The End of Another Month

Another month passes. I wonder when I'll stop counting from those days. Outside, it's warm, but not hot like mom makes it out to be. I figure she's going through the change. There are no dirty traces on our steps anymore, not after so long, but I'm a little cautious just the same. Maybe I always will be. It only takes one mistake to do that to you. By the way - The sky was black, and there were stars.

Greece

I can scarcely believe my life lately. From the peace I felt last night, to this excitement for the potential of the new year; my Junior year, the last year before College searches and Mega-Tests, growing up and moving out. The question on my mind right now is, When should I start learning Greek?

This is the time we've waited for, my mom says. You're old enough, we've got the money...

My Dad's going to Greece. On business. And maybe, just maybe, I'll get to come along. We've spent all day comparing airfares and layovers. It's doable, my mom at last admits. Doable. Athens in October, Curacao in December, Rome and Pompeii in March. I can scarcely believe it. After all my whining, I might end up travelling abroad no less than three times this year.

It's the time of my life when I'm finally growing into the things I've always promised myself, the things I said I'd do when I'm older. I'm starting to enter a time I've looked forward to. Isn't that a strange feeling?

And also because you've been so good, she says. There's something to be said for not getting in trouble. And little things, like how you don't complain about your car having the shakes, I know Mel will...

Oh, how I want to think that. I want to think that I've been good, and this is my reward. Greece. It's not a hundred percent certain. But it's growing. Yesterday, when I first heard of it, maybe 40%. Now I'd say 75%. Maybe more. Mom checked the calendar, and I'm not taking PSAT until the next week, it's a good time to miss school. We can get the round trip for about 1,000 USD, and my dad already has the hotel, etc.

I'm crossing my fingers...

No Whipped Cream

How much sugar does medicine need before it's sippable? How much joy does life need before it's livable? It's a lot more than you'd expect.

Tonight I made cocoa, but it was simple, in a small cup. Milk, Chocolate, a dash of Malt. No whipped cream, no MnMs, no white chocolate chips, no cinnamon, no brown sugar swirls. No whipped cream. Another of life's surprises.

I stayed up late, dreaming of Greece and reading of Rome. It's that time of night. The cicada's and powdery moths are beating their frail wingéd bodies against the glass of the windows leading into the light. But I smile, because I know something they don't.

No matter how distant the sun seems, things will turn out -- not for the better, but for the best.

Of Canada and Colorado...

"Maybe Mrs. Moore can set you up with a nice Canadian boy... then you're out of the US but not far away." - Mom

"Canada doesn't count." - Me

"I think Canada would be a great place to live."

"It doesn't count."

"Why not?"

"It's not foreign enough. The exciting bit is French. And the French are le bleh. I don't want any of that."

"If you could live anywhere in the world... where would it be?"

I must have turned bright red, because she guessed it.

"Fin... I mean, Oh, wossname, Norway?"

"Eh..heh..."

"Oh Miranda, get over that boy!"

"It's not about the boy, I liked Norway before I liked the boy..." I nod. "Really." And it's true. She can read my blog for proof.

"It's too far away..." She whines. "Oh, you know where you should go?"

"?"

"Colorado! It's just like Norway!"

"..."

"Really! It's cold and everyone's a health nut and wears birkenstocks and goes mountain climbing."

"...."

She googles it.

"Where's the ocean?" I innocently ask. A glare.

"I don't see the fjords." Another glare.

Why doesn't anyone understand?

Two Stories

So, I really like the story I'm working on right now. I've been writing about 1,000 words a day on it, and it's been challenging me a lot for a number of reasons. First of all, it has a rather undefined plot structure, something that's difficult to work with. I may choose to put in more sub plots to give it some shape, but I don't want to do that by compromising the main story in any way, so I'll have to be thinking about that. Additionally, the style I'm writing in, combined with the first person narrative, makes it difficult to write with much interest from the part of the reader. I'm enjoying these challenges, but...

They also tend to worry me and make me fret, regardless of the fact that I am mostly writing at this point for A.) myself, and B.) practice. Therefore, I'm going to be working, not as ferociously, but when I'm stuck or something, on a second story, which is on the opposite end of my familiarity spectrum. It's limited third person, multiple POV, and rather typical fantasy. But I hope to have fun with it, too. :) Now I can rest happily.

That's Very Interesting...

Say the title like Captain Jack Sparrow in the first Pirates of the Carribean movie. :P

Last day with the mud children was today. Sweet kids, really. But at one point three climbed on me at once, two in the back and one in the front, and none of them had feet touching the ground. That was a little... depressing. ;) But the bad aside... I was thinking.

It unnerved me that they all looked the same, didn't it? And it was such superficial similarity; of course their faces were as different as they could be, their shoes too, and their hairstyles, and don't get me started on personality. Only half of them even still had blue eyes. But it unnerved me. Just the hair and the skin and the shirts. And I thought....

That's Very Interesting...

Perhaps I'm happier in America, in the land of diversity to the near extinction of the norm, than I realize...

Piraty Things....

What Do Mash Potato's Have To Do With Being a Pirate!

http://youtube.com/watch?v=x--liK0z170&search=kenshingumi%20don%27t%20do%20anything

Water Buffalo

And here's another one: The Famous Water Buffalo Song that as an eighth grader I sang on almost every ride at Six Flags over St. Louis. ^^

http://youtube.com/watch?v=FG2gzBKqnWI&search=veggie%20tales

Writing

So, I was really confused about pacing and logic in the first few chapters of my story, but I've been doing a lot of tweaking, a little painful (but necessary) cutting, and actually, a lot of adding, and I think I've gotten somewhere. After writing or extensively rewriting almost 2,000 words tonight, with some prework and organization for what will amount to the first 7 chapters, I really do think I've gotten somewhere. It's not perfect, and I don't know who will be interested; I can't make that call myself, of course. To say anything, I'd have to say it's a little heavily influenced by Memoirs of a Geisha, which is worrying, but I don't think I'm letting that element get too out of hand. Besides; no one is going to read a novel I write at this age anyway; it's just great practice in writing something that's (hopefully) readable. :)

Hilarity

You know when you speed up sound files, or just change the pitch if you have a slightly fancier program, and make them all squeaky? I just did that to Rammstein... :D It's hilarious.

Who Have I Become?

Oh, Jiffy Pop. Can you forgive me? For what I have done? For what I have become? I have changed, become too good for myself, and so, I have forgotten you.

Jiffy Pop - The stovetop Popcorn. Some hate it, some call it names, some say it Never Pops, that it's always burnt. Pah, I say, Pah! It just takes a little skill to get it right. It's all in the wrist, all in the circular movements. But we don't camp anymore, and the Jiffy Pop is forgotten.

"Miranda, do you think they want the Jiffy Pop, or is it more trouble than it's worth?"
"... Jiffy Pop?"
"Yeah, it's been on the counter."

OH. Jiffy Pop. I have forgotten. Forgive me. I have not changed so much. Not really. Blame my head, not my heart. ;_;

One Hot Day in the Mister

One hot day at camp, we were running around playing games, rashes were breaking out, there was much sweating, and all in all the children were at high risk for dehydration and heat exhaustion. Joe and I led a group of them over to the mister, where we danced around in the cool spray; robot, egyptian, slow dancing, whatever we could think of. After a few moments, our hair was all rimmed in silver droplets, sparkling in the sun. We all looked like christmas ornaments.

It was lovely. Soon, though, the water wet us through, and we moved through it, dripping slowly, making movements like water running through a steam. I've spoken before about losing yourself in a rhythm; this was one of those times. Though the beat was lopsided and the dance was clumsy, I forgot myself nonetheless. Shining in the sun, glittering like melting snowdrops, becoming the steam itself, tumbling over and into tomorrow.

Simple and Clean

Kingdom Hearts came out in... Seventh Grade? That's it. Everyone was listening to this song, oddly enough. Japanese and English. Two completely different sets of lyrics. Probably one of the only songs out there I prefer in English. At the time, I liked the words, but they meant nothing to me, really just gibberish. Listening to it now, the words seem to make more sense... I still don't quite get it, but it starts to make a little sense.

When you walk away
You don't hear me say please
Oh baby, don't go
Simple and clean is the way that you're making me feel tonight
It's hard to let it go

You're giving me too many things
Lately you're all I need
You smiled at me and said,

Don't get me wrong I love you
But does that mean I have to meet your father?
When we are older you'll understand
What I meant when I said "No,
I don't think life is quite that simple"

The daily things
That keep us all busy
Are confusing me.

Thats when you came to me and said,

Wish I could prove I love you
But does that mean I have to walk on water?
When we are older you'll understand
It's enough when I say so,
And maybe something are that simple

When you walk away
You don't hear me say please
Oh baby, don't go
Simple and clean is the way that you're making me feel tonight
It's hard to let it go

Hold me
Whatever lies beyond this morning
Is a little later on
Regardless of warnings the future doesn't scare me at all
Nothing's like before

- Utada Hikaru, Simple and Clean

Of course, it could mean nothing at all. A lot of J-pop is so ambiguous that I often wonder if they were even planning to say anything at all. :P But still, it's nice, sometimes, to revisit an old favourite.

Bailar... Y Sentir El Ritmo...

Bailar es vivir... Bah, no creo un verbo de esto. Escribir, tal vez, o leer, o correr, o amor... Amor, por cierto. Pero me falta el ritmo...

Anyhow, my mom's trying to teach me to dance. I have no rhythm. None. I'm a walking hyperbole when it comes to that, actually. When I was little, I clapped in between all the other kids. Never understood why. If I happened to slide into pattern for a few notes, by freakish chance... it scared me. I felt almost too caught up in it. I'm the type that often goes into nearly ecstatic states. I occasionally feel almost like I'm coming out of myself, like I'm part of everything. For this reason... I avoid drugs like the plague. Also because I know I'd get addicted. But getting into rhythm... does that... and I don't like it. Same as on the road. I tend to go about a mile below the speed limit, because right on that line, we're all moving together... bah. Rhythm frightens me. I follow the rhythms of speech, well enough, and sometimes I think I can almost feel the rhythm of the earth under my feet. But whether that makes sense or not, whether I can or not, well... suffice to say that I hear nothing in music but words and poetry and a pretty sound.

She's trying to teach me to dance. Starts with footwork. Real simple stuff, like from aerobics. I start getting it... a little.... But it's all memorization, all calculation.

"Do you feel the rhythm?"

"... No..."

"Do you feel the rhythm?

"... No..."

"Just feel the rhythm! Don't listen to me, listen to the music!"

"...."

"Do you feel the rhythm?"

"... No..."

Still, my footwork slowly progresses. Then she tells me to put the arms in. Actually suggests it might help. But it all falls apart. Move two things at once? You're kidding? You might say I'm the type who can't walk and talk at the same time. In fact I can. But only because I'm so good at talking.

But to dance? You're kidding?

Kids, Kids, Kids

Worked all day. Babysat 9 - 4, cooked 4-5:30, VBS 5:30-8.

Put Nate down for his nap. Easy, once I gave him elephant and a binky. No diapers. ^^ Grace swam in a blow up pool; I kept an eye on her, both when I could spare them, through the glass doors as I folded laundry and stirred noodles with butter. She didn't like them, though, because I added salt and a touch of garlic. Disgusting. Just when I thought her about the pickiest blonde monster ever to walk the earth, she sat there and ate two or three cups of cottage cheese right before my wondering eyes. So that was that; she even earned the fudge cakes I had brought for desert.

Had a mug of Clam Chowder. Watched "The Pacifier" and then four episodes of "Kim Possible." The opening song to that is nostalgic, one of the last disney shows I actually watched, once or twice. Brings me back to a summer, a week spent at my grandparents house, drawing bad pictures to impress (I thought) my aunt Janet. She's so nice, though, really, she might have been impressed. That was years ago, though, summer after sixth grade; four years. And part of me thinks of Kim as a new show. How old does that make me? :P

Haley came home from the hospital with a big bandage on her leg, holes where her IV had gone in, and a huge round of complaints. I listened patiently to every one (from how much her leg hurt to how buttery the hospital popcorn was) as her mom filled a prescription at KMart. I do love those kids, you know. The Moores. My parents like to act like that makes them the Moorish invaders.

Another round with the Mud Children. Paige was clingy again, Mira was being a brat according to her mother, Laura spoke a little more (her last name is Quesal, rhymes with Weasel, and she is one year older than I). I'm also wondering if it's possible to be sexually harrassed by a five year old. Grant was petting my thighs when he sat on my lap. I'm thinking of not following them up another year; can't have children that scary get bigger than I am.

Neither the Moors or the Mud Children can hold a candle to the Girl Scouts, though... :D

Mud Children

I'm working VBS this year, again. The theme this year is "Dig It!": digging for buried treasure, and the colour of the shirts is a brown and beige. It looks exactly like a white shirt which has been fully immersed in mud, and I would know because once I swam around in mud so deep I could float in it, and of course the shirt was permanantly ruined.

The children all kind of look the same from head to toe, because a lot of them have nice little tans, and Mira and Grant especially have the most amazing gold skin tone. Lucy's a lightish shade of black, and Paige is just about as dark skinned as you can be and still look Chinese. Other than those two, nearly all of them were blonde as toddlers, but now that they're going into first grade their hair is darkening, turning dishwater blonde like everyone else in America. That's what happens in a melting pot, you know. You get mud children. :P

I'm working with Sharon Peebles, who is alright I guess. She's very happy to have an extra pair of hands out of me, but has a tendency to treat her volunteers like hired work she has half a mind to fire, and also I think she doesn't like me. The only other one working Kindergarten is Laura. I'm not sure how old she is; older than me, but not an adult yet. She's very friendly, but she doesn't talk much; just laughs at whatever I say or whatever anyone does. I don't know how useful she will be. I'll have to find out.

So that's out team for "Dig It!": Me, Sharon, Laura, and the Mud Children.

Prologue, Hello and Goodbye

I've been working on a bit of a story; an exercize in memoir esque first person (having said that, the prologue has an extra heavy dose of that style, the rest of the story won't be so dreamy). I rather like it; if you have a moment, tell me what you think of the prologue. :)

Prologue:

Hello and Goodbye

I remember the day my father sent for me. I would like to think of it as my first clear memory, but that’s hardly the truth. However often I think back upon it, focusing and sharpening and perhaps adding in the things that came after, it remains the memory of a child: a fog of confusion and raw feeling, broken by moments of strange clarity.

It was late spring, and I was with my cousins. The green hills where we ran overlooked our village, and the streams were ice cold, fed from melting snow higher up in the mountains. We didn’t dare to stay in the streams long, but splashed in and out, revelling in the contrast between the freezing water and still, warm air. We ran to keep our blood warm as our clothes dried out, screeching with delight as we flew heedlessly into the woods, away from where the stream fell over the edge of the cliff.

There was nothing special about that morning, but I remember it all: every footfall, every time the cold water slowly sank through my boots and into my skin, every flourishing twig that whipped against my thighs as I ran. My memory has embraced that last hour, lengthening it as I might have if I had known what was to come. Every moment we spent up in the hills, ran through the ice-cold stream or went shrieking into the well-loved forests beyond was a moment left in the southlands, and I cherished every one.

In the morning, a glimpse of the horizon revealed white sails. By noon, a ship filled our harbour. It’s hull was enormous before me, and the sails stretched up like clouds, too large to have come from anywhere but the north.

Ever since my mother died, we had known that my father might come for me. We might have known from my birth and it would not have made it easier. My cousins cried. My aunt kissed me and said it wasn’t right, that seven was too young to be taken from my homeland. And from my family. They made me promise never to forget the land of my birth.

They need not have worried. I would not forget the southlands. We may forget a place we have been, but never a place that has been us. I could not have forgotten the land whose cold rivers ran in my blood and whose stones and iron formed my bones.

No, I would not forget them. But neither, in the end, would I weep in remembrance. The southlands were my heart and body, but to the north lie my heart and soul, for I am of it as well. I was not leaving all that I was. So I cried, too, when they told me I was going away, but the tears lasted only as long as the soil beneath my feet. Out on the waves, the shore vanished quickly behind us. I pointed myself with the ship, and it went where the winds took it. To the North.

It was not a long voyage, and though I had little companionship, I was not yet lonely. My heart was filled enough with coming and going, with hello and goodbye. It was long enough ago that in my mind it has become one long, sunny day. The sailors found me a wild child, and were half frightened. Northern children, I would learn, restrain their most primal curiosity from an early age. The crew, the few passengers, and even the merchant my father had asked to bring me to him all set me to govern myself. I ran and I climbed, heedless of splinters or falls, though I had many of each, loving the sea spray even when it stung my eyes and skinned knees. At midday I would sometimes fall asleep on the salt soaked, sunny deck, cradled by the waves crashing beneath me.

The sun grew hotter each day that we travelled. We made good time, and I remember wondering, vaguely, where the South turned into the North. I expected something to happen when it did. A lightening bolt, a clap of thunder signalling our passage. A change in the colour of the sea and sky -- At the very least, some magical gate dividing the one from another. But there was no clear line. The two blended together, like hello and goodbye, like coming and going. It’s a strange feeling, one I’ve come to know well. In my memory, it still tastes like salt and smells like sea air.

Our Summer

Crickets. Cicadas. Lightening Bugs. Fireworks. Mist Rising From the River. The Arch Enshrined in Fog. Thunderstorms. Hail. Newspapers in the Pool. Hibiscus Flowers in Full Bloom. Mimosas. Cave Swallows. Beach Towels. Mildew. Yards Littered with Leaves. Streets Strewn with Branches. Cool Breeze. Hot Sun. Grown Up Ducklings. Blue Herons Casting Long Shadows.

St. Louis Hurricane

In the wee hours of the morning I awoke to another St. Louis Hurricane, where wee hours of the morning equal 11 am and and St. Louis Hurricane equals rain and 84 mph winds. Once in one of these storms the table got picked up off our deck, torn from it's base, and thrown like a frisbee though two yards of trees, coming to rest by the shores of the lake. I'm a pretty deep sleeper, but what woke me was the screeching of heavy metal* chairs being dragged across the pool deck and cast into the waters below. The trash can, too. Newspapers are now floating around in the pool like flotsam and jetsam...

* - Bad and initially unintentional pun

O Canada!

Hey! Do you all remember where I was supposed to be this week?

That's right! Canada! Cool, wet, 75 degree Canada!

Eheu!