So I am sitting at the school right now. A bunch of people are on the roof but I am sitting here with Gus and Danielle and Jess, watching Aaron and Brendan play footsie with the soccer ball. I thought more people would be here, but this is just fine. More later for sure :)

Well this sucks. That’s really all I have to say right now, and I’m sure that naturally it could be worse, but to be honest the next crappy situation I can think of off the top of my head would involve cannibals and people breaking into my house.

Right now I suffer from severe insomnia for the second night in a row due to vicious blisters from my previously beloved sunshine. The burn runs from my ankles up the backs of my legs, then from my lower back to my neck. And let me tell you, it freaking effing Sucks. I’ve been aloe-ing with the blue crap Doc suggested and as of fifteen minutes ago have discovered that walking is best left to those without swollen red skin hideously inflaming the backs of their knees.

I almost wish I could fall asleep and just zonk out. Seriously. The rain outside my cracked window and the soothing acoustic that is Jack Johnson are a pleasant lullaby amidst the sounds that quilt my little room. But I’ve got goosebumps all along my back and legs that are bizarrely offset by swamping heat.

And my mom signed us all up for grunt work at the Theatre tomorrow, which I would normally enjoy, but in my present state will find exquisite torture on so many levels.

Yepo. This Sucks.

 Brendan: “Oh, it’s all hypothetical.” Nix sarcasm. He had warned, done all he could to try to help. No one’d listened.

 Teachers: all over the place, they’d tried to do a pre-escape. Thinking themselves a brilliant team, or brilliant individuals. Instead of waiting ’til the official end, they battered themselves against what was to come until they fell to the ground. Bruised corpses flung by waves against the boat they’d tried to vacate.

 Mom: talking to Michelle while I get dressed. Might as well have been me talking to my own child. I would have said the same words. But it seems weird she’s giving up.

 “Michelle Leigh Merrill, I love you. I want you to promise me, if you ever get back to normal, that you will never stop going to school. It’s going to be important you’re learning.”

 Michelle cries, shakes her head. Huge sobs, alligator tears. She won’t leave her mother.

 I get ready while she does this. One part of me clinically stuffs dad’s thick, long socks onto my feet, yanking them up constantly as they droop. Another part of me is shattering slowly, soundlessly.

 My heart.

 I grab literally everything I can think might be useful. I hear Mark and Nickolas exchanging goodbyes behind me. Their voices are dry and reedy. Bloodless and removed. Then it’s Nick and my dad, see ya and take care, kid. I hear Nick sit down heavily to my left, Mark and Karen having just moved farther away. To tell each other goodbye, or something. Or maybe to be each other’s rock.

 Nick’s already wearing a dark cap, but I hard him black gloves from the bureau drawer. They don’t fit him. He hands them back wordlessly, and I give him a different pair. Our eyes meet once. In his I see deep scars rending, the long-ago wounds there tearing at the tissue. Welling. Bleeding out into long streams of tears that begin to pour down his face. Silently.

 In the background I hear Michelle, telling Mom; “It’ll be silly, ‘Michelle Merrill, MD.'” Mom laughs. Brokenly, although she makes it sound horribly normal. “You can take breaks,” she insists. “You don’t have to go all the time, full-time. But you can never stop learning. Never stop reading. Always keep raking in new knowledge.” Her voice cracks.

 I pause in the act of wrapping a long scarf around my neck and turn to my father, who sits on the edgs of his chair like a corn stalk man. Fragile and quiet and pale and not quite all there right now.

 I jar his complacency.
 “Do you have a knife?”
 He blinks a few times. Stirs. “Sure I do, Kimmie.” He hands me his expensive excellent switchblade from his shorts pocket. I wrap it to the inside of my ankle using a length of tight, sheer orangey fabric. It goes under the layers of socks. Idon’t know what it’s going to be like Out There, but I don’t want to be a threat until someone else announces themselves as one. The attention will be on them, not me. I won’t be a target. Protecting my sister and hopefully Nickolas will be coming all too important. But to do that adequately, I need a knife.

 And my father won’t need one, where he’s at.
 He turns to me, opens his arms for our farewell.
 It’s literally like every other nightly routine. I hug him. He folds his long arms around me. But instead of “goodnight, Pea” it’s goodbye. He pecks my cheek and we move apart. For the final time.

 Somehow the regularity of it snaps off one more grieving chunk of my soul. Soemhow my eyes are dry as bone and my body stays calm. Cooperative. Optimal for survival.

 I turn back to the bureau. I rack my brains once more. What I take with us now will keep us alive.

 I hear people scampering like mad sheep around us. I keep raiding the bureau. Another scarf in my hair. One more pair of tall woolen socks. I wish Nick would help– or Michelle.

 But I refuse to take my sister away from our mother, who is stroking her golden hair and talking to her sweetly, soothingly in her low, calm strong voice.

 It’s almost time to leave. The heightening tension makes my veins scream. I should say goodbye to my mother. As I thikn about doing this, what remains of my child’s heart, my caredfor-love, detaches and falls away. With it fall my tears. I have a sister and a Nickolas to keep alive. I move, a little turn, toward my mother. There’s a blank black space in my chest where I should cry. But there’s no pain. There’s only vacancy.

 You know the worst part. It’s most people fully believe they will be able to live.

I’ve come to the conclusion that dream interpretation is shaky at best. It was interesting when I found actual relatable material that could potentially make sense. But when I dream about weird shit and the site full of definitions doesn’t make any sense, I feel a little sketched out. Dreams are weird.

Dreamcatching

It’s like, my subconscious telling me what I’m really thinking, really feeling. Because I don’t know, or have too much control, during waking hours. When I’m sleeping,

my mind’s power over my thoughts practically evaporates, and I’m left defenseless. (Well, except for the turquoise dreamcatcher that I’ve kept since I was three.)

Anyway, we’re leaving, so see ya. Thank goodness my subconscious is functioning properly now.

If you try to live someone else’s life… won’t you lose what you love about your own?

So here I sit, typing from my phone in the dark. Josh is here, so that’s sweet, but essentially I’m lazing here wasting my phone battery as we wait for the return of power.

I can smell the change coming. With the sweeping push of battle-garbed clouds comes life-altering differences that are very nearly palpable. And the question is raised: do I take my existence into my own hands, or do I let fate or God or whatever’s in control do the work? I’ve begged the answer of the God I consistently refer to with all of my problems and questions, and I think He says to wait, then do it. Pause and think, then take action.

I might be wrong, or projecting, or effusing wishful thinking.

Or I could be right. I feel sure that I’m not meant to sit here impassive. It would be as wasteful as me with my phone battery if I was.

The porch/verandah/thing
The Chair on the Right

My first taste this morning was of pineapple pastry. My dad shoved it in my mouth just a minute ago.

We’re up to watch the sunrise. Dad & Michelle just went to get Nick up. I would say “good luck with that” but generally I’m hard to wake up, too, and I sat up after one call this morning.

I had a dream last night, one that I want to think about & get out of my system before the day officially starts.

I was playing soccer. But I was also shopping for a necklace with Lacey. There were weird pink candy things, too. I’d bought

I have figured out how to blog from my phone! I am currently on the bus to all county with Emily and Kevin! Now I’m done because I don’t know how much data I’m using,

I just have a feeling. I have a feeling I won’t ever be the same. Or I won’t come back.

I don’t know where this feeling’s coming from, but if for some God-knows reason something happens, at least I tried. I gave it everything I have.

That’s all that matters, I guess.

I don’t really feel like writing right now. I’m in the library (surprise, surprise) and there’s nothing I’d like to do more than go home and snuggle up and finish reading about Clary and Jace.

Instead I’m stuck sitting here, skipping my make-up band lesson (I had to call Lippa and tell her, otherwise I would’ve felt so bad), because yearbook yet again is tying me in knots.

It doesn’t help that I think a great deal faster than the technology I’m dealing with.

I wish this printer didn’t take so long to process .pdfs. I wish my hands and feet weren’t all torn up and hurting. I wish I had my own personal mac laptop so I could do this crap without mega-suckage occurring.

But it’s stupid complaining, because there’s so much I should be thankful for. Especially the technology that is available to me and the possession of all limbs.

And I can’t stop thinking about my Read-in Fundraising Plan. I need to do a powerpoint, so I can present it to Dr. Bob.

It’s silly that there’s so much I could do to help people and I’m not doing it just because I’m lazy. But the book Brendan loaned me talked about finding your spark of frustration and running with it.

The trouble is, I haven’t had an “I can’t stand it anymore!” moment regarding the education of South African underpriviledged kids. I simply think that, what the frick, there are so many hundreds of ways to make money for such a simple, basic need we’re all taking for granted: education.

There’s no way for many of these children to afford it. Or uniforms, books, decent facilities. And we have so much here. Twenty students here could donate five dollars each and provide five kids with education for a year.

I want to do something about it. It’s clogging my heart, my mind, my throat. I can’t really speak well today, and I think it’s because I’m constantly thinking of the read-in. Using education to further education.

And I haven’t done anything besides think on it yet. I need to.

Here I am again, sitting in the cushy red wood-framed chair in the library (again). I love this place. A new haven, found to shelter me from the rush of school. Just in time for spring, too. It’s a quiet place where spring can say quiet, too. Calm, wonderful. Perfect.

I don’t want to spoil it by calling it perfect, though. It’s not perfect.

No, I keep thinking of others’ opinions, and my obligations. Stuff I should be doing because I “have to,” not because it’s working toward a meaningful goal or because I want to.

Oh well, though. I will go home and go outside and write, maybe, or sleep on the deck. Who cares? I’m planning to forget to dwell on what anyone else thinks. At this point in my life– and probably it should apply to any other point, as well– it only matters what I think, and what God does.

I read this quote today, and I can’t remember who said it, but it went something like: “In life, I have to answer to [insert whatever his name was]. In whatever comes after, I have to answer to God.” It makes sense. I only wish I could remember the whole thing.

There’s a lot I could write about today.
I’ll make a list, but I’m not discussing anything because I don’t feel like it and have to leave in seven minutes.

01. My Fredonia audition was switched to today. That’s why I’m leaving shortly.

02. I’m a bitch. Yeah, yeah. And why would anyone try and negate that to their faces, because they’ll just rant anyway, right?
If they’d been talking about my friends, I would have slapped them.

03. I had a dream last night, and Kenny was telling me he loved Maddy Snyder and couldn’t be with me.
a. I’m not with Kenny.
b. I don’t know if he knows Maddy that well?
c. I think it was my subconscious rejecting me. Awesome.

04. Now it’s time to go, so wish me luck. Mason Hall, here I come. Last audition for college. Yes.

So my grandmother has me shopping online for a new pair of boots. Never mind that my old pair might be kind of pathetic, but still usable. Nope, she asked me a “favor” this morning, as soon as I woke up. Duh, I agreed, and then she springs it on me. Get new boots.

What self-respecting girl doesn’t want a new pair of shoes? I’m no different there: I have been known to (once or twice) blow my money on freaking amazing heels that I rarely wear (but when I do, shit they’re awesome).

But come on, my boots are fine, hopefully winter doesn’t last much longer, and I don’t want to spend her money. I don’t like doing that. I’m not comfortable with spontaneous gifts, unless I’m the one giving them.
Crap.

So I’m working on beating down my girly excitement so I can make a rational decision on a normal, warm/dry pair of boots without getting all giddy or delighted (in shoe stores, I’m pretty pathetic, yeah). And that’s my day so far.

Oh, and a side note: I slept in an actual bed for the first time in almost three months last night. Yes, I did sleep for twelve hours exactly, and it was wonderful. I dreamed about hunting bloodthirsty monsters. No surprise there, but I did get the heebie-jeebies. When I woke up at three from said dream, yepo, I wrote it all down.

This writing thing, it’s throwing me off. I really only write for fun. Like, I’m bored, so I’ll work on my story. Now it’s almost obnoxious because everything I see, hear, do– that’s merging with the story that wants to be written. It’s a constant hum in the back of my mind. I know it’s there, I just have to put it down. Which is just super, because it’s another commitment I’ll have to dedicate myself to. Great timing, just days before the most important audition of my pre-college career.

But hey, I guess I’m getting new boots, so I should cheer up and order them. And then write.

Instead of spinning, my head is pounding. Or it’s starting to. My family is oblivious and absorbed in the hockey game– which we will probably lose. That’d make, what? Eleven, twelve in a row?

It’s not my fault if I fell asleep from four until six thirty. It’s not my fault.

I had to eat. It wasn’t healthy. But I needed, wanted food. I asked for spinach salad for dinner, though. Iron for the blood drive tomorrow.

My hands are freezing, freezing cold. My muscles ache and I’m clueless as to why. I’m just drained, drawn. I still have English and economics to do.

Oh well. Oh well and in four hours it’ll be midnight. Seven hours ’til three. A few more after that and another day’s already here.

The worst part is, I thought about it: thought about getting my lazy ass up from the couch/my bed and making coffee, fighting myself awake so I could get my work done. If I hadn’t wasted all that time zoning on Sims 3 between two-fifteen and four, things would have been different. I wouldn’t be so cold, so tired. Or would I?

It hurts to keep my arms up. I just want to go to bed, forget about it all. I want the Sabres to win and this stupid house to warm up and my dumb Fredonia application to be already completed and sent out. I know it’s still there, but I want that happy back. Where I can see it, touch it. Feel that golden warmth on my face like summer.

Instead of staying, my joy is evaporating like August dew and I’m left shivering and alone.

(Originally written: 09 February 2010, 11:14 PM. From the couch, whilst pretending to sleep. Revised: 10 February 2010, 4:49 PM.)

“The Greatest Sum”‘s
humming in my ears and
through my heart

Still I think
How would it be
If I were just to fall apart

Shaking, trip, whoops
   There I go
And where I land
   Well, who would know?

The notes fly by
   like life I see
No one cares what
   eyes catch me

I hear them call, a net below
Sing your song
I’m yours, you know

I would be sad, again, but I’ll
Forget self pity
And hear my friends

They say if you want something, go and get it. They say if you want to live, you have to just do it, and enjoy every second.

So if I want a hug, I should go get one. If I want someone, just to have there and talk to and, God forbid, touch, I should find one. Shouldn’t I?

I see patterns, in everything. In the type of girls the boys I usually cast my eye on prefer. In the boy himself.

I especially see one now, when, wowwhatasurprise, the one boy I did have my eye mostly focused toward decides that he does indeed like the stick-thin and easy.

Not that I mind. I don’t mind in the least. I won’t shed a tear, it’s not that important. What’s important is that I learn from that rapid hot punch of shock. Eli’s seeing Cayla? (Or will be seeing her in no time, there’s no doubt, ha ha ha.)

What happened to me? Am I too fat again? Fuck that, I’ve lost weight. I might be too busy. Or too ugly. Or whatever, because it doesn’t matter. I’m leaving at the end of this year and it doesn’t mean a thing. I have to leave now, actually, since I’m going to Buffalo for a lesson.

They say that practice makes perfect, and as soon as I get over being pissed off because I’m (yet again) not good enough, I’ll remain busy and cold and aloof.

It doesn’t matter.

http://www.esm.rochester.edu/apply/documents/VocalAccompanistRequestForm2010.pdf

http://www.esm.rochester.edu/apply/documents/CreditCardAuthorizationForm2010_002.pdf

Click to access auditions.pdf

That’s what number photo I just uploaded. I will hit number four-twenty-two next, once two batches of twenty are done.

In ten minutes, I will leave the empty band room and the decent mac computer and meet up with Marya in the lunch room. We’ll take five minutes to eat, then use the pass Mr. Bett wrote for us to raid the costume room for entertaining and appropriate props.

Speaking of Propps, I cannot believe she submitted a page Friday.

Okay, I guess it’s on me, again. I didn’t go into school. Sorry for taking one day off. Doesn’t matter that it was the day of the play’s premiere, or that I had an audition Saturday. I even received a text at nine AM, “Are you coming in to school to work on yearbook?”

No. No, I’m freaking not. I’m going to sit on the couch and eat junk food and finish reading my book. After that, I’m going to practice German until my tongue falls off from rolling all of those Heidenroslein r’s.

And so I did. And guess what happened? A page was mysteriously submitted at 2:04 PM Friday, January 29th.

It was a punch in the gut, knocked the breath right out of me, when I realized page 16 was forever out of my editing hands.

We never, never submit without at least three different people proofing. There are, minimum, three separate sets of eyes (not including mine) scrutinizing each double page spread.

So, was it some kind of a joke? Who could have– would have– done such a thing? It’s a senior portrait page, for God’s sake, really? I’m the only one who really ever touches them until it’s time for proofing. After that, let’s give it to Katie, Marya, even Judd. Maybe Post or David, they’ve proofed pages in a crisis. See any flaws, errors? Spelling mistakes, misalignments?

I just cannot believe it. I don’t think I’m being overdramatic, either. I’m not as worked up as I could be, that’s for sure.

Besides, I’ve decided that, to combat the senioritis I feel lurking at the edge of my subconscious, I need to just relax. Be chill about everything. It’s crucial to me that I don’t ruin these last few months at Gowanda by being a colossal bitch.

For example, I got to band today after announcements. Hailey is apparently our new percussionist. No one told me about it. But I’m expected to figure out parts for her and (I’m assuming) assimilate her into our little family group. Our tightly-knit percussion Vortex.

I didn’t get worked up about it, I didn’t complain. I smiled and handed her “Danny Boy” and a pair of soft mallets. I got yelled at for talking, but hey, she’s our new kid. Make her feel welcome.

Another side of me was telling me, “Be a bitch, be a Bitch!” But I didn’t. I wasn’t.

I won’t be for this yearbook crap, either. I’m going to be responsible and polite, and check up on a page that was submitted without proofing and without my approval. It might sound haughty, but we’ve gone through this before, when Propp and Theresa submitted freshman candids. There were errors on the page that the two of them– and only two– hadn’t caught, that Marya and I saw immediately. There are just issues that everyone specializes in catching. It’s a damn shame that this page wasn’t given the chance to be critiqued– I sure hope there’s nothing wrong with it.

… And another thing. I haven’t worked myself almost into the ground on this damn book to have it all submitted half-assed. I might be tiptoeing into control freak territory, but I really, truly hate to see anything I’ve helped create not glow its brightest.

It’s been nagging me for a week now. That little crooked itch that beckons me, invites me, whispers, Write me, write me.

But it sucks, because right now that tickle is being erased (even though I want it to stay) by the infuriating noise of the television. The thump of my sister’s feet as she’s wii boxing, the rampant on-off of my dad at the light switch– even the music I’d turned on that was supposed to be pleasant is making the latent scream I’ve suppressed for months upon months rise higher in my throat.

God, just silence. Or even just music. Just leave me alone, I want words and words and creativity. Vivid, troubled characters and a setting of vibrant, morphable world at my fingertips.

Come back. Tempt my mind. Little tickle, nudge me to think!

(2:13 PM. The bus.)

For some reason, people are making me happy today. The little ones; and they normally really piss me off. It must be the false spring– ha. I saw green grass today. GREEN GRASS. And it’s almost not cold outside.

The roads are bare. Maybe I’ll be able to drive down to practice tonight.
The little boys are cracking me up. The typical make gene is very evident… it’s so pronounced and today I find it endearing. Beats me why.

There’s chitchat over football: apparently the Cowboys are going to destroy. Or the Vikings will. And the Jets really suck.
“Then, there was this fight today! Did you see the fight? There was a fight, dude! Two nerds! They didn’t even fight they were like slapping each other like this–”
And so on.

I am just so amused right now.
Then I see older boys whipping snowballs from my seat by the bus window and I think, this is life. Boys talking about sports, throwing things. Growing up.
Then it struck me that I’m a grown up, to them.

They don’t really talk to me anymore, and they used to, even if it was just to harrass me (I’d pick on them in return something fierce).

Okay, so I guess I’m a grown-up today then. But I’m still happy.