Night Shade Chronicle--An Introduction
By Diamante Maldonado (9/8/14)
Entries run Chronologically from oldest to new, for the latest entries scroll down as needed, thank you-Nightshade
Live Editing is in Progress and has been since October 10 this notice will be removed when Live editing has ended- Nightshade
Introduction to Nightshade Chronicles:
When I first began writing Nightshade Chronicles it was intended for teenagers in high school, which was my place in life when I started the project. This body of work was meant to record my experience of high school, specifically Co-op, during rather than post. I didn’t want it to just cover the academic side of high school either. Its purpose was to include my observations of the goings-on here, my own life, and the world. That is why some entries include events that were going on in the world at the time that the entry in question was written.
As time went on, I came to feel as though Nightshade Chronicles shouldn’t just be geared toward adolescents anymore; I wanted Nightshade Chronicles to have at least one thing that someone, anyone, could relate to, however small. That is why the entries use “you” as a general term of address, so that it can feel inclusive for anyone who may be reading it at the time. Readers are welcome to look back on their own past or current experiences as they read, as if they were having a conversation with me.
The entries were also not to be edited in any way other than to correct grammatical errors and the like. I felt that the entries ought to remain as true to the moment I wrote them in as possible. I could have gone back and edited the content of the entries for any number of reasons, but I decided to keep the integrity of those moments’ lives as they were. That is why some entries have added features; the first two entries, for example, have vignettes.
The formatting for Nightshade Chronicles, particularly the use of symbols, originated from an assignment Ms. Englart, editor of Nightshade Chronicles and my Creative Writing teacher, gave us when I was a sophomore. She wanted us to choose a symbol that we thought represented us or a specific moment in time. The formatting for the assignment was pretty open ended other than that, but I liked the idea of attaching a symbol to a moment and that was a central part of the formatting. The rest of it takes on the form of a journal because, in my opinion, it is a good, clean way of keeping a record and giving it another personal touch.
A lot of things were covered in Nightshade Chronicles and surely as I go though life, I will think of even more things I wish I could’ve included long after the pen finally stops scratching out these pages. A few topics that were covered were as small as test anxiety and the challenges of A.P. classes to larger, more complex topics like lost trust, the end of long-term friendships, phobias, and cancer. The world at large, both in a current events sense and though personal observations of society, is also discussed. Some of these entries include: same sex marriage, Black Lives Matter, sexism, and capitalism. The feeling of writing something as large and expansive as I wanted Nightshade Chronicles to be has been both a daunting and exciting experience that has ultimately led to a considerable amount of growth. This growth came in both a practical and personal sense. The practical growth I found in gradually becoming able to edit my own work. Framing my work using proper grammar was a skill of mine that definitely needed polishing before Nightshade Chronicles. By the latter portion of writing Nightshade Chronicles I was, more often than not, commandeering Ms. Englart’s computer so that I could edit my own entry during our conferences; I really didn’t need much help anymore. In the personal sense, I found Nightshade Chronicles to be a kind of outlet, a space to put some of the practical and emotional cargo of my day-to-day life. It was a dock where I could leave that cargo to handle the rush of the world before returning to it at a later date. It allowed me to say “it’s okay” to feel this bad about something that’s going on in life. Someone may say you’re overreacting, and for some things, yeah, remember to breathe, but no one should be able to limit how much you feel. The mantra “let it go” or the similar “move on” has never worked for me. How I feel emotionally about something will hang around with me, probably for a really long time, if not always. I am not the type that “lets it go.” I just learn to carry the weight differently. I resonate with the quote by Lou Holtz: “it’s not the load that breaks you down; it’s the way you carry it.” That’s what I try to be more like emotionally. Maybe the “let it go” method is easier for some people, but it rarely works for me; believe me, I’ve tried. There are days where old feelings will demand to be felt again, even feelings that are years old, and that’s okay. If you’re in touch with yourself, you know when it’s time to return to the dock and sift through the cargo.
The freedom that my Co-op Publishing House (CPH) class offers has been a wonderful means for Nightshade Chronicles to flourish. It has offered me the flexibility and understanding of time that I needed for such a large project as this, but also in general. CPH is a great venue for passion projects that people wish to pursue and be continually stimulated by until they feel the project has come full circle. The student is given the role of creator and therefore becomes omnipotent--from creating the direction of the project, to its appearance, to how it sounds, to completion.
With that, I hope that any and all who choose to read Nightshade Chronicles can find some comfort, strength, connection, or other positive takeaway from its pages.
Happy reading.
By Diamante Maldonado (9/8/14)
Entries run Chronologically from oldest to new, for the latest entries scroll down as needed, thank you-Nightshade
Live Editing is in Progress and has been since October 10 this notice will be removed when Live editing has ended- Nightshade
Introduction to Nightshade Chronicles:
When I first began writing Nightshade Chronicles it was intended for teenagers in high school, which was my place in life when I started the project. This body of work was meant to record my experience of high school, specifically Co-op, during rather than post. I didn’t want it to just cover the academic side of high school either. Its purpose was to include my observations of the goings-on here, my own life, and the world. That is why some entries include events that were going on in the world at the time that the entry in question was written.
As time went on, I came to feel as though Nightshade Chronicles shouldn’t just be geared toward adolescents anymore; I wanted Nightshade Chronicles to have at least one thing that someone, anyone, could relate to, however small. That is why the entries use “you” as a general term of address, so that it can feel inclusive for anyone who may be reading it at the time. Readers are welcome to look back on their own past or current experiences as they read, as if they were having a conversation with me.
The entries were also not to be edited in any way other than to correct grammatical errors and the like. I felt that the entries ought to remain as true to the moment I wrote them in as possible. I could have gone back and edited the content of the entries for any number of reasons, but I decided to keep the integrity of those moments’ lives as they were. That is why some entries have added features; the first two entries, for example, have vignettes.
The formatting for Nightshade Chronicles, particularly the use of symbols, originated from an assignment Ms. Englart, editor of Nightshade Chronicles and my Creative Writing teacher, gave us when I was a sophomore. She wanted us to choose a symbol that we thought represented us or a specific moment in time. The formatting for the assignment was pretty open ended other than that, but I liked the idea of attaching a symbol to a moment and that was a central part of the formatting. The rest of it takes on the form of a journal because, in my opinion, it is a good, clean way of keeping a record and giving it another personal touch.
A lot of things were covered in Nightshade Chronicles and surely as I go though life, I will think of even more things I wish I could’ve included long after the pen finally stops scratching out these pages. A few topics that were covered were as small as test anxiety and the challenges of A.P. classes to larger, more complex topics like lost trust, the end of long-term friendships, phobias, and cancer. The world at large, both in a current events sense and though personal observations of society, is also discussed. Some of these entries include: same sex marriage, Black Lives Matter, sexism, and capitalism. The feeling of writing something as large and expansive as I wanted Nightshade Chronicles to be has been both a daunting and exciting experience that has ultimately led to a considerable amount of growth. This growth came in both a practical and personal sense. The practical growth I found in gradually becoming able to edit my own work. Framing my work using proper grammar was a skill of mine that definitely needed polishing before Nightshade Chronicles. By the latter portion of writing Nightshade Chronicles I was, more often than not, commandeering Ms. Englart’s computer so that I could edit my own entry during our conferences; I really didn’t need much help anymore. In the personal sense, I found Nightshade Chronicles to be a kind of outlet, a space to put some of the practical and emotional cargo of my day-to-day life. It was a dock where I could leave that cargo to handle the rush of the world before returning to it at a later date. It allowed me to say “it’s okay” to feel this bad about something that’s going on in life. Someone may say you’re overreacting, and for some things, yeah, remember to breathe, but no one should be able to limit how much you feel. The mantra “let it go” or the similar “move on” has never worked for me. How I feel emotionally about something will hang around with me, probably for a really long time, if not always. I am not the type that “lets it go.” I just learn to carry the weight differently. I resonate with the quote by Lou Holtz: “it’s not the load that breaks you down; it’s the way you carry it.” That’s what I try to be more like emotionally. Maybe the “let it go” method is easier for some people, but it rarely works for me; believe me, I’ve tried. There are days where old feelings will demand to be felt again, even feelings that are years old, and that’s okay. If you’re in touch with yourself, you know when it’s time to return to the dock and sift through the cargo.
The freedom that my Co-op Publishing House (CPH) class offers has been a wonderful means for Nightshade Chronicles to flourish. It has offered me the flexibility and understanding of time that I needed for such a large project as this, but also in general. CPH is a great venue for passion projects that people wish to pursue and be continually stimulated by until they feel the project has come full circle. The student is given the role of creator and therefore becomes omnipotent--from creating the direction of the project, to its appearance, to how it sounds, to completion.
With that, I hope that any and all who choose to read Nightshade Chronicles can find some comfort, strength, connection, or other positive takeaway from its pages.
Happy reading.
Night Shade Chronicle Introduction:
I am a junior at Cooperative Arts & Humanities Magnet High School (as you’d imagine if I’m on Coop Voices). When I started this project, I was a sophomore and this is an idea that I had for my capstone. This idea came to be from our assignment to write about our lives and the symbol we chose for our life story. Each one of these entries has a theme and a symbol to it. The entries are also dated as I plan to chronicle my walk through life both within and outside of this building. The symbols embody the sections of my life up until my graduation from Co-op. When all is said and done, I plan to pull all of these entries together into one journal of my life and its symbol, dubbed The Chronicles of Nightshade.
March 24th-26th of 2014
Theme: Unreadable
Symbol: Wind
Vignette: Tiffany
“You always have this calm/serious face.” That’s what I was told in some form or other throughout my life. Sometimes it came out as “You’re so quiet.” I believe that began as early as kindergarten, watching my classmates talking and living in this classroom of energy. At the center was always this one girl named Tiffany. I think at the time she interested me because she was so different from me. Always talking, hand gestures flying. People in the room would glance at her from time to time, not in an upset kind of way because she was talking. But they looked at her because her voice projected. No, they were more curious about what she had to say. She was the epicenter and a little bit of our energy was also drawn in her direction. This was from a time when my quiet was due to innocence and, in all honesty, a bit of fearfulness that things wouldn't go well if I did try to talk more.
Then a very unexpected and unprovoked thing happened. The epicenter took an interest in me rather than vice versa. Looking back, I think part of what drew me to her was that her energy was a kind one. So, on this normal day when she approached me and struck up a conversation, it was extraordinary. The details of said conversation I can’t recall, because at the time I was too surprised that it was happening to record them in memory and because it didn't withstand the test of time. But, at the end of it all, we were friends and that friendship carried on and I spoke more mostly to her or when she was around, but it was a start. By year’s end this friendship had collapsed and even now, as it was then, I have no clear explanation of how it happened because it happened so fast. One minute we were friends and the next I was playing defense while she angrily accused of me of something. To this day I feel I hadn't done whatever it was; in my being I believe it hadn't come to pass the way she perceived it and I hope I’m right. Then after she had had her say and I was left flustered and wondering what just happened, she whirled on her heel and left and I never saw her again.
The wind that day had been blowing hard while I walked with my dad after school, sad because I had just lost my first friend. But my dad was happy, happy I had stood my ground. In all that confusion I do remember I had had a reply even if now I can’t call it back and that made me feel better. I looked up from watching our feet as we walked--his strides long and mine short, but quick to keep up with his. The wind blew my pony tail back and all was better; all was forgotten. The wind had been watching, listening as well, and had decided, like my dad had done, that the matter was not to be worried about further. That’s when I realized how sunny the day was, how blue the sky, and that a breeze to push back hot tight worries was really nice.
I was always the wind--there, but out of the forefront of everyone’s mind, observant and watching, catching little details. “Panning the room” as my friends call it now, much like a camera does, recording everything. That is, until I want to be noticed, until I say something with those details in mind. That’s when I move like the wind, turning into a breeze or a gust, making myself known. An object that is both intangible and chooses when to give itself form to make itself heard and felt by others.
I am a junior at Cooperative Arts & Humanities Magnet High School (as you’d imagine if I’m on Coop Voices). When I started this project, I was a sophomore and this is an idea that I had for my capstone. This idea came to be from our assignment to write about our lives and the symbol we chose for our life story. Each one of these entries has a theme and a symbol to it. The entries are also dated as I plan to chronicle my walk through life both within and outside of this building. The symbols embody the sections of my life up until my graduation from Co-op. When all is said and done, I plan to pull all of these entries together into one journal of my life and its symbol, dubbed The Chronicles of Nightshade.
March 24th-26th of 2014
Theme: Unreadable
Symbol: Wind
Vignette: Tiffany
“You always have this calm/serious face.” That’s what I was told in some form or other throughout my life. Sometimes it came out as “You’re so quiet.” I believe that began as early as kindergarten, watching my classmates talking and living in this classroom of energy. At the center was always this one girl named Tiffany. I think at the time she interested me because she was so different from me. Always talking, hand gestures flying. People in the room would glance at her from time to time, not in an upset kind of way because she was talking. But they looked at her because her voice projected. No, they were more curious about what she had to say. She was the epicenter and a little bit of our energy was also drawn in her direction. This was from a time when my quiet was due to innocence and, in all honesty, a bit of fearfulness that things wouldn't go well if I did try to talk more.
Then a very unexpected and unprovoked thing happened. The epicenter took an interest in me rather than vice versa. Looking back, I think part of what drew me to her was that her energy was a kind one. So, on this normal day when she approached me and struck up a conversation, it was extraordinary. The details of said conversation I can’t recall, because at the time I was too surprised that it was happening to record them in memory and because it didn't withstand the test of time. But, at the end of it all, we were friends and that friendship carried on and I spoke more mostly to her or when she was around, but it was a start. By year’s end this friendship had collapsed and even now, as it was then, I have no clear explanation of how it happened because it happened so fast. One minute we were friends and the next I was playing defense while she angrily accused of me of something. To this day I feel I hadn't done whatever it was; in my being I believe it hadn't come to pass the way she perceived it and I hope I’m right. Then after she had had her say and I was left flustered and wondering what just happened, she whirled on her heel and left and I never saw her again.
The wind that day had been blowing hard while I walked with my dad after school, sad because I had just lost my first friend. But my dad was happy, happy I had stood my ground. In all that confusion I do remember I had had a reply even if now I can’t call it back and that made me feel better. I looked up from watching our feet as we walked--his strides long and mine short, but quick to keep up with his. The wind blew my pony tail back and all was better; all was forgotten. The wind had been watching, listening as well, and had decided, like my dad had done, that the matter was not to be worried about further. That’s when I realized how sunny the day was, how blue the sky, and that a breeze to push back hot tight worries was really nice.
I was always the wind--there, but out of the forefront of everyone’s mind, observant and watching, catching little details. “Panning the room” as my friends call it now, much like a camera does, recording everything. That is, until I want to be noticed, until I say something with those details in mind. That’s when I move like the wind, turning into a breeze or a gust, making myself known. An object that is both intangible and chooses when to give itself form to make itself heard and felt by others.
Theme: You’re quiet
Symbol: Night
Vignette: looking up through the skylight
Story: Detail oriented creativity
(Written the same day as the "Tiffany" entry posted above)
"In the night, those are the hours where the veil is the thinnest." The beautiful eccentric details of the universe bloom. I too am calmest, most creative in the hours of darkness. A friend once told me, “You respect and love the night, but you also know enough to fear it.” The night makes everything deeper. In certain moments the emotions brought to the surface gain more depth because the night has seen it all. Tears, love, and all other emotions linger in the space of time like a perfume.
This aroma washed over me one night as I walked into the back room of my house and looked up at through the skylight. As I stood there, a sense of calm passed over me as I looked through to the low hanging branches that seemed to graze the window pane against a backdrop of ebony lace. This was further highlighted with the tincture of ocher orange that was the street light. It, to me, was a mirror that reflected many things, but one of the most significant and consistent was that it reflects my creativity. That was why it resonated with me so well. I found myself looking at the night and noticing all the little details that flitter through it as I make my own detail-oriented work.
This space of time has nurtured me, given me the ability to see what others cannot. Though some things aren’t so lovely and belong in the underbelly of the night, others are without a doubt as bright and mystical as the night’s stars. These things are fittingly wrapped in its alluring and mysterious elegance. I am happy to have this ability, though at times it may seem like a curse--often times the things that are the most powerful come as a doubled edged sword. From it, my passion for writing sprang up or maybe it was reversed, happening around the same time so close together that I can't be sure which happened first. In any case, over the years the two have become intertwined. The night becoming something that veils my writing with an air of subtlety. At first glance it is indeed hard to understand, but once you do you see the meaning.
Most people see the night as just something to be feared or an ending. A place where not just the darkness of the sky is, but also the darkness of humanity lurks there as well. That is the concept. That is what they have labeled the night as. Though there is some truth to this, that is not all there is. There is a delicate beauty to it like the moon in all its phases and the stars. Gentle murmuring of the other creatures that live in these hours while the majority of us are asleep like crickets just outside the window; that is the other side of the coin. The night is not just an ending of the day, but a continuation of time. This is so that the sun may rise again, but for now let us rest in a quieter, gentler grandeur. That is the majesty of the night.
I think people labeled me that way, too, as something that couldn't be as easily approached as others, because I wasn't as readily understandable. To the people who were daring enough to walk in my perpetual night, I believe they understood. They found something greater than the darkness, lifted the veil of subtlety and saw my merits, saw the pinpricks that were my stars. Everyone has darkness inside of them; I encourage them to make it a night of their own--to stand under the magnificence of the stars and in the silvery Pacific embrace of the moon as I have.
March 26, 2014
Theme: Searching/Roaming
Vignette: Seeing dainty white butterfly in backyard during the summer
Symbol: Butterfly
“Something so dainty is flying under something as vast as the sky.” I thought that to myself when I saw a small white butterfly flying just above a leaf in my back yard. At the time, my grandfather was with me and he had spotted it first. He said, “I see butterflies like this when I go to Puerto Rico; there they have a lot of them." I watched the butterfly for a little while and to me butterflies always seem to be on some kind of journey when they are flying. With that thought in mind, I wondered how they managed to keep going such long distances, as small as they were. But then the thought came to me that a butterfly’s whole life is about a journey and a triumph. They began as small caterpillars and eventually are thrust into darkness, unaware that when they emerge they’ll be something more. They’ll be creatures with wings of vibrant colors, like this one with wings of silk. “Just when the caterpillar thought the world was ending it became a butterfly.” That’s the quote I think of when I think of their change; the strength of it. Yet butterflies are humble creatures. They do not know the beauty of what they have become, so are by no means arrogant. There's that quote: “Butterflies can’t see their wings. They can’t see how beautiful they are, but everyone else can. People are like that as well.” It suits them. I, too, hope to be that way as I go about my life, because as the quote says, people are like that as well. I and this type of butterfly can be seen in the same place--Puerto Rico--where I come from, so there already is my first step.
March 27th 2014
Theme: Calm/Finding your Center
Story: Mom’s Table of Candles in the Dark
Symbol: Candle Flames
When I was younger, there was this large table in the center of the living room with a glass top and a black bottom with golden trim. Atop this table in the darkness was a spread of candles. This spread was always burning as one; the tiny individual flames would sway to and fro with their orange caps and reddish bodies. I always liked to stop a moment to watch the flames move about on their wicks, because it gave the room and the neighboring hall where I stood a sense of ambiance. Ever since I was little I had wanted to be able to do what those candles did upon that table, and that was to burn even in the darkness and gives a sense of calm. For as long as I can remember, I have always had anxiety about certain things like tests and giving presentations in front of people. Try as I might, I could never stay calm. So one day I want to be able to take a deep breath and relax where before I would have been worried. There is this quote by William Shakespeare that says: “Though she be but little she is fierce.” That is the quality that I want to embody--that sense of Zen that comes from such a small source and hopefully that will help bring me a sense of inner peace.
Symbol: Night
Vignette: looking up through the skylight
Story: Detail oriented creativity
(Written the same day as the "Tiffany" entry posted above)
"In the night, those are the hours where the veil is the thinnest." The beautiful eccentric details of the universe bloom. I too am calmest, most creative in the hours of darkness. A friend once told me, “You respect and love the night, but you also know enough to fear it.” The night makes everything deeper. In certain moments the emotions brought to the surface gain more depth because the night has seen it all. Tears, love, and all other emotions linger in the space of time like a perfume.
This aroma washed over me one night as I walked into the back room of my house and looked up at through the skylight. As I stood there, a sense of calm passed over me as I looked through to the low hanging branches that seemed to graze the window pane against a backdrop of ebony lace. This was further highlighted with the tincture of ocher orange that was the street light. It, to me, was a mirror that reflected many things, but one of the most significant and consistent was that it reflects my creativity. That was why it resonated with me so well. I found myself looking at the night and noticing all the little details that flitter through it as I make my own detail-oriented work.
This space of time has nurtured me, given me the ability to see what others cannot. Though some things aren’t so lovely and belong in the underbelly of the night, others are without a doubt as bright and mystical as the night’s stars. These things are fittingly wrapped in its alluring and mysterious elegance. I am happy to have this ability, though at times it may seem like a curse--often times the things that are the most powerful come as a doubled edged sword. From it, my passion for writing sprang up or maybe it was reversed, happening around the same time so close together that I can't be sure which happened first. In any case, over the years the two have become intertwined. The night becoming something that veils my writing with an air of subtlety. At first glance it is indeed hard to understand, but once you do you see the meaning.
Most people see the night as just something to be feared or an ending. A place where not just the darkness of the sky is, but also the darkness of humanity lurks there as well. That is the concept. That is what they have labeled the night as. Though there is some truth to this, that is not all there is. There is a delicate beauty to it like the moon in all its phases and the stars. Gentle murmuring of the other creatures that live in these hours while the majority of us are asleep like crickets just outside the window; that is the other side of the coin. The night is not just an ending of the day, but a continuation of time. This is so that the sun may rise again, but for now let us rest in a quieter, gentler grandeur. That is the majesty of the night.
I think people labeled me that way, too, as something that couldn't be as easily approached as others, because I wasn't as readily understandable. To the people who were daring enough to walk in my perpetual night, I believe they understood. They found something greater than the darkness, lifted the veil of subtlety and saw my merits, saw the pinpricks that were my stars. Everyone has darkness inside of them; I encourage them to make it a night of their own--to stand under the magnificence of the stars and in the silvery Pacific embrace of the moon as I have.
March 26, 2014
Theme: Searching/Roaming
Vignette: Seeing dainty white butterfly in backyard during the summer
Symbol: Butterfly
“Something so dainty is flying under something as vast as the sky.” I thought that to myself when I saw a small white butterfly flying just above a leaf in my back yard. At the time, my grandfather was with me and he had spotted it first. He said, “I see butterflies like this when I go to Puerto Rico; there they have a lot of them." I watched the butterfly for a little while and to me butterflies always seem to be on some kind of journey when they are flying. With that thought in mind, I wondered how they managed to keep going such long distances, as small as they were. But then the thought came to me that a butterfly’s whole life is about a journey and a triumph. They began as small caterpillars and eventually are thrust into darkness, unaware that when they emerge they’ll be something more. They’ll be creatures with wings of vibrant colors, like this one with wings of silk. “Just when the caterpillar thought the world was ending it became a butterfly.” That’s the quote I think of when I think of their change; the strength of it. Yet butterflies are humble creatures. They do not know the beauty of what they have become, so are by no means arrogant. There's that quote: “Butterflies can’t see their wings. They can’t see how beautiful they are, but everyone else can. People are like that as well.” It suits them. I, too, hope to be that way as I go about my life, because as the quote says, people are like that as well. I and this type of butterfly can be seen in the same place--Puerto Rico--where I come from, so there already is my first step.
March 27th 2014
Theme: Calm/Finding your Center
Story: Mom’s Table of Candles in the Dark
Symbol: Candle Flames
When I was younger, there was this large table in the center of the living room with a glass top and a black bottom with golden trim. Atop this table in the darkness was a spread of candles. This spread was always burning as one; the tiny individual flames would sway to and fro with their orange caps and reddish bodies. I always liked to stop a moment to watch the flames move about on their wicks, because it gave the room and the neighboring hall where I stood a sense of ambiance. Ever since I was little I had wanted to be able to do what those candles did upon that table, and that was to burn even in the darkness and gives a sense of calm. For as long as I can remember, I have always had anxiety about certain things like tests and giving presentations in front of people. Try as I might, I could never stay calm. So one day I want to be able to take a deep breath and relax where before I would have been worried. There is this quote by William Shakespeare that says: “Though she be but little she is fierce.” That is the quality that I want to embody--that sense of Zen that comes from such a small source and hopefully that will help bring me a sense of inner peace.
April 1st 2014
Theme; Warming/ Opening Up
Story: Mewing like a cat when stretching
Symbol: Tiger/kitten
My close friends have always said I was like a cat, which is nice because it goes with my zodiac symbol of a tiger anyway. But I think a lot of little things came together for them to get this image of me as a cat. I've always watched things, especially people, as they knew. A bit sly with a calm demeanor unless provoked, like when a cat’s hair goes up and its ears go back and it hisses at you if you do something wrong. In school, and in general, you can also get the most expression out of my eyes. They are probably the most expressive part of me. The icing on the cake though, was when two of my friends heard me stretch after getting up off my bed and exhaling in such a way that sounded like a cat’s mew after it had been sunbathing on the porch. I was always more relaxed and loose at my house than I was at school; that’s part of why everyone thought I was really quiet. I've always had to warm up to a person before I start opening up, like how a flower opens slowly as if first peeking out into the world to see if it’s okay to come out. Or more to my friends’ comparisons of a cat when it’ll watch you when it first meets you, then slowly approach, paw step by paw step. If you seem safe enough it’ll finally approach and start rubbing against you with a purr from. In my case the first “purr” is when I talk to you a lot and the “rubbing” is when I actually let my guard down for you; everything else before would just be a paw step. I hope each and every one of you has someone you feel comfortable to “mew” with and be playful with. If you don’t maybe you should try looking for that person. Talk to new people. It doesn't have to be a full blown conversation as long as the attempt is there. You never know--some of the best of friendships begin from mere coincidental actions or words getting the chance to pass between two people. Some of my best friendships started because of that. Let your words and actions mingle with those of another today.
April 2nd and 7th, 2014
Theme Interactions
Story: Discovering what I write
Symbol: Music
I discovered what I enjoy writing over time. It was, at first, a very slow process. My first stories were children's stories from when I was in the fifth grade. I remember my first was about two boys who lived in a world where it was Christmas everyday and they, in their own boyish way, had to solve a mystery of who had stolen all the presents and halted Christmas. Looking back, it's something that has helped steer where I went in life and resulted in me coming here, and it sprang forth from a rather modest beginning. At that time, I remember thinking that writing wouldn't be something I stuck with because I thought I couldn't do it, that it was way too hard for me, and that I wouldn't be able to make anything of it. Then I wrote a sequel to that first book that started to lean toward fantasy with two boys time traveling to a time of kings, knights, and dragons. I wrote on and off after that as the summer came and went, and it wasn't until the middle of 6th grade that I wrote my first ever full length novel with someone I no longer talk to all that much. It was about 200 pages; that’s a lot when you’re in middle school. Granted, I didn't start and finish it all that year. My friend grew distant, so I was writing solo again. I went months writing a little bit, but just couldn't get into it. It was then I really believed I’d stop writing permanently.
I realized something in the latter portion of my 8th grade year when a close friend and I struck up an idea for a book completely in the spur of the moment. We developed a way to work on it together in a way that was fun, and even if it never did get published it was good writing training and at least we could have fun doing it as long as we wanted. I realized that sometimes I didn't enjoy the idea of writing fantasy solo, because when you have this idea and you think it’s great but you're writing it alone, there wasn’t an excitement for me in that.
Did I love my idea? Yes, but for me I knew everything that was going to happen and the twists were harder. But when I was writing with my friend and she came up with her own ideas and little twists that I didn't see coming, all the pieces fell together and I needed to stay on my toes. The thrill of writing came in the beauty and the mystery of it. Also when I wasn't completely aware what was going to happen, it helped me come up with more creative twists and give greater depth to the characters.
I had this thought when I was a younger writer that every word, like notes in music, had a sound. When you put those sounds together in a song it creates a sort of feeling for the person who “hears” it. Both things have to have a sort of flow and that’s why things don't always sound quite right. Like when you put in a word that shouldn't be there or when you pause uncomfortably in a certain spot. In those times, that silence left an impression better than a word would. I learned my freshman year that my “sound” tended to be a subtle one or maybe in music it would be a soft sound. Mine was a series of soft resounding sounds that strung together in a way that was nice only when the whole piece was played. I don’t think I would have known that like I do now without Ms. Englart. I am grateful for her having shown me (and for much else) as now I know what style my writing tends to take and I am not struggling to find it as much as I had before--that’s what you call progress.
Sometimes my writing needed a partner and that was fine. In music, you often need more than one instrument and in art the artist has their muse. Art evolves and becomes possible because of interaction, whether it is good or bad--that is what I think. So, the music coming from my headphones, the people I have come to know even if they remain now only in memory--these are all the interactions I need to make art. I once heard this quote from a show and it goes: “I have thrived in this city not because of who I am but because of who I have come to know.”
April 8th 2014
Theme: Death
Story: Necrophobia
Symbol: Cross
I think I figured out I was afraid of death around the age of 7. Or rather, maybe it’s not death I’m afraid of, but of what comes after. We can all speculate about what comes after, but in truth we know nothing and there is no way for someone to be certain until they see it for themselves. What's worse is being left behind by someone who has gone on before you and not knowing for yourself what happened to them afterward. Keep in mind that as I write this, that this is the first time I have ever written about my possible fear. I’ve worn crosses a lot in my 16 years on this earth. Not because my family is strict religiously, but because I have always liked them--the look of them, the feel of them around my neck. I think that’s because the belief behind it keeps me anchored to one thought. That what comes after this is better than what is and that anything you’ve lost will be returned to you, to be yours again forever. That thought negates all the worry that comes from not knowing. That one tie to what could very well be and everyone needs something to believe in and that it isn’t so bad.
April 9th 2014
Theme: What Writing is to me
Symbol: Glass
Writing, to me, is looking at the world and the things around you in greater depth. A writer’s job to me is to be more observant than the average person and to analyze details that others would not take second glances at. To view things at every angle, that is our job. In writing, we create worlds on paper where before there had been nothing. We live in the space between reality and fantasy, bringing to life the lightest aspects of human nature like dreams, hope, and individualism, as well as the darkest, like greed and cruelty. Being a writer means being a traveler of a different sort than most would think. We travel not just through the world upon which we live and breathe, but delve into its psyches and hearts.
It is quite a journey that few are willing to undertake and such a task. To make something thought-provoking is a daunting task and at time seems impossible, but when you actually create something, then that is the culmination of all that tireless effort and willingness to continue onward. Writing is a lot like glass, transparent, because a writer needs to be able to see through to the center of things. Glass can also be used for many things and take on many forms like a window pane or a glass for drinking. Writing can take on many a form too: fiction, non-fiction, and poetry. These are some of the forms writing takes, each with a different exterior but an identical epicenter.
That epicenter is there to get the reader to feel something. Both things also come from humble origins--glass comes from sand which is abundant and then when that glass is heated that sand becomes something more; it becomes glass of different tinctures depending on the sand. Writing is birthed from paper, which at the start is blank and when heated by the passion of a writer becomes something more--a piece, something to say to another; it becomes art. That is what writing is to me--a shard of glass.
April 14th 2014
Story: Finding New Friends
Symbol: Phoenix
I’ve had some friendship issues in the past, as you have seen if you've read my previous entries. As a result, I’m not the quickest to warm up to people. So making friends isn’t the easiest of endeavors and becoming close is even harder. I think it was put best as “there is always that little bit of doubt that the same thing as those other people did will be done.” And yes, that is right; there has always been that doubt--the echoes of the pain that remains lingering like ghosts. But I do think I’ve found some good new friends slowly but surely in the years that followed those fall-outs. They are all a bit kooky, but as I always say, a little bit of difference and weirdness is what makes life more interesting. They are all very protective and caring and can really make me laugh. That’s the type of friends you should look for, as I’ve come to know. They are the ones who will listen to you when you have problems, no matter how repetitive or troublesome. The kind who push you to try a lot of different things. They should be the fire that revives you like the phoenix from the ashes. The ones that make your feathers a deep dark red from the radiance of the sun as you build your own sky to soar under. Your eyes glisten with the embers that your inner phoenix stems from. There will come times when those ashes will seem to be blocking the sun’s light once again. But know that will not last forever, as long as those friends of yours remain the flames they were the day you crossed paths.
April 20th 2014
Story: Trying something new
Symbol: Rain
Trying something new is like watching rain pour down onto the sidewalk, washing away everything, leaving you bare, ready to accept all the new things coming your way. Then, when the rain has come to an end, new life starts to bloom. I've had this experience recently. A friend of mine has been trying to give me guitar lessons and though we are only on the cusp of the journey, I have already started to learn amidst the rain. In the beginning I was completely against it and had all the nervous jitters that one gets when starting something new. I heard that voice in the back of my mind that tells you to turn back once the clouds begin to gather on the horizon and the faint smell of rain was in the air. With a little push though, I was taking baby steps toward the beginning of the session in the sun with the flowers of my labor. I hope that these lessons, should they continue, go well, so that the sun can bring light to a new part of me, and the droplets of the rain that had come before, can sit glinting on the petals of the flowers as reminders.
Theme; Warming/ Opening Up
Story: Mewing like a cat when stretching
Symbol: Tiger/kitten
My close friends have always said I was like a cat, which is nice because it goes with my zodiac symbol of a tiger anyway. But I think a lot of little things came together for them to get this image of me as a cat. I've always watched things, especially people, as they knew. A bit sly with a calm demeanor unless provoked, like when a cat’s hair goes up and its ears go back and it hisses at you if you do something wrong. In school, and in general, you can also get the most expression out of my eyes. They are probably the most expressive part of me. The icing on the cake though, was when two of my friends heard me stretch after getting up off my bed and exhaling in such a way that sounded like a cat’s mew after it had been sunbathing on the porch. I was always more relaxed and loose at my house than I was at school; that’s part of why everyone thought I was really quiet. I've always had to warm up to a person before I start opening up, like how a flower opens slowly as if first peeking out into the world to see if it’s okay to come out. Or more to my friends’ comparisons of a cat when it’ll watch you when it first meets you, then slowly approach, paw step by paw step. If you seem safe enough it’ll finally approach and start rubbing against you with a purr from. In my case the first “purr” is when I talk to you a lot and the “rubbing” is when I actually let my guard down for you; everything else before would just be a paw step. I hope each and every one of you has someone you feel comfortable to “mew” with and be playful with. If you don’t maybe you should try looking for that person. Talk to new people. It doesn't have to be a full blown conversation as long as the attempt is there. You never know--some of the best of friendships begin from mere coincidental actions or words getting the chance to pass between two people. Some of my best friendships started because of that. Let your words and actions mingle with those of another today.
April 2nd and 7th, 2014
Theme Interactions
Story: Discovering what I write
Symbol: Music
I discovered what I enjoy writing over time. It was, at first, a very slow process. My first stories were children's stories from when I was in the fifth grade. I remember my first was about two boys who lived in a world where it was Christmas everyday and they, in their own boyish way, had to solve a mystery of who had stolen all the presents and halted Christmas. Looking back, it's something that has helped steer where I went in life and resulted in me coming here, and it sprang forth from a rather modest beginning. At that time, I remember thinking that writing wouldn't be something I stuck with because I thought I couldn't do it, that it was way too hard for me, and that I wouldn't be able to make anything of it. Then I wrote a sequel to that first book that started to lean toward fantasy with two boys time traveling to a time of kings, knights, and dragons. I wrote on and off after that as the summer came and went, and it wasn't until the middle of 6th grade that I wrote my first ever full length novel with someone I no longer talk to all that much. It was about 200 pages; that’s a lot when you’re in middle school. Granted, I didn't start and finish it all that year. My friend grew distant, so I was writing solo again. I went months writing a little bit, but just couldn't get into it. It was then I really believed I’d stop writing permanently.
I realized something in the latter portion of my 8th grade year when a close friend and I struck up an idea for a book completely in the spur of the moment. We developed a way to work on it together in a way that was fun, and even if it never did get published it was good writing training and at least we could have fun doing it as long as we wanted. I realized that sometimes I didn't enjoy the idea of writing fantasy solo, because when you have this idea and you think it’s great but you're writing it alone, there wasn’t an excitement for me in that.
Did I love my idea? Yes, but for me I knew everything that was going to happen and the twists were harder. But when I was writing with my friend and she came up with her own ideas and little twists that I didn't see coming, all the pieces fell together and I needed to stay on my toes. The thrill of writing came in the beauty and the mystery of it. Also when I wasn't completely aware what was going to happen, it helped me come up with more creative twists and give greater depth to the characters.
I had this thought when I was a younger writer that every word, like notes in music, had a sound. When you put those sounds together in a song it creates a sort of feeling for the person who “hears” it. Both things have to have a sort of flow and that’s why things don't always sound quite right. Like when you put in a word that shouldn't be there or when you pause uncomfortably in a certain spot. In those times, that silence left an impression better than a word would. I learned my freshman year that my “sound” tended to be a subtle one or maybe in music it would be a soft sound. Mine was a series of soft resounding sounds that strung together in a way that was nice only when the whole piece was played. I don’t think I would have known that like I do now without Ms. Englart. I am grateful for her having shown me (and for much else) as now I know what style my writing tends to take and I am not struggling to find it as much as I had before--that’s what you call progress.
Sometimes my writing needed a partner and that was fine. In music, you often need more than one instrument and in art the artist has their muse. Art evolves and becomes possible because of interaction, whether it is good or bad--that is what I think. So, the music coming from my headphones, the people I have come to know even if they remain now only in memory--these are all the interactions I need to make art. I once heard this quote from a show and it goes: “I have thrived in this city not because of who I am but because of who I have come to know.”
April 8th 2014
Theme: Death
Story: Necrophobia
Symbol: Cross
I think I figured out I was afraid of death around the age of 7. Or rather, maybe it’s not death I’m afraid of, but of what comes after. We can all speculate about what comes after, but in truth we know nothing and there is no way for someone to be certain until they see it for themselves. What's worse is being left behind by someone who has gone on before you and not knowing for yourself what happened to them afterward. Keep in mind that as I write this, that this is the first time I have ever written about my possible fear. I’ve worn crosses a lot in my 16 years on this earth. Not because my family is strict religiously, but because I have always liked them--the look of them, the feel of them around my neck. I think that’s because the belief behind it keeps me anchored to one thought. That what comes after this is better than what is and that anything you’ve lost will be returned to you, to be yours again forever. That thought negates all the worry that comes from not knowing. That one tie to what could very well be and everyone needs something to believe in and that it isn’t so bad.
April 9th 2014
Theme: What Writing is to me
Symbol: Glass
Writing, to me, is looking at the world and the things around you in greater depth. A writer’s job to me is to be more observant than the average person and to analyze details that others would not take second glances at. To view things at every angle, that is our job. In writing, we create worlds on paper where before there had been nothing. We live in the space between reality and fantasy, bringing to life the lightest aspects of human nature like dreams, hope, and individualism, as well as the darkest, like greed and cruelty. Being a writer means being a traveler of a different sort than most would think. We travel not just through the world upon which we live and breathe, but delve into its psyches and hearts.
It is quite a journey that few are willing to undertake and such a task. To make something thought-provoking is a daunting task and at time seems impossible, but when you actually create something, then that is the culmination of all that tireless effort and willingness to continue onward. Writing is a lot like glass, transparent, because a writer needs to be able to see through to the center of things. Glass can also be used for many things and take on many forms like a window pane or a glass for drinking. Writing can take on many a form too: fiction, non-fiction, and poetry. These are some of the forms writing takes, each with a different exterior but an identical epicenter.
That epicenter is there to get the reader to feel something. Both things also come from humble origins--glass comes from sand which is abundant and then when that glass is heated that sand becomes something more; it becomes glass of different tinctures depending on the sand. Writing is birthed from paper, which at the start is blank and when heated by the passion of a writer becomes something more--a piece, something to say to another; it becomes art. That is what writing is to me--a shard of glass.
April 14th 2014
Story: Finding New Friends
Symbol: Phoenix
I’ve had some friendship issues in the past, as you have seen if you've read my previous entries. As a result, I’m not the quickest to warm up to people. So making friends isn’t the easiest of endeavors and becoming close is even harder. I think it was put best as “there is always that little bit of doubt that the same thing as those other people did will be done.” And yes, that is right; there has always been that doubt--the echoes of the pain that remains lingering like ghosts. But I do think I’ve found some good new friends slowly but surely in the years that followed those fall-outs. They are all a bit kooky, but as I always say, a little bit of difference and weirdness is what makes life more interesting. They are all very protective and caring and can really make me laugh. That’s the type of friends you should look for, as I’ve come to know. They are the ones who will listen to you when you have problems, no matter how repetitive or troublesome. The kind who push you to try a lot of different things. They should be the fire that revives you like the phoenix from the ashes. The ones that make your feathers a deep dark red from the radiance of the sun as you build your own sky to soar under. Your eyes glisten with the embers that your inner phoenix stems from. There will come times when those ashes will seem to be blocking the sun’s light once again. But know that will not last forever, as long as those friends of yours remain the flames they were the day you crossed paths.
April 20th 2014
Story: Trying something new
Symbol: Rain
Trying something new is like watching rain pour down onto the sidewalk, washing away everything, leaving you bare, ready to accept all the new things coming your way. Then, when the rain has come to an end, new life starts to bloom. I've had this experience recently. A friend of mine has been trying to give me guitar lessons and though we are only on the cusp of the journey, I have already started to learn amidst the rain. In the beginning I was completely against it and had all the nervous jitters that one gets when starting something new. I heard that voice in the back of my mind that tells you to turn back once the clouds begin to gather on the horizon and the faint smell of rain was in the air. With a little push though, I was taking baby steps toward the beginning of the session in the sun with the flowers of my labor. I hope that these lessons, should they continue, go well, so that the sun can bring light to a new part of me, and the droplets of the rain that had come before, can sit glinting on the petals of the flowers as reminders.
May 12, 2014
Story: Applying for O’Neill Playwriting Retreat
Symbol: Dice
So, I applied for the O’Neill Retreat that I believe only sophomores can go to. I was really pretty nervous about doing it, especially since only a few people get to go. At first I had no idea what I was going to write for it. But I decided to do a monologue for the main character of a story I wrote last year. I had titled it "Caged Canary." It feels a lot like rolling a die and seeing what it will land on. I normally don’t like leaving things to chance like that; it depends what it is. It’s a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity so I’d be really glad to be able to go.
May 20th 2014
Story: Post Playwriting Retreat
Symbol: Threads
I did get to go on the O’Neill Playwriting retreat (smile). It had its rough patches, but overall I’m glad I went. We all bonded there, the sophomores and the freshman, but I think the sophomores who were already close became really close by going on that trip. At first, some of us were forced to go there, being led like puppets guided by our strings despite our instincts. But once we were there for a little while, those strings were severed and instead used to knot us together with the others who had come on the trip. By the time it was through, there was a sense of camaraderie between us. From facing writer’s block when time was limited, to gathering in one room for a chat and a game of Never Have I Ever. The conflict that at first occurred between the sophomores and the freshman worked for all of us in the end, as it gave the sophomores a chance to become closer, focusing on just our little group bonded by year and art. The threads intertwined, weaving in and out of themselves. By the second day the thread had begun to tighten, tug by tug, between sophomore and freshman, so that by weekend's end there was peace. The white flags had been raised, the doves released. The thread tied at the ends and tested, tightening with tension but held firm. Our time in a journey of writing, bonding, and searching having come to its end, I think we came out better for it.
May 29, 2014
Story: Honor Society
Symbol: Smooth Stones
I recently got accepted into the National Honor Society (NHS). In middle school I had been in the National Junior Honor Society. It had been one of my goals coming into Co-op, or rather high school in general, to get into National Honor Society. It was something that would show just how much I wanted to do well, to better myself, and make myself ready for college. The society, I think, is in place not only to recognize the efforts of those trying hard in academia, but also as a way to offer them a helping hand, to be a stepping stone on their path--one of many stones in the lake of uncertainty that I think every student has when they go through school and even more so when they aim for college. There is always that feeling of “Oh God, how do I do this, how do I get accepted to college, will I be able to do all those things?”
Let’s be real; whenever teachers gather you up in groups, like they often tend to do throughout the year to talk about college, they make it sound like an even more intimidating and daunting thing because of its importance. That’s not to say that it isn't important, because it is and it will on some level be difficult, but we've had that drilled into us since we were old enough to comprehend what the word meant. It’s about time that instead of giving us the redundant general overview of the process of getting into college and how difficult doing so is, especially nowadays, they give us some flexible avenues on how to go about doing that and bettering ourselves for college. I think the NHS is one of those avenues; you first just try to keep your grades up and from there you have people to help you step by step to get things done. By the end, you have something that you have accomplished that makes you look better to colleges and feel better about yourself and about the whole process, even if it’s a step, because that step is still a step you didn't have before.
May 30th 2014
Story: Pre-performance Jazz and Jitters
Symbol: ________________
The performance is in a little bit and I have to say I am nervous. I think that’s meant to happen to anyone who performs, because you actually care about what you are doing. I just hope it isn't that bad when I actually have to read, especially because we have a stand in this performance, not a podium. The thing with me is that when I’m nervous I shake, and I can normally get the top half of me under control, but my legs--forget about it, if they are going to shake, they’ll shake. I might be able to slow it down a little bit, but that’s it. A podium would cover that part of me like it did in my first performance; alas, I will just have to do without it.
Most everyone who is performing, I have to say, really dressed up for it and why not? We should get to dress up. I think today’s symbol really should just be a blank space to fill because that is what we are doing today. We are filling what was before an empty space with the words and thoughts we have painstakingly etched onto paper. We are filling the air with our souls that bled onto the page through our ink. Each one of us is different and yet the same because we have found solace in the same niche, the same blank space, however we fill it with something different each and every time. That’s what makes up the Creative Writing department here at Co-op. The individualism is part of what makes it great.
June 16, 2014
Story: Finals and Farewells
Theme: Paths
So, it is finals week. Yes, that last long stretch of work before we are done for the year. Today is actually the first day and I have finished everything Ms. Englart asked of me pertaining to our Creative Writing websites and other written pieces, so here I am. First let me say that our performance that I discussed in my previous entry was a smash hit. It was our biggest and best performance yet; afterward, we gave our soon-departing seniors many hugs and congratulations as it was their last performance. They will be dearly missed, but we wish them the best of luck and much fun on their journeys. As for finals, well this final wasn't by any means bad, though that is not a surprise--it never is. Though I am nervous for my other finals, my friends always say I shouldn't worry. I always do well and “I got this,” but what can I say? It is my nature.
Over the summer I will be doing my summer work for the new AP classes I will be taking next year as a junior. I will be taking AP Government and AP Literature first rather than AP Language which I plan to take my senior year. At this time of the year I always feel that all of this is like a path, a journey, and all these people and experiences are stops and I have fellow travelers laden with their own experiences that we often call “baggage”. The paths we walk are all individualized by our steps and how we take them, but the paths are beaten ones nonetheless, for this journey is dubbed "life." If I had to say what my road looks like I would say that it is one made out of cobblestone. A path of cobblestone with a field on either side of it, dotted with trees, an abundance of sunshine on one side, the right side I’d think, and plenty of warm breezes. On the left side it would be night time. Everything beneath the inky black and blue sky, pin-pricked with stars, would be bathed in the soft, silvery, light of a crescent moon. To anyone who might ever read this, I ask you to think of what your pathway looks like. How is it structured, of what material is it? Stone? Dirt? Grass? What season is it on your path? Is one half a certain thing while the other is another? I’m curious; mine, I think, would be a summer night and a spring day. That would be what my path would be like.
June 19, 2014
Story: Introversion
Symbol: Closed Mouth
Introverts are those that are more quiet and to themselves. They, however, do not wish complete seclusion from the world of extroverts. Introversion is, I think, a way of meditating, a way of discovering one’s inner self through watching others who are of the reversed aspect. The ones for whom the world never seems too large. Whereas we introverts enjoy the vast possibilities that size can bring, but do not enjoy the same acceptance of our methods of exploration as extroverts do. We move at a much slower pace than they. We progress with a trial and error process that they hardly ever see because it happens within ourselves. Thoughts overlapping one another--ideas, impressions, conclusions birthed and killed in a second’s silence--and no one is the wiser. I work through whole theories and conversations within my own mind, but not a even third of it will ever reach the world in vocalized form. In some ways it feels like introverts are selective mutes. We will only really talk with those we feel close to and others receive a silence so consistent it probably feels to them that we are mute.
That’s also what helps give more weight to an introvert's thoughts and words though. Iif introverts weren't so quiet, it wouldn't be nearly as significant when they talked. It really helps draw someone’s attention when a person who doesn't speak a lot does decide to do so, simply because whatever they're saying just needs to be said that badly. I find, oftentimes, that what they are saying is actually very insightful. So, in a way, our quiet is also a tool for us--the act of talking in itself rather than what is being said is our hook. So what I’m saying is this: if you are an introvert, don’t feel like it’s a bad thing-or it’s wrong-simply because we live in a world dominated by the latter class of the social interaction. We each have our own strong traits to bring to the table. Our inner thoughts are important even without constantly being spoken aloud.
September 2, 2014
Story: First Days with Junior Status
Symbol: Beginnings and a person of grey in a black and white world
These first few days have felt like a lit fuse racing to the set of explosives at the end of the line. My life as a junior in high school, I have to say, started with feeling overwhelmed. I can’t say for certain that feeling is gone; in fact I can say the opposite, that it is always there, under the surface. I am a person of grey in a world of black and white. A world that thinks in the general sense rather than individualized. I think a lot of creative people feel that way and that’s part of what makes things like AP classes and school for the most part feel overwhelming and suffocating to the commonly uncommon creative person. The world demands a lot of a person and time is dedicated to studies that will increase numbers on tests that colleges will look at and depending on the number set before them, it will increase or decrease your status. The overarching goal is status and the increase of it. Increase for yourself as a person to seem more appealing to colleges. It could also be something as grand as the U.S.A.’s position in the world--it’s currently-plummeting academic and innovation status that various people are trying to mend and rebuild. We are always trying to defend our position as a world power. But for me, I much prefer being looked at as an individual, someone who has merit all on her own, not compared to some overarching, collective, standard set by the masses who came before me or that presently exist but that I don’t even know. I think the world has forgotten to nurture the individual and that is why creative people are located farther and further between as time goes on. That’s why dreams of careers in creativity are viewed as far-fetched or near impossible; they just don’t match up with the general, practical desires of the world. Creative people like to work on a case-by-case basis, to interpret, to take the time to work on individual things and nurture them. Things are not just one way or the other. We are grey people in a black and white world.
September 3rd 2014
Story: AP Literature Close Reads
Theme: the Keyboard is our Instrument
Symbol: Music note
So, yesterday on my second day of AP Literature, I had to do my first ever close read and it was with the summer reading book, "The Poisonwood Bible." It is kind of difficult finding the significance in nearly every line of a page. But it did make me feel even more proud of my art. Every woven line linked in subtle ways to the overall theme and settings when I really thought about it--the way the narrator spoke the words he actually said and the way he said them. It was foreshadowing what would happen later on in the book, paving the way in the story, each word a stone in the path. You could also really tell that Dr. Sapienza was very enthusiastic about doing the close reading, which was kind of refreshing to see, because as sad as it is not a lot of people are so enthused about writing in general nowadays. I think it helped reinforce the importance of the written word to see how another author took so much time and care with her work. There were at least a few sentences on every page that could be tied to the theme or setting of the book. I have come to think that the keyboard a writer uses is his instrument much like a guitar in music. We have 26 basic notes, one for each letter in the English alphabet. We have at our disposal a limitless amount of the scales that are our literary devices or structures.
September 17, 2014
Story: Having a section on Co-op voices and Hardship
Theme: One more step toward a goal/dream
Symbol: Spiral Staircase
So, as I've mentioned in earlier entries I have two AP classes my junior year. These classes are AP Literature and AP Government. Also, as you all know, otherwise you wouldn't be here I have this section on Co-op voices. At the time that I am writing this the section is only about 2 weeks old. It’s a goal I've wanted to solidify for a while now. So, today I thought I’d write about hardship, perseverance, and dreams. I think everyone has a dream inside them, even if sometimes it takes longer than other people to realize what it is. They try different things that may or may not be a direct part of helping them get there. But, no matter what, the things you do are definitely ways of helping you discover, hopefully in some sense achieve, that dream. Why, you might ask? Well because it was still a part of what you had to go through, part of the journey, to get to discover your dream. However, I sometimes think that dreams are never really realized. That is not to say that they don’t get accomplished, but, I don’t think dreams ever end, they just expand. Humans are always seeking purpose. That’s why when we accomplish something, we begin looking for the next thing to set our sights on. Like for me, when I’m older, I want to have a career in writing.
Right now, I am looking to be a journalist and write fiction and poetry on the side, because I really love those genres of writing. If that happens, then, the next step in the dream is to better myself as a journalist, because I’d be a rookie at that point. Once I’m a considerable journalist, my next step might be something even higher in regards to journalism or it might not be. It might be something that has to do with fiction or poetry. So, to me, dreams don’t ever really end so they are never really realized. Dreams are like an endless spiral staircase. Each thing you do is a step up and around every bend; there could be something new or maybe it’ll be similar to the bend that came before it. Half the thrill is in not knowing what will come next. The other half occurs when you are actually climbing. As long as you’re going further up on your staircase somehow, you know you’re headed in the right direction.
As far as hardship is concerned, I think it’s a part of what your staircase will end up looking like. I mean everyone goes through hardships, but each of them are entirely different from each other. This is because we are all individuals. We each take in information and experience things differently than the person right beside us. So if you had to envision your staircase right at this very moment, what would it look like? Would it be made of wood that gives it a rustic look? Would the wood be splintered or would it be polished and glossy? Maybe, just maybe, you are on a staircase that is more modern and is white and very smooth and that is pristine on the surface with some underlying trouble.
Perhaps you are on a staircase with qualities and features that are the exact opposite of mine. I think my staircase would be made of polished mahogany wood. There would be chips and nicks here or there, especially on the banister on the right side of the whole thing. The steps would be clad in more of a reddish-brown tone. The loops of the spirals would be loose in the beginning, but would become tighter corkscrews as you fell into a rhythm. From then on, the curls would gradually loosen. So, I ask once more, now that you've heard my take. How would your own staircase look?
Story: Applying for O’Neill Playwriting Retreat
Symbol: Dice
So, I applied for the O’Neill Retreat that I believe only sophomores can go to. I was really pretty nervous about doing it, especially since only a few people get to go. At first I had no idea what I was going to write for it. But I decided to do a monologue for the main character of a story I wrote last year. I had titled it "Caged Canary." It feels a lot like rolling a die and seeing what it will land on. I normally don’t like leaving things to chance like that; it depends what it is. It’s a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity so I’d be really glad to be able to go.
May 20th 2014
Story: Post Playwriting Retreat
Symbol: Threads
I did get to go on the O’Neill Playwriting retreat (smile). It had its rough patches, but overall I’m glad I went. We all bonded there, the sophomores and the freshman, but I think the sophomores who were already close became really close by going on that trip. At first, some of us were forced to go there, being led like puppets guided by our strings despite our instincts. But once we were there for a little while, those strings were severed and instead used to knot us together with the others who had come on the trip. By the time it was through, there was a sense of camaraderie between us. From facing writer’s block when time was limited, to gathering in one room for a chat and a game of Never Have I Ever. The conflict that at first occurred between the sophomores and the freshman worked for all of us in the end, as it gave the sophomores a chance to become closer, focusing on just our little group bonded by year and art. The threads intertwined, weaving in and out of themselves. By the second day the thread had begun to tighten, tug by tug, between sophomore and freshman, so that by weekend's end there was peace. The white flags had been raised, the doves released. The thread tied at the ends and tested, tightening with tension but held firm. Our time in a journey of writing, bonding, and searching having come to its end, I think we came out better for it.
May 29, 2014
Story: Honor Society
Symbol: Smooth Stones
I recently got accepted into the National Honor Society (NHS). In middle school I had been in the National Junior Honor Society. It had been one of my goals coming into Co-op, or rather high school in general, to get into National Honor Society. It was something that would show just how much I wanted to do well, to better myself, and make myself ready for college. The society, I think, is in place not only to recognize the efforts of those trying hard in academia, but also as a way to offer them a helping hand, to be a stepping stone on their path--one of many stones in the lake of uncertainty that I think every student has when they go through school and even more so when they aim for college. There is always that feeling of “Oh God, how do I do this, how do I get accepted to college, will I be able to do all those things?”
Let’s be real; whenever teachers gather you up in groups, like they often tend to do throughout the year to talk about college, they make it sound like an even more intimidating and daunting thing because of its importance. That’s not to say that it isn't important, because it is and it will on some level be difficult, but we've had that drilled into us since we were old enough to comprehend what the word meant. It’s about time that instead of giving us the redundant general overview of the process of getting into college and how difficult doing so is, especially nowadays, they give us some flexible avenues on how to go about doing that and bettering ourselves for college. I think the NHS is one of those avenues; you first just try to keep your grades up and from there you have people to help you step by step to get things done. By the end, you have something that you have accomplished that makes you look better to colleges and feel better about yourself and about the whole process, even if it’s a step, because that step is still a step you didn't have before.
May 30th 2014
Story: Pre-performance Jazz and Jitters
Symbol: ________________
The performance is in a little bit and I have to say I am nervous. I think that’s meant to happen to anyone who performs, because you actually care about what you are doing. I just hope it isn't that bad when I actually have to read, especially because we have a stand in this performance, not a podium. The thing with me is that when I’m nervous I shake, and I can normally get the top half of me under control, but my legs--forget about it, if they are going to shake, they’ll shake. I might be able to slow it down a little bit, but that’s it. A podium would cover that part of me like it did in my first performance; alas, I will just have to do without it.
Most everyone who is performing, I have to say, really dressed up for it and why not? We should get to dress up. I think today’s symbol really should just be a blank space to fill because that is what we are doing today. We are filling what was before an empty space with the words and thoughts we have painstakingly etched onto paper. We are filling the air with our souls that bled onto the page through our ink. Each one of us is different and yet the same because we have found solace in the same niche, the same blank space, however we fill it with something different each and every time. That’s what makes up the Creative Writing department here at Co-op. The individualism is part of what makes it great.
June 16, 2014
Story: Finals and Farewells
Theme: Paths
So, it is finals week. Yes, that last long stretch of work before we are done for the year. Today is actually the first day and I have finished everything Ms. Englart asked of me pertaining to our Creative Writing websites and other written pieces, so here I am. First let me say that our performance that I discussed in my previous entry was a smash hit. It was our biggest and best performance yet; afterward, we gave our soon-departing seniors many hugs and congratulations as it was their last performance. They will be dearly missed, but we wish them the best of luck and much fun on their journeys. As for finals, well this final wasn't by any means bad, though that is not a surprise--it never is. Though I am nervous for my other finals, my friends always say I shouldn't worry. I always do well and “I got this,” but what can I say? It is my nature.
Over the summer I will be doing my summer work for the new AP classes I will be taking next year as a junior. I will be taking AP Government and AP Literature first rather than AP Language which I plan to take my senior year. At this time of the year I always feel that all of this is like a path, a journey, and all these people and experiences are stops and I have fellow travelers laden with their own experiences that we often call “baggage”. The paths we walk are all individualized by our steps and how we take them, but the paths are beaten ones nonetheless, for this journey is dubbed "life." If I had to say what my road looks like I would say that it is one made out of cobblestone. A path of cobblestone with a field on either side of it, dotted with trees, an abundance of sunshine on one side, the right side I’d think, and plenty of warm breezes. On the left side it would be night time. Everything beneath the inky black and blue sky, pin-pricked with stars, would be bathed in the soft, silvery, light of a crescent moon. To anyone who might ever read this, I ask you to think of what your pathway looks like. How is it structured, of what material is it? Stone? Dirt? Grass? What season is it on your path? Is one half a certain thing while the other is another? I’m curious; mine, I think, would be a summer night and a spring day. That would be what my path would be like.
June 19, 2014
Story: Introversion
Symbol: Closed Mouth
Introverts are those that are more quiet and to themselves. They, however, do not wish complete seclusion from the world of extroverts. Introversion is, I think, a way of meditating, a way of discovering one’s inner self through watching others who are of the reversed aspect. The ones for whom the world never seems too large. Whereas we introverts enjoy the vast possibilities that size can bring, but do not enjoy the same acceptance of our methods of exploration as extroverts do. We move at a much slower pace than they. We progress with a trial and error process that they hardly ever see because it happens within ourselves. Thoughts overlapping one another--ideas, impressions, conclusions birthed and killed in a second’s silence--and no one is the wiser. I work through whole theories and conversations within my own mind, but not a even third of it will ever reach the world in vocalized form. In some ways it feels like introverts are selective mutes. We will only really talk with those we feel close to and others receive a silence so consistent it probably feels to them that we are mute.
That’s also what helps give more weight to an introvert's thoughts and words though. Iif introverts weren't so quiet, it wouldn't be nearly as significant when they talked. It really helps draw someone’s attention when a person who doesn't speak a lot does decide to do so, simply because whatever they're saying just needs to be said that badly. I find, oftentimes, that what they are saying is actually very insightful. So, in a way, our quiet is also a tool for us--the act of talking in itself rather than what is being said is our hook. So what I’m saying is this: if you are an introvert, don’t feel like it’s a bad thing-or it’s wrong-simply because we live in a world dominated by the latter class of the social interaction. We each have our own strong traits to bring to the table. Our inner thoughts are important even without constantly being spoken aloud.
September 2, 2014
Story: First Days with Junior Status
Symbol: Beginnings and a person of grey in a black and white world
These first few days have felt like a lit fuse racing to the set of explosives at the end of the line. My life as a junior in high school, I have to say, started with feeling overwhelmed. I can’t say for certain that feeling is gone; in fact I can say the opposite, that it is always there, under the surface. I am a person of grey in a world of black and white. A world that thinks in the general sense rather than individualized. I think a lot of creative people feel that way and that’s part of what makes things like AP classes and school for the most part feel overwhelming and suffocating to the commonly uncommon creative person. The world demands a lot of a person and time is dedicated to studies that will increase numbers on tests that colleges will look at and depending on the number set before them, it will increase or decrease your status. The overarching goal is status and the increase of it. Increase for yourself as a person to seem more appealing to colleges. It could also be something as grand as the U.S.A.’s position in the world--it’s currently-plummeting academic and innovation status that various people are trying to mend and rebuild. We are always trying to defend our position as a world power. But for me, I much prefer being looked at as an individual, someone who has merit all on her own, not compared to some overarching, collective, standard set by the masses who came before me or that presently exist but that I don’t even know. I think the world has forgotten to nurture the individual and that is why creative people are located farther and further between as time goes on. That’s why dreams of careers in creativity are viewed as far-fetched or near impossible; they just don’t match up with the general, practical desires of the world. Creative people like to work on a case-by-case basis, to interpret, to take the time to work on individual things and nurture them. Things are not just one way or the other. We are grey people in a black and white world.
September 3rd 2014
Story: AP Literature Close Reads
Theme: the Keyboard is our Instrument
Symbol: Music note
So, yesterday on my second day of AP Literature, I had to do my first ever close read and it was with the summer reading book, "The Poisonwood Bible." It is kind of difficult finding the significance in nearly every line of a page. But it did make me feel even more proud of my art. Every woven line linked in subtle ways to the overall theme and settings when I really thought about it--the way the narrator spoke the words he actually said and the way he said them. It was foreshadowing what would happen later on in the book, paving the way in the story, each word a stone in the path. You could also really tell that Dr. Sapienza was very enthusiastic about doing the close reading, which was kind of refreshing to see, because as sad as it is not a lot of people are so enthused about writing in general nowadays. I think it helped reinforce the importance of the written word to see how another author took so much time and care with her work. There were at least a few sentences on every page that could be tied to the theme or setting of the book. I have come to think that the keyboard a writer uses is his instrument much like a guitar in music. We have 26 basic notes, one for each letter in the English alphabet. We have at our disposal a limitless amount of the scales that are our literary devices or structures.
September 17, 2014
Story: Having a section on Co-op voices and Hardship
Theme: One more step toward a goal/dream
Symbol: Spiral Staircase
So, as I've mentioned in earlier entries I have two AP classes my junior year. These classes are AP Literature and AP Government. Also, as you all know, otherwise you wouldn't be here I have this section on Co-op voices. At the time that I am writing this the section is only about 2 weeks old. It’s a goal I've wanted to solidify for a while now. So, today I thought I’d write about hardship, perseverance, and dreams. I think everyone has a dream inside them, even if sometimes it takes longer than other people to realize what it is. They try different things that may or may not be a direct part of helping them get there. But, no matter what, the things you do are definitely ways of helping you discover, hopefully in some sense achieve, that dream. Why, you might ask? Well because it was still a part of what you had to go through, part of the journey, to get to discover your dream. However, I sometimes think that dreams are never really realized. That is not to say that they don’t get accomplished, but, I don’t think dreams ever end, they just expand. Humans are always seeking purpose. That’s why when we accomplish something, we begin looking for the next thing to set our sights on. Like for me, when I’m older, I want to have a career in writing.
Right now, I am looking to be a journalist and write fiction and poetry on the side, because I really love those genres of writing. If that happens, then, the next step in the dream is to better myself as a journalist, because I’d be a rookie at that point. Once I’m a considerable journalist, my next step might be something even higher in regards to journalism or it might not be. It might be something that has to do with fiction or poetry. So, to me, dreams don’t ever really end so they are never really realized. Dreams are like an endless spiral staircase. Each thing you do is a step up and around every bend; there could be something new or maybe it’ll be similar to the bend that came before it. Half the thrill is in not knowing what will come next. The other half occurs when you are actually climbing. As long as you’re going further up on your staircase somehow, you know you’re headed in the right direction.
As far as hardship is concerned, I think it’s a part of what your staircase will end up looking like. I mean everyone goes through hardships, but each of them are entirely different from each other. This is because we are all individuals. We each take in information and experience things differently than the person right beside us. So if you had to envision your staircase right at this very moment, what would it look like? Would it be made of wood that gives it a rustic look? Would the wood be splintered or would it be polished and glossy? Maybe, just maybe, you are on a staircase that is more modern and is white and very smooth and that is pristine on the surface with some underlying trouble.
Perhaps you are on a staircase with qualities and features that are the exact opposite of mine. I think my staircase would be made of polished mahogany wood. There would be chips and nicks here or there, especially on the banister on the right side of the whole thing. The steps would be clad in more of a reddish-brown tone. The loops of the spirals would be loose in the beginning, but would become tighter corkscrews as you fell into a rhythm. From then on, the curls would gradually loosen. So, I ask once more, now that you've heard my take. How would your own staircase look?
September 22nd-- 24th 2014
Story: Taking on the O’Neil Playwriting after School Program to have a play performed at the Yale school of Drama in the spring
Theme: Well-rounded writers versus Specialist writers
Symbol: the Heart and the Pen
Today, I plan to hand in my C.A.S. after-school application. I am planning to take on the O’Neill playwriting program. In this program, you ultimately produce a ten-minute play that will be performed at the Yale School of Drama. I no longer possess the play I wrote at the O’Neil Playwriting Retreat that I went to in the spring of my sophomore year. It was entitled "Cross my Heart and Hope to Live." I still remember the plot and the way it went. But I want to write something new and original. Why, you might ask? Well, it is so that I can have more experience in playwriting. I want to work toward being a rather well-rounded writer. Also, the play I wrote for the retreat felt rather done. If I chose to use that one, I would have to continue it somehow. I feel anymore attempts at continuing something that feels whole and complete only takes quality away from it rather than adds quality.
Also, what I wanted to write about today is well-rounded writers, like what I strive to be, versus specialized writers. To me, well-rounded writers are the nomad-like writers. They travel in the world of writing. They explore the various genres of the writing universe, taking little pieces here and there from everything that works for they, and they infuse it into their own writing. In doing things this way, their work becomes very much like a stained glass window. There is a central image in all their pieces, because there normally is one in a writer’s piece; it’s normally what inspired it. This is much like the image that is being portrayed in a stained glass window. In a church it may be some sort of biblical scene, but is the focal point of the window all the same. That is where these two types of writers find common ground.
Where they diverge is in the method, in the appearance. In the case of stained glass it is the color. All the colors have a certain allure with all the different colors crafted beautifully into the window, adding to the image. Each color represents one thing that the well-rounded writer has learned about various forms of writing. In some area of writing, both well-rounded writers and specialized writers do this. Specialized writers do this when they take in things around them from the world and put it into their writing. The difference is that well-rounded writers do this even with writing itself, creating a coalition of the genres of writing in their work.
Specialized writers are those who work mainly, if not exclusively, in one genre of writing. We often give them the label of the genre they work in attached to the common, all encompassing, title of writer. These are your fiction writers, nonfiction writers, and poets. They are the arrow that never veers from its path, hitting the mark as it slices through the air.
What’s different between them and well-rounded writers? Well, the answer is they put all their energy and vigor into that one field and become just as the name would suggest--specialized in that field. They are the community writers. They stay mainly within their own genre/community of writing and work to enhance it, enliven it. The best example of this is comparing a fiction writer with a nonfiction writer. The common thought is that one writes about reality and what is true and the other crafts worlds from scratch. They don’t normally cross into the territory of the other, right? Maybe in the beginning when the writer is trying to find their mold, but people think there is a point where they would figure it out and move to one side of the boundary. Guess what? You just thought like a specialized writer. Here I sit in Coop Publishing House, which is notoriously a nonfiction class and I had been in love with fiction since I was little. Anyone who knows me knows I wrote primarily fiction. So why would I be here? You already know the answer: it is to be a well-rounded writer and I have found out that it is by no means as bad or as hard as I originally thought. From my time traversing the various genres I have nurtured a style that is a mix of fiction and poetry that Ms. Englart has fittingly dubbed Poetic Prose. That is what a specialized writer and well-rounded writer are to me and how they vary.
September 29, 2014
Theme Inspiration/Muses
Story: Hobbies
Symbol: Will o’ Wisp
I’m opening with thoughts geared to inspiration today. But first, in case someone doesn't know what a will o’ wisp is, it is a ghostly-looking ball of light that has all kinds of folklore behind it. Some of it is bad, like people that weren't baptized or were stillborn that are stuck between heaven and hell that guide travelers astray sometimes to their death. Others will say it isn't a human at all, but some sort of spirit that is different from a ghost in that it was never human to begin with or that it's fairies. But there are also good tales, like if you’re lost in the woods and you see one--depending on how you treat it--it could guide you out to safety. Also, a will o' wisp guides those courageous enough to follow it to treasure. I chose it for both types of stories, but I lean to the latter--more positive stories.
Now, some people wonder if the idea of muses is still apparent today and I think yes, it is. You can find a muse in a lot of different things and people, but you don’t have to have one muse that never changes--that I don’t believe. These muses are the same places you get your inspiration from. I find inspiration in things like anime, video games, and reading. These all help with plots and graphics (as far as the anime and videogames are concerned). I also find inspiration from my friends because of all the different things they do and how unique they are. So, to me, a muse or inspiration can be and come from anything and it doesn't have to come from any one thing. Sometimes it may not always lead to the treasure of a well done piece, but neither does the will o’ wisp. Being an artist, however, means being the person daring enough to try anyway. I think people need at least a few hobbies; it should be something that you enjoy doing and maybe doesn’t involve so much work, but ultimately helps that creative spark.
October 6, 2014
Story: Declaration of Human Rights
Symbol: Gender Symbols
So, I read the Declaration of Human Rights that the United Nations created. Let me just say for those of you that don’t know what that is, it is a declaration that lists all the rights that a person has at birth just for being a human being. I feel that if more people knew about the existence of such a document, and it was actually enforced, it would solve a lot of our current problems. For example, in one of the articles it states that a human being should get equal pay for equal work without any discrimination. If that was actually enforced then we wouldn’t have the gender inequality issues that we have now. Emma Watson wouldn’t have needed to give a speech before the U.N. to advocate for gender equality and the He for She campaign. We would already have that equality. The different genders are two interpretations of the same thing. They are interpretations of a human being. Just like interpretations--neither is wrong and neither is completely right, so why can they not both be equal in value?
October 16, 2014
Story: Omnipotent Conflict
Symbol: Universe of Obligation
The Omnipotent Conflict
By: NightShade
The scales of justice are slanted
We as humans have made them so,
In constant flux between our morals
And the instincts that place a "shrouded veil over our emotion"
The ingrained impulse for self-preservation
Propels us to combat our sense of obligation
To our fellow man
Blurring the line between what is good and what is allowed
Long ago when man first began, being human
Meant living to fight another day
Today we have the sense of self
And this modern term humane, that gets pushed off to someone else
In the rationale of a bystander who is not the only witness
Came the death of Kitty Genovese
This is the black veil that covers our emotion
An omnipotent conflict between what is humane
And what is human instinct
We have become adept in finding loopholes
To avoid making clear cut distinctions
Scrutinizing for differences
And magnifying them
From that the terminology of
Red skin, Spic, and Nigger
Came to be
Our excuses to not be humane
Give way to a rawer instinct
As we watch history repeat itself with different people
Subjected to discrimination
The Omnipotent Conflict
From which all choices trickle down
What is humane?
And what is human instinct?
October 23rd 2014
Story: Performing in my First-ever Appearance at the Fall Metamorphosis Showcase
Vignette: Being Vocal
Symbol: Speech Bubble
I am performing for the first time ever in the fall showcase of Metamorphosis. This year I’ve been trying to be more vocal as far as performances. So, this year I wanted to take part in the fall showcase because I had only ever done the spring performances. This time, however, I wanted to try my hand at doing both. I feel like being more outgoing is working for me as far as writing is concerned. It has helped me form my thoughts into shorter sentences while still expressing the multitude of thoughts that go into the topic of my writing.
I have also tried speaking more in my classes when we have a discussion about something and I’ve discovered that it isn’t so bad. I think introverts being at least a little vocal can really help them. I’m not saying to progress to being an extrovert, because if we were completely comfortable with that we wouldn’t be introverts in the first place. But, I encourage introverts to be at least a little vocal within the general populace they find themselves immersed in. It’s like when you’re hoarse and you slowly get your voice back. At first, it’ll be raspy and hard to muster the words past your lips into audible, coherent phrase.
After though, with some time, your voice will be smoother and clearer--maybe not with the projection and command of an opera singer, but maybe like a soprano, with a range all your own. When the time presents itself, you’ll part your lips and push that newly honed voice up and out into the space you occupy. When your stroll into ambivert territory has come to its end, you can let the silence return to the room and don your introvert title proudly once more. So, shape your speech bubble, but don’t just shape it in your mind, like most introverts do 24/7. People have yet to master mind reading and introverts, I imagine, want to be heard. I think most do, but it’s just harder for introverts; a lot of the processing occurs in the mind. The difficulty of introverts is understandable, but it also has some benefits. If you do want to be heard, you need to shape your speech bubble in your mind and then propel it outward to the world beyond your cerebral imaginings. There might just be at least one person who wants to hear what you say and can’t if you don’t do that. So, be a little bit more vocal.
October 24, 2014
Story: Post Fall Metamorphosis Showcase
Symbol: Light Reflecting on a Mirror
So, the efforts of trying some different things and being more vocal came to fruition at yesterday's showcase. The audience was great, they were very quiet, and we had a full house. At least now I can say that I have done both the fall and spring performances. The set up was different than the spring performance; it's normally on the main stage and not the black box. So, this time around, the audience was a lot closer than what I am used to. The chairs were arranged so that the audience was almost on every side of me; those things, I have to say, were intimidating. But, I got through it. It feels a lot like light reflecting back at me from a mirror. I tried it and now I’m able to say I had a really nice showcase.
***November 12, 2014
Story: Completion of Yale Play
Symbol: Finish Line
I finished my Yale play entitled the 'Company of Compromise'. I believe that I am going to leave it at nine pages of material, rather than 10, because I got to the end of my original idea and it seems to flow very well. Secondly, I don’t want to add something solely for the sake of adding something; doing that may take away from the overall play. I would have liked it to be 10 pages, but I also think it’s important to know when to stop for the sake of one’s piece. I think this is important, not just for writers, but for all artists. You should stop when the thing you’re working on feels as close to done as it can get. I say as close to done, because I don’t think any artist feels that a piece is ever completely done; we are ever growing. For the sake of your sanity, time, and the preservation of quality in that moment, stop when the piece feels as close to finished as it’s going to get. That’ll be your finish line in the marathon of writing.
Also, you should take a break from something you are working on, if the mood to do it, the drive has left you. Mind you, this is only if you are able as far as time because there is such a thing as deadlines. For my play, I think it took a good week or two of me bouncing around with ideas and the structure for me to come up with one that I could run with. I hadn’t harped on that for the entirety of that time, however, because if you think about something too much, that can hurt you more than it helps you. In the past, for me, I know that sometimes I have to let things sit for awhile. Think of it on and off before an idea or solution will come along. So, don’t beat yourself up, if you can’t come up with an idea right away, it’ll feel like a struggle, but squirming frantically isn’t necessarily the way you want to tackle it. Know where your finish line is.
November 12, 2014 Part 2
Story: Visiting Yale Sterling Library
Symbol: Pedestal
I visited the Yale Sterling Library with my A.P. Literature group along with some other A.P. students. The space was quite vast, elegant, and ornate. We also took a look at the dorms and asked questions about dorm/college life. Finally, we ate in a Yale dining hall. In all honesty, it was intimidating because it was a glimpse of the pedestal that I would like to stand on, my bachelors degree, not necessarily at Yale, but the end goal is the same regardless. With that being said, when you see the types of things it takes to get somewhere that you want to be, I think, what often happens is that you compare yourself to the people successfully doing that. You don’t yet know the details of what is expected of you and how you'll react to that. That does not mean that you can’t do it, only that what you’re thinking of remains mostly in the unknown. That to some extent always scares people. Now, if you’ve started that certain thing, but maybe aren’t doing as well as whomever you’re observing--like I was observing highly intellectual Yale students--or what the thing you’re striving for demands of you, it does not mean that you are less as a person. Maybe their method isn’t for you or you work a different way or bring a different quality to the table. Whatever the reason, you still have value in some sense. It also does not necessarily mean that you are any less capable of achieving the goal in front of you than anyone else; you might just need adjustments to have it work better for you. I know we are human and doubt will happen sometimes, but if you can, don’t add extra feet to the height of the pedestal you’re aiming for; it just makes the goal seem all the more intimidating and overwhelming. Remember, you have your own merits.
November 14, 2014
Story: S.A.T. Math help for Flex
Symbol: Ladder
I’ve signed myself up for S.A.T. math help for Flex this semester, but I am not really sure it is helping me. The thing is, in that moment, yes, I am getting the teacher’s help and I understand what they are telling me, but the S.A.T. brings back everything that I’ve ever learned since freshman year. That’s hard for me to recall. So, I’m worried that when the time for the test comes along, I won’t remember how to do those things despite having taken this extra help.
Secondly, the mindset for the S.A.T. is so out of the box; let’s say you do remember most of the things you were taught freshman year. You have to know when certain things can help you and you have to use several elements of that for one answer. All of that concerns me a great deal. After all, I want to do well on my S.A.T.’s. I also sought out this help; I don’t want it to be all for naught in the end, because then what did the effort mean? At the very least, I did try to help myself get better regardless of the outcome.
November 17th 2014
Story: Reading
Symbol: Lantern
In my time thus far as a Junior, I’ve come to the realization that I don’t read for leisure nearly as much as I used to, despite the fact that I still like to read very much. This is because of the fact that now I have A.P. classes and while I do still read, it is material for that class that I am reading and is not very appealing. Also, there is so much of that material for me to read that by the time I am done I no longer want to look at text that can be found in the binding of a book of any kind or I am just simply doing other things, such as writing or entertaining myself through another means. But I did come across this quote that I have seen a couple of times since my first reading of it and it goes as follows: “We write by the light of every book we have ever read.” I agree with that quote because what you read helps shape your thoughts about certain things and the way you think in general. As always, I think reading is important and sitting with a novel of your choosing every once in a while if you have the time is a good thing.
December 9th 2014
Story: Improving on Multiple Choice, the solution to a long nagging problem
Symbol: A Well/Oasis in the Desert
I’ve been improving on the multiple choice questions in my Literature A.P. class and at first my performance wasn't ideal. The class was like a well with all the correct answers stagnant in its depths. Every practice test I took was a tug on the rope that brought a pail of water ever closer to breaking the dark surface of the well. It’s good to know that I no longer really have to worry about doing poorly on the multiple choice questions. Mind you, that is never entirely true. The multiple choice questions are very tricky and are often more literal than a student would expect, especially when it is coming from a course that primarily teaches you to analyze a text significantly and to not just see the surface when reading a passage of something.
The success is like the oasis in the desert and a lot of people know that feeling when you’re worrying about something and gradually it gets better or you find a solution. The moment that you realize that you have a solution and that the thing that was hanging over you no longer has any weight, then that is your bucket of water. It is the relief after walking in a sand-laden hell with the burning urgency of a deadline beating down on you as you trudge ever forward, gazing listlessly ahead. Not a single oasis in sight, your tongue brushes the roof of your dry mouth, passing over your moisture-deprived lips. You raise one foot after the other, each heavy as lead and just as darkened from the sun’s unrelenting rays.
As you see the oasis, at first you think it only a mirage, but nevertheless it draws you, like a bird to the bath, a moth to the flame. Once there, you take the thick rope curled at the well’s side in your sun burned, aching hands and tug. The rope burn like knives in your palms as you struggle with the weight of the pail, bringing it up the darkness of your subconscious. You yank once more, rope over shoulder and breathing hard with the sun bearing down. The pail rises off the stone floor, held in darkness, you dig your heels in, a bull preparing the charge, and then comes the last pull. A sweat building in this last exertion, your journey here having been a series of trials, you believe yourself to be at wits ends. The pail clatters against the stone of the well, a little of the water spilling over the edge and running down the dark brown wood of the pail. It surfaces from the darkness, like a swimmer from the depths of a pool and you could be no happier. Reaching out your hand, grasping the cool, thin, metal handle of the pail and carry it carefully from the edge. You stare down at it and see your grimy reflection, the visual evidence of your hardship. Bringing the pail up to your face and drinking greedily at first, in big ceaseless gulps before you remember to savor it. It took twice as long to get there, you don’t want to make the treasure twice as small by rushing through it. A trail of water trickles down your chin, droplets hitting the parched abundant granules of sand at your feet. You’ve made it; your tiring journey is over.
December 10th 2014
Story: Choosing our classes for next semester
Symbol: Forked path
Nonfiction--the course that propels you into the vast, unflinching world of truth and newness, in which you have free reign so long as you remain. The seasoned detectives of life and the mysteries of the human psyche; they go by many names. A popular one is the Journalist, who after scouring the seven seas of the earth and the infinite sectors of cyberspace reports their findings to their renowned oracle of society, the media. This oracle then broadcasts their prophecies to people the world over. Their words--recorded into the archives of the internet and before then inked onto a tablet that is called a newspaper, stored away for all of time. Nonfiction is the practice of truth.
Fiction--a world of angels and demons, humans and demigods, witches and warlocks--it is a complex journey taken without a physical step forward. The only job on earth where you are god of a people truly from your own imaginings; however, you are also free to move up and down the hierarchy. One stroke and you are king presiding over your subjects and contemplating your next move in a new war. Neither do you have to be human. A career devoted to the idea of inducing an out-of-body experience. You are the lord of your mind and all the realms it holds. Fiction is the practice of freedom.
Poetry is the practice of allure and rhetoric. The seductive speak of a politician who often is talking about anything but politics. These silver-tongued snake charmers play their sweet music, the inflection of their voices rising and faltering in all the right places. They craft their notes perfectly beforehand, straw turning into gold all on the loom of form and diction. Poetry is the practice of allure.
For a writer, the choice is a forked path. Like the tines of a fork, it is broken in three. She must choose what path she will walk. Will it be nonfiction, whose path is one of pavement sleek and even, embodying the order that she so desperately seeks? Will it be the way of fiction, a path of cobblestone that’s ornate and refined with the footsteps of all the adventurers that have come before? Will it be the path of poetry that is dotted with the vibrancy of flowers and embroidered with the sing song voices of the residents farther down the path? Will they trace their way back to the fork and venture on down a different way once a season has come to pass? All of these decisions are left up to the one with the pen sheathed at her side. Three different guides, one at the side of each avenue. She has taken the path of the nomad, calling no one place home until she has walked it all. Holding one little piece of her time on each trail and that, that has made all the difference.
Story: A.P. Literature Mock Exam
Symbol: Shooting a bow and arrow
I had my A.P. literature mock exam not too long ago and it took a total of 4 hours to complete the whole thing. Each multiple choice was like a test of speed and accuracy. Quickly, you grasp the arrow from the leather quill slung on your back. You pull back on the drawstring the edges of the bow bending back ever so slightly and let the arrow fly, cutting through the air. Repeat the motion, quill to bow and back again. Only a hairsbreadth between each bird taking flight. You hope that each one finds the mark, but you also know that you have to have some room for a margin of error no matter how it pains you. The essays were like a test for distance; how far your understanding could go before the arrow comes short of the intended target. The target, like a dot in the distance, the arrow notched, staring down to the faraway goal. You draw in an uneasy breath. Then, there is an exhale as the arrow is let loose; anxiety coming out as the arrow takes flight. It becomes a black bird in the distance propelled to its perch. Soon it cannot be seen and I am left to wonder if it struck home.
January 5th 2014
Story: End of a semester
Symbol: Ship on a voyage
The semester is coming to an end. That can only mean that this sea bound vessel is nearing a port and is ready to lay down anchor, watching, as some of the crew may once again touch land. They board another vessel of a different make, gliding across the priceless sapphire’s glittering surface, the whitewash churning at the vessel’s ornate sides. Those of us who stand on the same familiar planks, which have known our footsteps for the 5 months past, will bid them a fond farewell as they shrink into the horizon. Our own sails will insistently move into the gathering wind, beckoning impatiently for them to press onward, releasing them from their metal and earthly bondage. We will oblige as we have many a time, the role of master and slave constantly in question, the sea waits for no man and its mood can be quite finicky. Best to please as soon as one can, lest we incur its wrath. This we know well, for the time of the maiden voyage for both ship and crew has long since passed. So onward we press, with different sea-dogs of our own. Though new to this ship they are, they’ve long since earned their sea legs. No matter the area, salty air is still the scent of the sea.
January 8th and 9th, 2015
Story: Midterm Stress
Symbol; Door at the end of the corridor
Midterm season is aflourish again. Like the bloom of an annual it comes every year, a rose with the thorns lodged firmly in place, immune to the blades of scissors or shears. The end of it is an ornate wooden door polished to brilliance, the frame, gilt. It stands, beckoning, at the end of a very long corridor dimly lit with torches held in scones welded to the stone walls. Tendrils of cold slipping out of the warm touch of the fire and the escape of frigid air send goose bumps across the skin. Shadows elongate along the walls and so, it seems, does the corridor itself. Suddenly you know that getting there will be harder than you anticipated. Here, you stand, in the mouth of the corridor and you take your first confident steps. The wood floor creaks beneath your weight. You move on, the heat of torches, something that at one time seemed comforting, is now pressing on you as you pass it by. The added pressure and the warmth of it seems suffocating; you've been going on down this hall awhile now. That door doesn't seem any closer than it had when you first set off. You veer off to one side, leaning against the wall and slide down with a resigned sigh, watching the fire opposite you dip and rise. The faint pop and crackle of the torch fills your ears. Glancing over at the door you've been striving to reach, expecting that its continued existence alone is a mockery of your efforts, so painstakingly slow is your progression. Glance turns into defiant glare, lips a thin line. Hands brushing knees as you rise back up to your feet, pivoting to the right to face the door and stare at it a moment, in silence. Then, a last mad dash begins; one last surge of energy, nothing left in reserve, all of it for your goal. Torchlight blurring by in your peripheral vision like car headlights passing you as you drive on the highway. You sprint toward the door, full steam ahead. Gasping for air, you grasp the cool brass door knob with fingertips, practically falling into it to steady yourself, waiting a few long moments, heart in your ears as you catch your breath. Finally, you push the door open, brilliant white light pouring through and a blast of cool air rushing forward to relieve you of your sweat. Grinning, you straighten, and move forward, a casual stride now because you know the work is over.
January 29, 2015
Story: Company of Compromise taking the stage
Symbol: An Artist
So, next week on Friday, February 6th, the play that I wrote, "Company of Compromise," is taking the stage at the Festival for New Works. I've written about the process of writing that play in past postings and now all that work is finally coming to fruition. I feel good about that, but I am also incredibly nervous about said event because, as an artist of any kind would know, we are forever nitpicking at our work. It never feels done because life goes on and we get better. In turn, that makes artists, in particular, feel like if only they had known what they know now. If they had, then their work could have been better too. There are also stylistic things you wish you’d been better at, at the time. I’m just going to try to remember to enjoy it. After all, I didn't spend all that time writing the play for no reason. I also have a meeting with my directors (Jireh and Lindsey) today. I hope it goes well; we've been butting heads a lot during this process (mainly Jireh and I) that’s a big part of what made this process so long. However, one of those clashes was good; it led me to start writing "Company of Compromise" because Jireh wanted me to try my hand at writing an entirely new piece. The bad clashes were due to the stylistic choices I made while writing the play. Jireh would have had me write it in a way that included mostly dialogue rather than the narrative-like-details-turned-dialogue that I put into it. To him, my play seemed more like a piece of prose rather than a play that way. I understand his point of view that the characters have more to say, but I'd spent weeks revising the play so that we could have a happy medium.The medium was that I turned the narrative-like details that had been stage directions into plausible dialogue that made sense, and in some cases, also really enhanced the play. Also, when it was read aloud to my playwriting peers, a lot of them really liked that stylistic choice and it is one that I am comfortable and really happy. I also don’t want to alter it into something that stylistically is so watered down and altered from what I normally wrote that, in a big way, it's no longer mine. I guess, both those feelings are traits of an artist; someone who is on one end always nitpicking at their work in hopes of reaching some sublime perfection. On the other hand, however, there is the integrity, the time when one's sense of self is threatened by another, artists are very prideful beings. We do not come so readily to change because the only one we find permissible to change our work is ourselves.
February 6th 2015
Story: Reflecting on friendships
Symbol: Stained Glass Window
Lately, I’ve been thinking about friendships. It’s a frequent topic in the Chronicles, I know, but it’s important and it’s been a large factor in my life, good and bad. I think good friends are like mirrors; you see yourself in them. As such, they understand you and support you because of that. Really great friends though, I’ve come to think, they’re parts of a stain glass window. You too, are a part of that stain glass window. Do you know why? It’s because you're all parts of something bigger and beautiful. There is something fundamentally the same in each of you. But, simultaneously, you each are your own individuals. That’s why each of you has a different color, a different stain, yet still managing to be part of the same picture. When the sun pours in, each of you will sense its heat and brilliance. It will reverberate through the window pane even if you are at the farthest of its corners. All the colors will reach full prominence. When the rain pours mercilessly the same will apply, but each and every piece, every layer, will hold together to stand against the coming storm. Great friends are pieces of stained glass whose picture and brilliance is something you make both separately and together. So prepare to shine.
February 23rd- 25th 2015
Story: Leaving, Freedom, Finding Oneself
Symbol: The gilded cage, squares of blue, and the little blue bird
The blue bird lives in a gilded cage, a gold grille that is the edge of its world. For the little bird the world really is flat. The blue bird tweets and twitters as it wonders, waits and watches. The wings tucked, impatient, and achy from all the untapped raw energy making it twitch. There is though, a little fear; the sky the bird knows not a thing about, but these squares of blue, like swatches of paint separated by wires of fool’s gold. The sky is vast as the ocean, a greater amount of blue than every aerodynamically built feather on its delicate body. The bird is too, but a swatch; a swatch yet to be placed on the canvas, waiting eagerly on the palette. But, the little bird knows it is also the artist, made so by the presence of will and purpose. The little bluebird, like an artist is putting it’s being into the work. The bird sings against the confinements of its cage, a small passive aggressive act of rebellion as its sweet vocals pass through the boundaries all around. A part of itself, however small, made it out into the openness of the sky, into possibility that was so close and yet so far away. When next there is a moment, a slip up in the monotonous make-up of her world she slips out and away. Wings, the sky personified find familiarity in the wind's currents that carry her up. The light of the sun is like a “welcome home”. The little bird, the stroke of paint, the artist’s soul that was missing in the masterpiece of the sky so blue, has come home.
February 26th 2015
Story: Stranger
Symbol: Split Photograph
A split photograph is the personification of the quote “Once best friends now strangers with memories”. It really is the saddest thing when two people who were once so close are now nothing more, but strangers. A photograph that started to age and become worn with time now has faded colors. A tear starts to form and nothing is thought of it. Only natural that such things happen when memories age, nearer to forgotten, but it can be easily mended. Tears are temporary, fleeting. That’s what’s believed, what’s hoped for, but more often than not that little tear will progress. A rip in the foundation that reaches the photo's center and all that’s left by then is to watch it. Any touch now will finish the job. But, you know the end game, no matter what, is the same. Time seems to drag as the rip advances, turning into a cobweb, tributaries to the focal point of this social disaster. A mirror to your own inner turmoil as you fight with yourself about whether or not you still hope for a miracle. You wonder if the rip's progression is representative of your need for everything to just end. The most painful thing is the prolonging. Even when it’s over, you’ll be in a weird space. More than strangers, less than friends and like the jagged edges of that torn photo, your memories will remind you that you were once part of something whole. To ease the pain think of all your broken pieces as collage of your life, then every piece is, in fact, right where it was always meant to be.
February 27th 2015
Story: Writing about Life experiences
Symbol: Scales
There is a saying that I always think about when I’m writing about a negative experience and that’s, “You own everything that happened to you. Tell your stories. If people wanted you to write warmly about them, they should have behaved better.” It’s a quote by Anne Lamott. Writing about life experiences in a creative way, such as this, can be quite rewarding as well as therapeutic. In any story, there is a protagonist and an antagonist. In your life you are the protagonist; don’t let another writer ,other than yourself, write your novel. Sometimes, the antagonist is an experience which may not have been anyone’s fault. But, when there is an actual human antagonist then don’t omit that, your writing should be a scale, balancing everything until you reach a verdict. Use that decision to make your piece. Art wasn’t meant to always be chocolates and roses. It was meant to be heartfelt and sometimes the heart is going to hurt, that’s okay.
March 2, 2015
Story: Why people don’t walk away from people who aren’t good for them
Symbol: Shackle and Roses
Relationships that were once very good things, but since have wilted and died are hard to walk away from for a lot of people. That's the case even if all the good that once was, has long since spoiled. People hope that roses are a forgiving plant and that they will bloom again with a little water even after negligence. This vain hope creates a shackle of heartstrings. Tensing every time you take a step away because you don’t think you’re ready for the heartache. Your not ready to give up when you want to believe everything is salvageable. The real hurt would be retreating back instead of continuing forward and that realization is the hardest part. Even when the hackles over time may rust; memory makes it so it's never really ever gone. The jangle of metal heard in the distance in a moment of quiet is the mind’s day to day, but the important thing is that it’s no longer around your ankles or wrists. The rattle and subtle throb of your heart’s phantom pains can be a reminder, a warning to keep another set from being clamped on. It’ll feel better when there’s more than just fallen petals in your garden.
March 3rd 2015
Story: The Perfect Human
Symbol: A Rainbow
Those in my Facing History class were presented with the task of creating the perfect human in our own image. Though, I did do this task I tried to make the piece in such a way that the things in it could be perceived in various ways. I do not think there is such a thing as the perfect human because it is not any one set of things. If one individual or group of people was deemed perfect everyone would try to duplicate them in every way. If everyone is the same then what’s the point? Things would be quite boring now that everything is uniform in perfection. Creativity would not exist. Something creative thrives on difference, on the belief that everyone has something to say. If everyone’s saying the same thing the well of creativity has officially gone dry and the world has seen its last artist. No one is perfect, but no one is at the same time imperfect;that’s what makes us equal. Humans are like colors in a rainbow. Someone would not make a rainbow one color because that color is perfect. The reason people think rainbows are beautiful is the diversity of all those colors being in one spot. Humans, like a rainbow, do not have to form from one ideal set up. A rainbow happens because there is water (normally in the form of rain) and sunshine available at the same time. Rain, though it tends to have more negative connotations and some people prefer the sunshine, which is more often than not associated with things that are good and uplifting, both are necessary to create something as nice as a rainbow. So someone does not need to come from a household that has the ideal fully functioning family to be something worthwhile. They can diverge from the “norm”, dare to go on despite having a past that is less than squeaky clean, whatever the reason, and still be just as magnificent. Yes, even colors have a certain order, hence shading. A skeleton of order is needed for practical reasons so that humans, like a rainbow, can align themselves and better function and live. This is just as a building needs a foundation and supports to stand. That does not mean that the order gets to dictate every detail, because different things are great for different tasks, but it’s all still good. In the end, when you really think about it, being perfect is not a habit of humanity
March 4th 2015
Story: Those Long days
Symbol: Beaded Bracelet and a pier
We’ve all had them, those days where the clock seems like it’s conspiring against you, making every second twice as long. You’re being bombarded with work and there seems to be no end. Sometimes, these days string themselves together like those beaded bracelets you used to make in kindergarten, but not half as pleasant. Each little piece a colorful tribute for just having gotten through the day because in the moment that’s the most important thing. Even afterward, that is still the most important thing. Just get through the day doing the best and most that you can. You’re drowning in the moment, but remember you’ve done this several times before now; it’s become mental muscle memory. Tomorrow is a new day. That golden bead right before you tie everything off on that bracelet, the sunshine glittering on the still water’s surface when that seems way above where you are mentally right then, isn't actually that far away. When you’re looking back leave the beaded bracelet on the sun-kissed pier of memory lane. Just as the sun glitters on the lake's mirror-like surface, it is also shines on your latest contributions, however many or heavy they may be. When all is said and done; Sit there gazing at the lake’s surface a moment then, leave the beaded bracelet on the sun-kissed pier of memory lane.
March 9, 2015
Story: Saying something even though it’s hard
Symbol: Diving
When you need to say something, though it will hurt you, it’s a lot like diving into a pool. You look tentatively over the edge;debating if this was the right thing to do after all. You know there isn’t much turning back now. You shut your eyes tight, push forward, plunging into nothingness. Accelerating in you're transition, bearings for a moment are lost; your reality quickly becomes the water's awaiting depths. So frigid is it that it makes your blood seemingly stop; your whole body goes rigid from shock lasting only seconds. Instinct kicks in as you try to orient yourself, discover which way is up, which way is out. Propelling yourself toward air; the moment of retrieval seemingly a long way off. Bursting from the depths, you gasp, sucking in mouthfuls of air, swaying and bobbing when the panic ebbs. Looking upward, at the point of your descent, you realize how far you've come. With pride you bask in the new found warmth of accomplishment that seemed kept at bay. It may have been frightening, but you are glad, now, that you did it.
March 11th 2015
Story: The Soundtrack of Writing
Symbol: Two people playing piano
For those of you who don’t know I often write with music. I’ve also seen other writers, who are published, include the playlists they listened to while writing a particular novel. Veronica Roth dedicated each song to a certain mood or part in her Divergent Trilogy. I think when you listen to music while writing that’s where a musician and a writer can come together in appreciation of their individual artistry. For a writer, the music helps capture the essence of the moment, easier to translate from mental to tangible. Two people sitting together at their individual piano, playing a song. Music has its own part in it all.. Two types of “pianos", one literal the other literary, coming together to share a space to create art. During this fingers’ fly feverishly across keys n rapturous rhythm. Sound rebounds becoming the echo of echoes until it fades giving a hairbreadth of silence, a note, a letter all its own. Every beat that passes through, punctuation to every press of my “piano”. Every verb that will ever appear from the cursor, the cleft. Softer tones, a melodic caress to the words expressing the life of the page. Music is the emphasis of emotion. It’s the playback of a writer’s heartbeat. We knew it along because every writer here has lived a thousand lives through ink, but in every life there is doubt. I don’t believe in the in-fighting for dominance in the arts. I believe in camaraderie of the arts. I believe in connectivity in the arts. Be it the music from my ear buds, a script from playwright to actor, lyrics being danced to or the poster that advertised it. We all dare to create so let us then, be courageous enough to collaborate, to appreciate.
March 24th 2015
Story: the 1 year anniversary of the creation of my first posting on Nightshade Chronicles
Symbol: Seeing the sunrise
Today signifies one year since my first ever Nightshade Chronicle posting. I’m equating today to seeing the sunrise because I have all those reflective/nostalgic emotions that come with looking back, as well as all the happiness of knowing I’m not done yet. One of the first posting I wrote was about the night, as I write this now it seems very fitting. The nostalgia I feel, the gentle waves of pride and sentimentality pass over me like tides guided by that very moon shining in all it’s elegant glory. The sun rising does not mean that these old things are gone; far from it they are what will travel with me always, ever existing. They are wisps of fog, the drops of dew on grass and the subtle earthy scent that permeates the air after a rains’ pass. So too does the night have its markers. The silhouette of the moon behaving like a star in the daytime sky that is what these shall be. The navy blue of night lightening, at the sun’s first touch of a baby sky in blue, but blue nonetheless. A deliverance of new vitality that's all there is. The night air, all its teachings, age, and wisdom are petals of a perennial still brushing my skin.
Sometimes I am asked why I do this and there are probably many reasons, some of which I have probably yet to think of, but right now here’s why. It’s a way to get into my own head. To pose questions to others while still being myself in a secure, private sense that comes when you’ve been quietly mulling something over. It’s a way to, maybe, answer questions that other people may have and not even know it. Perhaps, they never really had time to get into the space of thinking about it these questions. Life happens, and a lot of the time it’s in a rush. Not everything can be caught, I get it, but this is my way to connect the happenings in my part of the world to all the other people of this planet's puzzle pieces. It’s my way to keep time with all my sunrises and sunsets, all my days and nights.
March 25th 2015
Story: Letting Go
Symbol: Scattering flower petals
Letting go of things that are hurting you or that you have become so used to is hard to do. It’s something that I’ve had trouble with my whole life, whether it be an event, or simply thinking of everything at once and forgetting to pace myself. There are times, where it is just better to let it go even if the clenching opens slowly. Letting go of something is like watering a flower after a long time, but it’s forgiving; it'll know life again. The thing you’re holding on to is wilted and dark. Your soul is that forgiving flower. It needs to be trimmed and taken care of even if only occasionally. If whatever you’re holding on to is something you once loved then I’d ask that you recall that trimmings off a flower are still petals and leaves. They have traces of the beauty they once held. But, it’s better on the both of you that they are carried off by the wind and flutter into the sun. A grand finale for your petals before gracefully coming down to rest. The sun’s golden hue, a spotlight for your memory's dance. All memories, even the departed ones, are like flames that wane with time. Let these that you bid farewell beloved or not, be not roaring fires in your heart, instead let them glow tenderly, filling you with compassion and strength.
March 27th 2015
Story: Entering Metamorphosis Submission
Symbol: Code of Arms
There are three major moments of the year where us creative writer’s showcase our work. They are: the October Metamorphosis Showcase where we all read our pieces from the Metamorphosis of the previous year. Then there is the actual publishing of the current Metamorphosis. Finally, there is the latest installment, which began when I was a freshman, the Phresh Content performance in June. All of these are testaments to the creed that creative writers have to the written word. Our pens touching paper, a code of arms displayed in our day-to-day lives. Long after we are gone from this place, our art will remain. As one of our returning creative writing alumni said, “I beg you; I implore you, never stop writing.” We who create something from nothing, our voices giving tediously measured weight to every word. Silence itself has a presence after we have done all that we we’ve been trained to do. Bonds of ink are thicker than water. We are few in any given space, but this way of life has taught us tenacity, so we press on we must. Our task is to allow an experience, a feeling, to transcend the boundaries of time and reverberate into eternity. For this we have come to the challenge the blank page and conquered it.
March 31st 2015
Story: If we could see souls and not bodies
Symbol: Ray of light
If people could see souls instead of bodies I think it would be a lot easier to communicate. It would be easier to see who people are and why. More often than not we’d come across rays of sunlight over cloudy skies. The light warming us all as we walk on common ground; people would have a new view of everyone, even those they’ve known for quite some time. Flowers of understanding blooming all around, this refreshing take would bring an emotional and ideological spring to people.
April 2nd, 2015
Story: Handling that crunch time stress
Symbol: Mountain
This is the time of year that is crunch time, both for those in my art and just for me in general. For those in my art this is the time for Metamorphosis, capstones, and our June performance. For me, it’s time for a quarterly and A.P. finals. All that, with the added layer of college prep is a lot; I’m not going to lie. It is important though, to have those pockets of peace. Those moments that, for whatever reason, allow a sense of calm to pass over you even if it’s for the briefest of moments. This is the mountaineering of our lives, moments in which the path is neither clear or forgiving. The place where the air is thin as wet tissue, making you gasp, bend double, and push yourself to your mental edge. We continue to leave footprints in the delicate, untouched snow. Visualizing the yet unseen view that we know awaits us at the top.The incline is steep, stones coming loose and bouncing all the way back down. A reminder of how far you've come, but also an admonition of how long the drop is. Wind, beating you back, filling your ears with its howling. A whirlwind, disorienting not your physical position, but the mental that's all the more fragile. Thoughts in disarray, grasping what we can in the moment and pressing on. The peak glistens with ice in the sunlight. The distance seems twice as long with the destination so close. The final push is coming; exhausted you go into reserves and dig in to make that last burst. The scenery teases as you gingerly reach the summit, a few steps from the perch you'd only just dreamed of. Seeing this view leaves you breathless; all that you’ve done laid out before you. Snow spills over the edge, fragile and easily displaced, it descends to where you began equally as fragile. Now, however, you stand among the stones and the sky.
April 7, 2015
Story: Finding old Pieces in a poetry book
Symbol: an idea, a signature
I’ve recently found an old poetry book of mine that I wrote in while I was in 8th grade and a freshman. It has a lot of the poetry I used for co-op voices and other creative writing projects from that year, but I stopped writing in it that same year for various reasons. It’s an interesting thing finding a volume of one’s own work from a ways back. A lot of different emotions pass over you. You step back into the person you were then; if there was pain you will mentally wince at those parts or, maybe, remember them with a sort of acceptance. Perhaps, there was closure in the gap of time recorded only by the blank pages that remain. If there was happiness you’ll grin as you leaf through the pages of sunny days. Each piece is your signature scrawled into history and onto the world. It will live, be there, when you are not.. Each new idea is a segment of you that has learned to live beyond you. As time passes your signature evolves, growing more intricate. You graduate from print to cursive. So, let the ink flow freely and remember an idea is not an idea, but a signature.
April 9, 2015
Story: Nearing the end of the year, turning this into a book next year
Symbol: Knitting
We are slowly entering the part of the year where there is a buzz because it’s the end. Everyone is looking ahead to the next school year. After a couple of weeks I will have wrapped up my A.P. classes for the year and more than likely I will have wrapped up my Facing History class. In my last entry I talked about the significance of an idea and how that allows a part of you to reverberate through history, for all of time long after your own is over. As for me, I am looking ahead to the fact that next year I’ll be in the middle of making all of these entries a book. These parts of me will continue to converse with people after I have left this school and in a different point in life. These entries will also always be true because they are a part of my history so, even though time will march on and things will change this will always be a part of my truth. Things like these that you leave behind are like threads, still attached to the creator. Readers, in my case, follow that silk thread, walking the path that I did while here. It’s like knitting a tapestry, how it starts out, a couple simple threads and then the patterns begin to form and layers come into being. When the whole thing is done those who observe it are left to wonder how such a big thing began from something so small. Each day is a thread of mine, writing it is threading the needle and beginning to knit. You’ve got to have a good eye and it might take a few tries but, once the needle is threaded, you’re ready to go. Experiences are balls of yarn, each one a different color in your basket and you choose which to use with care.
April 20, 2015
Story: Observing a Swimmer
Symbol: Mermaid
Over the vacation I saw a swimming event at Hamden high school. As I walked through the front doors, becoming awash in the distinct smell of chlorine and warm air, a sense of nostalgia passed over me too. A fond memory of when I was 13, yes 13, and took some swimming lessons there with a friend of my moms who was a coach. Though the lessons ended abruptly, due to the fact that my mom’s friend had to move because she was following her job, I do have one specifically pleasant memory of the time. I leapt from the high dive into the pool and you’d think since I didn’t know how to swim properly I’d have been afraid of that. The worst thing for me, at the time, wasn’t the water at the bottom; it was the height of the diving board. To this day I don’t know why I didn’t find that frightening, the descent was over fast, though, which probably helped.
I remember hitting the water felt like a quick slap on my skin and then hearing the rush of water in my ears. When I was entirely submerged I knew it, I’d felt the surface of the water settle above me. The sting of opening my eyes underwater never bothered me. It was, as you’d imagine it, shades of blue, darker at the bottom and light at the top, shafts of light stretching into both areas. Through the haziness the whole thing looked like a work of scumbling. With observations duly noted, I made my way to the side of the pool reaching up and grabbing the slick side, and resting my head on my arms as I watched the water lap gently at the sides of the pool. I laughed, as I watched my father’s stricken face relax, that the brief moment of panic having passed him by. I appreciate the stillness that the water brings, canceling out most, if not all, sound taking all other factors out and allowing someone to just be. I walked down a short hallway, hooking a right and through a set of double doors returning to the setting of this memory just a couple of years after the fact.
The pool had not changed in the years between now and then, echoes of summers passed and lessons finished and I smirk as my dad says, “Haven’t been here in a while.” I walk up to the top of the bleachers, eyes flickering to those oh-so-familiar diving boards. Another friend of mine has come to support our favorite swimmer and we sit beside one another and I tell this little story of daring to her as we wait for darkness to fall in the auditorium. Her eyes widen a moment at my telling because she knows only that I can’t swim. I smile knowingly, a laugh without sound, as our attention is called elsewhere as I wrap up my tale. The lights go down and we are informed of the members of the team, their past accomplishments in synchronized swimming and the presence of two female veterans of the sport that are in the audience. After that the first in a rotation of music begins and we see solos, duets, combos and the like. The water illuminated by spotlights like moonbeams. The pool an ocean made luminous under moon’s watchful eye. The distant music calls the mermaids to surface and we, the audience, are, but onlookers of a passing ship. We gaze outward, just before the guardrail, as the mermaids leap from the warm depths of the summer heated sea. Their movements accentuated by the rises and falls of our music. They're suspended in air for a moment, scales glinting in the arc of the feat. We lean forward, bodies pressed to the rail. The mermaids submerge almost soundlessly leaving an arch of shimmering water droplets in their wake. We all clapped feverously as the mermaids regrouped and our vessel neared the port, the end of our mystical voyage. Once at the gangplank my friend and I look over our shoulders catching one last glance at the mermaids before touching land. They watched us with curiosity and happiness at our rapt attention to their display and we smiled at them and set foot on land.
April 26, 2015
Story: Supreme Court’s decision pending this week on whether or not to impose the acceptance and acknowledgement of same sex marriage in all 50 states
Symbol: LGBTQIA Flag
The Supreme Court is supposed to decide whether or not to impose the acceptance and acknowledgement of same sex marriage and equality across all 50 states this week. If they decide not to then the matter is left up to the individual states. Now, there are those who will disagree with me, but this is my stance on things. There’s only one real right answer that the Supreme Court could deliver. That is to impose same sex marriage and marriage equality on all 50 states. I think letting other people vote on the righteousness of one’s marriage and what marital rights you deserve as a result is in no way justifiable. State officials, in this matter, are people who in no way know the circumstances and feelings of every person their decision will effect. They know them only as a few of many constituents at best. For instance, people, regardless of the structure of their love life, should be entitled to the right to be considered a surviving spouse and allowed the support that is supposed to follow whether it be financial or otherwise. That is the situation of the couple who brought the case to the Supreme Court. The husband is dying and the surviving husband is not being acknowledged as a surviving spouse by the state that they live in. The reason, because they do not acknowledge the document they received when they got married in another state.
I just don’t understand how a country that boasts being a melting pot, or a tossed salad as some people prefer now, and sings the praises of liberty and diversity can find it so hard to decide this issue. The essential question is, are you allowed to marry who you love regardless of who they are. The human race will still march on into the future and it has been proven that there is no difference between homosexual or heterosexual couples raising children and the effect of that on the children. So, where is the problem? Just because it isn’t a man and a woman and that just chafes with the society’s ideal of marriage, that’s why you’re going to deny that right to certain people. That’s not right and the meaning of marriage should be open to interpretation yes, but not in a negative legal capacity where if you don’t impose acceptance on all the states there will be many situations like the one this couple is in, as well as others, going on. So, I hope the Supreme Court makes the right decision in regards to this case because it’s going to set the precedent.
April 29, 2015
Story: Prevention from doing your art
Symbol: Freedom of Speech Amendment
If ever you’re prevented from doing your art, for any given reason, I’d equate that to not being able to speak. If you can’t do your art, then you can’t communicate in the way you are most comfortable. Your quiet, watching the world go on around you as everyone, but you have no way to translate your thoughts into a form that tugs at emotions. This way, others can understand without having been there, without being you. In a way, I think, being unable to do your art is the same as being propelled into a sense of loneliness, because art gives someone community. It gives them a kind of understanding from people, it makes it so the only person who understands the artist is the artist themselves. You lose a dimension of yourself when you can’t do your art. Your art is the best way you know how to talk. You are articulate in the language of the heart. Your ear is well versed in the sounds of emotions, its ups and downs. Artists are the interpreters of the human element. There is freedom of speech so, if the reason you’re not doing what you love right now is because someone told you or made you feel like you aren’t good enough…then just take a deep breath and think of it this way, passion drives art, art is speech and everyone has a right to a voice.
April 30th 2015
Story: The value of one’s story
Symbol: The Globe
Have you ever thought that everyone around you is living a life just as complex as your own? I have, from time to time in the rush of my own day to day life. If you haven't I can’t blame you for that because that’s just it. People are so involved in the touch and go of their own lives that we don’t always have the space to think of things like that. The author Orson Scott Card once said. “Everybody walks past a thousand story ideas every day. The good writers are the ones who see five or six of them. Most people don’t see any.” Today in my Facing History and Ourselves class, my teacher, Mr. Landa, said that he felt that most people think their stories aren’t worth telling. They feel as though their lives aren’t exciting or interesting enough to be worth a retelling. Well, I do agree that people feel this way, but they shouldn’t. That daily dose of a thousand story ideas, plenty of them can be found in people. Everyone is a walking story in progress. The things you know about the people around you are pages of it. Everyone’s story has meaning; we are all playing the game of life. If the first person doesn’t resonate with your story someone, somewhere could really use your directions for the game.
May 5th 2015
Story: The power of one’s voice
Symbol: Spoken Word
Women are Here
On burning the bridge of 365
Turning the year into 180 days
Women, we’ve all turned into teachers,
Pushing the days back into summer
Here, we are Underestimated
When the economy would be boosted by 44.7 billion
A springboard from recession,
If this pay gap were not a reality
Words turned to hot lead
Covered in soot, the bridge of 365
Blackening
Crack, crack, gone
Equal pay for equal work
Pop, pop, women just went a few notches down
The social Hierarchy
Here, we are Looked Down on
So, as long as “you sexist me, I will feminist you”
One person once said and it’s because they knew
We’d gone back to pre-1920
Instead, lowering the glass ceiling
Rather than shattering it
Women, made tools of the home
Tools of the office
Each female a rung
For the boot of a man
Dashing the dreams of Alice Paul,
An iron-jawed angel, starving for a voice
And here we are Silenced
Days turn to years
On top of mute
Women were pushed into pens
Colored with colored
White with White
Here, we are Categorized
Time marching on
Another woman takes up the torch
For a different symptom
Of the same disease
Melba Beals Patillo
Her silence, her retribution
A 101st soldier, one of nine from Little Rock
On a battlefield of discrimination
Only one converted ally
A man named "Link"
Who acted against conformity
Permeating the pestilence of segregation
On account of these woman
We are at least hoarse
Still, there’s work to be done
We are still without a Voice
These women called for recognition
Called for participation from both men and women alike
That is how I am here speaking to you now
A woman descended from their struggle
Spreading awareness so we may do our part, in our time
***
The piece above is what I will be reading for the performance that my Facing History class is giving at the end of this month. Our room has been a very positive place, for the fact that there is power in one’s voice. We’ve all been reading our pieces and revising them in order to get everything ready for the day of the performance. This piece, in particular, is on its 9th draft; I feel it’s very close to done, if not done now. The voice is powerful and made more so if it has been molded well. All of us, in my class, are putting our voices together. United, not by issue, but by the undeniable need for progress in society--that is what unites us. We were asked, often, what the solution was to our issues and a lot of us weren’t sure. Our issues were too big for us to have one definitive answer. We were just creating awareness and saying what we had to say about the issue. Now, I think, that’s the answer to all the issues. Knowing and speaking are the answer, adding a voice is the answer. That’s the answer because over time we will create a big enough roar to have something done about it and if we don’t have the power to make a direct change then, somewhere, along the way our voices will reach someone who does.
May 7th 2015
Story: A.P. Testing
Symbol: The Arena
The warrior walks into the arena, kicking up clouds of dirt as he goes. Tightening his grasp on his weapon, he stands tall, his armor glinting in the early afternoon sun. There is thunder in the sky, the roar of the spectators, fists in the air eager for a good show. The fighter scans their faces; most of them wealthy members of society come to see carnage. Dressed in all the finer materials that society has to offer they shout impatiently for things to begin, eyeing the arena’s large metal gate. Others, the middle class, have come to root for the underdog, their hands waving frantically in the air hoping to, perhaps, catch his eye. The fighter looks to the gate after his sweep of the crowd. There is a grinding sound and then a mechanical rhythm begins as the gate ascends, revealing two golden eyes peering out from the darkness at the fighter.
A rough sound like the rubbing of sandpaper, as the beast moves forward, licking his maw in anticipation of the kill, the foul stench of past successes rolling forth from the darkness just beyond the entryway. A bone snaps as its gigantic paw comes down, bone fragments mixing with sand as its mane comes into the sunlight, the rest of its long, majestic body following suit. The lion gazes upward, attention momentarily diverted from the fighter to the crowd, releasing a thunderous roar--a boom before the strike of lightning. Its jaw fully extended, the white incisors visible, a deadly functional adornment of status. The fighter bends his knees readying himself for the fray. The lion lowers his head and the two stare each other down, the crowd coming to silence in rapt attention as the two stalk each other, the tension mounting. The two are locking eyes and nothing happens, each one sizing up the other as they walk the perimeter of their circular fighting ground. The lion, thinking himself the superior, crouches ever so slightly before going into a full charge.
The fighter takes two planned steps back his back brushing the stone wall of the coliseum, holding his breath as the lion barrels forward. His legs tell him to move, but he chides himself against all urge and waits the beast out as it raises its giant paw. Near enough now that he could clearly count each whisker. The moment just before the Lion could bring down his paw that would’ve torn him to ribbons the fighter raised his shield and rolled to the side. Elongated claws met with metal and stone sparks, a horrible high pitch grinding sound piercing the space. Long gorges cut into the shield and the stone blemished with the same damage, albeit less so. The lion’s flank hit the stone, pivoting without having enough room its front paws thumping back down onto the ground.
Its opponent, the Fighter, thrust his spear forward from his crouched position as the lion's flank struck the wall. Breathing heavy, skin dusted with sand, he managed to draw blood from the lion; his spear leaving a bloody gash on the beast’s shoulder. The fur quickly became matted and red. The Fighter brought his bloodstained spear back to his side as the lion roared out his anger. Head thrust forward and down swiftly, giant canines aimed for his throat the majestic, blood yearning beast charged. The Fighter tossed away his shield and raised his spear, holding it horizontally with heels dug into the dirt when the lion’s incisors met with the wooden shaft. Within seconds, splinters of wood came down in a shower over the Fighter’s hands. The time it did buy, the Fighter used to twist the top of the now broken shaft in his hand, spearhead up, lunging forward toward the embodiment of death. Driving it home into the eye of the Lion and jumping back as it twisted and thrashed in pain.The Fighter, scooped up his Parma shield from the ground by the straps, rushed forward and bashed it on the jagged, splintered end of the shaft, forcing it further into the beast. Claws wildly swiping around him, filling the arena with a hideous, high pitched grinding sound of claw on metal. The Lion retaliated until it sank, slowly down, into the reddened sand its life ebbing away into ending. The crowd erupts in cheers, the middle class even rising to their feet to cheer their representative. The Fighter raised his hand into the air, accepting their rapturous cheering.
May 18, 2015
Story: College Essay
Symbol: Ice to Stained Glass Mural
I recall, that my legs were shaking at my freshman year performance, looking back on my time in the quiet class of Creative Writing. I had pushed myself into my first performance, to break out and be more involved. My shaking legs made me grateful for the podium that covered them; I held the edges with my hands to better steady them. I was nervous. I’d never done anything in front of a crowd bigger than your average classroom. The spotlight that was set on us would near blind us if we looked up into the crowd. I found that to be a mercy, rather than a hindrance at the time. It allowed my voice to carry into the darkness.
My words are the colors that make up who I am, would not be weighed down or lessened by my nerves. I would not be my own undoing, concerning myself with how other people perceive me or being out of my comfort zone. It was the separation of a writer working at the keys, imagining their audience, visualizing their colors spreading onto their blank canvas known as the page. However, separation was balanced with the closeness of face to face conversation that I’d never felt was my forte. Still, I performed looking up here and there into the nothing that was everything. Remembering, to say thank you at the piece’s end so the crowd would know that it was over, my face red with shyness.
By my sophomore year there was no podium, my legs were still and my shoulders squared and walking off stage left, knowing I’d done everything I was supposed to. This was also the time that my upperclassmen Sarah Farquharson told me that my piece had really inspired her. She was someone whose writing quality I had always wanted to emulate. Her saying that gave me a lot of hope both as a writer and as a person and it made me very glad to have pushed the boundaries and performed. It was one large ray of light. From then on, the colors were not hazy and hesitantly placed because a fear of rejection, instead, it was displayed as a stained glass mural, added to every day. Shades of colors I had not even dared to dream of were freed.
Junior year at out Spring Showcase, there was neither a podium nor a light to veil the audience. It was to them I looked at directly, not without fear of judgment, but, doing so despite that fear. That was what my Creative Writing class did for me, gave me a place to nurture my voice, in the way for which the class was named.
So that wherever we go we can let that light pour through us onto the day’s blank wall and make art out of the colors. After all, that is what we were, artists as we still are. That is what’s encouraged at Cooperative Arts and Humanities High school, the ability to be open, to see in a way that is not conventional, and to create with one’s voice whatever form it may take. I learned of this spirit through writing and walking into that Creative Writing class my freshman year. I look forward to painting the new mural called “college”.
May 19th 2015
Story: Day 1 of SBACK Testing
Symbol: A Walk
Today was day 1 of presumably 3 days of testing. It’s a pioneering method, you take the test online and the test is supposed to adapt the difficulty of your remaining questions, based on the kinds of answers you gave to previous questions. This day’s test was English. All in all, the kinds of questions they asked were not awful; it was just the sheer amount of text you had to read off a computer screen before, actually, answering the questions themselves. Imagine, a trek that you have to take, you do not know where your destination is, where the end is, you know only that it will end. The path you walk is also responsive to your steps, what foot do you lead with? How long is your stride? How long can you go before your pace starts to slow? The better you do, the steeper the path becomes. Turning, from a level terrain with compact dirt, easy and familiar to walk on, to a walkway that is made of loose gravel. Little rocks skitter back to earth, as the inclination of your way increases, yet simultaneously, you continue to put one foot in front of the other. Just when you are dangling, off the face of the path turned mountainside, the invisible settings are altered, the mountain starts to shrink, and once again you see the summit, your chances of being king of the hill, are again, a possibility.
May 20th 2015
Story: Day 2 of SBAC Testing, a trial big or small
Symbol: A Storm
The rain beats down on all that rests beneath the clouds. The ground was pelted with wave after wave of drops, strength gained through numbers. The air is filled with the rumbles of thunder as the drops come crashing down onto the rooftops. The wind howls like a dog lashing against its leash at the sight of a passerby. The leaves of the trees, in the dog’s wake, rush away from their homes bending back and buckling as they are. I wait it all out, standing in the rain because there’s a sliver of blue that I see. My clothes heavy with rain and drops hanging from my eyes lashes. I blink them aside and watch the approach of the end of it all. A determined smirk of mine greets the droplets upon their arrival to earth. In due time the overcast clouds part like a crowd, for the coming of the tide. The sky opens up, the clouds lightening as if pacified by the gentle touch of the sun. The leaves that were blown away gently float to the ground now, like petals dyed red by the sun’s appearance. The dog is calm; he’s curled up in his usual yard now. The rooftops, mirrors as they reflect the light right back at the sky. The neighborhoods are alight with life. Any storm from a trial, however, big or small will pass, and then will come the accomplished calm after the storm.
May 26, 2015
Story: Spring Band Concert
Symbol: The Tide
Going to the Spring Band Concert was much like attending an adrenaline-charged rock concert. It began like any other school function. The lead teacher for the department greeted the audience and talked about the assortment of songs that they were going to perform that night and was sure to crack a joke or two, before letting the night get underway. Shouts of support for the well-known musicians punctured the polite quiet, just before the first note was played and throughout the set. The atmosphere had a rhythmic ebb and flow like that of a tide. Energy was building, the air becoming electrified. The night kicked into high gear as the band started in on a piece that was often performed in college, if not professionally. Mr. Smith, the band teacher, had slyly omitted that tidbit when the band had begun perfecting the piece in rehearsal. The song was entitled: Chromosome, and so they began, the floor vibrating from their playing. The tide was coming in, the water rushing onto the shore, pushing past the preconceived boundary. The audience was swept up into the galvanizing energy, most rising to their feet with shouts of exhilaration. The playing slowed, toning down, the waters receding, as the song came to a close. The waters about ankle high as members of their audience found their seat edges, ready for the next wave. The next piece was a phasing piece. The musician played his piece, part by part, letting the machine at his feet catch, record, and play back every portion. What soon happened was a gentle cascade of music like a waterfall. The notes flowed down to the audience, the water gently lapping at their legs. Our band was the moon, controlling the tides, commanding the waters to be gentle and soothing or a white water display of energy. This was our spring band concert.
June 9, 2015
Story: Left in the Dark
Symbol: Eclipse
For most of this year, especially, I’ve had to cope with what essentially was the fallout of one of my closest and longest friendships. This entry, though, is not for them, or the wrongs they committed. This entry is addressed to the one I kept out of the middle of our ensuing conflict. We had not told you for so long for many reasons. Mine were not the same as hers and I will not claim to understand her reasons for telling others before you. How could I tell you, months’ worth of devastation in the time allotted between bells. This is little more time than the totality of the sun is blocked during an eclipse. Still, I know what it means to be left in the dark. It is a cold, unfamiliar place, made all the more distressing by the lingering warmth of a sun, now gone, still on your skin. Not knowing where to step, for fear of falling off a preconceived cliff I knew nothing about. So still you stand, imagining this cliff, that for you formed over the course of two years in your absence. The land weathered away by the passage of time. To feel less than, to feel replaced, I know the pain of all these afflictions and though I pushed for you to be told, there you remained. For that I have anger toward her, toward myself because I could not find a way sooner. Most of all though I have sorrow enough for all the time I unknowingly did not give a hug when you needed it, an answer when you asked for it, and the sun because you deserved it. For surely the cliff of bitterness you thought we had for you was all but real.
June 10th 2015
Story: Thanks
Symbol: space/air
Just like the entry that preceded this one, this entry is addressed to someone. In this case it’s more than one. This one though, is a thank you, you know. This is just one of those moments that those two words just don’t seem quite able to encapsulate the entirety of the feeling behind it. So in light of that let me add a few more:
Thank you for the presence in the silence
When I wept and there were no words you could weave
That would wipe away the tears in a way that seemed to do the situation justice
Thank you for the randomly timed “huggies” and “how are you’s”
Because those filled all the time
We might not have had, due to busy schedules, with feeling
Thank you for being my un-biological siblings
Bounding me to a verbal vow
Setting out to disassociate burden with me
Thank you for all the thoughts of me
Even when together, we were not
Tethering us across the distance, space, and time
Thank you for teeming with energy
When thinking up and waiting for
All those tremendous doses of T.L.C.
Thank you for all the laughter
And lulling music
That rolled from the speakers through FaceTime on late afternoons
Thank you for all your endurance
Listening to the earfuls of the everyday
And the excitement of never letting me go to class easily
Thank you for being the anything and everything
Thank you for being you
That’s my thank you
July 6th 2015
Story: Stranger with Memories
Symbol: Whirlpool
I’ve been inactive for a little while in terms of doing these entries, now that summer is in full swing and my classes have all been completed for my junior year. The work flow is still moving, though, as I steadily move through summer work for my A.P. classes in the coming year. More for me has ended than just the school year, though, as many of you know. These entries have been in a phase where I address people involved in one way or another to the friendship fallout that’s been slowly unfolding, and coming to life in parallel with the development of the Nightshade Chronicles. This entry is addressed to the friend I’ve lost now that, for me at least, I feel the bulk of the conflict has come to a close and the friendship has certainly come to an end.
How do I address you now, I wonder? The first thought that comes to mind is a stranger with memories. Those are the words used a lot by others, in quotes and otherwise. How can I explain to you how I felt through this two-year collapse of a relationship three times as long as it took for the dust to finally settle? I’ll talk about the moment that was the most powerful for me because it was one of the most painful. Talking to you on FaceTime, one of the first times since the whole ordeal began in earnest, to talk to you about the issue and all its facets. How I didn’t feel listened to. You don’t understand my feelings even now, nor do I feel that you can truly acknowledge them. All I ever got were generic answers just to move things along because you didn’t want me to be mad, but you never wanted to just stop to actually let me talk. When during the FaceTime you are quiet and right then I know, to some extent, what I’m in for. I do most of the talking and your voice quavers and you always tell me how sorry you are and how much you want to go back to normal. Even then, though, you fail to consider what I’m saying or even how I’m saying it because, despite it all, I was still trying to keep a level voice with you. Keeping my hands busy, so I’m mentally never still long enough for my emotions to catch up to me. Stranger with Memories, you cried during this exchange even though half of it was nothing but silence and for me that is probably what weighed heaviest. It was the representation of your inactivity throughout our relationship, of your habit to close your eyes to everything, even if that included neglecting me when I was hurting or wanted to say something, in hopes that it would help us both. The quiet after the talk was punctured by your muffled, generally quiet cries due to the presence of your family a couple rooms away. I let it go on for a little while. My quiet anger resting under the surface was my ally then; it enabled me to remain composed and generally together. We hung up and I called back our other two friends who’d been involved through it all and had their own qualms with you, Stranger with Memories. I told them everything that happened, my anger steadily streaming out now, the emphasis to my words. I told them of how upset I was and how I had wanted to cry at certain points myself, but hadn’t felt allowed. The whole time I was being made into the bad person for just having wanted to talk. All you spoke of was how you were hurt, you were a victim and you weren’t to blame; all in an arrangement of words I’d heard time and again, across the span of years, like an old hit song over the radio.
I remember saying to them, as I gripped the sheets of my bed with a free hand, my voice choking especially bad as emotion bubbled up threateningly, “she’s the one that’s crying and telling me how much she’s crying to make me feel bad when I’m the one who’s been wanting to cry, this whole time. I should the one who is crying right now.” I heard the short, but genuine acknowledgments of the righteousness of that feeling with, “mhmm” and “yeah”. I remember thinking I needed them to say something, anything, to pick the conversation up out of the silence it had fallen into. I’d been mentally still too long. Throat burning and with a vision that was already blurry, I took a shaky breath that in the span of a second became more of a gasp than a breath, all the pent up emotion I’d been trying to swallow back down came thundering forward like water from a dam. I don’t really remember the details in a chronologically coherent way after that. Being in hysterics as I was felt something like one part of myself was detached from the rest observing the occurrence of events.
The other was very much attached to my body and its emotions. I say this because a certain moments, I was able to do things like worry about the fact that I was forcing my best friends to listen to me cry for the first time. I, myself, hate having other people see me cry, but I was too emotionally overpowered to even hang up the call. It didn’t take me long to decide that I didn’t care; they were allowed to see this. This little conundrum of mine solved, meanwhile, the other part of me was a wild, swirling, emotional whirlpool filled with fragmented memories as loud, unhindered cries raked through my body, escaping out into the open. There were seconds between waves when my body would instinctively clench in an effort to cut the surge short, but did so to no avail.
I think I decided to write about this moment partly because it’s hard to describe what a moment of intense emotional pain feels like, no matter what the catalyst of said event is. If I had to choose one word to describe it all, I believe, that word would be blinding, in both the literal sense, and in terms of speed. From the moment when the initial event transpires, everything is accelerated. You're thinking to yourself things like: “How did this happen?” and the standard series of “what if" questions that are a staple as painful moments course through your mind. For me, I remember having scenes from happier moments, with my Stranger with Memories, zip through my mind. With them came anger, anew at my Stranger with Memories for letting it all come crumbling down. I had anger too for myself, because despite it all, in that moment especially, I felt that in some way it was still my fault. After all, isn’t that what happens? When something that you really cared about comes to an end, particularly relationships of any type, you feel like somewhere along the line you could have done something, said something, that would have steered yourself off the course of this cliff. You're half the relationship after all; you have an equal amount of capability to destroy the relationship as you do to fix it…right? Yes, you do, but you get nowhere when the other half is canceling your efforts out and being stagnant can be just as bad as a decline. Being stagnant when it comes to pain takes longer to reach the same level of pain as a decline, I think, but stagnant has the danger of becoming the normal you're willing to get used to because you're still holding out hope that things can be fixed long after you’ve passed that point. Why do you do this? Because you cared, at one point, and the longer that point in time was, the more you’ll find yourself willing to put up with.
I, myself, went through a very long period of this. This was undoubtedly helped by the fact that I am not the type to cut ties completely with someone easily, once they’re close to me, even if I have cause to. This friendship had existed for the majority of my life as well, so I was willing to put up with a lot of failure in trying to fix the relationship even when it was beyond repair. This has been an address to this particular Stranger of Memories of mine who, to this day. claims to understand the pain I felt. Even this does not fully encompass everything, but the core emotion, I feel, will remain in this piece, and that’s the important part. I also feel putting it down like this helps quiet the emotions lingering about it, putting them, in large part, to rest since they’ll exist here, and not just in the whirlpool of sad memory with a stranger.
July 15, 2015
Story: A Nightshade Meeting
Symbol: The Bat and the Cat in the night
For this entry I’m going to talk about the meeting between my alter ego for writing, Nightshade the cat, and a fellow writer that I know, who has dubbed her alter ego to be a vampire. Originally, when she was trying to settle upon an alter ego with which she felt an affinity it was agreed upon by us both that the later decision of changing it to a vampire because she felt a connection with a lot of things, particularly animals, was a good one. So this change to a vampire seemed better suited to her and still welcomed the nocturnal nature that she possesses and was the foundation for her original inclination toward a bat. In a way, it feels as though the progression of things to the final decision seemed right. The bat simply had to come first, for what have people always thought was a vampire, was a bat flying through the night sky. So, with that said, let me begin to recount our meeting.
The day I met the vampire of which I speak, the night was young and therefore so was our day. The sky alight with stars, the moon’s rays brushing everything in its far reaching grasp with silvery strands. The breeze was a wave, lapping gently against the palette of varying browns that was my fur. A long mackerel tabby with brown eyes, lounged along the top of a cool slanted boulder, paws glazed with the dew of the surrounding grass. A dead tree, blackened, by lightning perhaps, stood tall a ways from where I had decided to place my paws. A hollow was at its center, dark and empty. No one was around in this small clearing, the dead tree that stood some space away from me was an outlier, proudly so it seems, rooted there away from its leaf abundant, brown hued, kin huddled together away from us both. It was not a person, obviously, nevertheless it managed to garner a presence all its own by being an object of stature in an area otherwise obstructed by little.
My eyes passed over the placement of its branches, slowly. The branches were far reaching and spread out across a generous width of sky. A portion of the moon held between a pair of its limbs, as if the tree had its leaves felled by lightning so it could be bestowed with the moon’s celestial rays of silver to be it new adornment. It was where the limb reunited with the torso that I first caught sight of the vampire.
He was but a near transparent outline, a silhouette of light rather than darkness as he sat casually on the shoulder of the tree, a leg hanging nonchalantly off the side with the moonlight passing through his almost invisible form. I’d have missed him had I not been observing the spot so intently. His movement was but a flicker of the silhouette, a ripple in the backdrop before her camouflage was once against perfect. He must have felt my gaze upon him. In the next moment he looked away from the tops of the surrounding trees and down to the boulder where I, was indeed, watching him.
This realization of his revealed to me his eyes. They were blue, calm and thoughtful, convenient too, I thought, all the better to blend in with the night. But when he looked at me full on, I could swear that I saw flecks of gold. Intense and expanding, they soon were circles like rims for his irises. The sheer potency of the color made the display seem almost…aggressive, no not quite, more like cautionary.
The air was charged between us, as if a tangible rope of energy locked our gazes to one another, the tips of my fur raised, ears perked while this mysterious being’s leg had stilled midway in its absent minded swing. We stayed that way for a breath before this unknown figure descended from his perch. Watching this sudden accumulation of movement to keep track of him was difficult and a little jarring. The silhouette moved, shifting its shape to better blend with the trunk of the tree as the vampire descended. At the center, however, you could see clear through this individual to the tree itself as if they were not there. Any series of movements, at even an eased pace, seemed to make the silhouette blur, transform to accommodate the new backdrop’s every feature, before blurring again. This process repeated itself until all returned to stillness, with the vampire’s feet firmly planted on the ground, the grass beneath him crushed beneath his shoes, giving him away to the careful eye.
He approached ever closer, the night sky a cloak as his mysterious chameleon-like silhouette adjusted, more fluidly now, to the stretch of sky. Our eyes are locked the whole way and, finally, he is standing directly in front of me. I rise to sit back on my haunches, front paws together, looking up at this interesting individual. He, in return, looks my profile up and down as well, a glint that seems something like amusement in his eyes. The silhouette shifts, only just, around the face, the mouth more specifically, as it accommodates what I feel confident in saying was an actual grin. He speaks first, asking my name in a young voice, no older than a teenager like myself I’d guess, with a touch of rasp, and I respond, letting it roll out with a welcoming purr-like undertone, “Nightshade.”
He takes a pause to take that in; the only sound is the distant cry of crickets on the air of this warm summer night.
“And you?” I prompt, head tilting inquisitively. He looks thoughtfully down at the ground.
“Don’t got one, or you could say I go by a lot of names. I never really like one enough to let it stick for long.” It was my turn to grin, the tips of my long front teeth just visible.
“Someone who likes their secrets aren’t ya, invisible man?” He shrugged agreeably.
“You could say that. But what about you? ‘Nightshade’ isn’t exactly a commonplace name; neither is a talking cat on a night stroll.” I flick my tail, amused, continuing our little banter.
“Because a vampire is?” He makes a soft click sound, his fang-tips gently hitting his other teeth as he works his jaw a little.
“How do you figure that’s what I am?” I reply, more confidently, eyes narrowing, pleased at my checkmate in our little banter. “You just told me.”
He let out a full laugh, not a loud one, but genuine nonetheless.
“Clever, aren’t you,” He states matter-of-factly. “Well, tell me then, why not run? How do you know I’m not dangerous?”
“I don’t think you aren’t, just not tonight, not to me; call it a conclusion from my own evaluation of you. Chances are you would have come a lot faster and given a more aggressive vibe, right? After all, you’re the sure-fire predator type. Albeit, you considered it for a second there,” I point a paw at his clearly visible eyes, at the golden rims from earlier, though now they’d faded considerably. “Likewise, I considered the defensive,” I assure him.
He nods, “Perceptive and cautious too then.”
“You have to be underneath this sky.”
Silence falls between us again; the leaves on the trees rustling like the murmurs of gossiping girls evaluating our exchange.
“So...,” I lead in to the question slowly to recall his attention. “What do I call you, then, as a temporary form of address if you prefer?”
“Are you implying that there will be a next time that you’ll need a name for?” He asks, the inflection of his voice raised at the tail end of the sentence, grinning with his words, I think to myself.
“Perhaps,” I slide my gaze away so this vampire of interest is at the edge of my vision looking instead to the tree from which he came. “I like to keep my options open.” I look back to him, reading the vibrations of his silhouette that I’ve come to view, in a short time, more as his person rather than just the camouflage that covers it.
“How about what you said earlier, Invisible Man?” He suggests. “I’m quite the avid appreciator of literature.”
“As in the Invisible man? Like the novel?” I reply, intrigued by the sudden possibility of a common interest, even more surprised by the degree with which this poker faced, cards-held-to-the-chest vampire, is so forth coming with it.
“The very same,” He confirms.
I grin before responding. “All right then, Invisible Man, until the next night.” I wave my paw and hop down from the boulder I’ve taken as my own for the duration of my night stroll, turn on my paws and start walking away, looking over my shoulder after I am a decent distance away. Invisible Man is but a curve in the trunk of the dead tree once again, no one the wiser that it was actually a person overseeing the passage of the night, true to his name.
July 30, 2015
Story: Days of summer
Symbol: Same as above
The days of summer are a mix between the turbulence and the calm familiarity of nostalgia. The days are filled with the whirring of a nearby lawnmower, the smell of freshly cut grass by day and the chirp of crickets, the scent of a rain recently passed by night. Mother Nature joins in the whirlwind of emotion, giving both the wet, whipping might of a summer thunderstorm. Its cousin, the tree of negativity, is the unrelenting heat wave that is a staple of summer. When the season is feeling more forgiving, the daylight hours are filled with caressing sunshine stretched into the hours normally reserved for night, which sleeps in during this season.
The setting sun is a shining ruby being placed down into its setting in the ring of time. Light spilling over, onto the ground like water from the tap, moving forward once it has hit the earth and we stretch our hands out to let it pour down on our skin; that is what people do. A distant star, every ray of light a visible representation of its life-force, its heartbeat, rare red mica marble glittering with splendor. The sunrise is a ripened peach dangling from the branch, the color pink and soft. It is a sign of renewal, every tomorrow a fresh and cleaned slate.
September 4, 2015
Symbol: A Road
Story: Surgery and the Start of Senior Year
The beginning of senior year is, in a few words, bittersweet, stressful, and filled with adjustments. Particularly so for me, because after having a surgery to better handle a disability that I’ve had since I was young, I’ve been in a wheelchair, and getting the hang of that is indeed a tough thing to try to manage. Doors are like enemy number 1, especially because our doors, here at Co-op, are so heavy. Other than classroom doors and such, everything has more or less come in stride. Learning how to do a full U-turn after hitting the elevator’s call button to successfully reverse into it is definitely helpful. I can even express all my thanks to my rotating schedule of drivers, especially the two who were like premium, full time drivers; they know who they are.
That brings me to say that if you’re ever in a wheelchair, though, it is really good if there is an array of things you can do for yourself, and if someone asks if you need help getting somewhere, take it. I have issues with saying something, accepting help, and, yeah, for certain things especially, caring what people think of me. But you’ll be glad that you took it and who doesn’t love some pampering, as someone very close to me loves to put it.
The other big thing on my mind is college applications. Many, many seniors are thinking about this and it’s a stressful period, wondering how on earth you’re going to get all these things together and sent out on time. I’m trying to take it in stride. That’s a hard thing for me because I like to get things done quickly, even more so for really important things and if I don’t, it stresses me out. The simple fact however, is that college applications are a slow, painstakingly slow, process. So, if you’re like me and need that someone to reign you in when you’re getting a little crazy, get that it’s entirely normal to take a while. It’s a long road, that at times feels like it’s going to stretch out forever, but isn’t that what our whole high school career has felt like? With that in mind, don’t forget to look over your shoulders, seniors in particular, and see how far you’ve come already and pat yourself on the back for it. Not enough people do that, congratulate themselves for what they’ve done, myself included. But, believe it or not, people, you’ve come a long way. Stop and smell the roses; it’s okay.
September 10th 2015
Story: Dark pieces of writing
Symbol: Oil
I was reading last year’s edition of our acclaimed literary magazine, Metamorphosis, not too long ago as that’s how we start every year off here in CW and it got me to thinking. I noticed that over the years Metamorphosis has proven to be the place where a lot of the rawer, possibly darker, pieces of writing that are born on these computers are gathered. My freshman class, in particular, as a whole, was rather dark; we actually became known for just that. Now, Metamorphosis is supposed to be the spot where you submit a piece that you believe is the best piece you’ve done over the course of the year. So then why is it that a lot of those works are about darker subjects like violence, a death in the family, betrayal, etc.? I, myself, have contributed to this interesting phenomenon. Now, that’s not to say that best has now entirely become synonymous with darkness. However, there is I believe, some sliver of truth to this idea. That’s because these subjects and many others go to a more vulnerable and essentially more real kind of place. I also believe that these kinds of pieces also have the most to say. There is a quote that I like that says, “you should write clearly about what hurts.” This rings true for a lot of writers, I’m sure, whether they know it themselves or not. People in general, though, are aware of this as well, because that’s what makes people afraid to be vulnerable in the first place. They know that what they guard the most and try to hide from the scrutiny of others are the realest things that they will probably ever present to anyone.
These pieces are akin to oil. Some see it as nothing more than blackness spewing forth from the ground. A crude, primitive substance that they don’t know how to do anything with because at first glance there is, in fact, nothing that can be done with it. Others will see the value that it has a rich resource. It is the fuel that we use to get from point A to point B. The pieces that we put forth in Metamorphosis are the same thing. Complex and very secretive in nature, forcing you to look beyond the surface; that’s why they say to write is to be vulnerable.
September 11, 2015
Story: Trust
Symbol: Treaty
I read not too long ago that you can never be tired of loving. You are tired of all the tears and the hurt, but you can never get tired of loving. That seemed profound because of how simple it makes a concept that is, essentially, complex. I have felt this way several times, both from things that happened here at Co-op and well before it; much repetition seems to become synonymous with love of any kind.
Trust in my view is like a treaty. Upon entering a relationship, both parties must sign it and abide by the terms set forth in “negotiations.” That would be around the time that you are both getting to know one another. So, if somewhere along the way you have this feeling that something is going wrong, if you’re getting these little subtle hint about what is going on in your relationship, follow it, do not ignore it because you think that you are imagining it. We can’t let insecurities from past relationships control our every move, but neither can we dismiss them indefinitely, because we should validate our own emotions. Any emotion should be considered, because emotions are a part of you; you are valid and everything after that is just a trickle effect.
September 17, 2015
Story: Nostalgia
Symbol: Foot steps
I was in a room with a lot of sophomores and freshmen not too long ago and they were looking at a Where I’m From poem and analyzing it. It was a very nice piece and having it being read aloud, with all the enunciation and attitude that particular piece was meant to have, brought on a touch of nostalgia. The entries of Nightshade Chronicles are indeed about my experiences, but they move through my present as I do, so I thought to myself why not take a step back and, for a bit, go back to Where I am From.
Where I'm from
I'm from the dance of words
Where the sounds of birds of a feather
Can be similar to a creature that slithers
We always call that alliteration
I'm from the stolen moments with ones held close in heart
Between hi's, hugs, and hallway snickers
I'm from the comfortable silence as time ticks on
Accompanied by those who are trusted
I'm from windy days,
With palms faced outward on the street
Whilst hair is blown back
As an iron horse gallops down the pavement
I'm from open windows
With curtains gliding in the home, music slipping through
I'm from windows rolled down on highways with music like a heartbeat
The whipping wind like a pulse
I'm from times with my back to the waves
The water which always made me wary
Salt scented air the edge of a relationship between wind and waves
From a place where as above was not so down below
Till up came an ambassador
An about-face earned and
Working on steps to a sea of blue
So that I can be from a place of understanding
I'm from a virtual space
There I've lived a thousand lives
A comrade at my side nearly all the time
A fast pace, from womb to tomb, way of life
Akin to a guilty pleasure
I'm from the darker places,
Good and bad alike
A night owl at heart,
The only illumination is artificial
A blinking black cursor on a computer
Or free roaming figures on a TV screen
Slowly disappearing behind heavy eyelids
Dreams on the new time slot
I'm from moonlight
In the young belief that the moon follows you
Many a time, trailing close behind
As shoes slap street
And driveway gravel slides beneath the sole
From a place that's older now,
Looking over shoulder,
Strolling along with the old friend
Overhead
I'm from trust that's been tested, battered, and bruised
Thoughts of "not again" teeming
And lying lips in a tight grin
Because there's no light without a shadow
I'm from love and loss
Existing along a family motto of
Improvise, adapt, and overcome
From the hope of friends turned family
The belief that if by being,
Things are better for any of them
Then that's why I move forward with
Where I'm From
September 18th-23rd, 2015
Story: Tight Lipped
Symbol: Lock
Being tight lipped with talking about issues
Nothing seems more contradictory
Than how I feel about this
On one hand I hate it, despise it,
And thus hate a part of myself
Hating the hesitant eyes
And elaborate excuses
So you needn’t say a thing
I hate the “what am I here for then?”
Because aren’t I your friend?
I know there’s hurt, I know there’s pain
But I also know how ugly hiding can get
Some people have done things with what they hide
That I regret
Why is that?
How could you let it turn so malicious?
I feel like I don’t know you anymore
But actually, did I ever?
So, for this entry I thought I’d address the kinds of relationships, be they romantic or otherwise, where one or more members are tight lipped about issues, their feelings, etc.
I am also a tight lipped person for a number of reasons, but I hate that aspect of myself for the same reason that I became even more that way. I’m someone who can admit they’re tight lipped and works on not being that way; I always ask friends what’s wrong if I think something is up. Now, because of that, I’ve also had plenty of experience being the one who is--and I don’t really like using these words to describe it this way, but this is the best way to explain the other side’s feelings--shut out, pushed away etc. You may ask why I dislike using words like that to describe how tight lipped individuals make the other party feel. Well, simply put, it’s because not all of those individuals are trying to hurt you when they do that. Some of them really are glad you’re asking them what’s wrong and there are a multitude of reasons why they could not be telling you about their issues. It is not necessarily you. I can’t say that enough; the default answer in your mind should not be that you are bothering them or it’s because it’s you asking they won’t say. No, that can’t be your go-to answer. I know for people with past hurt, being sensitive can be hard. But for some of those same reasons, you have to know, are the reasons tight lipped individuals don’t always say what they need to say to you. Some of them may not always be used to having people ask them and other things are just too drastic for them to tell anyone about.
On the same token, however, those who are tight lipped need to understand the position of those who are asking them those kinds of questions. It can feel like you’re saying that you don’t trust the person, especially if you’ve been friends for a long time, then it can feel very sudden. Often times they also wish you’d tell them what was going on even if you feel like telling them would be burdening them with their issues. The point of us asking is so that we can help you or, at the very least if there’s nothing else we can do, be a place where you can vent and have someone who doesn’t want you to go through your dilemmas alone. So you too have to work on letting certain people in and feeling secure in the people around you that have shown they can be trusted. If you can’t do that right now, then at least, tell those people you’re glad for what they do. The reassurance could be needed, and if not right then, it helps to know even a little of what is on your mind even if it isn’t the issue itself.
When you give us nothing, no hints we’re doing the right thing, it feels a lot like a lock, firm and unrelenting, keeping us out as if we were ostracized and don’t have the foggiest idea as to why. For those of us doing the asking we try not to pry too hard and run the risk of hurting you with the constant asking if that’s not what you want or you’re simply not ready. I think the best way to put it on our end is this phrase I heard a little ways back “I’m not asking because I want to know, I’m asking because I want to help.” If your response to that is “there’s nothing you can do” or “you can’t help” that may very well be true, but that doesn’t then mean I want to leave you alone in it and that’s why I’m here.
September 24, 2015
Story: Update on Progress with Surgery Recovery
Symbol: A Landmark
Now I’ve only briefly talked about this in my earlier entries, but this one will be an update and will talks about how that connects to landmarks, more specifically landmarks in life and the significance of that. Lately I’ve been in the process of slowly learning how to walk again even though the 2nd cast the doctors put on me since the surgery for my disability is not off yet. That will happen in about 2 weeks give or take. Even still, when it’s off I won’t be up and moving the same as I used to. It will definitely take time. When I’m doing it now the pain only really comes when the actual step is being taken and all my weight is being shifted onto my bad leg. If you’ve ever broken your foot or anything like that then you know exactly what I’m talking about. That feeling like it’s going to break all over again, or in my case everything they did during the surgery would just collapse. The little progress jumps become what makes you happiest, like getting up a flight of stairs on your own, however slow or sloppy or painful it may be. Now, don’t get me wrong, I have had some pretty fabulous and dedicated drivers rolling me around while I’ve been in the wheel chair. As such, the entire process as a whole, as far as getting around wasn’t as hard for me as it may be for others. But the novelty of being in a wheelchair and using the elevator, even if it means not taking the stairs, fades. You end up missing having the ability to do certain things for yourself, like grabbing something that’s only a few feet away or not having to worry about maneuvering through crowds that in any other situation would be more than manageable for you. Right about now, I’m practicing walking here at school every so often now that I’m no longer using crutches at home. It feels good to be completely vertical again as Ms.Englart lovingly put it. My friends are rather reluctant about me practicing to walk because they know it hurts me and they don’t want me to overdo it, but they also know it’s important that I do this. I was told to make sure that I don’t forget it; forget all the things that I’ve been through with my leg and all the things I will do. That way it’ll be a good reminder for when things don’t seem all that great. That way I can remember all the things I’ve conquered and be happy that at least everything with that worked out when I look back on it. By then it’ll be a landmark in the journey of my life.
September 30th-October 6th 2015
Story: I Don’t Want to Remember
Symbol: Blurry Memory
So a little ways back Ms. Englart was in the audience for a speaker who was reading his work which was all pieces of things he did not want to remember. With that said I thought I’d do the same thing. So let’s begin with all the ex-friends whose deeds are what got them written into these pages in not the warmest of ways. This will be the first thing I don’t want to remember, every new entry for a little while now will be an I Don’t want to Remember entry when it ends I will say so.
I don’t want to remember the person who broke my heart the most with their betrayal. I don’t want to remember the person they are because I only know the person they were. But even they don’t feel the same anymore because you can’t unknown something once you’ve been told. It’s a memory that feels perverted, tainted by the things you do now. I don’t want to remember all the smiles and events we went to because the river of time can’t flow backward and the waters aren’t warm here anymore. I don’t want to remember all the details about you that no one else will ever know. The ones that I have nothing to do with now except let them be fodder to the flames that incinerated our friendship.
I don’t want to remember how to forget you, I want to remember how to let go of all the memories of us yet to be that are lost to me now. To be able to know they happened and accept what has happened rather than having the memories not exist at all. That’s what I’d rather recall than this aching want to erase it all.
I don’t want to remember the thought in the back of my mind as a sophomore that when it came time to leave for college we might never see each other again. You can never get used to people leaving, even when you’ve seen as many footsteps as I have, but now I needn’t worry about all of that because you pushed me to go through all the pain sooner and faster than I ever expected. Now, when I go there’ll be fewer tears to shed so thank you for the memories and even all the ones I’d rather forget.
October 19th 2015
Story: Don’t want to remember the Capitalistic way of the World
Symbol: Dollar bill
I don’t want to remember the way the world revolves around the color green, the hue of the dollar bill. That people are digits both in school and out in the field the schooling was meant to prepare them for. You’re a point on a linear graph meant to represent profit. If that line isn’t pointing skyward then you’re a name on a list of pink slips that’s color means nothing like it used to in childhood. I long for the people whose mindset is “work to live, not living to work”, but, then again who’s to blame them for losing that inner child who only dreamt of what they wanted to be when they grew up, not the yearly income that comes with it.
I don’t want to remember all the flames of passion snuffed out because of the necessity for practicality when picking one’s livelihood, trapped behind desks and working the traditional 9-to-5. The scores of teenagers turned young adults who are left to fend for themselves; they try to get a foothold in the world with a financial knowledge base that leaves much to be desired. Young adults who then get pigeon holed in a job that they despise waking up to every morning and ache from shuffling to bed from every night. I praise the one who says they’d just go off and write all day if they could, the yearning still lies inside them and I can only hope it holds fast. That it not get lost in the lackluster routine of being home only to sleep and awake and away only to work so that there’s still a home to come back to.
I don’t want to remember that the world revolves around paper, yes paper, an idea for paper that’s been perverted and as a result has become very manipulative. Paper that started out no different than the canvas my pen has found here. And I for one take special offense to this grotesque take on paper that has everyone revolving their lives around it. Why is that? Why do I take offense do you ask? I take offense because paper is the medium that I use to get and give freedom. Then, here it is as something that chains people to certain routines in life. It’s something that reveals the ugliness in people, even is the cause of it. All of this, springing from rather humble and unassuming beginning, from a tree, to the blank canvas of a pen, and then this power hungry, greed encouraging, form came. That is the capitalistic way of the world and I am no different when it comes to moving to the beat of its drum. What is different is the fact that I know just because everyone does it, doesn’t mean its right or should be done.
November 16th - 19th 2015
Story: I don’t want to remember how hard it is to Understand
Symbol: Ruins
I don’t want to remember how hard it is to understand when the situation isn’t solely logical. I try to take it from every angle on one of their bad days as one should. This sense that sometimes wriggles its way in that something is missing is not something I want to recall. I know which dark corner of me it rests in when it’s not on my mind. A quiet, shaky place tested by time, and has the marks of age to prove it. A ruin covered by roses will still be called a ruin and, unfortunately this is true.
This is not to undermine the progression of roses I’ve witnessed over the last few years by any means. It is to explain moments of doubt and wonder, moments of sadness and fear. The blossoms that wrap around the skeleton of this place are beautiful, full and you both nurture them well, so fear not in that because you are both amazing. I am glad that these lovely flowers have found their way into this place too, climbing up the stone walls like ivy, being sure to get into all the nooks and crannies. It’s a beautiful thing and know that for every heavy silence, hesitant or hard glance, and second of wavering will that there is still a ruin beneath all those buds. A ruin that announces its presence by its sheer size accumulated stone by stone, action by action.
Wonder, doubt, worry, and fear will march out of here, out of this broken place, because it is home to many a terrible moment. A dreadfully cold place that every now and then still sees the arrival of a new resident to add to the chorus of wails. Not so often do these new arrivals come that it leaves me entirely helpless to shut out their calling, especially when it’s really necessary, but please understand they’ve come enough to be sure that I do not forget the echo even when they are barricaded in.
You need not ask me if I fear that one day these breathtaking blooms will one day wilt because I will tell you that I do, in the most painfully sincere of ways, I do. Though you may not always notice I do tell you these things, as best I can, in every moment of uncertainty. My eyes will darken with shadows of this place and you will know the shutters are open. My mouth will be thin and, very possibly, twitching into a feigned smile, and you will know it to be the bar slipping into its notches to brace a splintering door. There will be days where I simply do not win. The door will sometimes burst open and out will rush all the ghouls or the darkness that rolls forth.
You’ve both seen this before this I know, whether it be the darkness that comes in thick waves where I weaken under its weight and what comes is an outpouring of raw sadness. Unobstructed in its gathering momentum, it moves indiscriminately forward, and it’s in these moments I’m adrift under this relentless tsunami. You’ve seen the unfettered tears and heard the anguished cries. In your own words you’ve both described it as a place as dark as I have always known it to be.
Then, there is when the ghouls run rampant in the field, their shouting unchecked and ricocheting furiously until, ultimately its one unrivaled roar. Those are the moments you’ve known me to be the most enraged by the actions of others. The sudden, fierce stance I’ll take in a moment, I’d like you to hear from me is by no means, in fact, sudden. Know it comes from the necessity of a quick, moment’s notice, response to unprovoked aggression or mistreatment. It is not wholly you I am reacting to, but rather I’m reminded of others I held in high esteem, much like you, that are now ghosts in this hollow place. This intense reaction is rather, first, and contrary to how it seems, a display of how much I do actually care, so much so that despite my best efforts to interpret and resolve your subtle hints to your state of mind internally the not knowing, being made to wonder and guess, and constantly adjust accordingly takes its toll. There will be days that it drives me to such levels of intensity. I may not always outwardly express it if I should rest on the cusp of such a response, and I am glad for it because no matter the case I try to avoid getting to that place, but even still it’s hard being so close to it.
Know that you are not the first to become aware of this ruin that still speaks of the things that brought about its destruction. There have been others who too brought roses that I cherished just the same. But those roses wilted and the people never left, they are the ghosts of memories that still reside in the ruins. So in that knowledge I do ask that you forgive me if there are times, in a situation that I see the thorns before the petals. My hands and fingers have been pricked and scarred enough times by a thorn gone amiss, that I’ve learned to leave an eye to the stem even after I’ve smelled the delicate scent and caressed the bud in hand a time.
Rest assured, I too remember to cherish the blossom, not just be wary of what lies beneath. The blossom that represents one of you is a blue rose so close to it while growing and fond of water are you that I’d joke to myself the blossom took on its hue. The fragrance is a strong one I have no fear in saying. You’ve grown against what I’d, and probably you too, would call less than ideal circumstances. So I’ll let that sentiment alone speak to your resilience. Not a petal was out of place, such is your grace. When you came to be here I came to know almost immediately that this blossom has deep roots, extending into much to better itself, wise enough to know when it was ready to bloom. Its color told me too; in the best way that it knew how, just how much you’ve seen. Let us not forget that blue is, but a stone’s throw from the company of sadness in one’s mind. Much was locked in its petals and with every unfurling I’ve come to know more. I may never know or truly understand it all; neither do I consider it an easy thing to show for surely it isn’t. But know that I’d wish to know, to understand as much as I possibly can and that no matter what may remain that I’ve yet to known and with all that I do I believe what you’ve made of it to be truly beautiful.
The other is represented by a red rose. A color suited to a passionate, fiercely true heart. No shame in being who you truly are and that’s why it is a color with such vibrancy, in that I am truly impressed and proud to have had it presented to me. This one had a pair of healthy leaves just beneath its bud, nature’s way of embodying that selfless, yet humble nature of yours through a juxtaposition of both color and presentation. For this rose there is much that is common knowledge, just as I believe you’d like it. There is too much that is not known and, like the other rose, I extend a vast appreciation for even that and an equally strong and genuine desire.
For all of this know that I fear the coming of a time that damage will be done to these remarkable roses. It matters not what it is, be it time, storm, or any other tragic occurrence; damage is still damage and thus hurts. The only thing of importance there is the exact degree of pain that will be inflicted. Despite all of that, be most aware that I treasure these roses in a way I may never be able to entirely express though I do have the dearest of hopes this view has, in some way, conveyed it; I will carry the roses with me always.
November 20, 2015
Story: Why I have to remember the things that I’d rather forget
Symbol: A reflection
I’ve been drawn to “I don’t want to remember” entries because I think it reveals a lot about a person when you hear about the things that they would rather not remember. People try to force out these kinds of memories, but the truth is, no matter how hard you try, it’s a large factor in the decisions you make. More particularly, for me though, I feel like it was time to not only say some things that came in the spur of a moment, an observation of society that was deemed important enough to note so that it isn’t entirely forgotten later. There was definitely some of that, but more importantly it was about acknowledging, in more than just a fleeting moment, some longstanding, abstract feelings of my own. Feelings that I could never quite put down, even for myself, let alone explain to others. I am trying to touch my hand to the reflection in the mirror that these entries present to me. I’m trying to go against the natural inclination of turning away when someone sees something unpleasant staring back at them. Let these entries, this book even, be a mirror to my past from before I set foot here and to the present that will all one day become what has passed.
At the recollection of fights and misfortunes, the reflection will also start out distorted and unrecognizable as I struggle to be honest with myself in these pages. The swirling darkness in the mirror will start to finally take shape the longer the ink flows. The darkness taken upon the pen’s nib after it touches the glass’ cool surface.
We all have those abstract feelings; we know when they come on, but not what they are. Neither can we articulate these feelings well to others, but we wish we could. That’s why I have chosen to force myself to recall the things that I would rather banish away to the farthest corners of my mind. Even if I did push them away they’d still exist somewhere; instead, I’d rather learn how to live with them. I want to be able to say that I sat down with my soul staring back at me and that somewhere, there will always be a record of our conversation. A recording composed of the things that I loved, the things that I thought, and the things that I felt most of all, because everything else stems from that. I can only hope that, perhaps, someone who sees this mirror can better look to their reflection and have their own soul session.
November 23rd – December 17th 2015
Story: One moment to represent myself from someone else’s perspective
Symbol: Ashes
Someone close to me, who happened to also witness the moment discussed in my Stranger with Memories entry, asked me once to tell her one moment that I would use to describe myself. One moment, to represent me in my own eyes and another for someone else’s eyes, that’s what she asked for. This is something that she wanted to know most of all about me. To answer the first half of her question, I didn’t have a singular event locked in time that I could use to represent myself. Rather, I had a series of them, so I told her that I’d pick my failed friendships. It seems like an odd thing to choose, but it could give her a broader view of me. It could show the good in that I gave them my love and held them close to my heart. So close in my heart, in fact, that they remain phantoms of bittersweet memories that dance with the shadows of my soul. That was the bad part of it all, too. Trust that was too little to spread widely; subsequently, I guard it so fiercely.
What, then, would I tell this girl; this person who I held in high regard? Would I tell her of the girl that is quite helplessly infatuated with the craft of writing, whose ink flows as ceaselessly as the blood through her own body? The stories of the countless pages penned in blue, motivated by my far-reaching dreams of being a full-fledged, bestselling author. A writer that may never find herself able to make her craft a full time career, but will be perfectly content so long as there is time to put pen to the page. Do I tell her only of the moments of which I am most proud and the reasoning as to why I am? Or, do I get into the more complicated, darker matters too. Do I get into the feelings and situations that often lead to the contradictions, shades, and, often, my long-winded explanations of who I am as a person?
Do I tell her of the girl who couldn’t read well? The one that wrote really sloppily at a young age until my dad’s drilling made my script small and neat. It’s a moment that I can smile back on now as the first step on a long road of writer-hood? Or, instead, do I tell her of the self-taught techie? The glimmer in my eyes reflected back by a large computer screen. The one who was determined to understand a computer after just a few, short lessons from my mother. The long hours while I journeyed through the vast gaming universe, after my novice days playing Mortal Kombat with my dad are worth telling about too. These are the things of which I’m proud. They are things, however small, to look back and smile for.
Do I tell of the things I’ve let go of? The dancing from before I was 13. What about the stretch of time spent toying around with the piano that took residence in my uncle’s house when I was 11? He always had instruments lying around. It’s a wonder that none of my three cousins came to be musicians; instead, if anything, they all went toward visual art. I could also speak of the summers playing dominos, rounds and rounds of dominos that are fondly lingering in memory.
The mornings at my cousin’s kitchen table with head bent low over a book of Sudoku or crosswords are an option too. Afternoons nestled on a couch here or there, sometimes my grandfather’s, sometimes my own, reading books crosses my mind as well. The sun teased me, pulling back its light from time to time in those days. These quiet days I remember fondly and still, in some way, take with me.
Could I tell her, perhaps, of my fears? Broken trust is one you know well. When people leave and I don’t hear from them again, it is more of a sadness than it is a fear because I know it happens, and it has happened to me already. I’ve had to let go of almost every friendship I’ve ever started, in one way or other, so, I guess, it’s graduated from a fear to something more like a truth, or a reality up until this point. I’d like for that to be different one day, to be able to look back and know that it changed, but I also know I’m running out of time for that.
There is also the inevitability that, sooner or later, I’ll have to arrive at my first-ever funeral, and then too, I will have to let go. I was too young when I lost my grandfather to remember enough of him to really, fully understand the loss of him. What I did understand was my dad’s tears, for the first time, and that was enough. The others, I was not yet born for, or they were far too distant, in Puerto Rico where they lived, for me to ever know them. I would say having written this that I fear the loss of things, because everything of value can be lost, this I know well. What I do not know is what it is like to be allowed to hold on to something.
I may try to articulate to you some of my views, my notes on others, and my feelings. I find that I have no desire for talk of trivialities with others, but love the details about people. I find joy in their deep passions, too. I feel like until you’ve seen the light of a person’s eye twinkle with talk of what they truly love, then you have not truly talked. It is not until you see a person so moved in spirit that their body can’t help but fall into step and move in accompaniment that you’ve truly struck upon something. Such moments with someone must come without judgment, or aggression. If those things are present when such emotion is shown to you, those moments will quickly retreat inward back into the depths of the person from which they sprung. If you find yourself on the opposing view, or even some lost understanding, then I urge you to meet it with discussion, rather than aggression or judgment. In the moments when you just meet someone, the time is filled with the repetitive, superficial, strictly what’s-on-the-surface conversation, that while essential to get to the more meaningful exchanges is quite unrevealing to me in terms of who someone is. I prefer the things closer to the core. Those are threads for profound and mystifying conversations. The conversations that aren’t had every day; those are the words I enjoy hearing, the places in people I enjoy exploring most.
Now, by moving to answer my friend’s question and trying to articulate how even the unpleasant connects with everything else, there is, I know, a risk that there is not a moment that I cannot reconcile these complexities of who I am. A risk of throwing you into confusion, but I will try anyway. I’d pick the moment from my Stranger with Memories entry to represent the dislike, the misunderstanding, and probably even, the hate that others have felt for me. But also I choose the supportive silence that you presented me with then and the protective anger that you came to tell me of afterward too. That can also represent me in the eyes of someone else and the love they could feel toward me. Know, in addition, that she was in a league of very few to ever witness a moment of mine quite like that. I rarely ever allow others to see me at a point quite as low as I felt that day and the days that followed.
I think I’d pick that moment to represent all of the good I might and could be to others. After all, though I may never be quite certain of what others think of me, there must have been a certain deal of good that I presented to her to make her respond in that way. Something that readied her for the heartbroken me that walked around for some time after that. I hope that I can continue to present those kinds of traits too, whatever they were.
I’ve also recently come to discover, because of her as well, despite how hard it was to come to, that I want to set the ruins from my I don’t want to remember how hard it is to understand entry aflame. Let everything within it be set ablaze and let the ghosts that reside there with their withered roses be laid to rest. That includes my Stranger with Memories and their voices in the band of ghouls. I can almost laugh at that thought because I don’t know what that looks like; at best you could say I can vaguely recall what that place looks like without those ruins and filled with light. It was that long ago. I also thought that maybe my Stranger with Memories was the last to see that place while it had light enough to illuminate the entire space. I have to think that that’s because they were around even before any real, lasting darkness came to befall the area at all. That stranger knew the names and stories of all the ghosts that came before them, even when their predecessors weren’t ghost and all the memories were alive and well. That, I feel, might’ve been the reason why I found myself capable of the faith to not worry about the things they did or some impending attack on the vicinity as a result of their actions. No matter how wrong I was to believe them, I can’t deny how good that kind of confidence in another was.
So you are in a unique position. You are part of the first group to come here when the years-long, stop and go series of pillages has finally come to an end. You are part of a new group entirely. Sometimes I may not treat you like you are and I’ll let the past, and all the ghosts there, cloud my judgment more than they should, and that’s not something I want to give you. Letting go of them, and forgiving myself for falling into it in the first place is worth doing for a lot of reasons and that’s one of them.
I don’t know how regaining the trust I lost by letting go and letting it rebuild anew is going to look or even how it’s going to happen, if it’s at all possible. It’s a somewhat frightening thought. I don’t want to build it up, only to have a disaster that will damage it worse than ever occur somewhere along the way.
Actions that start out rooted in care can sometimes get twisted with worry and can become something that takes on the look and feel of control. In those moments, I have to take charge of the conflict at hand. I have to try to understand it and ultimately try to fix it. This urge, too, believe it or not, is because I care. I don’t want to watch something negative happening to her or to my other friends-like-family, my biological family, not even a stranger. This care/control internal relationship can be seen in anything I do. From the constant asking of who you are, to the nice, not-so-quiet, commentary-filled quality time with my mom that sometimes I get a little forceful about getting done. I have been with the “friends” who never, never ask how you are or, hell, even have a conversation with you and it’s lonely.
I’ve had people not once ask my thoughts, my side of things, and it’s hard. With some ex-friends, I did nothing in the way of control. I had an unwavering trust that those people would come if they needed me, if it got that bad. Why was that? I didn’t want to do too much. I didn’t want to go back to being the annoying one, the bitch, the burden. So, I gave them space. I didn’t worry or over think and eventually it became easier not to. But, I missed those little things this time, or shoved them away as “oh, I was doing it again.” Those little things though, those signals for the kinds of disasters I was already used to. The precursors for the calamities that take down friendships, those are important because ruin never starts and ends with just one large, singular bang. It’s always the same; the reason may be different, but the sequence is the same.
I’ve had many points, in the aftermath of those moments, even during them, that I blamed myself for everything. Chances were I was already being told it was my fault even if it wasn’t. I look back to this day and still say in some moments, “yeah, maybe that could have been a little different.” But I will never know and there was only so much I could do. Yes, even still, it takes two to tango, but some exchanges I made my fault in my mind. I had too many, “What if I had” streams of thought. In that way, there is no one that can hurt me worse than I hurt myself. I’ve had about a thousand internal arguments before I’ve even had a discussion with someone about a problem we may be having. I’ve tried to examine every detail of every variable to try to see every outcome of a situation. This structure is so I can go into that conversation prepared and with, what I believe to be, a greater chance of coming to a good place.
I’ve had moments after every loss that I just wanted to give it all up. I wanted to stop trying to create relationships. In the early stages of being with my Stranger with Memories I decided if this didn’t work out I’d stop trying to create friendships and get so invested for nothing. It didn’t fall apart though, at least not right away. I had time enough to meet the friend with the reflective questions before the beginning of the end truly arrived. By the end, I had forgotten about the deal and when it came to mind again I hadn’t wanted to go through with it. The deal, and that it existed for however brief a time, is not the important thing here. It’s the feelings behind it. The fact that it was so, for lack of a better term, tiring, draining, to become involved in those relationships only to watch them corrode slowly or explode with all the fiery grandeur of emotion, however tragic the reason. There is, too, the reality that it is an almost uninterrupted succession of failed friendships. If a nerve is struck so viciously over and over, it’s bound to be torn in time.
Now, though, I think that nerve needs to be allowed to try to find its strength again. That’s the pursuit I want to start in the time that is to come. I hope that this has been insightful and satisfies your question in every tense, including the future.
December 19th-Jnauary 25th 2015
Story: What is Family and who I am?
Symbol: Family and emotions
Mine is a family that lives in the intensity of emotion. When I think of them, like when I think of myself, I think primarily of two quotes. The first of these would be, “It is both a blessing and a curse to feel everything so very deeply” which was said by David Jones. The other would be, “Do not go gentle into that good night. Rage, rage against the dying of the light.” This line came from Dylan Thomas. The first quote is because as I mentioned at the top of this entry we are a family that lives in the intensity of feelings and the explosive grandeur of emotion.
We are a family of open minds whose doors are ever learning to open wider. I grew up in a feminist house that believes in the day that the glass ceiling collapses. I was taught to never give a man the satisfaction of looking up to meet his gaze if he was taller than me only by a few inches of ego or entitlement. Likewise it is neither shameful nor weak for a man to shed tears because we are all people and no idea of machismo should hinder that humanity. We are all human.
We are a family of advocates and allies. In any social issue big or small my family has chosen a side and stood firm. Be it the squashing of stereotypes, allies in LGBTQPIA rights, or run-ins with racial problems we’ve found footing in them all and in our own way march toward progress. My father is an upstanding police officer and has been for as long as I’ve been alive and he will be coming up on twenty years of service this summer. He has honorably defended the red, white and blue. In the wake of Black Lives Matter he need not flinch at his actions because he has always been fair and instead may lend an ear to both sides. He and his fellows that I’ve come to know in my life are the reason I can hold a stake the defense of police officers with pride while still realizing that no system is incorruptible. There are cops who have tarnished the badge because after all black lives do matter. There are those officers who have failed to adhere to that and should be punished accordingly.
My mother has always been honest in her opinion. Never has she been fearful of letting her voice ring out if need be. She is an advocate of the individual and the right for anyone to have a voice and if a right should be infringed upon then one ought to have the voice to air that grievance. She is a person who is strong minded and strong willed.
In matters of LGBTQPIA my family has nary had the personal experience of having a family member come out to us as a member of the community. However, never have we needed the experience to know acceptance and tolerance. I remember when I was 13 or so my dad asked me on a car ride, right out of the blue, “hey, what would you think if you saw two girls together, or two guys as a couple?” I looked over at him as if I missed the question. I said to him “so what, why does that matter I don’t think it matters.” He looked at me for a moment then added, “It wouldn’t bother you at all?” I shook my head looking at him and waiting for some other layer to the question because surely there was something else. He simply smiled and said “that’s good, we raised you right.” I smiled along with him thinking it the simplest answer I could ever give because what other answer could there be.
Mine is a family whose sense of trust has been struck time and time again like metal to a whetstone. My mother has lived a life very similar to my own. She too knows the hardships of lost trust and vicious words uttered behind her back. Knowing this I try to keep my heart an open door for a few that are seen as ready to pass the threshold. Once across those few are treated incredibly well, much like family because as Jane Austen put it, “There is nothing I would not do for those who are truly my friends. I have no notion of loving people by halves. It is not in my nature.”
When this value appears threatened I will try everything within our power to resolve the issue. It may appear controlling to the outside observer or even perhaps, to the person I act this way toward. This is not the case, I care, and thus I want to fix the problem. Members of our family have even found ourselves falling physically ill as a result of stress, be it emotional or otherwise, such is the strength of our feelings. Days where we have little to no energy, have intense headaches, or feel nauseated, a battle that the previous night’s dinner sometimes wins, becomes all the more common. If through all this the person in question still makes us review our trust in them we begin to retract. We put distance between ourselves and them in an effort to think of our next approach, to give the individual time as well, or simply the care we have is beginning to cool. Once it’s been decided that it’s time to leave, we become frigid people. A mask is put up to hide all telltale signs of emotion from that person and at this point it is hard to convince us to grant someone forgiveness. This is all the more so if they had not been working with us to a solution or even considering the problem in the first place. We may seem cold then, maybe even heartless, but it hurts more than you’d think. As I said though, we have no notion of loving by halves.
We are a family of fighters. From a grandmother that learned a lot of the English she knows from conversation once she was here in Connecticut to a mom who does and always has done a lot for herself. It was even on her own that she first discovered she had cancer, not telling a soul in the family of her suspicions, so private was she, until there was no other choice. In a few months we will be coming up on the two year anniversary. She has done extremely well with all of it both in a physical sense and in the emotional sense. She’s even asked me before this to talk about what the experience is like having a loved one with cancer and to write it, perhaps, as if a young child or even someone my own age were going to read it.
I hadn’t wanted to do that then because I wouldn’t know what good things to say about it and I didn’t want it to sound entirely depressing because you can pull through that. I am not going to deny, however, that I was devastated and angry. I was angry that something like this happened out of the blue to my mother who has always worked very hard her entire life. She’d always tried to treat people respectably in general and always felt it was good to give what one can. So naturally when this happened, I didn’t understand as a roman catholic why God lets things like this happen to people. It just seemed so unreasonable and baseless. Why when someone tries to be as good as they can be does God then let something like this happen? Some might say that it is a test. That life and God gives tests and He only gives you what He thinks you can handle. I understand what these statements are supposed to mean, but at the same time I couldn’t help thinking this is too much for a test. This is cruel punishment. How can my mother be asked to handle this and be entirely okay with it.
I can recall her being so worried while waiting for the genetic test results because she knows cancer already runs in the family, on both sides. No matter what the results were though she knew it would still be a good idea for me to go see an Ob-Gyn earlier than everyone else normally would. She didn’t want the disease to invade the home any more than it already had.
In the midst of all this it is hard to know why these things happen or how to deal with it; all anyone can do is theorize. No one has a concrete, sure-fire answer whether it’s logical, or spiritual. But isn’t that what faith is anyway, carrying on even when you aren’t sure. Carrying on in the hopes that at the end everything will turn out as it should. In that sense my crisis of faith was resolved even though it took a while to feel that way. The answer and the problem in this situation were one and the same at once. Faith.
It is on that note that I will take a second to talk to the cancer survivors. No, rather I am talking to the fighters, the warriors because I bear witness to the truth that it’s never over. I am talking to the other witnesses too. What I’m about to say is going to sound like the most absurd thing you’ve ever heard. It’s going to sound like that on certain days more than others, especially if you’ve just gotten the news that cancer has invaded your life too. What I have to say is this, remember to laugh, you must and you must be happy and be yourself. I know that it seems like the farthest thing from your mind right now. I know it seems impossible that the world could keep going on as if nothing has happened. As if you didn’t receive one of the greatest shocks of your life and it’s the kind of jolt that never stops coursing through you. The severity just varies on any given day.
It’s because of that, especially in the beginning, that it just seems like a mockery of your pain, of your sorrow to be asked to carry on with what seem like the trivialities of life like work and worrying about money. “Why?” others might ask and you know it’s because you’re aware of mortality. You just want to hurry up and get to the good part, to the living that’s supposed to be in life like making art, traveling, pursuing other passions, wants and interests, love of all kinds and you want the time, space, to just throw yourself in them all. If you’re a witness this is no different for you. You feel that pressure, that awareness in your own life and then again in the life of the one who you bear witness for. You don’t know how long you’ll have with them. Not everyone has the real possibility to know the ending for someone’s life before it’s arrived.
There are certain things that other people do that do start to get really aggravating and hurtful too. This is true even for witnesses. I don’t like when someone demeans the issue or makes an offhand remark about it even if I know they don’t mean anything by it, though knowing that is helpful it doesn’t stop it from being at least a little irksome. For me personally, I also don’t like when people trivialize the effort I put into maintaining and bettering relationships. This is has become truer after this experience because I feel like it just proves that one’s time is a very important commodity and so is their effort.
While I’m on that note, to the witnesses and warriors there will be people that will support you and try to understand. So as someone who supports me once said being happy is the best thing you can do for them. You’ll learn how to go on with that weight. I want you too to know the exuberance with which I say that to you. Another person close to me gave me the same kinds of assurances I give you with much welcomed energy and confidence when I first spoke of the news. I hope that in some way you are getting the same comfort and respect for your hardship as I received. I was very lucky to have a good support system at the time. Just remember that it will be okay, it doesn’t feel that way now, but it will be.
Do not be afraid to strike out and find new parts of yourself. Your family is a part of you that will always stay with you. Your hardships are a part of you too. They are things that you handle every day and beat. They form your view of things too. As a final remark I will reiterate to remember to laugh, be happy, and look to your support system. That is not just to my warriors and witnesses, but to everyone and their struggles as we all try to make it in this wayward and mysterious journey we call life.
January 15th 2016
Story: Forgiving Yourself
Symbol: A human being
We all have regrets. Things that we wish we could get another shot at, a second chance. The things we might want that redo with might not even have been all that bad to begin with, but we still want it that reset. Let me just say this about myself I am the type that over thinks. A lot. So you can imagine that I’ve had that feeling plenty. I’ve had it when what transpired wasn’t my fault, with little things, everyday transactions that could have gone just a little better. We’ve all been there and without a doubt we will be there again. I’m the type that holds on to my mistakes too. It’s from an effort to fix them, to be better mind you, but nevertheless hold on I do well past the point when the moment of transgression has passed and forgiveness, if need be, was given. If you’re like me and hold on to your mistakes then know that you ought to just do what you can. You’ll be better as a person too if you forgive yourself.
We are not just a meshwork of mistakes. We are indeed trial and error, but we are also the solutions that come forth from those rough-and-tumble times. You can even embrace your mistakes in the aftermath when time has dulled the sting of your misstep because if we were all perfect we would have no purpose. We would be nothing more than duplicates of this product called a human being. Truly then we would be products and not people because how if we are copies of perfection realized how can we speak of individuality, There would be nothing to change; we would have already mastered everything. Do not think of your mistakes so harshly, be made better from them, or at least in the pursuit of betterment, but do not forget that mistakes are a very humane principle.
Mistakes lie at the soles of your shoes. The wear of them are the remnants of error. There is a case for this too with scars. These marks be them roughness on the sole, the ghost of abrasion upon the skin, heart, or mind, speak of triumph as well. You are still here are you not? You have not stilled in your journey. You have not been made a signpost, an alternate route for others of what may come to befall them as it did you and as a result have stopped. You are none of those things because you are still moving.
January 26, 2016
Story: Finishing Nightshade Chronicles
Symbol: Dawn
It’s that time now it seems. The dawn is nearing in the night that you’ve accompanied me in. It was hard for me to believe, as I’m sure most people think at the beginning of a large project, that it would ever be finished. I started Nightshade Chronicles when I was a sophomore in high school. Now I’m a senior with just a semester between here and becoming a freshman again, except this time, a freshman at college. The road has been long and trying. It has been emotional and interesting. It has led to a lot of growth too I think.
This journey has progressed through presenting the past in the first few entries. It moved forward into recording events as they happen. The spectrum was very broad then. It covered things like the progression of relationships, both my own and how relationships seem to be in general. It captured that which is dear to me in those relationships and what was painful. It was the match that set my ruins on fire as I spoke about forgiveness, regrets, trust, and interest in the people of the world. The Nightshade Chronicles has also seen practical, tangible growth from all the performances discussed within these pages. It has also seen the troubles and triumphs of A.P. classes, the college-going process and the commitment of just creating the Nightshade Chronicles into what it is today.
At the beginning of this process Nightshade Chronicles was intended for other teenagers like me. Now, though, I just want Nightshade Chronicles to be open to all audiences. To everyone and anyone who cares to read it. That is why a lot of the entries use “you” instead of anything else. The “you” was meant to incorporate everyone even if the entry was also addressed to someone specifically. The entries of Nightshade Chronicles are not all uniform. Some entries have pictures on Co-op Voices others do not. The first two entries have vignettes and the rest do not because at the time I had just recently learned about vignettes from Mr. Brennor, one of the other Creative Writing teachers. I wanted Nightshade Chronicles to be a representation of my time here in Cooperative Arts and Humanities High school as well as a space for me as I was in the moment that every entry was written. In order for that to happen I didn’t change anything, aside from grammatical corrections, so that it remained true to the moment.
Now that the night is coming to a close I will tell you all of how Nightshade came to be. My freshman year we were asked to emulate the style of the piece Linoleum Roses. We had to also discuss in our emulations how what we were writing was possible. How is it that the narrator is aware of what was going on and what kind of narrator was in our emulation. My narrator was omniscient. The narrator was also a black cat that the protagonist of the story had with her. This cat was named Nightshade and in my version of Linoleum Roses. Nightshade was very gentle and quiet as the events that transpired were unfolding, recorded, and ultimately recounted by Nightshade. When I delivered the piece to my class one of my fellow writers and classmates suggested I take on the name because it suited me. Ms. Englart, my teacher and also the editor of Nightshade Chronicles other than me, agreed with the suggestion.
If any of you who have kept up with Nightshade Chronicles while it was first on Co-op Voices you’ll remember that the image that used to be in the corner was of a black cat that resembled what I thought Nightshade would be like. That image changed in time to a mackerel tabby with brown fur and eyes of the same color. I decided to change the image to something similar to this because it felt like a better representation of me and how I look. It was just something that over time I thought needed a bit of a change as well. So that is the story behind Nightshade.
Now before I bid you ado for now I would like to bring two things to your attention. The first is that I will be working on a second book the pages of which will be posted on Co-op Voices for certain at least until I graduate. Now with that being said since I’m going to college navigating how things will continue as far as Nightshade’s continued contribution to Co-op Voices and writing in general will have to be considered. I am thinking of having mainly an email correspondence with Ms. Englart while I am in college.
After Nightshade Chronicles is finished I am going to write a book that is more based around the idea of how people treat other people. It will be more of a poetry format than Nightshade Chronicles was/is. I am going to do it that way for two reasons. One because I enjoy poetry and I think writing a book as such will be a good thing. I also want to do it that way because my freshman year I had thought of putting all the poetry I already had together in one book. That being said I believe that this book will be a good way to bring everything full circle.
The other thing that I wanted to address is a thank you. I’d like to say thank you to all of Nightshade Chronicles readers and everyone that has been involved. Ms. Englart has been a spectacular editor and very supportive. Similar consistent and much appreciated support has come from the others to whom these pages are dedicated and I hope it isn’t too long before they get the chance to have the book in their hands rather than on a screen. Now I have said everything that I wanted to say and I see sunlight’s gentle and peach pink touch nearing. So I bid all of you farewell until the next night.
Story: Taking on the O’Neil Playwriting after School Program to have a play performed at the Yale school of Drama in the spring
Theme: Well-rounded writers versus Specialist writers
Symbol: the Heart and the Pen
Today, I plan to hand in my C.A.S. after-school application. I am planning to take on the O’Neill playwriting program. In this program, you ultimately produce a ten-minute play that will be performed at the Yale School of Drama. I no longer possess the play I wrote at the O’Neil Playwriting Retreat that I went to in the spring of my sophomore year. It was entitled "Cross my Heart and Hope to Live." I still remember the plot and the way it went. But I want to write something new and original. Why, you might ask? Well, it is so that I can have more experience in playwriting. I want to work toward being a rather well-rounded writer. Also, the play I wrote for the retreat felt rather done. If I chose to use that one, I would have to continue it somehow. I feel anymore attempts at continuing something that feels whole and complete only takes quality away from it rather than adds quality.
Also, what I wanted to write about today is well-rounded writers, like what I strive to be, versus specialized writers. To me, well-rounded writers are the nomad-like writers. They travel in the world of writing. They explore the various genres of the writing universe, taking little pieces here and there from everything that works for they, and they infuse it into their own writing. In doing things this way, their work becomes very much like a stained glass window. There is a central image in all their pieces, because there normally is one in a writer’s piece; it’s normally what inspired it. This is much like the image that is being portrayed in a stained glass window. In a church it may be some sort of biblical scene, but is the focal point of the window all the same. That is where these two types of writers find common ground.
Where they diverge is in the method, in the appearance. In the case of stained glass it is the color. All the colors have a certain allure with all the different colors crafted beautifully into the window, adding to the image. Each color represents one thing that the well-rounded writer has learned about various forms of writing. In some area of writing, both well-rounded writers and specialized writers do this. Specialized writers do this when they take in things around them from the world and put it into their writing. The difference is that well-rounded writers do this even with writing itself, creating a coalition of the genres of writing in their work.
Specialized writers are those who work mainly, if not exclusively, in one genre of writing. We often give them the label of the genre they work in attached to the common, all encompassing, title of writer. These are your fiction writers, nonfiction writers, and poets. They are the arrow that never veers from its path, hitting the mark as it slices through the air.
What’s different between them and well-rounded writers? Well, the answer is they put all their energy and vigor into that one field and become just as the name would suggest--specialized in that field. They are the community writers. They stay mainly within their own genre/community of writing and work to enhance it, enliven it. The best example of this is comparing a fiction writer with a nonfiction writer. The common thought is that one writes about reality and what is true and the other crafts worlds from scratch. They don’t normally cross into the territory of the other, right? Maybe in the beginning when the writer is trying to find their mold, but people think there is a point where they would figure it out and move to one side of the boundary. Guess what? You just thought like a specialized writer. Here I sit in Coop Publishing House, which is notoriously a nonfiction class and I had been in love with fiction since I was little. Anyone who knows me knows I wrote primarily fiction. So why would I be here? You already know the answer: it is to be a well-rounded writer and I have found out that it is by no means as bad or as hard as I originally thought. From my time traversing the various genres I have nurtured a style that is a mix of fiction and poetry that Ms. Englart has fittingly dubbed Poetic Prose. That is what a specialized writer and well-rounded writer are to me and how they vary.
September 29, 2014
Theme Inspiration/Muses
Story: Hobbies
Symbol: Will o’ Wisp
I’m opening with thoughts geared to inspiration today. But first, in case someone doesn't know what a will o’ wisp is, it is a ghostly-looking ball of light that has all kinds of folklore behind it. Some of it is bad, like people that weren't baptized or were stillborn that are stuck between heaven and hell that guide travelers astray sometimes to their death. Others will say it isn't a human at all, but some sort of spirit that is different from a ghost in that it was never human to begin with or that it's fairies. But there are also good tales, like if you’re lost in the woods and you see one--depending on how you treat it--it could guide you out to safety. Also, a will o' wisp guides those courageous enough to follow it to treasure. I chose it for both types of stories, but I lean to the latter--more positive stories.
Now, some people wonder if the idea of muses is still apparent today and I think yes, it is. You can find a muse in a lot of different things and people, but you don’t have to have one muse that never changes--that I don’t believe. These muses are the same places you get your inspiration from. I find inspiration in things like anime, video games, and reading. These all help with plots and graphics (as far as the anime and videogames are concerned). I also find inspiration from my friends because of all the different things they do and how unique they are. So, to me, a muse or inspiration can be and come from anything and it doesn't have to come from any one thing. Sometimes it may not always lead to the treasure of a well done piece, but neither does the will o’ wisp. Being an artist, however, means being the person daring enough to try anyway. I think people need at least a few hobbies; it should be something that you enjoy doing and maybe doesn’t involve so much work, but ultimately helps that creative spark.
October 6, 2014
Story: Declaration of Human Rights
Symbol: Gender Symbols
So, I read the Declaration of Human Rights that the United Nations created. Let me just say for those of you that don’t know what that is, it is a declaration that lists all the rights that a person has at birth just for being a human being. I feel that if more people knew about the existence of such a document, and it was actually enforced, it would solve a lot of our current problems. For example, in one of the articles it states that a human being should get equal pay for equal work without any discrimination. If that was actually enforced then we wouldn’t have the gender inequality issues that we have now. Emma Watson wouldn’t have needed to give a speech before the U.N. to advocate for gender equality and the He for She campaign. We would already have that equality. The different genders are two interpretations of the same thing. They are interpretations of a human being. Just like interpretations--neither is wrong and neither is completely right, so why can they not both be equal in value?
October 16, 2014
Story: Omnipotent Conflict
Symbol: Universe of Obligation
The Omnipotent Conflict
By: NightShade
The scales of justice are slanted
We as humans have made them so,
In constant flux between our morals
And the instincts that place a "shrouded veil over our emotion"
The ingrained impulse for self-preservation
Propels us to combat our sense of obligation
To our fellow man
Blurring the line between what is good and what is allowed
Long ago when man first began, being human
Meant living to fight another day
Today we have the sense of self
And this modern term humane, that gets pushed off to someone else
In the rationale of a bystander who is not the only witness
Came the death of Kitty Genovese
This is the black veil that covers our emotion
An omnipotent conflict between what is humane
And what is human instinct
We have become adept in finding loopholes
To avoid making clear cut distinctions
Scrutinizing for differences
And magnifying them
From that the terminology of
Red skin, Spic, and Nigger
Came to be
Our excuses to not be humane
Give way to a rawer instinct
As we watch history repeat itself with different people
Subjected to discrimination
The Omnipotent Conflict
From which all choices trickle down
What is humane?
And what is human instinct?
October 23rd 2014
Story: Performing in my First-ever Appearance at the Fall Metamorphosis Showcase
Vignette: Being Vocal
Symbol: Speech Bubble
I am performing for the first time ever in the fall showcase of Metamorphosis. This year I’ve been trying to be more vocal as far as performances. So, this year I wanted to take part in the fall showcase because I had only ever done the spring performances. This time, however, I wanted to try my hand at doing both. I feel like being more outgoing is working for me as far as writing is concerned. It has helped me form my thoughts into shorter sentences while still expressing the multitude of thoughts that go into the topic of my writing.
I have also tried speaking more in my classes when we have a discussion about something and I’ve discovered that it isn’t so bad. I think introverts being at least a little vocal can really help them. I’m not saying to progress to being an extrovert, because if we were completely comfortable with that we wouldn’t be introverts in the first place. But, I encourage introverts to be at least a little vocal within the general populace they find themselves immersed in. It’s like when you’re hoarse and you slowly get your voice back. At first, it’ll be raspy and hard to muster the words past your lips into audible, coherent phrase.
After though, with some time, your voice will be smoother and clearer--maybe not with the projection and command of an opera singer, but maybe like a soprano, with a range all your own. When the time presents itself, you’ll part your lips and push that newly honed voice up and out into the space you occupy. When your stroll into ambivert territory has come to its end, you can let the silence return to the room and don your introvert title proudly once more. So, shape your speech bubble, but don’t just shape it in your mind, like most introverts do 24/7. People have yet to master mind reading and introverts, I imagine, want to be heard. I think most do, but it’s just harder for introverts; a lot of the processing occurs in the mind. The difficulty of introverts is understandable, but it also has some benefits. If you do want to be heard, you need to shape your speech bubble in your mind and then propel it outward to the world beyond your cerebral imaginings. There might just be at least one person who wants to hear what you say and can’t if you don’t do that. So, be a little bit more vocal.
October 24, 2014
Story: Post Fall Metamorphosis Showcase
Symbol: Light Reflecting on a Mirror
So, the efforts of trying some different things and being more vocal came to fruition at yesterday's showcase. The audience was great, they were very quiet, and we had a full house. At least now I can say that I have done both the fall and spring performances. The set up was different than the spring performance; it's normally on the main stage and not the black box. So, this time around, the audience was a lot closer than what I am used to. The chairs were arranged so that the audience was almost on every side of me; those things, I have to say, were intimidating. But, I got through it. It feels a lot like light reflecting back at me from a mirror. I tried it and now I’m able to say I had a really nice showcase.
***November 12, 2014
Story: Completion of Yale Play
Symbol: Finish Line
I finished my Yale play entitled the 'Company of Compromise'. I believe that I am going to leave it at nine pages of material, rather than 10, because I got to the end of my original idea and it seems to flow very well. Secondly, I don’t want to add something solely for the sake of adding something; doing that may take away from the overall play. I would have liked it to be 10 pages, but I also think it’s important to know when to stop for the sake of one’s piece. I think this is important, not just for writers, but for all artists. You should stop when the thing you’re working on feels as close to done as it can get. I say as close to done, because I don’t think any artist feels that a piece is ever completely done; we are ever growing. For the sake of your sanity, time, and the preservation of quality in that moment, stop when the piece feels as close to finished as it’s going to get. That’ll be your finish line in the marathon of writing.
Also, you should take a break from something you are working on, if the mood to do it, the drive has left you. Mind you, this is only if you are able as far as time because there is such a thing as deadlines. For my play, I think it took a good week or two of me bouncing around with ideas and the structure for me to come up with one that I could run with. I hadn’t harped on that for the entirety of that time, however, because if you think about something too much, that can hurt you more than it helps you. In the past, for me, I know that sometimes I have to let things sit for awhile. Think of it on and off before an idea or solution will come along. So, don’t beat yourself up, if you can’t come up with an idea right away, it’ll feel like a struggle, but squirming frantically isn’t necessarily the way you want to tackle it. Know where your finish line is.
November 12, 2014 Part 2
Story: Visiting Yale Sterling Library
Symbol: Pedestal
I visited the Yale Sterling Library with my A.P. Literature group along with some other A.P. students. The space was quite vast, elegant, and ornate. We also took a look at the dorms and asked questions about dorm/college life. Finally, we ate in a Yale dining hall. In all honesty, it was intimidating because it was a glimpse of the pedestal that I would like to stand on, my bachelors degree, not necessarily at Yale, but the end goal is the same regardless. With that being said, when you see the types of things it takes to get somewhere that you want to be, I think, what often happens is that you compare yourself to the people successfully doing that. You don’t yet know the details of what is expected of you and how you'll react to that. That does not mean that you can’t do it, only that what you’re thinking of remains mostly in the unknown. That to some extent always scares people. Now, if you’ve started that certain thing, but maybe aren’t doing as well as whomever you’re observing--like I was observing highly intellectual Yale students--or what the thing you’re striving for demands of you, it does not mean that you are less as a person. Maybe their method isn’t for you or you work a different way or bring a different quality to the table. Whatever the reason, you still have value in some sense. It also does not necessarily mean that you are any less capable of achieving the goal in front of you than anyone else; you might just need adjustments to have it work better for you. I know we are human and doubt will happen sometimes, but if you can, don’t add extra feet to the height of the pedestal you’re aiming for; it just makes the goal seem all the more intimidating and overwhelming. Remember, you have your own merits.
November 14, 2014
Story: S.A.T. Math help for Flex
Symbol: Ladder
I’ve signed myself up for S.A.T. math help for Flex this semester, but I am not really sure it is helping me. The thing is, in that moment, yes, I am getting the teacher’s help and I understand what they are telling me, but the S.A.T. brings back everything that I’ve ever learned since freshman year. That’s hard for me to recall. So, I’m worried that when the time for the test comes along, I won’t remember how to do those things despite having taken this extra help.
Secondly, the mindset for the S.A.T. is so out of the box; let’s say you do remember most of the things you were taught freshman year. You have to know when certain things can help you and you have to use several elements of that for one answer. All of that concerns me a great deal. After all, I want to do well on my S.A.T.’s. I also sought out this help; I don’t want it to be all for naught in the end, because then what did the effort mean? At the very least, I did try to help myself get better regardless of the outcome.
November 17th 2014
Story: Reading
Symbol: Lantern
In my time thus far as a Junior, I’ve come to the realization that I don’t read for leisure nearly as much as I used to, despite the fact that I still like to read very much. This is because of the fact that now I have A.P. classes and while I do still read, it is material for that class that I am reading and is not very appealing. Also, there is so much of that material for me to read that by the time I am done I no longer want to look at text that can be found in the binding of a book of any kind or I am just simply doing other things, such as writing or entertaining myself through another means. But I did come across this quote that I have seen a couple of times since my first reading of it and it goes as follows: “We write by the light of every book we have ever read.” I agree with that quote because what you read helps shape your thoughts about certain things and the way you think in general. As always, I think reading is important and sitting with a novel of your choosing every once in a while if you have the time is a good thing.
December 9th 2014
Story: Improving on Multiple Choice, the solution to a long nagging problem
Symbol: A Well/Oasis in the Desert
I’ve been improving on the multiple choice questions in my Literature A.P. class and at first my performance wasn't ideal. The class was like a well with all the correct answers stagnant in its depths. Every practice test I took was a tug on the rope that brought a pail of water ever closer to breaking the dark surface of the well. It’s good to know that I no longer really have to worry about doing poorly on the multiple choice questions. Mind you, that is never entirely true. The multiple choice questions are very tricky and are often more literal than a student would expect, especially when it is coming from a course that primarily teaches you to analyze a text significantly and to not just see the surface when reading a passage of something.
The success is like the oasis in the desert and a lot of people know that feeling when you’re worrying about something and gradually it gets better or you find a solution. The moment that you realize that you have a solution and that the thing that was hanging over you no longer has any weight, then that is your bucket of water. It is the relief after walking in a sand-laden hell with the burning urgency of a deadline beating down on you as you trudge ever forward, gazing listlessly ahead. Not a single oasis in sight, your tongue brushes the roof of your dry mouth, passing over your moisture-deprived lips. You raise one foot after the other, each heavy as lead and just as darkened from the sun’s unrelenting rays.
As you see the oasis, at first you think it only a mirage, but nevertheless it draws you, like a bird to the bath, a moth to the flame. Once there, you take the thick rope curled at the well’s side in your sun burned, aching hands and tug. The rope burn like knives in your palms as you struggle with the weight of the pail, bringing it up the darkness of your subconscious. You yank once more, rope over shoulder and breathing hard with the sun bearing down. The pail rises off the stone floor, held in darkness, you dig your heels in, a bull preparing the charge, and then comes the last pull. A sweat building in this last exertion, your journey here having been a series of trials, you believe yourself to be at wits ends. The pail clatters against the stone of the well, a little of the water spilling over the edge and running down the dark brown wood of the pail. It surfaces from the darkness, like a swimmer from the depths of a pool and you could be no happier. Reaching out your hand, grasping the cool, thin, metal handle of the pail and carry it carefully from the edge. You stare down at it and see your grimy reflection, the visual evidence of your hardship. Bringing the pail up to your face and drinking greedily at first, in big ceaseless gulps before you remember to savor it. It took twice as long to get there, you don’t want to make the treasure twice as small by rushing through it. A trail of water trickles down your chin, droplets hitting the parched abundant granules of sand at your feet. You’ve made it; your tiring journey is over.
December 10th 2014
Story: Choosing our classes for next semester
Symbol: Forked path
Nonfiction--the course that propels you into the vast, unflinching world of truth and newness, in which you have free reign so long as you remain. The seasoned detectives of life and the mysteries of the human psyche; they go by many names. A popular one is the Journalist, who after scouring the seven seas of the earth and the infinite sectors of cyberspace reports their findings to their renowned oracle of society, the media. This oracle then broadcasts their prophecies to people the world over. Their words--recorded into the archives of the internet and before then inked onto a tablet that is called a newspaper, stored away for all of time. Nonfiction is the practice of truth.
Fiction--a world of angels and demons, humans and demigods, witches and warlocks--it is a complex journey taken without a physical step forward. The only job on earth where you are god of a people truly from your own imaginings; however, you are also free to move up and down the hierarchy. One stroke and you are king presiding over your subjects and contemplating your next move in a new war. Neither do you have to be human. A career devoted to the idea of inducing an out-of-body experience. You are the lord of your mind and all the realms it holds. Fiction is the practice of freedom.
Poetry is the practice of allure and rhetoric. The seductive speak of a politician who often is talking about anything but politics. These silver-tongued snake charmers play their sweet music, the inflection of their voices rising and faltering in all the right places. They craft their notes perfectly beforehand, straw turning into gold all on the loom of form and diction. Poetry is the practice of allure.
For a writer, the choice is a forked path. Like the tines of a fork, it is broken in three. She must choose what path she will walk. Will it be nonfiction, whose path is one of pavement sleek and even, embodying the order that she so desperately seeks? Will it be the way of fiction, a path of cobblestone that’s ornate and refined with the footsteps of all the adventurers that have come before? Will it be the path of poetry that is dotted with the vibrancy of flowers and embroidered with the sing song voices of the residents farther down the path? Will they trace their way back to the fork and venture on down a different way once a season has come to pass? All of these decisions are left up to the one with the pen sheathed at her side. Three different guides, one at the side of each avenue. She has taken the path of the nomad, calling no one place home until she has walked it all. Holding one little piece of her time on each trail and that, that has made all the difference.
Story: A.P. Literature Mock Exam
Symbol: Shooting a bow and arrow
I had my A.P. literature mock exam not too long ago and it took a total of 4 hours to complete the whole thing. Each multiple choice was like a test of speed and accuracy. Quickly, you grasp the arrow from the leather quill slung on your back. You pull back on the drawstring the edges of the bow bending back ever so slightly and let the arrow fly, cutting through the air. Repeat the motion, quill to bow and back again. Only a hairsbreadth between each bird taking flight. You hope that each one finds the mark, but you also know that you have to have some room for a margin of error no matter how it pains you. The essays were like a test for distance; how far your understanding could go before the arrow comes short of the intended target. The target, like a dot in the distance, the arrow notched, staring down to the faraway goal. You draw in an uneasy breath. Then, there is an exhale as the arrow is let loose; anxiety coming out as the arrow takes flight. It becomes a black bird in the distance propelled to its perch. Soon it cannot be seen and I am left to wonder if it struck home.
January 5th 2014
Story: End of a semester
Symbol: Ship on a voyage
The semester is coming to an end. That can only mean that this sea bound vessel is nearing a port and is ready to lay down anchor, watching, as some of the crew may once again touch land. They board another vessel of a different make, gliding across the priceless sapphire’s glittering surface, the whitewash churning at the vessel’s ornate sides. Those of us who stand on the same familiar planks, which have known our footsteps for the 5 months past, will bid them a fond farewell as they shrink into the horizon. Our own sails will insistently move into the gathering wind, beckoning impatiently for them to press onward, releasing them from their metal and earthly bondage. We will oblige as we have many a time, the role of master and slave constantly in question, the sea waits for no man and its mood can be quite finicky. Best to please as soon as one can, lest we incur its wrath. This we know well, for the time of the maiden voyage for both ship and crew has long since passed. So onward we press, with different sea-dogs of our own. Though new to this ship they are, they’ve long since earned their sea legs. No matter the area, salty air is still the scent of the sea.
January 8th and 9th, 2015
Story: Midterm Stress
Symbol; Door at the end of the corridor
Midterm season is aflourish again. Like the bloom of an annual it comes every year, a rose with the thorns lodged firmly in place, immune to the blades of scissors or shears. The end of it is an ornate wooden door polished to brilliance, the frame, gilt. It stands, beckoning, at the end of a very long corridor dimly lit with torches held in scones welded to the stone walls. Tendrils of cold slipping out of the warm touch of the fire and the escape of frigid air send goose bumps across the skin. Shadows elongate along the walls and so, it seems, does the corridor itself. Suddenly you know that getting there will be harder than you anticipated. Here, you stand, in the mouth of the corridor and you take your first confident steps. The wood floor creaks beneath your weight. You move on, the heat of torches, something that at one time seemed comforting, is now pressing on you as you pass it by. The added pressure and the warmth of it seems suffocating; you've been going on down this hall awhile now. That door doesn't seem any closer than it had when you first set off. You veer off to one side, leaning against the wall and slide down with a resigned sigh, watching the fire opposite you dip and rise. The faint pop and crackle of the torch fills your ears. Glancing over at the door you've been striving to reach, expecting that its continued existence alone is a mockery of your efforts, so painstakingly slow is your progression. Glance turns into defiant glare, lips a thin line. Hands brushing knees as you rise back up to your feet, pivoting to the right to face the door and stare at it a moment, in silence. Then, a last mad dash begins; one last surge of energy, nothing left in reserve, all of it for your goal. Torchlight blurring by in your peripheral vision like car headlights passing you as you drive on the highway. You sprint toward the door, full steam ahead. Gasping for air, you grasp the cool brass door knob with fingertips, practically falling into it to steady yourself, waiting a few long moments, heart in your ears as you catch your breath. Finally, you push the door open, brilliant white light pouring through and a blast of cool air rushing forward to relieve you of your sweat. Grinning, you straighten, and move forward, a casual stride now because you know the work is over.
January 29, 2015
Story: Company of Compromise taking the stage
Symbol: An Artist
So, next week on Friday, February 6th, the play that I wrote, "Company of Compromise," is taking the stage at the Festival for New Works. I've written about the process of writing that play in past postings and now all that work is finally coming to fruition. I feel good about that, but I am also incredibly nervous about said event because, as an artist of any kind would know, we are forever nitpicking at our work. It never feels done because life goes on and we get better. In turn, that makes artists, in particular, feel like if only they had known what they know now. If they had, then their work could have been better too. There are also stylistic things you wish you’d been better at, at the time. I’m just going to try to remember to enjoy it. After all, I didn't spend all that time writing the play for no reason. I also have a meeting with my directors (Jireh and Lindsey) today. I hope it goes well; we've been butting heads a lot during this process (mainly Jireh and I) that’s a big part of what made this process so long. However, one of those clashes was good; it led me to start writing "Company of Compromise" because Jireh wanted me to try my hand at writing an entirely new piece. The bad clashes were due to the stylistic choices I made while writing the play. Jireh would have had me write it in a way that included mostly dialogue rather than the narrative-like-details-turned-dialogue that I put into it. To him, my play seemed more like a piece of prose rather than a play that way. I understand his point of view that the characters have more to say, but I'd spent weeks revising the play so that we could have a happy medium.The medium was that I turned the narrative-like details that had been stage directions into plausible dialogue that made sense, and in some cases, also really enhanced the play. Also, when it was read aloud to my playwriting peers, a lot of them really liked that stylistic choice and it is one that I am comfortable and really happy. I also don’t want to alter it into something that stylistically is so watered down and altered from what I normally wrote that, in a big way, it's no longer mine. I guess, both those feelings are traits of an artist; someone who is on one end always nitpicking at their work in hopes of reaching some sublime perfection. On the other hand, however, there is the integrity, the time when one's sense of self is threatened by another, artists are very prideful beings. We do not come so readily to change because the only one we find permissible to change our work is ourselves.
February 6th 2015
Story: Reflecting on friendships
Symbol: Stained Glass Window
Lately, I’ve been thinking about friendships. It’s a frequent topic in the Chronicles, I know, but it’s important and it’s been a large factor in my life, good and bad. I think good friends are like mirrors; you see yourself in them. As such, they understand you and support you because of that. Really great friends though, I’ve come to think, they’re parts of a stain glass window. You too, are a part of that stain glass window. Do you know why? It’s because you're all parts of something bigger and beautiful. There is something fundamentally the same in each of you. But, simultaneously, you each are your own individuals. That’s why each of you has a different color, a different stain, yet still managing to be part of the same picture. When the sun pours in, each of you will sense its heat and brilliance. It will reverberate through the window pane even if you are at the farthest of its corners. All the colors will reach full prominence. When the rain pours mercilessly the same will apply, but each and every piece, every layer, will hold together to stand against the coming storm. Great friends are pieces of stained glass whose picture and brilliance is something you make both separately and together. So prepare to shine.
February 23rd- 25th 2015
Story: Leaving, Freedom, Finding Oneself
Symbol: The gilded cage, squares of blue, and the little blue bird
The blue bird lives in a gilded cage, a gold grille that is the edge of its world. For the little bird the world really is flat. The blue bird tweets and twitters as it wonders, waits and watches. The wings tucked, impatient, and achy from all the untapped raw energy making it twitch. There is though, a little fear; the sky the bird knows not a thing about, but these squares of blue, like swatches of paint separated by wires of fool’s gold. The sky is vast as the ocean, a greater amount of blue than every aerodynamically built feather on its delicate body. The bird is too, but a swatch; a swatch yet to be placed on the canvas, waiting eagerly on the palette. But, the little bird knows it is also the artist, made so by the presence of will and purpose. The little bluebird, like an artist is putting it’s being into the work. The bird sings against the confinements of its cage, a small passive aggressive act of rebellion as its sweet vocals pass through the boundaries all around. A part of itself, however small, made it out into the openness of the sky, into possibility that was so close and yet so far away. When next there is a moment, a slip up in the monotonous make-up of her world she slips out and away. Wings, the sky personified find familiarity in the wind's currents that carry her up. The light of the sun is like a “welcome home”. The little bird, the stroke of paint, the artist’s soul that was missing in the masterpiece of the sky so blue, has come home.
February 26th 2015
Story: Stranger
Symbol: Split Photograph
A split photograph is the personification of the quote “Once best friends now strangers with memories”. It really is the saddest thing when two people who were once so close are now nothing more, but strangers. A photograph that started to age and become worn with time now has faded colors. A tear starts to form and nothing is thought of it. Only natural that such things happen when memories age, nearer to forgotten, but it can be easily mended. Tears are temporary, fleeting. That’s what’s believed, what’s hoped for, but more often than not that little tear will progress. A rip in the foundation that reaches the photo's center and all that’s left by then is to watch it. Any touch now will finish the job. But, you know the end game, no matter what, is the same. Time seems to drag as the rip advances, turning into a cobweb, tributaries to the focal point of this social disaster. A mirror to your own inner turmoil as you fight with yourself about whether or not you still hope for a miracle. You wonder if the rip's progression is representative of your need for everything to just end. The most painful thing is the prolonging. Even when it’s over, you’ll be in a weird space. More than strangers, less than friends and like the jagged edges of that torn photo, your memories will remind you that you were once part of something whole. To ease the pain think of all your broken pieces as collage of your life, then every piece is, in fact, right where it was always meant to be.
February 27th 2015
Story: Writing about Life experiences
Symbol: Scales
There is a saying that I always think about when I’m writing about a negative experience and that’s, “You own everything that happened to you. Tell your stories. If people wanted you to write warmly about them, they should have behaved better.” It’s a quote by Anne Lamott. Writing about life experiences in a creative way, such as this, can be quite rewarding as well as therapeutic. In any story, there is a protagonist and an antagonist. In your life you are the protagonist; don’t let another writer ,other than yourself, write your novel. Sometimes, the antagonist is an experience which may not have been anyone’s fault. But, when there is an actual human antagonist then don’t omit that, your writing should be a scale, balancing everything until you reach a verdict. Use that decision to make your piece. Art wasn’t meant to always be chocolates and roses. It was meant to be heartfelt and sometimes the heart is going to hurt, that’s okay.
March 2, 2015
Story: Why people don’t walk away from people who aren’t good for them
Symbol: Shackle and Roses
Relationships that were once very good things, but since have wilted and died are hard to walk away from for a lot of people. That's the case even if all the good that once was, has long since spoiled. People hope that roses are a forgiving plant and that they will bloom again with a little water even after negligence. This vain hope creates a shackle of heartstrings. Tensing every time you take a step away because you don’t think you’re ready for the heartache. Your not ready to give up when you want to believe everything is salvageable. The real hurt would be retreating back instead of continuing forward and that realization is the hardest part. Even when the hackles over time may rust; memory makes it so it's never really ever gone. The jangle of metal heard in the distance in a moment of quiet is the mind’s day to day, but the important thing is that it’s no longer around your ankles or wrists. The rattle and subtle throb of your heart’s phantom pains can be a reminder, a warning to keep another set from being clamped on. It’ll feel better when there’s more than just fallen petals in your garden.
March 3rd 2015
Story: The Perfect Human
Symbol: A Rainbow
Those in my Facing History class were presented with the task of creating the perfect human in our own image. Though, I did do this task I tried to make the piece in such a way that the things in it could be perceived in various ways. I do not think there is such a thing as the perfect human because it is not any one set of things. If one individual or group of people was deemed perfect everyone would try to duplicate them in every way. If everyone is the same then what’s the point? Things would be quite boring now that everything is uniform in perfection. Creativity would not exist. Something creative thrives on difference, on the belief that everyone has something to say. If everyone’s saying the same thing the well of creativity has officially gone dry and the world has seen its last artist. No one is perfect, but no one is at the same time imperfect;that’s what makes us equal. Humans are like colors in a rainbow. Someone would not make a rainbow one color because that color is perfect. The reason people think rainbows are beautiful is the diversity of all those colors being in one spot. Humans, like a rainbow, do not have to form from one ideal set up. A rainbow happens because there is water (normally in the form of rain) and sunshine available at the same time. Rain, though it tends to have more negative connotations and some people prefer the sunshine, which is more often than not associated with things that are good and uplifting, both are necessary to create something as nice as a rainbow. So someone does not need to come from a household that has the ideal fully functioning family to be something worthwhile. They can diverge from the “norm”, dare to go on despite having a past that is less than squeaky clean, whatever the reason, and still be just as magnificent. Yes, even colors have a certain order, hence shading. A skeleton of order is needed for practical reasons so that humans, like a rainbow, can align themselves and better function and live. This is just as a building needs a foundation and supports to stand. That does not mean that the order gets to dictate every detail, because different things are great for different tasks, but it’s all still good. In the end, when you really think about it, being perfect is not a habit of humanity
March 4th 2015
Story: Those Long days
Symbol: Beaded Bracelet and a pier
We’ve all had them, those days where the clock seems like it’s conspiring against you, making every second twice as long. You’re being bombarded with work and there seems to be no end. Sometimes, these days string themselves together like those beaded bracelets you used to make in kindergarten, but not half as pleasant. Each little piece a colorful tribute for just having gotten through the day because in the moment that’s the most important thing. Even afterward, that is still the most important thing. Just get through the day doing the best and most that you can. You’re drowning in the moment, but remember you’ve done this several times before now; it’s become mental muscle memory. Tomorrow is a new day. That golden bead right before you tie everything off on that bracelet, the sunshine glittering on the still water’s surface when that seems way above where you are mentally right then, isn't actually that far away. When you’re looking back leave the beaded bracelet on the sun-kissed pier of memory lane. Just as the sun glitters on the lake's mirror-like surface, it is also shines on your latest contributions, however many or heavy they may be. When all is said and done; Sit there gazing at the lake’s surface a moment then, leave the beaded bracelet on the sun-kissed pier of memory lane.
March 9, 2015
Story: Saying something even though it’s hard
Symbol: Diving
When you need to say something, though it will hurt you, it’s a lot like diving into a pool. You look tentatively over the edge;debating if this was the right thing to do after all. You know there isn’t much turning back now. You shut your eyes tight, push forward, plunging into nothingness. Accelerating in you're transition, bearings for a moment are lost; your reality quickly becomes the water's awaiting depths. So frigid is it that it makes your blood seemingly stop; your whole body goes rigid from shock lasting only seconds. Instinct kicks in as you try to orient yourself, discover which way is up, which way is out. Propelling yourself toward air; the moment of retrieval seemingly a long way off. Bursting from the depths, you gasp, sucking in mouthfuls of air, swaying and bobbing when the panic ebbs. Looking upward, at the point of your descent, you realize how far you've come. With pride you bask in the new found warmth of accomplishment that seemed kept at bay. It may have been frightening, but you are glad, now, that you did it.
March 11th 2015
Story: The Soundtrack of Writing
Symbol: Two people playing piano
For those of you who don’t know I often write with music. I’ve also seen other writers, who are published, include the playlists they listened to while writing a particular novel. Veronica Roth dedicated each song to a certain mood or part in her Divergent Trilogy. I think when you listen to music while writing that’s where a musician and a writer can come together in appreciation of their individual artistry. For a writer, the music helps capture the essence of the moment, easier to translate from mental to tangible. Two people sitting together at their individual piano, playing a song. Music has its own part in it all.. Two types of “pianos", one literal the other literary, coming together to share a space to create art. During this fingers’ fly feverishly across keys n rapturous rhythm. Sound rebounds becoming the echo of echoes until it fades giving a hairbreadth of silence, a note, a letter all its own. Every beat that passes through, punctuation to every press of my “piano”. Every verb that will ever appear from the cursor, the cleft. Softer tones, a melodic caress to the words expressing the life of the page. Music is the emphasis of emotion. It’s the playback of a writer’s heartbeat. We knew it along because every writer here has lived a thousand lives through ink, but in every life there is doubt. I don’t believe in the in-fighting for dominance in the arts. I believe in camaraderie of the arts. I believe in connectivity in the arts. Be it the music from my ear buds, a script from playwright to actor, lyrics being danced to or the poster that advertised it. We all dare to create so let us then, be courageous enough to collaborate, to appreciate.
March 24th 2015
Story: the 1 year anniversary of the creation of my first posting on Nightshade Chronicles
Symbol: Seeing the sunrise
Today signifies one year since my first ever Nightshade Chronicle posting. I’m equating today to seeing the sunrise because I have all those reflective/nostalgic emotions that come with looking back, as well as all the happiness of knowing I’m not done yet. One of the first posting I wrote was about the night, as I write this now it seems very fitting. The nostalgia I feel, the gentle waves of pride and sentimentality pass over me like tides guided by that very moon shining in all it’s elegant glory. The sun rising does not mean that these old things are gone; far from it they are what will travel with me always, ever existing. They are wisps of fog, the drops of dew on grass and the subtle earthy scent that permeates the air after a rains’ pass. So too does the night have its markers. The silhouette of the moon behaving like a star in the daytime sky that is what these shall be. The navy blue of night lightening, at the sun’s first touch of a baby sky in blue, but blue nonetheless. A deliverance of new vitality that's all there is. The night air, all its teachings, age, and wisdom are petals of a perennial still brushing my skin.
Sometimes I am asked why I do this and there are probably many reasons, some of which I have probably yet to think of, but right now here’s why. It’s a way to get into my own head. To pose questions to others while still being myself in a secure, private sense that comes when you’ve been quietly mulling something over. It’s a way to, maybe, answer questions that other people may have and not even know it. Perhaps, they never really had time to get into the space of thinking about it these questions. Life happens, and a lot of the time it’s in a rush. Not everything can be caught, I get it, but this is my way to connect the happenings in my part of the world to all the other people of this planet's puzzle pieces. It’s my way to keep time with all my sunrises and sunsets, all my days and nights.
March 25th 2015
Story: Letting Go
Symbol: Scattering flower petals
Letting go of things that are hurting you or that you have become so used to is hard to do. It’s something that I’ve had trouble with my whole life, whether it be an event, or simply thinking of everything at once and forgetting to pace myself. There are times, where it is just better to let it go even if the clenching opens slowly. Letting go of something is like watering a flower after a long time, but it’s forgiving; it'll know life again. The thing you’re holding on to is wilted and dark. Your soul is that forgiving flower. It needs to be trimmed and taken care of even if only occasionally. If whatever you’re holding on to is something you once loved then I’d ask that you recall that trimmings off a flower are still petals and leaves. They have traces of the beauty they once held. But, it’s better on the both of you that they are carried off by the wind and flutter into the sun. A grand finale for your petals before gracefully coming down to rest. The sun’s golden hue, a spotlight for your memory's dance. All memories, even the departed ones, are like flames that wane with time. Let these that you bid farewell beloved or not, be not roaring fires in your heart, instead let them glow tenderly, filling you with compassion and strength.
March 27th 2015
Story: Entering Metamorphosis Submission
Symbol: Code of Arms
There are three major moments of the year where us creative writer’s showcase our work. They are: the October Metamorphosis Showcase where we all read our pieces from the Metamorphosis of the previous year. Then there is the actual publishing of the current Metamorphosis. Finally, there is the latest installment, which began when I was a freshman, the Phresh Content performance in June. All of these are testaments to the creed that creative writers have to the written word. Our pens touching paper, a code of arms displayed in our day-to-day lives. Long after we are gone from this place, our art will remain. As one of our returning creative writing alumni said, “I beg you; I implore you, never stop writing.” We who create something from nothing, our voices giving tediously measured weight to every word. Silence itself has a presence after we have done all that we we’ve been trained to do. Bonds of ink are thicker than water. We are few in any given space, but this way of life has taught us tenacity, so we press on we must. Our task is to allow an experience, a feeling, to transcend the boundaries of time and reverberate into eternity. For this we have come to the challenge the blank page and conquered it.
March 31st 2015
Story: If we could see souls and not bodies
Symbol: Ray of light
If people could see souls instead of bodies I think it would be a lot easier to communicate. It would be easier to see who people are and why. More often than not we’d come across rays of sunlight over cloudy skies. The light warming us all as we walk on common ground; people would have a new view of everyone, even those they’ve known for quite some time. Flowers of understanding blooming all around, this refreshing take would bring an emotional and ideological spring to people.
April 2nd, 2015
Story: Handling that crunch time stress
Symbol: Mountain
This is the time of year that is crunch time, both for those in my art and just for me in general. For those in my art this is the time for Metamorphosis, capstones, and our June performance. For me, it’s time for a quarterly and A.P. finals. All that, with the added layer of college prep is a lot; I’m not going to lie. It is important though, to have those pockets of peace. Those moments that, for whatever reason, allow a sense of calm to pass over you even if it’s for the briefest of moments. This is the mountaineering of our lives, moments in which the path is neither clear or forgiving. The place where the air is thin as wet tissue, making you gasp, bend double, and push yourself to your mental edge. We continue to leave footprints in the delicate, untouched snow. Visualizing the yet unseen view that we know awaits us at the top.The incline is steep, stones coming loose and bouncing all the way back down. A reminder of how far you've come, but also an admonition of how long the drop is. Wind, beating you back, filling your ears with its howling. A whirlwind, disorienting not your physical position, but the mental that's all the more fragile. Thoughts in disarray, grasping what we can in the moment and pressing on. The peak glistens with ice in the sunlight. The distance seems twice as long with the destination so close. The final push is coming; exhausted you go into reserves and dig in to make that last burst. The scenery teases as you gingerly reach the summit, a few steps from the perch you'd only just dreamed of. Seeing this view leaves you breathless; all that you’ve done laid out before you. Snow spills over the edge, fragile and easily displaced, it descends to where you began equally as fragile. Now, however, you stand among the stones and the sky.
April 7, 2015
Story: Finding old Pieces in a poetry book
Symbol: an idea, a signature
I’ve recently found an old poetry book of mine that I wrote in while I was in 8th grade and a freshman. It has a lot of the poetry I used for co-op voices and other creative writing projects from that year, but I stopped writing in it that same year for various reasons. It’s an interesting thing finding a volume of one’s own work from a ways back. A lot of different emotions pass over you. You step back into the person you were then; if there was pain you will mentally wince at those parts or, maybe, remember them with a sort of acceptance. Perhaps, there was closure in the gap of time recorded only by the blank pages that remain. If there was happiness you’ll grin as you leaf through the pages of sunny days. Each piece is your signature scrawled into history and onto the world. It will live, be there, when you are not.. Each new idea is a segment of you that has learned to live beyond you. As time passes your signature evolves, growing more intricate. You graduate from print to cursive. So, let the ink flow freely and remember an idea is not an idea, but a signature.
April 9, 2015
Story: Nearing the end of the year, turning this into a book next year
Symbol: Knitting
We are slowly entering the part of the year where there is a buzz because it’s the end. Everyone is looking ahead to the next school year. After a couple of weeks I will have wrapped up my A.P. classes for the year and more than likely I will have wrapped up my Facing History class. In my last entry I talked about the significance of an idea and how that allows a part of you to reverberate through history, for all of time long after your own is over. As for me, I am looking ahead to the fact that next year I’ll be in the middle of making all of these entries a book. These parts of me will continue to converse with people after I have left this school and in a different point in life. These entries will also always be true because they are a part of my history so, even though time will march on and things will change this will always be a part of my truth. Things like these that you leave behind are like threads, still attached to the creator. Readers, in my case, follow that silk thread, walking the path that I did while here. It’s like knitting a tapestry, how it starts out, a couple simple threads and then the patterns begin to form and layers come into being. When the whole thing is done those who observe it are left to wonder how such a big thing began from something so small. Each day is a thread of mine, writing it is threading the needle and beginning to knit. You’ve got to have a good eye and it might take a few tries but, once the needle is threaded, you’re ready to go. Experiences are balls of yarn, each one a different color in your basket and you choose which to use with care.
April 20, 2015
Story: Observing a Swimmer
Symbol: Mermaid
Over the vacation I saw a swimming event at Hamden high school. As I walked through the front doors, becoming awash in the distinct smell of chlorine and warm air, a sense of nostalgia passed over me too. A fond memory of when I was 13, yes 13, and took some swimming lessons there with a friend of my moms who was a coach. Though the lessons ended abruptly, due to the fact that my mom’s friend had to move because she was following her job, I do have one specifically pleasant memory of the time. I leapt from the high dive into the pool and you’d think since I didn’t know how to swim properly I’d have been afraid of that. The worst thing for me, at the time, wasn’t the water at the bottom; it was the height of the diving board. To this day I don’t know why I didn’t find that frightening, the descent was over fast, though, which probably helped.
I remember hitting the water felt like a quick slap on my skin and then hearing the rush of water in my ears. When I was entirely submerged I knew it, I’d felt the surface of the water settle above me. The sting of opening my eyes underwater never bothered me. It was, as you’d imagine it, shades of blue, darker at the bottom and light at the top, shafts of light stretching into both areas. Through the haziness the whole thing looked like a work of scumbling. With observations duly noted, I made my way to the side of the pool reaching up and grabbing the slick side, and resting my head on my arms as I watched the water lap gently at the sides of the pool. I laughed, as I watched my father’s stricken face relax, that the brief moment of panic having passed him by. I appreciate the stillness that the water brings, canceling out most, if not all, sound taking all other factors out and allowing someone to just be. I walked down a short hallway, hooking a right and through a set of double doors returning to the setting of this memory just a couple of years after the fact.
The pool had not changed in the years between now and then, echoes of summers passed and lessons finished and I smirk as my dad says, “Haven’t been here in a while.” I walk up to the top of the bleachers, eyes flickering to those oh-so-familiar diving boards. Another friend of mine has come to support our favorite swimmer and we sit beside one another and I tell this little story of daring to her as we wait for darkness to fall in the auditorium. Her eyes widen a moment at my telling because she knows only that I can’t swim. I smile knowingly, a laugh without sound, as our attention is called elsewhere as I wrap up my tale. The lights go down and we are informed of the members of the team, their past accomplishments in synchronized swimming and the presence of two female veterans of the sport that are in the audience. After that the first in a rotation of music begins and we see solos, duets, combos and the like. The water illuminated by spotlights like moonbeams. The pool an ocean made luminous under moon’s watchful eye. The distant music calls the mermaids to surface and we, the audience, are, but onlookers of a passing ship. We gaze outward, just before the guardrail, as the mermaids leap from the warm depths of the summer heated sea. Their movements accentuated by the rises and falls of our music. They're suspended in air for a moment, scales glinting in the arc of the feat. We lean forward, bodies pressed to the rail. The mermaids submerge almost soundlessly leaving an arch of shimmering water droplets in their wake. We all clapped feverously as the mermaids regrouped and our vessel neared the port, the end of our mystical voyage. Once at the gangplank my friend and I look over our shoulders catching one last glance at the mermaids before touching land. They watched us with curiosity and happiness at our rapt attention to their display and we smiled at them and set foot on land.
April 26, 2015
Story: Supreme Court’s decision pending this week on whether or not to impose the acceptance and acknowledgement of same sex marriage in all 50 states
Symbol: LGBTQIA Flag
The Supreme Court is supposed to decide whether or not to impose the acceptance and acknowledgement of same sex marriage and equality across all 50 states this week. If they decide not to then the matter is left up to the individual states. Now, there are those who will disagree with me, but this is my stance on things. There’s only one real right answer that the Supreme Court could deliver. That is to impose same sex marriage and marriage equality on all 50 states. I think letting other people vote on the righteousness of one’s marriage and what marital rights you deserve as a result is in no way justifiable. State officials, in this matter, are people who in no way know the circumstances and feelings of every person their decision will effect. They know them only as a few of many constituents at best. For instance, people, regardless of the structure of their love life, should be entitled to the right to be considered a surviving spouse and allowed the support that is supposed to follow whether it be financial or otherwise. That is the situation of the couple who brought the case to the Supreme Court. The husband is dying and the surviving husband is not being acknowledged as a surviving spouse by the state that they live in. The reason, because they do not acknowledge the document they received when they got married in another state.
I just don’t understand how a country that boasts being a melting pot, or a tossed salad as some people prefer now, and sings the praises of liberty and diversity can find it so hard to decide this issue. The essential question is, are you allowed to marry who you love regardless of who they are. The human race will still march on into the future and it has been proven that there is no difference between homosexual or heterosexual couples raising children and the effect of that on the children. So, where is the problem? Just because it isn’t a man and a woman and that just chafes with the society’s ideal of marriage, that’s why you’re going to deny that right to certain people. That’s not right and the meaning of marriage should be open to interpretation yes, but not in a negative legal capacity where if you don’t impose acceptance on all the states there will be many situations like the one this couple is in, as well as others, going on. So, I hope the Supreme Court makes the right decision in regards to this case because it’s going to set the precedent.
April 29, 2015
Story: Prevention from doing your art
Symbol: Freedom of Speech Amendment
If ever you’re prevented from doing your art, for any given reason, I’d equate that to not being able to speak. If you can’t do your art, then you can’t communicate in the way you are most comfortable. Your quiet, watching the world go on around you as everyone, but you have no way to translate your thoughts into a form that tugs at emotions. This way, others can understand without having been there, without being you. In a way, I think, being unable to do your art is the same as being propelled into a sense of loneliness, because art gives someone community. It gives them a kind of understanding from people, it makes it so the only person who understands the artist is the artist themselves. You lose a dimension of yourself when you can’t do your art. Your art is the best way you know how to talk. You are articulate in the language of the heart. Your ear is well versed in the sounds of emotions, its ups and downs. Artists are the interpreters of the human element. There is freedom of speech so, if the reason you’re not doing what you love right now is because someone told you or made you feel like you aren’t good enough…then just take a deep breath and think of it this way, passion drives art, art is speech and everyone has a right to a voice.
April 30th 2015
Story: The value of one’s story
Symbol: The Globe
Have you ever thought that everyone around you is living a life just as complex as your own? I have, from time to time in the rush of my own day to day life. If you haven't I can’t blame you for that because that’s just it. People are so involved in the touch and go of their own lives that we don’t always have the space to think of things like that. The author Orson Scott Card once said. “Everybody walks past a thousand story ideas every day. The good writers are the ones who see five or six of them. Most people don’t see any.” Today in my Facing History and Ourselves class, my teacher, Mr. Landa, said that he felt that most people think their stories aren’t worth telling. They feel as though their lives aren’t exciting or interesting enough to be worth a retelling. Well, I do agree that people feel this way, but they shouldn’t. That daily dose of a thousand story ideas, plenty of them can be found in people. Everyone is a walking story in progress. The things you know about the people around you are pages of it. Everyone’s story has meaning; we are all playing the game of life. If the first person doesn’t resonate with your story someone, somewhere could really use your directions for the game.
May 5th 2015
Story: The power of one’s voice
Symbol: Spoken Word
Women are Here
On burning the bridge of 365
Turning the year into 180 days
Women, we’ve all turned into teachers,
Pushing the days back into summer
Here, we are Underestimated
When the economy would be boosted by 44.7 billion
A springboard from recession,
If this pay gap were not a reality
Words turned to hot lead
Covered in soot, the bridge of 365
Blackening
Crack, crack, gone
Equal pay for equal work
Pop, pop, women just went a few notches down
The social Hierarchy
Here, we are Looked Down on
So, as long as “you sexist me, I will feminist you”
One person once said and it’s because they knew
We’d gone back to pre-1920
Instead, lowering the glass ceiling
Rather than shattering it
Women, made tools of the home
Tools of the office
Each female a rung
For the boot of a man
Dashing the dreams of Alice Paul,
An iron-jawed angel, starving for a voice
And here we are Silenced
Days turn to years
On top of mute
Women were pushed into pens
Colored with colored
White with White
Here, we are Categorized
Time marching on
Another woman takes up the torch
For a different symptom
Of the same disease
Melba Beals Patillo
Her silence, her retribution
A 101st soldier, one of nine from Little Rock
On a battlefield of discrimination
Only one converted ally
A man named "Link"
Who acted against conformity
Permeating the pestilence of segregation
On account of these woman
We are at least hoarse
Still, there’s work to be done
We are still without a Voice
These women called for recognition
Called for participation from both men and women alike
That is how I am here speaking to you now
A woman descended from their struggle
Spreading awareness so we may do our part, in our time
***
The piece above is what I will be reading for the performance that my Facing History class is giving at the end of this month. Our room has been a very positive place, for the fact that there is power in one’s voice. We’ve all been reading our pieces and revising them in order to get everything ready for the day of the performance. This piece, in particular, is on its 9th draft; I feel it’s very close to done, if not done now. The voice is powerful and made more so if it has been molded well. All of us, in my class, are putting our voices together. United, not by issue, but by the undeniable need for progress in society--that is what unites us. We were asked, often, what the solution was to our issues and a lot of us weren’t sure. Our issues were too big for us to have one definitive answer. We were just creating awareness and saying what we had to say about the issue. Now, I think, that’s the answer to all the issues. Knowing and speaking are the answer, adding a voice is the answer. That’s the answer because over time we will create a big enough roar to have something done about it and if we don’t have the power to make a direct change then, somewhere, along the way our voices will reach someone who does.
May 7th 2015
Story: A.P. Testing
Symbol: The Arena
The warrior walks into the arena, kicking up clouds of dirt as he goes. Tightening his grasp on his weapon, he stands tall, his armor glinting in the early afternoon sun. There is thunder in the sky, the roar of the spectators, fists in the air eager for a good show. The fighter scans their faces; most of them wealthy members of society come to see carnage. Dressed in all the finer materials that society has to offer they shout impatiently for things to begin, eyeing the arena’s large metal gate. Others, the middle class, have come to root for the underdog, their hands waving frantically in the air hoping to, perhaps, catch his eye. The fighter looks to the gate after his sweep of the crowd. There is a grinding sound and then a mechanical rhythm begins as the gate ascends, revealing two golden eyes peering out from the darkness at the fighter.
A rough sound like the rubbing of sandpaper, as the beast moves forward, licking his maw in anticipation of the kill, the foul stench of past successes rolling forth from the darkness just beyond the entryway. A bone snaps as its gigantic paw comes down, bone fragments mixing with sand as its mane comes into the sunlight, the rest of its long, majestic body following suit. The lion gazes upward, attention momentarily diverted from the fighter to the crowd, releasing a thunderous roar--a boom before the strike of lightning. Its jaw fully extended, the white incisors visible, a deadly functional adornment of status. The fighter bends his knees readying himself for the fray. The lion lowers his head and the two stare each other down, the crowd coming to silence in rapt attention as the two stalk each other, the tension mounting. The two are locking eyes and nothing happens, each one sizing up the other as they walk the perimeter of their circular fighting ground. The lion, thinking himself the superior, crouches ever so slightly before going into a full charge.
The fighter takes two planned steps back his back brushing the stone wall of the coliseum, holding his breath as the lion barrels forward. His legs tell him to move, but he chides himself against all urge and waits the beast out as it raises its giant paw. Near enough now that he could clearly count each whisker. The moment just before the Lion could bring down his paw that would’ve torn him to ribbons the fighter raised his shield and rolled to the side. Elongated claws met with metal and stone sparks, a horrible high pitch grinding sound piercing the space. Long gorges cut into the shield and the stone blemished with the same damage, albeit less so. The lion’s flank hit the stone, pivoting without having enough room its front paws thumping back down onto the ground.
Its opponent, the Fighter, thrust his spear forward from his crouched position as the lion's flank struck the wall. Breathing heavy, skin dusted with sand, he managed to draw blood from the lion; his spear leaving a bloody gash on the beast’s shoulder. The fur quickly became matted and red. The Fighter brought his bloodstained spear back to his side as the lion roared out his anger. Head thrust forward and down swiftly, giant canines aimed for his throat the majestic, blood yearning beast charged. The Fighter tossed away his shield and raised his spear, holding it horizontally with heels dug into the dirt when the lion’s incisors met with the wooden shaft. Within seconds, splinters of wood came down in a shower over the Fighter’s hands. The time it did buy, the Fighter used to twist the top of the now broken shaft in his hand, spearhead up, lunging forward toward the embodiment of death. Driving it home into the eye of the Lion and jumping back as it twisted and thrashed in pain.The Fighter, scooped up his Parma shield from the ground by the straps, rushed forward and bashed it on the jagged, splintered end of the shaft, forcing it further into the beast. Claws wildly swiping around him, filling the arena with a hideous, high pitched grinding sound of claw on metal. The Lion retaliated until it sank, slowly down, into the reddened sand its life ebbing away into ending. The crowd erupts in cheers, the middle class even rising to their feet to cheer their representative. The Fighter raised his hand into the air, accepting their rapturous cheering.
May 18, 2015
Story: College Essay
Symbol: Ice to Stained Glass Mural
I recall, that my legs were shaking at my freshman year performance, looking back on my time in the quiet class of Creative Writing. I had pushed myself into my first performance, to break out and be more involved. My shaking legs made me grateful for the podium that covered them; I held the edges with my hands to better steady them. I was nervous. I’d never done anything in front of a crowd bigger than your average classroom. The spotlight that was set on us would near blind us if we looked up into the crowd. I found that to be a mercy, rather than a hindrance at the time. It allowed my voice to carry into the darkness.
My words are the colors that make up who I am, would not be weighed down or lessened by my nerves. I would not be my own undoing, concerning myself with how other people perceive me or being out of my comfort zone. It was the separation of a writer working at the keys, imagining their audience, visualizing their colors spreading onto their blank canvas known as the page. However, separation was balanced with the closeness of face to face conversation that I’d never felt was my forte. Still, I performed looking up here and there into the nothing that was everything. Remembering, to say thank you at the piece’s end so the crowd would know that it was over, my face red with shyness.
By my sophomore year there was no podium, my legs were still and my shoulders squared and walking off stage left, knowing I’d done everything I was supposed to. This was also the time that my upperclassmen Sarah Farquharson told me that my piece had really inspired her. She was someone whose writing quality I had always wanted to emulate. Her saying that gave me a lot of hope both as a writer and as a person and it made me very glad to have pushed the boundaries and performed. It was one large ray of light. From then on, the colors were not hazy and hesitantly placed because a fear of rejection, instead, it was displayed as a stained glass mural, added to every day. Shades of colors I had not even dared to dream of were freed.
Junior year at out Spring Showcase, there was neither a podium nor a light to veil the audience. It was to them I looked at directly, not without fear of judgment, but, doing so despite that fear. That was what my Creative Writing class did for me, gave me a place to nurture my voice, in the way for which the class was named.
So that wherever we go we can let that light pour through us onto the day’s blank wall and make art out of the colors. After all, that is what we were, artists as we still are. That is what’s encouraged at Cooperative Arts and Humanities High school, the ability to be open, to see in a way that is not conventional, and to create with one’s voice whatever form it may take. I learned of this spirit through writing and walking into that Creative Writing class my freshman year. I look forward to painting the new mural called “college”.
May 19th 2015
Story: Day 1 of SBACK Testing
Symbol: A Walk
Today was day 1 of presumably 3 days of testing. It’s a pioneering method, you take the test online and the test is supposed to adapt the difficulty of your remaining questions, based on the kinds of answers you gave to previous questions. This day’s test was English. All in all, the kinds of questions they asked were not awful; it was just the sheer amount of text you had to read off a computer screen before, actually, answering the questions themselves. Imagine, a trek that you have to take, you do not know where your destination is, where the end is, you know only that it will end. The path you walk is also responsive to your steps, what foot do you lead with? How long is your stride? How long can you go before your pace starts to slow? The better you do, the steeper the path becomes. Turning, from a level terrain with compact dirt, easy and familiar to walk on, to a walkway that is made of loose gravel. Little rocks skitter back to earth, as the inclination of your way increases, yet simultaneously, you continue to put one foot in front of the other. Just when you are dangling, off the face of the path turned mountainside, the invisible settings are altered, the mountain starts to shrink, and once again you see the summit, your chances of being king of the hill, are again, a possibility.
May 20th 2015
Story: Day 2 of SBAC Testing, a trial big or small
Symbol: A Storm
The rain beats down on all that rests beneath the clouds. The ground was pelted with wave after wave of drops, strength gained through numbers. The air is filled with the rumbles of thunder as the drops come crashing down onto the rooftops. The wind howls like a dog lashing against its leash at the sight of a passerby. The leaves of the trees, in the dog’s wake, rush away from their homes bending back and buckling as they are. I wait it all out, standing in the rain because there’s a sliver of blue that I see. My clothes heavy with rain and drops hanging from my eyes lashes. I blink them aside and watch the approach of the end of it all. A determined smirk of mine greets the droplets upon their arrival to earth. In due time the overcast clouds part like a crowd, for the coming of the tide. The sky opens up, the clouds lightening as if pacified by the gentle touch of the sun. The leaves that were blown away gently float to the ground now, like petals dyed red by the sun’s appearance. The dog is calm; he’s curled up in his usual yard now. The rooftops, mirrors as they reflect the light right back at the sky. The neighborhoods are alight with life. Any storm from a trial, however, big or small will pass, and then will come the accomplished calm after the storm.
May 26, 2015
Story: Spring Band Concert
Symbol: The Tide
Going to the Spring Band Concert was much like attending an adrenaline-charged rock concert. It began like any other school function. The lead teacher for the department greeted the audience and talked about the assortment of songs that they were going to perform that night and was sure to crack a joke or two, before letting the night get underway. Shouts of support for the well-known musicians punctured the polite quiet, just before the first note was played and throughout the set. The atmosphere had a rhythmic ebb and flow like that of a tide. Energy was building, the air becoming electrified. The night kicked into high gear as the band started in on a piece that was often performed in college, if not professionally. Mr. Smith, the band teacher, had slyly omitted that tidbit when the band had begun perfecting the piece in rehearsal. The song was entitled: Chromosome, and so they began, the floor vibrating from their playing. The tide was coming in, the water rushing onto the shore, pushing past the preconceived boundary. The audience was swept up into the galvanizing energy, most rising to their feet with shouts of exhilaration. The playing slowed, toning down, the waters receding, as the song came to a close. The waters about ankle high as members of their audience found their seat edges, ready for the next wave. The next piece was a phasing piece. The musician played his piece, part by part, letting the machine at his feet catch, record, and play back every portion. What soon happened was a gentle cascade of music like a waterfall. The notes flowed down to the audience, the water gently lapping at their legs. Our band was the moon, controlling the tides, commanding the waters to be gentle and soothing or a white water display of energy. This was our spring band concert.
June 9, 2015
Story: Left in the Dark
Symbol: Eclipse
For most of this year, especially, I’ve had to cope with what essentially was the fallout of one of my closest and longest friendships. This entry, though, is not for them, or the wrongs they committed. This entry is addressed to the one I kept out of the middle of our ensuing conflict. We had not told you for so long for many reasons. Mine were not the same as hers and I will not claim to understand her reasons for telling others before you. How could I tell you, months’ worth of devastation in the time allotted between bells. This is little more time than the totality of the sun is blocked during an eclipse. Still, I know what it means to be left in the dark. It is a cold, unfamiliar place, made all the more distressing by the lingering warmth of a sun, now gone, still on your skin. Not knowing where to step, for fear of falling off a preconceived cliff I knew nothing about. So still you stand, imagining this cliff, that for you formed over the course of two years in your absence. The land weathered away by the passage of time. To feel less than, to feel replaced, I know the pain of all these afflictions and though I pushed for you to be told, there you remained. For that I have anger toward her, toward myself because I could not find a way sooner. Most of all though I have sorrow enough for all the time I unknowingly did not give a hug when you needed it, an answer when you asked for it, and the sun because you deserved it. For surely the cliff of bitterness you thought we had for you was all but real.
June 10th 2015
Story: Thanks
Symbol: space/air
Just like the entry that preceded this one, this entry is addressed to someone. In this case it’s more than one. This one though, is a thank you, you know. This is just one of those moments that those two words just don’t seem quite able to encapsulate the entirety of the feeling behind it. So in light of that let me add a few more:
Thank you for the presence in the silence
When I wept and there were no words you could weave
That would wipe away the tears in a way that seemed to do the situation justice
Thank you for the randomly timed “huggies” and “how are you’s”
Because those filled all the time
We might not have had, due to busy schedules, with feeling
Thank you for being my un-biological siblings
Bounding me to a verbal vow
Setting out to disassociate burden with me
Thank you for all the thoughts of me
Even when together, we were not
Tethering us across the distance, space, and time
Thank you for teeming with energy
When thinking up and waiting for
All those tremendous doses of T.L.C.
Thank you for all the laughter
And lulling music
That rolled from the speakers through FaceTime on late afternoons
Thank you for all your endurance
Listening to the earfuls of the everyday
And the excitement of never letting me go to class easily
Thank you for being the anything and everything
Thank you for being you
That’s my thank you
July 6th 2015
Story: Stranger with Memories
Symbol: Whirlpool
I’ve been inactive for a little while in terms of doing these entries, now that summer is in full swing and my classes have all been completed for my junior year. The work flow is still moving, though, as I steadily move through summer work for my A.P. classes in the coming year. More for me has ended than just the school year, though, as many of you know. These entries have been in a phase where I address people involved in one way or another to the friendship fallout that’s been slowly unfolding, and coming to life in parallel with the development of the Nightshade Chronicles. This entry is addressed to the friend I’ve lost now that, for me at least, I feel the bulk of the conflict has come to a close and the friendship has certainly come to an end.
How do I address you now, I wonder? The first thought that comes to mind is a stranger with memories. Those are the words used a lot by others, in quotes and otherwise. How can I explain to you how I felt through this two-year collapse of a relationship three times as long as it took for the dust to finally settle? I’ll talk about the moment that was the most powerful for me because it was one of the most painful. Talking to you on FaceTime, one of the first times since the whole ordeal began in earnest, to talk to you about the issue and all its facets. How I didn’t feel listened to. You don’t understand my feelings even now, nor do I feel that you can truly acknowledge them. All I ever got were generic answers just to move things along because you didn’t want me to be mad, but you never wanted to just stop to actually let me talk. When during the FaceTime you are quiet and right then I know, to some extent, what I’m in for. I do most of the talking and your voice quavers and you always tell me how sorry you are and how much you want to go back to normal. Even then, though, you fail to consider what I’m saying or even how I’m saying it because, despite it all, I was still trying to keep a level voice with you. Keeping my hands busy, so I’m mentally never still long enough for my emotions to catch up to me. Stranger with Memories, you cried during this exchange even though half of it was nothing but silence and for me that is probably what weighed heaviest. It was the representation of your inactivity throughout our relationship, of your habit to close your eyes to everything, even if that included neglecting me when I was hurting or wanted to say something, in hopes that it would help us both. The quiet after the talk was punctured by your muffled, generally quiet cries due to the presence of your family a couple rooms away. I let it go on for a little while. My quiet anger resting under the surface was my ally then; it enabled me to remain composed and generally together. We hung up and I called back our other two friends who’d been involved through it all and had their own qualms with you, Stranger with Memories. I told them everything that happened, my anger steadily streaming out now, the emphasis to my words. I told them of how upset I was and how I had wanted to cry at certain points myself, but hadn’t felt allowed. The whole time I was being made into the bad person for just having wanted to talk. All you spoke of was how you were hurt, you were a victim and you weren’t to blame; all in an arrangement of words I’d heard time and again, across the span of years, like an old hit song over the radio.
I remember saying to them, as I gripped the sheets of my bed with a free hand, my voice choking especially bad as emotion bubbled up threateningly, “she’s the one that’s crying and telling me how much she’s crying to make me feel bad when I’m the one who’s been wanting to cry, this whole time. I should the one who is crying right now.” I heard the short, but genuine acknowledgments of the righteousness of that feeling with, “mhmm” and “yeah”. I remember thinking I needed them to say something, anything, to pick the conversation up out of the silence it had fallen into. I’d been mentally still too long. Throat burning and with a vision that was already blurry, I took a shaky breath that in the span of a second became more of a gasp than a breath, all the pent up emotion I’d been trying to swallow back down came thundering forward like water from a dam. I don’t really remember the details in a chronologically coherent way after that. Being in hysterics as I was felt something like one part of myself was detached from the rest observing the occurrence of events.
The other was very much attached to my body and its emotions. I say this because a certain moments, I was able to do things like worry about the fact that I was forcing my best friends to listen to me cry for the first time. I, myself, hate having other people see me cry, but I was too emotionally overpowered to even hang up the call. It didn’t take me long to decide that I didn’t care; they were allowed to see this. This little conundrum of mine solved, meanwhile, the other part of me was a wild, swirling, emotional whirlpool filled with fragmented memories as loud, unhindered cries raked through my body, escaping out into the open. There were seconds between waves when my body would instinctively clench in an effort to cut the surge short, but did so to no avail.
I think I decided to write about this moment partly because it’s hard to describe what a moment of intense emotional pain feels like, no matter what the catalyst of said event is. If I had to choose one word to describe it all, I believe, that word would be blinding, in both the literal sense, and in terms of speed. From the moment when the initial event transpires, everything is accelerated. You're thinking to yourself things like: “How did this happen?” and the standard series of “what if" questions that are a staple as painful moments course through your mind. For me, I remember having scenes from happier moments, with my Stranger with Memories, zip through my mind. With them came anger, anew at my Stranger with Memories for letting it all come crumbling down. I had anger too for myself, because despite it all, in that moment especially, I felt that in some way it was still my fault. After all, isn’t that what happens? When something that you really cared about comes to an end, particularly relationships of any type, you feel like somewhere along the line you could have done something, said something, that would have steered yourself off the course of this cliff. You're half the relationship after all; you have an equal amount of capability to destroy the relationship as you do to fix it…right? Yes, you do, but you get nowhere when the other half is canceling your efforts out and being stagnant can be just as bad as a decline. Being stagnant when it comes to pain takes longer to reach the same level of pain as a decline, I think, but stagnant has the danger of becoming the normal you're willing to get used to because you're still holding out hope that things can be fixed long after you’ve passed that point. Why do you do this? Because you cared, at one point, and the longer that point in time was, the more you’ll find yourself willing to put up with.
I, myself, went through a very long period of this. This was undoubtedly helped by the fact that I am not the type to cut ties completely with someone easily, once they’re close to me, even if I have cause to. This friendship had existed for the majority of my life as well, so I was willing to put up with a lot of failure in trying to fix the relationship even when it was beyond repair. This has been an address to this particular Stranger of Memories of mine who, to this day. claims to understand the pain I felt. Even this does not fully encompass everything, but the core emotion, I feel, will remain in this piece, and that’s the important part. I also feel putting it down like this helps quiet the emotions lingering about it, putting them, in large part, to rest since they’ll exist here, and not just in the whirlpool of sad memory with a stranger.
July 15, 2015
Story: A Nightshade Meeting
Symbol: The Bat and the Cat in the night
For this entry I’m going to talk about the meeting between my alter ego for writing, Nightshade the cat, and a fellow writer that I know, who has dubbed her alter ego to be a vampire. Originally, when she was trying to settle upon an alter ego with which she felt an affinity it was agreed upon by us both that the later decision of changing it to a vampire because she felt a connection with a lot of things, particularly animals, was a good one. So this change to a vampire seemed better suited to her and still welcomed the nocturnal nature that she possesses and was the foundation for her original inclination toward a bat. In a way, it feels as though the progression of things to the final decision seemed right. The bat simply had to come first, for what have people always thought was a vampire, was a bat flying through the night sky. So, with that said, let me begin to recount our meeting.
The day I met the vampire of which I speak, the night was young and therefore so was our day. The sky alight with stars, the moon’s rays brushing everything in its far reaching grasp with silvery strands. The breeze was a wave, lapping gently against the palette of varying browns that was my fur. A long mackerel tabby with brown eyes, lounged along the top of a cool slanted boulder, paws glazed with the dew of the surrounding grass. A dead tree, blackened, by lightning perhaps, stood tall a ways from where I had decided to place my paws. A hollow was at its center, dark and empty. No one was around in this small clearing, the dead tree that stood some space away from me was an outlier, proudly so it seems, rooted there away from its leaf abundant, brown hued, kin huddled together away from us both. It was not a person, obviously, nevertheless it managed to garner a presence all its own by being an object of stature in an area otherwise obstructed by little.
My eyes passed over the placement of its branches, slowly. The branches were far reaching and spread out across a generous width of sky. A portion of the moon held between a pair of its limbs, as if the tree had its leaves felled by lightning so it could be bestowed with the moon’s celestial rays of silver to be it new adornment. It was where the limb reunited with the torso that I first caught sight of the vampire.
He was but a near transparent outline, a silhouette of light rather than darkness as he sat casually on the shoulder of the tree, a leg hanging nonchalantly off the side with the moonlight passing through his almost invisible form. I’d have missed him had I not been observing the spot so intently. His movement was but a flicker of the silhouette, a ripple in the backdrop before her camouflage was once against perfect. He must have felt my gaze upon him. In the next moment he looked away from the tops of the surrounding trees and down to the boulder where I, was indeed, watching him.
This realization of his revealed to me his eyes. They were blue, calm and thoughtful, convenient too, I thought, all the better to blend in with the night. But when he looked at me full on, I could swear that I saw flecks of gold. Intense and expanding, they soon were circles like rims for his irises. The sheer potency of the color made the display seem almost…aggressive, no not quite, more like cautionary.
The air was charged between us, as if a tangible rope of energy locked our gazes to one another, the tips of my fur raised, ears perked while this mysterious being’s leg had stilled midway in its absent minded swing. We stayed that way for a breath before this unknown figure descended from his perch. Watching this sudden accumulation of movement to keep track of him was difficult and a little jarring. The silhouette moved, shifting its shape to better blend with the trunk of the tree as the vampire descended. At the center, however, you could see clear through this individual to the tree itself as if they were not there. Any series of movements, at even an eased pace, seemed to make the silhouette blur, transform to accommodate the new backdrop’s every feature, before blurring again. This process repeated itself until all returned to stillness, with the vampire’s feet firmly planted on the ground, the grass beneath him crushed beneath his shoes, giving him away to the careful eye.
He approached ever closer, the night sky a cloak as his mysterious chameleon-like silhouette adjusted, more fluidly now, to the stretch of sky. Our eyes are locked the whole way and, finally, he is standing directly in front of me. I rise to sit back on my haunches, front paws together, looking up at this interesting individual. He, in return, looks my profile up and down as well, a glint that seems something like amusement in his eyes. The silhouette shifts, only just, around the face, the mouth more specifically, as it accommodates what I feel confident in saying was an actual grin. He speaks first, asking my name in a young voice, no older than a teenager like myself I’d guess, with a touch of rasp, and I respond, letting it roll out with a welcoming purr-like undertone, “Nightshade.”
He takes a pause to take that in; the only sound is the distant cry of crickets on the air of this warm summer night.
“And you?” I prompt, head tilting inquisitively. He looks thoughtfully down at the ground.
“Don’t got one, or you could say I go by a lot of names. I never really like one enough to let it stick for long.” It was my turn to grin, the tips of my long front teeth just visible.
“Someone who likes their secrets aren’t ya, invisible man?” He shrugged agreeably.
“You could say that. But what about you? ‘Nightshade’ isn’t exactly a commonplace name; neither is a talking cat on a night stroll.” I flick my tail, amused, continuing our little banter.
“Because a vampire is?” He makes a soft click sound, his fang-tips gently hitting his other teeth as he works his jaw a little.
“How do you figure that’s what I am?” I reply, more confidently, eyes narrowing, pleased at my checkmate in our little banter. “You just told me.”
He let out a full laugh, not a loud one, but genuine nonetheless.
“Clever, aren’t you,” He states matter-of-factly. “Well, tell me then, why not run? How do you know I’m not dangerous?”
“I don’t think you aren’t, just not tonight, not to me; call it a conclusion from my own evaluation of you. Chances are you would have come a lot faster and given a more aggressive vibe, right? After all, you’re the sure-fire predator type. Albeit, you considered it for a second there,” I point a paw at his clearly visible eyes, at the golden rims from earlier, though now they’d faded considerably. “Likewise, I considered the defensive,” I assure him.
He nods, “Perceptive and cautious too then.”
“You have to be underneath this sky.”
Silence falls between us again; the leaves on the trees rustling like the murmurs of gossiping girls evaluating our exchange.
“So...,” I lead in to the question slowly to recall his attention. “What do I call you, then, as a temporary form of address if you prefer?”
“Are you implying that there will be a next time that you’ll need a name for?” He asks, the inflection of his voice raised at the tail end of the sentence, grinning with his words, I think to myself.
“Perhaps,” I slide my gaze away so this vampire of interest is at the edge of my vision looking instead to the tree from which he came. “I like to keep my options open.” I look back to him, reading the vibrations of his silhouette that I’ve come to view, in a short time, more as his person rather than just the camouflage that covers it.
“How about what you said earlier, Invisible Man?” He suggests. “I’m quite the avid appreciator of literature.”
“As in the Invisible man? Like the novel?” I reply, intrigued by the sudden possibility of a common interest, even more surprised by the degree with which this poker faced, cards-held-to-the-chest vampire, is so forth coming with it.
“The very same,” He confirms.
I grin before responding. “All right then, Invisible Man, until the next night.” I wave my paw and hop down from the boulder I’ve taken as my own for the duration of my night stroll, turn on my paws and start walking away, looking over my shoulder after I am a decent distance away. Invisible Man is but a curve in the trunk of the dead tree once again, no one the wiser that it was actually a person overseeing the passage of the night, true to his name.
July 30, 2015
Story: Days of summer
Symbol: Same as above
The days of summer are a mix between the turbulence and the calm familiarity of nostalgia. The days are filled with the whirring of a nearby lawnmower, the smell of freshly cut grass by day and the chirp of crickets, the scent of a rain recently passed by night. Mother Nature joins in the whirlwind of emotion, giving both the wet, whipping might of a summer thunderstorm. Its cousin, the tree of negativity, is the unrelenting heat wave that is a staple of summer. When the season is feeling more forgiving, the daylight hours are filled with caressing sunshine stretched into the hours normally reserved for night, which sleeps in during this season.
The setting sun is a shining ruby being placed down into its setting in the ring of time. Light spilling over, onto the ground like water from the tap, moving forward once it has hit the earth and we stretch our hands out to let it pour down on our skin; that is what people do. A distant star, every ray of light a visible representation of its life-force, its heartbeat, rare red mica marble glittering with splendor. The sunrise is a ripened peach dangling from the branch, the color pink and soft. It is a sign of renewal, every tomorrow a fresh and cleaned slate.
September 4, 2015
Symbol: A Road
Story: Surgery and the Start of Senior Year
The beginning of senior year is, in a few words, bittersweet, stressful, and filled with adjustments. Particularly so for me, because after having a surgery to better handle a disability that I’ve had since I was young, I’ve been in a wheelchair, and getting the hang of that is indeed a tough thing to try to manage. Doors are like enemy number 1, especially because our doors, here at Co-op, are so heavy. Other than classroom doors and such, everything has more or less come in stride. Learning how to do a full U-turn after hitting the elevator’s call button to successfully reverse into it is definitely helpful. I can even express all my thanks to my rotating schedule of drivers, especially the two who were like premium, full time drivers; they know who they are.
That brings me to say that if you’re ever in a wheelchair, though, it is really good if there is an array of things you can do for yourself, and if someone asks if you need help getting somewhere, take it. I have issues with saying something, accepting help, and, yeah, for certain things especially, caring what people think of me. But you’ll be glad that you took it and who doesn’t love some pampering, as someone very close to me loves to put it.
The other big thing on my mind is college applications. Many, many seniors are thinking about this and it’s a stressful period, wondering how on earth you’re going to get all these things together and sent out on time. I’m trying to take it in stride. That’s a hard thing for me because I like to get things done quickly, even more so for really important things and if I don’t, it stresses me out. The simple fact however, is that college applications are a slow, painstakingly slow, process. So, if you’re like me and need that someone to reign you in when you’re getting a little crazy, get that it’s entirely normal to take a while. It’s a long road, that at times feels like it’s going to stretch out forever, but isn’t that what our whole high school career has felt like? With that in mind, don’t forget to look over your shoulders, seniors in particular, and see how far you’ve come already and pat yourself on the back for it. Not enough people do that, congratulate themselves for what they’ve done, myself included. But, believe it or not, people, you’ve come a long way. Stop and smell the roses; it’s okay.
September 10th 2015
Story: Dark pieces of writing
Symbol: Oil
I was reading last year’s edition of our acclaimed literary magazine, Metamorphosis, not too long ago as that’s how we start every year off here in CW and it got me to thinking. I noticed that over the years Metamorphosis has proven to be the place where a lot of the rawer, possibly darker, pieces of writing that are born on these computers are gathered. My freshman class, in particular, as a whole, was rather dark; we actually became known for just that. Now, Metamorphosis is supposed to be the spot where you submit a piece that you believe is the best piece you’ve done over the course of the year. So then why is it that a lot of those works are about darker subjects like violence, a death in the family, betrayal, etc.? I, myself, have contributed to this interesting phenomenon. Now, that’s not to say that best has now entirely become synonymous with darkness. However, there is I believe, some sliver of truth to this idea. That’s because these subjects and many others go to a more vulnerable and essentially more real kind of place. I also believe that these kinds of pieces also have the most to say. There is a quote that I like that says, “you should write clearly about what hurts.” This rings true for a lot of writers, I’m sure, whether they know it themselves or not. People in general, though, are aware of this as well, because that’s what makes people afraid to be vulnerable in the first place. They know that what they guard the most and try to hide from the scrutiny of others are the realest things that they will probably ever present to anyone.
These pieces are akin to oil. Some see it as nothing more than blackness spewing forth from the ground. A crude, primitive substance that they don’t know how to do anything with because at first glance there is, in fact, nothing that can be done with it. Others will see the value that it has a rich resource. It is the fuel that we use to get from point A to point B. The pieces that we put forth in Metamorphosis are the same thing. Complex and very secretive in nature, forcing you to look beyond the surface; that’s why they say to write is to be vulnerable.
September 11, 2015
Story: Trust
Symbol: Treaty
I read not too long ago that you can never be tired of loving. You are tired of all the tears and the hurt, but you can never get tired of loving. That seemed profound because of how simple it makes a concept that is, essentially, complex. I have felt this way several times, both from things that happened here at Co-op and well before it; much repetition seems to become synonymous with love of any kind.
Trust in my view is like a treaty. Upon entering a relationship, both parties must sign it and abide by the terms set forth in “negotiations.” That would be around the time that you are both getting to know one another. So, if somewhere along the way you have this feeling that something is going wrong, if you’re getting these little subtle hint about what is going on in your relationship, follow it, do not ignore it because you think that you are imagining it. We can’t let insecurities from past relationships control our every move, but neither can we dismiss them indefinitely, because we should validate our own emotions. Any emotion should be considered, because emotions are a part of you; you are valid and everything after that is just a trickle effect.
September 17, 2015
Story: Nostalgia
Symbol: Foot steps
I was in a room with a lot of sophomores and freshmen not too long ago and they were looking at a Where I’m From poem and analyzing it. It was a very nice piece and having it being read aloud, with all the enunciation and attitude that particular piece was meant to have, brought on a touch of nostalgia. The entries of Nightshade Chronicles are indeed about my experiences, but they move through my present as I do, so I thought to myself why not take a step back and, for a bit, go back to Where I am From.
Where I'm from
I'm from the dance of words
Where the sounds of birds of a feather
Can be similar to a creature that slithers
We always call that alliteration
I'm from the stolen moments with ones held close in heart
Between hi's, hugs, and hallway snickers
I'm from the comfortable silence as time ticks on
Accompanied by those who are trusted
I'm from windy days,
With palms faced outward on the street
Whilst hair is blown back
As an iron horse gallops down the pavement
I'm from open windows
With curtains gliding in the home, music slipping through
I'm from windows rolled down on highways with music like a heartbeat
The whipping wind like a pulse
I'm from times with my back to the waves
The water which always made me wary
Salt scented air the edge of a relationship between wind and waves
From a place where as above was not so down below
Till up came an ambassador
An about-face earned and
Working on steps to a sea of blue
So that I can be from a place of understanding
I'm from a virtual space
There I've lived a thousand lives
A comrade at my side nearly all the time
A fast pace, from womb to tomb, way of life
Akin to a guilty pleasure
I'm from the darker places,
Good and bad alike
A night owl at heart,
The only illumination is artificial
A blinking black cursor on a computer
Or free roaming figures on a TV screen
Slowly disappearing behind heavy eyelids
Dreams on the new time slot
I'm from moonlight
In the young belief that the moon follows you
Many a time, trailing close behind
As shoes slap street
And driveway gravel slides beneath the sole
From a place that's older now,
Looking over shoulder,
Strolling along with the old friend
Overhead
I'm from trust that's been tested, battered, and bruised
Thoughts of "not again" teeming
And lying lips in a tight grin
Because there's no light without a shadow
I'm from love and loss
Existing along a family motto of
Improvise, adapt, and overcome
From the hope of friends turned family
The belief that if by being,
Things are better for any of them
Then that's why I move forward with
Where I'm From
September 18th-23rd, 2015
Story: Tight Lipped
Symbol: Lock
Being tight lipped with talking about issues
Nothing seems more contradictory
Than how I feel about this
On one hand I hate it, despise it,
And thus hate a part of myself
Hating the hesitant eyes
And elaborate excuses
So you needn’t say a thing
I hate the “what am I here for then?”
Because aren’t I your friend?
I know there’s hurt, I know there’s pain
But I also know how ugly hiding can get
Some people have done things with what they hide
That I regret
Why is that?
How could you let it turn so malicious?
I feel like I don’t know you anymore
But actually, did I ever?
So, for this entry I thought I’d address the kinds of relationships, be they romantic or otherwise, where one or more members are tight lipped about issues, their feelings, etc.
I am also a tight lipped person for a number of reasons, but I hate that aspect of myself for the same reason that I became even more that way. I’m someone who can admit they’re tight lipped and works on not being that way; I always ask friends what’s wrong if I think something is up. Now, because of that, I’ve also had plenty of experience being the one who is--and I don’t really like using these words to describe it this way, but this is the best way to explain the other side’s feelings--shut out, pushed away etc. You may ask why I dislike using words like that to describe how tight lipped individuals make the other party feel. Well, simply put, it’s because not all of those individuals are trying to hurt you when they do that. Some of them really are glad you’re asking them what’s wrong and there are a multitude of reasons why they could not be telling you about their issues. It is not necessarily you. I can’t say that enough; the default answer in your mind should not be that you are bothering them or it’s because it’s you asking they won’t say. No, that can’t be your go-to answer. I know for people with past hurt, being sensitive can be hard. But for some of those same reasons, you have to know, are the reasons tight lipped individuals don’t always say what they need to say to you. Some of them may not always be used to having people ask them and other things are just too drastic for them to tell anyone about.
On the same token, however, those who are tight lipped need to understand the position of those who are asking them those kinds of questions. It can feel like you’re saying that you don’t trust the person, especially if you’ve been friends for a long time, then it can feel very sudden. Often times they also wish you’d tell them what was going on even if you feel like telling them would be burdening them with their issues. The point of us asking is so that we can help you or, at the very least if there’s nothing else we can do, be a place where you can vent and have someone who doesn’t want you to go through your dilemmas alone. So you too have to work on letting certain people in and feeling secure in the people around you that have shown they can be trusted. If you can’t do that right now, then at least, tell those people you’re glad for what they do. The reassurance could be needed, and if not right then, it helps to know even a little of what is on your mind even if it isn’t the issue itself.
When you give us nothing, no hints we’re doing the right thing, it feels a lot like a lock, firm and unrelenting, keeping us out as if we were ostracized and don’t have the foggiest idea as to why. For those of us doing the asking we try not to pry too hard and run the risk of hurting you with the constant asking if that’s not what you want or you’re simply not ready. I think the best way to put it on our end is this phrase I heard a little ways back “I’m not asking because I want to know, I’m asking because I want to help.” If your response to that is “there’s nothing you can do” or “you can’t help” that may very well be true, but that doesn’t then mean I want to leave you alone in it and that’s why I’m here.
September 24, 2015
Story: Update on Progress with Surgery Recovery
Symbol: A Landmark
Now I’ve only briefly talked about this in my earlier entries, but this one will be an update and will talks about how that connects to landmarks, more specifically landmarks in life and the significance of that. Lately I’ve been in the process of slowly learning how to walk again even though the 2nd cast the doctors put on me since the surgery for my disability is not off yet. That will happen in about 2 weeks give or take. Even still, when it’s off I won’t be up and moving the same as I used to. It will definitely take time. When I’m doing it now the pain only really comes when the actual step is being taken and all my weight is being shifted onto my bad leg. If you’ve ever broken your foot or anything like that then you know exactly what I’m talking about. That feeling like it’s going to break all over again, or in my case everything they did during the surgery would just collapse. The little progress jumps become what makes you happiest, like getting up a flight of stairs on your own, however slow or sloppy or painful it may be. Now, don’t get me wrong, I have had some pretty fabulous and dedicated drivers rolling me around while I’ve been in the wheel chair. As such, the entire process as a whole, as far as getting around wasn’t as hard for me as it may be for others. But the novelty of being in a wheelchair and using the elevator, even if it means not taking the stairs, fades. You end up missing having the ability to do certain things for yourself, like grabbing something that’s only a few feet away or not having to worry about maneuvering through crowds that in any other situation would be more than manageable for you. Right about now, I’m practicing walking here at school every so often now that I’m no longer using crutches at home. It feels good to be completely vertical again as Ms.Englart lovingly put it. My friends are rather reluctant about me practicing to walk because they know it hurts me and they don’t want me to overdo it, but they also know it’s important that I do this. I was told to make sure that I don’t forget it; forget all the things that I’ve been through with my leg and all the things I will do. That way it’ll be a good reminder for when things don’t seem all that great. That way I can remember all the things I’ve conquered and be happy that at least everything with that worked out when I look back on it. By then it’ll be a landmark in the journey of my life.
September 30th-October 6th 2015
Story: I Don’t Want to Remember
Symbol: Blurry Memory
So a little ways back Ms. Englart was in the audience for a speaker who was reading his work which was all pieces of things he did not want to remember. With that said I thought I’d do the same thing. So let’s begin with all the ex-friends whose deeds are what got them written into these pages in not the warmest of ways. This will be the first thing I don’t want to remember, every new entry for a little while now will be an I Don’t want to Remember entry when it ends I will say so.
I don’t want to remember the person who broke my heart the most with their betrayal. I don’t want to remember the person they are because I only know the person they were. But even they don’t feel the same anymore because you can’t unknown something once you’ve been told. It’s a memory that feels perverted, tainted by the things you do now. I don’t want to remember all the smiles and events we went to because the river of time can’t flow backward and the waters aren’t warm here anymore. I don’t want to remember all the details about you that no one else will ever know. The ones that I have nothing to do with now except let them be fodder to the flames that incinerated our friendship.
I don’t want to remember how to forget you, I want to remember how to let go of all the memories of us yet to be that are lost to me now. To be able to know they happened and accept what has happened rather than having the memories not exist at all. That’s what I’d rather recall than this aching want to erase it all.
I don’t want to remember the thought in the back of my mind as a sophomore that when it came time to leave for college we might never see each other again. You can never get used to people leaving, even when you’ve seen as many footsteps as I have, but now I needn’t worry about all of that because you pushed me to go through all the pain sooner and faster than I ever expected. Now, when I go there’ll be fewer tears to shed so thank you for the memories and even all the ones I’d rather forget.
October 19th 2015
Story: Don’t want to remember the Capitalistic way of the World
Symbol: Dollar bill
I don’t want to remember the way the world revolves around the color green, the hue of the dollar bill. That people are digits both in school and out in the field the schooling was meant to prepare them for. You’re a point on a linear graph meant to represent profit. If that line isn’t pointing skyward then you’re a name on a list of pink slips that’s color means nothing like it used to in childhood. I long for the people whose mindset is “work to live, not living to work”, but, then again who’s to blame them for losing that inner child who only dreamt of what they wanted to be when they grew up, not the yearly income that comes with it.
I don’t want to remember all the flames of passion snuffed out because of the necessity for practicality when picking one’s livelihood, trapped behind desks and working the traditional 9-to-5. The scores of teenagers turned young adults who are left to fend for themselves; they try to get a foothold in the world with a financial knowledge base that leaves much to be desired. Young adults who then get pigeon holed in a job that they despise waking up to every morning and ache from shuffling to bed from every night. I praise the one who says they’d just go off and write all day if they could, the yearning still lies inside them and I can only hope it holds fast. That it not get lost in the lackluster routine of being home only to sleep and awake and away only to work so that there’s still a home to come back to.
I don’t want to remember that the world revolves around paper, yes paper, an idea for paper that’s been perverted and as a result has become very manipulative. Paper that started out no different than the canvas my pen has found here. And I for one take special offense to this grotesque take on paper that has everyone revolving their lives around it. Why is that? Why do I take offense do you ask? I take offense because paper is the medium that I use to get and give freedom. Then, here it is as something that chains people to certain routines in life. It’s something that reveals the ugliness in people, even is the cause of it. All of this, springing from rather humble and unassuming beginning, from a tree, to the blank canvas of a pen, and then this power hungry, greed encouraging, form came. That is the capitalistic way of the world and I am no different when it comes to moving to the beat of its drum. What is different is the fact that I know just because everyone does it, doesn’t mean its right or should be done.
November 16th - 19th 2015
Story: I don’t want to remember how hard it is to Understand
Symbol: Ruins
I don’t want to remember how hard it is to understand when the situation isn’t solely logical. I try to take it from every angle on one of their bad days as one should. This sense that sometimes wriggles its way in that something is missing is not something I want to recall. I know which dark corner of me it rests in when it’s not on my mind. A quiet, shaky place tested by time, and has the marks of age to prove it. A ruin covered by roses will still be called a ruin and, unfortunately this is true.
This is not to undermine the progression of roses I’ve witnessed over the last few years by any means. It is to explain moments of doubt and wonder, moments of sadness and fear. The blossoms that wrap around the skeleton of this place are beautiful, full and you both nurture them well, so fear not in that because you are both amazing. I am glad that these lovely flowers have found their way into this place too, climbing up the stone walls like ivy, being sure to get into all the nooks and crannies. It’s a beautiful thing and know that for every heavy silence, hesitant or hard glance, and second of wavering will that there is still a ruin beneath all those buds. A ruin that announces its presence by its sheer size accumulated stone by stone, action by action.
Wonder, doubt, worry, and fear will march out of here, out of this broken place, because it is home to many a terrible moment. A dreadfully cold place that every now and then still sees the arrival of a new resident to add to the chorus of wails. Not so often do these new arrivals come that it leaves me entirely helpless to shut out their calling, especially when it’s really necessary, but please understand they’ve come enough to be sure that I do not forget the echo even when they are barricaded in.
You need not ask me if I fear that one day these breathtaking blooms will one day wilt because I will tell you that I do, in the most painfully sincere of ways, I do. Though you may not always notice I do tell you these things, as best I can, in every moment of uncertainty. My eyes will darken with shadows of this place and you will know the shutters are open. My mouth will be thin and, very possibly, twitching into a feigned smile, and you will know it to be the bar slipping into its notches to brace a splintering door. There will be days where I simply do not win. The door will sometimes burst open and out will rush all the ghouls or the darkness that rolls forth.
You’ve both seen this before this I know, whether it be the darkness that comes in thick waves where I weaken under its weight and what comes is an outpouring of raw sadness. Unobstructed in its gathering momentum, it moves indiscriminately forward, and it’s in these moments I’m adrift under this relentless tsunami. You’ve seen the unfettered tears and heard the anguished cries. In your own words you’ve both described it as a place as dark as I have always known it to be.
Then, there is when the ghouls run rampant in the field, their shouting unchecked and ricocheting furiously until, ultimately its one unrivaled roar. Those are the moments you’ve known me to be the most enraged by the actions of others. The sudden, fierce stance I’ll take in a moment, I’d like you to hear from me is by no means, in fact, sudden. Know it comes from the necessity of a quick, moment’s notice, response to unprovoked aggression or mistreatment. It is not wholly you I am reacting to, but rather I’m reminded of others I held in high esteem, much like you, that are now ghosts in this hollow place. This intense reaction is rather, first, and contrary to how it seems, a display of how much I do actually care, so much so that despite my best efforts to interpret and resolve your subtle hints to your state of mind internally the not knowing, being made to wonder and guess, and constantly adjust accordingly takes its toll. There will be days that it drives me to such levels of intensity. I may not always outwardly express it if I should rest on the cusp of such a response, and I am glad for it because no matter the case I try to avoid getting to that place, but even still it’s hard being so close to it.
Know that you are not the first to become aware of this ruin that still speaks of the things that brought about its destruction. There have been others who too brought roses that I cherished just the same. But those roses wilted and the people never left, they are the ghosts of memories that still reside in the ruins. So in that knowledge I do ask that you forgive me if there are times, in a situation that I see the thorns before the petals. My hands and fingers have been pricked and scarred enough times by a thorn gone amiss, that I’ve learned to leave an eye to the stem even after I’ve smelled the delicate scent and caressed the bud in hand a time.
Rest assured, I too remember to cherish the blossom, not just be wary of what lies beneath. The blossom that represents one of you is a blue rose so close to it while growing and fond of water are you that I’d joke to myself the blossom took on its hue. The fragrance is a strong one I have no fear in saying. You’ve grown against what I’d, and probably you too, would call less than ideal circumstances. So I’ll let that sentiment alone speak to your resilience. Not a petal was out of place, such is your grace. When you came to be here I came to know almost immediately that this blossom has deep roots, extending into much to better itself, wise enough to know when it was ready to bloom. Its color told me too; in the best way that it knew how, just how much you’ve seen. Let us not forget that blue is, but a stone’s throw from the company of sadness in one’s mind. Much was locked in its petals and with every unfurling I’ve come to know more. I may never know or truly understand it all; neither do I consider it an easy thing to show for surely it isn’t. But know that I’d wish to know, to understand as much as I possibly can and that no matter what may remain that I’ve yet to known and with all that I do I believe what you’ve made of it to be truly beautiful.
The other is represented by a red rose. A color suited to a passionate, fiercely true heart. No shame in being who you truly are and that’s why it is a color with such vibrancy, in that I am truly impressed and proud to have had it presented to me. This one had a pair of healthy leaves just beneath its bud, nature’s way of embodying that selfless, yet humble nature of yours through a juxtaposition of both color and presentation. For this rose there is much that is common knowledge, just as I believe you’d like it. There is too much that is not known and, like the other rose, I extend a vast appreciation for even that and an equally strong and genuine desire.
For all of this know that I fear the coming of a time that damage will be done to these remarkable roses. It matters not what it is, be it time, storm, or any other tragic occurrence; damage is still damage and thus hurts. The only thing of importance there is the exact degree of pain that will be inflicted. Despite all of that, be most aware that I treasure these roses in a way I may never be able to entirely express though I do have the dearest of hopes this view has, in some way, conveyed it; I will carry the roses with me always.
November 20, 2015
Story: Why I have to remember the things that I’d rather forget
Symbol: A reflection
I’ve been drawn to “I don’t want to remember” entries because I think it reveals a lot about a person when you hear about the things that they would rather not remember. People try to force out these kinds of memories, but the truth is, no matter how hard you try, it’s a large factor in the decisions you make. More particularly, for me though, I feel like it was time to not only say some things that came in the spur of a moment, an observation of society that was deemed important enough to note so that it isn’t entirely forgotten later. There was definitely some of that, but more importantly it was about acknowledging, in more than just a fleeting moment, some longstanding, abstract feelings of my own. Feelings that I could never quite put down, even for myself, let alone explain to others. I am trying to touch my hand to the reflection in the mirror that these entries present to me. I’m trying to go against the natural inclination of turning away when someone sees something unpleasant staring back at them. Let these entries, this book even, be a mirror to my past from before I set foot here and to the present that will all one day become what has passed.
At the recollection of fights and misfortunes, the reflection will also start out distorted and unrecognizable as I struggle to be honest with myself in these pages. The swirling darkness in the mirror will start to finally take shape the longer the ink flows. The darkness taken upon the pen’s nib after it touches the glass’ cool surface.
We all have those abstract feelings; we know when they come on, but not what they are. Neither can we articulate these feelings well to others, but we wish we could. That’s why I have chosen to force myself to recall the things that I would rather banish away to the farthest corners of my mind. Even if I did push them away they’d still exist somewhere; instead, I’d rather learn how to live with them. I want to be able to say that I sat down with my soul staring back at me and that somewhere, there will always be a record of our conversation. A recording composed of the things that I loved, the things that I thought, and the things that I felt most of all, because everything else stems from that. I can only hope that, perhaps, someone who sees this mirror can better look to their reflection and have their own soul session.
November 23rd – December 17th 2015
Story: One moment to represent myself from someone else’s perspective
Symbol: Ashes
Someone close to me, who happened to also witness the moment discussed in my Stranger with Memories entry, asked me once to tell her one moment that I would use to describe myself. One moment, to represent me in my own eyes and another for someone else’s eyes, that’s what she asked for. This is something that she wanted to know most of all about me. To answer the first half of her question, I didn’t have a singular event locked in time that I could use to represent myself. Rather, I had a series of them, so I told her that I’d pick my failed friendships. It seems like an odd thing to choose, but it could give her a broader view of me. It could show the good in that I gave them my love and held them close to my heart. So close in my heart, in fact, that they remain phantoms of bittersweet memories that dance with the shadows of my soul. That was the bad part of it all, too. Trust that was too little to spread widely; subsequently, I guard it so fiercely.
What, then, would I tell this girl; this person who I held in high regard? Would I tell her of the girl that is quite helplessly infatuated with the craft of writing, whose ink flows as ceaselessly as the blood through her own body? The stories of the countless pages penned in blue, motivated by my far-reaching dreams of being a full-fledged, bestselling author. A writer that may never find herself able to make her craft a full time career, but will be perfectly content so long as there is time to put pen to the page. Do I tell her only of the moments of which I am most proud and the reasoning as to why I am? Or, do I get into the more complicated, darker matters too. Do I get into the feelings and situations that often lead to the contradictions, shades, and, often, my long-winded explanations of who I am as a person?
Do I tell her of the girl who couldn’t read well? The one that wrote really sloppily at a young age until my dad’s drilling made my script small and neat. It’s a moment that I can smile back on now as the first step on a long road of writer-hood? Or, instead, do I tell her of the self-taught techie? The glimmer in my eyes reflected back by a large computer screen. The one who was determined to understand a computer after just a few, short lessons from my mother. The long hours while I journeyed through the vast gaming universe, after my novice days playing Mortal Kombat with my dad are worth telling about too. These are the things of which I’m proud. They are things, however small, to look back and smile for.
Do I tell of the things I’ve let go of? The dancing from before I was 13. What about the stretch of time spent toying around with the piano that took residence in my uncle’s house when I was 11? He always had instruments lying around. It’s a wonder that none of my three cousins came to be musicians; instead, if anything, they all went toward visual art. I could also speak of the summers playing dominos, rounds and rounds of dominos that are fondly lingering in memory.
The mornings at my cousin’s kitchen table with head bent low over a book of Sudoku or crosswords are an option too. Afternoons nestled on a couch here or there, sometimes my grandfather’s, sometimes my own, reading books crosses my mind as well. The sun teased me, pulling back its light from time to time in those days. These quiet days I remember fondly and still, in some way, take with me.
Could I tell her, perhaps, of my fears? Broken trust is one you know well. When people leave and I don’t hear from them again, it is more of a sadness than it is a fear because I know it happens, and it has happened to me already. I’ve had to let go of almost every friendship I’ve ever started, in one way or other, so, I guess, it’s graduated from a fear to something more like a truth, or a reality up until this point. I’d like for that to be different one day, to be able to look back and know that it changed, but I also know I’m running out of time for that.
There is also the inevitability that, sooner or later, I’ll have to arrive at my first-ever funeral, and then too, I will have to let go. I was too young when I lost my grandfather to remember enough of him to really, fully understand the loss of him. What I did understand was my dad’s tears, for the first time, and that was enough. The others, I was not yet born for, or they were far too distant, in Puerto Rico where they lived, for me to ever know them. I would say having written this that I fear the loss of things, because everything of value can be lost, this I know well. What I do not know is what it is like to be allowed to hold on to something.
I may try to articulate to you some of my views, my notes on others, and my feelings. I find that I have no desire for talk of trivialities with others, but love the details about people. I find joy in their deep passions, too. I feel like until you’ve seen the light of a person’s eye twinkle with talk of what they truly love, then you have not truly talked. It is not until you see a person so moved in spirit that their body can’t help but fall into step and move in accompaniment that you’ve truly struck upon something. Such moments with someone must come without judgment, or aggression. If those things are present when such emotion is shown to you, those moments will quickly retreat inward back into the depths of the person from which they sprung. If you find yourself on the opposing view, or even some lost understanding, then I urge you to meet it with discussion, rather than aggression or judgment. In the moments when you just meet someone, the time is filled with the repetitive, superficial, strictly what’s-on-the-surface conversation, that while essential to get to the more meaningful exchanges is quite unrevealing to me in terms of who someone is. I prefer the things closer to the core. Those are threads for profound and mystifying conversations. The conversations that aren’t had every day; those are the words I enjoy hearing, the places in people I enjoy exploring most.
Now, by moving to answer my friend’s question and trying to articulate how even the unpleasant connects with everything else, there is, I know, a risk that there is not a moment that I cannot reconcile these complexities of who I am. A risk of throwing you into confusion, but I will try anyway. I’d pick the moment from my Stranger with Memories entry to represent the dislike, the misunderstanding, and probably even, the hate that others have felt for me. But also I choose the supportive silence that you presented me with then and the protective anger that you came to tell me of afterward too. That can also represent me in the eyes of someone else and the love they could feel toward me. Know, in addition, that she was in a league of very few to ever witness a moment of mine quite like that. I rarely ever allow others to see me at a point quite as low as I felt that day and the days that followed.
I think I’d pick that moment to represent all of the good I might and could be to others. After all, though I may never be quite certain of what others think of me, there must have been a certain deal of good that I presented to her to make her respond in that way. Something that readied her for the heartbroken me that walked around for some time after that. I hope that I can continue to present those kinds of traits too, whatever they were.
I’ve also recently come to discover, because of her as well, despite how hard it was to come to, that I want to set the ruins from my I don’t want to remember how hard it is to understand entry aflame. Let everything within it be set ablaze and let the ghosts that reside there with their withered roses be laid to rest. That includes my Stranger with Memories and their voices in the band of ghouls. I can almost laugh at that thought because I don’t know what that looks like; at best you could say I can vaguely recall what that place looks like without those ruins and filled with light. It was that long ago. I also thought that maybe my Stranger with Memories was the last to see that place while it had light enough to illuminate the entire space. I have to think that that’s because they were around even before any real, lasting darkness came to befall the area at all. That stranger knew the names and stories of all the ghosts that came before them, even when their predecessors weren’t ghost and all the memories were alive and well. That, I feel, might’ve been the reason why I found myself capable of the faith to not worry about the things they did or some impending attack on the vicinity as a result of their actions. No matter how wrong I was to believe them, I can’t deny how good that kind of confidence in another was.
So you are in a unique position. You are part of the first group to come here when the years-long, stop and go series of pillages has finally come to an end. You are part of a new group entirely. Sometimes I may not treat you like you are and I’ll let the past, and all the ghosts there, cloud my judgment more than they should, and that’s not something I want to give you. Letting go of them, and forgiving myself for falling into it in the first place is worth doing for a lot of reasons and that’s one of them.
I don’t know how regaining the trust I lost by letting go and letting it rebuild anew is going to look or even how it’s going to happen, if it’s at all possible. It’s a somewhat frightening thought. I don’t want to build it up, only to have a disaster that will damage it worse than ever occur somewhere along the way.
Actions that start out rooted in care can sometimes get twisted with worry and can become something that takes on the look and feel of control. In those moments, I have to take charge of the conflict at hand. I have to try to understand it and ultimately try to fix it. This urge, too, believe it or not, is because I care. I don’t want to watch something negative happening to her or to my other friends-like-family, my biological family, not even a stranger. This care/control internal relationship can be seen in anything I do. From the constant asking of who you are, to the nice, not-so-quiet, commentary-filled quality time with my mom that sometimes I get a little forceful about getting done. I have been with the “friends” who never, never ask how you are or, hell, even have a conversation with you and it’s lonely.
I’ve had people not once ask my thoughts, my side of things, and it’s hard. With some ex-friends, I did nothing in the way of control. I had an unwavering trust that those people would come if they needed me, if it got that bad. Why was that? I didn’t want to do too much. I didn’t want to go back to being the annoying one, the bitch, the burden. So, I gave them space. I didn’t worry or over think and eventually it became easier not to. But, I missed those little things this time, or shoved them away as “oh, I was doing it again.” Those little things though, those signals for the kinds of disasters I was already used to. The precursors for the calamities that take down friendships, those are important because ruin never starts and ends with just one large, singular bang. It’s always the same; the reason may be different, but the sequence is the same.
I’ve had many points, in the aftermath of those moments, even during them, that I blamed myself for everything. Chances were I was already being told it was my fault even if it wasn’t. I look back to this day and still say in some moments, “yeah, maybe that could have been a little different.” But I will never know and there was only so much I could do. Yes, even still, it takes two to tango, but some exchanges I made my fault in my mind. I had too many, “What if I had” streams of thought. In that way, there is no one that can hurt me worse than I hurt myself. I’ve had about a thousand internal arguments before I’ve even had a discussion with someone about a problem we may be having. I’ve tried to examine every detail of every variable to try to see every outcome of a situation. This structure is so I can go into that conversation prepared and with, what I believe to be, a greater chance of coming to a good place.
I’ve had moments after every loss that I just wanted to give it all up. I wanted to stop trying to create relationships. In the early stages of being with my Stranger with Memories I decided if this didn’t work out I’d stop trying to create friendships and get so invested for nothing. It didn’t fall apart though, at least not right away. I had time enough to meet the friend with the reflective questions before the beginning of the end truly arrived. By the end, I had forgotten about the deal and when it came to mind again I hadn’t wanted to go through with it. The deal, and that it existed for however brief a time, is not the important thing here. It’s the feelings behind it. The fact that it was so, for lack of a better term, tiring, draining, to become involved in those relationships only to watch them corrode slowly or explode with all the fiery grandeur of emotion, however tragic the reason. There is, too, the reality that it is an almost uninterrupted succession of failed friendships. If a nerve is struck so viciously over and over, it’s bound to be torn in time.
Now, though, I think that nerve needs to be allowed to try to find its strength again. That’s the pursuit I want to start in the time that is to come. I hope that this has been insightful and satisfies your question in every tense, including the future.
December 19th-Jnauary 25th 2015
Story: What is Family and who I am?
Symbol: Family and emotions
Mine is a family that lives in the intensity of emotion. When I think of them, like when I think of myself, I think primarily of two quotes. The first of these would be, “It is both a blessing and a curse to feel everything so very deeply” which was said by David Jones. The other would be, “Do not go gentle into that good night. Rage, rage against the dying of the light.” This line came from Dylan Thomas. The first quote is because as I mentioned at the top of this entry we are a family that lives in the intensity of feelings and the explosive grandeur of emotion.
We are a family of open minds whose doors are ever learning to open wider. I grew up in a feminist house that believes in the day that the glass ceiling collapses. I was taught to never give a man the satisfaction of looking up to meet his gaze if he was taller than me only by a few inches of ego or entitlement. Likewise it is neither shameful nor weak for a man to shed tears because we are all people and no idea of machismo should hinder that humanity. We are all human.
We are a family of advocates and allies. In any social issue big or small my family has chosen a side and stood firm. Be it the squashing of stereotypes, allies in LGBTQPIA rights, or run-ins with racial problems we’ve found footing in them all and in our own way march toward progress. My father is an upstanding police officer and has been for as long as I’ve been alive and he will be coming up on twenty years of service this summer. He has honorably defended the red, white and blue. In the wake of Black Lives Matter he need not flinch at his actions because he has always been fair and instead may lend an ear to both sides. He and his fellows that I’ve come to know in my life are the reason I can hold a stake the defense of police officers with pride while still realizing that no system is incorruptible. There are cops who have tarnished the badge because after all black lives do matter. There are those officers who have failed to adhere to that and should be punished accordingly.
My mother has always been honest in her opinion. Never has she been fearful of letting her voice ring out if need be. She is an advocate of the individual and the right for anyone to have a voice and if a right should be infringed upon then one ought to have the voice to air that grievance. She is a person who is strong minded and strong willed.
In matters of LGBTQPIA my family has nary had the personal experience of having a family member come out to us as a member of the community. However, never have we needed the experience to know acceptance and tolerance. I remember when I was 13 or so my dad asked me on a car ride, right out of the blue, “hey, what would you think if you saw two girls together, or two guys as a couple?” I looked over at him as if I missed the question. I said to him “so what, why does that matter I don’t think it matters.” He looked at me for a moment then added, “It wouldn’t bother you at all?” I shook my head looking at him and waiting for some other layer to the question because surely there was something else. He simply smiled and said “that’s good, we raised you right.” I smiled along with him thinking it the simplest answer I could ever give because what other answer could there be.
Mine is a family whose sense of trust has been struck time and time again like metal to a whetstone. My mother has lived a life very similar to my own. She too knows the hardships of lost trust and vicious words uttered behind her back. Knowing this I try to keep my heart an open door for a few that are seen as ready to pass the threshold. Once across those few are treated incredibly well, much like family because as Jane Austen put it, “There is nothing I would not do for those who are truly my friends. I have no notion of loving people by halves. It is not in my nature.”
When this value appears threatened I will try everything within our power to resolve the issue. It may appear controlling to the outside observer or even perhaps, to the person I act this way toward. This is not the case, I care, and thus I want to fix the problem. Members of our family have even found ourselves falling physically ill as a result of stress, be it emotional or otherwise, such is the strength of our feelings. Days where we have little to no energy, have intense headaches, or feel nauseated, a battle that the previous night’s dinner sometimes wins, becomes all the more common. If through all this the person in question still makes us review our trust in them we begin to retract. We put distance between ourselves and them in an effort to think of our next approach, to give the individual time as well, or simply the care we have is beginning to cool. Once it’s been decided that it’s time to leave, we become frigid people. A mask is put up to hide all telltale signs of emotion from that person and at this point it is hard to convince us to grant someone forgiveness. This is all the more so if they had not been working with us to a solution or even considering the problem in the first place. We may seem cold then, maybe even heartless, but it hurts more than you’d think. As I said though, we have no notion of loving by halves.
We are a family of fighters. From a grandmother that learned a lot of the English she knows from conversation once she was here in Connecticut to a mom who does and always has done a lot for herself. It was even on her own that she first discovered she had cancer, not telling a soul in the family of her suspicions, so private was she, until there was no other choice. In a few months we will be coming up on the two year anniversary. She has done extremely well with all of it both in a physical sense and in the emotional sense. She’s even asked me before this to talk about what the experience is like having a loved one with cancer and to write it, perhaps, as if a young child or even someone my own age were going to read it.
I hadn’t wanted to do that then because I wouldn’t know what good things to say about it and I didn’t want it to sound entirely depressing because you can pull through that. I am not going to deny, however, that I was devastated and angry. I was angry that something like this happened out of the blue to my mother who has always worked very hard her entire life. She’d always tried to treat people respectably in general and always felt it was good to give what one can. So naturally when this happened, I didn’t understand as a roman catholic why God lets things like this happen to people. It just seemed so unreasonable and baseless. Why when someone tries to be as good as they can be does God then let something like this happen? Some might say that it is a test. That life and God gives tests and He only gives you what He thinks you can handle. I understand what these statements are supposed to mean, but at the same time I couldn’t help thinking this is too much for a test. This is cruel punishment. How can my mother be asked to handle this and be entirely okay with it.
I can recall her being so worried while waiting for the genetic test results because she knows cancer already runs in the family, on both sides. No matter what the results were though she knew it would still be a good idea for me to go see an Ob-Gyn earlier than everyone else normally would. She didn’t want the disease to invade the home any more than it already had.
In the midst of all this it is hard to know why these things happen or how to deal with it; all anyone can do is theorize. No one has a concrete, sure-fire answer whether it’s logical, or spiritual. But isn’t that what faith is anyway, carrying on even when you aren’t sure. Carrying on in the hopes that at the end everything will turn out as it should. In that sense my crisis of faith was resolved even though it took a while to feel that way. The answer and the problem in this situation were one and the same at once. Faith.
It is on that note that I will take a second to talk to the cancer survivors. No, rather I am talking to the fighters, the warriors because I bear witness to the truth that it’s never over. I am talking to the other witnesses too. What I’m about to say is going to sound like the most absurd thing you’ve ever heard. It’s going to sound like that on certain days more than others, especially if you’ve just gotten the news that cancer has invaded your life too. What I have to say is this, remember to laugh, you must and you must be happy and be yourself. I know that it seems like the farthest thing from your mind right now. I know it seems impossible that the world could keep going on as if nothing has happened. As if you didn’t receive one of the greatest shocks of your life and it’s the kind of jolt that never stops coursing through you. The severity just varies on any given day.
It’s because of that, especially in the beginning, that it just seems like a mockery of your pain, of your sorrow to be asked to carry on with what seem like the trivialities of life like work and worrying about money. “Why?” others might ask and you know it’s because you’re aware of mortality. You just want to hurry up and get to the good part, to the living that’s supposed to be in life like making art, traveling, pursuing other passions, wants and interests, love of all kinds and you want the time, space, to just throw yourself in them all. If you’re a witness this is no different for you. You feel that pressure, that awareness in your own life and then again in the life of the one who you bear witness for. You don’t know how long you’ll have with them. Not everyone has the real possibility to know the ending for someone’s life before it’s arrived.
There are certain things that other people do that do start to get really aggravating and hurtful too. This is true even for witnesses. I don’t like when someone demeans the issue or makes an offhand remark about it even if I know they don’t mean anything by it, though knowing that is helpful it doesn’t stop it from being at least a little irksome. For me personally, I also don’t like when people trivialize the effort I put into maintaining and bettering relationships. This is has become truer after this experience because I feel like it just proves that one’s time is a very important commodity and so is their effort.
While I’m on that note, to the witnesses and warriors there will be people that will support you and try to understand. So as someone who supports me once said being happy is the best thing you can do for them. You’ll learn how to go on with that weight. I want you too to know the exuberance with which I say that to you. Another person close to me gave me the same kinds of assurances I give you with much welcomed energy and confidence when I first spoke of the news. I hope that in some way you are getting the same comfort and respect for your hardship as I received. I was very lucky to have a good support system at the time. Just remember that it will be okay, it doesn’t feel that way now, but it will be.
Do not be afraid to strike out and find new parts of yourself. Your family is a part of you that will always stay with you. Your hardships are a part of you too. They are things that you handle every day and beat. They form your view of things too. As a final remark I will reiterate to remember to laugh, be happy, and look to your support system. That is not just to my warriors and witnesses, but to everyone and their struggles as we all try to make it in this wayward and mysterious journey we call life.
January 15th 2016
Story: Forgiving Yourself
Symbol: A human being
We all have regrets. Things that we wish we could get another shot at, a second chance. The things we might want that redo with might not even have been all that bad to begin with, but we still want it that reset. Let me just say this about myself I am the type that over thinks. A lot. So you can imagine that I’ve had that feeling plenty. I’ve had it when what transpired wasn’t my fault, with little things, everyday transactions that could have gone just a little better. We’ve all been there and without a doubt we will be there again. I’m the type that holds on to my mistakes too. It’s from an effort to fix them, to be better mind you, but nevertheless hold on I do well past the point when the moment of transgression has passed and forgiveness, if need be, was given. If you’re like me and hold on to your mistakes then know that you ought to just do what you can. You’ll be better as a person too if you forgive yourself.
We are not just a meshwork of mistakes. We are indeed trial and error, but we are also the solutions that come forth from those rough-and-tumble times. You can even embrace your mistakes in the aftermath when time has dulled the sting of your misstep because if we were all perfect we would have no purpose. We would be nothing more than duplicates of this product called a human being. Truly then we would be products and not people because how if we are copies of perfection realized how can we speak of individuality, There would be nothing to change; we would have already mastered everything. Do not think of your mistakes so harshly, be made better from them, or at least in the pursuit of betterment, but do not forget that mistakes are a very humane principle.
Mistakes lie at the soles of your shoes. The wear of them are the remnants of error. There is a case for this too with scars. These marks be them roughness on the sole, the ghost of abrasion upon the skin, heart, or mind, speak of triumph as well. You are still here are you not? You have not stilled in your journey. You have not been made a signpost, an alternate route for others of what may come to befall them as it did you and as a result have stopped. You are none of those things because you are still moving.
January 26, 2016
Story: Finishing Nightshade Chronicles
Symbol: Dawn
It’s that time now it seems. The dawn is nearing in the night that you’ve accompanied me in. It was hard for me to believe, as I’m sure most people think at the beginning of a large project, that it would ever be finished. I started Nightshade Chronicles when I was a sophomore in high school. Now I’m a senior with just a semester between here and becoming a freshman again, except this time, a freshman at college. The road has been long and trying. It has been emotional and interesting. It has led to a lot of growth too I think.
This journey has progressed through presenting the past in the first few entries. It moved forward into recording events as they happen. The spectrum was very broad then. It covered things like the progression of relationships, both my own and how relationships seem to be in general. It captured that which is dear to me in those relationships and what was painful. It was the match that set my ruins on fire as I spoke about forgiveness, regrets, trust, and interest in the people of the world. The Nightshade Chronicles has also seen practical, tangible growth from all the performances discussed within these pages. It has also seen the troubles and triumphs of A.P. classes, the college-going process and the commitment of just creating the Nightshade Chronicles into what it is today.
At the beginning of this process Nightshade Chronicles was intended for other teenagers like me. Now, though, I just want Nightshade Chronicles to be open to all audiences. To everyone and anyone who cares to read it. That is why a lot of the entries use “you” instead of anything else. The “you” was meant to incorporate everyone even if the entry was also addressed to someone specifically. The entries of Nightshade Chronicles are not all uniform. Some entries have pictures on Co-op Voices others do not. The first two entries have vignettes and the rest do not because at the time I had just recently learned about vignettes from Mr. Brennor, one of the other Creative Writing teachers. I wanted Nightshade Chronicles to be a representation of my time here in Cooperative Arts and Humanities High school as well as a space for me as I was in the moment that every entry was written. In order for that to happen I didn’t change anything, aside from grammatical corrections, so that it remained true to the moment.
Now that the night is coming to a close I will tell you all of how Nightshade came to be. My freshman year we were asked to emulate the style of the piece Linoleum Roses. We had to also discuss in our emulations how what we were writing was possible. How is it that the narrator is aware of what was going on and what kind of narrator was in our emulation. My narrator was omniscient. The narrator was also a black cat that the protagonist of the story had with her. This cat was named Nightshade and in my version of Linoleum Roses. Nightshade was very gentle and quiet as the events that transpired were unfolding, recorded, and ultimately recounted by Nightshade. When I delivered the piece to my class one of my fellow writers and classmates suggested I take on the name because it suited me. Ms. Englart, my teacher and also the editor of Nightshade Chronicles other than me, agreed with the suggestion.
If any of you who have kept up with Nightshade Chronicles while it was first on Co-op Voices you’ll remember that the image that used to be in the corner was of a black cat that resembled what I thought Nightshade would be like. That image changed in time to a mackerel tabby with brown fur and eyes of the same color. I decided to change the image to something similar to this because it felt like a better representation of me and how I look. It was just something that over time I thought needed a bit of a change as well. So that is the story behind Nightshade.
Now before I bid you ado for now I would like to bring two things to your attention. The first is that I will be working on a second book the pages of which will be posted on Co-op Voices for certain at least until I graduate. Now with that being said since I’m going to college navigating how things will continue as far as Nightshade’s continued contribution to Co-op Voices and writing in general will have to be considered. I am thinking of having mainly an email correspondence with Ms. Englart while I am in college.
After Nightshade Chronicles is finished I am going to write a book that is more based around the idea of how people treat other people. It will be more of a poetry format than Nightshade Chronicles was/is. I am going to do it that way for two reasons. One because I enjoy poetry and I think writing a book as such will be a good thing. I also want to do it that way because my freshman year I had thought of putting all the poetry I already had together in one book. That being said I believe that this book will be a good way to bring everything full circle.
The other thing that I wanted to address is a thank you. I’d like to say thank you to all of Nightshade Chronicles readers and everyone that has been involved. Ms. Englart has been a spectacular editor and very supportive. Similar consistent and much appreciated support has come from the others to whom these pages are dedicated and I hope it isn’t too long before they get the chance to have the book in their hands rather than on a screen. Now I have said everything that I wanted to say and I see sunlight’s gentle and peach pink touch nearing. So I bid all of you farewell until the next night.
