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.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Moving

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

The girl who listens

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

"Be my friend. Hold me."

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

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

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

"Lost myself again. And I feel unsafe"

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

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

September? Where did you go?

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

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

WiPod

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


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

Two weeks in.

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

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

End

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

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

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

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

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

So.

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

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

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

Miss Pip



The Adventures of Sleek Hansen





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

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

Before I go to Music Camp

I wanted to share this very special video with you.







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



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

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

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

Summer

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

This year in school I:

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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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

Yep. Pretty good year.