A Reformation

Something has happened to me, inside. Something that changed my thinking, if not forever, than for a time, at least until it changes again.

I don't know what that something is, because on the outside, today is no different than perhaps two weeks ago. But at the same time, internally I am built anew.

I can't explain it, maybe it's just me, or maybe I'm the first to notice it. But for some reason I have ceased to find fondness in abstract ideas. For some reason, I have embraced definition.

I think that's what I need. Definition. The past few years I've been struck with the thought of thinking, of exploring all possible relations for the simplest of ideas. But now I'm not.

I've suddenly discovered the joy of labeling things as they are.

It is a reformation. I have rediscovered myself, I have commited.

Goethe was right. And now there is no hesitancy.

Only me.

Breaking News: Fablehaven De-bunked

Alright, so far 13 percent of my blog posts have been about books. I don't know if that percentage is too high or too low for any of my (two, potential) readers (I love you both) but frankly, I really don't care (...and there go the readers. Not what you wanted to hear, eh?). Because I have something to say. And I intend to shout it from the rooftops.

I repeat: this is Breaking News.

Fablehaven is no longer my favorite fantasy series.

...say what?

I think I need to repeat that.

Fablehaven, long-thought best-ever fantasy series in the history of fantasy, has been de-bunked. De-moted. De-favoritized. Gone. Failed. End of story.

. . .

Poor, poor Fablehaven. I pity Kendra and Seth, and whoever else was in there, because really there was no contest. Brandon Mull couldn't stand a chance!

I admit, the fanatics were fun while they lasted. The adventures were mildly entertaining as well. I guess I could relate to the characters... at the time. Somewhat. A little. So here's to Brandon Mull, and the Fablehaven Series: It was fun while it lasted. Now, farewell.

And, BOY do I have a SERIES FOR YOU!!!

Enough with the eulogies, here's what's going with fantasy NOW.

The Bartimaeus Trilogy

Brilliant, right? ...Oh, you didn't catch that? Hang on a sec.

The Bartimaeus Trilogy

Better? Yes, yes yes? Okay, well maybe some more wouldn't hurt.

The Bartimaeus Trilogy!!!!!!!

Is the most amazing, most brilliant, most fantastical, wonderful, stupendous, ________ (insert similar adjective of your choice here) trilogy EVER WRITTEN.

Ever.

Let's have a moment for Jonathan Stroud's brilliance...

. . .

Wow (breathed with an aire of awe and majesty).

Rock on Bartimaeus. Welcome to the ultimate Brittney Hall of Fame. You are now my favorite series, and probably will be... oh, forever. ;)

Any questions?

Boldness has Genius and Power

This poem was read to me yesterday, by my saxophone teacher, concerning my prospective audition for a prestigious jazz ensemble that I do not have the money for.

He told me his story of faith, and trusting in the Lord. His eyes were watery and he spoke with power I didn't expect.

He then told me his friend's story, of loss due to lack of faith.

I have yet to decide whether or not I will throw myself and my parents into financial turmoil, in faith that we will be provided for if this group is the right thing to be doing. I have yet to identify my own feelings, and the promptings I may or may not receive concerning this matter.

Until then, Goethe.

Until one is committed
There is hesitancy, the chance to draw back
Always ineffectiveness.

Concerning all acts of initiative (and Creation)
There is one elementary truth
The ignorance which kills countless ideas and splendid plans:

That the moment that one definitely commits ones self
Then Providence moves too.

All sorts of things occur to help one
That would never otherwise have occurred.

A whole stream of events issues from the decision
Raising in one’s favor all manner
Of unforeseen incidents and meetings
And material substance
Which no one could have dreamt
Would have come your way.

Whatever you can do or dream you can, begin it.
Boldness has genius, power and magic in it.

GOETHE

North Dakota Skies

Sometimes I think God paints our skies. Because when I walk outside and see sunsets like this, I know it can be nothing but divine.



About a week ago, my best friend calls me up around 8:00. "Have you SEEN the sky?" she asks me. I rush outside to be greeted with the most beautiful, almost surreal, sunset I have ever seen. Everywhere I look, colors are vibrant, almost glowing. Colors so thick I can reach out and feel them on my fingertips. It was stunning. And I bet you, if you asked him, God would say he titled his masterpiece "Life" because that evening, the sky was a battle between good and evil. Light and dark. Glory and damnation.

Running parallel to Cascade Mountain, deep indigo hues hover ominously. They stretch across the landscape, and in a few days--bring on a lightning storm. In their own way, they are beautiful. But uneasiness greets my reception.

Met with the foe, both light and dark clash right above Timp, creating an intense scene of awe and beauty. It seems celestial, the golden hues, compared to the ominous black. The images are surreal, truly like painted canvas.



Beyond the storm, blue and gold meet pink skies. The images were breathtaking. I don't think I could describe it for you with words, but luckily pictures will do.

We're all out there: me, my sister, my mom and little brothers. Plus all the neighbors. We chat for a bit: Sister Spotts says it's tornado sky, and in North Dakota where she grew up, you'd be running for your basement. In Utah, I figured it wasn't a threat, which is good because if I saw this in North Dakota, the only place I'd be running is to my camera.

But what do you expect? I have to take in every bit of the world, because it won't be the same tomorrow. For now--

Enjoy.

Remember This?

We stayed up late one night deciding what everyone would be if we were a fairytale.

It was splendid fun.

By the way, I am a countess, but I am particularly proud of the munks in the window.

Little Things

Let me tell you a secret about me.

I am an avid daydreamer.

I'm not sure if that would come as a shock to anyone, or if by my personality it somehow makes itself known. Either way, it's about time the title of my blog is defended, and with 17 posts down, it's time long overdue. So excuse me while I... well, talk about me.

In general, most people daydream in some form or another. Visualisation, positive envisionment, even wishing. I doubt, however, that many people dream with the same intensity and fantasy that I do. When I say "daydreamer"... I mean it.

Ever since I was little, I was big into playing pretend. My best friend and I played constantly, many variations of the "game." Pirates, princesses, servants, superheroes, indians--anything. I don't know if she's turned into the same thing as I have, but I for one have never grown out of playing pretend. I still play with myself... sometimes. More often, though, I fantasize situations, events, and conversations that could happen to me in real life. Out loud, and in person. And you thought I was just talking to myself...

I daydream all the time. I mean... all the time. I can't remember when I started, either, it's just something I've always done. Although I'm noticing that I'm doing it more frequently as I get older and more mature--which seems reverse, if you think about it. But actually, I have a theory. Being insightful and having a clear perspective is one quality I really pride myself on, and I credit that to my daydreaming. Similarly, daydreaming about areas I want to be successful in has in multiple instances boosted my performance, proving the truth behind the statement: "Envision yourself where you want to be, and you'll get there."

In fact. Some therapist named Dan Jones did research on how people achieved success in diverse fields. He looked for patterns in how they thought things out: Beethoven, Albert Einstein, Walt Disney, etc.--all of them shared one thing in common. They were daydreamers about their field of success. I fall into this category, too. My successes in music, in academics, in anything are due to my visualizing preferred outcomes more than to my "hard work" and "practice" (which we both know I don't do anyway). Sometimes I wonder if it's a gift: daydreaming, but it could just be my personality.

More than anything else, more than success or entertainment, daydreaming has shaped the way I think and also the way I look at life. To its credit, I have become a good decision-maker, and I have great rhetorical abilities. I am also a good thinker with a deep understanding--which is why I can claim words like children, and write essentially whatever I please. As for my perspective, I notice little things. I have discovered how to understand not only my own thinking, but why others do the things they do. Call me philosophical, if not a dreamer, because I make a hobby out of trying to understand people, situations, and events going on around me. It makes me feel unique, because really--how many people do you know that study the human race like a colony of ants?

In daydreaming, in seeing, in understanding--this is how I am unique. Original. I remind myself constantly because sometimes I get down on myself, wondering if I'm authentic at all. I'm the only person who can see through to that layer of my personality, that level of understanding, and I think I'm kidding myself. No one else sees it. No one else cares.

But I can't let myself think that. There's no way to know. No matter how broad my perspective may be, the only one I have is mine. It's not enough to make a huge impact on the world, but even small impressions count.

And that is why I started the Journals of a Dreamer.

Questions

(shhh! I grabbed this image from the web. don't tell!)

Who put together the scrabble game boards shown on the game box?

Okay. So the sky is blue. But why isn’t it red?

If I left earth for deep space and came back a million years later, would earth still speak the same languages?

Why is it custom for girls to have long hair and boys to have short hair, and not the other way around?

Is there such thing as “luck”?

How did the colors (red, blue, green) get their names?

Is everyone’s color perception the same (Is my red the same red as yours)?

On other worlds like earth, how does the technology compare?

Are there different types of technology for the same purpose?

Why do we call our solar system the “Milky Way”, and who had the priviledge of naming it?

Why are silver and gold so precious? What would the world be like if aluminum was a precious metal?

Will we ever have flying cars?

Why did the Mayans stop their calendar in 2012? Did they think they would survive until at least that long, and they planned to do more later?

Why are there twelve musical notes? Why not thirteen, or twenty-four?

In heaven, will there be more notes?! Like there will be more colors?!!

What will fashions be like in ten years? Will I scoff at what I wore, because I think my clothes are cute.

Why do some people see an old lady with a big nose and other people see a young girl with a scarf?

Wait. I just thought of something. My red IS the same as your red because my middle C is the same as your middle C, and therefore our brains must process color the same way it processes musical tones. Scratch that previous question.

How much effect does genetics have on the development of personality? Of talents and abilities?

Who invented the rubber band?

What determines likes and dislikes? Because my tomato tastes the same as your tomato, but I hate mine.

Do different people’s brains require more or less serotonin than others? Or is their plucky chattiness purely personality-based?

What causes some people to have more than 4 wisdom teeth?

Why is oxygen toxic? If it’s so toxic, why do we need it? What happens if we are overexposed to oxygen? ...wait, nevermind I just Googled that. Pretty cool.

Why was the Titanic made with steel high in sulfur? Who was the idiot to make that decision?

What’s so special about 768 miles per hour as the speed of sound at sea level? Why isn’t the speed of sound 769 mph at sea level?

Why isn’t it possible to comprehend celestial topics like the no-beginning-no-end thing in a mortal mind?

Is Physics legit? Or does Heaven use another system (priesthood)?

If I weren’t adopted, what would my life be like?

Who came up with the standard measurement of time?

What is the grammar in character-based languages (like Japanese) like?

Whose idea was it to standardize the English language?

Why were computers invented, if at first they took more time to build than they saved by their calculations?

How are calculators calibrated to work properly?

How long is this post going to be?

How many questions do I have?

How many readers did I bore?

Will I ever find out the answers?

Who invented the question?

Who taught me how to ask questions?

Why are questions the first languistic elements one learns to use?

When am I ever going to stop?

Do Not Read This Book

Trust me. Just don’t.

Resist!

Speaking of resistence, don’t read this one, either.



I found both of them to be highly disappointing.

Really.

…

Okay, you’re waiting for me to say something like, “Don’t read them! You’ll be addicted!” or, “They’re like a disease, and soon you’ll be infected!”

Well, I’m not.

I’m just trying to warn my fellow booklovers that some of the Young Adult Fantasy novels really aren’t worth your time.

I mean, the characters are stupid, unbelievable.

Cinda destroyed what was potentially the biggest theme in her series in her first book, so forget about learning something.

Also, if you want to read about a probably fascinating fantasy world of the Weir, you’ll be disappointed. It’s all the politics, none of the fantasy.

So tell me. Why am I going down to the library tomorrow to check out the third?



For those of you unfamiliar with the art of book-reading–more like book-lusting–It’s called Protocol. And it is the most horrible, most malodorous law ever conceived by the human mind. Do you know why? Because it makes busy teenagers such as myself drop everything and read 499 pages of complete bogus, simply because I can’t stand the idea of not finishing something.

Urrrrrgh.

(The one exception is Sabriel, which is even worse than The Warrior Heir in the who-the-heck-published-this regard. Protocol doesn’t dare force me to read the remainder of that Trilogy. Even it has some sense.)

Eh.

I just deleted what used to be this post.

The reason?

It was my essay I wrote for English next year. I’m really super proud of it, but… it’s long. Like over 1000 words.

INSTEAD.

I have musings. Actually, phrases. Clippings. Sentences I wrote that I absolutely adore (does that sound weird?).

You see, when I write, I start in the middle. From the moment I get an idea, or hear my subject, my brain starts combining words into phrases, phrases into sentences. Soon I have a collection of semi-related thoughts to work with, building blocks for the meat of whatever it is that I’m writing. Of course, this strategy is thrown out the window for AP essays, Direct Writing Assesments, and ACT Prompts, but why should I care about those?

Anyway.

(The rest of this post will be random thoughts and sentences. I give you permission to stop reading it, if you want to. I won’t be offended.)

1. Coming from nearly eleven years of schooling, I’ve found that questions that start with “why” always have more than one answer. Maybe it is because they’re somewhat general, a number of perspectives to be taken implied in the “why.” But really, I think it is because we are all human, and humans don’t accept facts even when they’re in front of our faces.

2. There is nothing worse than walking into a classroom with low expectations of those admitted, for I would rather be outrageously overestimated than slightly underestimated. Then, at least, I would have something to work towards and aspire to.

3. I want a nice, fat, folder to be proud of—and I don’t care how many trees I chop down in the process.

4. Call it “great expectations,” if you must. But in my world, I use the word “because.”

5. Sometimes I think it is the picture frame that holds us all together.

6. In the front garden of the place I call home, there grows a certain Butterfly Tree. It grows green leaves, but by summer it is red. I don’t know why I take pictures of that tree, I just do. I can’t remember when I started, either. But it was winter. I watched it grow, bloom, change, then shed its colors and start over. I know I shouldn’t be so fascinated, because my tree, like everything else, cycles through seasons. But going back, looking at my pictures, laying them side by side… I think it reminds me of myself.

7. I come from perfect circumstances with a perfectly normal family. I don’t even have a psycho great aunt. Well, maybe my Uncle Bob counts, but he’s not technically related to me.

8. I entertain an audience of ideas.

9. The idea is profound. Its gift-wrap is inherently more interesting.

10. The individual is equally as important as the group itself. Our minds are unique, and it is our uniqueness which helps us not only to survive, but flourish and have joy. This is what makes our species superior and divine.

11. Tears running up my forehead.

12. My fingers race each other to the top of the keyboard

13. One of them picked his nose then asked for my pencil. If he would’ve asked for my number, I think I would have slapped him.

14. Over and over again, that simple stalky misfit of a word clogged my rods and cones and made me want to hit the screen.

15. Realization #1: I hate the word “I”. If it didn’t sound creepy, I would speak in third person for the rest of my life.

16. Some days I wish I could shed my skin. Cast off those insecurities and sorrows that weigh me down, become a new person with a clean personality and no regrets—not a single one. It’s hard. To come to terms with being so quiet and in the background, being worrisome and uptight under a mask of conformity.Buckle, my pet frog, shed his skin this morning. For days I watched him wiggle and squirm, swimming incessantly to loosen the skin, and then slowly, over the next couple of days it broke free. I know it sounds silly, impersonating a frog, but maybe if I wiggle enough, my skin will come loose, too.

17. Those feelings were stapled to it

18. Writing doesn’t take place on paper. Instead, it comes about deep within the contours of one’s own mind, with a brilliance so stunning, and a perfection so elite, it should flood the imagination with light and inspiration. A writer’s only job is to extract that same brilliance, and recompose it in such a way that it would justify the original.

19. To come out. It almost suggests the book has been hidden thus far, and is now emerging from its inky home.

20. Brianna is four years younger than me, and four inches taller. We look absolutely nothing alike, although that’s what amazes me about my family, that even though we’re different on the outside, people can sense that we’re family. We’ve never been taken for anything other than sisters.

21. If writing is defined as “thinking on paper,” then I prefer to keep my thoughts inside my head, thanks.

Hopes and Heroes

Summer has been so good to me.

Not only have I had several great spiritual experiences–the best yet to come–but it was a time of relaxation, free from stress. I didn’t feel pressured to do anything in particular, no doubt due to the absence of my saxophone lessons that are always hanging over my head, and I felt that although I wasted a LOT of time doing nothing, I accomplished a lot, too.

For instance.

Today I made good headway on this essay I’ve been working on practically the entire summer. Call it silly, if you must, but it is really important to me to make a good first impression for what I expect to be my favorite class next year. It’s a typical prompt–Why Do I Want To Take Honors English–but I think I’ve done something brilliant with it. If nothing else, my dedication shows that when it comes to writing, nothing is below me. I enjoy it that much (but really I’m just dying to have something to write, seeing as I can’t think of any creative ideas of my own). After I add the finishing touches, I’ll send it off into the world.

Also, I tweaked my piano composition. I think I have it the way I want it, now. Or… actually, nevermind. I need to fill out the chords in the right hand at the key modulation, but other than that I’m pretty proud of my effort. Last time at my piano lessons, I figured out how to navigate Finale a bit easier, so I’m anxious to get working on it again. Transcribe it, I mean. I have it all composed and everything. I’m really, r e a l l y, excited that I finished something musically compositiony (Ha! so much for English skills) for the first time… ever, in my life. Although I can’t quite seem to name it. Got any ideas for titles? I’m in the market.

Anyway.

Last night I was sitting on my bed, thinking about anything and everything that could procrastinate my actually having to fall asleep–and I was thinking about crushes. I know, I know. Soooo typical. BUT ACTUALLY I was thinking about how I’m not so typical, in that what is considered a “crush” for me is simply me admiring someone for specific qualities that I’d like to have more of, and definately go on my “MY DREAM HUSBAND NEEDS TO BE…” list.

For example.

One of my semi-crushes-that’s-not-really-a-crush-because-that-would-be-r e a l l y-weird-with-this-particular-person, I admire because he is so easy to talk to. Really, I don’t ever have to think “what should I say?” around him because I know that he will not judge a single word to come out of my mouth (Okay, so he might laugh at me. But it ends up in a conversation, so it’s just teasing). Also, he’s really intelligent, and he and I are insanely competitive. Actually, scratch that. I’M insanely competitive, and he is so passive about it he finds my intense take-ons hilarious. On top of that, he is spiritually converted, I can see that. He knows where he’s going (on a mission, and then to the temple) and he knows how to live in order to prepare for that. It’s really quite admirable, and for that he is one of my heroes.

Also.

Another friend I have I admire because he is color blind. Not literally color blind, but that he is non-judgemental, and it’s not even a chore for him. It’s a characteristic, not something he’s ever had to work on. I wish I were more like that, because with certain people I have to really, really try to be kind to (and sometimes I don’t even do that). With him, he is so genuinely caring, and considerate. He also has the best sense of humor of all my friends, and so everyone likes to be around him. Plus, he’s sweet. Earlier this summer he emailed all of us (friends) saying he’d like to put together some summer parties/activities, and he gave some ideas and asked for feedback. One of his suggestions was hiking the Y, and to that I replied that I’d be up for it, but he probably wouldn’t want me to come because I would go too slow. His answer came back: “Brittney, if it meant you could come with us, I would carry you up the mountain.” For that he is my hero.

And a third.

This one… is the closest to an actual “crush” because I’m kind of admiring from afar, here, but he’s just so cute! Inside and out. I first looked up to him because of his musical talent, being a crazy good trumpet player and whatnot. Also, his intelligence. Valedictorian, 35 ACT, 4.7 G.P.A…. yeah. But really, I like how he is genuine. If you remember, that’s my biggest thing right now, and so I naturally look out for people I can model myself on to become genuine myself. And so, I have another.

And then I put all that together and realized, I want to marry my hero.

Doesn’t that have a nice ring to it? My hero… my husband… It just makes me smile with anticipation. I can’t wait to meet my hero, and then marry him in the temple (!). By the way, does it scare anyone else that I could be married in less than 5 years?! Four. To be exact. (Insert scream here).

Anyway, like I said. My life is fantastic. I did eventually go to sleep, and I awoke this morning feeling rather disappointed that I couldn’t remember the dream I had. With my song done, my essay done, my summer camps through… I’m ready for school to start! But…. I guess I could wait a couple more weeks. Youth Conference on Friday! And then a family reunion the weekend after that. I have a feeling I’ll be plenty busy.

Until the time next…

Disillusioned

I am alive.

I talk with the most hilarious lisp, but I’m still alive!

I have to say, Wednesday was likely the worst, most horrible, most miserable day of my life. My entire life.

I could rant forever about how despicable it was… with the bleeding, the swelling, the gauze, the salivating, the medicine, the stitches, the anasthesia… oh, and that horrible numbness! But since that day is behind me, my memory can’t quite recall the physical horror of it all, I only know that it was terrible, but I am alive.

Going into it, I thought I was being mature. I was good for the doctor, acted like a big girl. Like I said in my last post, I hid all signs of my inner terror and put my brave face on. So much for that. The last thought I had before I went under was something like, “AAAAAAHHHH!!!! I’m STILL AWAKE?! DO THEY KNOW I’M STILL AWAKE?!!! I’M GONNA DIE!!!!”

And that’s as far as my big girl face goes.

The next thing I know, I was crying. Pushed out to my car in a wheelchair, doing multiplication problems in my head to keep myself occupied. (Now, it should be noted that this particular part wasn’t my fault, purely an effect of the anasthesia. That’s more than I can say for the rest of the day, however.) I was miserable the entire day. Most of it was that I was numb, and I hate being numb. But also, when I am uncomfortable, I tend to shut the entire world out. One of my fatal flaws. I don’t let anyone in to help me, and I end up hurting those who try! I can’t put to words how terrible I feel about being a jerk to everyone, and I wish I could take it all back.

There are no excuses. I built my walls high, though there were moments of self-awareness, where I consciously thought, Act like a big girl. They’re trying to help you, just help. Let them. But then I go and put myself to shame. So much for my dignity.

So that’s where I’m at. I pride myself on being mature for my age, but after Wednesday I’m not so sure. My mom even commented on it, saying to herself over and over again, “Why did I let you do this? You can’t handle it.” And you know what? Looking back, I couldn’t. I still can’t. It makes me sad to think that all this time I thought I was bigger than this, but I guess I was fooled–even by myself.

I just hope that next time something like this comes around, I will have learned patience. Patience to be helped in times of pain and discomfort. That I won’t have to block out the world, but instead embrace it, and let them help. I pray, I hope, I plead. That next time, I will keep my dignity.

Because that’s what elect ladies do.

What's Considered, "Trivial"?

I knew it was coming. I’ve been dreading it ever since I knew what wisdom teeth were. It was bound to happen, and the anticipation now is no worse than I thought it would be. I didn’t want to appear weak, though, because that would make it worse. So I put on my brave face, faked indifference. But even a mask can get stuffy, and I have to vent it all out of my system before 10:00 a.m. tomorrow.

I’m afraid. Horribly, unequivocally afraid of what will happen, getting my wisdom teeth out. My first experience with surgery, ever. And I’m afraid.

I’m afraid of falling into nothingness, falling to the anesthesia.

I’m afraid of getting killed by it.

I’m afraid of waking up.

I’m afraid of the stitches.

I’m afraid of the pain.

I’m afraid of the swelling. Of the stiffness.

I’m afraid of the guaze I have to bite on.

I’m afraid of the blood.

I’m afraid of drooling.

I’m afraid of the ice I’ll have to use.

I’m afraid of the medicine I’ll have to take.

I’m worried about how I’ll take it, how I’ll drink. How I’ll eat.

I’m terrified of sucking, of using straws that could cause infection.

I’m worried about how I’ll wash my face or brush my teeth.

I’m wary of wearing my retainer.

I’m afraid of sleeping on a painful visage.

I’m afraid of being uncomfortable.

How will I talk?!!

I’m afraid of pulling new clothes over my head.

I’m afraid of taking a shower.

I’m afraid of being bored. Or, the reverse…

I’m afraid of getting too much attention.

I worry about the recovery.

I worry about the doctor.

I worry about touching the back part of my mouth with my tongue.

I’m scared to sit in that chair.

I’m worried about being cold.

Most of all, I’m afraid of being afraid.

Fear is a funny thing. Or anxiety, more likely. Anticipation of a dreaded event is what it is. I get this tingling in my gut and the back of my mind. It’s coming, it’s coming. I know I make it sound like a horror movie, but that’s what it’s like. It’s like approaching a giant waterfall, knowing what will happen, but once you’re through you realize it wasn’t nearly as bad as you thought it would be.

I know it’s irrational. I know it sounds dumb, writing all this deep junk about something as trivial as wisdom teeth. But it clears my head, writing does. That, and I’m dying for another post. My life is too ordinary to look for new perspectives. But for now, pray I don’t collapse out of fear before the anasthesia hits me tomorrow. I, for one, am crossing my fingers and toes.

~Brittney

p.s. there’s a strange flashing light outside the kitchen window. I would think it was lightning, except that there’s no thunder. Just an observation.. maybe I could turn that into something. I just thought I saw a man jump in and out of sight…

While I Was Watching

Last night, my best friend threw an outdoor movie party with all our friends. Unlike the last time–where I nearly died of hypothermia, fell asleep for the whole movie with a blanket on my face, woke up with messy hair and several bug bites (on my face), and was made fun of–I was prepared this time. I came with a pillow, a couple throws, and armed with bug spray. I felt like a warrior.

We watched The Scarlet Pimpernel, which I absolutely loved. Although, I am currently racked with the torments of wondering how it ended. My mom texted me ten minutes before the end, declaring she was tired, wanted to go to bed, and she was waiting for me in front of the house.

Darn.

There was a moment, coming home, which nearly sent my sisterly instincts into a frenzy… There was a sort of tension, upon first entering the car, and when I asked what was wrong, it was my sister who replied. It was nearly midnight and I could barely understand her when she said something like, “Bradley was babysitting… ran out in the street… hit by a car…”

At that point, I jumped out in my seat and screamed, “WHAT?! NO!!!”

“He’s okay, he’s got a broken leg. Dad’s at the hospital with him right now.”

And then there was this silence where I tried to soak in what they had just said. My brother… broken leg… will I get to see him? Is he okay? How– I asked for a clarification, and I was told that Achilles the Dog had got out of his kennel down the street and… something about a car…

“Who, Bradley or Brevin?” I asked, confused now. My mom looked at me strangely.

“What? No, the dog. You know Achilles, the Nelsons’ dog? He got hit while Bradley was babysitting him.”

I have never felt more relief in my entire life.

“Did you think your Brother was hit by a car?” my mom asked.

“Well, that’s what you said!”

“Oh, sorry, Britt. It was the dog, while your brother was babysitting him. Didn’t mean to scare you there…”

Well, that was that. I felt both stupid and relieved that, in fact, it was the dog that was hit and not my brother. I eventually found out how my family desperately tried to get him into the kennel, how the front door was left open and the dog escaped, how they chased him around the neighborhood until finally he was clipped by a car on center street. What more, was that several times they were on my best friend’s street, and while I was happily watching a movie, to no mind what was going on, my family was driving through heck chasing the neighbor’s dog. Why they didn’t come ask me for help, I don’t know.

I’m still just glad it was the dog, not my dear Bradley…

On Blues and Band Directors

Fact: When it comes to the Blues, I’m as blue as you can get. I’m terrible. Everything I try, it comes out tacky, or junior high-ish, or obnoxious. I can’t create anything tasty. Nothing even close to jazz emerges from my creative banks.

Today, I made that fact known to everyone at summer jazz. “My blues skills are beyond repair…” I said. A couple people laughed a bit, and so did Mr. Summers. But he thought I was referring to my junior high band director, who unfortunately has become the butt of everyone’s jokes now that we’re in high school. Our conversation went like this.

Mr. S: ”How can I put this… Halversen came over the other day–”

Me: “Was he sad?”

Mr. S: “…Yeah.”

Me: “oh…”

Mr. S: “Not everything is said, exactly, but just the attitude… well, he picks up on the vibe, so I do think you guys could be a little nicer to him.”

Me: “I’m not mean to his face!”

Everyone: *laughing* *’oh, i’m only mean behind his back’* *snicker*

Mr. S: “Well, just maybe when you’re around him, be a little more sensitive,”

Me: “I know, I try. I’m like, the ultimate kiss up.”

And that was the end of it. Now, I could start ranting about how I feel really stupid about having said all that, and how everyone probably thinks I’m a heartless jerk now and I’ll need to act a little more decent next time to prove any bad opinions wrong, or how I can’t believe I totally didn’t pick up that Mr. S. was trying to be a teacher and I should have agreed instead of made excuses, or how I should have avoided the whole embarrassment thing by informing everyone that no, I wasn’t actually referring to my junior high band director… buuuut we’re not gonna go there. I really shouldn’t care what my bandies think of me, but it doesn’t help that Mr. S. is my favorite teacher and teaches my favorite subject. Like I said, I’ll ignore all that and instead shed some light on what that conversation was all about.

For my bandies and I, now that we’re in high school, anything and anyone with any connection to junior high has become a laughing, mocking matter to us now. Junior High was, to my memory, one of the worst educational experiences I’ve been through, and probably the hardest period of my life so far. I think it is the same for everyone–not only were we smooshed between elementary school and high school, but it was a transition period between being a child and a teenager. My hormones were all out of whack, everyone around me was desperate to prove their distinctive personalities, etc. I won’t bother explaining further because I think you know what I mean.

Junior High band was a good experience. In seventh grade, I all but dropped to my knees and worshipped my band director. He made me feel special, talented, important, and a part of something. Eigth grade, my respect dropped a few levels. After being pushed into saxophone (I later came to accept and love it), forced to deal with living in my section leader’s shadow (we are now friends sharing lead in high school), and having to fight for the number 2 spot (with a kid who also, became good friends with me. He goes to another school now…), I started to be negative about and towards my once-favorite teacher. In ninth grade, it was even worse. I still enjoyed moments where I thought he was pretty cool (he was probably complimenting me…) but for the most part, I snickered about his obnoxious flirting, about his dumb jokes, about his musicality, about his personality, let’s face it: I was a jerk (not to his face, though. I really did like him as a teacher…).

And now, that I’m finally free of that personal Heck called Junior High, I can see that relations with my band director have descended to new lows. He’s a common joke in our band room–we make fun of his everything. We blame past insecurities and failures on him, we associate him with that deep dark past of the grades 7-9. It’s sad, really, and I kind of feel bad.

But it’s unavoidable. We all look back at our days in junior high with disgust because we think our hobbies, friends, drama, were infantile. We are ashamed of our various attempts at "growing up", we hide that we were so excited, at the time, to be accomplishing something BIG.

For me, at least, a lot of my problems have dissolved between junior high and high school. Now, my life is nothing near perfect and I still have some insecurities, some situations I don’t really want to dwell on. But it’s a whole lot better than junior high, I can tell you that. I have aspired to new heights. : ) And–I’m sorry to admit this, but I really do look back on junior high with a critical gaze. I don’t want to understand myself at that time, I’m too ashamed of what I might find, I think it’s embarrassing–all the crazy things that I did, thought, and went through.

Because of this, I scorn everything that is related to junior high. The assemblies, the teachers (with the exception of Ms. Moe, who was amazing), the classes, even the library! Unfortunately Mr. H. belongs in this category.

I feel bad, I really do, that we are such jerks to him. I actually think I’m one of the more decent ones, for while I occasionally let a little comment slip, I don’t actually think that way. Yeah, I thought his flirting was a little uncalled for. Yeah, the way he taught jazz left a lot to be desired. Yeah, he tried too hard to be “one of the kids”. But really, there are some great things about him. For instance. He’s a great teacher. He is really good at getting kids excited about band. He is a talented director. He has a fun personality. He is responsible when it counts. All that makes a good junior high band director.

I think what we as students need to realize is that he’s not. that. bad. And neither is Junior High. It is our pride, not our maturity, that causes us to cast down our trials and experiences. There’s no need to be embarrassed about them. So why hide them? Why scorn them? Maybe in doing so we’ll discover that it wasn’t all so bad.

Parading through the Streets

So I wandered about American Fork for several hours this morning… Actually, Orem High’s Jazz Band did American Fork’s Steel Days parade. : ) It was a lot of fun, hanging out in a flatbed with my jazz buddies. Despite the fact that it was BURNING! I had to change everything when I got home, it was so hot! Oh, but some guy gave me a shout-out. “ALTO!!!!!” It was pretty sweet.

When I got home, I was exhausted. I mean, lay-on-the-floor-exhausted. I think it was the heat, but I also had to get up at 6:45 this morning to make it to the parade… not that I got there on time, anyway, we had the wrong address and we couldn’t find my band anywhere, until after about an hour we found t h e c o n e.

My Dad’s quote exactly: “When in doubt, find the cone.”

Speaking of which, I saw a quote I really liked on BYU’s admissions page yesterday.

“Talent hits a target no one else can hit; Genius hits a target no one else can see.” —Arthur Schopenhauer

Until next time.

* * *

A Word About Words ~ Post Edit

I admit. It took me the whole three weeks, and then some, to read these books I loaned from the library. Technically, I renewed two of these and took back the other. I do have some overdue books, though… BUT I have good things to say about them, so I figured I’d post a review, a la Brittney. And you know what I realized? I’m pretty much horrible at book reviews. Especially since I can’t seem to say one negative word whatsoever which is basically the same as posting a “FAILURE” sticker on my forehead. But whatever.


Sun and Moon, Ice and Snow is of late my #1 book on my To-Be-Recommended list. Soon after finishing, I thrust it into my mother’s hands, and I plan to give it as a gift to all my friends on their birthdays this year. In short: I loved it.

Sun and Moon, Ice and Snow is the retelling of a Norwegian fairy tale, East of the Sun, West of the Moon. It is the tale of how a nameless girl, the daughter of a woodcutter, comes to live in a palace of ice with an enchanted isbjorn who knows more than he lets on. She becomes determined to find the truth, but when she goes searching, the man she is only beginning to realize is her true love is whisked away, to be persued at the palace East of the Sun, West of the Moon.

Not only was the heroine strong and believable, but I found this retelling extremely satisfying. Hints of romance, mystery, adventure and fantasy made it all worthwhile. While some would argue that it sticks to close to the original folk tale, being unfamiliar with the tale as it is, I found George’s hand steady when it came to recreating its charm.

The element it could use more of, however, is theme. Not that I really complain, though, the story was pushed along well enough that I didn’t realize its lack until long after I’ve read it, reread it, and recommended it. There were parts that could use a breather, where the heroine could think a bit more on the messages behind the story, but in all, it was fantastic.

Welcome to The Shelf, Jessica Day George. I’m excited to read more of what you’ve done. : )


Another book I’ve read is The Amulet Of Samarkand, of the Bartimaeus Trilogy. I’ve only just started the exciting Trilogy, but as soon as I get my hands on the last two, they’re as good as read.

Jonathan Stroud was brilliant in his crafting of the tale of Bartimaeus and Nathaniel. With multiple plot twists, believable characters, and magnificent writing, I’ve converted myself.

This is the story of a young magician’s apprentice, Nathaniel, who is remarkably gifted. In an attempt to take revenge on a character in his past, Nathaniel is bound to the demon Bartimaeus, and the two are thrown into a world of magic, politics, and secret plots. It is up to them to stop what they’ve started, and other subsequent threats.

What I loved about this book, is how well it was written. There were countless times where I read a phrase, and thought, “Brilliant!” Stroud has a way with words. In addition to that, but the characters were ingenious. Believable, but not over-the-top. They were perfect in their strengths, flaws, and logic. Now I’m wishing I were a witty demon, completing summons with attitude. Or a defiant magician, over his head in a series of betrayals.

To put it straightly: This is a series I’ve enjoyed, and I plan to enjoy the rest as soon as my library requests become available.


***POST-EDIT***


Right now, it’s 8:19 a.m., and I’m trying not to fall asleep at the monitor. I finished Genius Squad last night at one a.m. (!) and I absolutely loved it!! Not that it was good enough to keep me reading until one a.m., but that it grabbed me by the sleeve, tied me to the chair, and wouldn’t release me until I finished. I didn’t complain.

The second book is equally as good as the first (but with a different set of strengths and weaknesses) and I hope every person who even pretended to like the first book will check the second out from the library as soon as possible.

The idea behind both Evil Genius and Genius Squad is that of Cadel, a teenage genius. I like this book because, having the narrarator sit on Cadel’s shoulder, it makes the reader (me) feel like the genius. I like the intelligent language, and the dazzling terms Jinks uses in her character’s speech. Also, the story moves along well from the start, and by the end it moves at a break-neck pace that is impossible to tear your eyes from.



It’s true: Genius Squad and Evil Genius have different strengths and weaknesses, but overall they’re equally good. Catherine Jinks has a bit of a problem with characters in Genius Squad, in that characters like Lexi, Devin, Hamish, Trader, etc. get extremely on my nerves. They’re too over-the-top and unbelievable, but they only occupy the middle portion of the book and I put up with them once exciting events including Prosper English started to unfold.

Still, the experience is so new, so fresh. There is probably no other book like it–with this sort of… actually, I can’t call it fantasy OR sci-fi. It’s realistic fiction. And it’s brilliant (the idea, I mean), so I would recommend Evil Genius to anyone to try. If you like it enough, go for Genius Squad. And after you’re finished with that, read Genius Squad A.S.A.P.!

And that’s all I have to say.

S w i n g i n g

Let me introduce you to my favorite place.



I spend a lot of time here, thinking, dreaming, wishing.

What you didn’t know is that it is actually a portal to another world.

Today was just like any other…

I closed my eyes and swung higher, feeling the wind on my face. I was off. Underneath my eyelids, the world was changing. Brown woodchips were replaced with soft, mossy grass. Instead of fences and stucco on all sides–a dense forest. My swing became solitary, in the middle of a small clearing. I could hear the voices of the woodlanders echo in the distance, but coming closer. Bubbling streams nearby greeted my arrival. I slowed, but still swinging gently I opened my eyes.

And saw this.





A moment later I saw this.



And this.



And I felt like this.



Let’s say it wasn’t exactly the best day ever.

The Recycle Bin Post

Word of the Day

I don’t expect anyone to understand why these words make me happy, thinking of them in this way. Call me Captain Obvious if you must, but I think that some observations never go through the conscious mind, and when they do they make me smile. These are a few words that have made me smile lately.

creative: create-ive; word for something that has tendancies to be created.

caretaker: one who takes care.

movie: nickname for something that moves.

a watch: you watch the watch to watch the time. As if time was something you could see.

alone: I am alone. I am a lone.

tomorrow: another word for forever

* * *

Water Balloon Baseball

For our family Fourth of July celebrations, we held an epic water balloon baseball game. It was really fun, and guess what? For like the first time ever, I managed to hit a moving projectile with what is, essentially, a stick! I was so proud of myself, but the funny thing was, at family prayers that night, Brayden said,

“Thank you for letting us play water balloon baseball,”

And it made me smile. To think of what might’ve happened had Heavenly Father not allowed us to play.

Bolts of lightning thrown down from the sky?

Oh yes baby. Awesome.

* * *

Cambry Once Told Me a Shocking Story

It was of a girl, a strong girl. She was beautiful, courageous, spiritual, and amazingly talented. She could play the piano like the angels in heaven. She had a testimony that even one thousand swords couldn’t break. And she was gorgeous: golden blonde hair with pale blue eyes graced her delicate features.

But poor, poor girl. For she was cursed with a land that was poisoned. Everyone, save her and her family, was afflicted with a plague, of sorts. All their kindness, their generosity, their conversions were stripped away at the face of the deadliest of worldy essences: pride. The girl was looked down upon by others of her age. But while her clothes were meager, her spirit was strong.

It was hard on her, nevertheless, to live life everyday, having to deal with the mocking, the scorn that came from her so-called friends. If she could’ve, she would’ve left, but that wasn’t her decision to make.

She couldn’t help wishing, couldn’t help fantasizing about Next Door, whose grass was greener. And it was. But whenever she looked over it made her sad, made her wish she didn’t have to be stranded, stranded in the poisoned land.

She is still there. The girl’s name was Trisha, my friend and Cambry’s cousin. I admire her for her talents, her spirituality, her strength. Yet I grieve for her because she lives in an environment where people don’t appreciate her, the gospel, or good nature the way they should. She feels like she can’t talk to anyone in the ward, her mom holds three callings because no one else will step up to the plate. Trisha cries over the girls in her ward, the girls who should be her friend. It’s hard.

I can’t imagine being in that circumstance; my ward is like my family. I feel comfortable talking to anyone in my ward, and the Young Women are like my sisters. We are close, tight-knit. I feel comfortable being myself in front of them, and it’s a blessing I cherish. Trisha, on the other hand, has no such blessings and I feel horrible that this is something she is tried with. Different people have different trials, and I can’t decide if I should feel guilty because her ward is a trial and for me it is not; or if I should be passive knowing I have different trials and support her best I can.

For now, I’ll just be grateful, and keep praying for Trisha that her friends will open their hearts to her and–more importantly–to the spirit.

Suprisingly

First off, I hate Finale.

Finale is a music notation program, and supposedly it’s the best you can get for private use and it costs several thousand dollars. My piano teacher has Finale, and I’m using it (or, trying to) to notate the piece I wrote.

It is impossible.

I think I spent the entire hour trying to figure out how to change the direction of the stem.

I didn’t finish the first measure.

Yeah. Devil Music Notation Device. D.N.N.D. Finale.

Moving on.



Growing up, there were never any secrets. I always knew I was adopted, I knew my parents couldn’t have children. I knew the same way I knew the sky was blue and the sun came up every morning. It just was.

Each of my siblings and I went through a stage where we become very interested in this fact, but until that point, that’s just the color of life. I never once questioned it.

Similarly, I knew about my parents’ love story. I knew where they met, when they got engaged, which temple they were married in. It didn’t occur to me that there would be more.

I took it well–very well. So well I’d like to think it wasn’t anything new, that I’ve always known.

And I did, because it was before I was born, I watched it up in heaven, and I smiled when it was over, rejoiced when it was my turn to come down.

And so, I didn’t think anything less–perhaps I thought more of. It was a confirmation to me of love, repentence. Of life.

The truth brought comfort–not that there was ever a lie, so maybe I should say this refirmation brought comfort. A lot of my fears about growing up have revolved around that exact possibility, but having two examples in front of me I know it will be okay. The spirit will tell me what’s right–this is too sacred for it to say, “Hey, you’ve got this one. Let me know how it goes.”

I will receive either peace or a confirmation it is right, and if not, I will know. Very plainly, if I’m not mistaken. A very distinct impression of wrongness. But it could be different for me–between now and the time I will make that choice I’ll try to learn how the spirit speaks to me personally.

I don’t know very many details–I don’t need to. I know what happened, and that is enough for me. The question I have is Why? Why was it now, on the 7th of July, at 11:00 a.m. that I needed to hear this? Why, at this point in my life, trying to figure out who I am and what is in store for me, did I need to know this? Will the same thing happen to me? Will I have to go through this, too? Will my turnout be the same, or will I have the courage to avoid it?

Or maybe. Maybe it won’t happen to me, but something will come up that would normally have raised an eyebrow but because I know about this it will be no problem (run-on sentence. shudder.).

Or maybe I’m guessing all wrong. It IS too soon to tell, after all, the question of Why. Not that Why questions ever have answers, but that’s a different story. Remind me to give you the spiel on that later.

For now, au revoir.

A Late Night Note

Dear Shenzi,

Thank you for sharing your writing with the world through your blog. Your story of the girl who loved anger and liked to hide struck a deep chord within me, and I wish I had the courage to tell you what it meant.

You don’t know it, but we are so alike in that our struggles are completely opposite. While you are so unique, so authentic, you struggle with what I thrive in. While I raise my everything on a flagpole every morning, I’m exactly what you wrote in that I am just like everyone else, and that thought plagues me every moment of my life.

I want nothing more than to be unique and authentic as you are, you want nothing more than to show everything you hide. That makes us–if not the same, than equal on opposite sides of the spectrum.

I think there are two desirables when it comes to being happy with oneself: to stand out and to fit in. Logic would suggest that having both is impossible, but I’m afraid to think that it might be right. I’m afraid to think… that I might never be unique without sacrificing that which I pride myself on. I’m afraid to think… that it’s hopeless, that I will always either fit in or stand out and there’s nothing I can do to change that. I’m afraid to think… that you and I will stay stranded on our matching islands of discontent, forever, until our minds and bodies are perfected on a day a long, long ways from now.

But there is someone… someone I met at EFY. She was my roomate, her name is Aisha. Friday night we stayed up late talking to each other… discovering that we were so much alike it’s scary. She is a dreamer, like I am. She spends a lot of time thinking of scenarios, daydreaming events that will never happen, sometimes fantasizing things that eventually do come true. All of it, a description of me as much as of her. And, if I’m right, a description of you, too. The three of us, perhaps three of many. One who fits in, one who stands out, and one who sits comfortably in the middle, both standing out while fitting in.

Yes. It is possible. She has done it. I have seen it.

She is unique in that her wit, her abilities, her talents combine in a way that could only be Aisha. She stands out in how she acts, who she is, how she is unique and authentic. She fits in, in that she is not afraid of being herself, and people are drawn to her. She is exactly like everyone else. But at the same time… it’s amazing. I’m starting to think it’s all the same thing, standing out and fitting in. What makes her stand out is what makes her fit in, and it’s the balance of it that keeps it too far away from one extreme or the other.

You can do it too, Shenzi. Cut those chords that bind that anger to you. Let go of your fear of not being unique, of not being authentic. I can tell you now that if I saw you as someone who had nothing to hide, I would still see you as just as unique as you are now, perhaps even more unique. Those stars of yours shine brightly. They will shine even brighter if you let it all go.

As for me? I can do it, too. It doesn’t matter how many different ways I find to showcase who I am, I am unique whether or not other people know it, and there is no reason to fret about that because that uniqueness makes me stand in, too. I must loosen my hold, let myself be who I am. There is no reason to try and tame it, no reason to try and refine characteristics self-declared as “unoriginal”. Everything about me is original. And if I can see that, then people who are like me will see it, too, the way I see it in Shenzi, in Aisha, in others.

We are three of a kind, Shenzi. You, and I, and Aisha. No doubt there are others struggling as you, struggling as I, or treading water as Aisha. Thank you for being you, for sharing your thoughts, for writing the Allegory of the Wingsuit. Because of that I’ve realized that there are two sides to every story, though many times there are three. And when it comes right down to it, no matter the angle, we’re all just looking at the same old thing. But the significance of it…

It all depends on the p e r s p e c t i v e.

~ Me

Critique?

Everyone has their own genre when it comes to books, movies, music, etc.

Me? I don’t know how to explain it, but words like authentic, adventure, imaginative, and captivating come to mind concerning my own “type”. Books like Fablehaven and the Bartimaeus Trilogy are at the top of my list. As are Michael Buble, Jon Schmidt, and Josh Groban when it comes to music. For movies? Well, as of now, my all-time favorite has to be Prince of Persia, which I saw for the first time earlier today.

Not only is the main character very (very) attractive, but it is exactly the high-end fantasy/adventure I love, with believable characters, a captivating plot, and hints of humor and romance in the mix. My favorite characters are 1. Sheik Amar (was that so hard to guess?) and 2. Prince Dastan (he’s not just attractive, mind you, he’s kind, caring, reckless yet brilliant, with a good heart and fabulous eyes…). Overall, I was very pleased with the movie, it had me enthralled the whole time.
Another great thing about Prince of Persia is that I was emotionally involved, to the point that I grieved and rejoiced with the characters. It is a story of the tragedy of human nature. As Sheik Amar puts it, “This is a secret government killing society. That’s why I don’t pay taxes!”

The storyline revolves around bonds of brotherhood being broken by the greed of men. In the beginning, Prince Dastan is framed by his brother, who was framed by his uncle, who wanted his brother’s throne. Soon after, a whirlwind of events unfolds as Dastan and Tamina, a princess and guardian of a powerful dagger with magical properties, try to uncover the truth and save time, the kingdom, and the world before it’s too late.

This greed, pride, or selfishness–take your pick–is something that got my mind in a flutter. During a scene transition, I thought to myself, “why don’t the brothers just share the throne?”

And then it hit me.

Could you imagine the King of a large and powerful empire known as Persia, say, “Hey little brother, do you want to take a turn wearing my crown?”

No. You would never hear that, not in a millenia. And then… it made me sad how I found that statement above funny. How ridiculous it was, how unheard of, how mocking. Why couldn’t someone share power with someone else? The fact that I can’t comprehend that, I think, is proof that unselfishness is something the human mind can’t understand. Some would argue with me, but then again, there are some things that can’t be argued.

Human nature sure makes great movies.

Sketchy Business

I think that so far my summer has been fruitful. I’ve enjoyed a nice June, having been busy as ever and thouroughly enjoying it. But now that we’ve reached July, I’m excited that my schedule has been wiped clean, with minimal obligations. I look forward to do nothing for the rest of the summer. And doing nothing is something I’m good at.

So, now that I finally have some free time I thought I’d start working on my movie and reading lists, as well as some writing things I could do. I really want to become a better writer, especially in the creative aisle, and what better time than this to do it? I think the biggest challenge I have as a writer is that I overthink things. I spend hours and hours brainstorming, prewriting, putting bits and pieces onto paper, yadda yadda yadda. A finished product is not a common thing among my brain-children. This is especially painful when it comes to writing that isn’t related to an assignment or prompt of some sort. I have style when it comes to writing, not ideas, which is why I’d be a much better editor than a writer. Plus it’s more fun. But whatever.

One thing I plan to do is a character sketch, developing an original character in one scene, event, or short story that exposes part of his overall character. Like a snapshot, but more of a sketch. I’m thinking the name Rufus, it has a plucky ring to it. Maybe involve some mad science, maybe some chickens. But maybe not. We’ll have to see.

Also, I finished composing a piano piece today. Who knows if it’ll ever make it onto paper–finale or by hand. I have an idea of what I want to call it, but nothing I come up with seems to fit, save one word. And that word isn’t the greatest stand-alone title, so who knows. Maybe I’ll enter it into reflections for next year. Of course, I’ll have to tie it into the theme… But I’ve gotta admit, it’s a million times better than the last piece I wrote. AND it’s actually finished. Party.
Off to do some character sketching. And yes, it involves chickens.

Post-Edit: I finished the character sketch. And in such a short time, too! I was surprised at how it turned out, but then again, it might be weird/hard to understand from the viewpoint of someone other than the writer–I wrote only in dialogue. Here it is!

The Invasion

“Ah, Doctor, I was expecting your call.”

“Now, Jefferson, I just wanted to—oh yes, yes. I made it very clear what time I was to call you, that’s right. Perfect, as always. No one will suspect a two-o-clock phone call, will they? Very good planning on my part, very good… Now, see if I were to call at a more suspicious time, let’s say, seven o clock–”

“Ahem. Doctor?”

“—we’d have the cops right mad, we would! My, they’d be running the streets, on the lookout for tall, mysterious figures such as myself—“

“Doctor? Doctor!”

“—even if I wore goggles, like some of my less-acclaimed colleagues who think they can blend it, they’d still suspect, at that time of day! This is sheer madness. Madness, I say! This world is coming to a head, and I intend very well to be a part of that same—“

“Doctor Rufus, please.”

“—madness.”

“I don’t have time for this.”

“Ahem. Sorry—what?”

“Doctor, everything is in order for the plans this afternoon. The intoxications are ready, and so are the patients. Do we have your clear? Yes or no? Doctor?”

“Well, let’s see here, Jefferson, were the intoxications prepared?”

“That’s what I said.”

“The correct dosage?”

“Perfectly imperfect.”

“Are the specimens ready?”

“Yes.”

“Are you sure?”

“Down to the last chicken.”

“Oh, good, good… well, in that case, I will respectfully give you my–wait, what? Chickens?”

“Yes, sir, All are present and accounted for. Now, if you could please sign that leave of clearance, we could get on with the invasion so—“

“Invasion? I’ll have nothing of the sort! No, no! Chickens? Chickens! I thought I told you we were to use cats!”

“But sir, in your directions, you plainly said—“

“Cats! We were to use cats! Can you imagine if we were to use chickens? To think! Nine hundred ninety nine crazed chickens running loose on the streets of London, wreaking havoc more deadly, more horrific than I had ever dreamed? Why, it’s unspeakable! They must be cats! Much less dangerous, much less effective. Much, much better.”

“But Dr. Rufus, sir, isn’t that what you want? An invasion such as London has never seen? To create the largest, most epic crisis this world has yet to face?”

“Yes, exactly! A crisis, not the end of the world!”

“But in my mind, sir, chickens are a lot less…”

“What’s that you say? My hearing’s failing me. Come again?”

“The chickens, sir. Do we have your clear or not?”

“Absolutely not! Wait…what? I’m sorry, what was it we were talking about, again?”

“The invasion, sir? Of London? Is it a go?”

“Oh yes, yes, of course. Why wouldn’t it be? Continue with the procedure. I shall watch the invasion from my office on the corner of 21st and Carnaby.”

“The telephone booth, sir?”

“Where else?”

“And they say the old man was mad…”

The Band-Aid

I discovered three things recently, all concerning this blog.

First, the usefulness of my writer’s notebook has faded. Last year, I took it with me everywhere, prepared to write down any thoughts and impressions that seemed worthwhile. Still, I only filled half of it because I soon found that while I got a few good pages in, there was too much pressure. Being OCD, I felt like I had to write an entire page on any given thought if I were to write it at all. I turned down countless opportunities to write for this reason alone. Also, writing by hand takes too long. When I get an idea, by the time I 1. find the notebook 2. frantically search for a pen 3. title the entry 4. think of a good start 5. write the idea down, see I’ve already lost it. By the time I accomplish all that my idea has cooled, and what’s the point of writing an old idea? It’s like eating cold soup. Yuck.

Second, I’m starting to get lost in the catacombs of my hard drive every time I go to look for a document. There are simply too many. After I stopped hanging out with my beloved notebook, I started throwing bits and pieces onto random documents and hiding them somewhere impossible to find in my (supposedly) well-organized filing system. So much for that, I can’t ever find a thing.
And third, after getting all depressed because both my notebook AND my computer have failed me, I thought of another great idea. I have a blog, which I never use, that I could dump all my thoughts into instead. The rest is very, very recent history.
So, this being the first (real) post, I felt like some kind of introduction was needed–you know, to ease it into society. All that being said, I think I can move on now.

My youngest brother, Brevin, is the type of kid who is always, always dirty. He spends all day playing outside and has the ultimate farmer’s tan (which is pretty sweet). Also, being the youngest with two older brothers (plus his older sisters, but we don’t bother him much) he usually has a few scrapes or bruises on him at all times. If he didn’t come in screaming every time something happened to him, you’d think he liked getting injured. Really–band-aids are the mark of power for that kid.
Today while laying by him during a movie, I noticed an old band-aid of his was coming off. I asked him if I could remove it and promised I’m do it gently.

The response was immediate. “No.”

“Please?” I begged with puppy-dog eyes.

“No.”
I reached toward his elbow.

“No!! It’s still on!” He grabbed his arm around the band-aid, squirming away from me.
I gave up. There’s no messing with that kid. Fact about Brevin #2.

But as I turned away from my five-year-old brother, I couldn’t help but think how silly it was to hold on to old wounds, and I thought, That’s exactly what everyone in this world is doing right now.

It seems these days that everyone is angry. At others, at themselves. Even at situations they can’t control. Everywhere you look, there is anger lurking.
For those people who affected by what I now think of as a curse, the hatred does not go away easily. Even after it is long gone, they hold on to the grudges, the offenses. In the same why my little brother held onto the band-aid, so ready to fall off and yet for some reason he couldn’t let it go.

I’m not going to say I’m perfect, or completely immune to the world. But I can honestly say that anger is not something holding me down. The thing about it, though, is that I can’t understand those who are affected by it. I can’t fathom why people hold onto grudges their whole lives, why past misunderstandings can haunt someone till they die. For someone who doesn’t need a band-aid, I don’t understand the fear, the anxiety over the prospect of letting one go. Maybe someday I will, but for now I’ll just have to guess at what it would be like.

Would I, like my brother, refuse to tear off an old band-aid?

Intro: The Relocation

I have relocated.

I admit, my time with Wordpress was short-lived, and really rather unfair. But honestly, why hang around when Blogger is clearly superior? I mean, just look at this blog! Adorable.

Plus, there are bonuses. For one thing, I actually like the URL of this blog, and the title. Also, I nearly forgot about my alias Maestro--which I also adore. Much better than Cadere, or whatever French word I googled.

That being said, now comes the large and daunting task of moving in. Granted, it could be worse. Much worse. But still, I have 17 published posts I need to box up and move out, plus several drafts I've been working on. I won't spend any more time on introductions, seeing as it will take me an hour or so, I think I'll just go ahead and repost my first blog entry.

Oh, and for those of you who got here by revisiting our old English debate blog, wondering who the heck Maestro was, welcome. I really couldn't care less whether or not you stay and read my musings, just know that you stumbled upon a domain of potentially boring, potentially brilliant perspectives coming from the mind of a 16-year-old. It's not all that interesting. But then again, maybe it is.

It's all in the perspective of a dreamer.