Discovery

I've discovered the major differences between dancing and singing for me.  Singing gives me energy.  Dancing takes it.  Illogical that singing, which in reality drains energy, leaves me feeling more excited and energetic than before i  originally expended the energy.  it's like... how i recharge myself.  to be happy.  that and nathan.  Random.

This post was made possible by the stark contrast between a dance practice and a singing rehearsal, and by (hopefully) lots of comments from readers like you!

It Breaks My Heart

Tonight i went to the farmers market.  i went on my own (nathan's in san francisco helping his cousin, and i couldn't get a hold of anyone else), so as i predicted i saw quite a smattering of people, none of whom stayed around very long.  Apparently there's some concert going on tonight (at least that's what Brianna told me), so there were tons of people and the air smelled unpleasantly of smoke.

The event which made this rather dull evening mildly thought-provoking was a) a "Slack sighting" (to be explained) and b) talking to Saylor Garymore again.  A "Slack sighting" is my term of endearment for when i see any of my three neighbors, Brooke, Lindsey, and Jeff Slack.  We used to be really close, but as we get older and busy i see them rarely.  Tonight i saw Lindsey, who i was perhaps the closest to.  Though we don't see much of each other, we still have much history (our childhood, which is all of our life right now) together, so it's always pleasant to see her.  

Option (b) was the thought-provoking aspect of the evening.  Saylor Garymore and I, along with Sam Torre, were best friends in third grade.  I'm talking inseparable.  To this day i have many fond memories of building with lego and talking about star wars with them (yes, nathan, those two loved star wars, so i learned a bit at the time).  They were quirky (especially Saylor) and intelligent and fun to be around.  So we were friends.  Since then i haven't seen them much.  Sam and i talk, and Saylor... just sorta disappeared.  We went to different schools, and hung with different people.  I still see them occasionally though.  Tonight I saw Saylor again for perhaps the first time in two or three years.

Earlier this year Sam and I were reminiscing, and with a laugh he categorized the each of us.  "You know Caity, it's strange that we all used to be such good friends, because we're so different now.  You're like, 'the good girl.'  Do your homework and get the grades and all that.  I'm--"  

"You're smart,"  I interjected.

"But lazy,"  he added.  "I could do stuff if i wanted to... but i don't."  I looked at my old friend sadly and couldn't deny it.

"And Saylor?"  I asked.

He laughed "Saylor's the fuck up."

His description seemed overly critical to me, and it branded into my memory.  Then I spoke to him tonight.

A boy I didn't recognize came and sat by me.  I looked at him and was shocked suddenly with recognition.  "Hey Say!" I said, excited to see him after so long.  But... there was something wrong with his eyes.  They were really blood-shot.  Speaking, his words were slurred, and he seemed very, well, dirty and smelly;  occasionally he would seem to forget i was there and say "i want a cigarette."  Or maybe he was so far gone he didn't care.  I hadn't realized before how far he'd fallen.  The bright, charming boy i remembered was gone, drowning in God knows what kind of hell.  I wish i could have thought of something to say, to remind him who he was, to show him the repulsive creature he'd become....  

But I just smiled sadly at him, trying to convey everything i couldn't find words for to say to the stranger who was once my closest friend.  He didn't see.

It breaks my heart.

Too Much

I've spent the past 7 hours at dance camp.  We had a half hour for lunch, and a few water breaks, but other than that it was straight working, including running and intensive stretches.  So basically i've been dancing for 6 hours straight.  I'm already getting sore -- i know that i'll feel really healthy by the end of this week... but right now i feel like crap.  Meh.  More exhausted than crappy.  Grr.  I could have spent this week at Church Camp, but then there was also the conflict with our family vacation... I was planning to use this afternoon to do some of my science homework, but it's my parents anniversary so i want to help make dinner and i'm so tired on top of that i just want to collapse on the couch....

Hm.  Do you ever feel like there's not enough time?  Not a moment to lose! No time to be idle!  Life has so much to offer, but you have to pick your priorities, maintain the precarious balance between happily busy and overload.  Yet it's important to take down time too.  Time to relax and to rethink things, to give your body and mind a break.  But every minute spent being lazy is a minute not spent doing....

*Sigh*

I know I can't do everything.

But I sure want to.

GAH!

Home At Last

Good evening!

I'm back from faraway travels, and the monotony of everyday tasks haven't completely sunk in yet; i haven't put much effort into cleaning my catastrophic bedroom, i haven't responded to any of the letters and calls which i'm obligated to return, and i've actually taken the past two days (one on the plane, and then early this morning) to read a book non school-related.  Hallelujah!  i'm actually doing pretty good on that scale -- i've finished reading all three summer reads, now i just have to finish all the damn projects and memorization....

Because i'm lazy and the jet lag hit me not too long ago (sorry if i seemed tired Nathan -- I am), and being tired gives me memory/cognitive thought loss, i'm going to start by describing yesterday at the airport, which was perhaps the most epic thing on the whole trip (other than initially missing our flight, taking a boat ride under Niagara Falls, traversing about the alleys of Quebec and trying unsuccessfully to converse in French, seeing the Second City comedy club in Toronto, staying in a magical old house in Burlington, and being doused in unpredictable showers all over Vermont) other than all that, the airport is perhaps the most memorable thing on the whole trip!

We entered the San Francisco airport at 9:35 in the evening, and despite the hours of sitting which usually serve to exhaust, i felt surprisingly lucid.  I sang show tunes (people looked at me as if i were a lunatic) and bounced joyfully, completely in my own little world.  However lucid (almost giddy) i felt, i would not have predicted a full-on hallucination as one of the symptoms, which is why i was surprised to see Danny Wyrick and Cody Cox talking on the other side of the baggage claim terminal.  As i walked over to them and their features didn't melt away, it became clear that this was no illusion -- then I saw Jenna Wyrick and some of her family, and i recalled that Danny and Jenna went on a tour of Europe.  What luck that we'd come into the same airport, at the same time...

"Hey guys!"

"Hey Caity! What're you doing here?"

"I came to greet Danny and Jenna at the airport of course!"

"Really?!"

"No, of course not.  i just got off a flight -- i'm coming back from a trip to Canada."

And so our conversation continued.  I inquired after their trip, met Jenna's sister Claire for the first time, and bubbled excitedly as Jenna had the exact opposite, and more common reaction -- exhaustion.  Eventually I saw that my parents had picked up some of our bags, so i wished them well and said i'd see them when school started, and headed back to the baggage wheel.  

As I sat along the edge of the wheel (which you're not supposed to do but everyone does anyway) i was struck by pangs of familiarity.  The last time I'd been here was at the very end of the Orlando Band trip -- I'd sat at this very terminal with Nathan, my Nathan, before i could even hope that i would ever be able to call him my Nathan....  The feeling continued as we traveled down the sidewalk.  He'd been on my mind the whole trip, and not only as i wrote an extensive letter of my travels to him.  He was there when I laughed, as I talked to strangers and to my family, as I read a sign or tripped ungracefully.  Everywhere, all the time.  His presence haunted my thoughts, coloring my experiences with what i imagined would be his reactions. I realized in that moment how much he's influenced my every thought, my every action, and how much i rely on that influence, how much it's changed me.  And there's no going back, no undoing his change; his influence will forever hold some part in my self-guidance, (as some part of the lessons from the past always remain with us). Some lessons do us good, some don't; he's changed me.  And whatever happens to us in the future, I think he's changed me for the better. :)

Well!  It's late.  The clock tells me it's 10:21, but on East Coast time that's 1:30, and i woke up very early, so more delving into the innermost workings of my soul will just have to wait until later.  Ado, ado, parting is such sweet sorrow...

(ps. i took the photo of the flowers in a little garden in Burlington Vermont, at the back of the place where we were staying.  it was magical there -- if you want to see more, i'll be uploading pics to my facebook shortly)

Bonjour!!!

Salut mes amis!
Comme ca va?
(i'm typing on a strange french keyboard which probably has some way to do accent marks, but i'll be damned if i can figure them out)

above is my pitiful attempt at french. i learned from simmerly. haha. "learned" is completely inappropriate in that statement. but i'm picking up quite a bit down here -- everyone is bilingual! or they only speak french -- it's pretty dominant down here. for those of you who i (or nathan) haven't told about my trip, i'm writing to you from Quebec City, Canada.

it's so artsy and beautiful! there's art incorporated into everything, and the flowers. oh the flowers!
je t'aime le fleurs
i probably wrote that wrong. i'm only in french one, okay?

we (mum, dad, and i) were walking down this steep hill after a tour of the Parliament building (which, by the way, is much more interesting than american Parliament. DC is not nearly this fascinating). there was a girl, about the age of 8, selling lemonade. now, she wasn't an amateur; this girl was hard core. we watched her squeeze the lemon, add half a bowl full of sugar, and a ton of water. she wasn't selling a dixie cup -- this was in like one of those tall cups you get at starbucks. i gotta tell you, that was the best damn lemonade i've ever had.
i remember doing a lemonade stand with my neighbors when i was little. not nearly that fancy -- i think we sold dixie cups for a quarter. and the only people who bought from us were other neighbors (our street is fairly inopportune for customers). one of my neighbors, though, came over and said "i'll give you $5 if you fill up my thermos." he used up the last of the lemonade, and we got 5 dollars. between three girls all below the age of 6, this was a fortune.
good times.

haha. i'm in an internet cafe. the song"power of love" just started playing. reminds me of you nathan.
love all! be back full of tales soon,
Caity

I'll fly away...

i saw my sister for the last time for the next few months this morning.  then i went to my youth groups car wash (my feet were tattooed with grime by the end of it) and this evening my dad and i went to see "Hell Boy 2."  Us and half of Sonoma.  i ran into so many people i know! it was a good movie too.  i suppose i should elaborate.  meh.  i really don't feel like it right now.

i'm going to the airport tomorrow morning.

i love you nathan.

i miss you.

see you all in two weeks!!!

let's make this fast...

right, it's late (for me at least.  stop gawking you night owls) and i want to call nathan, so i'm only going to give a quick recap of my day:

i "visited" musical theater camp today.  basically i was a camper for one day without paying.  i was the lead source of vocal knowledge, and i got some fun dance instruction.  plus i busted out some fantabulous No Good Deed.  it was passionate; you shoulda been there.  i also saw some fun peoples, namely nick pimentel who i don't see on a regular basis, and just hanging with him for one day made me remember why i liked him so much.  enthusiastic child.  then there was sarah summers and anna, who lives in san francisco, and michael... and a bunch of new peoples! anyways, the whole camp was wonderful and i have to go next year.

water pics are strange and get water everywhere.  damn technology.  stupid wisdom teeth.

scrapbooking is so much more fun with the potential of all those photos and all those lovely stickers!!!  nathan, i've three pages dedicated to you.  just thought i'd stroke your ego a bit. 

i just became friends with nick brown on facebook.  this amuses me to no end a) because i've never met him and b) because i know him through alissa and i've never even really met alissa (except for about two seconds at a band concert, which doesn't count because we didn't talk)  yay for social networking!

i feel i've been reminiss in my blog commenting... i actually spent very little of today on the internet! yay! accomplishment.

so much for keeping it quick.  triangle.  arg! i need to stop doing that. 

The Choice

Here is a glimpse into my philosophy, something that is ever growing.  I've discovered that when I write about why I do things I can identify whether what I do is something I should change.  This is one which made the cut.  Perhaps my reasoning will mean something to you; perhaps you'll better appreciate someone who shares their happiness with the world, perhaps you'll find yourself smiling more.  Happiness is a choice as simple as a smile.

***

"Ah," she sighed, smiling slightly, "that makes me happy."

He rolled his eyes.  "Everything makes you happy."

She watched him for a moment then responded.  "No, not everything makes me happy.  I get angry and sad and frustrated like everyone else.  I just always try to smile, even when I'm upset."

"Why?"

Again she took a moment to think.  "Well, you never know what other people may be going through.  Maybe someone really needs a smile, even more than you need to frown.  Not smiling would be kind of selfish of me.  What right have I to make other people miserable just because I'm having a crappy day?"

i miss you

am staring mindlessly at computer screen.

16 days.

it's not that long.

not long at all.

shit.

i miss him already.

ps. in other news, congratulations el bitz! because i'm snoopy and everyone loves a good romance, i need to hear the whole story :)

Confessions From Cupid part 2

Love is a tender affection which surpasses the vapid emotions of every day life and arises in the quieter moments of appreciation.  That is when it is most acutely felt, a wild tenderness that makes the senses tingle -- but it is always there.  In the little things we do each day; a gesture, a smile.  Love is an undercurrent, a rhythm to which we live. -- Feb. 14

***

I want someone who loves me.  I want someone I can be crazy about.  Someone I can make bad jokes with and not feel self-conscious around.  Someone to laugh with and talk to forever.  To hold and be held by.  To appreciate, to get excited about, to be ridiculous with.  To love.

***

I wrote that above bit on February 18, 2008.  One month before I met Nathan.  It's interesting to see how reality compares with fantasy, when I'd been curious about what makes any relationship work for so long.  For me, the reality of being in his arms is better than any person I could have imagined. :)

Conversations With Myself

a) I use a chain of reasoning and conclusive arguments to prove points of philosophical, speculative, and opinionated subject matter.  What kind of a person am I?

b) Why shouldn't philosophy be supported by reason?  Why can't matters of faith be argued reasonably?

a) Reason defeats the purpose of faith.  If matters of faith can be proved then it's not faith.

b) Faith is supported by a different kind of reason.  People who have faith in something aren't crazy, they just use their own form of reasoning to draw conclusions which perhaps can't be proved chemically.

c) You think too much.

Where's the Line?

Waking up this morning was very odd.  I was sort of partially awake and asleep enough to still think my dream was real.  In my dream... I was riding my bike... no, not my bike, it was a different bike... anyways, I rode down to Mirabel.  There was some kind of family reunion... it was very realistic, for all the furnature was as it was after Granddad died, almost as if this were the get-together after his funeral.  Even the huge oak tree, which was there most of my childhood, was cut down (they cut down the tree right before they sold the house).  Numerous family members were there.  Ginny came down the long flight of stairs and gave me flowers... they were roses, very dark red, but they were dried, not alive, and the branches were arranged in this weird pattern....  For some reason I was under the impression she gave me flowers every time I saw her.  

As I began to wake up I started to make plans to thank her.  Took me a while to decipher between what was and wasn't real.  It made me realize -- the line between fiction and reality is so thin.  We call people crazy who are "seeing things," yet we pass into imagination every night in our sleep, we linger on it during day-dreams and even memories.  All that separates the common man from "insanity" is the ability to wake up, to come to grips with what's accepted as "real."  But what is reality?  I think I exist, but how do I know I exist?  Maybe I'm an advanced computer simulation for some creative creature in a 10-dimensional world.  "I think therefore I am" only goes so far.  Maybe I'm a though with thoughts in an almighty thinker.  Maybe all I know and all I am is the fleeting imagination of a giants dream. 

Gah.  I'm wandering.  "Maybe this" and "maybe that."  Whatever I "think,"  I have no way of deciphering existence; pondering and ranting will not change the state of the universe.  meh. this post is insanity... my apologies if it makes no sense...

The Schoolyard Conflict part 2

Right.  I just woke up from an hours nap after a fun but exhausting day at the beach with the Scotts and youth group, which I hadn't been to in FOREVER.  Funness.  So.  I really want to finish this story.  So I'll get on with it.

***

The last week of eighth grade was crazy.  For the month of June our teachers had desperately been trying to keep us working, but with summer in sight their efforts were hopeless.  The last Monday of eighth grade year was blissful and fun, filled with lounging in the sunlit grass in front of Mrs. Robert's computer classroom.  For me it was the calm before the whirlwind of events that was to come.  I was singing our graduation song, and Mrs. Taylor and I still hadn't met to cut it back ("Wear Sunscreen, " a five minute monologue on music, needed to be cut down to less than three minutes).  My sister, who I hadn't seen in months, was coming back from Washington for my graduation and the months of June and July.  My rabbit Blackberry, a tiny, mean little ball of fuzz who I loved and had had since third grade, was dying.  And I had three days left of going to school at Altimira Middle School with Mrs. Roberts and Hannah.

Tuesday dawned bright and early.  Mrs. Taylor took us to Stanford, and the best and mot memorable thing about the whole trip was swimming in one of the large fountains which are all over campus.  Afterword, with the help of Mrs. Purtel, I found a copy of the background music for "Wear Sunscreen" and burned it on a CD.  Wednesday Ginny was home, but I only saw her for a moment in the morning before rushing to school.  The day, spent at Marine World, was unmemorable for me until the evening when Dad told me that Blackberry was put to sleep.  Later that day I got in an argument with my parents.  That night I cried myself to sleep from sadness and exhaustion.

On Thursday morning I vowed not to cry.  Graduation should be a happy day, I told myself.  Project joy, wear a smile, and save tears for the ceremony, where they're more appropriate.  Pooling all my strength into a warm ball of fire I mentally viewed burning under my collar bone, I walked on campus.  No sooner had I passed the ALTIMIRA sign than Mrs. Taylor popped her head out of the office and said in a curt, anger-suppressed voice, "Caity could you come in here for a moment."  It wasn't a request.  Hardening my wavering resolve I nodded and followed her into a small office inside the building.  When I stepped into that little room, I was nervous.  My premonition was confirmed a moment later as my formerly silent English teacher let her disgruntlement be know.

I don't remember exactly what was said.  It's been kind of a touchy subject for me for the past year, and this is the first time I've had the strength to recall the details in order to write about it.  In general the situation consisted of Mrs. Taylor shouting loaded questions at me and then cutting me off before I could answer.  Mrs. Smith, the friendly staff member who Mrs. Taylor had called to witness her questioning (the purpose of which I was soon to discover), was watching us with a mixture of apprehension and pity.

"Have you cut your song?" demanded Mrs. Taylor.

"No, I thought-"

"You haven't cut it yet?  Must I do everything?  It's not even a real song!  I listened to it last night, and there's no real singing!"

      "I told you when I picked it out that it was a monologue on music and asked if it was okay to-"

"Don't get so defensive," she barked, sounding more like a pissed-off teenager in a bickering fight than an adult, waving her hands in emphasis.  I wanted to say 'I wouldn't be so defensive if you weren't attacking me!'  Bit my small ball of fire had turned to ice and was quickly melting, the evidence welling up in my eyes.  I've never been able to stand up to a yelling adult.

"Do you have another song you could sing tonight?" Mrs. Smith inquired cautiously.  Avoiding the hostile form of Mrs. Taylor I gazed at Mrs. Smith.  Although I had managed to hold my tears in my eyes, my voice wavered and cracked.

"I ca-can't do another song.  I've been p-practicing Wear Sunscreen...."

"Can you cut it today?"  Mrs. Smith asked.  Not trusting my voice I nodded.  Mrs. Taylor made an incredulous "Phf."

"M-may I leave?"  I asked Mrs. Smith stiffly.  The urge to cry was nearly overwhelming.  

"Yeah," she answered with a reassuring smile, and I was out the door.  My eyes were blurry with the suppressed tears but still I didn't cry; I needed a secluded place.

On my way up to the back wall of the A-wing Tiffany ran out of Mrs. Taylor's classroom. She was beaming and carrying a large poster.

"Caity, we're making a poster for Mrs. T.  Do you want to sign it?"  She looked at my face and faltered for a moment.  "Hey, are you okay?"

I plastered on a smile and nodded, still reluctant to speak lest my voice betray me.  The words "Best Teacher Ever" were scrawled in large red marker at the top of the page, surrounded by signatures and messages in varying colors.  Tiffany offered me a pen.  Looking back I still don't know if I did the right thing.  My mind was buzzing with heartache and anger, and I was filled with the spiteful urge to turn in disgust.  But Tiffany, though she wasn't my favorite person, really could be nice, and she was looking at me with such excitement and hope... my head echoed with the words "don't do anything you'll regret."  However repulsed I felt at that moment, I wouldn't take Tiffany's happiness in her hero for the sake of my own pain and want for vengeance.  I took the pen and signed "Caity."  No message, no last name.  Just "Caity."

I sobbed behind the A-wing for a bit.  Cried for all my insecurities, problems, fears, and for my anger at Mrs. Taylor and myself.  But mostly I just cried.

Some people look good after they cry; some people you can't even tell they've been upset.  I'm not one of those people.  You can tell for hours after that I've cried; it takes a while for my hot, rose-red blush to fade, and my eyes get puffy and sticky with tears that won't leave.  So it was no surprise when exclamations of "Oh, Caity!" were sounded as I entered Mrs. Purtel's classroom.  What was strange was that there were no calls of "whats wrong?"  as I had expected.  Instead I received a round of hugs from my friends, and an orange-and-white handmade bow to go with my graduation dress.  It wasn't until I had finished cutting down "Wear Sunscreen" that I realized everyone thought I had been crying about graduation.  I started laughing insanely and then nearly started crying again (my emotions were in a sort of crazy-limbo so just about anything could set me off).  Thank goodness for Mrs. Purtel and Kristina Toni.  Mrs. Purtel for her cheerfulness and the for the bow, Kristina for holding my hand.

The day passed quickly after that, mostly because I didn't see Mrs. Taylor.  There was one incident at rehearsal before I was going to sing -- Bella Baxter came over and gave me a CD.

"What's this?" I asked her.

"Mrs. Taylor gave it to me to give to you.  She said it's for your song."

I looked at the CD with disgust.  She yells at me about how lazy I am and then doesn't even listen to hear what I've done.  I tried to give it back to Bella, but she was already involved in something else.  I didn't want or need her disk for her help, and I wanted her to know it.  I thought over what I was going to say, and approached Mrs. Taylor with the CD.  I couldn't even look at her face, so I directed my statement at her torso.

"Thank you for the CD, but I don't need it."

Graduation was fun and sad.  There was lots of good-bye-ing, especially with teachers and Hannah, who wouldn't be going to SVHS.  But even though I expected, even slightly wanted, to cry, I didn't.  I guess I just didn't have any tears left in supply.  That's probably for the best -- I look awful when I cry.

The Schoolyard Conflict part 1

Yes! After a half hour of frustrated searching I finally found my February Diary.  For all of you who weren't in Mrs. Dillon's 9th grade English class, this is a journal we kept throughout the month of February, full of writing about... whatever.  For my part I wrote out memories and dreams and thoughts about life... basically everything this blog should be.  I was looking for it to share a certain poem of mine which I particularly like, but upon finding and rereading it I've discovered a story which most friends of mine have heard only in pieces.  A year has past since these events occurred, and looking back now they seem so insignificant, but I know that for months of my life these memories haunted me and affected everything I did.  So perhaps they are relevant.  For those of you who were there, this is how I felt.  For those of you who weren't, these are the preoccupations of an eighth grade girl.  I hope this will answer any remaining questions.

***

My feelings for Mrs. Taylor are... disgust, possibly?  It's hard to put into words.  It was so bad last year, especially in that last week of school, with the talent show and graduation... I hate getting yelled at.  Most of my dislike for her is fairly well justified (at least in my mind...) but my complete bitterness?  My hate?  I know she has good qualities which should sway my judgement; yet I hardly understand myself as I surely do hate her.  Rationally I should consider what she's done for me, but my uncontrollable passions skip the trial and go straight to a guilty verdict.  But whoever said hate is rational?  Nobody, and if they did they'd be wrong.  Maybe that's why I'm so sensitive on the topic of my eighth grade English teacher.  Because I know that I hate her and I know that hatred isn't the rational course, and my emotions won't let me do anything about it.  And that scares me.

I suppose the last week of school should be a fun week, especially for the graduation class.  Sad, maybe, a nostalgic week, but enjoyable none the less.  Not for me.  It was hell week for me.

The worst of it started on the Friday before the last week (six days from graduation, as we graduated on a Thursday).  It was the talent show.  In hindsight, I don't regret doing the talent show because I did have some pretty good times with friends.  But at the time, I felt like dying in a hole somewhere.  For my number I needed a microphone to be heard all over the auditorium.  Mrs. Taylor brought me a chair.  I suppose in the confusion backstage it wasn't unreasonable for her to mistake "microphone" for "chair."  And maybe I deserved the blunt and irritated "Don't get snippy with me missy" which my teacher and director curtly growled at me before the curtain opened, with me trying to project as best I could.  All I know is I left that stage ashamed, soon crying in a closet as Mrs. Taylor came to give us feed back from the crowd. "I'm gonna be honest with you.  Tiffany is getting a great response; people are really impressed and think you're doing wonderfully.  Good job.  Caity, Sarah, Eletra -- more energy.  You could really put in a bit more effort.  That's not coming from me -- that's just what the audience thinks."

After the final show was over and I had calmed down a bit, the day got better.  For a while.  Mrs.  Taylor told us that we could hang out until the end of the school day, and as this was the first time I was in the talent show, I thought that this was just a perk for the participants. Rosie, Kristina, and I sat outside in the grass in front of the office, talking and joking.  Mr. Peters (Principal or vice Principal at the time, I don't know) walked by and gave us a weird look, but he just continued on to Mrs. Taylor's classroom.  We continued laughing and lounging until he came out a few minutes later and asked us not quite incredulously "Girls, why aren't you in class?"

"We're in the talent show," we responded, as if this answered the question.

"And?" he asked, gesturing for us to continue.

"And Mrs. Taylor  said we didn't have to go back to class."

"That's not what she says."

"What?" the three of us chorused, his response like a slap in the face.   "That's not what she told us."  What should you feel when someone you respect and trust lies about you to cover their butt for breaking the rules?  That was Mrs. Taylor's thing, breaking the rules.  Playing the rebel.  Only when the consequences came around did she shirk the responsibility.  And someone else would suffer for her.  What did I feel?  Betrayal, certainly.  And a bit of disgust.

Mr. Peters perhaps detected our nervous distress, or maybe he knew we were good students and wouldn't ditch class, at least not to hang out in front of the office if we did.  In any case, he quickly told us, "Don't worry, I'm sure there was just a misunderstanding.  You just need to check in with your teachers and let them know you're not absent."  He smiled reassuringly and walked back toward the office as Rosie, Kristina, and I scampered off to talk to our teachers and discuss what had just happened.

***

There's certainly more to the story, but I have to stop here (have to go on errands with mum). Tune in later to hear the exciting conclusion of the schoolyard conflict!  Sorry, I just had a burst of inspiration and I wanted to sound like a corny radio broadcaster. :)

Got to go.

Food For Thought part 1

"A secret never to be told"

"It's not a word I can put into feelings"

"I know there's nothing worth having that doesn't come at a cost"

Fourth of July Memories

(Creative title, I know:)

I have mixed feelings about the fourth of July -- this is one holiday I've had some bad experiences with.  I just woke up from another 2-hour nap after coming back from the plaza to watch my singing group perform without me (wisdom teeth :d), so I'm a little disoriented, but I shall attempt to recall some experiences to... entertain you?  Meh.  Maybe you'll be entertained. Maybe you'll care.  Maybe you won't.  *Shrugs.* It's just something I feel like writing about.

There were several years which I know existed but have absolutely no recollection of how I spent the 4th.  They tend to blend all together....  The generic of the event around my house is street fireworks on the 3rd, which are always fun because I get to see people from all around that I don't see often (and because being so close to the fireworks is just awesome!), occasionally the parade on the plaza in the morning, my next-door neighbors little party, and then firewoks in the evening.  The fireworks are the most important to me.  They're just so... magical.  But that's a story for another day.

The first fourth of July I "remember" (it's one of those early memories that people told me happened, but I only have a vague consciousness of) is when I was about four, and my mom pulled me around the plaza in the parade in a little red wagon.  That was such a big deal *a soft smile of nostalgia lights my face.*  That one was okay.

When I was about eight we were passing through Oregon on the 4th and stopped to visit my mom's friend Katie Bar -- she was a teacher mum had worked with down here, but in a tragic car accident her husband and her 2-year-old daughter were both killed, and she moved after that.  It was nice to see her -- she was always a friendly woman -- but it was also a little, well, strange.  She kept talking about her family as if they were just out at the store and were coming home any moment.  The shock was still in. It'd been about a year since the accident at that point.  We didn't really celebrate that year -- I think we saw fireworks with some of mum's second cousins, but it wasn't particularly exciting.

The best year I've had with the 4th was the summer after sixth grade.  Shakespeare Camp happened to be the week with the 4th in the middle of it, and we kind of unofficially arranged to get in the parade.  Aka we ran into the middle of the street at a place where there was a big gap.  That was my first Shakespeare year, and we were doing Romeo and Juliet -- we sword-fought, ran around spouting Shakespeare lines, just had a blast.  Ahhh... that was the best.

Three years ago I arranged to meet my friend Mecca on the plaza at a random statue.  I hadn't seen her in about a year, so I was really jazzed to see her.  I went there; I think I even got there early, I was so excited.  I waited.  

I waited.

I waited.

I think I waited there for about 45 minutes, perhaps the whole hour.  When it became painfully clear she wasn't coming I wandered off.  That was the first time I'd been stood up.  That was also one of the first times I'd ever arranged to meet someone alone, so I really had no idea how to handle myself.  I was surrounded by happy people, kids and adults laughing and talking, and all I wanted to do was crawl in a corner and cry.  Surrounded by people, I felt completely alone. Mum wasn't supposed to pick me up for hours, (and I hadn't at that time learned the useful skill of being able to approach a stranger) so I was sort of stranded.  Biting back tears, I tried to walk purposefully through the crowd.  I'll take the bike path home.  I can make it home before mum comes to pick me up, and that way I can be alone. 

Fortunately, that's not what happened.  On my march through queues and scattered groups of people milling about, I ran into Linda, my youth group leader.  "Hey Miss Caity," she greeted me brightly.  "How're you?  Who're you with?"

I mumbled that I was alone.

"Oh, well, why don't you stick with us?"  She gestured at a little area on the corner where I noticed her husband Kim, her mother, and nearby Justin and Shane (her sons).  I looked at her. Why shouldn't I?  I thought defiantly.  I came down here to see the parade -- here's the perfect chance! Linda saved me that day, and taught me one of numerous lessons I was busily stumbling into during my Revelation.   Any situation can be made positive with the right attitude, and it's always important to be friendly and inviting, for you never know who could benefit from your own happiness.  Optimism isn't difficult.  And it's contagious :)

Where The Water-Lilies Drift

"People have different ways of expressing goodness; some people do good and then tell anybody who'll listen, and even some that won't, what good they've done.  Heck, some only do good to hear their own name being praised -- half of the stuff those folks say ain't true, it's just pompous exaggeration.  Then there're other folks who don't talk so loud, or nay at all (though those are a rare few).  They're the best kind, young 'un.  They are the sort who don't do good for the sake of glory, they do it to genuinely help.  Some of them at least, though some of them do it to appease their conscience. "

"But grandma, if you're only doing good to please yourself, then aren't you just as bad or worse than those who do good to please others?"

"No, darlin', no.  The loud ones who proclaim their greatness don't do so for the benefit of others.  They want to prove that they're better than other people, to be praised like the peacock with his tail of beautiful feathers.  They seek earthly praise to quench their pride, not heavenly guidance to keep them doing right.  That's what a conscience is darlin'.  It's a little piece of God speaking in us.  Those that fulfill the wishes of their conscience may not have the easiest path, or be the loudest praised, but people will admire their goodness, and even more their silence. The point is that they do the right thing because they know it's right, no matter what.  Even when it seems there is no right thing, listening to one's conscience allows those few honest folks to keep at peace with themselves.  Integrity has its own rewards -- perhaps not the flashiest ones, but certainly the most deserved.  Youngin', when you do good, be one of the quiet ones."

Confessions From Cupid part 1

His skin and hair are dark, his body lean and masculine.  Everyday he arrives at school in a classical plaid sweater, Irish hat, and khaki pants.  Occasionally the pants are black or he wears a jacket over the sweater, but he always looks like he stepped out of a twentieth century British golf tournament.  Of all the people I know he's the only one I would be thoroughly shocked to see in jeans and a t-shirt.  Despite all this, he has a sort of rugged handsomeness.  Strangest of all, though, has got to be his smile.  It's so... contrasting.  His lips part ever so slightly, and his eyes gaze into some unseen world.  He looks as you might expect a retarded child to look, smiling with simplicity and contentment, unaware of social edginess. Almost indecently personal, as if you're seeing something too honest to be true.

"...i wake up to the sound of music..."

I know this is the 3rd post today, but since i've just started this blog i figure i ought to get a few posts in, especially since i have time, which is something i don't often have to spend friviously. 

And no, the title is not just a random phrase (can you name that song?), though i may be doing that in the future when i'm bored; it actually applies to the event of me waking up from my overwhelmed bodies drug-induced nap.  Someone (I thought it would be my sister, but it turned out to be my mom's friend Anne) was playing the piano, and although my walls are supposedly sound-proof, it's quite audible in my room.  It was kinda nice though, almost classy, to wake up to live piano. Right.

I was looking through my planner from... last year?  Or do i still say this year?  Freshman year, anyway, and i discovered several interesting exerpts and quotes which i will attempt to integrate into this blog, just for kicks and giggles.  :)

Three Cups of Tea

Hate is not the province of one race, it is a blight sprung from the ubiquitous and unforgiving sources of poverty and ignorance.  Poverty and ignorance are found everywhere; if we must point fingers let it be at them.  Mankind as a people must identify these causes and unite to take productive steps against them, there is no alternative with a peaceful ending.  Hate breeds more hate.  The only remedy is this -- to share learning and love, abandoning all prejudicial assumptions.

-- my response to "Three Cups of Tea" by Greg Mortenson and David Oliver Relin

#1

ooh! this is exciting. okay, i've officially created a blog. this is mostly because my face hurts (having your wisdom teeth out does that) and i have nothing better to do, but hey, you never know, it could turn into something interesting. first, however, i have to figure out how to show it to people. or i could just not tell anyone, which would be a bit like talking to myself. which i do a lot, so that would be boring. no, i think i'd like an audience to my cyber-rants. yes. that sounds good. mwahahahahahahahaha
this post is an example of the side effects of pain-meds on the teenage mind. i wonder what i'll say next? wow, that was a lame statement. hmm. so was that. so was that. so was that
(this could go on for hours, so brace yourself).
hi nathan!
i love you!!!
(you're basically the only person who's interested in reading this, so i felt like saying hi)
and if you're not nathan, or even nathan if you care to explain, why in the world are you reading this? my posts from now on hopefully won't be as pointless, however this one is about as pointless as a myspace survey. pointless pointless pointless
yep. i'm definitely doped up.