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.
Tuesday, November 22, 2011
Sunday, September 11, 2011
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.
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.
Sunday, September 4, 2011
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.
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.
Tuesday, August 23, 2011
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.
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.
Thursday, July 14, 2011
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.
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.
Wednesday, July 6, 2011
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.
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.
Friday, June 24, 2011
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!
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!
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