Schedules, Footloose, and Books

The new semester is here at last! Instead of my past classes of biology, algebra, creative writing, and visual art every day or every other day, I will have French, history, English, and chorus (or chamber singers, if you want to be specific). Wind Ensemble is my one constant. I suppose that's why they will be changing the setup of the schedule next year. Although it seems so damn confusing to us students. We were used to the other one. All the same, it's nice to have a constant; it's like the anchor to the ship; the punctuation to the sentence.

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I forgot whether I mentioned this or not, but I have been asked to join the rhythm section as a percussionist for the pit of our school's musical Footloose. We have only had three rehearsals so far, the last one consisting of just one other person than myself and the director. I think this was due to the fact that it had been a half day at school, and the snow day last week complicated things. I think most people just thought it was cancelled like the last one. 

My afternoon was very nice. I can proudly say that the only downside was the bone-numbing cold. And I do mean that literally. It's what happens when you have to walk because neither you nor your friend has a license. I couldn't pull my hands out of my pockets for more than 30 second. I'd blame myself, but I don't feel like it. After all, it was 15 degrees Fahrenheit. That's New England for ya!

My friend and I walked to a nearby diner, called Victor's 50's Diner. Upon entering, we both ordered hot chocolate (with whipped cream of course). The food at this place is wonderful. It might not be saying much considering I've only been there twice overall, but I haven't been disappointed yet.

Ooh! Idea! What if I started this thing where, as well as the occasional random post, I could review restaurants I go out to. I like that idea. I hope I can stick with it.

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After three months, I have finally completed the book A Tale of Two Cities by Charles Dickens. I'm not even exaggerating when I say it took me three months. It actually took me slightly over that time, by perhaps a week. I was struggling so much with it mostly because the print was small, and Charles Dickens uses such descriptive language that seems to go on and on. I have to wonder if all that detail really provided a great insight to what Dickens was talking about with people of that time. Did they understand it? 

But now it is done and over with. I officially finished it on January 19th at my piano lesson early in the morning. Seeing that it was done and over with, I immediately took up a book I had downloaded on my Kindle. It's the third book of a series by Rick Riordan. This particular book was called The Mark of Athena. I absolutely love Riordan's books. They always seem so specially planned out before he even begins the first book. I will find some hints to things that he expands on in another book later in the series. So as you can imagine, I took to this book right away. I spent my long 4-day weekend reading. By Tuesday morning, I had completed it. I am not onto the Sherlock Holmes stories I got for my birthday. It reminds me of the time I spent a summer reading a stack of books I had found in my brother's room. I would sit on the floor of my bedroom for so long that my legs would start to get numb and restless. But I greatly enjoyed it. That was one summer before my mom got sick. Actually, now that I think of it, I believe it was the same summer, which would mean that the summer that year was divided between reading and painting my bedroom. That really was a great summer. I loved diving into books, especially the ones full of magic and mythology. I hold a great interest towards mythology. I wish there was a class on it. I would do well on that test. I remember my mom mentioning to me once that she had taken a mythology class at her school and that she had greatly enjoyed it. I'm sure a lot of students would take that class if it were offered, me being one of the first to sign up. 

There's an App for That

Bonjour, mes amis! Or is it mes "amies?" Eh well, I don't have French until next semester anyway. I'm just trying to familiarize myself with what I learned previously. I even got an app to help me. It shows me games where I have to either guess the translation, which translation is off, or some other combination that has to do with French versus English. Because yes, there's an app for that.

My friend just recently got her own blog. To me, a blog is like a bunch of short stories about your own life, or whatever topic you choose to display. For me, it's fun, because it gets my creative juices flowing and really lets go of the thoughts that can build up in my head. And since I took a creative writing course this year, I can make my stories even more interesting! Let's hope I get some good stories soon.

Speaking of courses I have taken this year, this week is the final week of the semester. And in my school, that means that the next semester is pretty much the first day of school all over again. Our schedule is set up so that most, if not all, of our classes are only a semester long. The only class I have signed up for that is the whole year long is wind ensemble. Next year, however, the schedule will completely change, further confusing the students as well as the faculty.

In other news, one of my dear friends is sick. So in hopes of restoring health, or at least just giving her something else to think about, I have divined this short excerpt. It seems a bit rushed to me, but it is meant to only be a quick story:

In a land far off, somewhere off the coast of Greenland, so far off that anyone who ventured there never knew quite where they were, lived a girl, about the age of you and me, assuming that you and I are of the same age. For the purposes of this story, let’s say we are and get on with it.

Now, where was I?

Ah yes, the girl.

This girl was like most other girls: wore her dark hair long, which she let flow about her shoulders as she moved. Her physique showed one of athleticism and a strong build. Her mind was attentive and her features were just as sharp. It was in this way that she was very different from most people you would meet.

She lived on the island of Thialdor. It was an island that she had named herself, since most times it was only her family who inhabited it, with the exception of a few confused travelers. With that being the case, the girl thought it silly that she was only allowed on the one half on which they lived. Every week, the girl would ask her parents if she could go to the other end of the island.

Every time, her father would answer, “No, little one. Your legs wouldn’t carry you that far. You’d be stuck in the middle with no strength to get back.”

Her mother would add, “Besides, who else would help me with the house chores?” The girl was not satisfied with these answers. She was desperate to know what lay beyond the boundaries she had come to know so well. Certainly it could not be that different from what lay before her now.

She would find herself staying up nights on end, imagining what a magical place it must be Beyond.

[End]

That's just part 1. I will add on as I see fit. Right now, I just need to quit procrastinating and get on with my homework. Oh, biology, you'll be the death of me. Get it?

January 7, 2013 -- 2 Years Since

Perhaps I am here today because I feel emotionally obligated to write on this day. Or perhaps I think it will be better for me if I do something in my mother's memory. So far, I have done nothing. I woke up with the intention of paying attention to everything that made me happy. I managed it as far as I did not hate anything, but overall I think I'm just missing the whole point.

In my creative writing class, I wrote a story about her. Our prompt was to write a story using certain words listed below. She currently has it for grading, so I cannot share it with you just yet. As soon as I get it back, I will try to copy it on here. I cannot really remember what I wrote about, other than it was a dream in which my mom visited me. We spent the night sitting together, holding hands, gazing at the moon. Not a single word passed between us, because there was no need for them. The emotions that came with writing the piece greatly contradicted each other. On one hand, I felt desperately alone. That's how I've come to feel over these past few years. I don't always notice it, because in those moments it isn't there, but there are times when I really feel it. Like throughout the rehearsals for my play, The Laramie Project. To those that were alive (and aware enough) to watch the news in 1998, you might recall an incident in Laramie, Wyoming. A 21 year old, Matthew Shepard, was brutally beaten, tortured, and killed because he was gay. The Laramie Project is a play dealing with people that knew Matthew, people new the perpetrators, Aaron McKinney and Russell Henderson, and even people that had strong opinions on the subject. It was very powerful, and also very emotional. There were many times we would sit in a circle to talk about what was going through our heads. I always opted out of talking, because I suck when it comes to finding the best words to express myself. Perhaps that's why I feel better with my blog. I can revise and edit before you hear what I have to say. Almost each time at these meetings, someone would start to break down and the rest would follow. We were all very stressed out that we would only have two months to rehearse and complete every aspect of this play, and also really jolted at the level of hate that oozed out of some of these characters' words. Everyone else had someone to lean on when they got upset. I didn't. Perhaps it was because most everyone in our world is self obsessed, so that they don't often notice when someone is hugging themselves because they cannot get anything out of anyone else. I realize now how harsh that sounds, and I wish I could say I was exaggerating. And I know that this was not on purpose. That's just how things ended up. The one time I broke down I condemned myself to the bathroom. I don't want people to see. I don't cry in front of people. I just don't. I can't fall asleep in front of others either, strangely enough, unless it's a sleepover with the given intent of, y'know, sleeping.

So there's that. Then, on the other hand, I can see the good out of her death. I absolutely hate that I can see it, but I can. I have noticed that her death has forced me to grow up faster than I would have otherwise. I had no one to hide behind when strangers were around. It was up to me to suck it up and talk to people. Become more social, as it were. I am shy. I am not good at comforting people, even when I suspect what the right thing to do would be. I'm the one standing there awkwardly, trying to come up with something to say that would be of any comfort. It got harder when I realized what NOT to say. Nobody cares that you're "sorry for their loss." That's not gonna do shit. Saying you're sorry makes it sound like you did it. And to me, when people told me they understood what I was going through, I frankly wanted to punch them. Unless they literally had gone through the same thing, I didn't wanna hear it.

And then there's the sympathy. Nobody sees the good things that come from death, or even the good that is death to begin with. I mean, I dearly wish that my mother was still here, but I feel better knowing that she left her sickness with all its pain and fear and nausea to go and feel like herself again. My favorite writing prompts have been the ones where I incorporate my Mom. To me, she is like a goddess. She is the best person that was ever in existence. She was wise, funny, and happy. And more than anything, I want people to know that. Some other people may only see her great ability to organize in a way the rest of us could not. That is only a tiny aspect in the abstract puzzle of her wonder. I don't care about what else I have written today except this. Now. I love my mom, and that will never change. And I will never forget.

You know what my mom feared? Not for herself, though she might have worried. She was afraid that after all was said and done, her death would ruin our relationship. She was afraid we wouldn't be as close. I fear she was right. I can't connect to her at all. And yes, I'm that person that believes in spirits and such. I have to, if I want any source of hope. I have to know that someday, I can accomplish the task of talking to my mother again, and building back the relationship we once held.