December 16, 2011

Today (rather, yesterday) is a fantastic day! My baby brother, Holden Alexander Witt, was born at Forsyth Hospital at 4:00 a.m. - just about on the dot, as I am told - and he weighed in at about 8 pounds, 6 ounces, and 21 inches long. He's an incredibly handsome young man, as I saw in the photos that I received early this morning just about as soon as he was born as well as when I went to see him after school - he obviously takes after his big sister in his good looks.
He is also a very sweet, snuggly, and mellow baby - he sat contentedly on my lap for about ten minutes, breathing the peaceful breaths of newborn sleep. I think I might gain a second fan of my singing voice (the first being Kalyn), because when I was singing "Hark the Herald Angels Sing" to him earlier, he didn't seem to mind all that much. His voice is very quiet...even when he got really mad about having his diaper changed, he only discussed his discontent in tones of what I would deem as mild frustration, compared to the full-scale screeching I have heard from many an infant. Therefore, I'd like to take him home, hug him, squeeze him (not too hard, of course), and call him my very own baby brother.
This is not to mention that he chose a very stylish day to make his debut - no less than the birthday of many friends and a cousin of mine whom I hold dear to my heart, the date of the Boston Tea Party, and the birth date of Ludwig van Beethoven, who was incidentally on the radio today as we traveled from my school, to Marios, and finally to the hospital - what was Beethoven playing on the radio, you ask? Well, some symphony orchestra was playing his third, or "Eroica," symphony - the heroic symhony - the symphony for the brave and noble heros (and initially for Napoleon Bonaparte, before he decided to be l'Empereur de la France). I thought it was very appropriate for a young man who charged into life in such early hours like he had some mission that needed to be done!
It is important to note that today was an A-day at school - meaning I had a study-period and German class following the four daily classes at the Career Center - it is also important to note that it was pouring outside for a good portion of the day, though it never really got cold until the nighttime, and so my black slipper-y shoes became very wet and bedraggled. I began the morning by visiting Lancy at the house and by having a bagel date with my mom at Bruegger's Bagels.
After returning home from the hospital tonight, my mom and I watched a film called, "The Help," about which (book and film) we've heard great things from people whom we trust to give movie critiques. Gary did not like it, but I certainly think it got its point across...I think that the first and last scenes sandwiched it well enough to throw the tragedy (under whatever circumstances, including differences of culture or color, and those differences which continue to divide us today) of a mother-figure being taken from her dependent child into very sharp relief. It was the relationship of Abilene and "Baby Girl" which developed and ended up reducing me to tears at the end of the film. I don't want to spoil it, so go and read it and then watch it.
Why, though? I've always wondered why we care so much about fiction, and so often about these anecdotal points that are used in works like The Help to help convey the big picture, to help support the underlying issue. I have my theories...but now it is too late for me to attempt to discuss them in an articulate manner. Good night, everyone!

November 20 - 21: Height and Depth

The reason for the title of this entry is the fact that I experienced two consecutive and yet radically-different days on - you guessed it - November 20th and 21st.
The first of these was a "down" sort of day. Having missed Friday for the all-county concert this weekend, I was immensely stressed out about getting caught up on all my homework, not to mention the future prospect of getting caught up on all the homework that I'll be missing next week while visiting my great-grandma in Florida - it also occured to me, on the way home from church, that I would be out of town on the day on which I initially signed up for the SAT, December 3rd. So, I went on the website and did all that I could to change my testing date, though it still has not registered the change. I have made a mental note to give them a call tomorrow. In any case, apart from that, one of my favorite pastors had his last Sunday on the pulpit on that day also. The choir sang "The Old Hundredth Psalm Tune" and "He is God," neither of which are favorites of mine. However, the service was immensely powerful - never have I heard that much spiritual guidance packed into one sermon. For part of the prelude, Dr. Dodds went up to one of the balconies and played his violin - it sounded like water and silk, that is how smooth it was. Then, all of the other pastors came to help assist, and midway through the service, after our thanks for the offering, Mike Horne stood with Harry Daniel (the interrim pastor who had to leave) at center stage and spoke of how he has been a blessing on our church as a teacher and a friend. After that, there was a long moment of applause, the longest I've ever heard in the church, even counting the time that the choir sang the "Hallelujah" chorus. I cried a little then.
After the service, most everyone congregated in the fellowship hall to attend the farewell reception for Mr. and Mrs. Daniel. I spoke to him briefly and gave him a packet of sacred poetry that I had written, and then I sat down and wept a little more. For some reason, the sight of him walking around and clutching the bright purple folder cheered me up a bit, and so I got some pink lemonade and socialized with people. Jenny and I had a nice Harry Potter conversation for a while, and then I had to go.
Later that night, I was playing the piano while Hope was in the shower; I decided that it was high time to refresh those Beethoven pieces that I must play monthly to remember: The second movement of the "Pathetique" and the first movement of the "Moonlight." Moreover, I decided to practice them as I would perform them, instead of running through them really fast just to make sure I remember the notes, as I usually do. I was about halfway through the "Pathetique" when I remembered being a kid and sitting on the carpeted stairs and listening to my father play the same piece - and then I wondered if Beethoven had been remembering something from his childhood when he wrote the piece, because it sure captured that feeling well - that mixture of happiness and sadness all rolled into nostalgia. Already being on a roll that day, I wept again, thereby impairing my vision.
November 21st was another thing entirely. I woke up early with the intention of finishing a lab before school started. I caught a ride with Emily, who had a super-early a-cappella gig over at Reynolds that she had to go to anyway. While I waited for her outside, I listened to the Trio section from Beethoven's "Christ on the Mount of Olives" oratorio. There's one note in it that is like Paradise - the whole thing is pretty and worth listening to, I assure you, but that one part makes the whole piece what it is. This song played itself over and over in my head for the rest of the day, as well as the "Agnus Dei" from Beethoven's "Missa Solemnis." It was one of those rare times when having something stuck in your head isn't necessarily a bad thing.
I also found everything excessively amusing yesterday. For example, I was in history class, and Mr. French was discussing John Brown's radical activities prior to the Civil War, specifically the Powatahomie Massacre (or something like that) - in any case, one of the students accused him of mispronouncing it (I personally wouldn't have known one way or the other) and with great jubilance, he exclaimed, "Whoops! I put the wrong emPHAsis on the wrong sylLAbles!" and then laughed somewhat maniacally. At the time, I thought that this was uproariously hilarious for some reason, but then found that either it wasn't, or it was one of those "you-had-to-be-there" things later on when I tried to explain it to my mom.
Just after school, I stayed about 45 minutes or so for a piano lesson. This was a very productive period in which I learned a new fingering for a section of the 6 Beethoven "Ecossaises" in E flat that I had been playing awkwardly before. I also learned a new "blonde joke" and had the opportunity to tell my "bottom of the ninth" joke - the retelling of this joke always makes me happy.
So in any case, I left school in high spirits, which endured through a dinner at Pancho Villas with my mom, Wesley, and Kooky. Wesley has just finished the duet song for his album, "There's No Time for Romance," which my mom turned into the joke of the night by insisting that there wasn't enough time for just about everything. So, then I came home, procrastinated on homework, finally did homework, and went to sleep. That is what has happened the past two days.

Airplanes and Model Airplanes

It is an odd day to reflect on these dreams that I had, in fact, two nights ago. It was also not until I wrote the title just that I realized that both of the dreams involved airplanes.
The first dream was particularly odd because it was a dream that began in the third-person omniscient, and I was not present in it. I was in the air, observing a large-ish family with two sons and a daughter (I believe) - both parents were there as well. The main issue of the dream was that it was war-time (I don't know when) and the boys were 21 and 18, and they were both drafted into the air force. Seemingly sped-up, I watched a day of departure preparation: suitcases strewn with clothes on their twin beds, a tearful family meal, the father trying to calm down the mother, who was hysterical at having two of her children leave to fight in a war that she didn't support.
Then there was a montage...and then began the actual war itself - I was suddenly behind the eyes of the older boy, in the cock-pit of some sort of fighter plane. The air was rent with the noise of metal tearing, guns shooting, and people hurting. The green grass below us swarmed with infantry, but there was no escape in the air either. It was hard to distinguish enemy planes from our own, because they all streaked beneath me and to my right and left in such a blur that the symbols inscribed in the metal were indistinct - after giving up the pursuit of the enemy, I tried to find my brother. I called him in my radio, and after a few moments of terrible static I heard his voice. He said that he was doing fine, and that there was not much action at his part of the field. He gave me his position, and then I adjusted my flight coordinates so as to maneuver the plane in his direction. However, as I caught sight of his plane in the distance, over a barren, gray sort of meadow, a plane that was on fire streaked past below me, headed straight for his plane, which was facing the other direction. Before I could press the button on the radio to warn him, the two planes had collided in a fiery explosion, slowly descending to the ground like bloody, ashy fireworks. I let go of the controls in shock. My brother was dead.
The rest of this dream involved my return home and the family grief.
The next dream was of a different mood entirely. I was me, and my mom was driving merrily along the highway with me in the front seat next to her. We were on the way to visit one of her friends, whom she had met at work. She also took care to mention that her friend had a son who was supposed to be handsome.
"So you're trying to set me up with your friend's son, is that it?" I asked her incredulously.
She shrugged and grinned, "We'll see what happens."
Well, when we got there, I realized that it would have been good to inquire about his age. He was standing out front with his mother, and he informed me upon our handshake that he was in the seventh grade. My mom and his mom exchanged the sidelong glance of mothers plotting something together before his mom said, "Well, you kids have fun...Kathy and I will just be out on the terrace." And so my mom left me alone with this boy.
He really was a beautiful boy, just not like someone I wanted to date. Though he was in the seventh grade, he looked no older than seven, with softly-tanned skin and a shock of light blonde hair. His voice was also uncharacteristically young sounding for a seventh grader: he could have been a boy soprano.
"Let me show you my airplanes." he said eagerly, his eyes bright.
"Okay," I said, sort of mystified. I followed him to his room, which was painted army-green. The frame on which his twin bed rested was shaped like a dinosaur, and he had a blue, wooden shelf where he had at least ten model airplanes. Through a window in the far wall, we could see a large table on the terrace where our mothers laughed together and drank coffee.
He grabbed his first airplane and began to describe it - this took about five minutes, and so when he turned around to take the second one, I sat on his bed, expecting the whole ordeal to last a while. When he turned back around, he lowered his head and shuffled his feet, looking very awkward, as though I had just undressed myself or something.
"What's wrong?" I asked.
"Well, nothing, only...my mommy doesn't want any girls sitting on my bed when she isn't here."
I chanced a look out of the window and noticed that his mother was watching us out of the corner of her eye. Disgusted that she would expect me to make an advance on her little angel boy, I stood up and said, "Well, we surely wouldn't want her to worry, would we?"
I sat on the floor while he showed me the rest of the airplanes.
After this exhibition, we joined the adults outside, or rather, I sat across from my mother while the boy ran happily around the backyard (which was like a large meadow) holding out one of his airplanes. When his mother got up to get a refill of coffee, I started to scold my mom for trying to set me up with such a young boy. Before the argument was complete, I woke up.

A Dream of Toronto and A Consideration of Adventure-Scented Air

So, I've been incredibly lucky in that I chose the second week of school to get sick - I'm not being sarcastic, this is actually a good thing, because I chose to do it before the work got to be too overwhelming, though to tell you the truth, the work is already making me nervous as it is. And to think that I tried to take five AP classes...
In any case, I've lost my voice, and I've been coughing up some sort of wetness in my lungs since Wednesday or so, and because it's been going on for so long (and because my dad contracted what seems to be the same illness last night), we went to the doctor today. The PA gave us a prescription for some anti-biotics and seemed to be optimistic that my voice would return and that I would be feeling better when classes resume on Tuesday (tomorrow is Labor Day).
The coughing has been keeping me from sleeping most nights, and any sleep that I've gotten has included troubled dreams, not excluding last night, I'm sure. But in a shocking way, I remembered part of my dream from last night and it was actually quite wondrous.
My dad and I had actually just signed in at Primecare, where he was told that we would have an hour and a half of a wait - he was hungry, and so we left for lunch. We went to a Mexican restaurant called El Sombrero, which is near where K-mart used to be (now The Grand). I remembered going there once with my old friend Sofia's family. So we went inside and were seated in the right-back corner of the restaurant, just underneath a stunning painting that caught my eye and kept it during most of the meal.
It was a painting of a city at night, situated around a circular harbor that opened at the farthest end to the sea. The city was alive and colorful, with tall, glass office buildings and rainbow neon lights. It looked like a fun place to be at night - a place where you could leave your apartment for a stroll, stumble into an arts festival, hear a couple of bands playing live on the streets, and then walk along the ocean, watching the boats' progress across the harbor.
I felt the lovely jolt of deja vu - and then the elusive silk of my unconscious slid back into place.
In at least part of the dream last night, I was on a boat with my mother and father - it was like how it was a few years after they split up, to where they were civil enough to go on vacations together - and we were out on the dark ocean, but I wasn't worried, because we weren't piloting the boat. It seemed to be something like a cruise, though it was a bit smaller and there weren't swimming pools on the top decks or anything like that. It was a lot less ostentatious. I could smell the ocean and hear it breathe beneath us. We were all at the front of the boat, having spotted a bit of light on the horizon. Presently, we were pulling into a circular harbor almost identical to the one in the picture, and a gleaming, silver city spread out all around us. There was something very clean and futuristic about this city, though it wasn't too upright to abstain from being the site of good concerts and other nighttime revelry.
As we navigated the center of the harbor, I wondered aloud, "What city is this?!"
My mom answered my question: "This is Toronto." Her tone was surprised, as she knew that Toronto was the city in Canada that I most wanted to visit, and she figured that I would know what it looked like (that is to say, what it looked like it the dream...I don't know how close to reality my dream was).
I thought of the things I wanted to do there: I wanted to go to the museums, walk along the water, go to a few concerts, and lay some flowers by the grave of Glenn Gould. But it was up to my parents, as to whether we would get to do these things.
"When the boat docks, can we go and look around a bit?" I asked.
My dad nodded and I gripped the railing at the front of the ship, looking eagerly toward the dock, which we slowly approached.
This is all that I remember of the dream.
In other news, today I was considering the human condition, as I tend to do when I grow weary of such mundane tasks as coughing and doing homework. I was moved by nostalgia to consider the perpetual excitement of children. I was thinking in particular about three bands that animated many car rides for me as a child - the punk rock bands Rancid and the Ramones, and the folk singer Bob Dylan. There's also some sort of saying along these lines: "Don't waste the journey thinking about the destination when half the fun is getting there!" And I found it curious to consider this saying in juxtaposition with childhood, when a child tends to fantasize about the destination (growing up) more than at any other age but still somehow enjoy the journey more. I remember one specific occasion in particular, when my mom picked me up from my dad's house, and we were going to go to Arby's or some other such place for dinner before going back home to the apartment. She played my favorite song on the Rancid cd, "The Roots, the Radicals" (that's probably not what it is really called), and I bobbed in the backseat, singing, looking out the window, and just felt that the night was charged with electricity, with adventure waiting to happen! My enthusiasm was such that when the song was over, my mom turned down the music for a minute and regarded me warily in the rear-view mirror. "What are you so happy about?" she asked me curiously. I shrugged. I was alive - I was filled with inexplicable relief and there was nothing to be sad about.
I'm sure all of you remember an experience like this, even if it did not involve traveling in a car at night or punk rock music - but I bet you would agree with me that if that feeling could be harnessed and distributed, then someone would be very rich indeed.
That is to say, the inventor would be materially rich and the consumers would all be spiritually rich.
There were other moments too! Other solitary ones, like riding my bike in the fall and smelling the leaves and receiving that same intoxication! Or that surge of joy when you're walking along the palm-tree lined road and you catch that first glimpse of the ocean, ever-eternal, up ahead, dominating the horizon like a blue heaven. It was like flat soda this last time, walking with my dad, Heather, and Hope from our parking spot to the opening between the trees. I saw it - and appreciated it too, in a composed, formal way - but Hope saw it. And when she saw it, she did what any person in their right mind should do when encountered with something so endless and beautiful: she kicked off her shoes and ran splashing into the water, and I stood watching her, thinking to myself, "How?"
Where does all the joy go? Not that I am utterly joyless now, just composedly joyful about a smattering of things, and somewhat ignorant of the things that used to make me so joyful, apparently.
Every now and then, like a dream, I remember in jolts. I hear that the fair is coming to town, and I envision the rides, smell the roast corn, and imagine the excited voices of people shrieking and laughing and talking, and it is like a brief leap in the pit of my stomach. Then it settles, and that is all. It is like the man Bretodeau in "Amelie de Montmartre," paraphrased, "Tout qui demeure de mon enfance va dans une boite" (All that remains from my childhood fits in a box).
It is the same when I have jolts of remembered joy, and it is sad sometimes, like a CD skipping. But I maintain that this is why it is important to be present in life, and to enjoy the moment, seize the day, etc.
It is also how I like to imagine the "flourishing" that our pastor Dr. Daniel alludes to when he speaks of Heaven.
Something like that, perpetually.

An Earthquake Between Open Houses

First of all, I know that everyone is raving about the earthquake that happened earlier today, so here is my account of it: my grandparents and I were at Belk in the mall; my grandmother and I were on the third floor, each with separate pursuits - I was trying, once more in vain, to find Kalyn a floppy-collared dress, and Grandma was searching for some nice sporty clothes that she could wear in Florida. I was walking amid the racks when suddenly, the floor began to vibrate and when I looked up, the light fixtures were positively shaking. This lasted for about 6 seconds before everything was normal again, and when I looked around to make sure that I wasn't insane, there were other people staring bemusedly at the ceiling as well, and so I was reassured. Strangely enough, my grandfather felt nothing down on the first floor in the men's department, and neither did Hope and Lucy's family (Lucy is a little girl who just moved in next door to us, and for the last two weeks, she and Hope have been inseparable). Perhaps earthquakes of this caliber are only felt in the upper floors of places.
In any case, with school about to start on Thursday, we've been rushing around to get to not only one, but two open houses - one at Reynolds, and the most recent one at the Career Center. Yesterday, I went to Reynolds with the main goal of getting my schedule and meeting my new teachers, Frau Woloshzyn and Ms. Bell. My new German teacher was especially helpful, as she stood with us for about twenty minutes in the upstairs hallway and tried to understand my messed up schedule...My meeting with Ms. Bell was very brisk and concise; I said "Hello," she gave me some papers, and then I was immediately hailed by Saoirse, Kiki, Marcus, and the rest of the crowd - Luke came ambling up to say Hello as well. At some point, I ran into Elisabeth, and she walked with us until we reached Mr. Bragg's room, at which point I was rushed by my dad to complete the business of open house because of the fact that everyone was waiting for dinner. So we ran down to the arts building, had an awkward discussion with Ms. Reese about how I'm not continuing dance this year, had a nice chat with Dr. Moss (in which I was told that I'd be able to continue receiving instruction from him after school if necessary), and stopped by Mr. James' room before heading back out to where we were parked across the street from the school.
Today was the day of the unknown...I embarked on my journey to the career center, where it seems that I will be taking AP French, AP Chemistry, AP English, AP Music Theory, and maybe (though I hope not) AP US History. I met the first five teachers, who all gave off different impressions. We met Mr. Koschak first, because his name was the first I spotted on the map. He seemed to be very nice, but his comment about how "the average grade on my tests is a 60" left me with an ominous sort of feeling in the pit of my stomach. Then we went to the English room, where Ms. Tedder gave us a long speech in which she revealed herself to be a pleasant, friendly teacher who likes to talk. She reminded me of Ms. Jones, but I hope that Ms. Tedder grades our essays somewhat more leniently. Then, it was back to the Chemistry hallway for M. Richwine, my French teacher - he spoke French at me automatically and I almost completely blanked in nervousness. Then, perhaps taking pity on me, he said, "Ah...tu t'appelles comment?" and after a moment of stuttering, I responded with the customary, "Je m'appelle Robyn," and the conversation proceeded in English. Needless to say, I left feeling quite ashamed of the first impression I had given of my verbal French abilities, which he must now assume are abysmal at best. Last of all, we talked to the music theory teacher, a relatively young fellow who was playing the music of Nirvana when we entered the room. As cool of a fellow as he seems, I might have to drop his class because he only offers it during the 7th period and the 1st period...But I can always take it next year. Overall, after the chaos of tonight and the night before, I'm hoping that I'll be able to sort out all of the rifts in my schedule with the guidance counselors tomorrow when I walk over there.

O Florida, Land of Lanais and Banana Trees

I just posted this on Facebook: I'm off to Florida tomorrow, the land of lanais and banana trees (which are metal things that you hang your bananas on, but only people in Florida seem to have them).
Needless to say, I'm immensely excited, because we get to spend an uninterrupted two weeks with our family while we're down there, and my mom said that we'll also get to stop in Orlando either on the way down or on the way back...either way, it's been a while since we've done that, and it amuses me to see the Harry Potter theme park billboards which decorate the highway every other mile or so.
Also, we get to see my cousins and uncle while we're down there, which has become a very rare occurrence due to the fact that he lives in Arizona now and my aunt lives in Kentucky - so they don't come to North Carolina or Florida very often anymore. This might be the last time that the four of us (my cousins and I) will be together in one place for a long while, due to the fact that my eldest cousin Autumn is going off to college in a few months (I believe it's the University of Louisville) to pursue a career as a pediatrician.
We're leaving tomorrow as soon as my mom gets off of work, and my dad is going to drop me off there in the morning. I'll have to pack-pack-pack so that I can be ready in time, and then, if things go as planned, we'll be driving over to Durham to pick my grandpa up...he's supposed to be coming down with us, too - if the good Lord is willing.
In other news, tomorrow is the day that the FINAL Harry Potter movie is being released in the United States; in fact, the midnight showing is due to begin in about fifteen minutes. A whole chapter of my childhood is ending tomorrow, or whenever I see the movie - it's sort of sad, when I think about it. But in any case, my friend Elisabeth stayed over at my house last night and we had a miniature Harry Potter marathon in order to prepare for this release of Part 2 of "Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows." Last night, we watched "Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix" and "Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince." This morning, we started to watch Part 1 of "Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows," but we only got to the part where *SPOILER ALERT Snape sends his doe patronus to bring Harry to the sword of Gryffindor. Even my father, who is the opposite of a Harry Potter enthusiast, has been adding to the overall exciting mood. He's been walking around, quoting Ray Fiennes' (Voldemort) part in the movie trailer in a Bat-man sort of voice, "ONLY IIII CANN LIVE FOREVER, HARRY POTTER."
In any case, that is all really for the evening...I'm working on introducing conciseness to my blog entries, but I blog so rarely nowadays that being concise is difficult. I did have a few dreams since I last blogged - the one last night was like a mixture of Harry Potter and the "Prince of Egypt." Harry Potter was floating in the ocean in a wicker basket in one part...in another part, my mom and I were shopping in Aldi, and I had done something terrible and irreversible, though I cannot quite remember what it was. I'm always having dreams like that, anxiety dreams where I cannot fix something that I broke. For example, last week, I dreamt that I was probably pregnant - this occurred during the Bioscience program that I attended about two weeks ago (just to clarify, I did not do anything that wasn't G rated at the camp in real life), and my actions had been caught on camera - we think that this was part of the dream because on the previous night, we had watched an episode of "Six Feet Under" in which one of the brothers is caught on camera urinating against a wall and that photograph is placed in an art gallery. In any case, during the slideshow that the faculty presented on the last day of the camp, with all of the parents there, a photograph appeared of me and another fellow - shamefully creating the miracle of life. My dad nearly vomited and my mom scolded me for the rest of the dream and nagged about what we might find when we got ahold of a pregnancy test. I waited in dread for this moment for the rest of the dream...as strange as it sounds, I've had multiple recurrences of this sort of anxiety dream - it occurs almost as often as my school-related anxiety dreams. Perhaps one day, I'll understand my own subconscious.

The Past Few Days and a Discussion of Flirtation

So, the past few days have been significant because I proved to myself that I can sustain a social life of sorts, and I shall verify it again tomorrow when Aaron comes over to my dad's for dinner and other such things. The past two days, however, I have spent the majority of my time with the lovely Keegan family, who live just up First Street from me. It was our first time really hanging out all summer, and the first time that we had gotten to seriously chat in months and months (because Saoirse and I didn't have the same lunch at school this past year, unfortunately). So yesterday, they biked down to my house, and then we went on a collective bike ride (which turned out to be a collective-pushing-our-bikes-up-the-hill) to Grace Court, the little gazebo park on Fourth Street where I might get married some day, if not in my church or at the beach. We sat in the gazebo for a while to catch our breath and cool down - it was really muggy outside, and I had that nasty feeling of sweat trickling down my back. While we sat there, we talked and talked and talked - I was afraid, as I always am before I have friends over, that I would not think of anything to say, but there had been so much that I'd missed in the last few months that I needed to catch up on, and likewise with the two sisters (Kiki and Saoirse) - we talked about the classes we're taking next year, the pros and cons of AP classes, and other things. Then, after about half an hour was spent in this manner, I suggested that we head back to the house in order to partake in some ice cream. I also hadn't brought my phone with me, so I had to make sure that no one had called me with important news in our absence.
After getting our rich chocolate ice cream from the kitchen, we all lounged around the dining room table for another hour or so, discussing things in greater detail, our teachers from the previous year, music, some silly rumors that had been going around and such. I played some of Julian Casablancas' music on the computer because Kiki had said that she was a fan of the Strokes and was in love with the main singer ("He's like, 33," Saoirse pointedly reminded her).
At some point yesterday, we were discussing the Red Box and how it was unfair that no one could use it unless they owned a credit card.
"Well, they have to do it that way because otherwise people would just take movies and never return them," Saoirse reminded us.
"Yeah, well, they could come up with another way of penalizing people for late returns," Kiki insisted.
Then I suggested, "Now what about this: In order to solve this problem, while also creating more jobs, there could be Red Box Repo Men or Bounty Hunters, who come after you if you don't return the movies." (I had to include this in my post today because I personally think that it's a brilliant idea, not to toot my own horn or anything).
So, that night, we ate dinner at the house, and then Saoirse, Kiki, and I retired to my room for a couple rounds of Taboo, which the two sisters won. The plan was to meet my mom at the golf course to watch the fireworks (they had been cancelled the previous night due to rain and a lady had told my mom that they would be done on the 5th instead). As we pulled up to the golf course, we were shocked to see that the lawn sprinklers were on all over the field, there were hardly any cars, and the people who were there were all crammed into a line of cars down a side road. They clamored at the fence, waiting to see if the fireworks would actually be lit.
Twenty minutes later, my mom joined us with Kooky in her stroller. We oohed and aahed over Kooky, for lack of fireworks to ooh and aah at (and also because she's the cutest baby ever). We hung around just talking until about 10:00, when people started to get into their cars and abandon the cause - we joined them, and my mom started to walk back home.
Today was an interesting day - I checked up on my application at Panera for the second time (the last time was in person, and I was told to contact one of the managers by telephone). I also found this gorgeous piece by Schubert, "Two Ecossaises," in the book on the piano. In a burst of creativity, I composed a piece for Lancy while I was in the shower, "La Chanson de Lancy" (The Song of Lancy). The following is what I have of it so far (and I have composed piano accompaniment as well):
"Mon chien, il a des oreilles pendantes
Et quand il aboie, il dit, 'Ouaf ouaf.'

Mon chien, il a des cheveux oranges
et quand il aboie, il dit, 'Ouaf ouaf.'

Mon chien, s'il pourrait, jouerait en neige
mais mon chien vive au sud, tant pis

Mon chien il a des mirettes ambres
et quand il aboie, il dit, 'Ouaf ouaf.'

Mon chien essaie de sortir la poubelle
Mais nous disons, 'Non,' parce qu'il la mange."
Translation:
My dog, he has floppy ears
and when he barks, he says, "Woof woof."

My dog, he has orange fur
and when he barks, he says, "Woof woof."

My dog, if he could, would play in the snow
but my dog lives in the south, too bad/never mind

My dog, he has amber-colored peepers
and when he barks, he says, "Woof woof."

My dog tries to take out the trash
but we say, "No" because he eats it. . .
I'm immensely excited about this song, might I add.
In any case, after I had messed around on the piano for a while, I made the journey to Saoirse's house around 1:00; Rina was able to come too, and so we all hung out in the girls' room and talked for a while - part of the time, we discussed dreams: Saoirse had an interesting one last night that I'm trying to get her to write down - she wants to turn it into a movie, but I told her that before she alters it (which she was trying to do) she ought to write it down in its pure form so that she doesn't forget it. In case she does and I need to remind her in the future, it was something like this - she and her family were in a land whose demographics recalled aspects of Africa, India, and China all together (I imagined it during the description as a sort of barren, brown savanna, but that might be erroneous on my part). There were people all over the place receiving different colored popsicles (the kind that are in the plastic that you have to cut open with scissors and then slide up with your hands). Everyone was clamoring to receive a pink popsicle, because these allegedly gave one the privilege to attend a "meet-and-greet" with some famous person. There were only five pink popsicles. Everything was just fine, and people were merely running around trying to find pink popsicles, until one lady who didn't care to meet the celebrity tried to hand off her pink popsicle to someone else - at which point it exploded, instantly killing her and others in her midst. People didn't yet associate the pink popsicles with being explosive, and so Saoirse and some people were riding around in a truck, trying to find her son (who was a little boy of Indian descent) and also a pink popsicle. However, as they drove around, two more people exploded, and so then Saoirse was intent on finding her boy before he found one of the pink popsicles and detonated the horror within. Just as she laid her eyes on him - he was standing in a group of people near a line of purple flowers - he was handing off his pink popsicle to a teacher, and the explosion proceeded in slow motion. She said that she woke up bawling for her lost son.
Kiki also had a weird dream that she had broken her neck in some sort of sports event and no one would bind it up. They insisted that it was ok, so she wandered around for the rest of the dream, worried that she might injure it if she moved it the wrong way.
I had a weird dream last night as well, which leads me to our next topic of conversation: flirtation.
Let me preface by saying that while the definition of flirtation seems pretty clear (well, as clear as pure innuendo can be), I do not understand the concept at all - pas du tout. That is to say, I cannot employ it in a practical situation.
Real quick, before the dream, here was the scenario I was faced with when I was out on the porch, about to play the trumpet while waiting for my mom to pick me up today for lunch.
I had to sign for a GPS package, which I put inside, awkwardly holding the trumpet in my left hand - then I returned outside and went to sit on the bench, preparing to warm up. Two teenage or college-age boys passed on the sidewalk, and one said bawdily, "Hey gurrrrl, you play the trumpet?"
I said, "Oh yes. Yes I do."
He said, "Gurrrl, we gotta jam sometime."
I responded cheerfully, with my eyebrows raised, "Ah! Do you also play the trumpet?"
He grinned and assumed air-guitar pose, "Nah, I play the guitar." He put a special emphasis on the word "guitar." Just as they were about to turn the corner he yelled, "See you later - you take care!" in what seemed to be a flirtatious tone.
I said, "Have a great weekend!" and waved awkwardly. Then I proceeded to play the trumpet.
Now, my refusal to flirt had nothing to do with my fear of the two guys who passed by or my dislike of them - I am not so conservative that I will deny the fact that flirtation by itself is a harmless act. I simply am too square to do it right.
In the dream I had last night, my mom and I went to a restaurant that we frequent weekly, where we are just as frequently flirted with by one of the members of the staff. The only difference in the dream from real life was the color of the staff's uniforms (they were black instead of blue). Everything else proceeded as usual - we placed our orders, and then every now and then our waiter made some sort of innuendo-toned comment and I either did not hear and so would be required to say, "What?" or I would hear and not know how to respond. Either case was awkward, and so when we were faced with the decision of where to eat lunch today, my mom and I chose Arby's - that choice was also influenced by the fact that we wanted the apple turnover that is offered at Arby's.
So that is all I have to say about flirtation.
The rest of the night passed relatively uneventfully - at some point I said to myself, "I ought to catch up on my blogging tonight!" which is of course what I did. Tomorrow Hopey and I will have the whole day together and we might meet the Keegans at the park at some point. Then, of course, Aaron is going to come over at 5:30, and we might teach him this new game Ratuki that Hope got for her birthday. It's really fun.
I shall also work a little bit more tonight on the short story that is gradually becoming a novella, one which greatly focuses on dreams. In any case, good night all.

The Joyful Dream of June 22nd

Now, this dream was a joyful experience for a few reasons - first of all, it was the first dream that I've had for about 2 months that I can remember in depth; as you've probably noticed, it has been several months since I've reported a dream on here at all, so this is big news (though not surprising, given that last summer yielded a greater amount of dreams than the previous school year as well). It was secondly a joyful experience because it was one of those dreams where you wake up feeling inexplicably cheerful and full of good will, even if the dream itself wasn't entirely cheerful. Finally, it was a cheerful dream because it was very artful, and most of the people in the dream (one could say) are and/or were.
As per the background behind the dream, ever since this past Monday, I have regained a routine and this has greatly relieved the slight monotony of summertime - I've been going to a day-time Biosciences camp, which has been really interesting; it's taught by Mr. Putnam and Ms. Chandler, and the program is run by Mr. Clifton - most of the program is spent on the campus of Wake Forest University, though we've toured many locations in the Triad Research Park downtown such as Targacept, Wake Forest Institution for Regenerative Medicine, and Wake Forest's PA school. On June 22nd, we had listened to two speakers - Dr. Ski Chilton and Chris Perry, who discussed genomics as it relates to obesity and biodiesel, respectively. Later on in the afternoon, as my mother and I exited Target, we were walking by a slightly-balding man and a little brunette boy who was skipping around the shopping cart. I was then struck by the epiphany that if my mom ever dated again, she would probably have to date a single-father, because she had mentioned the other day that she hated dating because most dates don't pay any attention to children from previous relationships - however, of course, a single father wouldn't have this attitude, given that he has a child himself. My mom is convinced that my memory of this event was manifest in the dream.
The dream itself began with my mom and I, walking down a gravel road between thick groups of trees. We seemed to be in the midst of a sort of forest, but the road signified the presence of Industry - we knew that we were not isolated in the wilderness. The sun was starting to set and we were merrily discussing our destination. The excitement was palpable, just like the comfortable heat that drizzled over our skin as we walked along, crunch crunching as we went. As we walked, a small restaurant slowly came into view at the end of the road, brightly illuminated from within by cheerful lights. As we drew nearer, I checked my cell phone and saw that my dad had texted me, asking me about how the camp had gone that day - I replaced the phone in my purse, knowing that I was far too excited to get back to him at the moment. My mom was nervous; we were coming to see one of her friends that she had not seen for a long time - I had never met him, but I had heard favorable things about his character. I had decided that I'd let her talk to him alone first before I entered the room and introduced myself - I figured that they might want to have a chance to reminisce before I made them feel obligated to discuss the present, and I also wanted to see what he looked like from afar, and to try to determine his personality thus. We had traveled to the restaurant because he worked there as a waiter.
When my mom and I entered by the main door, there were two rooms that could be accessed by swinging doors off of the foyer hallway - the one on the right (which actually had no swinging door but was an extension of the foyer), though full of tables and dining space, was empty and slightly darker than the one on the left. Behind that door, you could hear old jukebox music and chatting people waiting for their dinner. My mom slid cautiously up to that door and looked through the glass window in it, searching for her friend. She turned to me and said, "Well, aren't you coming?"
I pulled out my cell phone, "My dad just texted me a couple minutes ago; I'll reply to him real quick and then join you guys in there."
She nodded her assent, gave me a hug, and then wandered into the main dining hall. In the next couple of minutes, I restlessly wandered about the dark foyer area, trying not to peer through the window. Meanwhile, I had decided that I was not well-dressed enough for such a momentous
occasion, and I was able to withdraw from a sort of armoire a dress of my mother's which was short and black and semi-formal. Of course, there is no explanation for why an armoire with my mother's clothes in it was being housed in a restaurant.
After changing, I became impatient, and so I entered the main part of the restaurant by the swinging door, hoping that my timing would be good - however, I walked right in on my mom kissing one of the waiters, a tall fellow wearing casual clothing and a medium-length black hair-cut. Figuring that this was the friend and that I probably should not interrupt their interaction, I turned and left the room and decided to wait outside since the weather was so nice.
Eventually, my mother rejoined me on the gravel, looking happy but simultaneously troubled. I was also frustrated, because she had returned alone and I had wanted to meet the fellow.
"He's working," she said somewhat impatiently, "He can't just leave his job to come outside and meet people."
Feeling slightly resentful, I shuffled my feet as we walked back across the gravel path. After 20 yards or so, we heard the creak of the front door opening - the man dashed out onto the steps and scanned the distance with his hand over his forehead. Spotting us, he ran down the steps and across the gravel until he stood about two feet from us. He took a long look at me, seeming to compare me with my mother.
To break the awkward silence, I said, "Hello!" rather more jovially than I had intended.
He responded with a small wave and a fond smile, and he quickly fell into step between my mother and I as we walked away from the restaurant. At this point in the dream, something about his hair and his mannerisms reminded me of Robert Smith from The Cure. Underneath the reddish sky (the sun had mainly set) his skin seemed to be even paler. Looking at him, I was struck by a sense of familiarity, like when you get along miraculously well with a stranger or when your expectations of a person slide perfectly into place upon meeting them, as though you had known them all along.
One could tell that he was silent because he was overwhelmed with joy and could not find words, which was a strange thing to realize. This and the way that his eyes assumed a sort of gray sadness when he reached for my mom's hand made my heart break: he was transitory - it was here that I realized I was dreaming. Perhaps sensing this (and my imminent awakening), I quickly reached over and embraced him, silently thanking him for showing her such kindness and love. He was surprised; his eyes widened slightly but he seemed very proud, and he said something that I don't remember before I awoke with the 5th movement of Beethoven's 13th String Quartet stuck in my head, a very exquisite and sad sounding piece. I felt very happy when I woke up to have had a dream that was not anxiety-driven. Ah dreams. . .how I've missed thee!

Childhood Memory: George Washington's Breakfast and the Cherry Tree Myth

This is a story about my gullibility as well as my hatred of tea.

When I was in elementary school, especially in the early years of Kindergarten and first grade, our founding fathers, presented to us in pictures of their heads immortalized in the stone of Mount Rushmore, were veiled in a sort of lofty majesty. I was very patriotic when I was little, jumping up every morning to say the Pledge of Allegiance, trying to sing "My Country 'Tis of Thee" the loudest, and sitting rapt with attention when they told us about how we beat the British in the Revolution because our soldiers could only afford tattered green and brown clothes, which allowed us to blend into the landscape while the British marched proudly in their distinctive red-coats.

In Kindergarten, they told us a couple of days in advance (my teacher Ms. Gaither and her assistant Ms. Brown) that we would be reading a piece of literature called George Washington's Breakfast, which would reveal to us the morning diet of the first president of the United States. I was enormously excited, particularly when the teachers told us that we would be celebrating his memory by actually eating his breakfast one day in class.

So, the big day came, and we all ran over to the circular carpet, grabbed the square pillows from the heap in the corner, and sat down in preparation for story time. Ms. Gaither sat in her rocking chair (I think that it was a rocking chair; this is how I remember it) and read us the book, which included some interesting facts about Washington, including the names of some of his pets and his shoe size. The book was about a boy who was named for the President and who is desperate to find out all that he can about Washington - especially his preferred breakfast. His family promises to cook him the breakfast if he can find out what it was through research. His epic search extends across the pages until - finally - the moment that we cross-legged kindergarteners had been waiting for with bated breath - the last page, in which it is revealed that George Washington's breakfast of choice was. . .tea and hoe-cakes.

A couple of the more crude vocabulary-savvy boys giggled at the concept of hoe-cakes, at which point our teacher hastily explained that hoe-cakes are like pancakes. I mused and mused over the food. . somehow I had expected it to be grander, like the breakfast of kings - with lavish french toast and sugar dusted fruit or something like that - but I was excited all the same. I had never tried tea before, and some of my Southern-bred classmates told me, "Oh, tea is the best! I can't believe you haven't had it before. It's even better than milk!"

"Nuh-uh." I said, "I don't think there's anything better than milk."

They shrugged. "George Washington thought so." And they had a point - tea had to be excellent if George Washington liked it.

So, the next day when we came to school, we sat patiently at our desks while Ms. Gaither passed out little plastic plates of hoe-cakes (which were basically pancakes without syrup) and little Dixie cups of some sort of medium-brown tea. I fidgeted during this process: they were very strict, and in retrospect I think rightfully so, about not letting anyone eat until everyone had been served. I gazed into my cup of tea with great anticipation, and when the time came to begin, I took a couple of bites of the hoe-cakes, imagining that I was sitting across the breakfast table from Washington himself like the little boy is on the cover of the book. I gagged a little bit due to the dryness of the cakes (they really were no more extraordinary than pancakes) and took a huge gulp of the tea, expecting sweet fruitiness for whatever reason. The bitter, sugar-less liquid I swallowed was not at all what I expected, and I coughed and coughed and swallowed some of it down the wrong pipe, so to speak. When I had recovered, I wondered if I had tasted it right, and so I tried the tiniest little sip again, and was once more disappointed. I looked around me and saw kids eagerly downing their cups of tea and munching on their hoe-cakes. More than being disappointed in the tea, I was disappointed (and knew that George Washington would be disappointed) with myself. I didn't like the food of the founding father I felt so strangely close to after the narrative that we read - we never would have been able to eat breakfast together and talk about different types of tea that we liked. As I grew older, I came to have more self-esteem, and as I continued to dislike tea, I attributed that early disappointment to George Washington's lack of beverage choices back in the day, as opposed to a failure on my part to have good taste.

Next, for the Cherry Tree Myth, which is, in fact, a myth (I think). Most everyone has heard the story, I'm sure, of Washington's childhood act of bludgeoning his father's beloved cherry tree with a hatchet that he had received as a gift. When his father comes inquiring after the perpetrator, Washington bravely steps forward and says, "Father, I cannot tell a lie - 'twas me." or something like that, and his father immediately forgives him because of his honesty. Now, this story, I feel, is fairly plausible - I mean, George Washington didn't go dragon hunting or anything like that - the story could actually happen. So, I accepted it without question from my early years of elementary school onward; years passed, and no contradiction in present time reared its head and cried, "The Cherry Tree Story is a LIE!!!" even when that same contradiction, sometimes called reality, reared its head and devoured such things as the Tooth Fairy and Santa Claus. I'll be quite honest here (in honor of Mr. Washington) and admit that the question of the validity of this story never actually troubled me until a few weeks ago, when I was sitting in Civics and Economics and someone mentioned it playfully in reference to what we were discussing. Something in the casual quality of their voice made me do a minor double-take. I had to think if I believed the story or not, and I realized that I had never really had reason to question it. But then, as I thought about it, the story seemed a tad absurd, and at that point, I ceased to believe it a little, and the little bit remaining of the child that inhabits my soul died. Suzy Evans, PhD, had this to say about the myth: "An early nineteenth century American book peddler, itinerant preacher and author, "Parson" Mason Locke Weems is best known today as the source of some of the most beloved if apocryphal stories about George Washington. The famous story of George and the Cherry Tree is included in Weems' masterpiece, The Life and Memorable Actions of Washington, which was originally published in 1800 (the year after Washington's death) and was an immediate best-seller. Reprinted in ever more inventive editions over the next twenty-five years, it contained, according to historian Edward Lengel, "some of the most beloved lies of American history, including the famous cherry tree myth" and other exaggerated or invented anecdotes that extolled Washington’s virtues and provided an entertaining and morally instructive tale for the young republic." I just skimmed through her blog, and it is pretty fantastic, so here is the link for it: http://lincolnslunch.blogspot.com/2011/03/cherry-tree-and-invention-of-george.html. And so, sadly, our first President lifted his veil of mystery and shocked me with his choice of food and the realization that he may never have raised a hand against any foliage or greenery - and that is how I came to hate tea.

Childhood Memory: Vieille Fille

Today, while I was in French class, I had another flashback to my younger years. We were reading this story about a group of boys who begin to collect stamps. One little boy, who is jealous and who wants to mock one of the other boys, steals a stamp from his outstretched hand, runs some distance, licks the stamp, and presses it to his forehead, crying, "Look at me! Now I'm a letter!" (or "Je suis une lettre!"). The selection is from one of the Petit Nicolas story books, which are absolutely adorable - if there are English versions, I would recommend looking at them - or better yet, learn French and read the original text.
In any case, the pressing of the stamp to the forehead reminded me of a thing that we used to do when we played Old Maid (somehow we got a French deck for really cheap so it had "Vieille Fille" written beneath the Old Maid, as well as the English and French versions of all of the other characters). Of course, as we played, we would mess with whoever was drawing from us by strategically lifting one or several of the cards, or by tilting one side of the deck in their direction, in order to make them think that we were trying to make them draw the Old Maid from that side. This and the reverse psychology version (which had to be employed every now and then once people got wise to the trick) often worked and were useful for getting the Old Maid out of one's hand. Finally, at the end of the game, whoever got stuck with the Old Maid was required to lick the card and stick it to their forehead in acknowledgement of their defeat. My father would stand and parade around the room with it like a king if he got it, and shortly after each person stuck it to the forehead, the card would be briefly cleansed and a new game would begin. Yay-hooray for Old Maid/Vieille Fille.

Return of the Brief Childhood Memories

I don't know why I quit posting these on here, since they were some of my favorite entries to write. Every now and then I have a vivid memory of something seemingly trivial from childhood and I like to record it so that I can say, "Wow, that was quite a significant part of the former moi," because one thing that I've observed from these is how important the trivial thing is in retrospect.
Today, I went to Brynn's frozen yogurt with Anna from the youth group, and we had a really nice chat outdoors before the storm arrived. I had had a bad day due to a persistent headache and an epic fail that I performed in trying to reason with one of my friends. However, we were discussing things of the past via Harry Potter and other things; eventually we came to the topic of bikers in the road. I mentioned how, whenever I encounter a biker in front of me in the road, I pass them in the center lane even though one is not supposed to pass in the center lane. Anna mentioned that she had forgotten about the existence of those signs, which read, "Do Not Pass in Center Lane," and that she always mindlessly used the center lane to pass bikers as well.
To which I responded that this particular traffic sign was one of the first things that I can remember reading in my early literate years. As a three and four year old, I gained a certain amount of pride from chanting, "DO NOT PASS IN CENTER LANE," whenever we passed one of these signs on Country Club Road (which we traveled often, given its close proximity to our old house). I would even holler at my parents when they merged into the lane to turn left, which is of course what it is used for, but I didn't know that at the time - I was under the impression that they were bending the traffic regulations, which to a child have the weight of absolute law behind them.
So, yay-hooray for traffic signs, which encourage literacy!

All that can be said about something like that is. . ."Oh my, oh my."

Walking along a city street
with a weary smile and eyes trained to seek distress,
a hand ready to extend and yield God's greatest solace
in the form of flesh on flesh
For gripping hands are surely the venue
wherein two brothers' souls will mesh

How do you stand apart from others,
Oh, acknowledged sage and elder brother?
Is it the darkness which pools beneath your eyes in light
where gather memories of men in mankind's night?

What madness made them hurt you, brother?
A century past and I shun my ancestors
like discarded villain comic book characters
I cannot understand them; they were not men, but some
animal inflicted by disease -
and time was most cruel to you - it enveloped your stars in its chasmic arms
and crushed them at once to silver bits
and it stretched you in hunger, by the arms and legs
until the image that it sought was complete, one which haunts me to the day:
A picture of a walking skeleton with jutting ribs
and tormented eyes - such a tortured death within them,
Of the self, and of love, and finally the death of God in muffled praise.

How do you stand apart from others
Oh acknowledged sage and elder brother?
Is it the darkness which pools beneath your eyes in light
where gather memories of men in mankind's night?

The End of the World, the Pastoral Symphony, and Aaron's Party

This is a belated post, because the last two events mentioned in the title happened last weekend - but you've got to hand it to me; I chose quite a date on which to be fashionably late. We are all still here on Earth - I texted Aaron to make sure that he had not ascended (he had not) - and I dined with my mom this morning (at Chili's), and I think that she is quite saint-like, and she had not ascended either. I feel bad for the people who have to take down all of those billboards.
Starting last weekend: it was an exciting weekend because of Aaron's gain of 16 years and the Pastoral Symphony of Beethoven, which is my favorite of the 9 and which was the first Beethoven symphony that I had ever seen in concert. So, on Saturday evening, after my mom and I had visited that grandfather of mine in Durham (we attended to all of the usual traditions by going to the Golden Corral, etc), I was dropped off at Aaron's place at 7:00, dressed as Professor McGonagall (I was going to dress up as Ludwig van Beethoven, but that would have required a lot of hairspray and I didn't feel like doing that to my hair, especially because we were warned beforehand that we would be near to an open fire). I met a ton of lovely West folk, with whom I am now friends on Facebook. For the first part of the party, we mainly hung out down in the basement, listening to a lovely playlist which had some Regina Spektor and some Owl City and some other things - I socialized with Ms. Alexis, as it had been a while since we had last hung out (she had arrived early to put up all of the beautiful red streamers and other decor). Once other people started to arrive, we decided that we ought to go outside to play a game of Quidditch, in spite of the fact that it rained and the grass was all wet. Well, it was, but I was able to remove my shoes and make do. I was a Chaser on the Gryffinpuff team along with Aaron, and the Snitch was Ryan. Our Seeker was Sahar and the other team's Seeker was Egla (I think). After Aaron explained the rules to everyone, we lined up near our goal posts, preparing to charge the balls in the center of the field. Jamie hollered "Gryffinpuff!" obnoxiously and Haley shouted back, "Slytherclaw!" Ryan got a 15 second head-start, and then we were off. I must say, it was one of the most brutal sports that I have ever played. Gryffinpuff, unfortunately, lost all three of the games, but the other team did have a slight advantage in their numbers. After Quidditch, Aaron opened his gifts and proposed to people. Then, we ate some cake and danced to the music. Finally, we watched "Tangled," which I had never seen before - just as the movie was ending, that mother of mine arrived and I had to leave, but it was an amazing movie and an amazing evening.
The next day, I went to church and sang this anthem which was written by a woman who became a member of our church that day (she got up and gave a speech and everything; she had been a member when she was a little girl, but then she traveled all over the place to Berlin and other places far away). Afterwards, we ate at the new Breakfast of Course restaurant which is downtown, and after that, my dad said that we had a surprise at 3:00 (I knew that this surprise was the concert, because I had told him earlier in the week that the concert on Sunday was at 3:00). Right around three, we piled into the car and drove over to the Stevens Center, where we had a seat in the center of the balcony, close to the railing - it was a perfect view of the entire orchestra, moving together. This was particularly interesting with the Pastoral, because the music moves in waves (particularly in the first two movements) and you could literally watch the melody progress from the low strings to the high woodwinds. Maestro Moody took the third movement at the perfect tempo (I've found that lots of people like to take the "Merry Meeting of Country Folk" way too slow, like it's the merry meeting of old country folk), and of the entire symphony, the 4th movement, "Rainstorm," was absolutely phenomenal. You can pick up so much more of it live than in a recording, because on a CD, it is usually too quiet to hear the more intricate interwoven harmonies. You could hear it perfectly from the beginning, however, and at the first climax, the whole music hall exploded - the strings were zooming up and down, the timpani man was jamming, and the orchestra moved sharply together with each of the simulated lightning bolts. I nearly cried, it was so awesome. Then the Hindemith was also swell, and our overture (which was chosen by the audience!) was the overture to the "Barber of Seville" by Rossini.
In any case, it was an amazing weekend - and the following week was pretty swell too. Forgive me for any grammatical incorrectness, because I had to write this post in the space of about 10 minutes so that I could actually do some homework. That's all I have to say about that.

Choir was Replaced by a Stork

So, I've come on to report the eventful happenings of yesterday, Wednesday. Because it was the Wednesday after Easter, Dr. Dodds decided that it would be good to give the choir a rest after all of the preparation for the Handel stuff that we did all through Holy Week (we never did end up doing "Worthy is the Lamb," though, which was kind of sad, but "Hallelujah" was a lot of fun). So, this Sunday, we're all going to sing "Holy Art Thou," which is another Handel song that the choir has already done, and it is absolutely gorgeous - in fact, I found it on Youtube with Andreas Scholl (who is an angel) singing it, and in Italian it is "Ombra Mai Fu," and it is about a pretty tree. I stumbled across this recording quite accidentally, but when I found it, I said, "Oh! We've sung this before, but it was not called 'Ombra Mai Fu,' but 'Holy art Thou,'" and so on.


I am also rereading one of my favorite books ever by Kurt Vonnegut, Jr: Breakfast of Champions. I have already done an extensive review of it on here, and therefore I shall not discuss it further.


Anyways, yesterday was an interesting day - I attired myself in my semi-renaissance poofy-sleeved dress with the orange ribbon (I'm slowly gaining a monopoly on the hair ribbon) and was dropped off at school by Heather. I felt sort of bad about this, because she usually leaves for work around the same time that I leave for school, but this morning she was still in bed when I entered the room to fetch Lancy and say good-bye to that father of mine. However, she insisted on getting up and accompanying me downstairs, where we cheerfully chatted over my quick breakfast of grapes. I stuffed some stuff in my lunch box, and we were off! Since I had spent the last two mornings in Dr. Moss' room, I figured I wouldn't bother him that morning, and so I loitered in the library for a while, reading Breakfast of Champions and discussing A.P. French with a comrade who is currently in my French class, Anna Spencer. She's going to governor school this summer to study French, and so I told her that she should definitely do A.P. next year.


The rest of the day passed in its usual flow of things - we worked on our All Quiet on the Western Front test in English, we had a substitute in dance class (and so we choreographed the last part of one of our Elvis songs), we did our national conventions in Civics class (so we got to show our Libertas Vitae commercial with the Nietszche camel quote and what-not), I sat with Sarah, Kiki, and Truman Capote at lunch, we played the new song that I hate in band class, I did some math, and then we did some stuff in French. However, toward the end of French class, Sarah and I were watching the time because we had the Student of the Year ceremony to go to - she had been picked by Frau Woloshyn (I just murdered the spelling) and I had been picked by my chemistry teacher Mr. Bragg (this had shocked me enough by itself because I never thought that I was all that great at Chemistry). We all congregated in the cafeteria, and Mr. Bragg and I mostly talked about music while we waited for the ceremony to begin. Apparently he used to play the viola and the bass. And he also figured out who had stolen the street sign which read "Gauntlet Drive" and put it in his yard. Of course, it was Brett and Sebass. Who else could it have been (it shall be immensely sad when the two of them go off to college, because nothing crazy will ever happen at the school - they are like the Weasley twins)?


In any case, we did the ceremony, and then I sauntered on home and had some serious piano action for about an hour and a half because I knew that once Hope got home, I would not have a chance to play the piano. When Hope came home, I felt sort of tired and not really up to frolicking around and trying to emanate good cheer, but I accompanied her outside to watch her ride her bike around the driveway. She wanted me to be the announcer for the bicycle competition, and so I said things like, "Here come the bikers, racing around the track - only ten seconds left on the clock - Ten! Nine! Eight! And Hopey Brafford wins!!!!"


Just as my voice cracked like that of a pre-teen boy, my dad stepped out into the screened porch area and called to us, "The boss beckons," or something like that. So we ambled on indoors to where Heather was sitting behind the computer at the desk. Now, the last time that we had entered this sort of scene, it was sometime in late November, and Heather had "received an emailed video from Santa Claus in the North Pole" which was addressed to Hope (it's this really neat website where you can customize a video for one of your kids so that the "Santa Claus" man is addressing the child. I did one for my mom and she loved it). So I figured that it would be a similar sort of thing this time, perhaps with an Easter bunny or something. So I scooched behind the counter and Hope sat on Heather's lap.


But on the screen, there was the video of a sonogram.


Heather pointed at it and said, "Hopey, what's that?"


I think that Hope knew what it was, but she said, "A kitty!"


Heather said, "No, it's not a kitty -" and then Hope tried to cover her tracks by saying, "Not a kitty! A kiddy! Like a kid!"


And then Heather asked, "Where is it?"


Hope matter-of-factly pointed to her stomach.


So, there was a moment in which general excitement was exchanged, and then it was established that Hope would talk of nothing else for the next 24 hours or so (that is still holding true, in fact: we were discussing baby names over dinner). As we left the desk to eat a celebratory dinner at Burke Street Pizza, I gave my dad a hug and told him, "You did good. Real good." And he was pleased.

Florida, Les Miserables, and stuff. . .

I'll go ahead and vocalize what everyone is thinking now: "Shame, shame, Robyn! Thou hast entirely neglected the month of February - thou hast deprived all future generations of viddying what happened in February 2011." But I have a response to your accusations in Old English and droog-speak: I've had a difficult time remembering my dreams as of late, and I've been occupied with a monstrous French project, with a monstrous Civics and Economics project (which is still going on), and with the beast of a book by Monsieur Hugo, Les Miserables, which was fanstastic, by the way. If you decide to read it, go all out and read the unabridged version. . .the Waterloo part is enormously interesting (I had to go back and read it, because I skipped it earlier in order to be caught up with the rest of the class for a quiz on a later part of the book. . .again, shame on me), as is the life story of the Bishop of Digne, as well as other things which were cut out in the abridged and/or Wrap-it-up-Victor-Hugo version of the book. At the end of the book, my two favorite characters still have not changed. I will always adore the Bishop, and I also love Monsieur Gillenormand, the grandfather of Marius. In fact, it took me a while to actually appreciate Marius as a character. For the longest time, I thought that he was dreadfully flat, but his inner devotion to his father, and, eventually, his love for Cosette finally animate him. De toute facon, de retourner au sujet de M. Gillenormand: He's a very quirky, crochety old man - a devout supporter of the monarchy and Old France. He hates revolutions, and he hollers at anyone near him when he reads the newspapers. I love him. . .I don't know why. It would be so neat to be able to talk to Victor Hugo about all of his characters; they're all so round and so. . .human - three cheers for good characterization! Chapeau, Victor Hugo!
So, now to February happenings. . .there was Valentine's day. I don't recall doing anything in particular on that day. Oh wait! Lancy and I took a romantic walk around the park to celebrate the holiday. The choir resumed its rehearsals in preparation for Holy Week, which shall be in late April, I believe. We're singing a couple of songs from the "Messiah," like "Surely He hath Borne our Griefs," "And With His Stripes," "All We Like Sheep," "Hallelujah," and the one which is currently stuck in my head, "Worthy is the Lamb." That Handel fellow was really quite the Baroque-and-roller. On the 8th of March, Alexis and I went to see an old film on the big screen, "Swing Time." It was a Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers movie, and it was excellent - I printed out the sheet music from one of the songs, and I love to play it in half-time. I just had a great time and hope that we can hang out again soon! My birthday was also quite swell. I had a few school friends over in the afternoon after school (I skipped), and we hung around the house for a while before leaving to go to dinner at the Olive Garden. Unfortunately, we weren't the only people with this idea, and so we got stuck waiting for an hour - but we passed the time by wandering around the mall, where we avoided being arrested by the youth-hating Javerts of the garde-du-centre-commercial by speaking in sophisticated British accents (Aaron's idea) and crowding around Chloe, who must have seemed to the garde to be our youthful mother or aunt. The mall, by the way, apparently now has a black-light golf course. . .why? I don't know.
In any case, we all ate dinner and returned to the house that night (earlier in the day, when my mom and I ate at Pancho Villas, she told our waiter, "My daughter's turning 16 today and she loves sombreros." I was then publicly humiliated). At the house, the Keegan sisters Saoirse and Kiki joined us for a showing of "Paper Moon" which was never finished due to the necessity to have girl-talk about halfway through the film. Then, Aaron and the Keegans had to eventually leave, and the other two girls spent the night and left in the morning. Tonight, I am very excited because tomorrow is the day that we pack and prepare to leave to go to Florida for a little over a week. I shall get to see my grandma T. as well as the grandparents on my father's side; I shall sit in their backyard and watch their colony of ducks in the pond behind the house. It shall be warm enough to wade in the ocean. The majority of the greenery will exist in the form of palm trees. We're leaving to go to the airport around 3:00 on Thursday morning. . .I shall be a grumpy girly indeed. I am not made to be awake that early in the morning. However, I am still immensely excited to return to my paradise. And on this note, I shall leave my brethren to go study for the Civics quiz tomorrow.

Steam of Consciousness #3

So. . .I figured that since I don't have enough time to do regular blogging, I'll just play a word association game with myself, staring with my newly-discovered favorite word.
firmament, jello, sky, stars, God, joy, lieder, piano, tenor man, Andrea Bocelli, "Who's coming?" - Christmas, baby, Kalyn, teeth, ice cream, Allen's Dairy Treats, crumbling ceiling tiles, marble, floor, smooth, wind, beach, the ocean on the beach at night, walking barefoot, spring grass, that first day of the year that feels warm in the midst of winter, March, birthday, orange, ribbon, gloves, humming, collie dog, North, Santa Claus, Beethoven's 12th and 13th Sonatas, sheet music flowers, don't cut up the Beethoven, "No, Hopey, that's not Beethoven - that's another pianist guy, Glenn Gould," Murray Perahia the pianist, Murray Perahia the elephant, Leonard Bernstein the tiger, Leonard Bernstein the conductor, Karajan lion/conductor, Symphony 6 conducted by the Berlin Philharmonic, Lancy, baby, trumpet, brassy, jazz, Shostakovitch, Mr. James, Gustav Holst, gun, cannon, Tchaikovsky, gorgeousness, a hand counting from five down to our entrace at the finale, Liszt transcription, ornaments, mordents, Baroque squigglies, baroque-and-roll, Don McLean's "American Pie," being a little kid, Bob Dylan, wizard, unassuming genius.

Wintry Mix and Musings of Polarized Emotion Centered Around My Church Recital

So, this is my first post of the new year! I was quite shocked to log on and discover that I have not posted anything between then and now, but I suppose that just shows the fact that most of my classes last year were considered "romper-room" classes by my father, and therefore I had more time to come on and blog about six or seven times a month.
Some words about the New Year: I went over to Shannon's house to celebrate it; it had been several months since we had last hung out (that last time, she, Aaron, Rhaynely, and Chloe accompanied me to the $2 theater, where we watched "Inception"). It was also her cousin Linda's birthday party, and several people slept over. I was on the phone with my mother in the basement stairwell as the ball dropped (which we did not see due to Shannon's current lack of cable - which wasn't a bummer, since that whole tradition has started to lose its glitz), and the people gathered in the general basement area blew on their noise-makers and yelled to cheerfully announce its arrival. That night, we watched "Idiocracy," which is a pretty amusing film, and I quickly fell asleep afterwards.
Since then, not too much has happened. I've driven around in my mom's car and in Heather's car. I've played the piano and the trumpet, and I've eagerly looked forward to the recongregation of the choir, which is supposed to happen in two days. I miss singing with everyone there - in spite of the fact that I do not remember all of their names, I feel a sense of brethrenly belonging when I am with them. When I am with the Sanctuary choir, I am amid my brethren.
Also, the season of midterms (and in the case of block classes like chemistry and Health, final exams) has begun, and has been rudely interrupted by a wintry mix which dropped a lot of snow on the Triad in the mid-afternoon. School was cancelled last night as a precaution, due to the fact that most weather channels predicted that the snow would end up icing up the roads pretty severely. In effect, the snow from today has begun the icing process, and school tomorrow has already been cancelled. The downfall of this is that we missed the review day that we were supposed to have for our math quarter test, and if I want any help from Mrs. Freitag before we take the test, it looks like I'll have to arrive quite early in the morning, as demand for her tutoring will be high.
Now, I believe that I've had dreams between now and then, but the only one that I can really remember involved my mom, Jeff, and I. We were going to go water-skiing or something like that, and so we had to descend into this cramped, moldy shed in order to dig out the necessary equipment. It was a beautiful summery day outside, but as we approached this rickety old shed, I began to have feelings of dread. I knew that I would be ridiculed or reproached if I did not go in to help them dig out the equipment for skiing, but I knew that the shed would be pregnant with colonies of spiders and those nasty jumping crickets that look like spiders. So, Jeff had to wedge open the door with force, and that barely allowed room for us to squeeze inside, where shafts of light fell on the dirt from holes in the rafters. We walked down some creaky wooden stairs which felt as though they might give beneath us. I held my arms protectively across my chest and walked quickly away from the stairs because I had seen a lot of webs in the general area. As I stumbled away I saw that the shed opened onto a marble-tiled, open expanse of floor with a man-made river running through the center. There were stores along the walls and an upper floor with more stores, like at the mall. And the floor was so shiny! and nice! I called out to my mom and Jeff, and they followed me into the open expanse of the mall-area. It was not very crowded; there were some people who sat with their feet dangling into the walled river. I pulled a bag of cinnamon toast crunch from my pocket and began to eat it dry as we walked and looked about in wonder. Suddenly, my mom pointed out a woman with reddish hair who was sitting along the side of the river with a laptop and said, "She's one of my customers; let's go say hi." I lagged along behind, hurriedly trying to put away my cinammon toast crunch. I did not have time to clean off my fingers, however, before the dreaded moment when my mom said, "So-and-so, this is my daughter, Robyn; Robyn, this is So-and-so," and the woman reached out her hand. Because my left hand was occupied with putting away the bag of cinnamon toast crunch, I was forced to shake this woman's hand with my sticky, cinammon-sprinkled right hand. It was easy to observe her disgust. I then woke up.
So, in other news, a couple of nights ago, Stormy and I finally had a Gary Oldman marathon at my house, in which we watched "Bram Stoker's 'Dracula,'" "Immortal Beloved," and part of a movie called "True Romance." We plan to continue it some night so that we can finish the third movie and progress to the Harry Potter and Batman movies. She left at about 12:30 that night, and I quickly went to bed, super-nervous about the following morning, January 9th, when I would be playing the piano for two church services. This oppurtunity was arranged a couple of months ago during the choir season; I happened to be early to a rehearsal, and so I played on the piano for a couple of minutes. When Ms. Moyer arrived, she extended the invitation to do the prelude and offertory sometime in January, and I quickly accepted the invitation. Over the course of December, I narrowed down my choice of what I was going to play to the "Adagio" from Beethoven's "Tempest" Sonata, the "Adagio Cantabile" from his "Pathetique" Sonata, and the 14th Invention of Bach (with her assistance, because I am very self-conscious about my Bach interpretation). So, this past Wednesday, we met at the church after school to work out the problems that I had with the Bach piece; then we progressed to my insecurity with the long series of runs in the "Tempest;" and then we finally decided on upping the tempo a little bit in the "Pathetique" to keep it lively. And then I practiced like mad until Sunday morning, when, after a night of frenzied tossing-and-turning and nightmares of failing epicly, I ate a banana and seven grapes and arrived at the churh at 8:00 to practice. I had bedecked myself in my casual black cotton dress, some leggings, and my gloves (because it was cold outside and I didn't want my hands to be all stiff) and I had brought my book of piano literature in case our organist wanted to go over some spots last-minute. As it turned out, I just spent the next half hour rehearsing on the nice Baldwin piano in the Sanctuary. At about 8:35, Ms. Moyer came in and told me where I could find some water; she also told me that it would be best to start around 8:50. When I came back, I noticed that some people had started to file in, and I continued to practice trouble spots, though I applied the soft pedal so as not to confuse the people into thinking that the prelude had started. At around 8:40, I ran the part of the "Pathetique" that was thick with ornamentation and had it approved by Ms. Moyer. She then warned me that people would probably talk during the prelude and I told her that I was used to playing under such conditions and would be grateful for it in case it covered my mistakes. I watched the red digital clock which was on the wall over the congregation. I breathed deeply. I ran the middle part of the Invention very slowly. There weren't very many people in the congregation and they were sparsely seated. It was 8:48. I perspired, and prayed quickly. I felt a hand on my shoulder and Ms. Moyer told me that I would do fine. Then it was 8:50, and I bobbed for a moment, feeling out a steady, sort of slow tempo. And then I played straight through the Bach, with my biggest error being some inconsistency in the time (speeding a little bit, and then slowing down too much to compensate). Overall, it did not go as horribly as I thought it might. Then, I did the "Tempest," on which I did fine until the long run, which I bungled up in the very middle, though I was quick to go past the error and continue through the run. So, maybe, people didn't notice it too much. I sustained the last B flat for a while, and then I got up and pranced over to sit in a chair behind the organ. I was introduced as a member of the youth and the Sanctuary choir shortly afterward, and my services were not called upon again until the offertory. In between, Mr. Moyer led the singing with his gorgeous tenor voice. There is nothing like a rich tenor voice, in my opinion. Then I did the "Pathetique," and I compensated for any bunglings that might have occured in the "Tempest." This first performance of the "Pathetique" was the best of any of the songs in either service, I think. At the end, I got up and skipped back to my place near the organ. That day, Mike Horne was doing the sermon on the parable of the Prodigal Son, which is always one of my favorite sermons each year, because it so deftly summarizes everything that I believe (or most of it, anyway). We also sang a couple of my favorite hymns. In any case, it was a good service, and a couple of people, including Dr. Daniel and some fellow choir members, came up to me afterward and thanked me for playing, and I awkwardly thanked them for thanking me - and for allowing me to exalt God and my soul and such. After the 9:00 service, they had the incoming deacons and elders give their testimonies, and so I went to the choir room upstairs to practice on the piano that has the blinking light. It has a really light and easy touch but very alien-sounding keys. I did that for about half an hour, went to the bathroom, refilled my cup of water, and returned downstairs, where there were mobs of people all over the Sanctuary, socializing loudly. I supposed that all of the deacons and elders were being congratulated at that point. Just as I mounted the stage, I saw my dad, Heather, and Hope walk in and I waved goofily at them. I was slightly cocky at that point due to the fact that the noise was so loud that no one would probably notice any of my mistakes; and so, when the time came at 10:50 to start the prelude, I did the inverse of the previous service. I bludgeoned the Bach and surprised myself with the lack of failure at the "Tempest" sonata (afterwards, my dad told me that, while I messed up the Bach, I did not stop or make it obvious that I messed up, which is a good thing). After the prelude, Dr. White asked the congregation to applaud, and it was awkward. And then, the "Pathetique" during that service also went well, though I got overexcited at the climax of the piece and pounded on the keys a bit too hard. Shortly before the offertory, my mom, Wesley, and Kalyn entered, sitting in the seats to my far left. According to my mom, I tilted my head in a very goofy manner to wave at her through the opening in the propped-open piano. In any case, at the end of the service, I thanked everyone and found my way through the mob of people to where Heather, my dad, and Hope were standing, and eventually my mom, Wesley, and Kalyn walked over, too. Ms. Moyer played this killer postlude on the organ - I think it was "Little" Fugue in G minor or something like that by the bomb.com that is Johann Sebastien Bach. So, we went to sushi afterwards, and it was all hip-hip-hooray! and what-not.
So I went to youth group that night; and while I was there, I finally came to understand something that had been affecting me during many of the church services, including the one earlier that morning. Sitting with a group of girls around the table that night, not really thinking of much to say as usual, I felt this sort of aching loneliness (not the best way to describe it, but it was a sort of agitation). And it came to me that this loneliness was the result of a transitory but extreme warmth that I felt in my soul when I was around these people. This transitory warmth, I think, was indicative of a profound love for my brethren - it seems that when I am in church, I am reminded that all people are my brothers and sisters, and it is a very humbling experience, I tell you. So, in any case, I am like the Reverend Jim Casy in that I "love people so much I'm fit to bust sometimes," and hence the aching feeling. Because there is no "proper" way to express a love that is extreme enough to eclipse all of humanity during its strongest moments. So it is restrained, like Freud's libido, and it just doesn't seem natural. It irks me that, in general, I don't have "a way with" people; I think that I often come off to be very cold, when I would gladly run around embracing people if that were considered socially decent.
The last thing that should be taken into account is a tragedy that came to my attention yesterday. There was a boy from Reagan by the name of Nick Doub who suffered severe brain damage from a car accident and who passed away today. I cannot bear to think that this boy was a senior, about to go off to college and find a job and continue the family. I cannot bear to think that his parents taught him to read, and labored to teach him to write, and answered his questions about the grass and the moon and God. It is sad to think that what was once a bedroom will now be a memorial shrine. It is sad that such potential could be so quickly wiped from the earth. I hope that his parents will have the touch of divine resilience to move them onward and not try to understand this tragedy (because what can be gained from trying to understand it?), and I hope that we will all keep him in our hearts. I know it must happen often, but it is such an awful thing nonetheless. Well, I shall retire now with my mother and baby sister. It seems that school is again cancelled tomorrow.