Not Famous

When I was little, and even sometimes now, I wanted (and still sometimes want) to be famous. I always would like to be known as this famous writer, or someone inspiring to people my age.

And then I look at my family.

My mom isn't famous, but she's one of the most important people in my life, and my grandma is the nicest person you'll ever meet. My brother is hilarious, and my dad is artistic. People before me worked hard for their food, and went through things I'd never imagine going through myself. I always catch myself looking at their pictures and just being grateful for who they are, and who my family is.

Sometimes, not being famous can be a good thing. Isn't it so scary, and so creepy, that there are so many amazing people out there that nobody knows about? I like to call this The Perks of Being Not Famous. Because they are perks. Most of you guys' (I think that's not gramatically correct. Then again, who cares?) blogs that I read are so interesting, and I really wonder why you're not famous.

All in all, it's a mixed emotion, because I'd love to be known by the world as someone influential. It's like the song Beverly Hills, because he says he wants to be famous, but deep down, he knows he doesn't belong with the celebreties. I don't want to be a celebrety, exactly, just a writer. Someone who tells stories.

...Do you want to be famous?

Jump

Today I was painting in art, blending my blues and whites together to make everything look smooth and softened in the light. And then I see the girl next to me, watching me, smiling. She had been doodling in her notebook, but now her pencil was on the table, and she and another girl close by were watching me blend my colors together, as I now moved to black, darkening things, moving along, my hand speaking a language that only it knew best.
"What?", I had said, smiling at her.
She shook her head, watching with big brown eyes as I made swift movements with the paintbrush, almost like painting little feathers, or clouds.
"You're fearless when it comes to painting. You don't seem to need to make sketches or plan ahead. You just trust yourself at that moment, and keep going. I don't do that, I don't think I could. I'm always going slow around the edges, getting the details just right. That's why I like watching you paint. You're just in the moment."
I didn't tell her this, or anyone, but kept smiling as I bent my head down again to my work. But secretly, I'm a perfectionest, with my hair and skin, as well as my writing and school work and art. I analyze everything, agonize if I'm doing something right. But, funny... I guess I don't look like that. It made me feel secure, confident, that everyone else thought I was cool, calm, and collected when it was just the opposite.
But I'm not going to tell anyone that. Instead, I'm going to really try to be fearless, and just jump.

When Life Begins for You

You know, I really hate vacation weeks. Weekends are different. On the weekend, your parents have it off, too, so you can actually go places (to those who can't drive yet, like me). I'd even settle for the grocery store right now. Or the bank. I just need to get out of the house.
I just do not like routine things (although getting out of them can be a transition, if that makes sense). I change my routine a lot, and I don't like change, but want it, and need it, or I'll go insane. I can't explain it. Like, I don't know how people can just do the same thing day in and day out. I mean, instead of going to the store in the morning that you always go to, why not change it and listen to music and sing and dance while doing the dishes, or folding the laundry, then go to a different store instead of the same one every time? You know? I mean, change is good for you. And seriously, there might be something better than what you already have. I always tell myself this.
Like yesterday, my mom had planned to do errands, so I went with her, but instead got pulled to the little shops in town. We basically just walked around in the bright sunny morning and spent some money on ourselves (and told nobody else!). We went to Barnes & Nobles, and took pictures with our cell phones of funny pictures in the books, sending them to my brother. It was nice.
Speaking of getting out of routine, I just filled up my schedule with two art classes and dropped two studies. I know, I know. Most people would kill for a study, but I don't know. Ever since art ended last semester, I've been restless and frustrated, feeling like I did nothing all day. So, what the heck. I got rid of my studies, and only have one now every other day. But I think it's worth it. And besides, my new friend is in the class, and she let me sit at her table with two other girls, filling me in on everything (because I came into the class late). The other girl is super nice, so I think it's a good thing that I chose art.
I just might find something better. And also, which would you rather have?:
a) No homework, but nothing to do
b) Homework, but knowing you just had a day filled with art and friends
You decide.

Sticky Notes in A Bathroom Stall

Yeah, this title has significance. I've always wanted to take a pad of colorful Post-Its and cover a bathroom stall in my school with them. With messages. Little blurbs here and there. Just to leave my mark in a way that nobody else would know was done by me, you know?
I was tagged by Cassidy (The saga of Another American Tweenager) to play Would You Rather? And it's funny, 'cause I love what ifs. It's, like, another language I'm fluent in :) So, here I go...

Fabulous dancer or amazing singer? Singer. I'd love to scream some rage into a microphone, if I knew how to.
Potato or carrot? Potatoes are my favorite food, so a potato.
Window or a door? Window. There are endless possibilities you can do with a door. Open it. Look out it. Smash it. They, like I said before, are keys to other people, and that is incredible.
Glue gun or a roll of duct tape? Well, duct tape smells nasty, so a glue gun.
Guitar or drums? I'd rather be a guitar, because they make "the heart fly away, sharing the music of magical love".
Spoiled brat or a homeless person? Spoiled brat.
Truck driver or sailor? Sailor. The ocean is something I couldn't live without.
Dog or cat? Cat, because they're sly, lanky, and have an option to sun bathe all day long. Lithe and elegant creatures.
Motorcycle or car? Car. Well, a truck actually.
Super popular but cliche person or an unpopular but better person? Unpopular, quirky, and a mystery any day. Shallow girls turn into dust when high school's over, in my opinion.
Tooth or toenail? Toenail. They can be painted. True personality.
Stuffed animal or action figure? I'd rather be a stuffed animal, because bear hugs in the middle of the night when someone's scared are always nice.
Cell phone or credit card? Cell phone. I love gossip, even though I don't spread it.
Famous actress or artist? Artist. No question.

Okay, I'm doing this differently, but I'm tagging everyone that reads this. So here you go :)

Now, I decided to create my own questions for a tag. Here they are, you can all copy and paste them and tag whoever.
1. What is your all-time favorite song and why? What makes it so amazing?
2. Have you ever been in love? What do you think makes someone in love with someone else?
3. Have you ever thought/dreamt about someone and saw them the next day somewhere random?
4. Where is your haven?
5. Do you believe in fate/karma?
6. If you were to get a tattoo, what would it be of and why?
7. Have you ever lit a candle to wish for something?
8. What is the craziest thing you've ever eaten? (It can be ANYTHING.)
9. What do you want to be when you grow up?
10. What will you do differently with your life than what your own parents did?

The Painter and A Poet

When all else fails, I can fall onto the attic. Because in that attic, it really is a magical place. I call it home, and I'm never gonna leave it. Purposefully places items, secluded hearts that have incredible stories to tell, everyone huddled together, where we all think beautifully. I can be beautiful, too. But not gourgeous head-over-heels beautiful. It's not something seen, but something felt. Something you can't quite explain. But it's there. My hands tell the story for me well.

Drooping Leaves

{I don't care about impressing you. Let me be.} Today an artist told me I have natural talent. "Your work is tenative", he said. "You're going to be an artist someday, you know that, right?" I nodded. "You're going to be an artist for the rest of your life." Whenever he said this to me again, I couldn't help but feel sick to my stomach. But in a good way. Because when he says it, I know he's not lying. He doesn't give out compliments for nothing. "You're not here to make pretty pictures all the time", he said, "You're here to learn from your mistakes. Be crazy, because it's the crazy people that make a difference."

...

To me, painting and art in general is another world for me to explore, to touch and make my own. I love just sitting around, the radio blasting in the background (for some reason when I draw, only tropical-y music is good. Or some classic rock), I feel nothing except my fingers warming up under the pressure against the paper. I don't feel worried. My brain's not going at a hundred miles an hour. All I care about is what I'm drawing or painting. I love the rich smell of the oil paints on my pallet and the presise line an ebony pencil can make. If I didn't have any love or skill to write, I think I would marry a paintbrush. Or even a pencil. I think that when you love something that much, that you'd be willing to do whatever it is for four hours straight, it has to be a good thing.
Right?

Take Me to the Place I Love

Today in art class we had to draw a sketch of a bike. It was spray painted baby blue with the rust peeking through in some places and propped up on a desk, one of those old-timey bikes that you'd see the paper boys riding around on in the neighborhood, tossing papers at people's doors. My teacher said we could draw any big of the bike we wanted, the handlebars, spokes, crank, anything. As we huddled around the bike with the lights off (better to see the shaded areas), I couldn't help but feel so vivid and alive. And whenever I moved my head a bit, I'd be able to see pieces of the other kid's faces as they searched the bike like I was.
Because every part of the bike made me think of something in my life. The handlebars made me think of a girl in my class who used to always sing, "I can ride my bike with no handlebars". Over, and over, and over.
The tires made me think of my brother when he was little, always burning out in the driveway, killing the rubber on them.
The peddles and spokes make me think of him.Nobody else was ever allowed to ride his bike. It was a black BMX bike that he had built himself with Christmas money and extras here and there over the course of the year. Nobody was allowed to touch it, and whenever he was done riding it, he'd run his hand over the frame carefully, checking for sand or anything that would scratch the paint.
Only once he let me ride it. Just handed it over to me, and switched bikes with me so I could ride his. I was surprised by how lightweight it actually was overall (25 pounds), yet so sturdy. I gripped the grips, the warm rubber pressing against my palms, as I rode home with him slowly and carefully, feeling all fluttery and excited inside. I felt special. Liked. It's an incredible feeling, knowing that someone would choose you over the rest of them.Back in the classroom, the darkness soaking into my skin, remembering all these things makes me happy and teary all at once. It's funny how just one object, one snapshot of your life can take you back to the place you love. Again. Again. And again.