Feeling

Sense no. 1: Feeling. (Where there are areas that go ..., that is where I decided to skip over a couple paragraphs, just so I don't ruin the book for you in case you might want to read it.)
"'...You don't have hair.' Thandi points to Liz's head which is completely bald except for the earliest sprouts of light blond growth.
Liz strokes her head with her hand, enjoying the odd smoothness of it. What hair there is feels like feathers on a newborn chick. She gets out of bed and looks at her reflection in the mirror. Liz sees a girl of about sixteen with very pale skin and greenish blue eyes. The girl, indeed, has no hair.
'That's strange', Liz says. In real life, Liz has long, straight blond hair that tangles easily.
'Didn't you know', Thandi asks.
Liz consideres Thandi's question.
...'Hey, I've got weird things, too.' Thandi raises her canopy of braids like a theater curtain. 'Ta da', she says, revealing a small but deep, still-red wound at the base of her skull.
...'How did you get that?'
'Don't remember', says Thandi, rubbing the top of her head as if she could stimulate her memory with her hands. 'It might have happened a long time ago, but it could have been yesterday, too, know what I mean?'
Liz nods. Although she doesn't think Thandi makes any sense, Liz sees no point in arguing with the crazy sorts of people one meets in a dream.
'We should go', Liz says.
On the way out, Thandi casts a cursory glance at herself in the mirror. 'You think it matters that we're both wearing pj's?', she asks.
Liz looks at Thandi's white nightbown. Liz herself is wearing white men's-style pajamas. 'Why would it matter', Liz asks, thinking it far worse to be bald than underdressed. 'Besides, Thandi, what else do you wear while you're dreaming?'
~ from Elsewhere by Gabrielle Zevin, p. 11-13

Whereabouts

Okay, so this "cleansing of my soul" thing has given me an idea of finally what to say to all of you.
I just love this picture, first of all, because it's of the ocean (a must), and second of all, this is exactly what I love to do. I'll just dip my head under the water and let the hum of the swirling water take over my thoughts, while my hands are still above water. It's weird, that wet verses dry thing, where the rest of you is cool and surrounded by liquid, yet your hands are still dry from the hot sun overhead.
So, that's where I got a blogging idea. The senses.
We use them all the time, and it's usually those five feelings we feel every minute of the day that make the best stories, and uncover the deepest of things. I mean, really, memories are the senses bundled up in a cute little care package.
You childhood? Well, it's the taste of apple juice and Cheerios, and the smell of freshly cleaned blankets wrapped around you when you're sick.
School is that feeling in your legs that makes you jittery. And don't forget the texture of school meatloaf. A classic, and a really bad stereotype.
The carnivals that we've all been to are made up of tired, sore feet from walking around all day, a dark sky lit with fireworks, and the smell of fried dough, and the whispy feeling of cotton candy, and holding onto your friend's sweaty palm on a scary ride.
The five senses are what make us human.
I have some amazing quotes that I'll be posting everyday all week long, dedicated to the five senses (touch, taste, smell, sound, and sight), and not necessarily in that order.
Hope you like it, I'm posting the first sense tomorrow!

Never Too Late

That's one thing I can never seem to figure out: Is it ever too late? If you think about it, it really all depends what you're talking about. Some things should just happen because they need to. Other things seem able to be dug up, again and again, poked at, scribbled out, and fix yet again.

... For example, my writing. That's the cool thing about writing; you can leave a story for months and then come back to it to find it still the same, perfectly preserved.

Yes, it's a second chance.

Wishing

I definetly recommend this book that I'm about to quote. Seriously, this book was funny and heartbreaking all at once. It's like no other book you've read before, I'll guarentee you that. Even though it's written from a boy's point of view, I can still relate to this story. Here you go:

"'I wish..." She starts, then shudders because she's crying. 'I wish it was the summer, Albert.'

I wish it was the summer, too.

I shake my head.

'It'll never be the summer again, Mia.'

'Can we pretend it is, just for tonight?', she asks.

I don't say anything at first, too much is going through my head, I'm confused, and it's not until I look up at her when I realize...

'Okay', I say. 'Hi, Mia.'

I try to say it cheerfully, but she frowns at me.

'That's not how you did it when we first met.'

'I don't follow.'

She raises her right hand, palm out, and stares at me gravely.

'How, Albert', she says.

I raise my hand, too.

'How, Mia.'

~ from Stop Me if You've Heard This One Before, p 372-373

Smile and Nod

Nothing much to say today.
Feel like a little kid.
I want to stay that way.
People are innocent, and life is simple.
At least, it is today.
No more thinking, please.
I just want to smile at this kitten, log out, and bundle up in a blanket in the living room with hot tea.
See you later, alligator :)
(If you're confused by my weird post, just go with it. I'm too happy and whimsical right now to think.)

Fighting for Life

I was looking through Hope Was Here today, just flipping through it, when I found this on the first page I started reading:
"A man shouts from across the room. 'G.T., how are you going to handle the stress of campaigning and being mayor if you're fighting for your life?'
G.T. leans against the dessert case across from the register. 'Because I'm more interested in living than in dying. And I want to bring as much healthy change into this town as I can before I go. I'm a short-order cook, Morgan. I always do more than one thing at a time.'"
~ from Hope Was Here by Joan Bauer, p. 37-38
...How inspiring is that?

Forget-Me-Nots

Jade's advice for the day:

Speak, and you won't be forgotten.

( In other words, you won't be lost in a field of forget-me-nots.)

Stella

Usually, I can't ever find something that looks like a scene I've pictured in a book. Usually, when a movie comes out that is a book, I'm always dissapointed by the scenes and the people because they're not what I pictured (unless I watch the movie first, then read the book). But this picture, this is exactly what I picture Stella's garden in The Truth About Forever looking like:

I love this garden. It reminds me of summer, and the trees with the sun poking through, ohmygod, I'm taken back to a couple years ago. Isn't it so amazing, for a picture to bring back memories, laughter, or even anger? (Someday, I'd love to try out photography... someday...)

Here's a little excerpt from The Truth About Forever, just to see what I mean about this garden:

"Everything in the garden felt so alive. From the bright white flowers that reached out like trailing fingers from dripping branches overhead all the way down the short, squat berry bushes that lined the trail like stones, it was like you could feel everything growing, right before your eyes. I kept walking, taking in clumps of zinnias, petunias, a cluster of rosebushes, their bases flecked with white speckles of eggshells. I could see the roof of the doublewide over to my right, the road to my left, but the garden seemed thick enough to have pushed them back even farther on the periphery, as if once you entered it moved in to surround you, crowding up close to hold you there."

And then here's my favorite part, the part about the owner, named Stella:

"...I found myself at the back of a sculpture. It was a woman; her arms were outstretched to the side, palms facing the sky, and lying across them were slim pieces of pipe, the ends curving downwards. I moved around it and stood in its shadow, looking up at the figure's head, which was also covered in the thin, twisted pipes, and crowned with a garland made of the same. Of course this was one of Wes's, that much was obvious. But there was something different, something I couldn't quite put my finger on. Then, I realized that the sclupture's hair and those bits of pipe it was holding all ended in a washer bisected by a tiny piece of metal: every one was a flower. Looking at it from the top, where the moonlight illuminated those curling pipes, to the bottom, were the sculpture's feet met the ground, I finally got that this was Stella, the entire figure showing the evolution of that thick, loamy dirt moving through her hands to emerge in bloom after bloom after bloom."

I like to call this "The Evolution of Stella". Mostly because of the description, this is my favorite part of the book.Wouldn't you just love to walk through a dark garden only lit by the moon, in the middle of the night? Somehow, I think flowers would look more beautiful during this time than ever.

The Key to Everyone

Honesty, to me, is the key to every relationship, small or big, insignificant or important. It's what makes people come together. Trust is what makes you lean into someone, knowing they won't let you fall, like those games that we all played when we were little with our friends. It's what allows you to curl up on your bed, feet pressed up against the wall, pouring your heart out to that best friend, or to laugh so hard with them that your stomach hurts. Or vise versa. It allows you to scream at someone without feeling tense. Honesty is a key to other people. Without that, people never get to know each other.I can honestly say I'm honest with every person I meet. Some people I might tell less to, but it's all the truth. Minus white lies, but everyone does that... right? At least, I hope so. White lies are necessary, just not for the big stuff.

I have a feeling this is a Shel Silverstein poem. Why? Because Shel Silverstein books are always black and white, and the drawing looks like it's in pen, like always, and it's sketched out, not perfect. I love his poems, they're funny and simple, and not so heavy (unlike my own writing, ha ha). My dad got me a Shel Silverstein book when I was little, and it's still on my shelf. I just might pull it out tonight...

A message to HER: I'm honest, and even if you're not, I'm going to continue to be honest with you. Because that's what you're supposed to do. If you can't come around and tell me why you hate me, then I'm sorry for you. Sometimes, the truth just hurts. See ya.

Peace

Inner peace, I always thought, is feeling, well... peaceful. Shoulders slackened, eyes heavy, while in a perfect yoga pose. Well, not the last one, but you get what I mean. I've always thought that inner peace was only possible if your mind was blank. But that's impossible. That's what I've learned this weekend. Inner peace (in, ahem, Jade translation) is being able to still feel happy even through the chaos in life, and to be able to laugh even when inside you're a little weak. Being able to cope through this, I think, is inner peace. So now, my goal is to be able to take in the small things and not fall apart. Now, inner peace (or peace at all) doesn't so bad. Or scary and intimidating. Doesn't peace sometimes make you feel like that? Pressured to never mess up?I always feel like I'm going to meet this incredible person, someone that will turn my world upside down, and change my point of view and outlook on life. But really, how often does that happen? So now, I'm not going to think about this need of someone that I can tell things to. Not at all. Instead, I'm going to let the universe, or whatever else is out there, take my tiny problem into its hands instead of balancing all my worries on my own. What will be, will be. What won't, won't. And I'm almost positive that that is inner peace. (Have any suggestions for an upbeat post? Maybe I'll add some inspiring arts-y pics, or tell you random funny things about myself or inspiring things. I dunno. I need input. Thanks!)

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?

Small Talk

(Apparently, this is a quote from The Cure in a song called Just Like Heaven, up in the picture above. Info from: WeHearit.)

Dear You, I guess you're pretty angry at yourself, right? People just don't get you like you wish they would. And honestly, you assume it's you that's the problem. You're the different one, the person people don't understand. Why don't you change? Right?... Wrong. You're very wrong. Because if you changed yourself to be like everyone else, then it would be a crime to your soul. Lying to your own face. Trying to be someone else would be disrespecting yourself. It's like insulting the person you really are inside, hating yourself to the core. That would be the ultimate form of self-hatred. But lucky you, you're still you and still angry. Take angry any day. You'll thank yourself in the long run. Love, Your Good Old Conscience

Chamelean

The people I most love in my life are the people that I've originally hated when I first met them (not counting family, I love them always!). Weird, but true.

It happens when someone's bold, or laughing in front of me when I think they're laughing at me. Or if I think they're in love with themselves. And then afterwards, when I'm thinking about it later... I realize how wrong I am. Because that boldness? That's confidence. And the laughing? They're actually incredibly funny, so much that you have to keep yourself from laughing at everything that comes out of their mouths. And being in love with yourself... well, they have amazing self-esteem, so much they're willing to wear their hearts on their sleeves, and say what needs to be said. When I think about all of this, I start to think about how wrong I can be about someone. What do you know? Someone I first meet that I think is annoying... actually becomes one of my best friends :) My personality is somewhat like Remy from This Lullaby in a way... without the boldness (ha, ha). So far, I've misjudged (counts on fingers) at least nine people that I can think of right now. And here I am, always talking about judging people being a bad thing, when I do it all the time (hides face in shame). Have you ever misjudged someone as a bad person, when it turns out that they're really good?

Come Out, Come Out, Wherever You Are

These are the days that are perfect. It's when everything is so bright and sunny and uncovered after the winter, coming out of hiding, that makes it all so beautiful. (The title comes from the Wizard of Oz, when the Munchins are in Munchin Land, waking up in their little flower beds.)I love seeing everything for the first time after the winter; and it's funny how the memories always linger. Conversations come back to me that I've forgotten, the birds come back, the people come out.
On Friday I was itching to wear something summer-y, so I decided on a pale flowy shirt, kind of girly, not my style at all. So I decided to wear my Converse sneakers with it, and that just made it all seem more like me. It was kind of pretty, kind of not, and it was perfect. I haven't been this happy in awhile, and I swear I couldn't stop smiling just to see people walking down the street, saying hi. And talking just makes everything seem so much lighter, so much better. I only we could have school outside and near a stream, with a small blackboard for the teacher to write on, perched on a rock. We'd all be sitting on rocks, and then when lunch came around we could have a picnic. I swear, people would learn more because we'd actually be learning AND be outside.But you know what was really perfect about this weekend?
The fact that I can leave my window open at night when it's not too cold, and I can just sit on my bed and feel a cool breeze against my just-washed, still-wet hair. It reminds me of summer.
Sometimes I wonder, if spring is really my favorite season after all, and not winter.

Eccentric...Different

People are weird. I am silent.
I'm so sorry for not blogging more, it's just... sometimes, I feel like I'm always saying the same things all the time. And lately, I haven't really had anything to say. But I will say this:
Eccentric means odd, peculiar. It's one of my vocab words this week, and I can't stop thinking about it. I mean, I feel like that's what I'm like in a way. Not how I look, but how I think and act. A lot of people my age don't get along with me (not agressively, or anything). It's more of a passive thing. If I'm talking to someone, and they don't like my personality, they'll smile too much or talk to me like I'm five, their voices too cheery and forced. If someone does like me, though, they'll stay quiet, or become slightly sarcastic with me, only showing genuine smiles now and then. Because I love sarcasm, and even if someone's being sarcastic with someone else, and not me, I might laugh to myself. Because, really, I love dark, evil humor.
So, yeah, I might be eccentric because I love 60's rock and antique finds and celtic things. Or because I believe that everything happens for a reason. Or because I like learning but hate school. Or that I hate perfect, cliche moments, and crave that cute quirkiness in a person. Maybe it's my face, or no, my facial expressions.
But, whatever it is, I have eccentric qualities. But I'm not eccentric. I just like eccentric things. Or different things. Wow, now I'm confused. Forget it, forget I said anything. There, I'm different. Period.

Count?

Last night, I had a dream I was watching these two guys out my window. I was automatically intrigued in them, the way they walked, their smiles, the way they were walking right past my house. Normally (as in, being awake), I would have just watched them go, and then be done with it. But instead, in this dream, I ran outside and across the yard to meet both of them. I remember my heartbeat in my chest, rough. I remember feeling unbeleviably happy to see them. And I remember embracing them, and then walking along with them.
Now, why can't I be like that in real life? The one that counts.

A Perfect Pair

I feel like I've known these new friends of mine for years, all of us huddled around one big table in class. Every one of us is completely different, but we all fit together perfectly, like a puzzle.
The girl next to me, curly-haired, tall, and skinny, is like an old soul, someone who sees potential in everything and everyone around her, reaching out to take you in. She's kind of serious, kind of quirky, and she's one of the most real people I've ever met.
There's another girl across from me, dark-haired with a bubbly personality and a wide smile. She's the kind of girl who gets her nails done prefessionally and carrys around metallic-colored purses, with her dark cat-eye makeup. But she's also stubborn and sarcastic, nowhere near sweet. More like me.
And then the girl diagonal from me, the quietest of all of us, is the one I'm most fascinated with. Her appearance is striking, with bright red skinny jeans and jet black hair that clashes with her fale white skin. She's very thin, as well as tall, almost as if she were a model. But she's hidden and shy, and hates how she looks. She feels as if people are constantly looking at her, like she was ugly. But she's just the opposite. Her eyes are wide and a dark brown, and her skin is smooth, and her features are well defined and suited for her face. Today was the first time she spoke to me, but then again, actions speak louder than words, right?
All four of us, huddled around our one big table, were meant to be. Somehow, it all works out.

Dark Brown Locks

Out in the rain, in thick, wet sheets that make the hairs on your arms stand up, he leans over the porch, staring out into the dark, cold afternoon. His face is unusually flushed from the cold, and his hands are intertwined in one another, as he leans foward, staring out into that dark, cold afternoon. His hair is matted down and dark, a lot longer than usual, the strands drooping in his eyes, but he doesn't fix them. His eyes are heavy, lined with memories, on that dark rainy afternoon, and he doesn't want anybody to know they're there, but I can see through that, all his pain, hidden behind dark locks of deep brown hair. That's what he doesn't know.

Still Here

I've been thinking about a lot of things lately.
(...She looks motherly, yet like she's still breathtaking. That is beauty. It's not something you can apply to your face...)

I've been thinking a lot about my family, and the women in my family especially. I just wish I could have known them longer (or at all), talked to them about her life. Because it's not the same hearing stories without their own points of view, and insight. Isn't it wierd, that people go through their lives keeping secrets, or memories, and never getting around to sharing them?

I've been thinking about me personally, about my writing. I mean, seriously, I want to be a writer so badly, that when I hear someone tell me otherwise, I just want to scream.

I've been thinking about friends, and what it means to be one.

I've been thinking about love, and what it means to love someone. It's all so vague. Do I treat my family and friends well, or not?

I've been thinking about the "Real World", and how I can make it a place that doesn't give me wrinkles when I'm old. I don't want to tell people otherwise when I'm older; I really think that work and life can be beautiful if that's what you want to make it.

I need to study

to talk

to read

to write

to hug someone

to cry.

Yet, I'm still not doing any of those things. I'm still thinking.

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.