget that I love? Magazines. I love how you forget that you were anticipating them until the arrive in the mail. I love the length of articles, how they're never long enough to make you bored, but just long enough to get you hooked. I'm particular to Martha Stewart Living, but hell, I love Game Informer too. If anyone has any recommendations of magazines, I'm thinking of buying a subscription or two.

It's about halfway through the summer at this point. I'm starting to get to the point where I feel like it would be okay to go back. At Junior High, that usually didn't occur to me until about the third week of school. It's a really nice feeling to enjoy school. I'm taking great classes too. It's going to be a great year I think.

Yesterday was my busiest day of the week. I work two markets and both of them are very busy. Between shifts though, I hung out downtown on my own. It was actually really nice. I bought coffee and poked around some of the shops (I ended up buying a white ruffled shirt, though not before I tried on the most unflattering dress I have ever beheld) and then ended up at the library, where I met a couple of people that I knew. I had a great conversation with Kenzie Jo, who will be at SotA next year, and then had a lovely night working with my family and Demi Dawn.

I bought my Mum some gorgeous flowers too. I actually was eyeing a more purply pink bunch beforehand, but then someone snatched them up and ran away cackling and stirring a cauldron. (I do not know how she managed this) I actually felt better though, I had been debating between pink and white (both had the purple covered) and so the lady made the choice for me. I think ended up with the better bunch though. Look at the elegance!

I'm just going to continue to pictures of stuff I'm doing

2010-07-12T14:43:00.000-07:00

When I slow down, I get restless. Between work and other obligations, my summer is slowly being eaten up. But it's okay. It's a full, fun summer and I'm learning a lot about myself, strangely.
For instance, I've found that I have a more willpower than I expected. At least, that's what the cheesecake sitting in my fridge has been telling me.
Anyway, restlessness. So I find myself spending my precious free time being really productive, at least creatively. It's nice. I'm making things that I have been meaning to work on for months.

For example:

This is the case I made for my parasol. I don't know why I did it. I guess I just love the idea of a long thin case stuck under my arm. And it's lacy and pretty, what's not to like? Now the sun has permission to come out, so I can use this thing.

I've been trying to be a good little socialite lately. It's not working out very well. I forget to email people back. Or arrange things properly. And when people call me, I have to explain each little busy moment. I think sometimes they don't believe me. Which is understandable, when they then log on and see a bunch of photos of hats I've been making, I guess.

Working on a short story right now. I have one scene left to write, and is by far the most pivotal and delicate. I have to be very careful. I won't post it here. It's about fourteen pages long right now and I don't want to bore anyone. I still have to do a lot of editing as well. There are still some snags. The female protagonist is named Sydney Jones. I love her and her name. But y'know, you're supposed. And the main protagonist is Adrian Cleary. By far the main character. But I'm not all that into the name. Sounds like a pretty boy. It does sound like someone I know. Actor maybe.

Oh. Maybe that's why. Huh

Anyway, I'm just struck by how much I suit a writerly lifestyle. I love getting up in the morning and writing for a few hours, refilling my coffee cup as needed. I enjoy being self motivated. Setting goals for myself. "I'll write 1,000 words and then I'll take a break". I know that being a writer isn't a likely occupation for me; it's so determined by luck and aggressiveness, but sometimes, I really wish it was more possible.

The kittens have opened their eyes. I suppose now they'll start being a little more active. They're lazy for now. There's this one, that whenever I try to pick it up, it start yowling and screeching. Thus, I've started calling it the "Screamer", though usually with a prefix of swearing.

There is a little tabby one, though, that I quite like. I mean it's quiet. And it's still a cat, so don't get any ideas. But, y'know, it's pretty nice. Sort of.

Post of Obligation

2010-07-06T18:11:00.000-07:00

A post in honor of my dear Demi.

But also because I want to post, of course.

I noticed a couple days ago, that I am very partial to this avocado green and white combo, as evidenced by the items about. No doubt, when I am older, this will be all over my house. That and milk glass.

I love me some milk glass.

I started work on this hat, last week. It originally had an ugly navy ribbon plastered onto it with a hot glue gun. As you can see, I've remedied that problem with a nice length of robin brown ribbon. Martha would approve I think. But the hat was missing a much needed pizazz.

Enter felted flowers. They're elegant. They're quirky. The coaster has nothing to do with them except that it provides a nice backdrop. I didn't actually felt them myself. But I love them just the same. So I put them on my hat.

The model, who has recently been going by the title La Pip didn't feel like taking a whole face shot, saying something about the integrity of the hat. I think she's full of shit, frankly. I think she's just being overly modest.

In other news, our cat, promiscuous at best, has recently given birth to a litter of five kittens. They're cute, I guess, for cats. I don't know what we'll end up doing with them. Abbie is very much in favor of keeping them, though I don't know what she'll think when they organize into a rodent killing army.

We'll see I guess.

a metaphor for something, I think

2010-06-25T23:47:00.000-07:00

She pulls herself up. There is that vague moment, during which she is not certain whether the meager strength of her arms will suspend her long enough to throw her weight onto the horizontal ledge. She propels herself forward and lands in a heap in the sand, which in its collected and gathered grains, exudes a welcome warmth. The wind sweeps it across the vast planes of rock that she now faces. She squints and tries to make out the sun, which is shrouded in cloud and dust.
She is tired. So tired, that she contemplates taking a small nap, curling up on her side on the stone, with the wind prodding at her back. Her body aches from the climb and her mind just wants to turn off for a while, having been dominated by thoughts of the ascent for what has stretched like forever.
Now that she is here, though, she is not quite sure what to do. She could pick a direction, and hope not to stumble over the accident. She could look for a safe place to sleep or camp. She could look for a water. She looks down at the sand, which is spread lightly over the rock at her feet. She nudges a divot into it with the toe of her shoe. She could stand here and write her name if she wanted.
She turns her head up again, to face the wind. Time spent too long trying to make decisions. She would walk, without much caring about course or motive. Maybe she would find something she needed. Maybe she wouldn't. It mattered only that she walked, not what course she chose or her motive for doing so.
Hours pass or maybe minutes. Maybe she can't tell anymore, or doesn't want to. But eventually she sees the man. He is standing, not walking, just standing. Waiting perhaps. She walks toward him and joins him in his vigil. They don't talk. They don't say poignant things. They don't fall in love. Or realize sudden truths about one another. They merely stand, in each other's presence.
And they wait.

Pressing

2010-06-08T11:10:00.000-07:00

I decided to do some flower pressing about two days ago. We don't really have a garden. More a collection of little sproutings in terracotta pots. But we have two roses, and a hellebore (that's the one at the top left) and that's good enough for me.

I used this press, which I made last summer. Sean helped me, because I'm frightened of power tools, but it came out quite nicely. It's a nice size at about 4 by 6 inches. It's all fancy and varnished too.

Okay. I'm a little proud.

I think these are going to turn out nicely. They're really lovely to use when I'm designing the front of my binders in the fall, for school, or on cards. They're very old fashioned feeling.

I picked up two new albums on Saturday (which was insane, by the way, three events going on simultaneously, and a cello rehearsal to get to. Glad that is over.). One of them is the new Imogen Heap album, Ellipse. I wasn't really understanding why I wasn't all over this before. She is one of my favorite artists of all time. I'm glad now though, because I have the entire summer to digest this thoroughly wonderful music. I especially like 2-1 and Tidal.

The other album is by Bruno Coulais, the soundtrack to the Secret of Kells, a movie I went and saw on Wednesday. It was fantastic. It was animated, and really a piece of art. I find it interesting that the last animated movie I said that about was Coraline and Bruno Coulais did the soundtrack to that as well. Trending anyone? Anyway, it's delightful, though maybe one of those things you want to put on when embarking on a long project, because the album should really stand together as one big song. It's wonderful stuff.

Though I miss school, I feel excited. I have an abundance of projects suddenly, that I want to finish, and outings that I have planned. It's going to be a good summer, I think.

Indulgent

2010-06-01T21:54:00.000-07:00

I like getting new things. Who doesn't? But I especially like it when all of my purchases fit together and reassure me of my aesthetic. The book pictured is "One Hundred Years of Solitude" by Gabriel Garcia Marquez, as prescribed by my English Teacher for the honors assignment. I like it. It's heady stuff, and it's rather frustrating because no one ends up happy, ever, but it's well written. It's highly descriptive.

This is my school's last week of school, and I haven't quite come to terms with that yet. I mean, I'll still be busy, what with work and my impending cello recital, but it going to be weird not seeing everyone everyday. And who knows when I'll see any of the seniors? It's kind of sad, even though I'm very happy for them.

At least it hasn't been sunny. I hate the sun. It's so showy and exasperating. No one ever gives the rain any credit for being beautiful and making everything green. Ridiculous.

In the Rain

2010-05-20T21:21:00.000-07:00

Her shoes are drenched and useless. She feels that they have filled with water and everytime she steps, the miniature flood rises up against her socks and soaks them further. Everyone is rushing, trying to escape the sudden, unexpected downpour, but she moves slowly, glad that she is numb. She hears slightly hysterical and giddy shrieking, as people recognize one another and laugh at the ridiculousness of the weather.

Every plant is so green, as though the rain somehow accentuates the natural. It's a little discombobulating, contrasted as it is, with the heavy grey sidewalks and buildings. She counts the divisions in the sidewalk, thinking that is she can fill her mind with numbers, bottomless numbers, she won't have to be alone with her thoughts for longer than neccesary. She is selfish.

As she comes to a crosswalk, she takes her time looking both ways, leery of cars that can't see her, dressed as she is in hues of charcoal and slate. There is a pamphlet plastered to the road, advertising some show or another, but she passes it before she can fully read it. A car crosses after her and seals it further to the asphalt with its tires. She has stopped counting and as her mind wanders toward something that she'd rather not contemplate. She starts again.

It seems so appropriate, this rain. Unabashed and unfaltering. Adamant and melancholy. She wonders when it might end. She expects that she'll have damp clothing to remember it by for hours.

She trudges on forward, a hapless monster in the bludgeoning wet.

Art

2010-04-26T19:38:00.001-07:00

I've been thinking about an aspect of art: the reality of the subject. I know that's really broad.
If you think about the respected actors we all know of, what is a common factor of their performances? I think one of them would definitely be the ability to mimic the behaviors of the people we see everyday. We admire them for being able to take a fictional character and make them relatable, and something familiar and real.
The same can be said for writing, to a certain degree. We admire those writers whose characters, among radical settings and extraordinary occurrences, are beings that we recognize, and that are "believable" because they imitate the behaviors of everyday people.
Visual art praises those who can properly and realistically portray the people they paint. Whether abstract or photo realism or anything in between, we respect those who can some how show us they understand and show humanity in an accurate light.
So what is it that separates this art from everyday life? Instead of going to a movie, one could go people watching in the city. Instead of painting, we could take a photograph.
I think what separates art from these mundanes is the environments in which we place these familiar life forms. We watch them react and experience things that we likely won't. Art allows us to live by osmosis. Art is the ultimate answer to every "What if?" question out there, and that, in part is what makes it so vital. It allows us to be fantastical and without it, I think, we would be dull and grey.
It's so very powerful, then, to be an artist. It's noble and generous, and I thank those that have affected me, and even who those that have not, because they make this world so much a better place.

The Messenger

2010-04-22T19:21:00.000-07:00

This story, this portion of screwed history, and my part in it, begins in Bone. Bone is a big city. The capital, in fact, with the stately grey stone building smack dab in the middle of it, as proof. I work for that building and the people in it. A spreader of the good word. The post man of the high-ups. What my official contract calls a Messenger.
I smother posters onto endless walls, making sure the denizens of Bone know what’s what. It’s dangerous work, because the rebels, they don’t like the “propaganda” or those who spread it. Treat it like some kind of political plague. So we’re instant targets, with our quivers of coiled posters slung across our backs and our rollers waiting in our hands.
That’s why the government chose people like me to be their messengers.
I’m really fast on my feet. I’m there and then I’m not. Fast, fast, fast. I grew up on the bad side of Bone (That’s a joke. Bone is a crappy city, don’t let anyone tell you otherwise or you’re screwed.). Because of that, I had to learn to run. You don’t survive long if you can’t. I know my way around a gun, too, and I’ve gotten better since I’ve taken the position. I keep a loaded shotgun in my quiver , and have to use it all too often.
I became a messenger when I was sixteen. My mom had busted her hand and had to be away from the factory and we needed money. She didn’t like the idea, but she didn’t like the idea of me starving to death either. We did what we had to do. When she died, a couple years later, of a stupid little flu that shouldn’t have killed her, I just kept the job. I was good at it. No need to fix what wasn’t broken.
Because I’m kind of a senior messenger now, I get the worst routes. The clusters of violent taverns in the slummiest of slums. Tours of back alleys and drug deals. Stringing lanes of brothels. Charming.
Anyway, it was not on one of those crappy routes when this whole thing started. I was actually in a comparatively gentle part of the city. Less muck, and therefore, fewer rebels. Oh, the irony…
I pulled a poster out of my quiver and unrolled it. The smell of the paper is so familiar it’s almost comforting sometimes. I held the poster and dipped my roller into a nearby puddle. We always go out after it’s been raining so we don’t have to bring water with us. The paper had adhesive in it, activated by water, so once you spread the poster out and glide a wet roller over it, its adhered to the wall in question. I angled my roller and pressed the damp onto the paper. And then I heard someone behind me. Someone stupid and clumsy. I turned instantly with my gun aimed in the general direction of the noise. Five rebels clad in black and those ridiculous gas masks indicative of the Great Red Company (GRC as any politician worth his salt knows) stood in the mouth of the alley. GRC’s are feisty, all noble and such, and it makes them a pain in the ass to kill. I took out the one near the front before he’d even readied his weapon, and then I was sprinting down the alley because I was outnumbered, even with one of their guys down. What a cheap move. Five men on one measly messenger. I concentrated on running. They wouldn’t be able to keep up for me for long though. I twirled and fired a frantic shot into the dark. I heard a satisfying thump of metal hitting flesh. That would teach them not to tail a girl, even if their mothers hadn’t taken the time to.
And then, I did something stupid. I was in the better part of town, remember? So, I didn’t know my way around as well. So, I took the wrong turn, and found myself staring at a dead end. Perfect. The three remaining guys, one with one of my bullets in him, crashed out from behind me, guns cocked. One of the uninjured guys suddenly straightened up.
“Dammit, that’s a girl.”
“Yeah, we know, boss.”
“I don’t kill girls”
“For God’s sake, she’s a messenger.”
Their voices were not those of grizzled old men. These were youngsters, hardly older than I was.
“If you let her off, man, you’re one of them ,” said the guy nearest to me.
“I know that Patrick. Why don’t you-“
The leader never finished his sentence because at that moment I twisted around and fired a bullet under my left arm, and turned to take out his other buddy in the same movement. He came forward and slammed me in the ribs and I grunted. I stuck the butt of my gun into his stomach and fired. Stomach wounds of that proximity are pretty fatal. I fell with him though, letting him cover me, while taking aim at the nearest enemy. The guy they called Patrick was backing away from me. .
I leapt up, pushing off the body, gun under my arm, aiming to kill. Patrick froze up and I shot him. I stepped toward the leader and aimed, but his gun was similarly trained on mine and he was in a far better position to kill than I was. Checkmate. He hesitated when he should have killed me and so I used my final trick, my last resource, and tucking my shotgun down, pulled into a perfect cartwheel, and kicked the man with my heavy boot, right in the temple. He wasn’t expecting it. I wasn’t actually either, to be honest. His gun hit the ground before he did, and it nearly went off. He was still. I was shaking and sweaty, in a heap on the ground. I breathed heavy and frightened, suddenly now that the adrenaline was fading, the bloodlust vanished. I leaned over, impulsively, and undid his mask.
I still don’t know what made me do it.
I recognized the face.
It was Gavin Redmond.

A Private Concert

2010-04-18T12:39:00.000-07:00

It was quite early. The morning was crisp, and it was cold enough to be wearing a jacket in the sun, which I always find to be a rather weird sensation.
My rehearsal wouldn't start until 11:00, which meant I had three lonely hours in the city, with a cello and a fully charged cell phone. I take a bus up to the library, admiring my idea, until I come to the glass doors and realize, with a bit of a panic, that it is 8:00 and the library doesn't open until nine, and that man with blond hair is starting to make his way over to me to talk. I skirt back down the hill, my cello hitting the back of my legs and my shoes making controlled clicking noises on the pavement.
Coffee, I think, I'll go get coffee and then head back up and read. It's okay. You're safe. Safe.
The Starbucks is, of course, thronging with business people and jamming (unwieldy) through the door is no ego boost. I am also the youngest, the smallest, and wearing, in hindsight, a rather loud green plaid. I pay for a tall skinny vanilla latte (because I find things I love and I stick with them.). And then there's the awkward waiting in the queue, mistakenly reaching out once or twice for what I think is mine. They give me a grande instead of a tall and I tell the barista, who waves me off with "Do you want a grande then?".
And then I'm stuck because it's only 8:30 and I have a larger quantity of coffee then I expected and the library is still closed. I walk to the park, that overlooks the water. I sit on a bench. There is a homeless man sleeping, and a couple of others that I can make out in the distance, talking. It's silent. I sit, with my cello against my knee, stuck and a little frightened.
After a moment, I lean down and undo the zipper of my case. I slide my cello out and the strings make little muffled fifth noises. I bring out the end pin, and then anchor it into the gravel. I pull out my music and use my coffee cup as a paper weight.
And then because it is safe and familiar and wonderful, I play. I play Faure and Martinu and Bach and Grieg, and anything that happens to sound right. I'm playing handfuls of wrong notes, but these people don't know or care. I play for only me.
People wander into the park. One guy, this photographer, asks me if he can take my picture. As he does he says "I came to take some landscapes, but I didn't expect some young girl playing the cello." and I say,
"Yeah. I didn't either." I'm embarrassed then, because of the attention. Attention is nice when I'm expecting it, or wanting it. But not when I'm relishing the lack of it.
Another guy homeless guy wanders by and growls, "Sounds nice," before crossing to the other side of the park. A dog barks at me, sniffing in vain at the wood of my instrument. A group of exercising women look at me curiously.
I play until my fingers hurt, not stopping. I play scales and symphonies and solos, and riffs. And then my phone rings:
"Hello?"
"Hey, where do you want to meet?"
For awhile, I'd forgotten my rehearsal.
"Oh."
"How about the fountain?"
"Yeah, okay, see you then." I click the phone off. I sip my now cold coffee. And then I pack up my cello and leave the park, my private concert in my wake.

Update on Stuff

2010-03-31T17:32:00.001-07:00

Have I mentioned that my school gives me two weeks off for Spring Break? How much awesomeness is that, eh?
I want to make sure I use the time well though. Making stuff and such. There's this craft store in town, a really good one. It's got this one section with all this "Make Your Own Pendant" stuff. Pieces of circular glass. Aluminum flux tape. And best of all, a whole bunch of packaged clock pieces. The gears and faces and hands and such. It hums with potential, but the stuff is expensive. Probably because watches, especially old ones, aren't exactly cheap items.
I think maybe I'll start writing a new story this week. I've got some ideas that are pretty well fleshed out. Although, sometimes, I find that those are the hardest to write. I want to get everything right, down to the plaid of the characters jacket, y'know? Because they've been living with me in my head, I find it difficult to bring them into something as two-dimensional as writing.
Easter is this weekend, as I'm sure many of you are aware. Sean is planning his the Hunt already and I'm getting more and more excited. I wonder if I will do something similar to the Hunt when I get older with my own kids. It seems only right that I would, but I'm not sure I would know quite how to go about it. Sean says starting backward is the trick.
I really wish that I could sew, as I think it would open up a whole new venue of artistry for me. I'm just kind of terrified of sewing machines. Needles rotating at such intervals are not exactly encouraging. And I've heard horror stories before. Maybe I'll just keep relying on my parents. (Because, yes, Sean sews. His seams are impeccable in fact.)
Northie got an iPod Touch earlier this week, and though I would never, ever let him know, I am mad with jealousy. Of course, his iPod is full to the brim with Zombie Killer and Drum Kit Apps, things I wouldn't touch with a ten foot pole, but sometimes I see glimpses of things that just drive me nots with how cool they are. But I've vowed never to get an iPod again, so I suppose I'm just destined to be envious.

Overstep

2010-03-16T20:24:00.000-07:00

So I had this kind of revelation today, on the bus.
We were all sitting there, tired because of the standardized test that we had just taken, which pretty much melted our brains entirely. We were heading to orchestra at that point, and I was clutching my enormous puffy cello case like some sort of life raft. It was a short bus and it was the 3. The 3 is what I would classify as a shifty bus. It's not a naive commuter bus. It travels downtown every fifteen minutes, transporting everyone from blue-tooth chatting lawyers to rather dapper hobos.
Anyway, we were sitting there, kind of silent, and this man leaning in the corners, asks loudly.
"That a violin?"
We get this a lot. Which is understandable. We're downtown lugging around these ridiculously shaped parcels, trying to keep our balance. It only follows that we're going to get questioned.
"Yes," replies the girl to my left, quietly. People don't generally talk to people beyond their own party. It just singles you out. She's silently freaking out. But she's handling it well.
"My sister used to play violin in the sixth grade.I just play the harmonica and..." He mumbled something else after, but none of us heard what he said. There was obviously something up. He turned to me.
"And is that a guitar?" he asked
"Actually, it's a cello" I replied, small. I should say more, but it's awkward, and I know that you don't talk to strangers.
"Oh," he said, and then mimed striking a bow against the fingerboard of an imaginary cello, his left finger wiggling notes.
"Yep." There was more silence, and my little group exchanged that look, like, don't let this devolve into anything more, because we were brought up with stranger danger. When a dirty man with slurred words starts talking to you on a bus, when no one else will, the warning signs inside your head start flashing up.
He left the bus at the next stop without any more conversation. They all exhaled together and there was this general murmuring of "That was kind of weird."

This sort of thing happens all the time in the city. It's kind of commonplace. And the strangest thing about it is the kind of kinship I feel with those crazy bus people. The ache in my heart when we all unanimously sigh, "Freaky". Because, to a certain degree, I grew up with that sort of reaction with some of my peers. Obviously, none of them considered an 5 foot girl a physical threat, but I too got the "You're alien" look. I don't think it was traditionally a malignant thing, just kind of an instinct. But I would get it always when I was too loud or too excited, or I wore some ridiculous long dress to school. A flash of it, that made me stop and stutter, and wonder where I'd overstepped.
I'm not writing a pity post here, not trying to blame my peers for some blank stares, but I just had this unmistakable sympathy for that man on the bus today. And I wanted to say,
"Yeah, I play the cello. I love it." or "Does your sister still play?" or "What other instrument do you play." Something to let him know, I guess, that it is okay to overstep, sometimes.
But I didn't.
Because people just don't talk on buses.

Rain

2010-03-09T20:10:00.001-08:00

First of all, a big picture of this tea. Because I really, really love it, and more importantly, the packaging it comes in. It's so old fashioned and the colors and fonts are perfect. We ran out of it recently, which was really quite a sad thing. Although, I think the empty box might still being sitting in out tea cupboard (Which, now I kind of realize is ridiculous. We have a lot, a lot of tea and a whole cupboard devoted to it. Mountains of it.)
We started discussing existentialism in class today. I think I like it, or at rather, I like all that I've read about it so far. It makes me feel really significant. I might change my mind in a few days, but today and for now, I like it, and am looking forward to learning even more about it. People are saying they find it really depressing. I don't, at least so far. But I'm jumping the gun even talking about it.
We're going through an unexpected dry, cold spell and it's making walking to classes hell. My nose and ears are starting to match my scarlet scarf. I hope it goes away and the heavy rain comes back. Or maybe perhaps the sun. The sun is okay as long as it's not mucky. Do you know what I mean? I can handle clear sunlight, but not muggy sunlight.
I know this is awful, but I can't wait until the summer when I start making money again. I'm having this sudden revival of my taste being thrown in my face. I can feel this definite aesthetic, and I can't really buy anything to supplement it. But I suppose I'd better get used to the feeling. I've still got months to go before the market starts up again.
Did you know that out of the 103 blog posts that I have written, only 67 have been published? I was looking through my archives last night and was totally surprised by that. But apparently there have just been a lot of posts that I didn't deem right to be seen in the light of the day. Which brings me to another point.
Somebody was saying to me the other day that one of the integral traits of a true writer is someone who continues to write without an audience in sight. I don't know if this applies to me or not. On some days, I think that I would definitely write on a deserted island. Other days I tell myself that that would totally not be happening, that I rely on an audience when I'm writing. It's an interesting question I think. I ponder it quite a bit, when I'm walking aimlessly, or looking out a window.
Have I mentioned that music theory is really, really difficult? I feel like I'm accomplishing much, and our teacher is simply the best, but dear god. Just when I start to get something, something else is cautiously introduced and my head explodes. But the class dynamic is great, everyone helping each other and working hard. It's competitive too, but in a nice way. It's more motivational than aggressive.
Speak of the devil, I'd better go work on that. Sorry for the random post.

Ten Great Things About This Week

2010-03-03T21:22:00.001-08:00

1. Getting "Definitely Maybe" from Netflix. Mum watching it on the couch, finally getting to sit down, and me sitting on the floor, drinking my tea, and telling her when the good parts are coming up.

2. Winning the forum election in my humanities class, alongside my other fabulous teammates. I got to wear a bowler hat and a moustache. What's not to love?

3. Learning music in orchestra that I love, and that I want to get better at. There's stuff that I at first was leery of, but am slowly beginning to understand and accept. They are going to be beautiful things, these pieces.

4. New bad ass characters that run around a futuristic, steampunk cities in the dead of
night, plastering corrupt governmental propaganda posters over brick walls and hiding from violent rebel splinter groups.

5. Two new skirts. One floral rayon, the other tan linen. Both long and A-line. Unfortunately, I still need some more clothing. Everything in my closet has been on repeat for the last three months.

6. Tall Skinny Vanilla Lattes from Starbucks. Specifically money to buy them. And the time to go and order them between 7th and 8th period.

7. Rediscovering music because it is spring and I'm sifting through stuff I haven't listened to for months. Rock on Yann Tiersen! And thank god for the new Joanna Newsom album.

8. The grape hyacinth and daffodils that have started blooming next to each other on the UWT campus. It's hard not to want to pick them. They are the perfect color combination. Spring in one singular image.

9. The appearance of cadbury mini-eggs on candy shelves in every grocery store. Only now can spring truly be here. They too are a picture of Spring and the fairer months.

10. Good heavy books by Scott Westerfield that I am suddenly itching to pick up and read in their entirety.

A Mild Rant

2010-02-10T17:19:00.000-08:00

So I've been thinking, lately, about social media. Particularly the idea of texting, or in my case, not texting.
My phone is a plastic brick, that could, quite possibly, double as a self defense weapon. The ring tones are ridiculous, obnoxious midi-files, and one has three choices of background photos: Flower, Soccer Ball and Beach. This doesn't matter to me at all really, (although answering to a blaringly annoying tone is rather embarrassing at times) because I don't talk on the phone a lot in the first place.
On the subject of texting however, things get a little tricky. Texting is so convenient. A couple finger-clicks and a conversation is started. It's probably less awkward and formal in comparison to a face-to-face conversation. When texting there are only words to pay attention to- the meaning is spelled out, quite literally. But it's different when having a face-to-face conversation- you read body language and have to respond to the environment around you. Lulls in conversation are more pronounced. It's a little more risky.
With texting, the relationships with acquaintances or distant friends are far more developed, I'm assuming. If you want to talk with a distant friend face-to-face, you have to devote a lot more time and energy to getting to where they are and taking time to speak to them; unlike just zipping off a text. And because the conversations are less awkward and without as much preamble, one can strike up a conversation with someone over text that they might not be able to in person. So even though you only know Jim from one crazy party and he lives in Kansas, you can still become pretty good friends.
Of course, there are some downsides to texting too. The capacity for misunderstandings is huge compared to face-to-face conversations. How many fights have started, how many broken hearts have there been because of a misread text? Plenty. And for me, the reliance that one develops to texting is something that would tie me down. It would compromise my freedom to a certain point, almost like a kind of social cigarette or pain medication . In the worst of scenarios, one's social skills would be inhibited by the fact that for a majority of the time, they speak through text instead of face-to-face interaction.
And I want the relationships I form with people to be real, true interactions. You can be someone else over text, if you want to be. I know I come out differently over email sometimes. I want honesty more than anything in all relationships, and I don't neccesarily think that texting really promotes that stuff.
But sometimes I wonder, if by not texting, I am missing out. Would the ability to be able to talk to Blu and others, without preamble, and without fright, on a whim, have made things turn out differently at all? Made me more accessible? (My goal isn't exactly to embody accessibilty, but it is something to think about...)
I think about the people who I sometimes go weeks without talking to. I feel bad about it. Guilt swells. Would I have to deal with that regret if I was able to talk them whenever?
In the end, for me and my own personal reasons, I know that I myself am better off without texting. I don't think any less of those who do- truly. It's really weird sometimes to be the only one in the room who isn't connected to some stream of conciousness that everyone else knows about.
I guess I've just been thinking about it. Texting. And so I'd write those thoughts down. That's what a blog is for, right?

The Silhouette

2010-02-01T21:30:00.000-08:00

Just something I've been working on. Hope you like it..
The Silhouette
Petra eyed the steam issuing from the spout of the old copper kettle with a practiced eye. She hated burning her tongue. It made everything taste filmy and defeated the purpose of brewing tea in the first place. Better to have a cold cup than a scalding one. She crossed the room to the cupboard and grabbed out one of the two mugs she owned- the one with the heliotrope painted on it. She set it on the table and then, grasping it by the handle, gently lifted the kettle and poured the hot water into the cup. Leaving half an inch for milk and sugar, she placed the kettle back on the woodstove. She walked to the cupboard again, her bare feet making slapping sounds against the rough hewn, wooden planks of the floor. The sound of the crickets outside were loud and staccato and pervasive, so unexpectedly like what she heard in the movies. She had been surprised the first night out here. But by now she was used to it, of course. It would be three years in May.
She reached in the cupboard and searched with her fingers until they alighted upon the particular mason jar she was looking for among the rectangular boxes and bottles and packets. She pulled the jar out into the light and opened the top, sniffing the tea leaves and the slight scent of raspberries. She brought the mason jar back to the table and reached into the jar, withdrawing one of the cheesecloth bundles, which she had painstakingly tied up a few months prior. She dropped it into the water, and watched as the reddish-brown stain of the tea seeped into the water.
She glanced up, and noticed the silhouette.
And it was so familiar. The slightness of the shoulders, the hair going in a thousand different directions, the curved shape of his posture. So instinctually familiar, that the only sign of surprise from Petra was a small, low intake of breath.
“Hello Petra.”
She couldn’t see his features. He had placed himself carefully so that she wouldn’t be able to.
“Could you make me a cup of tea?”
“Uh. Yes,” she turned back to the woodstove and lifted up the kettle, surmising the amount of boiling water she had left. “I should have enough for another mug,”
She brought out the other mug and then sifted around in the tea cabinet again, selecting a store-bought, pre-packaged tea bag. Boring English Breakfast. She poured the water into the cup and ripped open the packet. The gauzy package floated on the water for a moment, before it was overcome with absorption and fell under the surface.
The visitor, still shrouded in the dark, gestured to the mason jar. She almost thought she could see the glint of his rings. Two silver ones, on his left hand. Index and middle fingers.
“Did you blend that one yourself?” he said.
“Yes. I grew the raspberries in the backyard. I dry them in the cellar with a dehydrator I made last winter.” She sounded so efficient. And cold.
The silhouette’s head bobbed and she knew he was nodding.
“How did you manage that?”
“With some extra wood. And time.”
“Ah.”
Petra let one hand sit on the table and fished out the homemade teabag from her mug. She squeezed it damp and then dropped it on the table with a feeble padding sound. She added milk and sugar to her tea, thinking, as she always did, it’s like raspberries and cream.
“I like my tea really weak” he said, and she pulled on the string of his tea bag, and dropped it onto top of hers.
“Milk and sugar?”
“Yes, please.” And then when she started to spoon in the sugar, “And easy with that.”
She slid the cup over the table, and he reached out and grasped it by the handle. His wrist and hand slid into the light and they were exactly as she had remembered, all thin and pronounced and right.
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.” She said, lifting her mug to her lips.
“You don’t get too cold out here?” He asked.
“No. The stove keeps me really quite warm.”
“And you have a plethora of sweaters.”
“Yes.” she said
“And in the summer?”
“It gets really hot. Usually we just stay outside and try to keep cool. I garden… The dog nearly died this summer of the heat, though. I had to take her into town she was so sick.”
“Were you frightened?”
“Yes.” She said, and he waited for a moment.
“Do you make other kinds of tea?”
“Mostly just berry teas. But sometimes I try a rosemary blend.. Or thyme.” She waited.
“I like my thyme to be punctual.” he said, putting down his mug on the table. His hands again.
She nearly smiled and instead stared down into her tea, smooth and opaque.
“Where do you go, when you leave?” she said.
But even before she looked up, she knew that the silhouette was gone, and that she wouldn’t have an answer.

Willing and Reading

2010-01-03T13:53:00.000-08:00

I believe there are two sorts of people in the world: those who skip to the last page of the narrative to read the last word, and those who don't. I'm terrible for it, always telling myself that, that is exactly what I'm not going to do, that it will only ruin the story for me, that it's a waste of a book. And yet, about 60 pages in, almost always, my resolve crumbles and I flip to the back of the book, and read, sometimes stopping in between my place and the end, my heart dropping as a much beloved character dies. It's an awful and horrid habit, and I can't stop myself.
That's a huge deficit in willpower- I think. And it's not like I'm an naturally weak-willed person, really. So I wonder if there are other factors than just my desire to know what happens and my slightly swayable will.
Sometimes, I think, it's because the plot is strong and the writing is poor. If the words are rubbish, then why bother with the author's embarrassing and clumsy prose? Because you want to know the outcome, that's why. I'm positive that some part of my inclination to read the finale of nearly every damn book I pick up is that I read books with great plots and some less-than-Markus-Zusak writing.
Maybe it's partially that I'm busy, that I don't have enough time, really, to read as many books as I want to, so I skim through novels hoping to give my story-starved brain the impression that it's absorbing as many books as it would like to.
And another thing- since I've started writing more (though, this blog is no indication of that) I found that I'm able to predict what happens in a book nine times out of ten. I've read up on plot diagrams and listened to lectures and I just kind of get where a story is going..
The things that really stick with me these days are the things that surprise me, and that make me wonder what's going to happen next. That's why SotA makes me so happy; At Kalles, I had gotten to a point where it felt I knew what was coming next- like I wasn't really learning anything that I hadn't already been told a thousand times. I knew there was so much more to learn and to know, but maybe I just wasn't absorbing what I supposed to be. There were exceptions of course, classes that always made me think, but at SotA it's like that all the time. (Can you tell that I'm sort of excited to go back?)
Anyway, back to the book thing. I have a New Year's Resolution (Which, usually, I don't really believe in) - I'm not going to read the end anymore, no matter how tempting it may seem. I'm going to hold off.
This is not going to be made any easier by the fact that I got a shitload of books for Christmas and I have less that twelve hours before my schedule goes crazy again...
But I'm going to do my best.

Afterword: I went and saw Sherlock Holmes yesterday. It was fantastic, and if you have an extra three hours and twelve bucks (stupid movie prices) you should go see it; If you're a fan of the old TV series Sherlock, I don't think you'll be as disappointed as you expect- Holmes is still a schizophrenic genius who you kind of suspect of being gay.
It really is a great movie, both leads doing a great job.
I just kind of had to give some attention, what with the Church of Avatar rapidly eclipsing Christianity as America's Religious Majority.

Oh dear

2009-11-18T19:21:00.000-08:00

I totally can't afford to be doing this right now; I have a seminar paper that I need to finish tonight and some cello that desperately needs practicing.

But I also have this little brown dog in my lap, who has fallen asleep and whom I don't really have the heart to wake.

So while I'm waiting for Mum to come 'round and wake him with her presence (I swear he knows her footsteps), I'm going to write as much of a blog post as I possibly can.

I have a practice with Youth Symphony until 9:00 tomorrow. I thought I minded, but maybe I don't. I like my symphony friends a lot. They're all so focused. And I'm not really so frightened of the hellish stand-partner I had at camp this year anymore. She comes off a confident, endlessly intimidating individual, but I've watched her, and she's really insecure, always fiddling with her hair, and pulling down her shirt, or adjusting her hoody or cleaning her nails. She finds a great deal of importance in the way she looks I think, and that's a weakness that somehow makes her seem less menacing.

Break is coming up. I get a whole week off at Thanksgiving, which is fantastic. Thank god for SotA Vacations. Now I can maybe get to that huge stack of homework and emails from friends, and cello practice. It will be nice to a have a clean slate for the last two weeks of semester.

I have been feeling very creatively exhausted lately. There is just so much to express and present in such a short amount of time here. I think it's just because I'm starting so many new endeavors at SotA, it feels very schizophrenic for now. I have to write a new song in the next few weeks and I have just barely digested the last one I finished. I have to do revisions on a Creative Writing Draft that I barely remember, it was written so quickly. (I'll hopefully post it when it's finished being edited. Or maybe I won't. Depends on how ashamed I am). It's just pretty tiring and there is not one day a week where I do not fall asleep the moment my head touches pillow. I love it here- truly, I wouldn't have it any other way- but it sure does keep me busy.

My sixteenth birthday is steadily approaching. I can't quite believe it. Sixteen is that age that every heroine magically happens to be. Sixteen-year-olds drive and drink drip coffee and have boyfriends and fully-formed opinions and jobs and party all night long. Or a least in books they do. I don't really feel like I could possibly be at that shimmery, always oh-so-distant age, but here I am, looking it in the face, a lot more prepared than I ever thought I would be.

Basil has just heard Mum coming out of her room and has jumped out of my lap. No more excuses. I have a paper to write.

Update

2009-10-04T11:02:00.000-07:00

So those first days/weeks of school have passed, and I'm settling. I know what times to catch the elusive "1" bus, so that I can avoid a truly ridiculous hill. I know that it's a waste of money to buy your coffee at Starbucks, when you can walk up the street to the convenience store and buy the same drink for a buck. I know how to spell some major chords, and I'm trying to learn the piano a little bit (it's an arduous process, I'm finding)
Symphony has started up again. We're playing stuff from movies for a Halloween concert we'll be doing in late October. Its' not anything I can really get behind. There's no organic quality to the music, because I know it all, and so I can't really find any way to connect with it. We're playing a Grieg and a Mozart though, for our real concert in November, and I like those. We're also playing a Walton for the same concert- but I can't say I'll ever like it very much.
There a lot of really talented people at my new school. It's daunting. I have a lot of homework, and am up late until ten most nights. But it's okay. The homework feels like I stuff I would be doing on my free time anyway: Brainstorm a character and answer forty-five personal questions about them. Practice the first page of a Martinu Duet. Listen to a contemporary song of your choice and identify the bridge. So even though it's still required it doesn't feel like it so much. I feel like I have a choice. It's really refreshing. But I'm so busy, what with symphony and all this homework, that I can't really look up.
I miss my old friends. My Emma is at her school, meeting new, exciting people without me and trying to figure out if her photography teacher is an impostor or not. I miss her down-to- earthness in the mornings and her quiet, creative brain. I know it can be the hardest thing to be alone in strange place, but I also know that if there is anyone who can handle it, it is her. She is one of the strongest people I know. It still doesn't keep me from missing her and wanting her to be around all the time.
Logan too. I don't have my ever-present human dartboard, and frankly, I'm starting to worry that all the malevolence in my person is going to pile up, and explode one of these days. I haven't kicked anyone in the shins in weeks. Months even.
And all the others. I hope I can see them soon.
My Father and I have been having discussions lately, about career choice. They're serious. I think, going to this art school scares him a little. It scares me. Each day, I fall more and more in love with what I am doing and what I am creating. And I know, that even though my whole heart is in it, and that I love it more than just about anything else, that it will likely never really make me a living, ever. It's a pessimistic outlook, I know. But I have to be realistic about it, or I will ruin that love I have for playing music or writing, or singing, or any artistic endeavor I pursue. To connect it with true failure would make it so much less for me. So I know I have to pick carefully, something that I will be happy to be doing, but not something that will never make me any money at all, or something that is not stable. I won't be miserable, but frankly, I won't probably have my dream job either. I don't need to be hugely successful, with big houses, and nice cars; I don't have expensive or materialistic goals really. But I want children, that I don't have to worry about feeding. I want education outside of school. I want to have time and the resources to play cello forever and write when I want to and draw and sing. I don't really think that can be achieved by choosing a wholly artistic career. I have to pick something that is needed acutely, that only I and a handful of others can achieve. I have to find that perfect fit.
And it's a tough thing to come to terms with. But I am willing. I have to be.

A Snippet. A Flibberdigibbit.

2009-09-10T19:14:00.000-07:00

At Music Camp, the first thing they do is put you in a room and make you take a theory test. It's difficult. And frightening. And confusing. At that point I'm usually all pink and puffy because I've been crying as my Mum leaves, and it's embarrassing. And God. I'm horrible at theory. Whoever figured out how to wiggle math into music is a dead man. If you ask me how I'm feeling when I play a song, and what the song, in my opinion, represents I'll be fine. (Useless skill number twelve, up there with multi-journal keeping and the ability to level a paladin in WoW.) But if you give me a sheet of difficult theory and ask me to solve it, I may end up crying.
Basically, the camp theory test is unpleasant.
They make you take the test so that they know which theory class to put you in. (One being the lowest aptitude and nine being the best). I'm not going to lie: Both years, I've been in shameful theory two. The first year, it was excusable. But being put in the same low level theory class twice? No. Bad.
Things like this should be getting easier for me. My teachers have always been good, and understanding. I legitimately try hard. But they still end up kicking my ass so hard, that by the end of the week, I'm starting to hate music notes. It's, by far, my least favorite aspect of camp.
But today. Today, I have found the key to all. It's this chart. And oh dear god, it makes things so, so much easier..

b's #'s
0 C
1 F G
2 Bb D
3 Eb A
4 Ab E
5 Db B
6 Gb F
7 Cb C

If I had known about this very chart, three years ago.. I would have been a much happier person. So if you know an aspiring instrumentalist, who wants to pursue music theory, or even if they don't, drag them here.
And thank God for songwriting class.

Smoky Smell

2009-08-31T21:48:00.000-07:00

When I'm in the city, I have my hot spots. The places I need to visit to feel like I have had a complete visit to the city.
One of the places is the Value Village. It's located in rather shady area. Violent graffiti covers the walls. Redundant posters cling every available surface, advertising a club here or a band there. The VV is right between an alleyway and a bicycle shop. I've never been in either.
When you come in, you're right away assaulted by this weirdly medicinal smoke smell. It's not pleasant, but for some reason I don't mind it. It's familiar I suppose, so I like it. The ground level is where the clothes are. The basement is for furniture and linens, and the top floor is devoted to books and housewares. I spend most of my time on the ground floor. Go figure.
There's a lot less hunting there, than in most of the thrift stores I visit. It seems like every third thing I pick up has some pattern that I like, or a shape I've been looking for or a color I desperately need. I always hate the dressing rooms. I don't know if it's a more accurate mirror or the lighting is bad, but I always, always look awful. It's depressing. But I spend like two hours in there, dealing with weirdly placed armholes, and unlocking locks, modeling clothes periodically for my mother. She sometimes drapes clothing she thinks I'll like over the door.
Most of those items end up among our final purchases. I'm a sucker for my Mum's taste, which is almost identical to mine, if a little more refined.
Once I left a note in an encyclopedia there. You had to hold it up to the light in order to understand what it said. I left it on page 56; Pipe. When I went back, a few weeks later, the book was gone, and my note was too. I always wondered who had gotten it. I had various scenarios in my head.
I've grown up being dressed in secondhand clothing all my life. I'm a fish out of water going into name brand stores. I miss the thrill of finding something truly lovely among racks of castoff ugliness. I don't like the uniformity. I don't like the way I look in those kinds of clothes. They're uncomfortable. And I'm not going to deny it, I look at the price tag, and shake my head. Once you start buying your shirts for two dollars, there's no going back to twenty dollar tank tops. Though I never liked those, so what do I know?

Morning

2009-08-25T19:28:00.000-07:00

I'm going to miss a lot of things about summer.
I'm going to miss getting up late, and obscenely early, based on only how I'm feeling. I'll miss going for dim sum in the city every Sunday with my family. I'm going to miss my seasonal job at the market, and my sweet, loyal customers. I'll miss wrestling with my younger siblings. Hour long car rides and days where I sat out in the sun and only thought. Playing World of Warcraft with reckless abandon. Taking ridiculous, gritty photos to impress my Father. Sweltering hot walks through town. The world's best ice cream.
I going to miss it all.
I hope that I can be more proactive this year, so that my parents don't have to work as hard to make sure I am where I need to be and doing what I need to be doing. I hope that I will become even more dedicated to my music and that it won't be too terrifying in my new, difficult orchestra. I hope that my parents will feel the work that they've put into this new house and be able appreciate it, during the crazy, fully-scheduled school year. I hope I will find purpose in my schoolwork. I hope I will not miss my mother too much, with me at school and her at her job. I hope that I won't spill anything on white shirts. I hope that I will have my iPod always charged.
Thoughts like these always come up at the beginning of September, when letters start coming in the mail, announcing prep day, reminding me. They press. They bring a sourness and longing into these last days of August. I am, to say the least, unwilling to begin again. Usually.
This year is different. I'm going to a place where I want to be. Where I am relieved to be and excited to be. This autumn holds little of the regret and drudgery that I have come expect.

I am so ready.

Memoir

2009-08-07T06:50:00.000-07:00

The book was a pale pink, ballet teacher pink. Somebody, she didn't know who, had drawn a lady in a green skirt, a tree and a horizon line on the front cover. She flipped through the already well-worn pages and savored each one. A picture of her and Erin, the girl who took karate, and wore her hair in a short, sandy bob. A picture of her and Aurora, who hugged her too hard with a grin too phony to really be believed. Herself and Ms. Fairly, standing by the pine tree. Herself and Bradley, looking slightly more demure, aware of the impending separation. .
She always got car sick, and the drive to the "States" was no exception. It wasn't particularly different here. More trees. More rain, but still the same grey colour in the sky and the same tired chill in the early morning. She wondered why such a fuss was made about coming here.

***

Nellie had always liked having new school supplies. They smelled nice and they accentuated the excitement of everything being different. No one had really talked to her, but they had barely had time to. The teacher had introduced her to the class before the bell had rung and she had enjoyed that, and the shy front she put up; she enjoyed that too.

But then suddenly everyone was standing up, and the teacher (Who wasn't her usual teacher apparently, just a substitute) was coming to the front of the class. Then they were all speaking in unison. Looking in the same direction. Nellie stayed in her seat, until the rest of the class sat down again, and then raised her hand.

"What was that?"

The teacher was a pointy, fashionable sort of woman, prone to wearing turtlenecks. Her name sounded like the word nails. So Nellie fixed it in her mind that her teacher's name was Ms. Nails.

"That, was the pledge of allegiance. We address the flag every morning and on Mondays we sing the Star Spangled Banner". Ms. Nails smacked her lips and wrote the words to the pledge of allegiance up on the board.

"We'll see how you do tomorrow. Okay?"

***

Nellie's cardigan was terribly hot. She took it off. It was only April, but the sun had come out blindingly and suddenly, and the girl was uncomfortable, in this unfamiliar playground, with all it's metal. She was waiting in line to get on a bar. She didn't really understand the point of them. Girls just basically spun around on them, their long ponytails hitting the wood chips with a strange swishing sound. They looked like giant croquet goals. Maybe they were things you had to experience to understand. She wished someone wanted to be a faerie with her instead.

The bar, when she finally commandeered one, was exactly what it looked like. It made her knee uncomfortable. And she panicked a little when she was she was entirely upside down. But she had waited long enough, and she was going to take what she could from it. She had fifteen loops to get through.

A short girl was watching her from her place in the line and after a few minutes of observation walked straight up to Nellie, who was on loop number 7. She had pretty, feminine brown hair, and she was wearing a sparkly pink and brown t-shirt. Her name was Laura. Nellie envied the length of Laura's hair, longed for her own shorn curls.

"Can I use this bar?" said Laura. Nellie hesitated and then nodded. She still had 8 loops left. But maybe Laura could be a friend. They switched places and Laura did a few experimental spins. Then she looked up at Nellie, and cocked her head.
"Do you know why I asked you?" she said.

"No."

Laura blinked. "Because I knew you'd get off easiest." And then she spun in three loops, without stopping once.

***

There was so much space at the new house. Tunnels to be made in the blackberry thicket. Nests to find. Trees to climbs. Thorns to be snagged in. The yard was their kingdom.

The baby was lovely, and she didn't cry much at all. Northie loved the baby. He loved the baby a lot. But he still went on adventures with Nellie. Her faithful companion. She missed him. Always.

They had found a clearing in the thicket, hidden away from the world by leaves and stalks and blackberries. Nellie had named it Paradise. She told Northie that he could be the founder, and she would be the Prime Minister. They settled into their roles comfortably. Stuffed moss into Ziploc and bags and called them pillows. Lugged their plastic dinner sets through the undergrowth. Made tables out of play wood and sticks. No one was allowed to know the way into the clearing except Northie and herself. They had to blindfold any outsiders who wanted to visit.

***

No one really knew the Spice Girls here. They all liked someone called Britney Spears. She missed playing Spice Girls. She had hoped that she might be able to pull some strings at the new school and be allowed to play Baby Spice. But nobody knew them. So she stopped playing spice girls.

***

Her Mother always told her to put things through the filter. Do to others what you would want done to you. She said that sometimes, people had less practiced filters. People like Laura. People like Jaimie. People like Ms. Anderson. People like Ms. Nails. People like Robbie.

***

Everyday, Nellie's Mother packed her a cheese sandwich on homemade bread. Cheddar. In preschool Nellie had peanut butter and honey. And in Kindergarten. But ever since starting first grade she'd had cheese. Which she liked.
Lunches were divided in two segments at the new school. The younger grades ate first. And then, the older kids flooded into the cafeteria. They were larger and very much aware of the division between the older and younger students.
Nellie was a slow eater. Sometimes, she got stuck in the transition from younger lunch to older lunch. Not pleasant. She started saving half of her sandwich for home.

***

Katie looked like a little miniature Snow-white. Puffy locks of coarse black hair. Pale, pale skin. She was tiny and she always wore a large eggplant colored duffel coat. She was brave and smart and irreverent.

But the most important thing about Kaitie was that she liked to play faeries.

***

Kaitie and Nellie spent most of their recesses fighting off the Bad Spirits with sticks they found underneath the big pine tree. The baseball diamond was full of evil winged vampires, who needed vanquishing. The lower playground was a faerie metropolis. Both Kaitie and Nellie had rabbit familiars who went everywhere with them. Kaitie was glad that someone else believed in the Bad Spirits. Nellie was glad someone else liked to do something other than swing on the bars.

***

Nellie looked up at the feathery clouds and wondered for a moment.

"If we were able to fly, wouldn't it look weird if we just shot up into the sky without any wings or anything?"

Kaitie cocked her head thoughtfully. "Peter Pan did it."

"True. But he's different. I'm thinking about Mary Poppins, with her umbrella. If we could fly, would we need something to help us steer?"

"I don't know" Kaitie said, distracted. "Let's go make a potion."

It had rained the night before and the lower field was dotted with varying sized puddles. It was an unspoken rule that you didn't go playing in the mud. So it was with a little bit of apprehension that Kaitie and Nellie knelt at the edge of the nearest puddle. Kaitie broke off the end of a long stick and swirled it through the water. It clouded as the dirt rose.

"Nellie. We more dirt and some grass." she continued to stir the puddle. Nellie turned on her knees and scraped at the moist earth with her dull fingers. She scrubbed up a handful of dirt and dropped it into the puddle. It was thickening satisfactorily. Nellie pulled up some grass and threw that in as well.

"This will keep away any bad spirits." Kaitie said, almost broodingly. Nellie nodded. They waited for awhile silently, Kaitie stirring vigorously and Nellie watching her. A shadow fell over the puddle. A sixth grader, with a brown paper bag filled with popcorn under his arm. It was popcorn Friday.

"Whatcha doing?"

Kaitie looked up at him. "We're making a potion to keep away the bad spirits."

"Bad spirits?"

"Yes. They get inside your head and control you. They're evil." Nellie nodded and Kaitie continued to stir.

"You guys are weird.." Nellie thought about the filter. The sixth grader spat the popcorn mush from his mouth and it landed in their potion. Nellie watched the pale yellow goo be swallowed up by the mud, and wanted to vomit. Kaitie watched it too. The sixth grader watched them watch the pieces of popcorn, smirking. Kaitie looked up at him for a moment and then started stirring again and said lightly.

"Perfect. That will definitely keep the bad spirits away. Thank you." After a moment of stunned silence, the boy walked away. Kaitie kept stirring and Nellie watched her.

And then they both smiled, in absolute unison, indifferent and different and happy.

Up and away..

2009-08-02T15:22:00.000-07:00

Last week I went to orchestra camp. Because I am a cellist and that is what cellists do sometimes.
The camp was held in the eastern part of my state, which was different from last years camp. Super hot there, and really dry. I realized quite quickly that I needed to wake up and understand that elbow length sleeves and knee high legging were not, in fact, summer worthy clothing. I stupidly didn't bring a fan either, because I didn't anticipate the un-air-conditioned dorms.
Remind me not to do that next year, okay?
My roommate will remain nameless, so I can respect her privacy. But I want you to know that she is an absolute jewel of a person. Consistently and honestly kind and brave and concerned. She was the best person a girl like me could be roomed with. She laughed when I laughed, without a hint of condescension. She was tidy, and didn't mind when my alarm clock went off at absurdly early hours. She was as dedicated to music as I was, and understood when I would decide to skip breakfast and go practice.
Understood it so well in fact, that she loyally followed me up to the music building and practiced with me.
I cannot tell you how much I appreciated having her with me. She is a remarkable person.
We played English and Scandinavian music to kick off the Youth Symphony season. Did I mention that the camp was run by the symphony? Well, it was, and I was so glad to be in an orchestral setting again. I miss it so much after the season ends in May. The camp helps tide me over until September, when we start up again. The music was the reason I went to camp, and it didn't disappoint. Our final concert was fantastic, and we managed to get the work of four months done in one exhausting week.
I was reunited with my friends from last year's camp and it was like the year that we spent apart didn't exist, we picked up right where we left off, and it was lovely to see them. Most of them were in the other, more advanced orchestra, but we ate with each other and spent our free time (Which there was little off) together always. They were all so good to me. And Logan, stubborn and excited Logan, came with me, offering up a familiarity that I relied on adamantly. They all protected me when my bitch of a stand partner frightened me to a point of hysteria. They stood by me, even when it inconvenienced them, and for that, I will always be grateful. And more than that, we had fun together and understood each other, a little group of orchestra junkies.
I missed my family terribly, as I always do. I'm quite sure I came off as a total agoraphobic to most of the people I met, whether they liked me or not. I was glued to my phone when I was allowed, calling my mother just so that I could hear her voice, and know what they were all doing back at home. Hours away from them, I reveled in their ordinary activities and yearned to be back with them all week long.
I learned a lot though, so it was entirely worth it. My fingers are practically bleeding from playing so much and I'm finding myself looking up Holst and Elgar on wikipedia, after hearing about their lives during the daily lectures at camp. Music history really interests me. The ways that musicians have helped shape cultures are surprisingly important. They rally countries and rebel against tyrants and bring joy to those who have none. It made me proud to be among their ranks.

Obsession

2009-07-16T12:28:00.000-07:00

I think I may have a serious problem. Or fetish. Or obsession.
It comes in the form of fresh, white sheets of paper bound and illustrated, and it is presented to the world as perfect little works of art to be improved upon.
Notebooks.
I love them. They are (generally) cheap and beautiful and artsy and mysterious and oh how I love them. I have journals for lists, song lyrics, daily life, love letters, faerie recipes, towns, traveling- you name it, I have an entire notebook devoted to it.
My family and I, when we have days off, often go into the city and have Dim Sum in Chinatown. Afterwords, if all goes well, and we aren't called away, we go to a cute little bookstore, Kinokuniya. And man, oh man, do they have a notebook section. There is an entire section of the store devoted to every kind of notebook one could possibly want. They are diverse and and detailed, and they are all beautiful.
When I go in there, I am fairly delirious with happiness.
They also have pens that make your handwriting look wonderful and inch-tall pencil crayons and hundreds of themed sticker kits. It's magical in Kinokuniya, I kid you not.
I buy a notebook almost everytime I walk in that store. And now, because I just got a new french-print notebook (which I am devoting to in-class writing in case you were wondering) and because I have no other blog fodder, I'm going to show some of my favorites to you, in all their bound-up glory:

This is one of the very first notebooks I put into my collection. It's designed by a guy named Jordan Crane. He does a comic series and has designed a couple other books as well. This journal stand out the most. It's fairly bright and not as old-fashioned as the others, and I like that about it. I use this one as a day-to-day journal and I'm about halfway through with it.

This one is one of my favorites. It's also a fairly early purchase of mine, but it's more true to my general taste. I especially like the way it looks like a watercolor painting, though, I suppose you have to see it up close to know that. I'm going to use this as the second book of my daily journal. (Sometimes, with journals, I bite off more than I can chew)

This journal is designed by Nikki McClure. It's divided into various sections like, build, explore, and grow. I only write in it when I have something in my mind pertaining to one of the subjects, so right now, it's pretty bare. But hopefully, I'm going to start thinking more creatively about it, so it will fill up faster. I really love the art in this one. The lines are just exquisite.

Okay, I've been pretending that my picture quality isn't that bad, but frankly, it is. I apologize. These are much nicer in person. These are the notebooks I'm using in my school supplies for nest year. They're all the same front design, but they come in a whole bunch of different colors. I've always coveted these and now that I have them, I'm so excited to use them- I know that I'll plow through these guys.

Okay, that first one is really blurry, but this one is just a variation of the one above, except that it's for writing music. I'm going to use it for songwriting, which I'll hopefully be taking next year..

And now. Oh dear god.

This ridiculous thing. It is so damn beautiful. The pages are made of really thick paper, and the cover is perfectly smooth and the back is a multiplication table (So convienient!) And it's french! I'm using it as an in-class daily journal for next year (Such journals tend to be rash and dramatic. Watch out.) It's so much more wonderful in person, but whatever.

Gosh.
I'm gonna go write in 'em now.
They are so pretty
and I need my fix..

Suburb

2009-07-06T21:37:00.000-07:00

We were driving around this sad little neighborhood. Dusty, dismal and depressing. Broken chainlink fences. Dirt filled planters. Plywood ominously posted over windows. We were looking for Garage Sales, and we were all slightly car sick. When we passed a paper sign taped to a tree, we decided it was time to leave. As we raced up the side streets, we passed what seemed to be a roundabout. It was laden with scraggly little plants, and was about two feet across. Sean looked at it for a second and then said in a cockney accent.
"Well, it's like a little piece of England, innit?"

Working

2009-06-27T20:17:00.000-07:00

The ice was not sticking. It was a frustrating powder that clung to my arms, and melted in the hot afternoon sun, but did not hold the syrup. I watched as the delicate shaved ice collapsed in on itself. The dismayed look of the customer. The ever growing line. I darted to the side of the cart, where I filled a plastic cup with hot water.

"Sometimes, when the ice is really cold, it does does that" I said, dumping the water into the ice machine, listening to it trickle through, sloshing like a full belly.

The ice stuck better. Well enough to be sold. But not right yet. Still difficult. The man left the money on the counter and I snatched it up before it became soggy on the wet counter-top. I worked through customers, one by one, panicking a little, as the line got longer and longer, despite my frantic efforts. My sister came to help me, fetching the hot water and shaping sno-cones. I heard water dripping near my feet. Leaks. I'd forgotten. The line slowly, painfully diminished. I dismissed my sister, who went running through the park, wood chips splashing up where she stepped.

I ducked under the counter top, checking on the pipes underneath, examining the leaks and my makeshift plugs, which were made of paper towels and latex gloves. Small puddles were forming, but they could wait for the moment. They weren't harming anything after all.

I straightened up and then fell on the chair, people-watching briefly. Two men, in short succession, holding out butcher-paper wrapped bouquets, each wearing laughably determined expressions. A woman with a three-week old baby, its face hidden under pink fabric. A child wailing as their balloon floated up towards the clouds.

A customer walked up, toting a flat of raspberries. I grabbed a cup and started shaving ice into it.
" Where did you get your berries?" I asked. The woman gestured towards the back of the park, naming a vendor that I vaguely remembered.
"I love raspberries. I'd forgotten they were in season"
"I do too" I asked what flavors the woman wanted and lifted them off the circular trolley, splattering them onto the blankness of the ice. As I looked up, to give her the total, she slid a napkin with nine raspberries on it, towards me. I thanked her, not quite knowing what to say. She didn't say anything, just smiled and went on her way, bent slightly to one hip as she balanced the box precariously.

I had a small rush of business after that. I watched a man, who looked rough, with his wifebeater shirt and tattoos, affix a flower in his tiny daughter's hair, and kiss the top of her head. I watched a magenta clad granddaughter convince her grandmother that a treat was in order. A boyfriend buy a blue and purple ice to share with his girlfriend. I watched as the market began to close and people walked more slowly. I listened as the clock chimed at quarter two. My ice was all gone, my plugs were rendered useless and I was sweaty and tired and sun burnt.

I picked up a raspberry and smiled.

That Dance Thing

2009-06-18T20:12:00.000-07:00

Last night was my ninth grade dance. It totally exceeded my expectations, which were low, to say the least.

I was expecting bad music and even worse dancing. I envisioned sweaty freshmen trying to mingle. Deflating balloons. Gratuitous snogging. I thought my dress (Oh My God. My dress. I love it. So very much.) was going to untie or someone would trip on it and I'd be that girl who flashed everyone on prom night.

But it was none of that. Well, okay. I did have to cinch up my dress a couple times. And there was some noticeably bad dancing. But the music was really good. Not in my taste really. But the slow songs weren't too slow and the fast songs were truly good dancing songs.

I was so proud of my friends. They all looked so wonderful. And sophisticated. They opted for simple dresses (Or vests in Tyler's case) and they looked utterly beautiful. It was intimidating actually. To be seen with them.

Emma and Demi and I had a really lovely time beforehand too. We stayed at my house, instead of going out to eat. Mum and I (Well, mostly Mum) decorated her art room to look like an old fashioned dressing room. We had candles, and a screen and a mirror and mosquito netting over the couch. Mum put together little overnight kits for each of us, with tiny soap and deodorant and hair ties and travel toothbrushes.

While they were here, Emma did Demi's hair, and we listened to the Red Hot Chili Peppers and ate really, really good chocolate. Mum made pasta for dinner and it was delicious. It was very relaxed. We didn't really have any deadlines to meet. We took pictures out in my yard, and the weather was just perfect. We all had a lot of fun. It was my favorite part of the night.

After the dance, we all rode up to Tyler's house and stayed the night there. Tyler's mum is so adorable. Seriously. She was so excited for us. Some of the group tried to stay up all night, as is the tradition, but only one of us survived. I'm proud to say that I conked out at about one.
Because I am a wuss when it comes to sleep.

It was a really fun time. And it was even better because I didn't expect it to be. I hope all dances in high school are like this. I wonder...

The End of Much

2009-06-08T13:08:00.000-07:00

Saturday was my last performance of Night of Musical Theatre 2.0 at my school. We had a really great closing night, but as always, our success was tinged with melancholy. I'm going to miss NoMT. There's a class a SoTA (School of the Arts) that's all about musical theatre, but I don't really think I'll be able to take it, what with all the music and writing classes I'll hopefully be taking. It makes me sad to leave that aspect of my life behind. It's been really great. And unfortunately, I was just getting the hang of the dancing.

There's only two more weeks to go until I am out of school. I honestly cannot wait. I know there are a lot of people who are sad to be leaving Junior High. I'm not really one of those people. Not that I haven't enjoyed Junior High, I just prefer summer. I miss having the time to read books and make things. I miss having enough time in the day to play a little bit of World of Warcraft (especially because my new server is full of really benevolent people. I was getting tired of being told I was going to die alone.). And then there's also the possibility that next year will be an improvement on this year. I'm so excited. And even if SoTA isn't all I expect of it, at least it will be new.

I'm getting a little frightened. The ninth grade dance is only a week away and I still haven't gotten my dress or made plans with my friends. I don't know what parties are going on. I don't know when I'm getting my hair done (Achgh, I know. I'm one those girls. But not really. I needed to get my hair cut and thinned anyway. It was just a coincidence. I promise!) or when I'm eating dinner. I'm all over the place because Show Week and my Romeo and Juliet Project are coinciding and that is super stressful.

Hopefully, I'll finish up my diorama tonight and have enough time to take some pictures so that I can post 'em on here. My project is getting to the point where I'm actually excited about the way it looks. And I like my Romeo and Juliet dolls that I made. I'm really proud of them. Ridiculously so. This project, though stressful, has been one of my favorite assignments this year.

My cello recital is coming up. After that, I stop lessons with Nicole for the summer. That scares me a little. I have Youth Symphony auditions in August, and I'm worried that I'll forget how to play my piece by some mental disaster. What's cool though is that I'll be starting my Faure piece. I'll be working on it by myself, which will be a new thing for me. I'm actually quite excited about that.

I really need to get to a thrift store. I have no clothing for the summer (Okay, weird sentence. Didn't mean to do that). When I do find a dress that's cool enough, it makes me look like a go-go dancer. Not exactly the look I'm going for. Maybe when school gets out Mum will take us to the Value Village in the city. That would be really nice.

I realize that this is sort of a random post. But, I've been gone so long that I thought it would just write an all around update. My next post will hopefully be more cohesive.

The Golden Age

2009-05-13T08:20:00.000-07:00

Yesterday, I was at school early. Everyone was tired and unwilling to sing, but there none-the-less. There was camaraderie in that. We were united in our weariness. We were about half way through our rehearsal when a tall, pretty, athletic girl came in the room. My stomach clenched a little bit when I recognized her voice. We've never been on very good terms. But I'm not going to go into that. It is ugly and messy and silly.
My initial reaction to her was anger. And annoyance. But as the rehearsal wrapped up, it was replaced by a sort of pity. She looked so small, hanging out in the room where she had once been queen bee. She had come back, probably expecting warm welcome. Which she got. But there was no fussing. She said things, while she watched us practice, but they were lost in our fluttering conversation. Things at my school had clearly moved on from last year. She was reduced to a memory. And memories don't have nearly as much power as the present.

She is probably enjoying her high school. In fact, she is probably having the time of her life. This is her golden age. I think that her high school years are going to be the best of her life. But when she graduates, everything will dim in comparison. At least, I think that's what I saw in the rehearsal room.

This is not my time.

I should say, I hope it isn't. My time is in the future somewhere, I think. In that time I will hit my stride, and be confident in everything. I'm confident now, God knows. But it's a shaky confidence. I still get that look, when I've been too loud, or too excited, or too- out there. In those moments after the look, which are filled with regret and slight panic, I am paying my dues. It is those moments that make it clear to me, that this is not my time.

But it will come. As most are leaving their glory days behind, I will be beginning mine. Where they fade, I will finally flourish. I'm glad I have something to look forward to.

And I'm excited.

Frustrating

2009-05-08T22:26:00.000-07:00

I'd just like to start out by saying that I really, really enjoy Shakespeare. We're reading Romeo and Juliet in English right now. I feel like I'm accomplishing something when I know what the characters are talking about, without having to read the footnotes. There is something deeply beautiful about the language. I think my favorite character is either Mercutio or Juliet. I kind of dislike Romeo, though. He's got the nice, yet dishonest boy thing going on, and I as I've said before (Sorry) that does not gel with me very well. Juliet, who I really like, deserves better, in my opinion. I love reading about her. I like that my English class isn't entirely against Shakespeare either. Most of them seem to like it. I'm excited to keep reading. The project that accompanies the Romeo and Juliet unit, however, might lead to some late nights and dashed hopes.

I always do this. Always. And it's really disappointing. I'm sure you've felt it before too.

I started on my project today. One of the things I am doing for the project is designing the costumes for Juliet in the play. One of the requirements is that I make a doll-sized version of one of my designs. So I got out my sewing kit (Still in the basement with the moving boxes) and started to brainstorm. I eventually decided that I wanted to do Juliet's Party Dress (The dress she is wearing when she first sees Romeo). I had some red linen and some iridescent Burgundy shot silk and some gold organza-looking stuff. The colors were good with each other. They were appropriate for the period I think. I held the fabrics and got excited.
I laid out my needle and pins and ironed my fabric and got to work. I stitched and stitched. My back started to ache from leaning down so long. North finished Bioshock (Best video game in the world, by the way.) while I worked. In the back of my head there was this nagging doubt;
"That thread is going to make everything look sloppy"
"Those sleeves are too big. They look clumsy"
"You're going to run out of fabric"
But I kept on going, thinking that if I just persevered, everything would just fall into place. But of course, it didn't work out that way.
The dress did fit the doll, but it was baggy and it just did not look like something that had been slaved over for hours. The colors were nice, but the exposed thread just ruined the effect. It was really frustrating. And my back hurts. I always do this. But do you know what I'm going to do tomorrow?

I'm going to make another one.

Wait. May?

2009-04-28T15:49:00.000-07:00

This year has gone by faster than both seventh and eighth grade. It's a good thing. I'm not exactly thrilled with Junior High. I need a change of scene. This last semester has gone by especially fast. It's feel like it was only a few days ago that I was waiting to audition for the School of the Arts. Minutes ago that I got new music in the symphony.

The end of the year is going to be really enjoyable. My concert for youth symphony is this Saturday. I am so excited. The theme this year in Russian music. Most of our piece are very exciting and fantastic. But there is one song, Elegie by Faure, which is completely different from the others. I love it so very, very much.

(Sorry about the quality; It was nearly impossible to find a recording of this with Orchestral Accompaniment. At least with a buggy computer it was)

I also have the Ninth Grade Dance coming up. To be honest, I'm only really excited about the peripherals of the night. The dance itself holds no real excitement for me. I'm more concerned about wearing a pretty dress, going to a fun after party, and attending the awards assembly the next day. I think most of the ninth grade class at my school is of the same mind frame.

Market is starting up this weekend. The market is such a nice place to be in the summer. It's friendly and busy and interesting. The people we work with are all really decent people. We're a fairly tight-knit group of vendors, I think. Similar interests and priorities. The customers are cool too. Just happy to be out in the sun, window shopping.

I wish we had more of a garden in the new house. We've had so much clean-up to do in the yard, that we haven't really had time to plant any flowers. I miss the cherry tree that was in our old backyard. For a few weeks in the spring, it made everything delicate and articulated. And the lilac trees, with their dense blooms and heady scent. Peonies. Tulips. Snap Dragons. Heliotrope. Hydrangea. I miss them. Next year though. We'll have a wonderful garden next year.

My Review of Ten things I Hate About You

2009-04-19T18:19:00.000-07:00

I watched this movie on youtube this weekend. I'm not crazy about the romantic comedy genre (Love Actually notwithstanding), but with sterling reviews from all of my friends, I figured, it couldn't be that bad.

And now, because I don't really have any good blog fodder up my sleeve, I'm going to review it for you.

The Bad

Andrew Keegan (Joey): A typical asinine jerk that everyone falls for. Not a very realistic character, though. In reality, if someone is a asinine jerk , they'll at least try to cover it up. If they don't, nobody dates them. They are not coveted. Also, I think there was something majorly wrong with his make-up.

Heath Ledger's Singing: His acting during the singing scene was superb. Truly laugh-out- loud funny. He just doesn't sing the song that well. The pitchiness was kind of distracting. I know I'm nit-picking. Sorry.

The Cliche: The fact that there was even a senior prom mentioned in the movies suggested that there was going to be some cliche moments. I can kind of forgive that, since I was expecting it, but then there were other tired scenes in the movie that kind of got to me. The almost-kiss-in-the-car scene, the "I'll tell you a secret, if you tell me one of yours" sequence. The song dedication. Stuff like that. Not entirely unexpected, but a bit of a disappointment

The Good

Heath Ledger (Patrick): was adorable, in a "I'm-trying-to-be-tough-but-my-smile-is-too-nice-for-that" sort of way. I loved the scene where he sings, "Can't Take Eye Off of You" to Kat (Even though the singing wasn't, as mentioned, very good), and the scene when he watches Kat in the guitar store. He was a solid character, flawed enough to be realistic, but not angsty. I loved the way he held Kat's face, and touched her hair.

Julia Stiles (Kat): Julia Stiles did a good job of creating a sympathetic character. Even though a lot of the scenes where she was unhappy were written badly, she still managed to exude authentic vulnerability. It also helped that she is a really good dancer. And that she was in the Bourne Trilogy.

David Krumholtz (Michael): Because he was in Serenity, a much better movie.

Larisa Oleynik (Bianca): I know you were supposed to dislike her for most of the film, but she was in the end, one of my favorite characters. She was sweet and naive. She had a typical popular girl role, but she made it interesting.

I guess all in all, I liked the movie. It was funny and the characters were likable. There are worse ways to spend two hours of your life.

Clarification

2009-04-13T20:48:00.000-07:00

I think something happens to your brain in that first year of Junior High or Middle School. People become declarers. Nothing can just be said, quietly. It must be shouted and told to everyone of slight acquaintance. It only follows that sometimes you misrepresent yourself.
In seventh grade, things opened up for me. I met people that were artistic in the ways I was artistic. I assembled friends that were handpicked. There was power in that. But things were getting bigger for everyone else too. It triggered a kind of "landcraze" for lack of a better term. Everyone was trying to establish themselves as something unique. Hence the declarations.
Going into Junior High, I was fairly well established within myself. I knew what I liked and what I didn't. I was good at English and Music and Art. I was not good at things like Science, or Math or anything analytical. I didn't really feel the compulsion to spell most things out.
Except when it came to relationships.
For some weird reason, I felt a manic determination to let everyone know that I did not like "Nice boys". Things like "Brutally honest" "Mean" and "edgy" were thrown around when I talked about what I liked in guys.
I kind of screwed the pooch on that one.
Because words like those make me sound like I'm into the "Bad Boys". Which I'm really not. I'm into honest, sincere boys, that will not fluff up the truth. Who will tell me exactly what they think of me and why and who will let me see their minds with clarity.
Also, they must have a wonderful sense of humor, be good with kids, play an instrument, and wear sweaters.
I was selling myself short. Obviously there was more I was looking for, than just "Truthful to the point of painful". More than "Edgy." But I declared myself that way. I made it seem as though I was only looking for one quality.

Another thing I used to parade about was "I'm never going to get a boyfriend". I said it all the time. But (most of the time) what I really meant was this: I'm not ready to date yet. No one I have seen is quite right for me. I'm not right for them.
When people ask me why I don't have a boyfriend, when people joke about my lack of a boyfriend, I say to myself "You brought this upon yourself. These are your very own words thrown back at you" I wish I could go back and tell my seventh grade self to be a little quieter. It would have made a difference, I think.

Going to an entirely new school next year is going to be a really good thing for me. Because I've already been thrown to the bottom of the barrel before, I'm going to be prepared. I'm going to let people find out about me on their own, without me just coming out and telling them. In Junior High, I've learned how to do that. And I am grateful for that.

Music Patterns

2009-04-07T19:48:00.000-07:00

So I go through these patterns annually. I listen to certain artists at certain points during the year. It's striking what a subconscious reaction it is.

I was on the bus the other day, and it was sunny. The kind of sunny that makes the air cleaner and everything look shiny. Finally beginning to feel like summer could be a possibility. I was listening to my iPod, like I do every morning. I found myself inexplicably listening to songs by Imogen Heap. ( I love her. Never been disappointed by anything I've heard from her). I was struck by how adamantly I wanted to listen to Heap's music.

And then I remembered back to last year, the week before Easter. I had been listening to Imogen Heap then too. And the year before.

The choices my brain makes are so specific, that I could tell every you every particular artist from every month. Tori Amos and Damien Rice in December. Sufjan Stevens in November. Joanna Newsom in March. It's a very strange phenomenon. Does it happen to any of you?

This Sunday is Easter. I am so excited. We get to go on my father's Easter egg hunt. It's usually takes about eight hours to complete. It's really not even an Easter Egg hunt. More just like a hunt through various cities following a trail of clues that my Dad has left for us. It just happens to take place on Easter. Anyway, Dad's been spending a lot of time mysteriously running off to craft supply stores, so I know he's working on it. It will be beautiful. And clever. Maybe this year I'll post some pictures from the actual hunt, now that I'm computer savvy enough to know how to post photos.

Speaking of computer savvy; I am really surprised how much I am learning in my digitools. I mean, there are redundancies. I know way too much about inserting a picture from the internet into a word document. But I'm also learning stuff about publisher and photoshop and excel. The teacher is Ms. Hilmer, this adorable little instructor. She's completely organized all the time. It makes me a little bit jealous, to be honest. Everything is laid out before class, and almost all questions are answered on the worksheet. There is a clear goal to each lesson. It's efficient, in a word.

I kind of resented the required Digitools class at first, but over time I've really grown to like it. Just not microtype. Microtype still sucks.

Spring Break

2009-04-05T11:26:00.000-07:00

Tomorrow I'm going back to school. I have very little to show for the week off. Unless you count breaking the world record for most cough drops consumed over a three day period. I have been really ill. Some sort of flu. So I spent the majority of the break sleeping.

I just got finished with Ironside by Holly Black. Like the two books before it, Tithe and Valiant, it was excellent. Believable plot. Interesting and sympathetic characters. They are some seriously good books. My favorite book in the trilogy is Valiant. It's the only books that is centered about Val, an average teenage runaway. I really hope Holly Black writes another book about her. Val has this great troll boyfriend and as a couple they are really enjoyable to read about.

Something I really look for in series are references to previous books. I get really excited when a familiar character is mentioned in a plot that they are not involved in. Holly Black does this really well. The references are quite subtle, but they make the book ten times more immersing for me. Anita Shreve, the author of Fortune's Rocks and The Pilot's Wife, does something similar. Most of her books take place in or around the same house. There are constant reminders of previous story lines and characters. It brings new life to old stories that have already been read.

The weather has been so lovely for the last two days. I have completely forgiven the utterly miserable weather that preceded it.

The First One

2009-03-20T19:01:00.000-07:00

We are playing badly. The piece is not particularly challenging for any of us, but still we sound lost. The chair I am sitting in is not made for cello playing, by any stretch. I hear a rhythm spiral off into disarray, and make a mental note. And then, suddenly, he is laughing. We put our instruments down for the fourth time.

"Get a hold of yourself"

"I'm so close to telling Ms. P"

"For god's sake. It's just a number"

The scolding does not affect him. Never did. None of us are really mad anyway.

"We got lost 48"

***

Her red hair covers her eyes for a minute. It's windy.
"C'mon. You do. Don't you?"
"You're freaky, Emma"

"I knew it."

"That's really strange. Can't be that obvious"
"No, it isn't. I just know you, Pip. God, can't believe I guessed"
"Shut up"
"How long?"
"Uh. About a week?"
"I can't believe I guessed him"

***

My shirt sticks to the back of my neck. The sun is unbearable. I hate hot weather. Hate it. Sean has been asking me what I am doing constructively. Can't really answer him truthfully:

I've been waiting for him to show up all summer.
Formulating what to wear on the first day of school.
Thinking about that time his Mum offered me a mint. Worrying.
Waiting.

***

I can't really decide if I look nice or not. My hair is frizzy. Bad. But the shirt looks nice. Crisp. Cool and collected. I look passable. I head back out into the pavilion and see him talking to my friend, who looks beautiful, whose makeup is perfectly applied. I walk towards them.
"I'm not going to tell you"
"Please. Pleasepleaseplease"

I interject "Please what?"
He turns to me. "She wants me to fess up."
She pouts "He won't tell me who he likes. I've guessed and guessed"
He speaks to me, watching my eyes " I think you know, though"
I look from him to her. Then her to him. My stomach clenches slightly. I do know. I can't believe I didn't see it.

I nod at him.

"Yeah, I think I do"

***

My friends are wondering why I have left the fair early. I know that, as I run to the car. The part of my brain that is still calculating knows I only have a few more moments. Sean is driving. I lean into the car. I'm still okay. I climb into the passenger seat. Put my purse in between the seats. He asks me how it went. My throat is clenching now. I tell him "okay"
I let my hair cover my face, and I press my forehead to the glove compartment. My shoulders shake silently and I am sobbing like a fool. I try to suck in air. Sean asks me:
"What happened, babe."
"He likes her. He likes her."

***

I am in science. Things have blown over. We are closer now, because I stayed by him while she rejected him. Over and over. The resentment I at first felt has faded to a bruise. Science is quiet. I can think. For the first time in months, I feel like maybe there is hope. I glance at the clock. Two minutes until class starts. A slight, athletic girl skips in. She is older than I am. I think that she is pretty. She asks the teacher a question and I hear her say his name. I look up. She is whispering something to the teacher. She looks up, realizes the time and walks toward the door, laughing. The teachers yells at her "Congratulations"
I think briefly, Please, no. Not again

***

He leans over to me. Ms. P is talking. My beautiful black-haired friend is between us. No longer an obstacle.
"So yeah, it was pretty awesome" he says, belatedly.
"I can't believe she let you do that on the desks. I've always wanted to fence"
He laughs "Yeah me too."
"I think there's a club in Tacoma"
"Really?"
"Yeah. And I think they're cheap too"
He's starting to get excited. Genuinely. I can tell. I'm excited too. I've made him happy. My friend rolls her eyes.
"My god. Get married all ready." We smile

***

It's raining out. He speeds up to be with me. The athletic, pretty girl watches us together. I can tell that he is upset. She has hurt him. Again.
"What's going on?"

"We broke up."
"Again?"
"Yeah."
"I'm gonna kill her."
"I know you are"
My real questions remain unasked between us: Why are you still into her? What did you say to make her upset? Why don't you see me?

***

It's 10:00 at night. My pajama bottoms have flowers on them. I am climbing onto my bunk when the phone rings. I get under my blanket. Grab my book. Sean walks in. Hands me the phone. I expect Emma.

“Hello?”

“Hey, its me” His voice on the other line. In this moment 82 daydreams are becoming reality

"Oh. Hi. Its kind of late, you know. Normal people are going to bed right about now."
"Yeah well, normal people didn't just become the owners of an electric instrument, just now, did they?"

I squeal.

"You got one!"

"Yep."

"Is it awesome?"

"Very."

I have run out of things to exclaim.

"Piper?"

“Uh huh"

"I want you to be the first person to play it tomorrow, okay?"

Of course okay.

***

I arrive in the room. A crowd has gathered around him. I dart into storage to get my cello. I set up my chair and go to see him. Another girl is playing. The distortion of the notes echoes about the room.

***

We are setting up for the concert. I am folding programs. He is watching me.
"You look like Hermione Granger."
"Hmm?"
"Hermione Granger."
"Like in the movie? She's kind of-"
"No, not the movie one. She's hot. No, like in the book"
"Oh. Are you calling me ugly?"
"No."

***

"Do we turn here"
"Yes" The ice cream cup has condensation on it.
"I can't believe you know where he lives."
"Of course I know where he lives."
We turn up a road. Expensive, modern houses are passed. I remember the doorway correctly.
"Okay, here" I jump out of the car, walk to the door and ring the bell. A man, his Dad, opens the door.
"Hi, my name is Piper. Your son wanted ice cream after the concert. So, I- brought him some"
His father thanks me. Closes the door. I run back to the car.
She never brings him ice cream.

***

He is typing on the teachers computer. I note his fingers. They are long and skinny. The joints and tendons stand out. They are beautiful. Beautiful, beautiful.
"You have nice hands"
He is distracted. "What?"
"You have nice hands"
"Oh, thanks."
He doesn't know, but hands are the first thing I notice about boys.

***

It's dark out still. It is peaceful and warm inside my bed. My mother rubs my head. I do not want to wake up. I was having a good dream.
"Wake up, Pip. He'll be there today."
All of a sudden, my eyes can open.

***

I look up from playing. He avoids my glance. Strange. He's been acting weird all period long. I ask him what's wrong.
"I know who you like"
I hate the term "like". It sounds juvenile. I don't like "crush". Neither of the words are appropriate and yet they are used always.
"Oh really? And who told you?"
"A little birdie"
"Well, unless it's Demi or Emma-"
"No, it isn't"
"Well, then whoever told you is guessing. They're the only ones who know"
"My girlfriend thinks you like me" My pulse accelerates, but only slightly. As the weeks have gone on, similar comments have arisen.
"Your girlfriend is paranoid."
We don't discuss it after that. I hear him and my friend talking.
"For God's sake just admit it."
"There's nothing to admit"
"You're hopeless"
I don't like him taking this seriously. I am not ready to have him know. I need to alleviate some of this tension. I walk up to them. I pat him on the shoulder.
"Don't worry. You're one of many" I can tell my sarcasm sounds strange. My friend laughs though. I am grateful to hear her. He crosses his arms over his chest.
"Piper, I don't find you physically attractive, at all"
I know he doesn't mean it. I know that I am not repugnant. But it hurts just the same. For awhile there, everything was alright.

***

Summer. Again. Waiting. Again.
I sit at my post in the stand and watch as the people go by. People visit me and I am glad to see them. But I will not deny that I am a little disappointed when I hear my name called and realize that he has not come yet. The long-talked-about quartet, the one I organized so carefully, has been all but forgotten. He still talks about coming round to practice. But it's just an illusion really. He always has things that come up.

***

I haven't really seen him in months. He keeps standing us up for quartet practice. His blatant disregard for my time is getting to me. The fact that he is still with that cruel girl, is getting to me.

***

I expected him to be a frightening driver. But he is actually quite cautious. Uncharacteristically careful. I suppose it's because he really, really, doesn't want the car to get wrecked. He loves that car.

He is smiling at my choice of music. Not something I would normally choose. But something I knew he would like. We go past the graveyard and I direct him to my house. I can tell he likes it. But he wishes it were more modern. We never did have the same aesthetic. I think he appreciates the yard, as boys are bound to do. He talks about his girlfriend. I watch incredulously. We laugh at videos online.

It's a nice couple of hours.

But I know for certain, as he pulls out of the driveway, blasting rock music, that things will never be the same.

***

No one has caught my eye, yet. I have no one to think about. No one to scrutinize. It's liberating in a way. I still see him from time to time. There is none of the old anticipation.

In losing my love for someone, I have gained a friend. I have gained insight. I have gained confidence.

But I will never forget that first one.

March Hare

2009-03-14T20:31:00.000-07:00

I like March. I hesitate to suggest that it may be one of my favorite months. It's usually respectably rainy, and some of the foliage starts to sprout new green. To use a cliche, it feels like the earth is finally waking up.
The last few weeks have been really busy. I had a youth symphony chair test to practice for and Solo Ensemble contest to preform in. And then I also had projects due as well. The spring always seems to bring many obligations.
Have you guys seen Coraline? It was directed by the same guy who did The Nightmare Before Christmas, Henry Selick. It was the perfect combination of horror, fantasy and art. I loved it. It has been a long time since I loved a movie that much, actually. The soundtrack is superb. I've been listening to it a lot lately; it makes me feel special, like something important and exotic and exciting is about to happen. The music was composed by Bruno Coulais and featured the slightly eerie sounding Children's Choir of Nice. The choir was also included in the soundtrack to Grandpa (A tiny little animated film about a grandfather and his granddaughter and the adventures they have together. When I was little, I watched it constantly, and I still cry at the end, to this day)
Tomorrow I am going to the city with Demi, Emma, and Tyler. It is going to be amazingly fun. I can't wait. Demi's turning fifteen. Happy Birthday, Dem.

Stained Glass Valentines

2009-02-14T14:23:00.000-08:00

I'm going to teach you how to make these lovely little things: Stained Glass Valentines!

The materials you are going to need are:

Crayons in Shades of Pink, Red, Purple, Orange, and Browns
One Garbage Bag
Iron
Ironing Board (Sorry, Not pictured)
Scissors
Ribbon
Wax paper
Hole punch
Sharpener
Sharpies
Two Dish Towels (Sorry, Not Pictured)

The first step is to set up your space, so, lay the garbage bag over you work area.
Then, to cut out two 12x12 pieces of wax paper. They don't have to be exact. Put one piece of wax paper aside and start to peel some of the label off each of the crayons. Over a one of the pieces of wax paper, sharpen the crayons. Spread the shavings out on the wax paper.

Try not to get the shavings too close to the edges; They'll bleed out when they melt.

Next you're going to put a dishtowel down on you ironing board ( you might want to use some scrubbier towels for this project, just in case) and place the crayon shaving covered waxpaper on it, without disturbing the shavings. Good luck. Also, start heating up your iron.
Remember the other, thus-so-far neglected, piece of waxpaper? Use it to cover the shaving covered wax paper. That didn't make much sense. Oh well. Be intuitive. I bet you can figure it out
Now, Cover up the waxpaper and crayon shavings sandwich with a dish towel and start ironing over it. Make sure none of the waxpaper is touched by the iron. Bad things will happen.
This is what the wax paper will look like once you have run the iron over the wax paper for awhile:
After the waxpaper has cooled, bring it over to your workspace again. Draw the outlines of your valentines with a sharpie. Then cut out your valentine.
Once you have it cut out, take the hole punch and cut two holes near the top. Try to get them as close together as possible. Then you're are going to cut some ribbon and poke each end through the holes.
Push the two ends of the ribbon through the loop that is formed. Pull the ends, forming a slip knot. Be careful, the paper is fragile.
Finally, using a sharpie, add your Valentines message.

Enjoy your Valentines. Hope this works for you. Be sure ask any questions you have, via the comments.

Internet Ads

2009-01-03T18:49:00.000-08:00

I just came across the following Internet oo-shiny-please-touch-me- ad:

"His IQ is 80
R U smarter than Obama?"

Underneath was some person's sad attempt at a portrait of the president elect. His head was wobbling back and forth in a bobblehead-esque fashion.

It wasn't really the words or the-ahem- art that caught my eye (Obama, Angelina Jolie, Britney Spears, the Clintons, and Paris Hilton, all allegedly have an IQ of 80.) It was more the fact that I realized that I didn't believe the ad for even a millisecond. Brushed it off. Which was strange. I was used to seeing Bush's phony grin plastered all over those very same IQ test ads, and pausing for a bit wondering if it was at all possible.
I think America is going to have to get used to having a smart president. That's exciting.

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

2008-12-30T15:58:00.000-08:00

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

2008-11-23T18:13:00.000-08:00

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

2008-11-01T13:55:00.000-07:00

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?

2008-10-26T21:54:00.000-07:00

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

2008-09-22T06:17:00.000-07:00

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.

2008-09-14T19:43:00.000-07:00

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

2008-08-21T17:28:00.000-07:00

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

2008-07-12T17:54:00.000-07:00

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

2008-07-05T22:14:00.000-07:00

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

2008-06-09T14:32:00.000-07:00

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.

2008-05-23T20:05:00.000-07:00

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.

2008-05-16T20:12:00.000-07:00

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

2008-04-01T22:38:00.000-07:00

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.

2008-03-20T21:55:00.000-07:00

"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

2008-03-17T06:17:00.000-07:00

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?

2008-02-21T21:04:00.000-08:00

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

2008-02-05T20:57:00.000-08:00

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

2008-01-26T16:33:00.000-08:00

"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

2008-01-14T21:45:00.000-08:00

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

2008-01-06T13:50:00.000-08:00

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

2008-01-04T14:54:00.000-08:00

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.

On the ___ day of Christmas

2007-12-22T10:00:00.000-08:00

Three more days until Christmas. I think I'm going shopping this morning. Starting to get a little flustered. I can't believe teachers gave us homework over break. They don't have to grade it until break is over, so they don't have to worry about it. It makes me angry. Then again, if I hadn't been sick Tuesday and Wednesday, I might have been able to work on the stuff. It's raining just the right way outside. Hard and cold and brisk drops of rain. Not rain to be messed with.
Oh. I found this on youtube. In order to fully understand the concept, you must have the volume up fairly loudly. It's a beautiful thing.

My dog, Basil.

2007-12-18T19:49:00.000-08:00

The pain that rocks my head suggests that I have a hippo holding a ton of bricks balancing precariously on my head. My legs are all weak and I'm suddenly shivering. I blow my nose and swallow experimentally.
I come out of the kitchen and observe my slumbering dog, curled into a tiny mass of brown and orange fur (he actually quite resembles a reese's peanut butter cup), in the middle of his bed. I lean down and turn him on to his back. He yawns and licks his lips. I cup my hands around his soft, soft ears and lean my head (Along with a curtain of thick brown hair) towards his. He puts up his minute paws in defence, and they barely brush against my cracked lips. I turn my ear to his chest and listen to his heart. He nibbles on my ear. I scold him.
"Stop that, Bazzy"
I feel another sneeze coming on. I pat his head and return him to his "c" like shape.
"Good Dog.."

As of December 7th 2007

2007-12-10T18:38:00.000-08:00

Random facts about me as of my fourteenth year.

I have been playing cello now, for four years.
I've read three graphic novels.
I invented a board game called "Poor Dog/ Star Dog" when I was 3. Ask me how to play and I can still tell you. Go on. Ask me.
My hair is about 22 inches long.
I have a level 27 mage human on Steamwheedle cartel (Don't ask..)
I have liked the same guy for four consecutive years. (But that was in elementary school)
I have had crushes on six boys, in my lifetime
I have a dog named Basil and two homosexual rabbits and countless starlings in my attic.
I have written three songs.
I have been to Mexico, England, and Canada (Where I was born).
I have two scars on my face, both from falling down a cliff, at entirely different times in my life.
I have completed 12 of the 26 Gashleycrumb Tinies rendered in polymer clay. In 3D. I am awesome.
I have had 22 teachers.
I have bitten my nails without even trying to stop myself, for 12 years.
I have played an elaborate make-believe game called "The Town" since I was 6. It started out just my brother and I and has grown to eight people. We meet four times a year. It used to be called "Paradise"
The movie "Spirited Away" scares the bejesus out of me.
I have read a huge number of books.
I am becoming some of the person I want to be.

Video

2007-12-04T19:59:00.001-08:00

Leap of Faith..

2007-12-03T19:53:00.000-08:00

In fairytales, the hero takes a reckless and risky leap into the unknown. They decide to light the dynamite even though the cave is filled with gunpowder. They propose to the beautiful maiden, even though she's already engaged. And they always land on the other side, whole and complete, flashing their white, white teeth.
Just goes to show you how decieving some fiction is.
Because sometimes, when you take a risk in real life, you fail miserably. You end up, just barely, on the other side, crumpled, with broken bones. Or you don't land at all. And it's numbing. You feel stupid for ever thinking it would work out. Idiotic plan.

On a lighter note, the weather was much nicer today, all warm and rainy and lovely. Big, fat full drops, that fall on your head and dampen your hair comfortably. I love the fall..

Sunday..

2007-12-02T18:00:00.001-08:00

Sunday
I think it should be called it'spissingdownrainandI'mfreezingandwhyisitnotsnowingday. Or OhmygodIhaven'tdonemyhomeworkandI'vegotareallynastyassignmentinmathday.
I hate Sundays. Even more than Mondays. Because sunday is so panic and dread-filled. You always have something you haven't done and everyone gets really grouchy because they're sad that the weekend is over and they have so much to do still.
Sorry about not posting for so long, but I've been pretty busy (not to mention boring) This week will be more blogfilled though. Because.. *Drumroll please*

I'm turning fourteen on Friday! I'm so excited! I love my birthday and hopefully I'll be going to the city with my family and we'll hang out and do Christmas shopping. (Oh yes, all of us will be skipping school and/or work, it's tradition) and I'll get to eat as much junk food as I want!

It's Thanksgiving!

2007-11-22T08:43:00.000-08:00

So apart from it being Thanksgiving, I got to wake up late, (Yes, 8:44 is pretty late for me) and I get to enjoy all this sunshine! And I don't have to go to school for three more days. Tonight I'll sit down with my family and eat that traditional thanksgiving day dinner.
It's makes me wonder what time Martha Stewart was up. And what she did last night, did she have people staying over?That must be kinda stressful. I wonder how many people she's entertaining at her house? And then Bush. What do you think he's doing this morning? Does he have to make a speech on Thanksgiving day? Will he have to invite stuffy officials who make lame jokes and cough all the time into their monogrammed hankies? Or how about Bill Gates? He probably has it easier than both of them, although he'll have to invite computer people. And I doubt it would be fun to talk about electronics over an hour of dinner party. Or Angelina Jolie, she'll have to have perfect makeup and an extremely stylish dress on. And she'll have to be affectionate to Brad, gotta recover her composure after all those magazine covers blaring "Angie Breaks Down! Exclusive interview inside!"

It makes me feel lucky to be me in a way, even though they're famous and beautiful, and successful, and really good cooks, but they'll be having a crazy day, and probably won't be able to enjoy much of it. And I'm able to get up at 8:44 and write this to you guys instead.
I love my life.
Happy Thanksgiving. Hope it's everything you want it to be.

Procrastinating..

2007-11-20T16:36:00.001-08:00

I've got to be doing my notes and my math. So only a short post today.
When you're feeling happy, you should have happy games, correct? Here's one of my favorite sites ever. Really addicting and not a laser machine gun to be seen!
www.orisinal.com
I love this weather. It cool and blustery and crisp. And the leaves are all swirly. Doesn't make me miss summer. Not one bit.

Boredom... Dom.. Dom.. Dom.. Dom..

2007-11-17T17:30:00.000-08:00

I'm extremely bored.
And I'm trying to pretend that I'm doing something constructive so that I don't have to do my homework. Does that ever happen to you? You convince yourself that you'll do your homework, very very soon, and then, suddenly it's Sunday night and you still have homework to do? Happens to me all the time.
I'm craving the city too. The grundgy, wet city. Cafes and markets and apartments, and trash and public art that isn't made out of tractor parts, and big old intricate buildings, and quiet bookstores, and that kind of slate color that appears when it rains on the sidewalk and the sleek, purposeful people. I'm craving the city as one might crave chocolate (Which don't get me wrong, I crave too. ) I just love being there. It makes you feel important.

A quote and a poem. Not a quote from a poem.

2007-11-16T19:47:00.000-08:00

Quote o' the day: May those who love us, love us, those who do not love us, may God turn their hearts. And if he does not turn their hearts then may he turn their ankles so that we may know them by their limping..

Ode to the paternal study
Phone rests silently in a moon-color cradle,
Red box of dice,
Three gargoyles, still with ennui,
Silence, all but thrumming technology,
Coatrack, overused,
Pencils in a glass container,
Ice cream maker in the cuboard,
Mama printer and Baby Printer,
Click tapping of the keyboard,
Spoon glinting in the lamp-light,
Creaking, spinning chair,
Eye are heavy-lidded tulips.
Dust on the monitor,
Blue light on the USB connector,
Fish handle, whirli handle,
Contacts drying up like scales,
Answering machine displaying two messages,
Yellow plastic cup,
Papers everwhere,
Scanner down beneath my feet,
paper shredder lies defeated,
Tired now, more than ever
Office.

Smilies and Superficial

2007-11-13T17:11:00.000-08:00

Ok. So I'm playing Guild Wars. Yes, Guild Wars.

Insert laughter at my nerd-like habits here

Done? Excellent. So, I'm playing Guild Wars, and I'm trying to get some nice new armor for my mesmer*. I notice another mesmer* in my area and run over to her to inspect her armor. I must be pretty obvious, because two minutes later, she waves at me, in a "What the heck are you doing, you strange and perverted grandpa?" sort of way. So I explain my staring.

"Just admiring your armor*"

And then. She starts.. Slowly at first, and then snow balling into a obsessive stream.

^.^ It's ok..

XD

(At this point, I'm not freaked out yet. Just curious. So I post again)

It goes great with you hair color..

Thanks. I love your face

._.

Oh.. Thanks.

Should have made a factions* mesmer*.

:/

XD

(Silence on my part. I'm trying to count smileys. Note that each new line is another post.)

Well, cya! I'm off to explore!

^.^

Oh. Good Luck.

Thank you

XD

Best of luck to you too

Thanks.

X3

8 smileys. In one conversation. I shudder to think about the amount of paper she uses when she writes letters. This is over usage of the beloved smiley, right? Or am I just too submerged in the stone age?

About once every week, I get someone asking why I wear what I do. (I wear lots of flowy long dresses and several combinations of leggings and skirts.) I look over myself carefully, making sure that I'm not wearing a clown suit, because by the look their giving me, I might be. No, same old, same old..
"Ummm. It's comfortable?"
Why though? I mean, it truly baffles me. I mean, I dress differently, but not that differently. I don't ask people why they wear holister t-shirts and short plaid skirts, so why do people ask me? And the truth is, I don't wear my clothes to be different, I wear them to be myself. I'm not sure if I'm offended or just confused. Should I be? Or am I entirely overreacting?
Gives me a lot to think about.