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.

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.

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.

“Cleverbot: Well…ummm.

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

Cleverbot: My father was a hamster. “

26 Oct. 2009

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.

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.

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

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.

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.

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.