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.