In the Money Essay

Many of us would give almost anything to change one thing of our past. I am no exception. For many years, I looked to peers whom I for whatever reason considered better than myself to decide what was acceptable for me to wear, say, and sadly, what I could think. I was merely a chameleon, mimicking the lives of others. I was wary of what people would think of the real me, but more importantly I was afraid of myself. I was hesitant to reconcile my own potential as an individual and hampered many of the things I should have let flourish. I did not grow out of this and realize that I could be my own person until my freshman year. That year, I unearthed the beautifully unique person within myself and discovered that it was perfectly fine to simply be myself. The first days of high school were the first steps into what I would soon see as a new and exciting chapter of my life. Then it dawned on me that the world was not in need of any more conformists, rather, change and those who change the world and are not afraid to be themselves. Though I failed to be an individual, the past cannot be altered, and second chances in life are a rare opportunity. However, we all possess the ability to choose our actions and attitudes in the future.

To Whom It May Concern...

Dear bloggers of blogspot,
          Your lack of interest in my blog saddens me. However, your efforts to keep me down are always thwarted by my one true-blue follower, and my other not-so blue follower. So I would like to send out a huge FAIL to you all. You are missing out on a great blog.

Dear Followers,
         Your support is greatly appreciated. Although often times I have to remind and sometimes beg you to read my posts, you do eventually read them. It's good to know that my voice is heard not only by my own ears.

Dear Mrs. Rietbrock,
      I'm sorry I was one sixth of a second late to your class. Perhaps that you think that by postponing my detainment, you are doing me a favor. I will have you know that you are wrong. I would much rather have stayed 10 minutes after school today (Friday) than have to get up an extra 30 minus early Monday (that is if I remember) to sit and look at you for the same 10 minutes.

Dear Advisor,
      If you thought I was sassy today, wait until Monday.

Dear Christy from my advisory,
     You don't want to challenge me to a staring match. You will lose. Every. Time.

Dear (current) French Club President,
      You are being impeached. Get over it. It's better than being assassinated, dontcha think?

Dear Darius, 

     I love you. Keep your chin up. Don't eat so much as a crumb tomorrow because we will have our skype date. After music of course. And after chores. And whatever you're doing tomorrow. I don't know about you, but I'm really looking forward to this.

Dear Maggie,
      I love you. Thank you for the fun time today. And yesterday. And the day before that. And the day before that. And all of those other times...

Dear Mom,
      I'm sorry it took me so long to wash the dishes. There were a whole lot, and part of me felt like if I put it off long enough, it would go away. As you know (as it was partly your doing) they multiplied... rapidly. Please go to the grocery store. And thanks for getting me a new windshield.

Dear Jared,
      Stay out of my room.

Sincerely,

                             LaPetite, Mrs. Turner, the scary senior in your advisory, French Club Vice President (for now), Buggy, Alysa.

The Sausage (Live from the W.C.)

The Sausage
(A poem, by me)

Oh dear God, do I feel sick
from that Italian sausage I had at lunch
Nature calls, so I'll be quick
to tell the tale of my of my fateful munch

I garnished it with relish,
Catsup, mustard and the likes
But now my stomach's feeling hellish
Gurgling and... *YIKES*

Oh why'd I eat that link?!

though the expired date was clearly shown

Now I will spend my final summer evening I think

atop the porcelain throne

Trekking the Tundra

Sitting on the love seat with Darius, each of us cradling our own ceramic mug of searing hot chocolate, attempting to stay warm under a yak blanket, I was preoccupied pondering when would I be faced with the delight of another adventure. Little did I know, the adventure lay just outside. I nearly dropped my mug at the sound of three heavy knocks from the other side of the room. I wondered who had braved the icy, hostile slopes that laced this arbitrary Alaskan mountain to beat upon the thick door of my chalet. I surmised that whoever it was on the other side must be half frozen to death and that I should make haste in answering their pleas.

I immediately recognized the two figures silhouetted against the bleached blanket outside. They were none other than my old colleagues, Margaret Holt, and Elizabeth O’Neil. I hadn’t seen them in ages, but even their faces, stippled with snowflakes were pleasant. I ushered them inside, offered them hot beverages and seats near the fire. After their lips and appendages had thawed a bit, I felt it necessary to inquire as to what I owed this unannounced visit. They informed me that it had been rumored that there was a most priceless artifact hidden beneath the ice very near to my home. I knew nothing of such a relic, but insisted that they join me in my study to examine some maps and projections. In no time we knew exactly where we were to be looking and had our heading.

I dressed myself in my warmest parka and boots and after a short farewell and kiss to my beloved, we were off. Once outside, I looked around for some sort of transportation, but to my dismay, there was only a small and rather flimsy-looking toboggan. I wasn’t sure that it could capacitate the three of us, but sure enough, we all boarded. Margaret in front, holding the reins, leaned forward and indicated that Elizabeth and I should follow suit. Before I knew it, we were flying down the mountain, leaving behind the warmth and safety of the lodge. Faster and faster we went. Clinging to Margaret for dear life, I could no longer feel my face. I soon realized that I’d failed to mention the forest I was sure we would soon encounter. Margaret gracefully steered us around one enormous pine after another. The forest grew thicker and thicker. I was sure that Margaret would be unable to avoid all of the trees and we’d smack into one of them and reach an ill-timed death. But then all was still. I opened my eyes and saw that we had reached level ground.

 Margaret pulled a compass from her pocket and pointed to her right. I knew not where I was, so I felt it best to trust her judgment. We began our downhill trek. We walked through what I (due to the systematic placements of hundreds of upright sticks) imagine must have been an old inuit burial ground, but we had no time to pay our respects. A few more minutes out there would have been three new additions to the cemetery. After fifty more yards, Margaret stopped and referred to the coordinates scribbled on what appeared to be a ripped out piece of notebook paper. That which we hunting was supposed to be right where we were standing, but I saw nothing but white. I understood Margaret’s downward gestures to mean that we were to dig. After digging for a short while, and having produced nothing, we re-checked our coordinates. Just when Margaret and I were off to check a different spot, Elizabeth found it.

It was the smallest thing. A black, cylindrical canister, with no outstanding markings. We fumbled with it and one end of it popped open. A small scroll of paper fell into our hands. We were obviously not the first to have discovered it as there was a list of names and dates logged on the scroll. Margaret gave me the honor of putting our group mark upon it. After putting back the scroll, fastening the cap and replacing the canister in its resting spot in the earth, we prepared ourselves for the haul back up the mountain.

Summer Resolutions

The beginning of summer is like New Years. Everyone makes lists of things they "will" get accomplished before the start of school. Admittedly I do it too. However, I regret to report that this summer was by far the worst (as far as accomplishing things goes).

At the beginning of the summer I resolved to do all of the following;

Create a canvas collage of all my favorite pictures and hang it on my wall.
Finish my summer homework in a timely fashion.
Read at least two good books.
Learn to play "Fawkes the Phoenix" on cello.
Clean my room one good time.
One college visit.
And spend as much time as possible with all of my favorite people.
Throw my boyfriend a surprise birthday party.

A few weeks after the start of summer, due to unpredicted circumstances, the list had to be edited. First of all, my boyfriend threw me a surprise birthday party and I was faced with a lovely gift and equally challenging task of constructing an acceptable art studio in my basement. I also made a new friend. Acquaintance, rather.
So, the list was changed as follows;

Create a canvas collage of all my favorite pictures and hang it on my wall.
Finish my summer homework in a timely fashion.
Read at least two good books.
Learn to play "Fawkes the Phoenix" on cello.
Clean my room one good time.
At least one college visit
And spend as much time as possible with all of my favorite people.
Throw my boyfriend the birthday party of his dreams.
Hang out with my new acquaintance.
Complete my basement studio.
Blog every day in August

Now, here I am, eight days before the start of term, and here is what I have accomplished;

The canvas collage idea left with June.
My summer homework has yet to be completed.
I not only read two good books, I read the entire Harry Potter series (not in chronological order).
My cello instructor left me with little opportunity for independent study.
I have not cleaned my room, but I made a start by organizing my socks.
Colleges remain to be visited.
I failed miserably at spending time with my favorite people and would not think less of them if they have formed a secret society with the sole mission of murdering me.
I did manage to throw my boyfriend a fantastic birthday party.
My "new acquaintance" slowly turned into my "not-so-secret stalker"
And my basement studio... I'd rather not talk about.
Blogging. Fail. Failblog.

I feel like a ne'er-do-well. If I can't get things accomplished during the summer... Sigh. I'd rather not think about it.

I feel that my greatest accomplishment was completing the entire Harry Potter series. It is indeed a wonderful story and I recommend it to all.

Sock People.

I would like to begin by acknowledging the fact that I have failed at BEDA. Better luck next year.

I took another trip to the Serengeti today. After which, stopped at a friends house and grabbed a glass of water. As it turns out, I take these ceremonious trips to the wild when I find myself in need of a great distraction or to clear my head. And on this day, it just so happened that I needed to do both.

After having arrived safely at home (not that there was ever any danger present), I took a bath and found myself in need of socks. To my great astonishment (not really), I could not open my sock drawer as it was filled to the brim with socks and would not budge. Each of my hands found themselves a nice grip on the two handles and I set against the drawer all of my weight. With a crash and rattle of all of the trinkets on my chest of drawers, my butt hit the floor and I watched overhead a terrific fireworks display of socks, some, barely missing the pirouetting blades of my ceiling fan. It was now time to sort.

Each sock had the option of going into one of three piles. The ‘my brother’s socks’ pile, the ‘ripped or otherwise not a sock’ pile, or the ‘keep’ pile. The first few socks went into the ‘brother’s’ pile as the smell they omitted indicated that was where they needed to be. Then I started running across holiday socks, given to me by classmates at christmas parties or off-beat aunties. I ended up having to start a separate pile for socks with a Spongebob theme, which quickly turned into a mountain. I also started a pile for my argyled, striped and or polka-dotted socks. Oh, I should also mention that the white, school-uniform-appropriate socks, go their own pile too. About the ‘ripped or otherwise not a sock’ pile, I found a great many ‘not a sock’ things to place there. Belts. Underwear. Fabric book covers. Shoe laces. Parts of my shin-guards (which almost makes sense that they would have been in the drawer to begin with as the shin is relatively close to the foot).

And then it hit me. Socks are like people. Just as each sock has its own funky pattern, each person has his or her own skin.  Some of us have been worn down to where our very last fibers are clinging on for dear life. Some of us have a mate, while some of us float unescorted around the sock drawer. Hell, some of us even have holes in us. Socks are also like humans in that each one of us feels different. Admit it, you have those socks that you always sport on cold winter afternoons. You have those friends too. Lastly, all people, and socks, deserve a chance.

Schedule Dedule (Beda Day 5)

This blog post will be short and sweet as I have yet to pack for our vacation, for which I leave tomorrow.
My schedule came today and it hit me. I am a senior. This is the last year I will be considered a student at my wonderful school and I don’t think I’m okay with it. Despite the fact that I have an incredible amount of frees (unstructured mods), I am being forced to take Christian Lifestyles. I don’t know what exactly the class entails, but judging by the title of the class, I won’t be frolicking into it every Tuesday, Thursday and Friday.  But I must go into it with a positive attitude, because if I don’t, then there is no chance in hell I will enjoy it. Yet, a positive outlook leaves open a tiny window of hope. I’ve decided to take the same approach with my math class, Algebra II. And as if taking another math class isn’t bad enough, I have the teacher even the best math students have nicknamed “Hitler”. Needless to say, I am freaked out. But like I said, positive outlook. Back to frees, I have one 15-16 (last period) free on Fridays, which incidentally is a big deal for seniors. And as such, I am allowed to leave school early and do whatever I please. Victory.

Off to pack!

La Vie. C'est Belle.

Life, so fragile, so enigmatic, so fleeting. Yet in these seemingly dismal elements of our being, is where I find beauty.

Last night, whilst on Skype with my dear boyfriend, Darius, his toddler brother (called Chubbs due to his roly-poly state of being) of whom I had grown quite fond of, and he of me, wobbled into his bed room and made his way on to the bed where the computer sat. His full moon eyes, slimy lips and miniature teeth filled up the entire screen. I heard the gibberish I had long ago understood to be my name, and responded with glee. After a conversation of incoherent jib-jab, he rested his head on the bed to where I could only see one radiant brown eye, a bisected button nose, and half of a set of supple lips. Darius began tenderly stroking his back and Chubbs’ eyes shut longer than a blink, but shorter than a rest. They closed again for a bit longer. They closed one last time and I saw a blanket of serenity swaddle his bare back. His faced twitched and I knew he was probably having tea with panda bears in Shanghai or bouncing along in the pouch of a kangaroo in the Land Down Under. He was so beautiful just lying there in all his vulnerability. His back, rising and falling sweetly under Darius’ hand. Now more than ever I envied Darius. He’d always thought me to be off my rocker for envying his family situation. While he had always less than delighted about having eight siblings, I, only having only one brother, would have traded him places any day. Though swimming in warm and fuzzy feelings, an emerald lamp of envy glowed within. But just as quickly as the virescent monster reared its ghastly head, I drove it from my mind with the thought that just perhaps, the grass is not so much greener on the other side. Nevertheless, I decided that to be sure, I will travel to the “other side” and when I’m older, have my own family so that I too one day will be able to feel this and the many things that accompany it. I will have my own children whom I can smother in deep maternal affection. I have today been convinced that there can be no greater joy, nor beauty in life than life itself. Thus, for now, with the promise of that day on the horizon, I am satisfied. And whilst I presently have no children to occupy my time and energy, am off to indulge myself in another adventure on my bicycle.

iPod and Imagination (BEDA day 3)

Crouching behind a tall tuft of sand colored grass, I was on my toes as to not make a sound and scare off the gazelle grazing a mere 10 feet in front of me. The blazing sun directly overhead was to blame for the chain of salty sweat beads about to fall into my eyes and singe them blind. But I could not wipe. Any sudden movement would lose me my dinner. Well aware of my capabilities, I knew I had to get closer to it because there was no way I could throw my spear from this distance and confront the gazelle with an untimely death. I inched closer and heard the crunch of a small anthill collapse beneath my feet. My prey heard it too. Its head bobbed up to investigate the noise. I didn’t dare so much as to take a breath. I couldn’t afford to lose this one. I hadn’t eaten for days and wasn’t sure the loud pleas of my stomach wouldn’t compromise my position. The gazelle was afraid, and if I didn’t strike now, I would certainly not be eating tonight. There was no way I would be able to keep up on foot. It was now or never. I leapt from behind my hiding spot but I was too slow. I watched my dinner prance away. Just then I heard a growl from behind. The cheetah I named Ngozi, was behind me. I had barely touched her back when she jetted off, me riding her bareback in the direction of my dinner. Across the Serengeti we flew. The beads of sweat were now created a mask of dried salt deposits. I could see the gazelle. Being a cheetah, it took Ngozi a matter of forty-five seconds to catch up. Once side by side with my prey, I thrust my spear into it’s neck. Blood painted the surrounding grass crimson. After a few seconds, the gazelle once so graceful, skidded to a halt. I couldn’t have done it without Ngozi, so I let her dine with me. Stuffed, lying on Ngozi and, I watched the buzzards green with envy over my catch. Then... my cell phone vibrated.

Okay, so today didn’t go exactly like that. I more so chased my skateboard-riding kid-brother down the street in my suburban neighbor hood. In my defense, it was hot. A record breaking ninety-nine degrees Fahrenheit. And most important to the story, I was listening to the Mridanga album. For all you non-African music lovers, Mridanga is an album comprised of the intense percussion, bells, and unintelligible shouting that comes to mind when Americans think of "African" music. The best. I think I’ll go for another bike ride tomorrow.

One Casserole and a Lesson Later (BEDA day #2)

After the cantankerous tone of yesterday’s blog, I have decided to start off today’s blog with a poem.

Ahem

If you try to reach inside of your heart
you can find forgiveness, or at least the start
And from that place where you can forgive
is where Hope, and Love, also thrive and live

And with each step that you try to take
and with that chance that your heart might break
Comes so much happiness, and so much strength
which alone can carry you a fantastic length

For hate and anger will not get you there
and though you say that you just don't care
You can easily avoid the pain on which hate feeds
...the kind of hurt that no one needs

Just make the move, take that first stride
let go of the thing known as "Foolish Pride"
Maybe then you can start to repair the past
into something strong, that will mend, and last!

Two blog posts ago, I created a list of five things I learned in school that were not in the curriculum. The final being that good friends always forgive you. Well, Maggie, in response to the question at the end of your blog post today, today, I learned that the same holds true to not only friends, but people who genuinely care about you. Be they; your parents after you broke your great aunt Bernice’s urn, your slightly confused significant other cowering in the corner during your third emotional break down this week, or even your orange tabby cat you neglected to feed yesterday, they will forgive you! A great thing to learn in one day if you ask me.

I am ashamed to say that over the last four days, due to elements even we women cannot control, I have been careless with the feelings of those most dear to me. Though the storm cloud emotions have passed, and the rainbow is shining through, I hope to not have to re-learn this lesson next month.

I would also like to go on record and say that thanks to one Darius Grayer, the smell of tuna noodle casserole (aka tuna nuna casserole), which I have been craving like a pregnant woman for four days, has wafted my way and created a turban of deliciousness around my head like I’m Lord Voldy’s parasite.

Life is good what you make it, so make it good.

Audience of One

People always say that the eyes are the window to the soul. Well, so is music. Today, I discovered that when I play my instrument, the cello, it projects my heart. If I’m feeling as happy and free as a lark, my performance will indicate thusly. Likewise, if I am feeling somber, woeful or ever the slightest bit distracted, my music will tell. Music does not lie. People will always be able to tell how you feel from your eyes, because truth be told,you can’t control the eyes. And music like eyes are the meddling, tattle-tale of a younger sister who will always give you away.

Today, sitting in the large church before two hundred sets of eyes, ready to play my cello piece, I felt myself hesitate just before my cue. It wasn’t nerves, rather that I was distracted. The most pressing being the fact that of all two hundred eyes, not one of them belonged to a fan of mine. This usually doesn’t bother me as it is rare for anyone to do more than merely drop me off at my recital or sporting event. Receiving praise from everyone else’s parent or friend is common place for me, but I digress. Point being, I was distracted which was inevitably echoed off the walls. Because of the unfocused state of my heart, a mere eighty percent of the song was played properly; the rest forcibly improvised or just dropped all together.

The heaviness of my heart threw my low bow to the applauding audience off balance. My instructor pulled me to the side. He knew something was wrong. No, he hadn’t seen my eyes. He knew, because like I said, eyes and music are one in the same. They speak volumes against your efforts to conceal your heart, and today, my cello made a loud and unsympathetic testimony. He asked me where I was because it was apparent to him that I wasn’t in the music. I deemed it inappropriate to share with him my unforeseen desire to have that awkward and ever so slightly embarrassing mother with the obsolete video camera in the very back standing on the folding chair, so I shrugged it off. And how could I tell my family, who I can’t even rally for a dinner of tuna noodle casserole, that I would have given my right arm for the dad who produced a thunderous whistle to be mine, even if just for that moment.   Why the sudden hunger for a fan or ally struck me like a bolt of lightning today, may never be known. Moreover, said hunger may never be fed. Perhaps its that no work of mine is ever deemed worthy of a crowd. Then again, I didn’t ask for a battalion. Just a pair of eyes to seek out in the crowd.

After coming home, I readied my self to once more play the cello. My heart echoed even louder off of the bare walls of my living room than they had earlier at the church. But this time, there was no audience with their conciliatory applause. Today, which was all to reminiscent of previous lacrosse seasons and art shows had convinced me that covering myself in silver body paint and playing on the street corners on Saturday nights did not sound so terrible. I would again have the flattery an audience. But for now, if no one wishes to listen, I shall play for my self. I shall selfishly indulge myself by playing whatever I want, whenever I want, however I want until. Making rich music for my audience of one.