Tilt-silly

It’s so early, but it’s the same time I’m normally awake.

I’m staying at school again until eight. When is this going to end? What am I going to do when it does?

Go crazy, probably.

I’m sore from yesterday. Hours and hours of walking in the mall; arriving home just in time to clean stalls. My shoulder ache.

I went skating on the pond afterward, though. That’s the best kind of sore.

Flying over ice (no matter how ungracefully) is one of my favorite things to do. I only wiped out twice, I think. Ha.

And now I need to get moving and try to stuff all my materials in a bag and leap out the door in time.

Here goes yet another Monday, rushing by in a dizzy haze. Yet another Monday I’ll struggle to live in the moment because I’m constantly focused on the future.

Yet another Monday I’ll hope with all my might isn’t a waste.

Don’t say a word

I got in trouble for my last post. My dad walked behind the computer, and, instead of being a parent, he asked my mother to address it with me.

I explained my situation and we’re all good. My mom did say my language makes me sound like a cheap ho, however, and I would concur. Except today kind of called for it.

Since the minute I got online this morning (before eight), I knew it would be a long day. I could say I’m not so angry now, but that would be a lie. I’m still really, really furious.

But in all honesty, it’s not worth my time. It’s not worth my energy to be angry.

And besides, I have discovered that I’m not a complete mess when it comes to finding a cute boy. The one I wanted, I got. It turns out he just needed a little more time to think than most people.

Yellow and purple do go together, after all.

Motherfucker

* I’ll say right now I’m not in the mood to use language fit for polite company. See post title.

That said:

What the fuck. That wasn’t the way I wanted to wake up this morning. Let’s just get online for a few moments’ distraction, I told myself, and maybe there will be something interesting to read. Or whatever.

Well, there sure was.

And now I’m pissed. Livid. Counting my words so I don’t spew half-churned rage onto the webpage.

Breath knocked from my lungs in one swift kick. It’s like being thrown into a tree, all over again.

Except I’m only sitting here, not lying on dusty ground. And instead of pain, there’s fury.

How dare. Stay the fuck away from me.

The end.

Naked

I’m going to write without barriers. These are my thoughts right now, and it might be a little risque, but either suck it up and deal with it or don’t read.

I’m desperate. Desperate for someone to hold, someone to touch. Someone to whisper to, someone to kiss.

I’m pathetic, too. Pathetic for craving someone else. Almost anyone else.

Stupid silly shoelaces.

Two stanzas of nonsense

This seems to be the writing time
Not too late, but past the prime
The perfect moment in which to rhyme
This tiny window of my time.

A flow of ink against blank white
A red line dribbled, a proofing sight
A blue quick loop and then it’s night
Away from here into snow bright white.

Purple and yellow are complimentary, maybe

So, I got on the bus today. Right at two oh eight. And upon sitting down in a seat, I realized that there was absolutely nothing I could get done at home. I’d be lazing around the house for four hours, accomplishing nothing. And eating.

So, I stood back up and walked off the bus. And back into school.

So, here I am, seated at Mrs. Propp’s computer, blogging and yearbooking and thinking about food.

I really want an Olympia salad. That would be fantastic.

Anyway. There’s a basketball game tonight, at home. I really want to go, but I have play rehearsal.

Come on, it’s not like I do anything at play, anyway. Until I know all of my (twelve) lines, there’s not really much I can do but observe where I move. And how to jump when my leg gets shot. Ha.

I’d need blue clothes, anyway. Maybe my mother will come to the game and bring me some. And some of Olympia’s salad.

On another note, I got a hug today. I passed this kid that I think I like walking in the hallway during twelfth. He said, “Hey, you,” and I honestly almost turned around to see who he was talking to. But it was me, ha ha. So I gave him a hug and he mumbled at me politely and then we went our separate ways.

I think I make him nervous. I know I make him awkward.

Whatever, though. I’d like a guy I can talk to about anything, who argues with me, and who knows when and what I’m feeling. I’d like a guy who doesn’t expect me to be experienced in everything sexual. I’d like a guy who can text me and have more to talk to me about than sex.

But for now, well. I guess I’ll settle with the one I have in mind now. The one with silly shoelaces and flippy hair who I never see to talk to. The one everyone says is so sweet. The one that doesn’t make any sense for me to be crushing on.

Yep, I think I’ll stick with him, regardless of the senselessness. As Katie is fond of quoting, “It’s not the years in your life, but the life in your years.” And my years have been pathetically lacking in life lately.

This may not be the moment, to tell you face-to-face

I know, I know. I’ve been blogging up a storm lately. It’s just because there’s a lot on my mind that I can’t preoccupy myself thinking about, so I have to schedule a time to get it all out of there.

I want to go to school tomorrow and have something cute happen to me.

And from that one statement, I just realized that I’m being completely superficial and retarded and I feel like I’m not thinking about anyone else at all, except in regard to how they relate to me.

This needs to stop. Right now.

I know I haven’t liked a boy in a long time so it’s weird for me to think about someone so much. But I’m not thinking about how I can be wonderful to him, I’m thinking about how much fun I could derive from hanging out with him.

So I’m being selfish.

And like I said, this needs to stop.

Okay, so I made Robby a hat. Big deal. I felt bad for his cold bald head. But that was one kind act in a cesspool of self-absorbed ones. I need to get a grip and get it together.

And this was so not where I planned on having this blog go, hah. I wanted to rant and rave about my problems and think about that boy some more. (Not Robby, the other one. Although Robby is damn cute and so so funny! :])

I’m waiting on his answer and I don’t really have anything else to do but sit here and think about myself, so what do you expect?

I need to stop being such a– I don’t know, such a self-obsessed idiot. I need to tug my head back from the clouds of dreamy dazed romanticism and try to be nicer. And less egocentric.

It’s just so downright silly

Okay, so. The boy troubles?

I guess they’re gone, although if anything else happens I’m sure I’ll be motivated to write about it. But, hey, if he can barely look at me, I think I can figure it out.

Maybe I’m being neurotic and fatalistic and dramatic. I probably am, in fact. I am just uncomfortable, since, after I explained myself, he said he needed time to think.

Okay, I’m cool with that. After all, I’d need to think about it, too. Even though
a.) I’m not too ugly
b.) I’m not too fat
c.) I’m decent to talk to if you get me going, and
d.) I really didn’t think I suck that much,
I’ll give him thinking time. I’m the kind of person, who, when faced with the possibility of change, likes to sit and weigh the posiitives and negatives of the situation. So I get it. I really get it.

But, seriously. If his first response is “just let me think about it,” maybe… maybe there’s something else. Someone else. Granted I pretty much sprang it on him. Christ, I’m dumb.

And then Sarah tells me there are other girls he’s been talking to. And not like just-talking girls, either. I’m talking about the kind of girls that do the talk that I’d been doing. Which is to say the “I like you” kind.

So, what is he, some kind of playa? How funny. But how annoying.

And crap! It’s not as if I don’t have a life, I do. I’m crazy-busy allllll the time. And I’m willing to sacrifice a slice of that crammed time for a boy I barely know who’s caught my attention. Do I want to date him? Nooo. Do I want to have my way with him?

That’s so outrageous, and probably the answer to that is no, too. But I should be able to add some frivolity to my life, shouldn’t I? A little fun.

And damn it, I just have to say that if– yet again– I am the second option, or third, or fourth, I am quitting. I’m not a quitter, and I never really have been. I’ll say it, spur-of-the-moment, and not be serious about it at all.

But here, I am. I’m thinking clearly and perfectly serious. If this doesn’t work out, and I’ve done everything wrong again, I’m just going to live out the rest of high school as a monk. Danse, mon moine, danse, because there’s nothing else to do but dance around in circles and circles like the spinning top that “moine” is also slang for. I’m always circling around, never stopping, never settling anywhere that wants me.

I just won’t involve myself with boys after this. They don’t like me anyway, I don’t know why I bother. And I’m not just beating myself up, here, because do you see any boys lining up for me? No, sir. You don’t.

So whatever. I have enough to do. If straightforwardness isn’t enough to accomplish what I want it to, then I’m finished here. And that’s how it’s gona go down.

Diminished triads: a half-step lower and I just sound stupid

I’m so dumb.

Okay, and yes, I bring it upon myself.

I hate it when I start to like people. I hate to admit it, too, but I’m a smidgeon of a hopeless romantic. And my imagination is way too out of proportion.

Therefore, if I tend to feel the least bit like swooning over someone, it avalanches until I’m sitting here in a cloud of daydreams.

Do you understand how much time this wastes?!

So, to crystallize my mind once more and focus it on the numerous tasks at hand, I feel like I have to take action in order for me to stop thinking sillly thoughts.

And, I tried to. But it’s not working yet and I don’t know if phone-checking just wasn’t his priority today, or what. Who knows? I don’t know!

Another note on the way I seem to function: I may or may not freak out if I go out on a limb and there’s no response. Just a flatline there? Well, there I go, freaking out.

Not that I’m freaking out. Because I’m not.

It’s just, this is a weird situation. Like, really weird. And I never, never imagined it would be my scenario.

All the things I told KT last year (warning her against younger boys, be careful when you talk to them, they might get ideas) are coming back to haunt me. The advice I tried to provide, cautioning against getting involved with a boy two years younger? Ha.

I want this one to get the idea, and I don’t know if he has or not. And I’m trying to take my own advice and ignore the fact that I never freak out about boys unless I like them. And with my current schedule and relentless desire to daydream, it is not the best idea to get involved with anyone. Let alone to like them! How dumb of me!

So I keep telling myself, “Don’t do it.”

But I’m not listening. And I think I’ve already gone ahead anyway.

It’s like Irony’s slithered right back around and given me a bite in the ass.

So. This is just freakin’ awesome.

And in case you couldn’t tell that that was loaded with sarcasm, I’ll be honest here and say, I like lying to myself.

One of these days:

One of these days,
I’ll act on impulse.
One of these days,
I’ll say what I think
The most honest version possible
They wouldn’t know it was possible
And either no one will care
Or, they’ll hate me.

One of these days,
I’ll glide along on impulse.
One of these days,
I’ll walk up and kiss him
He wouldn’t be expecting it
No one would be expecting it
And he’d like it
Or, he’ll hate me.

One of these days,
I’ll walk alone with impulse.
One of these days,
I’ll cry, it doesn’t matter
The full room of people, staring
Guess if I was them I’d be staring
And I’d be better
Or I’d hate me.

One of these days,
I’ll write away with impulse.
One of these days,
I’ll test out some poetry
And if it’s pointless then, it’s pointless
I’m not surprised if it is pointless
But if not, then
Here’s to impulse.

Conference (of voices)

This weekend was a blast. I can’t believe it’s over; I can’t believe three days and two nights are just, done. In a heartbeat.

No. In a downbeat.

It’s made me sure of one thing, if anything.

I want to be a musician. I already am, really. But I want it to be my life. Not just a hobby, not just a thing to practice, to get better at.

No, the drive that’s gotten me this far is going to have to propel me into the future.

This weekend was a great teaser for college. Being in a grand scale setting with hundreds of people my own age, that I don’t really know, who all love to make music, was phenomenal.

Some people are dumb, obviously. But others are great. Others are so splendid and fabulous that you never want to leave. You want to stay and talk and hang out and sing or play or whatever, forever.

It was nice to be away from home, too, I decided. To have the freedom to do what I want was (hello) liberating. I could breathe. It was exhilarating.

I met a twelve-year-old boy who was there for a young artists’ convention. He was a pianist. He was a composer. He was a master of improv and I might even go so far to say that he was equal to (dare I hazard a “better than”?) Emma.

To be honest, this kid was insane. His name is Scott and he goes to piano school, takes lessons three times a week. He lives on Long Island (no surprise there, so do half the kids who were at Conference), but what really impressed me was the complete and total whole of himself, poured into his playing. He was very aware of the crowd of girls from our choir gathered around the grand, but just by looking at him you could tell that he was simply drowned in it. He looked up every so often as he played, and a few times he met my eyes: it was bizarre, it was intriguing. It was like he was hardly there, and it was all music, all his heart, just dripping like rain onto piano keys and into our ears.

Simply beautiful.

He inspired me, and so now I’m going to work harder. It wasn’t just him, either. It was the energy, the ambition, the talent that was jam-packed into the Radisson this weekend. It was the vivacity and passion of our conductor, Dr. Levine. (She was fab, as she would say, by the way.) It was the combination of independent, individual, brilliant, able, and strong women that made up my choir.

And it was the actual music-making: the long hours of rehearsing, the sweat, blood and tears drenching the memorization of “O Yo-yo” and the focus and energy throughout our program. It was the music that reminded me where I want to go, and where I want to be.

The truth is, I want to be at Eastman.

If I can’t, then I can’t. I’m square with that now. And Syracuse would be an alright alternative, sure.

But if Eastman likes my prescreening, then by God I am going to work my ass off and really soar with my audition rep.

I’m going to make some music for them.

Accomplishment

So my roundtable essay’s done, and awaiting critique by Mrs. Propp. This essay also counts as my position paper for english, and will be the foundation for my persuasive speech in speech.

I’m happy it’s done. I’m so relieved I don’t have to work on it.

Now my mom and sister are discussing differences between Lerew and Stoffel. Hoo, boy.

I still have a lot to do. I completely, accidentally blew off Theory II twelfth period with Fried. I feel bad. I didn’t even tell her; I’d completely forgotten. Uhggg. So tomorrow first thing I have to find her and apologize and obtain a long black skirt.

Then it’s yearbook time afterschool. Ick, ick, ick. I have to yell at everyone (or explain things nicely that they should have known since September). I will probably end up being a colossal bitch. It makes me sick to my stomach.

But I’m done with my paper and I don’t have any other homework and I just need to pack for Conference and pick out some dress clothes.

I can go to bed early tonight, or write, or watch TV or practice if I want to. I’ve accomplished something.

Arrivederci, il mio amore

I’m done.

I’m through.

It’s over.

I’m finished trying to run, finished trying to control, and finished trying to be independent. Trying to be a grown-up. Let fate fall where it may, and I guess I’m leaning against the old fallback of “if God wills it.”

But seriously. At this point, if God wills it, I’ll be one intensely blessed grateful dumb shit.

I’m done.

I’m done with pretending that I’m an adult. I’m not, okay? So get over it and leave me alone. I’m struggling to get into a college that I know I’m not prepared for in a competitive world that’s waiting with eager, dripping jaws to eat me alive. I’m not ready.

I’m through.

I’m through sitting back and letting my hundreds of responsibilities run amok over me. It’s partially my fault through disorganization, partially my fault through neglect. I’m doing so much I can’t focus on the important things. If something doesn’t go, I will. I’ll go insane. So I’m through being trampled by my own many loves and passions, and I’m through being choked and hung by the dramas of my friends and school life. I’ve got to distance myself from it, before it gets me. If I don’t focus, and work my ass off on the thing that is most important, I won’t get anywhere. Ever.

It’s over.

So it’s over, kids, and here I am typing as a shakily resolute and keenly terrified individual who’s not grown up and who’s ready to practice and who really just wants to stay home and love her life and her family in peace.

But Time and Nature won’t allow it. So ready or not, I’m out in less than a year. If I go to a shitty school, well hey, that’s my own fault. Goodbye, Eastman. Nice looking at your name on the website, C.I.M. I wish I would have been good enough. I’m sorry for wasting your time, Heather. I’m deeply sorry, Mrs. Ripley.

What happens, happens. If I can’t contact anyone and have them be my savior with my transcript and SAT score report today, then I am fucked. And who can or will help me, the irresponsible procrastinator who is falsely deluding herself that she can make it in the vicious world of music?

I just want to sing. And that will probably never happen now, because I’m a fucking retard.

So guess what.

I’m done.

Let’s trade in blood

So my roundtable project for Government used to be on human trafficking. Then, since I realized you can’t really pick sides (unless you want to be the insensitive and heartless dick who says that human trafficking should be legal), I edited the topic a little. I’m onto talking about prostitution.

It’s called the “victimless crime”– a business that’s been operating for thousands of years is a punishable offense. Although research has shown that prostitutes are raped 8-10 times annually and that 86% of sex workers have been attacked with a weapon, it’s dismissed as NHI: no humans involved.

But, of course, women who work as prostitutes must have chosen their profession because they like sex, right? They like it kinky or violent or just anywhere, anytime. And they get paid. So it’s a pretty good deal. They must enjoy what they do, despite the abuse, the violence, the subsequent drug dependencies pushed onto them by their pimps, are all consequences sex workers decided were worth it. Oh, and the jail time for being caught and convicted of selling oneself? Just a little extra added bonus.

The sex trade in the United States is thriving. So should we legalize it? Nevada did. In Nevada, sex workers are required to have health checkups and johns must use protection. The brothels are deemed to be “safe.”

Does that make it right? Do all prostitutes choose to peddle their bodies and their lives for the perverted satisfaction of horny men? No, and that’s why there needs to be more done, by the government, to help them escape, and leave that life if they choose to. Prostitution cannot be legalized. If we define human rights violations as sexual harassment, physical assault, rape, captivity, economic coercion, or emotionally damaging verbal abuse, then we cannot in good conscience legalize prostitution anywhere, because that’s what prostitution involves.

America is supposed to be the land of opportunities, so why are we letting women who were forced into the dark and dangerous world of prostitution suffer? Most prostitutes enter the profession at the age of thirteen– and please don’t dare insinuate that a thirteen-year-old girl decided she wanted a load of creep-asses to fuck her on a daily basis. Don’t you dare.

There are also the women who believe they don’t have any alternatives. That there’s no other way to make quick, easy money that they need to support themselves, or their child(ren). They sell themselves a few times, and are quickly swept into a deadly cycle of abuse, rape, and trauma.

Nearly all prostitutes suffer from symptoms of post-traumatic stress disorder.

I guess prostitution isn’t as fun as it seems, is it? Can you see victims yet?

Just one big headache

Seriously, college is all I think about now. College and life and death and dying and Goddamn I’m sick of it. I’m ready to be done with college and I haven’t even started it yet. I’m hoping that’s a good omen in the long run, though, because that’s the way I felt about prom exactly and I ended up having a blast.

But there’s just so much stress involved. If KT tells me one more time “you need to relax” I’m going to punch Colton in the face, because if it weren’t for him she’d be the same as before.

But life is life and it changes and so do people so I’d better suck it up and move on. God.

At least I’m talking to boys, though. That might help me relax (Jesus Christ).

Relaxing isn’t what I’m supposed to be doing, though. I’m supposed to be working, supposed to be doing everything I can to beat my way into a great school.

My mom told me today that I’m going to end up pumping gas. She told me to go to JCC for free. And meant it.

I’m just not even going to think about that. There’s no way. Just no fucking way I could go there. After all of my dreaming, all of my hard work, to throw it away, for that place?! I know I probably don’t know what I’m saying when I say this, but I’d rather be in debt for the rest of my life and do what I love than go somewhere to learn how to do a nine to five job and get plastered every weekend for free.

God. And there’s just no way I could throw away everything I’ve hoped for and thought of and wished for with all of my heart. Just because of money.

I know money’s important, and my mom would say I’m stupid and have no concept of it because I’ve never had to get a job, never had to make the money to support myself.

Well I guess I’ll figure that all out next year, won’t I? I haven’t gotten any experience with it so far, huh?

The way I figure it, I’ll either sink or float next year. I’ll either succeed or suck and come back home to pump gas.

But I’ll be damned if I don’t try to be all that I can. It’ll be like the dream where I died and watched everyone standing around, shaking their heads and mourning, “What a waste of potential.”

Well, here’s news. I’m not dead.

And I have all the potential in the world. I plan to put it to use.

Suck onnnnn that.

The Wiz: in three parts

I emailed Mrs. Ripley each night of my senior show, because she was in China. I’m posting the three emails here because I feel like I should have documented my last musical at Gowanda somehow. So here they are.

THE WIZ: EPISODE ONE

We had fun tonight. Well, this afternoon. We did the energy circle thing (Taylor and I didn’t really explain it that well, though– we will tomorrow, since we instigated it). Bobby and Kris didn’t participate, but they’re losers. (Not really, but they’re lame boys and I’m sure that with the proper friendly persuasion they’ll do it tomorrow…ha).

The whole thing went pretty smoothly: there were a few instances where mics cut out; Glenn wasn’t there, either. I don’t know why.

I, um, may have gotten my only laughs from the crowd as soon as I walked on. Phoebe didn’t walk in a straight line and I had to try to scoot her out on stage twice-ish before she actually went, and even then it was kind of in a circle. So I picked her up and bopped across the stage, scrambling for the appropriate lines (obviously I couldn’t say “Come back here, Toto” if I was holding her) and I may have rammed into the house on accident with my shoulder.

Yes, I have a bruise.

Yes, the house off-kiltered a foot or so.

But it was funny, and even though I cracked up when I got off stage it ran nicely.

The makeup all looked really good; Zach and Kruszka and Taylor all got a lot of laughs; Chelsea and Dakota did too. Obviously my character isn’t funny, so they didn’t cheer so much for me, but that’s ok. I got home to Kansas and remembered to click my heels and it was all good.

I saw Kiener and Emma and Hannah, and that was pretty weird considering that in a year it’ll be me coming back to watch my friends. I don’t know if I’m okay with that yet. Stephen told me, “Well, this is it, this is your last show.”

And I could only smirk at him and reply that no, I had two more.

I just can’t think about this being “My Last.” It doesn’t sit well with me at all, so I think if I just don’t spend any time dwelling on it, it won’t affect me as much. I don’t want to get all watery and miserable on Tuesday.

But! All in all it was a good show and so far that’s what I’ve been hearing in reviews. “Great job,” “Good show,” “GREAT show,” keep being repeated. Some kids came back to us after and we (leads) talked to them and even got a picture or two with them (at parents’ insistence). The Lion, mostly, and (surprisingly) me were approached individually and greeted by toddlers and their parents, so that was cute. Mrs. Propp’s nine-year-old daughter Morgan had us all sign her program.

I think that tomorrow and Tuesday I’ll have more energy. I was thinking, by “Y’all Got It,” that I just wanted it to be done with so I could go home. I know that’s awful, but I was so so tired. The “easing on down the road” part of my job is straight up exhausting. I can’t dance anyway, so put singing and dancing together and I’m almost out by the time the Kalidahs get us.

Oh! And “Be a Lion” was good. Pretty darn good (the best time we’ve done it). I talked to Ms. Fried at intermission and she was really happy with it. Ms. Stoffel and her mom were really excited at the end, and so was Mrs. Hales. I think Mr. Wesley disappeared– we didn’t have notes and I didn’t see him at all after the production.

…and that’s all I know. It went really well. Tomorrow and Tuesday will be good also, I hope.

THE WIZ: PART TWO !

The show tonight was fabulous. Standing ovation (again), whoo hoooo! I left my makeup and contact case at school though, and that’s not so cool. Oh well. It’ll still be there in the morning (I hope).

 

Soo: there were so many outtakes tonight it was ridiculous. Hilarious.

 

And Aaron and Gabby were sick: Mr. Bett filled in for Aaron with a massively stuffed stomach and these outrageous overalls.

 

Then Chelsea starts it all off with: “Now I’m all axe… I mean, tin. I’m all… tin.” I just about died.

 

Then, during the funky monkey scene, Bethany played Aaron’s monkey so it was all a little off. It didn’t really help that the Friends had been sitting backstage making dirty jokes before we went on. (Haha.) So we were a little giggly. And whilst Bobby was chasing me, I screamed, aaaand– my shoe flew off.

 

I grabbed it and raced back to Zach/My Lion and quivered with laughter there while clutching my shoe. Then I had to hobble off one-footed and rush backstage to reshoe myself before entering on again.

 

Oh! And “Be a Lion” simply soared. It took off and zoomed around the aud amazingly and for the first time I really, really felt like I nailed it. I got offstage and started jumping around with glee because hey, my senior show won’t completely fall flat on its face there! I’ll get it tomorrow, too, I hope.

 

Also, Zachary gave Bobby a bloody nose during the Kalidahs (on accident). But I gave him drugs (Tylonol) so it was all good.

 

What else happened? Hmm. Well, there was a schizofrenic curtain at the end; it closed halfway, the light turned blue and then it opened partly– and then closed again. By then we were all cracking up and feeling really good. I hope it seriously rocks tomorrow. I’m looking forward to it soooo so much. Mr. Wesley talked to us last night about a “second show slump”– after Be a Lion, Chelsea, Dakota and I were walking to the side door and Chelsea goes, “Second show slump? What is that?” and from there it simply lifted and showered the audience with clarity and a good story. Zig/Christian kicked butt, too. And Kruszka really took charge with guiding the monkeys about Aaron’s absence. He came back and was talking to us too about the timing of the monkey scene and how we could fix it so it wasn’t awkward. That was cool.

 

Oh, and during “Y’all Got It” my skirt flew up. Like, way up. Soooo, the audience pretty much knows that I had the little polka-dotted bloomers on. Hahahah.

 

So, it was great. We really missed you, and were thinking of you the whole time. It was a great show, though.

 

I’ll send you another email tomorrow! After the last finale!

“AND JUST MAYBE I CAN CONVINCE TIME TO SLOW UP” — FINALE.

 

The Wiz has spoken, and it’s over.

 

Man oh man. An evening of emotional upheaval, that’s for sure. I was told that I gave my best performance of the three nights (by none other than our own Kevin Brown) but I’m not so sure. The audience was all small children, running inandout inandout the whole time; but by the second act they had settled down and we were rolling again.

 

The outtakes were slightly more hysterical tonight. Chelsea said, “An old witch put a spell on my axe!”

 

Me: “Your AXE?!”

 

Chels: “Nooo, a SPELL?”

 

Me: “A SPELL!”    

 

And then she “chopped” her other leg off and in the excitement Dakota’s hat flew off.

 

Later: the Lion and I greeted each other at Evillene’s. Zachary reached out to pat my back. His glove, ah, got stuck on the back of my dress. So we adlibbed for a while until he managed to get his glove off. Apparently it sounded like I asked him, “So what’s that old b*tch got you doin’?” instead of witch because Zach and I were a smidgeon preoccupied.

 

And then while Taylor was yelling her spiel at us I managed to reach behind me and rip the glove off of my dress. But when I tried to throw the water the glitter didn’t quite shake out right. So I chucked the bucket at her. In retaliation, my best friend Taylor whips the chair in my direction. Fun times all around!

 

Hmm, what else?

 

The ending song was almost unbearable. On the last note (“home”) I could feel the mixed emotions of the cast just whipping and swirling around me: especially Taylor’s, Chelsea’s and Tara’s. We’ve been singing and performing together since we were little kids– what will we do now? I guess we still have the play, but it’s not the same.

 

It’s over. I’m just about to head over to Taylor’s right now for a cast slumber party with pizza– I just can’t wrap my head around the idea that it’s finished. There are so many more things to look forward to, especially musically, for me– but nothing will ever replace the endless hours and effort poured into that group: you know the one I’m talking about. It’s molded and mingled through the years but essentially, like you’ve said all along, it’s made us all conjoined at the hip. Now that the conjoination (is that a word?) is splitting, it feels like we’re all splitting too, inside. I imagine tonight at Taylor’s it will be an emotional wreck. A fun emotional wreck, but a wreck nonetheless.

 

Oh well. We’ll all just have to come to terms with it. And I suppose we will get over it and remember the fun we’ve all had. We missed you tonight, that’s for sure. We were all thinking about you and wishing you were there, but in the same breath glad that you were having fun, too. It’s been an awesome time.

Long ago, today

My room’s a mess. An utter disaster. As I was attempting to clean it just now, an Avett’s song came upon my iTunes: “Living of Love.” I remember months and months ago when that song was my code to life. Is it now? I don’t know. I wish I had endless summer’s peace of mind to decide on it.

But I don’t, and that’s the point. As I was listening to Seth and Scott croon about living for love, and how it’s the only thing worth fighting or living for, I broke a clock. I broke my little electric purple alarm clock that glows different colors. I’ve had it for so long, I don’t even remember receiving it. I dropped it and it fell and the little plastic top piece came off. Popped right off in my hands.

Since it’s in my nature to try to fix things, that’s what I set about doing. But the neat impenetrable marvel that had been my clock was shattered. I knew what the inside looked like now. It might be childish, but ignorance of what lay inside and how it worked had kept me fascinated with this tiny clock for many a sleepless night.
And now it was spoiled. And all the while I held it I was suffocated with thoughts about college– as I have been all day– and what it’s going to be like. Am I going to have friends, will they make fun of me? Will they hate me, will I fail?

Will I succeed?

As if a sign, Anna Netrebko’s “Sempre Libera” just began playing. So who knows what it means, but there you go, another occurrence that just makes me think of the future.

Anyway. I fixed the clock’s top, but it looks a little worse for wear. I feel a little miserable about it. Okay, it’s an inanimate object. But it’s an inanimate object from my past that had value to me at one point in time and now it’s not the same. Nothing will ever be the same. Each day, something changes irrevocably that can never be undone. We’re always all propelled, moving forward without a backward gaze.

So when my neck turns of its own accord and I find myself straining back, heart reaching toward the past, it hurts all the more.

The happy kick in my heart’s dimmed a little today. I don’t know if it’s because I’m not in good health right now, or if it’s because I’ve been dealing with college papers for a fair chunk of the day, but I’m sad. And I’ve realized that time passes and things change.

And they break. Shatter. They can be fixed again, if they’re judged to be worth the effort, but they’ll be different.

Sometimes I like the different. I have to remind myself that sometimes the different is for the better.

How do I know what’s better or not?

Uhg. Damn this dark sky at seven for making me think of dreary things.

Haunting

I’ve been having some unusual dreams lately.

It’s really not unlike me to encounter some weird ones. I’ve chilled with a werewolf who was actually my cousin’s buddy, broken Caitlin out of a whorehouse and waltzed with Nick Jonas.

And I have to say, I’ve had some really bad dreams. I’ve fought off a cannibal banshee who used my bathtub as her fortress (the bleeding strips of entrails dripping from the curtain rod didn’t really entice me into showering the next morning, let me tell you). I have catapulted off of a cliff with a girl I hated.

I have seen my dead dog, alive, and pleaded with her not to burn alive. I’ve raced into similar fiery infernos to save my sister (who ended up a blackened, crispy husk). I’ve been pregnant and alone in a Chinese stable, for God’s sake.

But the past two nights I’ve been haunted.

The night before last, my mom was sick. I watched her seize and convulse viciously until the pain in her head killed her. I kept telling myself, as she became unrecognizable (similar to an orange rind, oddly), that she wasn’t dead, she wasn’t dead. She was fine, she would get better. A little Mexican man kept trying to tell me that, too. Then he told me my dad had cut himself. I raced to the back porch and expected to see his wrists slashed.

No. He slumped against the pool with his throat slit in two places.

For some reason I was talking to him about Doc and Grandma, though. Reassuring him that she never meant to destroy the illusion he’d held of his mother and father and fidelity. I discovered then he’d been cutting himself for years because of them.

Then last night, I dreamed for the second time in my life that I died.

The first time was two or three years ago. Jaws’ sister bit me in half. It was a sweet death, calming and walm and dark and peaceful. I didn’t feel a thing but a pleasant crushing sensation and waiting, warm blue.

Last night, I dreamed that a boy I know– a boy I know that has liked me and been a creeper so I ignore him– brought a gun to school. A small pistol. The light was bright and crayon yellow, crayola orange. Desks were smooth and gray and he simply swung the pistol around the room. Angry at us. Angry at existence. My heart hammered as a glint off the muzzle– silvery, spark– shone as he pulled the gun in a swift arc until it faced me.

All along I’d been terrified, immobile with horror, thinking that my friends were going to die. Thinking that this abhorrent tragedy had really arrived at Gowanda and landing with both murky, mucky feet.

But no. The words that came out of his mouth were, “I was going to kill them all. But I won’t. Instead I’ll kill you.” And the last thing I saw was the hate blaze in his eyes. Any hurt remaining was seared away by the anger.

The last thing I felt was the crack-crack! of my ribs and the puncture of my lung as the blast of two shots ripped through my chest.

This death wasn’t a peaceful one. Not in the least. I remained a ghost, transparent and lonely, listening to the aftermath.

I was the only one who’d been murdered. Just me.

And I heard the wrenching sorrow that flooded my mother’s heart. The abandonment of my sister’s. The confused and regretful pulse of my dad’s. I experienced the hurt that me, leaving, would wreck upon my family. I watched, helpless, as acquaintances of my family told my parents at my wake about what a talent, what a potential I had had. What they had hoped for me.

Then I think my mom wailed, and I woke up, crying. My mom never wails.

God, I wish I was an insomniac.

November blue

It’s off to Maria’s for a first-ever family dinner that’s not at Grandma’s. It should be nice; I’ve never seen her house so I’m curious.

On another note, I honestly don’t know what I’m going to do when it starts snowing hardcore. I’ve barely just come to terms with the fact that it’s fall. I’m just not ready for winter. I’m simply unprepared for life to go by this quickly.

So I’ll wear my red knit hat and brace myself for snowflakes, and I’ll sing “holiday” carols and agree with bonhomie with the people who bitch about winter. But inside, I’ll be bawling, because ultimately even though it’s just November it will be December, then January, FebruaryMarchAprilMayJune before I know it and there I go: years and years of school at Gowanda flung away in favor of a big school where everyone’s further along than I am and I know No One.

I guess that’s life, but I’m not ready.

…I suppose I have to start with the change that is dinner at Maria’s and roll with the snow and the graduating and the swiftly-moving life that wings my way.

One of Those Days

Productivity will come to me sometimes in waves, gallons, buckets. It’ll just swamp me and overwhelm me and all I can do is ride it out and leave a trail of finished things in my wake.

Today I am having One of Those Days, and it’s great. I was just outside with the dogs, and did horse/cat chores; one benefit of my dad being away is that I have the roam of the land. I can do my mother a favor and do chores, which I like to do when it’s nice outside.

It’s great to do what I like in my own house. My mom is less stressed because dad isn’t here dirtying up the house, and I can be relied upon to keep our living space decent-looking. With dad here, it’s like, it’s going to get shitted up anyway, so what’s the point of picking up?

But that’s neither here nor there, because I am having a Productive Day.

I’ve got the card table set up in front of the couch and am going to put some of The Wiz on so I can hear my thoughts without singing them. I’m going to memorize some more as I finish my English assignment with the New Yorker and then chop away at my Kite Runner essay. Then it’s lines, for the rest of the day, and once Michelle and mom get home I’ll put away groceries.

I’m going to get my coffee and get started. I’ve got a lot to do– laundry and dishes on top of school and college essays, too– but I’m ready for it.

It’s just another One of Those Days.

I’m not Cleverbot

“Cleverbot: Well…ummm.

Me: your mother was a hamster and your father smelled of elderberries.

Cleverbot: My father was a hamster. “

26 Oct. 2009

Pretty much all I am

I love my new wordpress layout :)

I liked the kickdrumheart one, too, don’t get me wrong. But this? It’s black and red, which I normally cringe at together. The white gives it a lacing of class, and the fogginess of it all illustrates the lack of clarity that envelopes my life most of the time.

The coolest part is, naturally, the Avett Brothers lyrics in the banner and side images.

They’re from the song “Gimmeakiss”– which is cute to begin with– but also seems to coalesce with my current agenda. Ironic, isn’t it, that when I need to focus on important things I start wanting to flirt with boys.

I’m silly, I know. I just won’t think about that, and hope it goes away.

But my all-time favorite lyric from the Avetts right now is in the image header:

“You hear my voice right now, well that’s pretty much all I am”

… that pretty much sums up my life.

Or how I want my life to be, anyway. That’s in the plan: my plan. My plan for success, for life.

To sing.

That’s all I want right now.

Xylophone, musical, choir, writing, yearbook…

As much as I love them all, they can fade into silence. My family and friends speak to me, and I’ll sing for them as well as myself.

My road leads me toward music. I want to hear it, breathe it. Feelitsingitliveit. I want that to be my life.

My voice? It’s pretty much all I am.

Hey, guess what–

Boys are dumb.

I know I really have been entertained by them lately: I don’t know why, but being nice to them makes them more sociable. It’s cool, I can be friendly and they talk to me. Why didn’t someone tell me this years ago?

But I digress, because the whole point is that boys are dumb. I waste my time thinking about them and looking at them and making myself seem like a huge idiot, and all for what? A smile? A new inside joke? A teasing shove, a hug?

I’m dumb, too, evidently.

Boys really have no chance with me, I guess. I’m too cold. Too unresponsive. I’m either too tired to try to speak their language and subsequently do that wrong, or I’m too giddy and then when I am too tired they don’t get why I’m being so retarded.

Ugh. And quite honestly, I don’t have time for the romantic, happy shit that seems to happen whenever people get together. It seems too much like work for me to want to really develop a relationship of the cutesy couple-y nature.

And on another note, to any boys who might care, don’t flirt with me one day and then hang around with one of my good friends the next. Especially when I know you’re leading her on. I don’t like it and it makes me think you’re a dumb ass.

P.S. Boys are dumb.

Oh hot damn

My jam was on during homecoming, and after. I can barely remember it all; the evening flew by in a hazy blur of neon and glowsticks and thumping heavy bass.

The afterparty at my house was fun, albeit extremely dirty, conversation-wise, and a little tense. Everyone was so hyped up.

For all it was an unusual crew, the chemistry really caught, though. There are instances in a social situation where the atmosphere sometimes lags or starts charging with unpleasantry or awkwardness. That didn’t happen. I halfway expected it to, but I guess the friends who came were just so mentally flexible and comfortable that it didn’t have to. Bobby, Colyn, Grubbs, and Dave don’t always hang out with me; Chelsea and Tara and Sam are used to Post, Trank, and Taylor and vice versa; Jimmy, Jill, Aaron, Sarah, Cayleigh and Samuelson are all underclassmen. Harley doesn’t even go to Gowanda. Still, I was prepared to ask everyone to play nice. But aside from eating the entirety of the ninety dollars worth of food and forgetting to put the toilet seat back down, it was a blast and ran really smoothly.

For a last homecoming, I was satisfied. And it really enlightened me, that I soooo need to relax. It was fun to have the time to hang out with friends. Being busy every waking second haunts me. I can’t do it. I think of Caitlin, who was confused when I told her about everything I’ve been up to– she sits at home all the time. She’s used to peace, and doing what she wants. Okay, I know I could never just do nothing, but she honestly didn’t understand when I referred to being so busy. That shocked me.

It’s also nagging at me that Emily has so much free time. I’m not jealous or cranky about her: I’m peeved that this seems so much like a “sign.” She gave up something, and now she doesn’t miss it. She can relax or do something equally productive; that time got filled up and well-used. Seeing her cute little laptop was very like a cosmic sign (if I believed in them), just like Caitlin’s confusion.

So. When Heather ordered me last week to delete something from my schedule, I elbowed past my original doubtful thoughts and made my choice. Damn it, signs.

And see ya around, creative writing. If I have to go talk to Dr. Bob in person to get this solidified, I will. I’m fully prepared to give him the same spiel I gave Mr. Shannon: I’m too effing busy. Something’s gotta give, and I’ll be damned if it’s the musical or my college auditions and applications. So sorry, Ms. Giancola. I’m out.

I know I can write. I enjoyed the classwork, the brain poking. It kept my mind running. But this year I’m truthfully so busy that it pokes at itself all the time on its own. Story ideas can come when I get some free time. And it’s true, I’d love to write a novel. But that doesn’t change the fact that writing is my backup plan and singing will be my career.

So there you have it: in all likelihood I will have freed up forty minutes every other day to do what I need or want. Voila, yippie skippie. Hopefully it will make a difference, but if it doesn’t… band is next on my list. XD

Creative writing gives me headaches

The grass was cool and green and the air smelled like city. The sheer variety of people astounded me. An enormous black man waked up to Katie and I and shook our hands. We talked for a few minutes about how we were pleased to meet each other until he left to go shake someone else’s hand.

A ratty-looking man dripping with hemp necklaces wove through the gathering crowd as well. He passed a group of hippies spinning in circles and my attention was diverted by a massive woman wearing vivid red and orange; her four foot long brown dreadlocks swung out as she twirled.

People-watching became an entertainment for the two hours we waited, eager for the show to start.

It was my first time at Thursday in the Square. It was the Avett Brothers’ first time, too. I don’t think they expected to have such an enormous fan base– honestly, “Thursday in the Square” sounds like a farmer’s market.

There were the usual components of a concert present: spilled beer, empty cups thrown onto the ground. The faint scent of pot drifted over the audience.

After an endless wait, another band performed a long and dull set. KT and I moved up to stand with Marya, Damen and tia about eight feet back from the stage. The Avett Brothers finally, finally came onstage, though, and their music-making began. The crowd went wild.

The Avetts were crazy. Absolutely crazy. Bob and the Asian cello player whose name I don’t know were great, too. The lights glwamed pink and tangerine and the energy pumped off the stage in palpable waves. Watching Seth and Scott Avett play and sing– it was obvious they were pushing every last drop of energy into the crowd and into the music.

Some members of the crowd were blockheads, though. We were close to the stage, and of course there had to be idiots ahead of us. A couple directly before us was only hanging around for the party atmosphere. They didn’t care about the chords floating from the amps. There was a man planted directly in front of me and there was no elbow room to speak of. His girlfriend stood sipping her beverage with a self-righteous hip cocked, daring us to edge forward. They everntually left: Marya and I made friends with the little man behind us and we ever-so-politely mobbed the couple by cheering– loudly– very closely, until they ducked out.

Later two girls made their jello-esque presences known: they blobbed their way in front of Damen and Tia, “looking for their friend.” Yeah, right. That’s why they stayed there for twenty minutes. The five Gowanda fans (myself included) had been standing there waiting for hours to hear the Avetts and now these girls were taking up at least five square feet in front of us. Katie and I stood just to the right of Damen and Tia, so when Tia started dancing and jabbing at the girls with her elbows, we just watched and laughed and hoped it worked. It halfway did: one girl turned and began to yell at Tia; the older gentleman beside Damen called them “real classy” and proceeded to scold them. They waddled off shortly thereafter, but not before the pudgier girl gave Tia a quick shove. It was too crowded and too noisy to respond angrily, so we didn’t. I allowed myself a few seconds of fuming before returning my attention to the concert. The speakers quaked with the hum of Bob’s stand-up bass; sweet strains of the mellow cello tangled elegantly with riotous acoustic guitar and bluegrass-riddled banjo. Occasionally keyboard or drum set would switch in, changing the mood but steadily upping the intensity.

The intensity remained afterward as KT and I grabbed a late bite at Denny’s and enjoyed the energy the Avetts had left us with. It had been an evening of music, and wild vibrancy.

First (real) college admissions essay

I don’t have any real “obstacles” in my life. I guess you could say that’s my mother’s fault: she’s done everything in her power possible to keep my life a good one. I was raised in a financially secure home in middle class Western New York. I wasn’t spoiled, but I never wanted for anything. I was raised in love. I was somewhat sheltered, sure, but what parent doesn’t want to protect their child?

I’m a competent, confident individual that’s excited for the changes and opportunities college will bring. I have to open my fledgling wings and fly, and I want to– it’s just that I’ve hardly ever even peeked out of the nest. Of course, I have dealt with stress, and family issues, and migraines. I’ve experienced fear and grief and loss.

But those are simply “welcome to reality” obstacles, and in my opinion they just count as life experiences. Unpleasant ones, wrenching ones, yes. But not challenges.

There have been challenges at school: to maintain high grades while editing the yearbook and being band president and volunteering for National Honor Society. It’s been a challenge to help to restore a historical theatre while learning audition repertoire and acting as vice president of my class and learning the role of Dorothy in “The Wiz.”

But those, again, qualify as elements of everyday life in my mind.

So it’s not as an obstacle that I view the tragic event that changed my life the most.

Before Daniel died, I took life for granted. I nefver thought abou twhy I was alive, or what I was going to do with the time that I had.

I guess you could call the way I previously viewed life an obstacle.

Daniel Dix was a college student, distantly a cousin on my maternal grandmother’s side of the family. Dan’s mom and mine were best friends growing up. He liked to smoke Newports, make forts in his dorm, and listen to music. He was an ambitious history major and would have achieved his Bachelor’s a year early.

In April 2009 he fell off a banister at SUNY Brockport and broke his neck. He was nineteen.

Since then, I’ve struggled with the concept of “life.” One moment a bright personality readiated vibrance– the next it was snuffed out and gone forever, leaving a brother, a sister, and broken parents in its absence.

Over five hundred people came to pay their respects to Dan. He had touched so many lives in his own brief span on earth.

It was a real wake-up call for me, only three years his junior. What was I doing with my life? If it was snatched away from me, what would be left– what kind of mark had I made on the world?

Ever since Daniel’s shocking and
premature death, I’ve learned to live more. I’ve learned to take more risks and try to bring happiness to myself and to those around me. I believe that college will be a time filled with learning and new experiences. That alone will be enough to make me happy: I’m intent on pursuing a career in performace and the thought of how precious life is has only concreted my passion for music and learning.

I haven’t faced many serious “obstacles” in my short life, but dealing with my cousin’s demise forced me to realize that we only go around once, and that every minute is a gift. Dan might be sitting somewhere in the afterlife smoking it up and laughing at me, but he has had a profound impact on the way that I now view things and live.

Here’s a college essay for you: obstacle enough?

I hate writing about myself. I feel like I’m supposed to brag and ramble on about how great I am– I don’t do that well.

I mean, I could. But I don’t like to.

To be frank, the entire application process intimidate me. Sure, I’m supposed to be growing up and self-reliant. Others my age or younger have overcome much mroe than I have and managed to pull through successfully.

I’m not those other kids. I’m not Frank, either. I was raised in a financially secure home in middle class Western New York. I wasn’t spoiled, but I never wanted for anything. I was raised in love. I was somewhat sheltered, sure, but what parent doesn’t want to protect their child?

I’m a competent, confident individual that’s excited for the changes and opportunities college will bring. I’m excited, but I’m terrified of doing something wrong. This is my future I’m trying to build. I have to open my fledgling wings and fly, and I want to– it’s just that I’ve hardly ever even peeked out of the nest.

I have to get over this fear of trying. This fear of the future and change. I have to get over this fear of talking to my mom about New York and going away because fear of emotional pain and closeness– which is really what I’m scared of– is holding me back. I can’t be scared of crying in front of my mother if I’m supposed to be growing up.

We both know she doesn’t want me to go.

I know that I need to, at some point. I don’t want to, for her sake, because it feels like years have evaporated at an unfair rate. I want time back, I want to claw at it and catch it and hold it hostage.

But that’s not happening, and both my mom and I have to come to terms with it or I will be stuck in Gowanda for the rest of my life, doing nothing with it. Maybe New York is too big a step. Who knows? But until we go there, and find out, no one will know.

My dreams have always been supported by my family. Made fun of a little, sure. Poked at to check for stability, yep.

But denied? Never.

It seems like a pretty nasty time to be knocking ‘em down, considering it’s come down to the wire.

So I’m scared.

I need to get over it.

For those we will never know

FOR THOSE WE WILL NEVER KNOW

“Carnage, a
bloodbath”
“Don’t know why”
“Deadliest
mass shooting”
“Could not escape”
Headlines say

This is
For those who will
never know
The dead:
The students
The teachers.
The loved

HENRY J. LEE (HENH LY)
had an open smile and
zany personality.

LESLIE GERALDINE SHERMAN
had, since
childhood
donated half of what she had
to people
in need
she was
a gift to all who
knew her.

BRIAN BLUHM
is remember for love of God,
family, friends, the
Detroit Tigers, and
Virginia Tech.

ROSS ALAMEDDINE
‘here’s a man who was going to make his
children laugh
here is a man who deserves the title
“beloved”
here is a man who
makes you a
better person’

MICHAEL POHLE JR.
constantly ventured
to learn new things
curious about everything
around him

REEMA SAMAHA
won her high school’s talent show
by belly dancing
and embraced her Lebanese
heritage every day

LAUREN McCAIN
viewed everyone
as uniquely valuable
invested herself in
everyone
she met

CHRISTOPHER “JAMIE” BISHOP
techno guru, gifted photographer
art vibrantly captures
intensity
died at the age of thirty-five
learning about and understanding
humanity

MARY KAREN READ
had deep faith
evident
in every aspect of
her life

JOCELYNE COUTURE-NOWAK
loved nature
loved French
embraced her heritage
“effervescent”
a vivacious
swirl of
life

DANIEL PEREZ
could accomplish
anything he
put his
mind to

MINAL PANCHAL
childlike enthusiasm and
infectious
laughter

ERIN PETERSON
a blend of warmth and
magnetism
anchored
by a sound
moral compass

JUAN RAMON ORTIZ-ORTIZ
loved music
played the timbales
and was married to
Liselle

DR. KEVIN P. GRANATA
passionate- first and foremost about his
wife
Linda, and their children
Eric
Alex, and
Ellen

WALEED SHAALAN
simplest and nicest
guy, from
Egypt
left behind his wife of three years
and his
one-year-old
son

CAITLIN HAMMAREN
had a way of making
others feels as if they
were her
best friend

MATTHEW LA PORTE
a cadet with
unlimited
potential

NICOLE REGINA WHITE
wanted to know
people
as they really were
not as they
appeared

MATTHEW GUALTNEY
master of sports statistics and
trivia
wanted to protect the environmnet
and improve life

JULIA PRYDE
was always in
pursuit of a
better world, and a
better self
and was also
a certified
wild-land firefighter

MAXINE “MAX” TURNER
fiercely independent, and could
often be found in pajamas and
bunny slippers
doing chemical engineering
while watching
“Spongebob”

DR. G.V. LOGANATHAN
incredibly wise and
gentle
called by many
“best professor
I ever had”

RYAN CLARK
spent two weeks of every
summer for the
past eight years, working with
mentally impaired
children

RACHAEL HILL
her personal goal?
to glorify
God

EMILY HILSCHER
a skilled horsewoman
animal lover
would have been
a veterinarian

DR. LIVIU LIBRESCU
stalwart determination
survived the Holocaust
blocked the classroom door
so his students could escape
brave Romanian
was one of the world’s most
respected engineers

DANIEL O’NEIL
had recently returned from visiting
his host family
overseas
planned to live in Dublin,
Ireland
after graduation

JEREMY HERBSTRITT
had been helping his
sister Jennifer train
for the Boston
Marathon

AUSTIN CLOYD
brilliant mind, tall, red hair
a compassionate heart, and an
iron will
not only wanted to help others
she did

PARTHAHI “MORA” LUMBANTORUAN
calm, talented
caring
died a
hero
spend final moments
sacrificing himself to
save the life of
another

JARRETT LANE
had been full of spirit

These are the
dead:
Thirty-two
gone.
Thirty-two lives
The world will
never know.

(Works Cited)

In Memoriam. Virginia Tech Magazine. May 2007. 2 Oct. 2009. .

Virginia Tech Shooting Leaves 33 Dead. The New York Times. April 2007. 2 Oct. 2009. .

There are times when I imagine

I have an Aida song stuck in my head. I hate when that happens nowadays because it makes me long for last year at this time. And that’s completely pointless and a waste of energy.

So what if my senior year’s turning out to be different than I’d thought. It’s all work and no play and I guess it’s cool because I can play at being an adult with adult responsibilities but damn it if I don’t want to have a little fun.

I want to be able to take the car somewhere. I haven’t been able to do that yet, and I’ve had my license since the eighteenth of September.

I want to go get dinner or just chill with one of my friends, or a few. Not at school, either. I’m sick of living at school.

I guess this is what real life is going to be like, in a dimmed-down version. But if I can carry responsibility, I want to be able to carry a little light-heartedness and freedom around, too.

But enough of what I want, it’s almost time to go. I’ll scan senior pictures for forty-five and then go to musical until almost nine.

Adults rarely get what they want, do they?

The kickass Asian cello player’s not related (surprise)

The Avett Brothers’ new CD comes out tomorrow. I wish I was going to the NYC celebration concert.

I and Love and You, Avetts.

Missing, my heart

I’ve decided I miss summer.

I miss the light-hearted freedom that accompanies every inhalation.

I miss the endless, constant green. I miss the breezes that seem to blow cool air straight from the beach (and not the part with dead fish sweating on the shoreline, either).

I miss the time when the Avett Brothers could make me happy with one light stroke of a pick across nickel wire.

I miss talking to people instead of hearing talk about them. I miss sleep. I miss “Hello, Dolly” and Emily and Kevin and I freaking miss Mr. Lerew.

I miss the changes I thought were going to happen that didn’t. I miss the opportunities I’ve wasted so far because I can’t function on so little sleep and am not focused.

I miss the comfort I once had, that placated the cynicism that keeps trying to corrode my mind. I miss the soothing calm of peace. I miss early mornings filled with sunrise and the laid-back mindset that accompanies not having to do anything.

I miss these things and people so damn much my heart hurts. Just feels like it’s aching and throbbing and is just going to jump out of my chest. It’s so miserable, it wants out.

I miss summer.

Muddled thoughts in an almost-empty computer lab

Sometimes, you know (or think you know) someone to the point where, no matter what they say, you will instantly think they hate your guts.

I experience this daily, and I strongly feel that

Sorry. False start. Revving up again, here.

 

I can’t stand it. When it feels like someone who has been so close to you once, is revolted at the sight or sound of you.

I’ll admit, I’m a pretty opinionated person. I don’t hide behind false little thoughts that keep me safe and protected from scathing criticism. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t care about being criticized (the whole point of this post is that I freaking do). But the focus of my life is certainly not on whether or not my views are regarded with pleasant feelings.

This isn’t about me, anyway. To take a risk of being annoyingly humble, I’ll repeat: this is so not about how I feel and what I do, or even how I am received.

This is about other people. And how is it that I can piss so many people off or have them think I’m ignorant or too worldly or stupid or outspoken or even too talented? How is that my fault? What am I supposed to do about it? Should I not care? Should I retaliate to show I have a backbone? Does it even matter in the grand scheme of things?

I don’t know. And I’m not going to give anything up because my life clashes with the workings of another. Or two or three. But it hurts to see how they hurt. What if I caused it, those many months ago? Or what if it was that, I wasn’t there for them, to support them when I should have? Could I have done anything, said anything, to fix it? Can I get back the relationship, the friendship, we once had?

I’m not sure. And I’m not sure if I want it the way it was.  But as of right now, I do.

And maybe that’s why life is so fickle and fraught with confusion and doubt and pain. People change their minds.

I just hate the thought of minds being changed about me when I can’t defend myself.

The comfort coffee brings

Finally home: and I guess I didn’t realize it before, but this has to be one of the best feelings in the world. Coming into a house that’s empty of people but filled with coziness and clutter; changing into my most worn-in pair of sweatpants and a thermal; putting up my hair and my feet and blasting the music with a warm cup of black coffee before me. The steaming liquid might be bitter to the taste, but to my weary self it’s oh so sweet.

I’ve checked in with all of my immediate family members: they’re all in their respective, proper niches for this time of day. I’m all alone here, just soaking in the melodies flowing past my ears.

I’m so tired.

I passed my road test today: I officially have my driver’s license. For all of my daydreaming, playing my celebratory Avetts’ CD on the way home and driving around didn’t feel as joyful as I’d expected. The instructor I rode with was extremely competent and not altogether unpleasant. He was a middle-aged, moustached man who was polite and understanding of my overwhelming nerves. I only got ten points on my test: thirty points will fail you. The happiness has only struck at me for a few moments so far. I don’t care if it trickles in slowly or swamps me in a tsunami. I just want to stop being down.

There’s homework, and practicing, and illness. Obligations to my passions, family, friends, and school. I’m exhausted. As Mr. Bett so intriguingly phrased it, I’m running around “like a chicken with it’s head and butt cut off.”

I love to be busy, and when the pressure’s on I normally excel. Failing my road test yesterday was a bitch for me. I’m going to be completely honest: I struggled with humility and hopefulness all day on Thursday and all of that focus on my “feelings” came back to bite me in the ass: I concentrated more on what the instructor thought of me than I did on my driving. Thus, failure.

Luckily I was able to reschedule, and miraculously in Dunkirk there was an opening for today at three. Rush hour Friday traffic ended up being the last concern on my list as I parallel parked, three point turned, and manipulated Mark and Karen’s little red Camry with intensity. I was so damn nervous. The man in the car with me even asked me, as he had me pull over to begin my three point, “I know something’s got to be making you nervous– your heart nearly stopped when I had you pull out back there instead of parking [for my parallel park].”

He was observant, and honest, and kind. He wasn’t a dick. I told him quite truthfully that I had flunked yesterday, and then hurriedly protested that he please shouldn’t count that against me. He told me that he only judged driving based on what he saw, and that I could pass the test today and fail it tomorrow, and that didn’t mean I was a bad driver. He told me that I was doing fine so far, and that although it wasn’t over yet, I was doing just right.

I told him with all sincerity that he was my favorite.

I did pass today, thank God. I am waiting for the thrill to completely set in, but for now I am entirely satisfied listening to Bob Marley serenade me with reggae and sipping my now-lukewarm coffee.

My day

was shit. For a multitude of reasons I’m sure may be brought up on this blog at some point or another.

Just not now.

Today was shit. That’s all I know.

I don’t know how this ends yet

Silver ignites, the engine hums
Shivers sprout down arms
Deep breath never comes
Eyes piercing, my right
I’m down for a fight
“Let’s go, then,” say I
And his smile is wry
I shift machine into gear and we go.

My hands grip the wheel
Nerves dancing pechenkas
He begins his spiel
“Take the left, then a right”
The voice is tenory, light
I turn left and my
Voice says in reply
“Okay” a wavering strength that goes.

……..