First Snow

Through my reflection in the window I could see the snow. It danced and swirled from the invisible heavens like a sea of tiny falling stars, bright in the pool of yellow light from the street lamp. I ran through the silent, creaking house, brushing light switches with my deft fingers as I raced down stairs and through hallways. The back door groaned open onto the whisper of softly falling flakes, delicate and fragile in their freshness. For the first time since April, my toes were cold against the wood. My outstretched palm was tickled by the first snow of the year, so barely snow that it vanished as it met my pulled-down sleeve, to be replaced by speedily vanishing water droplets that hesitated in my hair and on my sweatshirt. A finger dragged through the small collection of flakes on the stairs was instantly cold and wet, but left a satisfying trail through the whiteness. The cold night air filled my lungs and my heart with the kind of ecstatic joy that comes with new things, or things remembered, like the smell of the basement and of the opening box of hats and mittens. With the snow came memories of steep mountains and summer mornings on top of the world and castles from when I was small. Snow is winter and summer at the same time, it’s being stuck at home and being absolutely free under the Colorado sun, being warm and freezing simultaneously. It’s everything wonderful and beautiful and I want to hold that moment, the moment I stepped outside in my bare feet and extended my hands towards the bulky gray sky, I want to hold that forever, like the flakes I caught in my palms, but, like the fragile snowflakes, that memory too will vanish, and I will be forced to make new ones. New ones in the snow, to be remembered next year as I run outside and lift my eyes towards the wintry air, a year older, but no less thrilled.  

It's Been a Rough Week

It's been hard this week, yes. I started dancing at a new studio, which, while lovely for my mental health, has not been particularly good for my physical or emotional health. God help anyone who happens to encounter me and try to talk to me or to get me to move. Yes, my muscles are sore, no, I'm not religious, and yes, I'm certainly some kind of outcast/loser/friendless lonely person at this new studio. Most of the other people are on the competition team, so I'm a bit of a stranger. It's tricky. But it's good to dance. Follow me on Twitter @hsherwoodreid if you're interested in that kind of thing. Have a wonderful weekend! Maybe I'll post again after my choir concert, which people referenced in the previous post will be attending. :)

I Hate Love

Just love me. Yes, you, with the mismatched clothes and the kind of hair color that can’t be described. Yes, you with the acne on your chin and the beautiful eyes and perfect hands. I just want you to hold me in your arms and to tell me that I’m beautiful. I want to describe the way that our lips will meet and linger and I want to explain the magnificent way you look at me. I want you to whisper in my ear and kiss my neck and I want you to drive me home and tell me that you’ll miss me. I want you to call me in the morning just so you can talk to me and I want you to never want to cheat. I want you to tell me that you love me and I want to tell you that I love you too. I want to hold your big hands as we walk down the hallway and I want people to tell me that we’re cute together. I want to call you when I’m sad or lonely and I want you to make it all right. I want to take your face in my hands when you’re sad and I want to tell you that it’ll be ok and I want to kiss you to explain that it will. There’s something in my chest that aches for you. You’re the image of a perfect human being, despite your flaws. So maybe you don’t always do your homework, and maybe you sometimes get drunk, but I don’t care. It’s the flaws in people that make them wonderful, and I know that somewhere inside of you, you’re really good. So please, when you see me, talk to me and tell me about your life, or ask me a question, and I want you to see in my eyes that I love you, and I want you to realize that you love me back. And from there, and from then on, just love me. But you won't. 

Going Crazyyyyy

Since my decision to quit dancing with my old, corrupt studio, I've been struggling to find somewhere new to dance. I tried a new studio, but that didn't go over very well, and I'm looking at this other new studio. I talked to the manager, and he seemed like a great guy, but it hasn't opened yet. This means that a) I haven't danced in over two months, b) I'm going crazy (see a), and c) I NEED TO DANCE (see a and b). Apparently this studio should be open tomorrow (it is just opening), so hopefully, I will be dancing tomorrow. However, this lack of dancing is making me absolutely insane, crazily tired, and woefully evil. Today I said something quite horrible to this poor kid who sits next to me in AP Human Geography that I didn't even realize until the girl who sits on my other side commented on it. I don't even remember what I said. I think I'm going brain dead. BLECH. Maybe the next time I post something, you will be significantly more interested and satisfied since I will have something to talk about and I won't be absolutely crazy. I hope you're enjoying your dance-free day, just like me!

An English Assignment

On Friday, my English class was assigned to write a short essay similar to one called "Football," by Elizabeth Crane. I don't know if mine is any good, but I particularly enjoyed writing it. So I'm posting it. Tell me what you think, if you're interested, because I'm interested. Anyway, here it is:
In my next life I want to explain homecoming to someone, enthusiastically. I want to be able to explain football and cheerleading to my younger brother named Sam who will nod at me in awe as I explain the strangeness of high school to him and I want him to think of me as the coolest person alive just because I’m his older sister. I want to feel the same way about my older brother, Mark, when he tells me about grown-up stuff like trying to get into college and worrying about if our parents will find out about his secret girlfriend. I want to be the kind of girl who everybody kind of knows, through someone else, and I want to wear my school colors as often as possible and maybe I even want to be a cheerleader. I want to be invited to parties and say I don’t want to go because my parents won’t let me, but then I want to sneak out anyway wearing a skirt that’s too short and I want to lose my shoes at the party and rip my skirt climbing back through my window and have to tell my parents that I accidentally threw it all out. I want Mark to go to Harvard on scholarship because he’s forgotten about the secret girlfriend and because he is practically a genius and I want to go visit him and brag about it to all of my friends. I want to inherit my grandfather’s ancient blue pickup truck with a bench seat and I want to kiss the first boyfriend my parents let me have in that truck when I drop him off at his house after the homecoming game and I want him to say I can’t wait to see you even though I’ll see him tomorrow. I want to not worry about anything because I’m a teenager and I don’t care, and I want to be angry sometimes. I want Sam to suddenly become gigantically tall and to go missing on occasion and I want to wonder where my little brother has gone. I want listen to him argue with our parents and I want him to lock the door to his room and play loud music because he’s angry about how bland his life is, and I want him to come home smelling of smoke until our parents send him off to boarding school in Connecticut and I want to miss him terribly. I want Mark to introduce us to his girlfriend over winter break and then I want him to come home over the summer with a fiancée which surprises us all, and I want him to end up breaking it off because he wants to finish school before he gets married. I want the girl to be upset but to understand because she wants what’s best for him, and I want him to go to medical school and become a doctor. I want him to move to New York and live in a tiny apartment but I want him to be happy because he knows he’s saving people’s lives. I want him to call me and tell me when he has a hard day, like when he almost loses the girl who was in a car crash and whose face has been ripped to pieces by the glass, and I want him to cry even though he’s too old and a boy, but I want to tell him that it’s OK. I want our parents to be concerned because he doesn’t have a girl and I want him to tell them that he’s too busy and that it’ll happen eventually. I want Sam to finish high school and come home and be the smiling boy he used to be, because he’s changed back, somehow, and I want him to decide to not go to college because he wants to stay with our parents, and I want him to work at an auto repair shop and love it. I want him to then meet a pretty girl who brings her beaten-up Honda into the shop and for him to find her credit card and have to call her, and then I want them to end up falling in love. I want him to propose to her after a year of saving up all of his money to buy a ring and I want to cry at their wedding because my little brother is getting married. I want my mother to cry too and to have my dad rub her back and nod approvingly at my brother and I want my dad to tell him that he’s proud. I want to graduate from high school with decent grades and I want to go to a state school and realize that I really should have been working harder earlier in my life. I want to decide that I want to learn French and then I want to realize that I’m really into photography and that I want to see so many things, and then I want to spend a year traveling around the world with my camera and taking pictures of everything with my parents’ money because they’re glad I’m finally interested in something that’s actually important, according to my dad. I want to forget to graduate from college even though I really want to because I decide to become a photographer for international news. I want to get assigned to a war zone and I want to have to witness horrible things but I want to win some sort of award for my pictures. I want to meet a reporter in the war zone who happens to be a really nice guy and I want him to tell me that he’d take me out to dinner if there was anywhere to go. I want him to be named Nick and I want him to have kind of crooked teeth but for him to speak so beautifully that it won’t matter. I want him to be monstrously tall and have glasses and brown hair that refuses to stay flat. I want him to tell me that he loves me as we lie on his rickety bed in the half-light of early morning and I want to kiss him and tell him that I love him too. I want to decide to move back to the States together and to instead report in the nation’s capitol, and I want to spend a week getting lost in Washington, D.C. with him but not really care because we know we’ll find our way back eventually. I want to take him to see my parents and then when we get back home to our tiny apartment with one dusty thrift-store couch in the living room and a funny smell in the kitchen I want to open up my camera case and to find a ring sparkling beneath the camera. I want Nick to get down on his knee and ask me to marry him and after I splutter for a moment and say yes I want him to explain that he asked for my parents’ permission when we went to visit and I want to call Mark and when I tell him I want to be able to hear him smiling over the phone. I want to marry Nick while wearing the simplest white dress I can find and I want to be able to see my mother sobbing in the front row and I want my father to smile in the way that only fathers whose daughters are getting married do and I want him to gruffly wipe away the tears that threaten to slip into his moustache that I can’t stand. I want my best friend to be my bridesmaid and I want her to call me a week after the wedding and to tell me that she’s dating the best man. I want Nick’s older brother’s four-year-old daughter to be my flower girl and I want her to wear pink because she refuses to wear any other color. I want to move into a slightly bigger apartment and to buy a slightly newer couch and I want there to be a slightly less funny smell in the kitchen. I want to spend the weekend painting our bedroom and I want to end up having a paint fight and I want Nick to be pulling flecks of paint out of my hair when I wake up in the morning on the couch because we don’t have a bed yet. I want to fall into a happy, married routine in which Nick leaves me wonderfully written, slightly dirty love poems in the kitchen drawers and I want to have a too-big table with two mismatched chairs where we eat breakfast and dinner. I want to take beautifully lit pictures of him while he’s sleeping and I want him to become an editor and have to buy a suit because the one he wore at our wedding wasn’t his. I want to go to the park by myself one day because I have nothing else to do and I want to swing on the swings and to realize that I desperately want children. I want to get pregnant and smile as the other women at the grocery store stare at my protruding belly and murmur supportively. I want Nick to tell me to quit my job because he can support us now and I want to protest but eventually give in. I want to have a son who we name Andrew and who looks at me like he knows everything and I want him to wave his tiny fists in the air. I want to paint the room that used to be my office blue and I want him to beg for one more story when I tuck him into his rocket-ship covered bed at night. I want him to run from his room to our apartment door when Nick gets home and I want Nick to scoop our tiny boy up in his arms and to kiss me as he sets our son down and I want Andrew to make a face when we kiss and I want to not care. I want Andrew to complain about eating his vegetables at dinner and I want to almost cry when I watch him go off to kindergarten. I want Andrew to play soccer and I want him to be good. I want to start a photography business when I realize that I’ve read almost every book in the library by our apartment, including the non-fiction ones and I want to love cradling my camera between my hands again. I want Andrew to become remarkably good-looking and I want him to be the kind of boy that the middle school girls watch longingly from the stands as he plays soccer on the field. I want him to be on varsity and to yell at me when I tell him he can’t go to practice because he’s failing his classes. I want him to almost not graduate from high school but to end up going to college anyway because he’s an incredible athlete. I want him to take a nice girl to prom and I want to take beautiful and heart-wrenching (for me) pictures of him standing in front of the school with his arm slung casually around her waist. I want for Nick and I to start sleeping in different rooms when Andrew leaves because things just aren’t the same anymore and I want to remain loyal only because Nick is the same nice guy he was when I met him and I just wouldn’t be able to deal with the guilt. I want to wonder whether I should have had more kids, and I want to go to the grocery store and feel sad because I’m only buying groceries for two people again. I want Andrew to finish college but end up playing for the US soccer team and I want to him to go to the world cup and I want to cheer for him in the stands even though he loses. I want hold my mother’s hand as she dies of old age and I want my father to die two weeks later after he breaks his hip and is in the hospital anyway. I want Andrew to become the manager for the soccer team after he can’t play anymore and I want him to end up married to a Hollywood star who I don’t really like but tolerate because I’m glad he’s happy. I want to cry at his wedding because my little boy is all grown up and I want to clutch Nick’s hand and I want him to pat me affectionately as tears gather in his own eyes. I want Nick to divorce me after admitting that he’s been seeing the secretary at the paper and I want to not really care because I more or less saw it coming. I want to keep the apartment and my camera and I want to enjoy being single and free and in charge of my own life. I want Nick to die the week after Andrew’s daughter turns ten of anything but cancer or a car crash and I want Andrew to tell me how much he loved Nick, and I want to agree. I want to spend the next year taking pictures and trying to sell them in art galleries and I want to visit my brothers and I want to feel old and tired. I want to fall asleep one night in the bedroom that I painted with Nick after having eaten dinner with Andrew and his family and having called Mark to tell him about the sky that evening and I want to die quietly without any tearful last goodbyes or heartfelt last words, and I want my obituary to be written by one of Nick’s old friends and I want Andrew to find the letter I want to write to him about how proud I am of him. I want my next life to be simple and poignant and I want it to be calm enough but I want to struggle a little bit so I remember that everything isn’t easy. I want it to be beautiful, in the end, and I want to recall the curve of Nick’s shoulder and the way Andrew once fit into my arms as I fall asleep on that last night, and I want to be able to tell people that once, I went to homecoming, but that it wasn’t nearly as important as everything else.

I'm One Messed Up Kid

For some reason I’m suddenly convinced that none of this is real. No, I’m not high or drunk, because I’ve never touched any of that stuff. Well, as far as I know. The darkness behind my eyelids seems far more real than these keys that my fingers appear to be tapping away on. I’m somehow convinced that it is not nine fifty-two on this Sunday night, and I’m strangely certain that my nausea is false. I don’t know where I really am, or what’s really happening, but I am almost certain that none of what is happening right now is real. This feeling of being trapped is fake, the way that I almost feel like I’m going to vomit is unreal. It’s not true that I’m pressured beyond belief, and the boy who captivates me certainly does not exist. I don’t know what’s happening to me. Maybe I’m cracking- under the pressure and all. Or maybe none of this is real. When I was little (if I was little), I imagined that none of this was real and that instead we were all the dream of a giant, who was temporarily sleeping. Unfortunately, it didn’t help with my shyness or my fears or my extreme lack of self-confidence, and it doesn’t help those things to think today that this is all faked. Although if it is, I don’t know what or who I am, but it would mean that I wouldn’t necessarily have to turn in my newspaper article on Tuesday. Which sure as hell would be nice. 

Home Again

I returned home from camp yesterday, and feel.... well, rather upset, to tell the truth. I hate leaving everyone who I love so gosh darned much. I don't really know what to say about it at this present moment, so I think this will be all that I will write today. But I have returned! Expect more soon.

HARRY POTTER AND THE SUMMER CAMP

I really suck at getting on here regularly. Oh, well. I leave for camp on Friday, which happens to be JULY 15th, the day....
THE FINAL MOVIE OF THE HARRY POTTER ESTABLISHMENT PREMIERS!!
And guess who's going, at midnight, to watch this movie? That's right, me. It's going to be the best day ever. I probably won't get back on between now and then, so have a wonderful summer!

I Know I Already Talked About Learning New Things...

But I just came inside from coloring with...GLOW IN THE DARK CHALK.And it's basically amazing. It actually, legitimately glows! If I could take a picture, I would. But it doesn't work so well, seeing as it has to be dark outside for the chalk to glow, and it's basically impossible to take a picture in the dark without a flash. So I suggest you buy some for yourself. BECAUSE IT'S AWESOME. Now go and buy yourself some awesome chalk. Have a wonderful evening!

Learning HTML Editing

Today I was bored, so I decided that I would try to learn how to edit my blog using HTML editing. Just for fun, you know? So I Googled it and found a website that i could use. So then I spent an awfully long time trying to figure it out and am hoping and praying that this will look like a normal blog post, despite all the strange numbers and letters that i've had to put in here. we'll see!

What it Feels Like

I used to dance because it was exhilarating. I danced because it made me feel strong and powerful and beautiful. Dancing made me feel like, behind the shy, introverted girl that showed herself to the world, I was actually something special and different and alive. For a long time I danced like this. For six years, I danced because it felt good. But then something shifted; my world changed abruptly. New teachers were brought to me, and they were stricter and at the same time more helpful than my old one. These new teachers, alongside my old one, decided that they wanted us to perform. So we started working on “The Nutcracker.” I diligently gave up my Saturdays and my school friends to dance, but it already felt more like an obligation than something I actually wanted to do. I was given small parts. Important parts were given to me, sure, but they were still small. I worked hard and long, I tried to make them notice me, but I had become part of the ballet corps, the mass of people who aren’t all that important to the directors. I started to think that I wasn’t all that special or beautiful anymore. And when they looked at me and told me that I was wrong, I felt even worse. For a girl with low self-esteem, nothing can be worse than direct criticism. So maybe I didn’t do anything too wrong, but each correction was a blow, each harsh word a strike. But then I danced on the stage for that first show and felt amazing. I loved knowing that it looked right, that I danced well (even though I really didn’t). In that first show, I felt amazing again. I didn’t doubt returning to do a second show. I was given more mediocre parts, and the same girls were given the lead roles. My mom was mad, but I didn’t mind. It seemed to me that they were better dancers than I was. I worked even harder for that second show, once again paying the studio for me to give up my Saturdays and my friends. I didn’t mind so much, because I knew that I would get to dance again on that stage, even if I hated dancing up until that moment. I silently endured the pain of not being a favorite, of harsh criticism and long, long days. My bones would ache, my muscles would ache- even my face would ache. But still I worked hard, I worked because I wanted them to see how badly I wanted to perform. I didn’t care about my parts, but I wanted to dance more. I spent too much time sitting around. And then the show came again and I felt incredible. Adrenaline rushed through my body with every step, invigorating and exhilarating me. So I returned again, like an addict, to do “The Nutcracker” again. The same girls got the lead parts, and I started to get mad. Was there something wrong with me? Was I somehow not good enough? They pretended to notice me and gave me a slightly bigger part. A part that I shared with another girl and that they didn’t work with me on. I looked terrible. From my head to my ankles I looked fine, but my feet were awful. And they didn’t tell me how bad it looked. They didn’t tell me even once that I needed to make my feet look better. But later, after I’d learned that my feet just needed stretching, I made a comment about my bad feet and my teacher replied, “Well, you’re working on them.” Couldn’t she have told me before? If they were really that bad, that she couldn’t say even one good thing about them, couldn’t she have at least made a comment? But it felt good, even if it didn’t look good. The long hours didn’t mean anything, or they didn’t mean much, anymore, once I was onstage. So I walked back into the trap. I stepped eagerly back up to the plate, tying on my pointe shoes to audition once more. They put me back in the same place I’ve always been, returning the same girls to their lead positions. How can they do this when they advertise fun and caring environments? I go to class every day I’m expected to; I only miss a few. I go to every Saturday rehearsal, even though I spend a significant amount of time sitting around. I’m the understudy for Cinderella, but no one cares. It’s something just to make me feel good. It works, for a while. I start to get tired of begging out of every social event, every family dinner, because I’m obligated to go to dance. My feet hurt and my homework is done late at night. Sometimes the stress gets to me and I just cry. I blame it on other things when my mother comes wondering, because I want to get up on that stage. They don’t even look at me. I’m not a favorite, but I’m not disliked, either. It’s the same as school, now. I’m an introverted girl, afraid of doing anything wrong. I try and try to get noticed. I learn that my feet are bad and I stretch them. My solo still sucks and no one tells me. I work on it once alone with a teacher, the day before the show. It helps, a little. Summer begins before dance ends, so while everyone else is dancing in the sun, I’m dancing in a stark room in front of a mirror that reflects my every flaw. I spend so much time standing in front of that mirror, examining each inch of my body that is no longer special or powerful. I feel weak and ugly. I feel like I do the rest of the time. The only thing that saves me now is writing. I go to the theater and dance, but the exhilaration is not so strong, the feeling of freedom more limited. I move my hands and feet, but I know that it doesn’t look good, because no one cares what they look like. It feels nice for a while, until I see the video and I look like crap. I don’t understand why nobody told me. My teacher reproaches me for not selling enough tickets to a show everyone has already seen, and one in which I look bad. Now I’m given the opportunity to leave, to abandon this vicious circle. But, like a young woman returning to an abusive partner, I feel obliged to continue. It’s a matter of loyalty and pride. Would I be able to hold my head up, knowing that I’d abandoned them? I don’t know. I know that I won’t ever be the lead, that I won’t ever be beautiful enough for them. Loyalty is a strange thing. How can I leave now? After nearly ten years, two-thirds of my life, how can I just abandon a world I know so well? I’m torn, shredded, ripped to pieces.  I want to dance and I don’t want to. How can I be free when the very thing that sets me free is the thing that is the cage in the first place? All I want is to feel beautiful again. 

On Dance

While my previous post seemed to display my dislike for dance itself, I would like to assure you that this is not the case. In fact, I enjoy dancing as much as I ever have. My glee at not having to dance yesterday was a result of a number of factors that currently affect me at the studio. First, my teachers, formerly kind and gentle people with intentions only of providing a fun atmosphere in which to dance solely for the joy of it have become so engrossed in their productions that they no longer care about us as dancers. I respect teachers that are strict, and believe that many benefit from them, but my teachers seem to take an approach somewhere halfway in between their previous ways and those of traditional Russian teachers, which happens to be a horrible mix. For example, on Saturday, one teacher commented to my friend that she "couldn't tell whether or not she was trying to make her dancing look bad, or if she just had bad technique," after which trying to redeem herself by declaring her fondness for our entire class. Personally, I think they should choose one side or the other. They could choose to focus less on our massive shows and instead revert to the warm and fuzzy environment of the past, or they could create a more strict, intense environment meant for the serious dancer. Either one would be perfectly fine with me, as I would become a far better dancer under strict conditions, while I would enjoy myself more under less strict ones. In addition to their failure to create a workable studio, my teachers have failed to notice the anger that has been developing since last year, when the girls chosen to play "Clara" in "The Nutcracker" were chosen again to play Cinderella in our production of "Cinderella." The same two girls have gotten the same parts in "The Nutcracker" and "Cinderella" again this year, which is ridiculous. If my teachers wanted to create a good, welcoming environment for us to dance in, they would have given us all equal chances at becoming the leads, no matter our height or ability, as our height can be dealt with and our ability can improve with attention. In addition, while the girls who have received the leads have been excellent dancers, they are neither the most talented nor the best actresses, which are both important parts to leading a ballet. I have received almost identical parts in every show I have been in, which I wouldn't mind if it was clear that the other girls were far better than me, or if my teachers had a stricter environment for us to work in. However, as neither of these are true, my frustration has grown to a point at which I'm not sure if I will be continuing with my dance education with my studio. As much as I would hate to abandon the studio that has gotten me this far, and to betray my first teacher, I am not sure how much more of this I can stand. And my mother agrees. So while I will continue dancing, somewhere, after Nutcracker season I will be seriously considering my dancing options. I truly appreciate your tolerance of my angry rant recorded here, and express my hope that you can do what you love without fear or unhappiness. Yes... And have a wonderful day!

A World of Food and Love

I recently finished the book The Last Chinese Chef, by Nicole Mones. And I've decided that I am going to be a food critic, because I love food, and I love writing, due to the main character's profession. Her criticism of food also takes her to China (which would be amazing!) among other reasons. This book has made me feel a number of things, including very hungry. Mostly for Chinese food. In addition to provoking hunger, however, it incited in me a kind of longing for the sweet and simple, pure, plain love that seems to come only to middle-aged people. Oh goodness, I do love good writing. And good food, and good romance. Really anything that's good. Because good things are good! I wonder how many times I've used the word good. I dare you to use it more than me in five sentences. GO! And go enjoy your own writing, food, and romance.

Hum

I suppose that my last post was rather dramatic and unnecessary. I really haven't changed at all, but it was good to imagine that I had. Anyhow, life is rather uninteresting. It's filled with volunteering (at the museum of nature and science, which isn't bad), and dancing. After our production of Cinderella, again, next Saturday, I will be free to leave for camp (see http://dancingwritergirl.blogspot.com/2009/07/camp-here-i-come.html) on the 15th of July. Speaking of which, I get to meet a friend of mine on Facebook who I've never actually met but goes to my camp and whose mother has met my mother. So I assure you that he is not an internet stalker. Have a lovely afternoon. I'm sure I will... I'm not dancing :)

SUMMER!

School is out. Finally. It's time for heat and shorts and no work or obligations, freedom and friends. Oh yes, it's glorious. This summer, however, I have more obligations than I had realized. I will be dancing as normal (approximately 15 hours a week until June 18, the day of "Cinderella"), volunteering at the Museum of Nature and Science (hooray for science nerds!), babysitting, and trying to have a normal summer (hanging out with friends, staying up late, etc.). So. There's my summer for ya, until I leave for camp on July 15 (hurrah!). I'm actually looking forward to it, despite my moans and groans. Now I really ought to go enjoy the sun (while taking care to prevent skin cancer, of course). And you should too! Have a wonderful day!

An Inspiration

Once, when I was asked about an inspiration of mine,
I told them about you.
I told them about how much you love other people,
and about how strong you are.
I told them about how you never forget to tell me you love me,
or how you can't really be mean.
I explained to them that you give up so much to be with us,
and that you work harder and with more care than almost any other person I know.
I said that your words could fix so many problems, no matter how large,
and that your smiles are worth more than money.
And I told them that I felt like the luckiest girl in the world
just to have you.

The Little Girl Who Loved Her Mama

Once upon a time, there was a little girl who loved her mama very much. She loved to bake cookies and dance and read, because her mama loved these things, too. But then one day, the little girl started to grow up. She put her dolls and toys away, her baking sheets and fiction books; she worked more and played less. And when all of her child-ness was gone, so, too were her smiles and giggles, her open arms and listening ears. Instead, she was a whirlwind of math problems and Shakespeare books, late nights and long days, driving school and high school and dancing school. It seemed like there just wasn't time for her to be with her mama anymore. It started to seem, to her mama, like maybe the little girl didn't want to spend time with her mama anymore. So one evening, when the little girl had a moment of time, her mama told her how she felt. And in that very same moment of time, the little girl told her mama exactly what she had always said, and what she will continue to say for a long, long time. She said that even when she's busy, or grouchy, or tired, or far away, or angry, or sad...

that she will ALWAYS love her mama.

If I Have a Daughter

If I have a daughter, I want to be just like you.

I want her to be proud to call me her mama,

Because I am so proud to call you mine.

I want her to be able to find me in a crowd

Because I could find you in a second.

I want the smile on her face to grow when she sees me,

Because even if I don’t show it, there’s a smile somewhere when I see you.

I want to be her inspiration

Because you are so many of the things that I want to be.

I want her to point to me and say, “that’s my mama, and she’s the best one out there,”

Because it would be the truest thing I could say about you.

I want to tell her that I love her every single night,

Because not once have I forgotten that you love me.

I want her to learn things from me

Because I wouldn’t be half the person I am without you.

But what I want most is for her to see that her mama loves her own mama almost as much as she loves her. 

Mother's Day

It's mother's day in just two days, and I have yet to decide what I will give my mother this Sunday! I've written a few pieces that I am considering giving to her, but I can't decide what one I should give her, if anything at all. So I've decided to launch a... competition. For myself. More like an election. I'll post all of my poems/stories/whatever they ares as separate posts and put a poll on the side of this blog. If you would read them, vote for which one you think I should print and give to her (or if I should choose something else to give her altogether), and direct your friends and mothers to this blog as well to help me choose, you would probably be my favorite person in the entire world. Maybe. But you should do it anyway. Thank you oh-so-very much, and if you happen to be someone's  mother, a very happy mother's day to you!

p.s. The poll is kind of small, so make sure you vote! Thanks for helping me out here :)

Lessons Learned

I had it all planned out. He was going to perfect and we, we were going to be able to do anything. We were going to be able to climb mountains and save nations and fly. We were going to be magnificent, a glorious pair, wreathed in heavenly light and an aura of happiness. He was going to be the boy I dreamed of, the one who would lift me up and spirit me away, and we would laugh and talk about everything we had in common- and everything we didn’t. He was going to be intelligent and witty and make me laugh. My face was going to be sore because I had smiled so much. We were going to be the king and queen of our own summer world, filled with puddles of sunshine and little sisters and overcrowded swimming pools. I tell you, in my head, he was incredible. But then we walked down shady city streets and he told me about everything he’d done and the other girls he’d pretended to love. We meandered aimlessly down artificially lit, tiled hallways in the middle of the day and he talked about things I’d never even thought about doing and about how he wanted to kiss me. I nodded and grimaced while he talked, and he didn't notice. Everything I’d imagined was gone, carried away by his terrible teenage soul. I felt the canyon between us grow until we were so far apart that I couldn’t even see him anymore. I walked myself home, because I didn’t want him to know where I lived. I didn’t cry, because I didn’t feel anything. I just felt empty, like he’d pulled all the life out of me. I saw him again in a French class, where he pretended he spoke French by using the word orange. He moved away and I switched French classes and it didn’t matter anymore. All that was left was a strange concoction of a calm hatred and remorse and a feeling that I had learned something. And you know what I’ve learned? Don’t ever plan it out. 

By the Ocean

She watches the waves and thinks, I don’t belong here. And she doesn’t. She’s a city girl, or a mountain girl, but not this. Not the obtrusive exhalations of the sea, the salty spray or the writhing foam. No, she’s not made of heat and summer and smiles. She’s born from freshly fallen snow and grimy subway stations, from the whispers between the branches of the trees that never die and ruts in city streets. She longs to be free, but not like this. Not here, not now. Oh, no, she didn’t arrive here to feel the dirty sand squelch between her toes, to feel the wrongness in her body of the crashing of the waves. She’s not meant to feel the humid air press against her skin, her eyes, her mouth. She knows that her bones ache for the Rocky Mountains, for snow days and bus passes and Subarus and wildflowers. She can’t hear herself think over the ocean. With each swell she feels tightness in her chest, a longing, a pining, an aching for home. There’s nothing for her, even if everything was here. She knows where she comes from and that that’s who she is- everything she is. If she didn’t have that, she wouldn’t exist. And now she’s absolutely sure of it. 

While Trying to Forget

I watched the world through my camera lens until there was nothing left. Nothing but a rectangle of space, reflected light. When I looked through that space, it didn’t hurt anymore. The mysteries locked up somewhere inside my heart vanished with my peripheral vision, and the steps where I saw you last became just steps again. They were steps, with the light falling on them in such a perfect way. Perfect like the lightness of your hair, and the way you smiled. Perfect like the way you once told me I looked pretty. And in the second that the shutter was closed, in that darkness, I remembered you. I remembered just how awful it was that you were gone, and just how terrible it was that it was my fault. I remembered that it hurt, that it hurt so badly that I wanted to curl up and cry for days. I remembered that I hadn’t, because these are the things I keep stopped up in my chest, the things that stay there and make it hard to breathe. I remembered just how ridiculous it was for me to even think about you, because you are so far gone. I remembered that I probably won’t ever see you again, and that you won’t care. I looked at the picture I had taken and remembered that I had forgotten, for a moment, so I put the camera back up to my eye and tried to see the world again. I spent a long time staring through that tiny hole, but I still only saw your ghost, floating up the steps, haunting me. I felt one lonely tear streak down my cheek. I considered photographing it, seeping into the ground, but I didn’t feel like it. So I went home and sat on my bed and tried to forget, and ended up thinking about you more than I have since I saw you that day, on the stairs.  

Found Things

I found this poem by Shel Silverstein today:

I know you little, I love you lots,
my love for you could fill ten pots,
fifteen buckets, sixteen cans,
three teacups, and four dishpans


and decided that I really quite liked it. I also found that, when failing to perform my best,  I become so humiliated that I very nearly cry. That was my day today. I hope yours was considerably better. 

MY BIRTHDAY!!!!!

Guess what? It's my birthday. :) Yep, it's my BIRTHDAY! I'm fifteen today. Because I'm just that cool. That means I can drive... with my parents, but still. And I'm going to D.C. in three days for my birthday. I'm super insanely excited. We are going to go to the Newseum which will be amazing. It's a museum entirely dedicated to news. It will be fantastic. Jeez you have no idea how excited I am. Although I don't feel too different... But it's still my birthday! You should be excited, too. Just because. I'm going to go enjoy my birthday now. Have a magnificent day.

An Awkward, Antisocial Freak

Yes, that's me. An awkward, antisocial freak. Let me explain why. I would rather sit in my room all by myself and read a book than go to a party. I would rather take the long way out of school than to run into the crowd outside the main doors. I would rather watch videos on youtube than go to real concerts. I would rather write an intense story than experience one. In order to avoid meeting new people, I just don't talk to them. In order to make friends, I must be introduced. In order to keep away from crowds, I simply don't go to crowded places. In order to keep my pride, I don't talk to people, because I feel like I always say stupid things. Essentially, I would rather be a recluse than a celebrity, a hermit rather than a politician, a reader rather than a party-er, a student rather than a teacher. When you find someone equally as terrible as me, let me know. Because I'd love not to have to meet them.

Procrastination

I'm exhausted. I left my house at seven in the morning and didn't get home until nine. I played, as a JV tennis player, against V2 singles players and lost. And now I still have so much to do. But I'm procrastinating. The worst part is, I'm aware of it and am not doing anything. I feel like a horrible person, but I certainly do not want to do my homework. I really, really need to do my homework. REALLY. If my math textbook wasn't online, I would disconnect my internet. But it is, so the internet remains. Oh, terrible and wonderful internet. I hate you and love you at the same time. Whereas I only hate doing homework. I will abandon my love (and mortal enemy) to complete the one and only thing that I really truly hate. But I did want to read a new blog I heard about...

I'm Ditching Today

My friend Anna is here... from Montana. Guess how I know her? Camp. Oh yes, wonderful, lovely, amazing summer camp. I don't know what I would do without it. Her presence here today is allowing me to stay home today, otherwise known as ditching. Now, I'm not the kind of girl who would otherwise ditch class, since I really hate missing school, but I don't mind so that I can see my friend who I hardly ever get to see. And it sure is wonderful. I could stay up late reading my book (Snow Falling On Cedars, which is quite good, by the way), wake up at nine, sit around and eat food like a fatty and then sit and type this random post that no one will ever read. Oh, anonymity. I love it. I think I would cry if I ever became famous, because I cannot stand people looking at me. While I may gripe about no one ever reading this, the truth is that I would rather hide in the shadows than stand in the spotlight. Yeah.... Now I will go actually use my ditch day to spend time with my friend. Have a lovely day while I sit here in my house, not doing schoolwork. Ha. :)

BusyBusyBusy

I have been busy. Last week I had tennis every single week day, dance on Monday and Tuesday, a choir show on Thursday and Friday and dance again yesterday. This week will be essentially the same, except without a choir show and with a tennis match tomorrow rather than just practice. Wish me luck. I will probably lose. In addition to all of these exciting things, I watched Center Stage this weekend. By myself. Because I have no friends. Just kidding. But I did watch it by myself, and it was quite entertaining, for being a weird dance movie for losers like me (Glee reference there... didja get it?) and also for being a 90's movie in which they wear really terrible shoes. You should watch it, if you're into that kind of thing. And it's never a bad thing to look at some fairly attractive guys dance around for a while, although one tends to get rather sweaty. Aside from watching Center Stage on Netflix, today I studied. A lot. I studied my online driving course (online because it would be basically impossible for me to actually take a real course), I studied for my geography quiz and now know every country Africa. I am really sure that this knowledge will be useful to me one day (not), although it will be rather fun to tell people that I can find every single country in Africa on a blank map. That's what all the cool kids do, right? Maybe not. I also studied Julius Caesar for my English test on it tomorrow. Well, kind of. I am planning on skim-reading the entire thing quite quickly after I finish writing this. I probably should have studied more earlier. Oh, well. In case you haven't read Julius Caesar, allow me to give you my impression of the book:
Everybody dies (except for Antony and a few other random people of no importance). 
There. That's Julius Caesar. If only I could turn that in as my essay. That would make my life so much easier. Because that really is what happens....
Good-night!


p.s. If you have ever happened to see Center Stage, my dance teacher danced at the Kirov Academy with one of the guys when she was younger in D.C..... if you're interested in that kind of thing.

It's raining. Heck, it's snowing. I don't know what it's doing out there. Either way, it's about thirty degrees colder than it was yesterday (the highest temperature I recorded yesterday was 77). What a ridiculous state I live in, as it can be nearly summer one day, and snowing (snaining?) the next. Oh, and on a completely unrelated, ridiculously off-topic subject, I got some red color put in my hair yesterday. I think it looks lovely. I'm considering dyeing all of my hair that color, but I haven't decided yet. Now I have to go do my math homework since spring break ends in two days. You can say good-bye to regular posts then. And I will say good-bye to you.

I'm Sick

Someone decided that today should be the day that I get sick. On spring break. Thanks, whoever wished this upon me. Not only do I feel bad, but I am missing vital dance rehearsals and possibly (I am really hoping not) my friend's amazingly awesome 15th birthday party which will be on Saturday. Hopefully this... sickness thing will be gone by then. That would be great. However, at the moment, this guy:

has invaded my chest. And unfortunately I really doubt that my mother would be willing to go out and buy Mucinex so that he will miraculously be swept away. 

So, for now, I will sit here in bed and pretend that surfing the web and watching pointless videos on Youtube is not something that I always do. Charlie McDonnel (a.k.a. charlieissocoollike), here I come! 

Photos

So I decided that I quite liked putting that picture of my puppy dog on here yesterday, and was thinking that perhaps I ought to post some more of my favorite pictures. Not necessarily of my dog, just of stuff. I got a really good camera (a Canon Eos Rebel... something) for Christmas a few years ago, and tend to forget it when I need it most while I take thousands of pictures while I am bored out of my mind. Here are some of my favorites from recently: 

These are my quite dead pointe shoes, that, according to Mr. Pointe-Shoe-Fitting-Guy, are "terrible." I personally didn't think that they were that bad. Oh, well. They look nice in this picture. 

This is me, pretending to be "artistic" and meaningful. It didn't work too well. 

It's me again, taking pictures of myself in the car window while waiting for the door to be unlocked by my mother (I can't wait till I can drive!) 

This here is a picture of a wonderfully fantastic, deliciously amazing chocolate cake made by my aunt for my cousin's thirteenth birthday. Happy birthday, cousin! 

Those disgusting red converse there? Those are my favorite. I would wear them every day if my mother let me. Unfortunately, she doesn't. In fact, just about every week, she asks if I want new shoes. No, I DO NOT WANT NEW SHOES! I love those ones. 

This is my silly dog, looking like some sort of demented sea creature... or something. It's actually kind of a terrible picture. I don't know why I put it on here. Sorry. 

So. You have seen my pictures. You have learned about my fondness for chocolate cake and ancient, red, falling-apart converse. Now go take some of your own pictures. And, while you are at it, if you happen to have any photography tips, I am more than interested. Should anyone even be reading this.  So.... Arrivaderci! Au Revoir! Adios! 

Spring Break and Driving

Yes, it's spring break! I've been too obnoxiously busy with school recently- thus there have been no posts in the last week or two. I spent the last three days at the Broadmoor hotel in Colorado Springs, which was simply lovely. Apparently they let you bring pets, but we had to leave my dog at home:

Because he's absolutely horrid to other dogs. But isn't he cute? At this moment he's sitting atop a couch pillow in the sun. I don't question his odd behaviors. Anyhow, prior to leaving for the hotel, my dad decided he wanted to teach me how to drive (my 15th birthday is in less than a month and I'm hoping to get my permit by then!) so he had me sit in our silver Subaru in the garage for twenty minutes while I turned the key in the ignition and turned the windshield wipers on and off. It was super exciting (note the sarcasm). I was hoping to actually get to drive today but it seems that it is time for dance, so I shall go. Observe the adorable dog once more before leaving...... 

Ok good. I will post more later this week (provided there is something to write about)

Today

Observing other blogs, it has become apparent to me that my posts are far too long. Sorry. 

Waiting

Bare feet whisper across ancient wood

silent footprints in the dust. 

Tinny music filling up empty space 

pretending to break the quiet. 

Still air like an overprotective mother 

suffocating, oppressing. 

Hesitation and eagerness hang in a balance. 

Waiting

for something. 

 

New Things

My life has recently consisted of quite a lot of new things. On Saturday, I began rehearsals for Cinderella, which, while not exactly new, is different from what I had been spending my Saturdays doing. Not that my other Saturdays were oh-so-interesting, but they were at least spent at my house... in my room... not dancing. On Tuesday, I began playing tennis for my school team. Unfortunately, I fail miserably at tennis and have therefore been reduced to the JV B-team, which in no way lives up to my perfectionist expectations. I am determined, however, to do my best, and work hard to achieve higher than I am currently achieving (which really would be no trouble if I was any good at tennis). In addition to my troubles with tennis, following my struggles on the court on Mondays, Tuesdays, and Thursdays, I will attend up to three hours of dance class. So not only will I be attempting to complete homework for four honors classes, but I will also be struggling to play tennis and perfect a multitude of variations and dances for Cinderella. It makes me tired just to think about it. This week has also been the week of CSAPs, the Colorado standardized tests which involve an awful lot of sitting and completing work that is completely pointless and ridiculously boring. Such as writing an entire essay about why or why not art and music classes should be required to graduate. I thought that they already were. Who knows. Either way, I'm clear. To conclude my stints in new things this week, I have signed up for an online driving class. With my obnoxiously busy schedule, we decided it would be pointless for me to try to get my learner's permit prior to my 15th birthday on April 25th in a traditional class, so I get to be stuck on a webpage for forty minutes that takes me twenty minutes to read, and then I take a five-question quiz on the information in the passage at the end. I don't really understand how it's supposed to teach me the rules of driving that I ought to know before I sit in the driver's seat, but as long as I don't have to take the class (by the way, this is similar to my reasoning for participating in tennis, as one season of a sport replaces one semester of standard physical education) I don't really mind. So. There's my list of new things. Along with that, I suppose, should be sleep. Today. That doesn't even make sense. Oh well. What I am trying to say is that I really should go to sleep. I should close my driving website, with my time on there supposedly being 23 minutes, although I haven't really read any of it. I really should put my brand-new book in the bookshelf and kick away my library books. I ought to turn out my light and go to sleep. I can start with step one, which involves posting this and closing my computer. So good-night to you, although it most likely won't be good-night to my beautiful books. I sound insane. I promise I'm not. Really. Please don't think I'm crazy. Pleeeeeease. Thanks. 'Night. Once and for all.

Here I Am

I know that I had a reason for coming on here, but I have since forgotten it. My train of thought seems to have lead me away from where I began and therefore I am here, rather than there, where I had intended to remain so that I could write about it on this thing that has no purpose whatsoever. Maybe this blog should have a purpose. Are you interested in helping me out with that? That would be lovely. Thanks for your assistance. Not. Because you aren't there. So I am basically talking to myself. I should do something with my life, rather than dancing and sitting around here, in my house, and doing absolutely nothing. Today, I have successfully spent six hours at dance and four hours coloring and watching Disney princesses with my younger sister (who, for the record, is in the 7th grade. And yes, we colored princesses). While at dance, I learned the five fairy (including the mysterious dragonfly) variations from Cinderella (which is the ballet we are doing again this year) and sat around quite a lot. I am the winter fairy this year, and the variation is considerably easier than I thought it would be. That's always good. I am also understudy to Cinderella, which doesn't really mean anything except for that I get to spend even more time learning things that I won't ever dance. Hooray. A few weeks ago I auditioned for the Kirov Academy of Ballet, or whatever it's called, because my teacher wanted me to, and got in. Now I have a bit of a dilemma. Camp is for four weeks, and I am already going to that (of course). However, the Kirov summer program is three weeks. That would mean that I would be away from home for seven weeks. Seeing as my parents are divorced, that leaves me only about a week and a half with each parent. But the program would be fantastically amazing. Eh. Oh well. I will decide. That's what I am doing about my classes as well. I am supposed to choose my classes on Monday for next year (that's Sophomore year, folks! Thank god I will no longer be a loser of a freshman!) and I have absolutely no idea what to take. Math will be precalc and English will be American Literature. Science will be Chemistry and I will take French 3. After that, though, I am lost. I could take AP Human Geography or Ancient Civ or Ancient History. My remaining two electives could be any combination of Beginning Women's Choir, Mixed Choir, Newspaper, Yearbook, and Speech. So many decisions! I have a phobia of them. I think that the reason that nobody reads this is because my life is really incredibly boring and no one wants to read about it! If you happen to be reading this- congrats! You're probably the first. Hm. I am really good and forgetting where I begin and ending up somewhere completely different. Oh well. I am going to bed now because I feel better when I wake up early and it is nearly midnight. Buona Notte (that's Italian for "Good Night"), mie amiche (my friends... I think... I haven't taken an Italian class in a year).

And now it's Sunday...

Looks like I'm on a writing jag! This is the second day in a row that I have written on this silly thing that nobody reads. It's basically a record, especially since I haven't written since like, August. Anyway, not much has changed since yesterday, and since I haven't written any new poems I suppose I'll just have to come up with something interesting. Oh! So I have recently become obsessed with certain famous youtube-ers, like charlieissocoollike and standardtristan. If you haven't seen either of those people, I recommend you do so. Like now. *Pause while you watch their videos and laugh* Ok now that you're back... my obsession with these wonderful characters has inspired me to start my own youtube channel, but it turns out it's harder than it may seem to be funny and... well, make people watch your videos. Thus far, I have zero (0) subscribers and about five people have watched my videos. Welcome to loser-ville, Harper! Yesss that's my name. Didn't know if you knew that... Whatever. In addition to my failure at youtube-ing (is that even a thing? I don't think it's a word), I apparently fail at this "blogging" idea. I wonder what one does to make people find them on the internet. Any suggestions? Nope, because nobody is reading this. If you are reading this, feel special (because I think you're the only one) and please, please help me out. I just want someone to know that I am here. Do you ever feel like you are the only person on the entire planet that has no friends? And spends their life inside watching random people on the internet and reading books, and ventures outside only to walk the dogs and to go to dance? And that you are the only person who does their homework on a Friday night and are disappointed because your class rank is among the top fifty out of seven hundred and you'd rather be in the top ten? Maybe I'm the only weirdo like that. Who knows? Either way, my life is extremely boring. The issue with my life is that it's extremely stressful for about three days and then it's ridiculously boring for a while. My life should get fairly interesting soon. Or slightly more interesting. I will be playing tennis at my high school (because I'm in high school now!) in March, and we begin rehearsals for Cinderella next weekend, provided I'm not going to the Kirov Academy summer program audition, which I might be but I'm not sure yet. Additionally, I am trying to go to a speech and debate meet on the 12th with my drama piece, based on the novel Shug, by Jenny Han. Basically, it's a ten-minute monologue made up of sentences and pieces cut from the book and it has to be a proper story and,  because it's supposed to be "dramatic", they are generally sad. Unfortunately, my piece is not extremely sad. I am hoping that I will be able to go to the meet and see what else is out there. But we shall see. I really should go read The Odyssey. I'm procrastinating horribly. Thankfully I have already finished the rest of my homework, although I cheated a bit on my math homework because it didn't make sense so me. My math teacher has mysteriously vanished... She was gone on Friday and hasn't put any grades in all weekend, which is surely unusual for her. Sometimes she has my test graded by the end of that. Granted, I have math first period (it's awful). I have gotten very off topic. I am going to go read that ancient book that is apparently one of the best of all time. To tell the truth, I don't really understand. I get that it's important because it's so insanely old, but it is still just a book. So yeah. There's my deal for today. I really am going now. Have a lovely Sunday.

p.s. read A Mango-Shaped Space! I got it at the book store because it looked interesting and it was quite good, although I nearly cried at the end...

Saturday Morning

Today is Saturday- It's a lovely Saturday morning and I'm sitting on my bed to write this. I haven't written in quite some time. In fact, my life has changed a great deal since I last wrote. Unfortunately, after reading my last posts, I feel that my ability to write well has decreased rather a lot since I wrote them. Ah, well. I think I am a rather odd teenager because I woke up at seven thirty this morning. No, slightly before then. Is that not slightly ridiculous? I feel rather sad, because I recently discovered that this blog has only ever had ten views. And I can be fairly certain that nine of them are mine, due to my desperate searches to regain access to this dusty old site that nobody every reads. Although I could prefer this to being famous or something of the like. I mean, internet-famous. That would be weird. The main reason I spent the last fifteen minutes trying to get back on this silly old thing was because I wanted to post a few poems I have written recently. They are not particularly interesting, and nor are they particularly good, but here they are anyway:

The Day of the Ribbon Tears

If she could, she’d run away.

She’d build herself a tree house and wait for him.

Her tears would be ribbons, slipping from her pain-filled eyes.

She would sew them into a blanket, a tent,

Something to hide her from everything that hurt.

She’d try to give them away, to sell them, because she hated them,

But they wouldn’t be worth anything to anyone else.

So she’d sit beneath the pale blue sky,

Crying her silver ribbon-tears, and wishing that they’d bring him back.

She would cry mountains of them.

They would spill from the windows of her tree house,

Cascading into a silvery mess that would slither through city streets

To find him.

And then he’d know;

He would know that she was broken

Shattered

Splintered.

Like the broken pieces of a mirror.

He would feel her pain and meet her among the shadowy trees.

His green eyes would laugh and he’d take her out into the world.

He would hold her hand and they would forget that they had been something before.

She would forget that she’d thought he had lied, told her that he’d loved her

When maybe he hadn’t.

And he’d forget that he’d moved on, forgotten the first girl he’d loved,

Held another girl’s hand.

They would lie in the tall grass, marveling at the love they shared.

They would run and dance and he’d tell her just how beautiful she was

As she ran her fingers through his golden hair.

And they’d burn her silver tears in the late afternoon, and watch the smoke disappear.

And then there's this one: 

 Coming back from the Bathroom

In this nighttime house,

Darkness seeps into the corners and doorways

Like water searching for a crack

My bare legs are long

And pale, but I can’t find the moonlight

To illuminate them.

So I stand in the dark, my eyes adjusting

From the stark and sterile bathroom brightness.

Slip up the creaking, narrow stairs

In this giant, silent house.

Yellow light pours from my open bedroom door,

A slithering, watery light

Like the light I forgot to turn out

Downstairs.

And there’s a box of crayons sitting on the floor

Next to my bed.

It smells like being young.

that I wrote last night. Coming back from the bathroom. Actually, it was nearly this morning. It was eleven twenty and I still managed to get up at seven twenty in the morning, which is ridiculous for a Saturday morning. I really ought to go shower now. So here I go. Arrivaderci, my invisible readers!