I feel rather sad that I still haven't written about my recent experiences... I just haven't had the heart yet... and I would just make notes or write a little summary... but I abhor summaries and I can't bring myself to type words that don't ring true; I only write lies for school.
I'm awful at time management.
People say to manage your time wisely... I find the concept terribly depressing... I'm typically on a stringent schedule, and I've developed a sleep deficit lately... so when I get free time, I don't know what to do with myself.
I really need to call Tech tomorrow and figure out my housing. I'm going to do it right after school tomorrow.
I should have done that silly maroon and grey scholarship today... and worked on that ridiculous essay for Mrs. Falls... studied for UIL this Wednesday... for my hero test on Tuesday...
I can always say that I should have done a lot of things. I wonder if retired people are actually caught up on everything or if they just let it all go and forget about it. I wonder why humans set up their lives so that they stress out like crazy in their youth and then spend their later years not knowing what to do with themselves.
I made vegetarian baked ziti today. It was delicious. Mom really liked it, and that made me very happy; she said she had expected it to be good, but that she was actually really impressed. I'll make some when you come home, sister; I think you'll like it.
I also read Zorro a little and slept a lot...
I suppose I could have written about my experiences today... but I didn't feel I could make the words ring, and when it comes to matters of extreme truth, I think it's very important that they ring. In fact, there's a story behind what I'm talking about.
I guess I will make notes, just so that I don't forget what the stories are.
1) The Conversation between Des and I about the Bells
2) What the Magician Told me on Stage Wednesday
3) What we Did at OAP Practice the Night before District
4) My Good Show Gifts so Far
Hm... I don't know really... I have quotes in my notebooklet that should bring the memories back. Hopefully I won't forget. I'll just have to do a blog based on events in my notebooklet, really. Hopefully I'll do that soon. I have some good stuff to share.
Sunday, March 29, 2009
Monday, March 23, 2009
Magician, High School, Mrs. Falls, Thoughts, and Breakfast Ramble
"Wow. I just reached a whole new level of screwed."
That's something I said today, somewhat cheerily.
As one might expect, perhaps should expect, I didn't get much done yesterday. I hardly ever do get much done. I'm just still not much of a doer.
So, late last night, when I finally got in bed, I was very tired and fully ready to embrace one of my dear friends that I've fallen into a sad habit of neglecting these days, the fair Sleep... but the magician in my head kept me up for a while and wouldn't let me visit my dear friend until I wrote down all his newest revelations.
What's really driving me crazy is that I don't know his name. I had a dream recently in which Sir (Des) had a really exciting magician's name that was written on the wall in beautiful, swirling, sprawling, light green letters. (Sorry for the slew of adjectives; imagery and assumed knowledge seem so fundamental to dreams to me that I feel the need to use lots and lots of adjectives...) I couldn't pronounce the name at first, so she said it for me, and I tried it again, and again. I think the name might have changed with each attempt. Finally, I got it right. I feel that it would have translated from Dream to English, but... incredibly sadly, however I tried, I couldn't remember it when I woke.
I could easily, very easily, ramble on and on about this for pages... but I shouldn't even be blogging right now, I should be sleeping. But I powerfully want to blog.
So. As a final word regarding the mysterious magician whom I've been referring to as Magi for want of a name, I'll say this... well, two things, actually.
First, does anyone have any thoughts on magicians' names? Or thoughts on magicians? I am very interested in your thoughts. My thoughts assail me at all turns and keep me awake at night, but your thoughts are a rare and unique commodity that I would very much like to hear if you wouldn't mind sharing.
And second... One of Magi's revelations to me was sort of an image. He stood on a stage, all bold presence and masculine stance, and squared his shoulders. He wore a sly grin on his face and said in a voice as steady as his deft hands, "Fire at will."
Not so powerfully said as it could be... but the image and idea affected me powerfully. This is partly what enabled me to face the world today with cheerful bravado. I thought last night of the vast amount of things that would soon happen, that I wasn't prepared for, of all the things I haven't done... and as today went on, I continually achieved new levels of 'screwed'. And in the back of my mind, each time I faced a new squad, I heard the words, Fire at will, and they brought a smile to my face.
You know what's interesting? This attitude affected the firing squads. I don't think I was held as culpable as I could have been because I didn't appear so culpable. I didn't lie at all. I just squared my shoulders and thought Fire at will because I know I've made a mess of everything and I'm prepared to take it for it will pass. The smoke will clear and another scene will follow. In fact, this will happen even if I'm not in it. But that wasn't the point so much.
The firing squads gave off their initial shots, and that was that. No reload.
Today was saturated in quotes. 10 little pages of them. Yes, they're very little pages, but this is quite a number of quotes for a single day.
For whatever reason, the word "riot" stuck with me today, too. I felt very edgy today... very... something. Very hard-core. That's an absolutely ridiculous thing for me of all people to feel, but it was fun.
We had an assembly today, which caused us to miss economics class. That was such a lovely surprise. The assembly featured a film about trust. It was pretty good as far as high school out-reach assemblies go. I kept laughing throughout it, which may have appeared to the teachers to be disrespect for the film, but I actually got a lot out of it. I laughed somewhat often at serious things, but I got more out of it because of that. I don't know if I could explain that to the teachers. Maybe a few of them.
Someone in the video said something I really liked, a high school kid named Joey: "There's one thing you have to change. And that's everything."
Watching that video made me realize that I am absolutely amazed by, in love with, disgusted with, and terrified of humanity. The MCR song Teenagers came to mind. I realized that I'm getting old. Over the last few days I've been celebrating that I only have about 10 more weeks until I'm free of the high school prison. I still see that as something to celebrate, and I'm not getting nostalgic for any fanciful high school memories, but I did realize something important: this is the last time I'll see high school from the inside. One day I'll probably see it as a teacher, but that is a different world entirely. I realized that I have a whole lot of observing to do in the next ten weeks, a whole lot of writing; I need to know what high school is like on the inside for my writing...
I've got to make sure to sit down and write a little high school synopsis after I graduate so that I don't forget what it felt like to be an angsty teenager. I'm sure I'll have plenty of angst for years to come, but still...
I also had an idea to interview some kids here before I leave. From freshmen to seniors, people I know and people I've barely met... I'm not sure if I can pull it off. I think I can. I just have to ask the right questions. Once I get a good list... I don't know. I'm going to think about it for a couple of weeks, as the immediate future is entirely to full for interviews...
And, if you have the time, please tell me your thoughts. What questions would you ask?
I really like the idea of these interviews because... it's exactly like the thought thing. I know my own high school experience. But I'm not high school. I know the system. But the system isn't high school, either. I need to know other people's experiences, too... because high school is collectively a prison, a system, my experiences, other students experiences... and in fact, now that I think of it, the teachers' experiences, too. I could try to interview them, too... though that may be a little more daunting. Or maybe less. I would need separate questions for them...
One of Mrs. Falls's favorite phrases: "He calls a spade a spade."
I've found it hard to appreciate her this year; she's always angry. It almost always feels like she's burying us under governmental stones. But tonight at OAP practice, I saw a window.
Mrs. Falls was very upset about OAP, specifically about people bailing out on her when she made arrangements to oversee hairstyles for the play. She gave us a speech about her efforts, about what she does and why, about how long she's been doing these things... She said that she felt she was wasting her time. She said that she was so upset that she might not even affiliate herself with OAP next year.
Even the teachers seem to have senioritis.
Maybe it's like this every year, but it doesn't feel like it. It feels like this year is building to the culmination of a grand disappointment.
I'm sorry; that's a terribly depressing thing to say.
That isn't the point, anyway. I wanted to look up at Mrs. Falls and give her body language cues to show that I was listening, very closely, as I was, but I was too terrified; I could only look down and wear a poker face. I think if I had looked at her she would have thought I was challenging her. Yet I could tell she wanted some response. We're typically very unresponsive.
In the beginning, her speech featured nothing more than her increasingly characteristic anger and well-used phrases (such as the ironic, "Does that make sense?"). But... I don't even know how to describe it. At some point, in the middle perhaps, she seemed real. I've noticed these windows of realness... no... genuinness, lately. For a few moments, between phrases, Mrs. Falls was genuine, and I could see the edges of the truth that she was trying to convey to us. I have no idea what that truth is. But I could see that it existed.
I could see that there was a lot I didn't know.
I feel the nigglings of a kind of respect for Mrs. Falls, a kind of appreciation... and it wasn't even anything specific that she said. I don't know how to explain it.
As I was sitting in the hall, being late to lunch, either Mrs. Kennemer or Mrs. Vaughn said "Okay, when you come in, you have to be careful not to pick up anything that ya don't know what it is so you don't spill it all over yourself and get it everywhere." I have no idea what this means and it was extremely hilarious to me when I first heard it.
Tons of things are about to happen in English class. Three essays this week. I must resign myself to write quickly, simply, and the opposite of thoroughly, though it pains me. Mrs. Thornton gave us today to start writing on two of the essays. I can't imagine how anyone starts writing immediately.
Everytime this happens, I know I don't have much time. I know I need to think. But I always end up staring at the wall. Too many thoughts keep bouncing in my brain and the ticking of the clock on the wall is a tennis racket, wacking them off the walls in my head. Some of them get tangled in the net. Tick, tick, tick, wack, wack, wack...
That's what I was thinking about today in class instead of writing. One of the things I was thinking about, anyway; over the last few days I have been overwhelmed with ideas. Maybe it's just been today and last night. I can't keep up with time... but that's okay. I think maybe time has a fondness for late people, as such a vast populace insists on being 'on time.' I imagine time might get tired of people being on him constantly. I imagine he likes it when people are early or late, which is more like strolling up to him and offering a polite hello. That's just silly speculation, though; being on time surely has its own lovely metaphoric benefits as well.
Sir's van battery gave out on us today after school, so Mr. Knutson jump-started it for us. I imagined several cool scenarios in which he employed his Marine/Calculus/Physics powers to help us had he not had the cables handy. He's so cool. He would be very high up on my interview list.
It is ridiculously late. I don't know if I even said anything important... but I wanted to remember this day, and I think all this rambling will offer me a memory window later. I'm going to be tired this week, anyway.
Oh. How could I forget? This morning, I woke up to that Someone Still Loves You Boris Yeltsin song, "What Will We Do", I think. It was lovely for my mood today. Somehow, I was able to get up at 6:30 even though I got to sleep late. This afforded me time to have a lovely breakfast and do a little singing. I had Earl Grey tea and thought of you, Laura, and your amazing powers of waking. It was a lovely breakfast.
I'm off now to pay Sleep a visit.
That's something I said today, somewhat cheerily.
As one might expect, perhaps should expect, I didn't get much done yesterday. I hardly ever do get much done. I'm just still not much of a doer.
So, late last night, when I finally got in bed, I was very tired and fully ready to embrace one of my dear friends that I've fallen into a sad habit of neglecting these days, the fair Sleep... but the magician in my head kept me up for a while and wouldn't let me visit my dear friend until I wrote down all his newest revelations.
What's really driving me crazy is that I don't know his name. I had a dream recently in which Sir (Des) had a really exciting magician's name that was written on the wall in beautiful, swirling, sprawling, light green letters. (Sorry for the slew of adjectives; imagery and assumed knowledge seem so fundamental to dreams to me that I feel the need to use lots and lots of adjectives...) I couldn't pronounce the name at first, so she said it for me, and I tried it again, and again. I think the name might have changed with each attempt. Finally, I got it right. I feel that it would have translated from Dream to English, but... incredibly sadly, however I tried, I couldn't remember it when I woke.
I could easily, very easily, ramble on and on about this for pages... but I shouldn't even be blogging right now, I should be sleeping. But I powerfully want to blog.
So. As a final word regarding the mysterious magician whom I've been referring to as Magi for want of a name, I'll say this... well, two things, actually.
First, does anyone have any thoughts on magicians' names? Or thoughts on magicians? I am very interested in your thoughts. My thoughts assail me at all turns and keep me awake at night, but your thoughts are a rare and unique commodity that I would very much like to hear if you wouldn't mind sharing.
And second... One of Magi's revelations to me was sort of an image. He stood on a stage, all bold presence and masculine stance, and squared his shoulders. He wore a sly grin on his face and said in a voice as steady as his deft hands, "Fire at will."
Not so powerfully said as it could be... but the image and idea affected me powerfully. This is partly what enabled me to face the world today with cheerful bravado. I thought last night of the vast amount of things that would soon happen, that I wasn't prepared for, of all the things I haven't done... and as today went on, I continually achieved new levels of 'screwed'. And in the back of my mind, each time I faced a new squad, I heard the words, Fire at will, and they brought a smile to my face.
You know what's interesting? This attitude affected the firing squads. I don't think I was held as culpable as I could have been because I didn't appear so culpable. I didn't lie at all. I just squared my shoulders and thought Fire at will because I know I've made a mess of everything and I'm prepared to take it for it will pass. The smoke will clear and another scene will follow. In fact, this will happen even if I'm not in it. But that wasn't the point so much.
The firing squads gave off their initial shots, and that was that. No reload.
Today was saturated in quotes. 10 little pages of them. Yes, they're very little pages, but this is quite a number of quotes for a single day.
For whatever reason, the word "riot" stuck with me today, too. I felt very edgy today... very... something. Very hard-core. That's an absolutely ridiculous thing for me of all people to feel, but it was fun.
We had an assembly today, which caused us to miss economics class. That was such a lovely surprise. The assembly featured a film about trust. It was pretty good as far as high school out-reach assemblies go. I kept laughing throughout it, which may have appeared to the teachers to be disrespect for the film, but I actually got a lot out of it. I laughed somewhat often at serious things, but I got more out of it because of that. I don't know if I could explain that to the teachers. Maybe a few of them.
Someone in the video said something I really liked, a high school kid named Joey: "There's one thing you have to change. And that's everything."
Watching that video made me realize that I am absolutely amazed by, in love with, disgusted with, and terrified of humanity. The MCR song Teenagers came to mind. I realized that I'm getting old. Over the last few days I've been celebrating that I only have about 10 more weeks until I'm free of the high school prison. I still see that as something to celebrate, and I'm not getting nostalgic for any fanciful high school memories, but I did realize something important: this is the last time I'll see high school from the inside. One day I'll probably see it as a teacher, but that is a different world entirely. I realized that I have a whole lot of observing to do in the next ten weeks, a whole lot of writing; I need to know what high school is like on the inside for my writing...
I've got to make sure to sit down and write a little high school synopsis after I graduate so that I don't forget what it felt like to be an angsty teenager. I'm sure I'll have plenty of angst for years to come, but still...
I also had an idea to interview some kids here before I leave. From freshmen to seniors, people I know and people I've barely met... I'm not sure if I can pull it off. I think I can. I just have to ask the right questions. Once I get a good list... I don't know. I'm going to think about it for a couple of weeks, as the immediate future is entirely to full for interviews...
And, if you have the time, please tell me your thoughts. What questions would you ask?
I really like the idea of these interviews because... it's exactly like the thought thing. I know my own high school experience. But I'm not high school. I know the system. But the system isn't high school, either. I need to know other people's experiences, too... because high school is collectively a prison, a system, my experiences, other students experiences... and in fact, now that I think of it, the teachers' experiences, too. I could try to interview them, too... though that may be a little more daunting. Or maybe less. I would need separate questions for them...
One of Mrs. Falls's favorite phrases: "He calls a spade a spade."
I've found it hard to appreciate her this year; she's always angry. It almost always feels like she's burying us under governmental stones. But tonight at OAP practice, I saw a window.
Mrs. Falls was very upset about OAP, specifically about people bailing out on her when she made arrangements to oversee hairstyles for the play. She gave us a speech about her efforts, about what she does and why, about how long she's been doing these things... She said that she felt she was wasting her time. She said that she was so upset that she might not even affiliate herself with OAP next year.
Even the teachers seem to have senioritis.
Maybe it's like this every year, but it doesn't feel like it. It feels like this year is building to the culmination of a grand disappointment.
I'm sorry; that's a terribly depressing thing to say.
That isn't the point, anyway. I wanted to look up at Mrs. Falls and give her body language cues to show that I was listening, very closely, as I was, but I was too terrified; I could only look down and wear a poker face. I think if I had looked at her she would have thought I was challenging her. Yet I could tell she wanted some response. We're typically very unresponsive.
In the beginning, her speech featured nothing more than her increasingly characteristic anger and well-used phrases (such as the ironic, "Does that make sense?"). But... I don't even know how to describe it. At some point, in the middle perhaps, she seemed real. I've noticed these windows of realness... no... genuinness, lately. For a few moments, between phrases, Mrs. Falls was genuine, and I could see the edges of the truth that she was trying to convey to us. I have no idea what that truth is. But I could see that it existed.
I could see that there was a lot I didn't know.
I feel the nigglings of a kind of respect for Mrs. Falls, a kind of appreciation... and it wasn't even anything specific that she said. I don't know how to explain it.
As I was sitting in the hall, being late to lunch, either Mrs. Kennemer or Mrs. Vaughn said "Okay, when you come in, you have to be careful not to pick up anything that ya don't know what it is so you don't spill it all over yourself and get it everywhere." I have no idea what this means and it was extremely hilarious to me when I first heard it.
Tons of things are about to happen in English class. Three essays this week. I must resign myself to write quickly, simply, and the opposite of thoroughly, though it pains me. Mrs. Thornton gave us today to start writing on two of the essays. I can't imagine how anyone starts writing immediately.
Everytime this happens, I know I don't have much time. I know I need to think. But I always end up staring at the wall. Too many thoughts keep bouncing in my brain and the ticking of the clock on the wall is a tennis racket, wacking them off the walls in my head. Some of them get tangled in the net. Tick, tick, tick, wack, wack, wack...
That's what I was thinking about today in class instead of writing. One of the things I was thinking about, anyway; over the last few days I have been overwhelmed with ideas. Maybe it's just been today and last night. I can't keep up with time... but that's okay. I think maybe time has a fondness for late people, as such a vast populace insists on being 'on time.' I imagine time might get tired of people being on him constantly. I imagine he likes it when people are early or late, which is more like strolling up to him and offering a polite hello. That's just silly speculation, though; being on time surely has its own lovely metaphoric benefits as well.
Sir's van battery gave out on us today after school, so Mr. Knutson jump-started it for us. I imagined several cool scenarios in which he employed his Marine/Calculus/Physics powers to help us had he not had the cables handy. He's so cool. He would be very high up on my interview list.
It is ridiculously late. I don't know if I even said anything important... but I wanted to remember this day, and I think all this rambling will offer me a memory window later. I'm going to be tired this week, anyway.
Oh. How could I forget? This morning, I woke up to that Someone Still Loves You Boris Yeltsin song, "What Will We Do", I think. It was lovely for my mood today. Somehow, I was able to get up at 6:30 even though I got to sleep late. This afforded me time to have a lovely breakfast and do a little singing. I had Earl Grey tea and thought of you, Laura, and your amazing powers of waking. It was a lovely breakfast.
I'm off now to pay Sleep a visit.
Sunday, March 22, 2009
Red Cardinal
I was very sad when you left, Sister. I was sad thinking of everything I must do and everything I haven't done... and I rushed to get ready for church and was sad that I haven't practiced much and knew I wouldn't sound very good in mass today... and then I thought, I'm going to meet a new priest today, and a little eddy of calm swirled in with that thought.
I started singing as I went through the house, and I set down the rocks I was carrying--
That's something I forgot to mention when I told you about my recent religious experiences; the rocks. When I'm trudging along on earth alone, all my burdens are heavy rocks--thoughts, worries, feelings, physical objects, other people's words and actions, time, calendars, pains--all rocks that I carry in my arms. That's what weighs me down and makes me dread movement, carrying all those rocks.
But when I rely on God, and really understand what that means (which is rare and fleeting, but worth striving for), the rocks are transformed into warm clouds. I know I say "warm clouds" a lot, but it's the only way I can describe it. Some of the rocks stay rocks and simply fall back onto earth; I have a theory that those are the things I'm not required to carry, but picked up anyway, and the clouds are the 'burdens' that I'm supposed to bear, that are leading me to my purpose. Without God they're all just heavy rocks with grainy grey surfaces that offer no insight, no way to tell which ones I should leave be and which ones are actually clouds...
But I digress.
I set down some of the rocks and felt the little eddy of calm growing as I got myself ready, thinking, I'm going to meet a new priest today.
When I stepped outside, I saw the red flash of a cardinal. I think cardinals are very good luck.
We arrived at church and I had enough time to go over music with Nancy. There was a nice number of people there, enough so that none of the rows really seemed to feel neglected.
Our new priest is from India, and his name is Father Sousse. I have no idea if I'm spelling his name right, but he told us that it translates to Joseph. He has a beautiful accent. He's been a priest for 29 years this May, and spoke two languages when he lived in India. It was wonderful to meet him.
The music wasn't bad, considering my progressively worsening tone, and really everything went well. I think that was a rock I didn't need to carry.
I must be a soldier today, but that's fine. Que será. I've prioritized my school things by: Mrs. Bunch, because she deserves the effort, Mrs. Falls, because she scares me the most, and Mr. Knutson, because he deserves the effort, too. And Collagens, I should really do that today, too; it only gets placed so low on the list because Texas Tech won't eat me (and Mrs. Falls will) or sigh and look terribly dejected (and Mr.s. Knunch will) if I don't get everything done by tomorrow. And the deadline isn't until the end of the semester.
But still. I know. It is very important. I'll still check my Gordon status and 'review' my financial aid stuff today.
I started singing as I went through the house, and I set down the rocks I was carrying--
That's something I forgot to mention when I told you about my recent religious experiences; the rocks. When I'm trudging along on earth alone, all my burdens are heavy rocks--thoughts, worries, feelings, physical objects, other people's words and actions, time, calendars, pains--all rocks that I carry in my arms. That's what weighs me down and makes me dread movement, carrying all those rocks.
But when I rely on God, and really understand what that means (which is rare and fleeting, but worth striving for), the rocks are transformed into warm clouds. I know I say "warm clouds" a lot, but it's the only way I can describe it. Some of the rocks stay rocks and simply fall back onto earth; I have a theory that those are the things I'm not required to carry, but picked up anyway, and the clouds are the 'burdens' that I'm supposed to bear, that are leading me to my purpose. Without God they're all just heavy rocks with grainy grey surfaces that offer no insight, no way to tell which ones I should leave be and which ones are actually clouds...
But I digress.
I set down some of the rocks and felt the little eddy of calm growing as I got myself ready, thinking, I'm going to meet a new priest today.
When I stepped outside, I saw the red flash of a cardinal. I think cardinals are very good luck.
We arrived at church and I had enough time to go over music with Nancy. There was a nice number of people there, enough so that none of the rows really seemed to feel neglected.
Our new priest is from India, and his name is Father Sousse. I have no idea if I'm spelling his name right, but he told us that it translates to Joseph. He has a beautiful accent. He's been a priest for 29 years this May, and spoke two languages when he lived in India. It was wonderful to meet him.
The music wasn't bad, considering my progressively worsening tone, and really everything went well. I think that was a rock I didn't need to carry.
I must be a soldier today, but that's fine. Que será. I've prioritized my school things by: Mrs. Bunch, because she deserves the effort, Mrs. Falls, because she scares me the most, and Mr. Knutson, because he deserves the effort, too. And Collagens, I should really do that today, too; it only gets placed so low on the list because Texas Tech won't eat me (and Mrs. Falls will) or sigh and look terribly dejected (and Mr.s. Knunch will) if I don't get everything done by tomorrow. And the deadline isn't until the end of the semester.
But still. I know. It is very important. I'll still check my Gordon status and 'review' my financial aid stuff today.
Saturday, March 21, 2009
A Poem
Sister, this is the poem that I was writing parts of today as we were drinking tea. I'm sorry-bells that it interrupted our tea-time...
Tomorrow is the day I will be doing everything that must be done. There isn't so much really... Tomorrow I will be a soldier.
Ten weeks and I will be done with high school!!
Father tells me we have lots of work to do this summer. I don't want to learn to drive or take classes at PJC. I hate PJC. Sorry Pyro...
But I will. I shouldn't complain. It isn't so much to doodle. Anyway... this is the poem:
Visitors
I wanted to escape from the World,
To sojourn,
Under a pile of blankets...
But this takes time,
Because the World is wide,
Wide enough to knock
On all your doors and
tap,
tap,
tap,
On all your windows,
At once,
And the World never sleeps,
And has the most persistent fingers.
I had something to say,
Something special,
But now I've forgotten,
I suppose because,
My head is filled with this constant banging sound,
An ever-present,
Slam and pound,
I suppose because,
The World won't stop knocking.
As the World raps on the door,
With his timeless knuckles,
Courteous Opportunity drops by,
With a shy hello,
"Good morning!"
"Good day,"
"Good evening,"
Opportunity,
With her gentle greetings,
And softest salutations,
Strolls by,
To lightly knock,
"And again,
Hello,
I'll be here when you need me,"
And the World throws rocks,
At the window by my bed,
And I so dread the sound,
That I bury my head
in disconsolate pillows,
And never hear the quiet, humble knock,
Of Opportunity at my door.
"Excuse me,
Dear Tracey,
Are you home in there?
It's Opportunity again,
I just thought I'd drop by..."
Please,
Forgive me, Opportunity,
I failed to hear your sweet little voice,
For I've buried my head,
Please,
Do stick around,
Until I find the courage,
To uncover it again.
And thank you,
Thank you so much,
For your gentle knocking.
Tomorrow is the day I will be doing everything that must be done. There isn't so much really... Tomorrow I will be a soldier.
Ten weeks and I will be done with high school!!
Father tells me we have lots of work to do this summer. I don't want to learn to drive or take classes at PJC. I hate PJC. Sorry Pyro...
But I will. I shouldn't complain. It isn't so much to doodle. Anyway... this is the poem:
Visitors
I wanted to escape from the World,
To sojourn,
Under a pile of blankets...
But this takes time,
Because the World is wide,
Wide enough to knock
On all your doors and
tap,
tap,
tap,
On all your windows,
At once,
And the World never sleeps,
And has the most persistent fingers.
I had something to say,
Something special,
But now I've forgotten,
I suppose because,
My head is filled with this constant banging sound,
An ever-present,
Slam and pound,
I suppose because,
The World won't stop knocking.
As the World raps on the door,
With his timeless knuckles,
Courteous Opportunity drops by,
With a shy hello,
"Good morning!"
"Good day,"
"Good evening,"
Opportunity,
With her gentle greetings,
And softest salutations,
Strolls by,
To lightly knock,
"And again,
Hello,
I'll be here when you need me,"
And the World throws rocks,
At the window by my bed,
And I so dread the sound,
That I bury my head
in disconsolate pillows,
And never hear the quiet, humble knock,
Of Opportunity at my door.
"Excuse me,
Dear Tracey,
Are you home in there?
It's Opportunity again,
I just thought I'd drop by..."
Please,
Forgive me, Opportunity,
I failed to hear your sweet little voice,
For I've buried my head,
Please,
Do stick around,
Until I find the courage,
To uncover it again.
And thank you,
Thank you so much,
For your gentle knocking.
Sunday, March 15, 2009
Spring Break
These are two glorious words which I appreciate very much. Yet I know already that my perceived week off will speed by very quickly.
Things I Must do over Spring Break
1) Study Calculus/UIL Math
2) Clean house
3) College stuff
4) Write all the music for OAP
5) Do that ridiculous packet for Mrs. Falls
6) Organize
7) Write that article for Souper Bowl of Caring
8) Write a little paper for Chance to Give
Things I Want to do over Spring Break
1) Gain about 10 pounds
2) Read Pay it Forward and otherwise as much as I can
3) Write without a rubric
4) Do lots of cooking
5) Play music
Not an unrealistic list, hm? I hope not. I've been, after the fashion of you, sister, keeping another little notebooklet full of to-doodles. It's a lovely mess of multi-colored boxes, and it makes me feel very accomplished whenever I get to check something off.
Things I Must do over Spring Break
1) Study Calculus/UIL Math
2) Clean house
3) College stuff
4) Write all the music for OAP
5) Do that ridiculous packet for Mrs. Falls
6) Organize
7) Write that article for Souper Bowl of Caring
8) Write a little paper for Chance to Give
Things I Want to do over Spring Break
1) Gain about 10 pounds
2) Read Pay it Forward and otherwise as much as I can
3) Write without a rubric
4) Do lots of cooking
5) Play music
Not an unrealistic list, hm? I hope not. I've been, after the fashion of you, sister, keeping another little notebooklet full of to-doodles. It's a lovely mess of multi-colored boxes, and it makes me feel very accomplished whenever I get to check something off.
Beautiful
I just got back from a rain quest and taking care of Grandma.
I like the phrase "rain quest." I suppose I really should call it a rain mission, though; quest is a beautiful word that means an arduous search for something, when indeed, I was given a specific and rather easily attainable task; I was sent to fetch the mail and take out the trash. Turns out the mail was already inside, but I enjoyed the mission, anyway.
Like my last post, this was started on the 11th. I think perhaps this was the other thing I was going to say. Who knows.
Grandma is really beautiful. Sitting there in the living room, since she's been sick and all, she isn't wearing any makeup and her hair just sweeps naturally back from her face. She's just beautiful. She's getting lots better now and is well enough to tell Mumsie that she isn't cooking her food right, and some of her old tone has returned, but she's still beautiful. In the last few days, she's been rather tired, so she doesn't work up a certain tone of voice for any particular effect, just says things when she means them. I hope you understand what I'm trying to say. I certainly don't wish sickness on her; I just noticed that she's really beautiful. I've had some of those rare moments the last few days where I felt that I could see her as a person, and not just as my grandmother.
I like the phrase "rain quest." I suppose I really should call it a rain mission, though; quest is a beautiful word that means an arduous search for something, when indeed, I was given a specific and rather easily attainable task; I was sent to fetch the mail and take out the trash. Turns out the mail was already inside, but I enjoyed the mission, anyway.
Like my last post, this was started on the 11th. I think perhaps this was the other thing I was going to say. Who knows.
Grandma is really beautiful. Sitting there in the living room, since she's been sick and all, she isn't wearing any makeup and her hair just sweeps naturally back from her face. She's just beautiful. She's getting lots better now and is well enough to tell Mumsie that she isn't cooking her food right, and some of her old tone has returned, but she's still beautiful. In the last few days, she's been rather tired, so she doesn't work up a certain tone of voice for any particular effect, just says things when she means them. I hope you understand what I'm trying to say. I certainly don't wish sickness on her; I just noticed that she's really beautiful. I've had some of those rare moments the last few days where I felt that I could see her as a person, and not just as my grandmother.
Fear and Shyness Ramble
A new connotation I would like to introduce: Ramble, noun, definition (according to me): a fragmented account of a person's ideas which resembles a mixture of the spontaneity of thought as it happened and the organization of thought on paper, speech, visual art, or any other mode of communication.
This is a ramble.
I'm beginning to admit I'm shy. I've never liked the idea of being shy, or liked thinking of myself that way; I've always felt that I was blatantly strange and that since it has been obvious to the world from a very young age, I could display myself with accustomed bravado. I preferred to think of myself as weird and misunderstood. But in reality, I believe I am shy.
Today in Speech class, Mrs. Bunch gave us all an assignment to stand in front of the class and tell a story. The only requirements were that 1) it have a clear point 2) it be brief 3) it be general knowledge 4) it contain no offensive language. There might have been a 5th. I'm not sure; basically, she did not care about how we presented it or the language we used (other than appropriateness), she just wanted us to have our first experience of standing in front of the class without prepared notes.
I knew about this assignment two days in advance. I picked out my story almost immediately--a simple account of how I once dropped a cake on my porch. I love stories, but I am not much of a story-teller; it is a skill I deeply wish to improve. Perhaps, whatever I told myself, I felt some apprehension because of this perceived lack of skill. I say perceived because I have only my opinion on the subject; I honestly believe my story-telling skills could use a great deal of improvement, but I'm not sure that means that I'm awful at it. That's debatable, and really, not very important at the moment.
I talked to Sir Timothy last night about public speaking. He gave me some valuable tips, such as saying sensational things if I have trouble getting people's attention, believing that I have a right to say what I'm saying, and to be myself. He told me, I believe, that I had no reason to be shy.
An interesting thing, the idea of having a reason for something. To have a reason for something implies that one has made a decision regarding that something. Often, we do things without making decisions that involve the logical thought process; often, the decisions we make are actually reactions to stimulus, decisions only in the sense that they are actions we have taken. The broader sense of the word decision implies logic.
I have been challenged lately on my reasoning for fear and shyness. If these things may be called decisions, they belong to the category that involves reactions rather than thought process.
I have noticed this past year a decline in my more irrational fears. Have I thought them through more than I usually have? I can't be sure. I believe this decline is owed to a few experiences and a general pervasion of such sentiments in me as apathy and bravado. Why should an experience or a sentiment effect my level of fear?
More importantly, where does fear come from? Fear may be described as an emotion. I believe it begins as an emotion. This emotion, once felt, elicits a physical reaction, the release of adrenaline, the implementation of the fight or flight reaction. I don't know enough about this to analyze it fully, but, at the minimum, I may accept fear as an emotion.
How do emotions change?
Stimulus, stimulus, stimulus, creates reaction, reaction, reaction, which depends on perception, perception, perception. Thorny.
I believe emotions are changed by stimulus that causes other emotions. That stimulus could be a thing or occurrence observed from the outer world, or even a thought perceived from the inner world. This means that logic, which occurs in the form of thought, may be an emotion-changing stimulus. Not always. But possibly.
This makes me believe that it is possible to overcome shyness and fear through logic, provided that this logic causes an emotional reaction; because I think that emotions are changed by other emotions, which are brought about by stimulus.
I sat in my desk in Speech class (I should note that Mrs. Bunch prefers the term "Communication Applications") and thought of these things at their surface level. I went through logical thought processes regarding what I was about to do. I thought to myself, I don't really care about this assignment. My story is going to be a few sentences. I don't care what the people in this overstuffed class think of me. The only way I can get a bad grade is if I use profanity, lie, or talk for ten minutes. People are all around me now, and I feel no kinship with them, so I am no more alone when I stand behind the podium than I am when I sit amid this puddle of students. There is no reason for nervousness.
And when I walked to and stood behind the podium, I was nervous. I could feel and hear my pulse in my neck, and feel the promise of shaking in my hands. I told my body there were no tigers in the room, and I would have no cause to attack or run from anything in the next several minutes. I looked casually out at that puddle of students and reminded myself that I belonged to that body of water only moments before. And I was nervous.
I made a joke before I began my story, and the majority of people laughed. I introduced the setting of my story without saying so, I told my story, with minimal verbal stumbles, I added a couple of effectual pauses and verbal effects in my story which earned me a few more laughs. And I was nervous. My story ended up being a nice length, and I returned to my desk none the worse for wear. And I was nervous.
Why?
Obviously, this well-founded logic did not cause any emotion in me to counteract my typical reactions to such a situation. I don't like to think of myself as shy, and I don't like to think of myself as fearful of standing before a group. I like to think of myself as indifferent to it. But I think the truth is that I have a twinge of fear of public speaking.
Why?
It is true that the same people hear and see me when I sit among a group as when I stand before that group. There should exist no distinctions between the two placements. Yet there is a distinction. Students commonly hold (I believe) the mentality that they belong amid the little sea of students sitting in desks, which makes sense as they spend the majority of their time there.
I think I've tired myself out on this subject. It's something to think about more, I suppose... I started this on the 11th, I guess four days ago. I feel there was something else I was going to say... I wonder what it was.
This is a ramble.
I'm beginning to admit I'm shy. I've never liked the idea of being shy, or liked thinking of myself that way; I've always felt that I was blatantly strange and that since it has been obvious to the world from a very young age, I could display myself with accustomed bravado. I preferred to think of myself as weird and misunderstood. But in reality, I believe I am shy.
Today in Speech class, Mrs. Bunch gave us all an assignment to stand in front of the class and tell a story. The only requirements were that 1) it have a clear point 2) it be brief 3) it be general knowledge 4) it contain no offensive language. There might have been a 5th. I'm not sure; basically, she did not care about how we presented it or the language we used (other than appropriateness), she just wanted us to have our first experience of standing in front of the class without prepared notes.
I knew about this assignment two days in advance. I picked out my story almost immediately--a simple account of how I once dropped a cake on my porch. I love stories, but I am not much of a story-teller; it is a skill I deeply wish to improve. Perhaps, whatever I told myself, I felt some apprehension because of this perceived lack of skill. I say perceived because I have only my opinion on the subject; I honestly believe my story-telling skills could use a great deal of improvement, but I'm not sure that means that I'm awful at it. That's debatable, and really, not very important at the moment.
I talked to Sir Timothy last night about public speaking. He gave me some valuable tips, such as saying sensational things if I have trouble getting people's attention, believing that I have a right to say what I'm saying, and to be myself. He told me, I believe, that I had no reason to be shy.
An interesting thing, the idea of having a reason for something. To have a reason for something implies that one has made a decision regarding that something. Often, we do things without making decisions that involve the logical thought process; often, the decisions we make are actually reactions to stimulus, decisions only in the sense that they are actions we have taken. The broader sense of the word decision implies logic.
I have been challenged lately on my reasoning for fear and shyness. If these things may be called decisions, they belong to the category that involves reactions rather than thought process.
I have noticed this past year a decline in my more irrational fears. Have I thought them through more than I usually have? I can't be sure. I believe this decline is owed to a few experiences and a general pervasion of such sentiments in me as apathy and bravado. Why should an experience or a sentiment effect my level of fear?
More importantly, where does fear come from? Fear may be described as an emotion. I believe it begins as an emotion. This emotion, once felt, elicits a physical reaction, the release of adrenaline, the implementation of the fight or flight reaction. I don't know enough about this to analyze it fully, but, at the minimum, I may accept fear as an emotion.
How do emotions change?
Stimulus, stimulus, stimulus, creates reaction, reaction, reaction, which depends on perception, perception, perception. Thorny.
I believe emotions are changed by stimulus that causes other emotions. That stimulus could be a thing or occurrence observed from the outer world, or even a thought perceived from the inner world. This means that logic, which occurs in the form of thought, may be an emotion-changing stimulus. Not always. But possibly.
This makes me believe that it is possible to overcome shyness and fear through logic, provided that this logic causes an emotional reaction; because I think that emotions are changed by other emotions, which are brought about by stimulus.
I sat in my desk in Speech class (I should note that Mrs. Bunch prefers the term "Communication Applications") and thought of these things at their surface level. I went through logical thought processes regarding what I was about to do. I thought to myself, I don't really care about this assignment. My story is going to be a few sentences. I don't care what the people in this overstuffed class think of me. The only way I can get a bad grade is if I use profanity, lie, or talk for ten minutes. People are all around me now, and I feel no kinship with them, so I am no more alone when I stand behind the podium than I am when I sit amid this puddle of students. There is no reason for nervousness.
And when I walked to and stood behind the podium, I was nervous. I could feel and hear my pulse in my neck, and feel the promise of shaking in my hands. I told my body there were no tigers in the room, and I would have no cause to attack or run from anything in the next several minutes. I looked casually out at that puddle of students and reminded myself that I belonged to that body of water only moments before. And I was nervous.
I made a joke before I began my story, and the majority of people laughed. I introduced the setting of my story without saying so, I told my story, with minimal verbal stumbles, I added a couple of effectual pauses and verbal effects in my story which earned me a few more laughs. And I was nervous. My story ended up being a nice length, and I returned to my desk none the worse for wear. And I was nervous.
Why?
Obviously, this well-founded logic did not cause any emotion in me to counteract my typical reactions to such a situation. I don't like to think of myself as shy, and I don't like to think of myself as fearful of standing before a group. I like to think of myself as indifferent to it. But I think the truth is that I have a twinge of fear of public speaking.
Why?
It is true that the same people hear and see me when I sit among a group as when I stand before that group. There should exist no distinctions between the two placements. Yet there is a distinction. Students commonly hold (I believe) the mentality that they belong amid the little sea of students sitting in desks, which makes sense as they spend the majority of their time there.
I think I've tired myself out on this subject. It's something to think about more, I suppose... I started this on the 11th, I guess four days ago. I feel there was something else I was going to say... I wonder what it was.
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