Oh dear

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

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.

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

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

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

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..

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.