This is where things get a little weird

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


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




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

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

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

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

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

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

A Post of Celebration

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

For example:

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

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

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

Oh. Maybe that's why. Huh

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

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

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

Post of Obligation

A post in honor of my dear Demi.

But also because I want to post, of course.

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

I love me some milk glass.

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

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

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

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

We'll see I guess.

a metaphor for something, I think

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

Pressing

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

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

Okay. I'm a little proud.

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

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

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

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

Indulgent

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

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

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

In the Rain

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

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

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

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

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

Art

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

The Messenger

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

A Private Concert

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

Update on Stuff

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

Overstep

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

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

Rain

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

Ten Great Things About This Week

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A Mild Rant

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

The Silhouette

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

Willing and Reading

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


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

Oh dear

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.