Friday, May 15, 2009
Some News
For those of you who call me Robyn-Bobyn (cough, cough Alexis), I have determined that my official gangstery nickname shall be Rybbnk (silent k) pronounced rib - in. Also of slight importance, I had a terrifying dream last week that I became pregnant and had no clue how it happened; my parents, of course, did not believe this and pressed me for answers that I could not remember. When I had the baby, it could play the violin well. . .Last in important upcoming news, I'll be leaving to go on a cruise this Sunday night; we'll be driving down through Florida to Cape Canaveral, where we will take off on the ship on Monday morning. Now, an important embarassing tale from an anonymous source, who will be so anonymous through the change of name. . .Okay, so Jenna, Mona, and Vivian were walking through the hallway after band class, when Mona spotted the "ultimate prize for the eyes," Joe and his hindquarters, and exclaimed "Look at that @$$!" Following this statement, Jenna and Mona scurried forward for a closer look, Vivian trailing in their wake, observing. Mona had bent down so the aforementioned @$$ was at eye level, and was within a foot or less of him, tip-toeing and looking quite intently at the said hindquarters. Jenna had to choose this moment to giggle, and Joe turned around to see what the commotion was. Just as he did so, Mona quickly straightened up and stared at the overhead lighting, while Vivian snorted and fell indiscreetly against a locker and Jenna doubled over with blatant laughter. By this point, Joe seemed to think that the three girls were either "under the influence," or laughing at him. With a glare, he quickly lifted his birdy finger and went on his way, as fast as possible, to avoid the girls, who dissolved into even louder laughs at his gesture, which didn't help their possibilities of being forgiven for their observance. Yes, a tale worthy of telling. . .Good night!
Saturday, May 9, 2009
Mother's Day Poem
1. Mother and Daughter
Looking backwards through the looking glass,
I see
a woman who looks
remarkably like me.
And with aesthetic similarities,
One might picture me
with equal dignity.
But, unknown, this is a lie
For I have seen my reflection
Jumping, arcing high
like a brilliant Rainbow
over snaking rivers
That would have claimed my life
Looking backwards through the looking glass,
I see
the woman that I would
Like to be
Looking backwards through the looking glass,
I see
a woman who looks
remarkably like me.
And with aesthetic similarities,
One might picture me
with equal dignity.
But, unknown, this is a lie
For I have seen my reflection
Jumping, arcing high
like a brilliant Rainbow
over snaking rivers
That would have claimed my life
Looking backwards through the looking glass,
I see
the woman that I would
Like to be
Poem
You guys will have to tell me what you think about this poem; it's sort of new.
2. Birthdays
Birthdays come,
Birthdays go
In pointed hats and
wrapping paper mountains and
yellowing photographs of groups
smiling around stale cakes
And once the novelty descends
into Labyrinthes
mysterious with glowing rays
of forgotten suns,
piled high beneath the hillside
You must track it,
blind hunting hound,
beyond.
Remembering seems
to be the key
Can you find the
secret passages and lovely niches
in staircase worlds of radiant,
ignorant bliss? - and are they
just as magical as they
used to be?
Can you remember the world
without language or title,
with tiny index finger extended
to perfect white tiles,
a ceiling light,
a block with a kangaroo for K,
a number one candle
on a birthday cake?
Birthdays come,
Birthdays go
and pass in acknowledgement
of the truth, forgotten
which you knew once,
but lacked the necessary wisdom
to milk it dry with clumsy
fingertips,
a child mourning a lost balloon
that retreats farther into folds of
darker sky
Nevertheless,
it is something that grows with us
as we age and achieve
different heights of wisdom
and stair flights of reminiscence
and names you should remember
and numbers to call
the email that you should have sent
and the common sense that
always kept you in check -
Behind this life,
a graceful force
that propells us onward
through waking tides
of Doom and Paradise
to the labyrinthe
beyond
Once aware of the ever-growing truth
one might find an order
to store weight by birthdays and passing years
a record of how they change a life
and how the details are etched in the memories
that we hold so dear
as the Birthdays come and go -
we look
beyond
and find clarity here
2. Birthdays
Birthdays come,
Birthdays go
In pointed hats and
wrapping paper mountains and
yellowing photographs of groups
smiling around stale cakes
And once the novelty descends
into Labyrinthes
mysterious with glowing rays
of forgotten suns,
piled high beneath the hillside
You must track it,
blind hunting hound,
beyond.
Remembering seems
to be the key
Can you find the
secret passages and lovely niches
in staircase worlds of radiant,
ignorant bliss? - and are they
just as magical as they
used to be?
Can you remember the world
without language or title,
with tiny index finger extended
to perfect white tiles,
a ceiling light,
a block with a kangaroo for K,
a number one candle
on a birthday cake?
Birthdays come,
Birthdays go
and pass in acknowledgement
of the truth, forgotten
which you knew once,
but lacked the necessary wisdom
to milk it dry with clumsy
fingertips,
a child mourning a lost balloon
that retreats farther into folds of
darker sky
Nevertheless,
it is something that grows with us
as we age and achieve
different heights of wisdom
and stair flights of reminiscence
and names you should remember
and numbers to call
the email that you should have sent
and the common sense that
always kept you in check -
Behind this life,
a graceful force
that propells us onward
through waking tides
of Doom and Paradise
to the labyrinthe
beyond
Once aware of the ever-growing truth
one might find an order
to store weight by birthdays and passing years
a record of how they change a life
and how the details are etched in the memories
that we hold so dear
as the Birthdays come and go -
we look
beyond
and find clarity here
Wednesday, May 6, 2009
Wednesday News:
First off, I must say that I do not think that I failed the verbal French EOC. She would summon each person into the examination room and ask them questions in French. There was only one moment where I nearly ruined the whole thing; She asked me what I liked, "Qu'est ce-que tu aime?" and I had no clue whether she was asking me about what foods I liked or what I liked to do, so I said, "Um." a few times, as well as "Un moment, s'il vous plait." It was rather amusing; then, I was finally able to choke out, "J'aime jouer au basket. . .et musique." which means, "I like to play basketball. . .and music."
Next, I think that I'm going to try out for the scholarship thing that they're doing for eighth graders this year. I downloaded the form today and filled out my personal statement.
Last, to try to keep it short, I had an interesting dream last night that did not involve the alcoholic intoxication of my aunt, nor any other family member. I'm sure it started at a different point, but the first part of the dream I can recall is walking around the bottom floor of a mansion-esque building with my core class. We were being sheparded about by Ms. Vasili, and other teachers seemed to be stationed on various floors, of which there seemed to be at least 12. The mood of the dream, even at first, was not light; there was this stress that was tangent in the air, like we were trying desperately to find something, or else to get away. The house we were in would have been perfect in a horror movie or Scooby-Doo episode; huge, with white sheets over most of the furniture, cobwebs, the light fixtures dangling, broken, from the cavernous ceiling; one of those buildings that must have been beautiful once, but was now just a huge space housing loneliness.
At the beginning of the dream, we were ushered into a big, theater-like room by Mr. Bennett, who was standing guard by the stairs that we had climbed up. There were two staircases: one at one end of the main hallway of each floor, and one at the other end, and each staircase was a wide spiral that led to the highest and lowest floors of the house. But anyways, the room we were in was large, even bigger than all the others, almost completely dark (broken light fixtures), though a small lamp seemed to be shining from the stage, a vast, empty platform. The back wall disappeared into blackness beyond it. There were rows of seats that dominated the middle of the room as it sloped downwards toward the stage. It was very similar to a decadent version of the Hanes Auditorium, except without the loft. As we were pushed into the room, we received the raised finger from Ms. Vasili and Mr. Bennett that we have grown to interpret as, "Hush."
Walking over to where Alexis, Peter, and Shannon were all grouped against the corner closest to the door, oddly silent and white-faced, I asked them if they knew what was going on.
"No clue," they all responded, just as terrified as I was. Despite Ms. Vasili's and Mr. Bennett's instructions, whispers began to break out over the theater, whispers that gradually turned to mumbling, to loud speech that echoed around the walls.
"Quiet!" shouted Ms. Vasili. Everyone became silent immediately and turned to where she stood on one of the theater chairs. "We are trying to keep you safe here! The killer is currently several floors below us; we're hoping that by hiding you here, we'll be safe until the police arrive or until he leaves; otherwise, he'll find us. According to Mr. Holbrook's report, all of our exits have been blocked." There was a second of sheer terror that rippled through the silent students. Ms. Vasili dismounted the chair as the truth began to sink in: someone had been killed, the person who killed that someone was, at the moment, not far from their current position, and the killer, whom they assumed was armed, was hunting them. Lovely.
It was then that Mr. Holbrook came rushing into the room, winded, from his position on the stairs, gesturing frantically with his arms. He came to a stop next to the place where Ms. Vasili had descended from her chair and spoke quickly with her. She stepped calmly back onto the chair and announced, "The killer is on the move; we've heard him climbing the stairs. Get into line and we will move to the top floor of the building, where we will be safer." Everyone moved in a frenzy; the teachers seemed rather calm about the fact that all of our lives were in danger. As we filed out the door and into the main hallway, fights broke out about who should be forced to be the last person in line, as they would be the most vulnerable to an attack as the class retreated up the stairs.
Mr. Holbrook, at the front of the line, held up a hand to stop and quiet us. He cocked his head to the side, listening. After a moment, we realized that he was most likely listening to see what staircase the killer was using. After a strained moment of silence, we were able to hear rather rapid footsteps ascending the staircase behind us, the one that was closest to the door of the theater. Mr. Holbrook, with a gesture over his shoulder, began to sprint to the staircase at the opposite end of the floor, Ms. Vasili and all of the students right behind him. Mr. Bennett, however, remained behind, and as I disappeared into the stairwell, I looked over my shoulder and saw him piling chairs in front of the doorway of the killer's stairwell, in order to delay him. Good old Mr. Bennett.
Then, after we had reached the top floor, which was smaller than the other floors, we sat against a wall and waited for word from Mrs. Allman, who happened to be the killer's staircase guard of this floor. Guarding the staircase that we just ascended was Ms. Pollack, who greeted us all warmly, giving each student a pat on the back to usher them into the hall: "C'mon young man, Miss Pretty, in you go." Another interesting thing about this floor was that it was all one room, with no rooms breaching off of the main hall; also, the ceilings sloped, since we were on the attic level. Someone near the middle of the line against the wall suddenly shouted, "Shut up!" and we all grew silent. We could hear footsteps again, but they were erratic this time: it seemed as though they were ascending Mrs. Allman's staircase while also descending Ms. Pollack's staircase at the same time. Then, there were none for a second, but they soon started up again, on the floor right beneath us, pacing back and forth. Some girl was crying in the corner; one of the guys slapped her cheek to try to hush her. There was a yelp from a few floors below us, a yelp that sounded as though Mr. Bennett's defenses (on the previous floor we had been on) had been destroyed, and a thud as someone fell to the ground. Then, very close at hand, it sounded as though the killer was ascending again, though we could hear ascending footsteps coming from both staircases; we were trapped. This room had no furniture that we could use to block up the doors, so we all came together in a terrified group, the teachers facing the staircases, and this was when I woke up.
Next, I think that I'm going to try out for the scholarship thing that they're doing for eighth graders this year. I downloaded the form today and filled out my personal statement.
Last, to try to keep it short, I had an interesting dream last night that did not involve the alcoholic intoxication of my aunt, nor any other family member. I'm sure it started at a different point, but the first part of the dream I can recall is walking around the bottom floor of a mansion-esque building with my core class. We were being sheparded about by Ms. Vasili, and other teachers seemed to be stationed on various floors, of which there seemed to be at least 12. The mood of the dream, even at first, was not light; there was this stress that was tangent in the air, like we were trying desperately to find something, or else to get away. The house we were in would have been perfect in a horror movie or Scooby-Doo episode; huge, with white sheets over most of the furniture, cobwebs, the light fixtures dangling, broken, from the cavernous ceiling; one of those buildings that must have been beautiful once, but was now just a huge space housing loneliness.
At the beginning of the dream, we were ushered into a big, theater-like room by Mr. Bennett, who was standing guard by the stairs that we had climbed up. There were two staircases: one at one end of the main hallway of each floor, and one at the other end, and each staircase was a wide spiral that led to the highest and lowest floors of the house. But anyways, the room we were in was large, even bigger than all the others, almost completely dark (broken light fixtures), though a small lamp seemed to be shining from the stage, a vast, empty platform. The back wall disappeared into blackness beyond it. There were rows of seats that dominated the middle of the room as it sloped downwards toward the stage. It was very similar to a decadent version of the Hanes Auditorium, except without the loft. As we were pushed into the room, we received the raised finger from Ms. Vasili and Mr. Bennett that we have grown to interpret as, "Hush."
Walking over to where Alexis, Peter, and Shannon were all grouped against the corner closest to the door, oddly silent and white-faced, I asked them if they knew what was going on.
"No clue," they all responded, just as terrified as I was. Despite Ms. Vasili's and Mr. Bennett's instructions, whispers began to break out over the theater, whispers that gradually turned to mumbling, to loud speech that echoed around the walls.
"Quiet!" shouted Ms. Vasili. Everyone became silent immediately and turned to where she stood on one of the theater chairs. "We are trying to keep you safe here! The killer is currently several floors below us; we're hoping that by hiding you here, we'll be safe until the police arrive or until he leaves; otherwise, he'll find us. According to Mr. Holbrook's report, all of our exits have been blocked." There was a second of sheer terror that rippled through the silent students. Ms. Vasili dismounted the chair as the truth began to sink in: someone had been killed, the person who killed that someone was, at the moment, not far from their current position, and the killer, whom they assumed was armed, was hunting them. Lovely.
It was then that Mr. Holbrook came rushing into the room, winded, from his position on the stairs, gesturing frantically with his arms. He came to a stop next to the place where Ms. Vasili had descended from her chair and spoke quickly with her. She stepped calmly back onto the chair and announced, "The killer is on the move; we've heard him climbing the stairs. Get into line and we will move to the top floor of the building, where we will be safer." Everyone moved in a frenzy; the teachers seemed rather calm about the fact that all of our lives were in danger. As we filed out the door and into the main hallway, fights broke out about who should be forced to be the last person in line, as they would be the most vulnerable to an attack as the class retreated up the stairs.
Mr. Holbrook, at the front of the line, held up a hand to stop and quiet us. He cocked his head to the side, listening. After a moment, we realized that he was most likely listening to see what staircase the killer was using. After a strained moment of silence, we were able to hear rather rapid footsteps ascending the staircase behind us, the one that was closest to the door of the theater. Mr. Holbrook, with a gesture over his shoulder, began to sprint to the staircase at the opposite end of the floor, Ms. Vasili and all of the students right behind him. Mr. Bennett, however, remained behind, and as I disappeared into the stairwell, I looked over my shoulder and saw him piling chairs in front of the doorway of the killer's stairwell, in order to delay him. Good old Mr. Bennett.
Then, after we had reached the top floor, which was smaller than the other floors, we sat against a wall and waited for word from Mrs. Allman, who happened to be the killer's staircase guard of this floor. Guarding the staircase that we just ascended was Ms. Pollack, who greeted us all warmly, giving each student a pat on the back to usher them into the hall: "C'mon young man, Miss Pretty, in you go." Another interesting thing about this floor was that it was all one room, with no rooms breaching off of the main hall; also, the ceilings sloped, since we were on the attic level. Someone near the middle of the line against the wall suddenly shouted, "Shut up!" and we all grew silent. We could hear footsteps again, but they were erratic this time: it seemed as though they were ascending Mrs. Allman's staircase while also descending Ms. Pollack's staircase at the same time. Then, there were none for a second, but they soon started up again, on the floor right beneath us, pacing back and forth. Some girl was crying in the corner; one of the guys slapped her cheek to try to hush her. There was a yelp from a few floors below us, a yelp that sounded as though Mr. Bennett's defenses (on the previous floor we had been on) had been destroyed, and a thud as someone fell to the ground. Then, very close at hand, it sounded as though the killer was ascending again, though we could hear ascending footsteps coming from both staircases; we were trapped. This room had no furniture that we could use to block up the doors, so we all came together in a terrified group, the teachers facing the staircases, and this was when I woke up.
Tuesday, May 5, 2009
Day 2: Dreams and Decisions
Alas, Cinco de Mayo is a gray and rainy day; it was even cold enough this morning for me to shiver in my jacket! However, it was still a super-pretty, windy day, besides the chilly quality.
Reminder to self: verbal French EOC tomorrow and audition for the solo ensemble.
Today was a rather interesting day. I had a weird dream last night, but I won't go into it in detail because I only remember parts. In the dream, it was either Christmas or New Year's Eve, and I was at this large party in a restaurant-type place along with my Aunt Karen and my uncle, Jeremy. It was dark, full of loud music, loud people, you know the sort of place, where you can't hear yourself think. It seemed to be the eventual plan of my aunt to drive me over to the hotel where my mom was staying, somewhere downtown (I don't think we were in Winston-Salem). Then, as I grew increasingly annoyed at the fact that I was tired and that we hadn't left yet, Stacia (Shannon's mom) appeared in the crowd and said she'd drive me to my mom's hotel. I informed my aunt, but I don't think she heard me over the music or the people who were shouting drunken greetings at her. So we left, and we were winding our way through a highway in the middle of nowhere, no buildings in sight or even skyscrapers from downtown to guide us, when I realized that Stacia didn't know which hotel my mom was staying at; and neither did I. It was about then that she asked me, "Do you know how to get into the city?" and I told her that I didn't, and that I also didn't know the location of the hotel. She cursed and hit the steering wheel with her hand, then handed me her cell phone to call my aunt for directions. I got ahold of her after a few tries, and asked her for directions to the hotel. "Where are you?" she asked, hoping for a reference point. I told her that I didn't know, and she told me to drive back to the restaurant so that she could take me to the hotel herself. Stacia, overhearing the suggestion, said, "I don't know how to get back; it's too dark now." Then my aunt said, "Well, I can't pick you up now because I drank the wine here, so I'll come find you in the morning." and then she hung up. After that, Stacia took her cell phone back, said, "Sorry I couldn't help you," let me out of the car, and drove away. It was a few seconds before I realized that I was on the side of the road, in the middle of nowhere, with no transportation or way of communication with anyone who was sober. It was about here that I woke up.
I only have one more piece of news to offer the reader today: Patrick and I are no longer dating. It was a mutual thing, mostly, and I think that it is for the best. So yay-hooray for mutuality.
Reminder to self: verbal French EOC tomorrow and audition for the solo ensemble.
Today was a rather interesting day. I had a weird dream last night, but I won't go into it in detail because I only remember parts. In the dream, it was either Christmas or New Year's Eve, and I was at this large party in a restaurant-type place along with my Aunt Karen and my uncle, Jeremy. It was dark, full of loud music, loud people, you know the sort of place, where you can't hear yourself think. It seemed to be the eventual plan of my aunt to drive me over to the hotel where my mom was staying, somewhere downtown (I don't think we were in Winston-Salem). Then, as I grew increasingly annoyed at the fact that I was tired and that we hadn't left yet, Stacia (Shannon's mom) appeared in the crowd and said she'd drive me to my mom's hotel. I informed my aunt, but I don't think she heard me over the music or the people who were shouting drunken greetings at her. So we left, and we were winding our way through a highway in the middle of nowhere, no buildings in sight or even skyscrapers from downtown to guide us, when I realized that Stacia didn't know which hotel my mom was staying at; and neither did I. It was about then that she asked me, "Do you know how to get into the city?" and I told her that I didn't, and that I also didn't know the location of the hotel. She cursed and hit the steering wheel with her hand, then handed me her cell phone to call my aunt for directions. I got ahold of her after a few tries, and asked her for directions to the hotel. "Where are you?" she asked, hoping for a reference point. I told her that I didn't know, and she told me to drive back to the restaurant so that she could take me to the hotel herself. Stacia, overhearing the suggestion, said, "I don't know how to get back; it's too dark now." Then my aunt said, "Well, I can't pick you up now because I drank the wine here, so I'll come find you in the morning." and then she hung up. After that, Stacia took her cell phone back, said, "Sorry I couldn't help you," let me out of the car, and drove away. It was a few seconds before I realized that I was on the side of the road, in the middle of nowhere, with no transportation or way of communication with anyone who was sober. It was about here that I woke up.
I only have one more piece of news to offer the reader today: Patrick and I are no longer dating. It was a mutual thing, mostly, and I think that it is for the best. So yay-hooray for mutuality.
Monday, May 4, 2009
Unrequited Love and Chance
Okay, today is the first day of this week, the important part being that Friday is looming. . .Now that I've reminded myself of that, I must continue on to more important things:
The French verbal EOC is on Wednesday, the written multiple choice part occupying two days of next week. Next, the band concert is a week from tomorrow, and my snare part is still hit-and-miss. I'm hoping that we'll practice that piece tomorrow in class. We are also going to be turning in our trip journals tomorrow, which isn't very stressful for me, because I admit that I kept up with it pretty nicely during the trip like a good little nerd child; however, others, as I heard today, hadn't even made it past the Antietam Battlefield questions, and so must be dying of overworkage as I type. Also, Alexis is being forced to do the whole thing ASAP (I hate when people say ASAP), even though she didn't go on the trip, which I personally think is a bit unfair and a lot to expect, though it might not be my place to say that, so I'll shut up.
It was very beautiful outside today; I woke up as usual at 5:50, took the dogs outside, and smelled the cool scent of rain, heavy in the air; it has just started to sprinkle now. Also, I did dream last night, but I could not remember it entirely, so I shan't communicate about it on here.
I was in a very happy skippy mood for most of the day; my mood dropped for some inexplicable reason over lunch, during which Shannon, Patrick, and I sang Bohemian Rhapsody and got strange looks from Kevin. Also of importance, Sylvia asked Mathew out, and he said yes, which is cool because they make a pretty cute couple in my opinion. Then, it was amazing, because on the way back from lunch, we saw the substitute, Mr. Anderson (aka, Harry Potter, or Buddy Holly) and he was wearing one of his awesome sweaters. Shannon, Lizbit, and I flipped out and were like, "Look! Look! It's Harry Potter!" so I think we scared him a little. As he passed us, Shannon sort of shouted at him: "Hey, hey Mr. Anderson!" he started to walk a bit faster, but then she shouted it again and he turned back quickly and gave a frightened little wave before scurrying off in the direction of the lunch room. We all dissolved into laughter, particularly at Shannon's reaction, but then Mr. Samora shushed us.
Today, after school, I did the dishes and what-not and decided to take a long walk since it was only about 4:10 and pretty outside. I put Juliet on the leash and walked up Glade Street, past the gazebo park, down Fourth Street, took a left on Cherry Street, and sort of circled around that block, getting back onto Fourth Street via Trade Street, where all the Friday night Summer Concerts are (I wonder when those start?). I'm pretty sure I saw two people that I know while walking: one was Elizabeth Eppley's mom, and this one I'm certain about because she beeped and conversed with me from her car; and the second was Matt (I think, though he did not converse with me from his car), who used to work with my mom back when she was at Cat's Corner. It was a sad sight to see, passing by the dark windows of Cat's Corner, with no one on the patio straightening the tables for closing.
Once my dad got home, we took both dogs for a walk and then went to this Japanese Steakhouse place on Stratford Road with Heather; it was delicious, as usual, and I ate way too much, as usual, though it's hard not to at those places, considering that you get a ton of food even if you order off of the children's menu, as I always do. I wonder when I'll be too old to order from there, when I reach the age when they flat-out deny any attempt of mine to try. It will be a very sad day.
Then, after dinner, my dad and I had a very interesting conversation while Heather was in the bathroom and the neighboring people at our table were discussing movies. Somehow, the subject of love came up, and he said something like, "Love can only be love when it's mutual." and then I replied with something like, "Well, what about unrequited love?" to which he responded that he believed unrequited love to be a myth, and that someone who believes themselves to unrequitedly love someone takes themselves too seriously or something like that. Which is interesting, because I'd never heard anyone say something like that about love before; hearing it from that point of view would make a person who is unrequitedly in love probably feel very mopey, or very self-absorbed, because of the whole idea of making the act more dramatic for the self-sympathetic part of it. However, it was just a new opinion, so I thought I'd put it up here for people (and myself) to ponder. (secret: I personally believe in unrequited love, but anyone else would probably say that I'm too young to know what I'm talking about!) (secret #2: I don't believe in love at first sight.)
Another important thing that I would like for you, my reader, to ponder, is the role of chance in one's life. I'm currently reading this book called The Unbearable Lightness of Being, and it's a novel about a relationship between these two unstable people, and the chapter I'm reading now discusses the amount of chance required for their meeting. The man, who seems to think rather negatively, counts and realizes that, because of 6 chance happenings, he was able to meet his wife; he believes that this proves that things could just as well have happened otherwise, that she could have fallen in love with someone else and that because of this, the fact that he was chosen has no meaning, the relationship was not necessarily "meant to be." But the interesting thing is the author's ability to examine chance from the other point of view as well, that the more chance happenings that it took to create the meeting made it more "fateful," so to speak, that the role of coincidences in our lives might urge us in the right direction and even, coincidental as they are, occur in a sort of pattern, adding observable beauty to our lives.
So, the reason that this is important is because yesterday, while I was walking through the park with Hope, she happened to have to go to the bathroom badly, and so we took a detour beneath the bridge (Glade Street) that separates Hanes Park from Brunson Elementary; as we passed through the fence that leads to the legendary snack-and-yack playground (where I used to frolick in the good old days of third grade with old friends, Elizabeth and Sofia), I looked over and realized something was out of place: the tire, which had been half-buried in the ground back in my day, and apparently up until recently, had been unearthed, and was leaning against the fence that borders the playground. Now, this wouldn't bother me if that tire didn't have such significance! Back in the aforementioned good old days, my friends and I would perch on that tire and observe the entire playground from it, and it became "our" tire, since no one else used it anyway. So the point is, I saw it was unearthed yesterday, and I told them both (Elizabeth and Sofia) the news today in French class, and they were equally as aghast as I. Then, again with a chance happening, I encountered Elizabeth's mother on my walk, and having just read this chapter on chance and its role in our lives, I decided to phone Elizabeth once I got back to the house, considering we haven't hung out in about a year.
So, in conclusion, ponder these things. . .and I am interested to see your views as well; comment me or email me your thoughts on unrequited love and chance (it'll be anonymous if you so choose)
The French verbal EOC is on Wednesday, the written multiple choice part occupying two days of next week. Next, the band concert is a week from tomorrow, and my snare part is still hit-and-miss. I'm hoping that we'll practice that piece tomorrow in class. We are also going to be turning in our trip journals tomorrow, which isn't very stressful for me, because I admit that I kept up with it pretty nicely during the trip like a good little nerd child; however, others, as I heard today, hadn't even made it past the Antietam Battlefield questions, and so must be dying of overworkage as I type. Also, Alexis is being forced to do the whole thing ASAP (I hate when people say ASAP), even though she didn't go on the trip, which I personally think is a bit unfair and a lot to expect, though it might not be my place to say that, so I'll shut up.
It was very beautiful outside today; I woke up as usual at 5:50, took the dogs outside, and smelled the cool scent of rain, heavy in the air; it has just started to sprinkle now. Also, I did dream last night, but I could not remember it entirely, so I shan't communicate about it on here.
I was in a very happy skippy mood for most of the day; my mood dropped for some inexplicable reason over lunch, during which Shannon, Patrick, and I sang Bohemian Rhapsody and got strange looks from Kevin. Also of importance, Sylvia asked Mathew out, and he said yes, which is cool because they make a pretty cute couple in my opinion. Then, it was amazing, because on the way back from lunch, we saw the substitute, Mr. Anderson (aka, Harry Potter, or Buddy Holly) and he was wearing one of his awesome sweaters. Shannon, Lizbit, and I flipped out and were like, "Look! Look! It's Harry Potter!" so I think we scared him a little. As he passed us, Shannon sort of shouted at him: "Hey, hey Mr. Anderson!" he started to walk a bit faster, but then she shouted it again and he turned back quickly and gave a frightened little wave before scurrying off in the direction of the lunch room. We all dissolved into laughter, particularly at Shannon's reaction, but then Mr. Samora shushed us.
Today, after school, I did the dishes and what-not and decided to take a long walk since it was only about 4:10 and pretty outside. I put Juliet on the leash and walked up Glade Street, past the gazebo park, down Fourth Street, took a left on Cherry Street, and sort of circled around that block, getting back onto Fourth Street via Trade Street, where all the Friday night Summer Concerts are (I wonder when those start?). I'm pretty sure I saw two people that I know while walking: one was Elizabeth Eppley's mom, and this one I'm certain about because she beeped and conversed with me from her car; and the second was Matt (I think, though he did not converse with me from his car), who used to work with my mom back when she was at Cat's Corner. It was a sad sight to see, passing by the dark windows of Cat's Corner, with no one on the patio straightening the tables for closing.
Once my dad got home, we took both dogs for a walk and then went to this Japanese Steakhouse place on Stratford Road with Heather; it was delicious, as usual, and I ate way too much, as usual, though it's hard not to at those places, considering that you get a ton of food even if you order off of the children's menu, as I always do. I wonder when I'll be too old to order from there, when I reach the age when they flat-out deny any attempt of mine to try. It will be a very sad day.
Then, after dinner, my dad and I had a very interesting conversation while Heather was in the bathroom and the neighboring people at our table were discussing movies. Somehow, the subject of love came up, and he said something like, "Love can only be love when it's mutual." and then I replied with something like, "Well, what about unrequited love?" to which he responded that he believed unrequited love to be a myth, and that someone who believes themselves to unrequitedly love someone takes themselves too seriously or something like that. Which is interesting, because I'd never heard anyone say something like that about love before; hearing it from that point of view would make a person who is unrequitedly in love probably feel very mopey, or very self-absorbed, because of the whole idea of making the act more dramatic for the self-sympathetic part of it. However, it was just a new opinion, so I thought I'd put it up here for people (and myself) to ponder. (secret: I personally believe in unrequited love, but anyone else would probably say that I'm too young to know what I'm talking about!) (secret #2: I don't believe in love at first sight.)
Another important thing that I would like for you, my reader, to ponder, is the role of chance in one's life. I'm currently reading this book called The Unbearable Lightness of Being, and it's a novel about a relationship between these two unstable people, and the chapter I'm reading now discusses the amount of chance required for their meeting. The man, who seems to think rather negatively, counts and realizes that, because of 6 chance happenings, he was able to meet his wife; he believes that this proves that things could just as well have happened otherwise, that she could have fallen in love with someone else and that because of this, the fact that he was chosen has no meaning, the relationship was not necessarily "meant to be." But the interesting thing is the author's ability to examine chance from the other point of view as well, that the more chance happenings that it took to create the meeting made it more "fateful," so to speak, that the role of coincidences in our lives might urge us in the right direction and even, coincidental as they are, occur in a sort of pattern, adding observable beauty to our lives.
So, the reason that this is important is because yesterday, while I was walking through the park with Hope, she happened to have to go to the bathroom badly, and so we took a detour beneath the bridge (Glade Street) that separates Hanes Park from Brunson Elementary; as we passed through the fence that leads to the legendary snack-and-yack playground (where I used to frolick in the good old days of third grade with old friends, Elizabeth and Sofia), I looked over and realized something was out of place: the tire, which had been half-buried in the ground back in my day, and apparently up until recently, had been unearthed, and was leaning against the fence that borders the playground. Now, this wouldn't bother me if that tire didn't have such significance! Back in the aforementioned good old days, my friends and I would perch on that tire and observe the entire playground from it, and it became "our" tire, since no one else used it anyway. So the point is, I saw it was unearthed yesterday, and I told them both (Elizabeth and Sofia) the news today in French class, and they were equally as aghast as I. Then, again with a chance happening, I encountered Elizabeth's mother on my walk, and having just read this chapter on chance and its role in our lives, I decided to phone Elizabeth once I got back to the house, considering we haven't hung out in about a year.
So, in conclusion, ponder these things. . .and I am interested to see your views as well; comment me or email me your thoughts on unrequited love and chance (it'll be anonymous if you so choose)
Sunday, May 3, 2009
The Trip and Other News (Es Muss Sein)
Ah, what a fine day today is. . .
First, I think that I'll start with a quote of the day: "Muss es sein? Es muss sein! Es muss sein!" translated to mean "Must it be? It must be! It must be!" (from a Beethoven Quartet).
Anyways, the trip was super-fantabulous; there are way too many things that happened on it for me to write about. We left on Tuesday, came back on Friday, and saw, among other things:
The Gettysburg, Antietam, and Manassas battlefields,
the Newseum,
Historic Philadelphia,
a super-pretty guy who looked a lot like Peter Parker in Historic Philadelphia,
DC and various monuments including the Lincoln Memorial, the Washington Monument, and the Iwo Jima Memorial,
an amazing theatrical production of The Beauty and the Beast (Gaston was our waiter!),
and Harper's Ferry (possibly the most beautiful place we visited).
I had a great time, as did most everyone else. The only negative parts of the trip were the journal (100 pages long) and the schedule; we would be up at 5:45 and back to the hotel (still needing to shower and change into pajamas) at 11:00 at night. But other than that, it might be my favorite field trip of all time, even rivaling the Florida Keys trip, simply because this trip didn't make me terrified of anything as the Florida Keys made me afraid of the ocean; also, I didn't resemble a lobster by the end of this past trip.
Now, more unrelated news: the EOC's and EOG's are coming up, and though I'm nervous, I feel generally prepared. The one that I'm particularly worried about is the French EOC, considering I've been in a Continuing class this year, when I should be in an Advanced class. Also, another thing that has caused me to stress is the upcoming band concert, which will be sometime either this week or next week; most of the pieces are relatively easy, but there's this one piece where I'm on the snare, and whenever we've practiced it in class, it's been a sort of hit-or-miss thing for me; I either play it really well the first time, or I kill it. I can't afford to have my last concert of my eighth grade career be a miss.
Now, I had a weird dream last night (surprise, surprise). I dreamt that there was this small town, sort of Gettysburg-ish, except even smaller, near this huge, open meadow that bordered a forest. Near the border of the forest was a picnic area, with one of those little shelters and picnic tables and everything. In the dream, my mom and dad had houses in the little town, and my mom informed me that my birthday party was going to take place in the little picnic shelter area. So, on the day of the party, we drove over there with the cake around noon, in order to wait for the rest of the people to show up. After about half an hour of setting up, tons of people started flooding in. From the approaching cars emerged basically everyone I've ever met and known. The sun had almost set completely by this point, and so we all gathered around the cake, my family members closest to me, and they serenaded me before I blew out the candles; there was this peaceful moment, the soft murmur of people talking, the general mumblings of crickets, people passing around slices of the cake (which was white with reddish icing). Then, suddenly, stepping away from the crowd, my mother raised a paint ball gun and shouted, "Time for paint ball!"
Chaos. People took a few steps back from the table, pulling paint ball guns from nowhere, and fired at each other; of course, I, being the birthday girl, was a primary target. After sustaining a wound in the left calf, I dodged behind the birthday cake, which had grown to a tree's height and a car's width. People were running around in the darkness, some unable to see because of face wounds, dripping in various colors of paint. A lot of them ran for cover into the woods after a few minutes of severe fire. Then, arriving on the scene in what looked like a hearse, was the pretty guy from Historic Philadelphia; he drew a massive paint ball gun from a trench coat that he was wearing, and let loose a massive firing of paintballs into the crowd at an incredible speed; it was obvious that he had the most dangerous weapon on the field, the closest thing to a machine gun in paint ball form. People began to run away with more urgency, and this man continued to circle the picnic shelter, cackling madly, firing some in the direction of the birthday cake, globs of which fell into my hair and into my eyes, blinding me (and this was the weirdest part: as the cake fell into my eyes, I could see it and taste it at the same time. I can now say with a straight face that cake tastes sweeter when it is consumed by the eyeballs). Then, just as it looked as though he would discover my hiding place, as he had almost reached the rear of the picnic shelter, someone just as unexpected came to save the day: the young man who had played the violin so beautifully at the church service a few Sundays back. He came striding out of the forest, in concert dress, wielding his violin case in his left hand, a sword in his right, swiftly approaching the cackling Peter Parker man. He blocked the paint ball bullets with swings of his sword, and they richocetted off in random directions, one exloding on his hilt and dying it a deep purple. Once the violinist had gotten within a few feet of the man, he stopped walking, and miraculously, the man stopped firing; the violinist set his sword down, withdrew his violin, and started to play the most beautiful violin song I had ever heard, slow, varying in pitch, sad and joyful at the same time. The Peter Parker man stood listening for a long moment, motionless, with his head cocked to the side, before setting down his machine gun and sitting cross-legged on the ground with his eyes closed, apparently in a peaceful state. Slowly, the wounded and people who had fled from his attack began to emerge from the forest, multi-colored and in some cases, bloody, gathering around the violinist and, like the Peter Parker man, sitting down Indian-style. I came out from behind the birthday cake and joined the throng of spattered people still encircling the violinist. Then, after a few moments of profound peace, the violinist suddenly stopped playing, gripped his violin by the neck, and whacked the Peter Parker man over the head with it, knocking him to the ground and causing him to become unconscious. As the crowd collectively cheered and clapped, he twirled his instrument back into position as one would with a pistol after firing, and began to play again. Then I woke up.
Last news: I made an important phone call today, and things have been decided. This week will be a trial, and if it doesn't work out, it will be mutual. Muss es sein? Es muss sein!
First, I think that I'll start with a quote of the day: "Muss es sein? Es muss sein! Es muss sein!" translated to mean "Must it be? It must be! It must be!" (from a Beethoven Quartet).
Anyways, the trip was super-fantabulous; there are way too many things that happened on it for me to write about. We left on Tuesday, came back on Friday, and saw, among other things:
The Gettysburg, Antietam, and Manassas battlefields,
the Newseum,
Historic Philadelphia,
a super-pretty guy who looked a lot like Peter Parker in Historic Philadelphia,
DC and various monuments including the Lincoln Memorial, the Washington Monument, and the Iwo Jima Memorial,
an amazing theatrical production of The Beauty and the Beast (Gaston was our waiter!),
and Harper's Ferry (possibly the most beautiful place we visited).
I had a great time, as did most everyone else. The only negative parts of the trip were the journal (100 pages long) and the schedule; we would be up at 5:45 and back to the hotel (still needing to shower and change into pajamas) at 11:00 at night. But other than that, it might be my favorite field trip of all time, even rivaling the Florida Keys trip, simply because this trip didn't make me terrified of anything as the Florida Keys made me afraid of the ocean; also, I didn't resemble a lobster by the end of this past trip.
Now, more unrelated news: the EOC's and EOG's are coming up, and though I'm nervous, I feel generally prepared. The one that I'm particularly worried about is the French EOC, considering I've been in a Continuing class this year, when I should be in an Advanced class. Also, another thing that has caused me to stress is the upcoming band concert, which will be sometime either this week or next week; most of the pieces are relatively easy, but there's this one piece where I'm on the snare, and whenever we've practiced it in class, it's been a sort of hit-or-miss thing for me; I either play it really well the first time, or I kill it. I can't afford to have my last concert of my eighth grade career be a miss.
Now, I had a weird dream last night (surprise, surprise). I dreamt that there was this small town, sort of Gettysburg-ish, except even smaller, near this huge, open meadow that bordered a forest. Near the border of the forest was a picnic area, with one of those little shelters and picnic tables and everything. In the dream, my mom and dad had houses in the little town, and my mom informed me that my birthday party was going to take place in the little picnic shelter area. So, on the day of the party, we drove over there with the cake around noon, in order to wait for the rest of the people to show up. After about half an hour of setting up, tons of people started flooding in. From the approaching cars emerged basically everyone I've ever met and known. The sun had almost set completely by this point, and so we all gathered around the cake, my family members closest to me, and they serenaded me before I blew out the candles; there was this peaceful moment, the soft murmur of people talking, the general mumblings of crickets, people passing around slices of the cake (which was white with reddish icing). Then, suddenly, stepping away from the crowd, my mother raised a paint ball gun and shouted, "Time for paint ball!"
Chaos. People took a few steps back from the table, pulling paint ball guns from nowhere, and fired at each other; of course, I, being the birthday girl, was a primary target. After sustaining a wound in the left calf, I dodged behind the birthday cake, which had grown to a tree's height and a car's width. People were running around in the darkness, some unable to see because of face wounds, dripping in various colors of paint. A lot of them ran for cover into the woods after a few minutes of severe fire. Then, arriving on the scene in what looked like a hearse, was the pretty guy from Historic Philadelphia; he drew a massive paint ball gun from a trench coat that he was wearing, and let loose a massive firing of paintballs into the crowd at an incredible speed; it was obvious that he had the most dangerous weapon on the field, the closest thing to a machine gun in paint ball form. People began to run away with more urgency, and this man continued to circle the picnic shelter, cackling madly, firing some in the direction of the birthday cake, globs of which fell into my hair and into my eyes, blinding me (and this was the weirdest part: as the cake fell into my eyes, I could see it and taste it at the same time. I can now say with a straight face that cake tastes sweeter when it is consumed by the eyeballs). Then, just as it looked as though he would discover my hiding place, as he had almost reached the rear of the picnic shelter, someone just as unexpected came to save the day: the young man who had played the violin so beautifully at the church service a few Sundays back. He came striding out of the forest, in concert dress, wielding his violin case in his left hand, a sword in his right, swiftly approaching the cackling Peter Parker man. He blocked the paint ball bullets with swings of his sword, and they richocetted off in random directions, one exloding on his hilt and dying it a deep purple. Once the violinist had gotten within a few feet of the man, he stopped walking, and miraculously, the man stopped firing; the violinist set his sword down, withdrew his violin, and started to play the most beautiful violin song I had ever heard, slow, varying in pitch, sad and joyful at the same time. The Peter Parker man stood listening for a long moment, motionless, with his head cocked to the side, before setting down his machine gun and sitting cross-legged on the ground with his eyes closed, apparently in a peaceful state. Slowly, the wounded and people who had fled from his attack began to emerge from the forest, multi-colored and in some cases, bloody, gathering around the violinist and, like the Peter Parker man, sitting down Indian-style. I came out from behind the birthday cake and joined the throng of spattered people still encircling the violinist. Then, after a few moments of profound peace, the violinist suddenly stopped playing, gripped his violin by the neck, and whacked the Peter Parker man over the head with it, knocking him to the ground and causing him to become unconscious. As the crowd collectively cheered and clapped, he twirled his instrument back into position as one would with a pistol after firing, and began to play again. Then I woke up.
Last news: I made an important phone call today, and things have been decided. This week will be a trial, and if it doesn't work out, it will be mutual. Muss es sein? Es muss sein!
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