Plays, Worksheets, and Pizza

Tomorrow: school, play two-hour play rehearsal, call-time for the play 15 minutes after that rehearsal ends, and then the show starts an hour later. Get home at 10:00 at night, and then go to the spelling bee Saturday morning. AAAHHHHHH!!!!

I feel bummed out tonight. Just bummed out! I was looking forward to our ice cream party in advisory tomorrow, then getting some time to relax with my friend before the show, maybe spell a little, and then go back to the school to get ready for it, fully refreshed. But no. I have to be at the school from 8 in the morning until 9:30 or so at night. Faaaantastic!

Only the end of the play needs work! All I have to do at the end is bring a stupid TV (a wooden frame) on stage and bow! But of course, I have to be there for the whole two hours!

And we're having pizza for dinner. I have to bring in FOUR DOLLARS for pizza that I don't even want (mostly because I know we're having it the next night at the cast party too). It's always pizza, pizza, PIZZA! And don't get me wrong, I love pizza - but not all kinds. Some pizza is just some wheat and yeast that were put in the oven with some rubber cheese and chemically tomato sauce slapped on it! It's become overratted these days, to the point that when I hear "pizza" I groan inwardly.

Deep-dish pizza is a whoooolle different story however.

I love worksheets. Worksheets are nice. You have questions that you have to think a good deal about, but not too much, and a given amount of space to answer them in. And once you're finished with a worksheet, you're finished! And it's only one piece of paper, not a whole notebook or anything. Quite convenient. I like worksheets.

Sorry, but I needed to complain a little.

Another note: playing piano makes me feel better. Especially slamming on the keys really hard...

Ice, Electricity, Neighbors, Hair, and Guilt

This is my second snow day in a row - and it seems like it's been a week. I feel as if I'm quarantined in my own house - which is funny, because there are some weekends where I don't really go anywhere, but that's different than being surrounded by so much snow and ice that you're actually afraid to go outside.

Ya know, maybe if I started limiting my blog posts to fewer topics they wouldn't be so long...well, whatever, it's just me!!

Falling to sleep last night felt like waging a war...a cold war, actually. (Concerning the temperature and the lack of manual fighting.) Outside, I could hear what sounded like sheets of ice sliding off of my roof and cascading to the ground below where they broke into a million pieces and scattered like the ceramic lamp I broke last summer... Okay, well it felt a little like breaking that lamp as I heard all that ice crash. I lay in bed, convincing myself to sleep, but every time I heard another splintering roar from outside I cringed, and realized that my eyes were really wide open, not at all ready to go to sleep. And all I could think about was my rabbit - was he okay out there, in the freezing gale, right under an awning where his hutch would be prone to slipping ice?
When I woke up and saw the damage outside, it really was as if a war had happened - tree limbs lay all about, the ground was covered in ice, and sinister wind blew through the skeletal trees. There were what appeared to be corpses of broken icicles on the ground, along with a thin layer of what had been freezing rain covering the ground. It was quite a drastic scene.

There's this all paired with the fact that our power was out. It went out at about 7:30 or 8 last night, and was out all of today until about 2, when it came back on for an hour, then decided to be difficult and leave again, only to return a few hours later.

Only when we live without electricity for a little while do we realize how much it governs our lives - I couldn't get on the computer or my phone (both were, conveniently, low on charge, and I didn't have Internet connection so there wouldn't have been much point), couldn't heat food on the stove or in the microwave (we used our wood-burning stove instead, which took longer, but frankly I positively LOVED it), and couldn't watch movies. Looking back on it, I'm actually grateful that my electron appliances were not usable - instead, I read and enjoyed just BEING instead of always having to be so...productive. Not that being productive is a bad thing - but it can be, in my case.

Anyway, I walked around the neighborhood with my parents and told people that a building downtown was open with heat and light if they needed it - only two of the people whose doors I went to actually answered - but I still felt very accomplished that I had done that. It was one of those things you do to do, and look back on it and say, "Hey that was pretty cool." I felt like I was helping people and being more independent...I felt pretty good. Well, cold also.

Just a little note: I'm reading a book about kids with electrical powers right now (which I would not recommend...I'm only reading it because my teacher gave it to me and asked me to sample it, and I thought it was cool that he trusted me to do this - the book, I'm sad to say, is not the best. I just thought that was ironic, seeing as they have electricity pulsing through their bodies and we had none to be heard of.

Our neighbors came over and stayed at our house for the majority of the middle part of the day because they didn't have any heat, and we had our stove. They have a little 14 month old baby, who was napping most of the time. Despite that, it was fun to see him all energetic afterward. I had an interesting and actually very welcome feeling while they were here of familiarity - somehow, it wasn't awkward, wasn't strange at all. But there are so many people I know even better than them with whom things are awkward...why is that? There's something about the label of "neighbors" that makes things comfortable. You share something, and that is many a time a great start to any kind of relationship. In this instance, we also shared a situation and the desire to be warm.

Hair, hair, hair...how it affects my mood. Seriously, I will have a much happier disposition if my hair has volume, is not oily, not blocking my vision, and not knotted. But why? Really though, we spend a lot of time with our hair - it's very close to us. And it's one of those things that, oftentimes, no matter how hard we try, we simply can't control. I suppose that could be good, like a little lesson - you just can't control things. And if hair is too controllable, it feels unnatural. But what is hair really? Why do we have it? Protection, maybe? But against what? Is there really a use for it? Or is it just for...looks? Aliens usually don't seem to have hair...is it because we consider this to be something so normal that aliens simply couldn't have hair. Hair is actually quite odd, and difficult to understand.

Finally, guilt. I've realized that I spend a lot of my time feeling guilty about something. Guilty that I ate those last few bites or had dessert, guilty that I didn't practice piano, guilty that I didn't bring my rabbit in, guilty that I watched a movie with my parents instead of reading, guilty that I didn't exercise, that I spent so much time on the computer, that I didn't study three days in advance for a test, that I stayed up too late, that I wore jeans instead of sweatpants... These are all such trivial things! Why should I waste my time worrying about doing them or worrying about not doing them? I have a wonderful life!!! And yes, sometimes there are things that I should have done, but I just have to move on! It'll be okay, and guilt won't make the situation better. I've just got to get up out of bed and stop feeling sorry for myself because I'm so dreadfully tired. I've got to leave that moment-that-could-have-been-if-I'd-something-different behind and just move one and keep going. Whatever I spend my time doing is what I spent my time doing, and I always try to make the best of my time.

Ah...that felt good. Writing all of that. I feel satisfied - very satisfied. Two hour delay tomorrow, then rehearsal, then coming home and trying to not be too wiped out...oh, and I'll probably be disappointed that we don't have any more of those chocolate chip cookie sandwiches...oh well!

I'll just move on!

Writing Poems and Ice Cream

[This post was originally part of the last one. Please, if you would, take the chance to read the previous post.]

Well, about the poem writing...it's a fun business. Therapy, for me. It helps me deal through my feelings, because I compare every minuscule detail to something else. I did that a few times this week...once, several times in one night. I was thinking about how writing poems is similar to writing songs, because we're doing that in music class. And I've found a new appreciation for songwriting.

Ice cream...I just sent an email to my friend about ice cream. We're going to have an ice cream party in our advisory next Friday. Hopefully. We're going to try doing it Coldstone style: with different kinds of ice cream and different toppings so we can mix it all together. Don't know why, but I felt the need to bring that up.

It's Sunday. I have to go to school tomorrow...I want to, though. I feel I've been home enough now. Despite that, it remains to be true, in my opinion, that weekends aren't long enough.

Monumental Poem

I wrote a poem a few days ago. It was, as I said to my friend the next day, a "monumental poem." The unfortunate thing is that now I have to go through and edit it, for every word holds symbolism which cannot be seen by the bare human eye. You've got to look through a window, and see beyond the typewritten word and dictionary definition...and use your imagination. (You'll understand the window parallel in a moment...at least I hope.)

Here it is...no stealing, please, or I'll be extremely upset. And an angry poem will, most definitely, be coming your way. You don't want that. So be good:

Window

By Mollie [last name omitted]

Window

Look

past

Panes. See

day

night

soul. You? Me?

Trees

of everything.

Leaves

slipping, letting

go a hello.

It falls in

the gutter.

It weeps for

a moment

and soon

it melts

into

the road.

Window

Look

through

glass.

You know

it’s there.

So ignore, go home eat watch TV forget and be.

Forget - deny - that

it’s glass

Not paint,

because you know it’s there.

But so do I.

And glass can be cleaned.

So look

through glass.

see

unborn smiles

holding

hands

with tired

pinched

eyes.

Of a child.

Lips cracked as

a desert sun,

beseech

ing

clouds

for

water.

See pink blue purple red green…rainbow, with peaces

turning her back

and

catching

the rays

of lights

from unborn smiles pinched eyes cracked lips…who are

searching YOU

for being.

Look

at light, don’t

squint.

See how

she

caresses

leaftops

and

lake ripples

and

snow meadows

gently.

see how

magnificent,

she.

Long for her to

stroke

you too,

For she cannot reach you

through glass panes screen frame.

Open

Window,

Where

I’m

Not

Defeated yet,

Or

Will be ever.

But light goes down crows swoop clouds cover then breeze changes and

Out your window

no trees leaves unborn smiles eyes pinched lips cracked beseeching clouds…

No longer beseeching clouds…

Since you

were

too

Late.

So

pull back

that hello before

it reaches the gutter

and cradle it in

your arms before

shouting out the world that,

“HELLO!”

And the mist

from that Hello

wipes off grime

on

his, her, their, my, and YOUR

window

so that

light can be seen coming.

And

link arms with

smiles, sparkling

eyes, stretched

lips, and

rosy cheeks to

Look past those pains

Through that glass

and

Open

That

Window.

I'm sorry about the length. That's always been an issue of mine... Anyway, overall, the poem is about not letting opportunities, specifically to help others, slip by. In the simplest terms. It's also about just opening your eyes to the real world around you and excepting that only a window separates you from the problems...or the joy, whatever it be. You've got to really look through the window and observe, and understand, and finally, when you're ready to feel the breeze, whether it be cold or warm, to open it up. And to not let that "hello" slip into the gutter. Have you ever walked by somebody in the hall, somebody you know, maybe by name or even just face, and a hello is on your lips, just about to break free...but you walk on by, silent, and it's as if there's something connecting you with that person, that person walking down the hall, because that hello was lost between you?

Well, that's what the hello part was about.

As I said, every word has symbolism, excepting those like "the" or "and." I wrote notes about the interpretations next to the poem in my notebook, but there are way too many to describe here.

I just looked out the window behind me to see an orange and white tabby cat perched on our porch rail. Not our cat. Just a frequent visitor. And there's something amazing about the fact that he's only a few feet away from me, living and breathing and seeing and smelling and moving, slinking across the rail, but I feel as if we're in different worlds. He probably doesn't even know I'm here. All because of a window.

It's crazy to think that a piece of glass can separate two beings so completely. A little scary, actually.

[Originally, I had the next post in the same post as this, but because the poem is so long and, I feel, deserving of attention, I wanted it to stand for itself.]

SAT, Ambassadors, and Spelling Bees

Lots of things have been going on lately. And I've achieved a lot in the past few weeks...yet somehow, I've focused on talking about other things on this blog, just things I've been thinking about. Just things I've been feeling. It feels good, I love it, but now the time has come to tell you what's up.

News item number one: The Friday before last, I won the school spelling bee!!! It's the third time I've won a school bee, and the second time I've gone tons of rounds with one other person.

The funny thing is, I was dreading going to this bee. I didn't want to, at all. Part of the reason, I think, was that the last two years at this school I haven't done very well, and I was getting to the point where I just didn't care about spelling bees anymore. It's true that once you go out in the world, spelling doesn't really make a whole lot of difference. At least knowing how to spell words like "logorrhea" (which the spell check on this blog doesn't even identify as a word). I didn't have to spell that, but it was the winning word for the national spelling bee one year.

However, this year, as the two of us (a seventh grade boy and myself) were going back and forth, throwing combinations of letters out there, hoping they were put together rightly, mentally crossing our fingers, arguing inside of ourselves...I realized why I love spelling bees.

They're all about words.

To tell you the truth, I realized this a long time ago. But now I realized why I should keep liking spelling bees. Because they're just part of me.

Being in a spelling bee is like running track. The only time you feel the elation is possibly during, and after the event. But before? Before, you're a nervous mess, fidgeting and heart jumping and falling all out of yourself. And during, you become like a machine - a task is set out for you, and you must do it, or you fail miserably. Nothing else is on your mind. Nothing at all. Only the letters. Only the lines of the track.

And spelling is something so inexorably wonderful that I would never give it up despite the hours of mind-tearing and stitching-up together again that occur prior to it.

The district bee is a couple of weeks from now. The same day as our middle school play. Apparently there are only six people in it.

Oh. Boy.

News item number two: I took the SAT yesterday. My second time, for practice. This year, I was there with people in my grade, so it was fun, while last year people in the grade above me were taking it at the same time. It seemed so much easier this year, and I was monumentally less apprehensive beforehand. I feel that I did extraordinarily better than I did last year, which hopefully means that I did extraordinarily well. I just spent way too long brainstorming for my essay.

And honestly, I purely enjoyed it. I thought that 4 hour test was fun. FUN. There's something extremely satisfying about taking a test, whether you're entirely sure of an answer to begin with, or you figure it out after some thinking, or even if you have absolutely no idea and you know you have absolutely no idea, and you skip it. Something about even that last one is extremely satisfying.

My mom said that my grade was a lot more energetic after the test than the kids (in the grade above me) had been last year. And that's very true. We're a pretty cool grade :D.

Afterwards, some of us went to a Chinese restaurant for lunch (which was entirely caused by my organizing) and then a few people came back with me to watch the boys' basketball game. It was our team against the team of my old school, which is still where I live. And our team was smothered. But the game was fun.

News item number three: I am now a student ambassador for my school! That means I get to tell visitors about our school and participate in some school events. I'm very excited.

Today I got to help show people around at the Open House. My friend and I got to give a boy and his mom a tour, which middle schoolers usually don't get to do. It was all very flattering, actually, when the teachers would say something like, "Oh, they can tell you all about it."

Bottom line, though, it helps me understand my experience there even better. And as I talked about things we've done, and things we've enjoyed, and opportunities I've had, I find that every single word leaving my mouth is entirely true. I'm not just saying this. I mean it with all of my heart. So it was very beneficial to me, and I certainly hope it was for the visiting families.

So there you have it - the news. Of course, there are many other things going on...but those are the ones worth sharing, for the moment. I'm tired now, very tired, and extremely relieved that all of my homework is finished! Now to go to sleep tonight...and not to wake up back up again before it's time...

Night

As I sink my teeth in a vegan, gluten-free, sugar-free chocolate chip cookie sandwich with frosting in the middle, my entire being is submerged into a world of pleasure and chocolate. I sit by my fire, warm, and tired after a long day. Satisfied. Great.

But how is this fair?

We're reading Elie Wiesel's Night in English class right now - a startling, and true, depiction of the Holocaust from a survivor himself. We had time to read in class today...and I wasn't the same person walking out of the classroom that day than I'd been going in.

The part we read today accounts Wiesel's experience entering Auschwitz.

Babies. He sees babies being burned right in front of him. Babies. "All this could not be real," he thinks. And that's what I was thinking too. "This must be a gross exaggeration, only trying to make a point. This can't have really happened." But deep down, I know it did. I know that I'm just trying to deny the horrible truth, not willing to accept the atrocities members of our race can commit against others.

Babies.

That's what made me cry when we watched Schindler's List: the children. Being carried away in trucks. Singing...singing children's songs. Being carried away in trucks to their death. And they had no idea.

How could this happen?

Class was over. I closed the book, gathered my things, got up and pushed my chair in...began walking through the halls. But none of that was real. Not after what I had just read. I couldn't be walking through a carpeted hall, cradling my books and binders, warm and comfortable in new clothes, surrounded by friends. It simply wasn't fair.

I walked out beside my friend, and I could tell we felt the same way. But it was more than just a feeling. There was a cloud...a black cloud, enshrouding the two of us. We floated through the murmurs and shouts of our fellow middle schoolers around us, but we did not feel as fellows. We did not belong, or rather, they did not belong, the school did not belong. It couldn't, could it, when... Babies.

Everything was a blur. I didn't care what people were saying around me. The smiles on their faces, the twinkle in their eyes, was a betrayal to the truths of humanity. A betrayal to Elie Wiesel. A betrayal to the 6 million Jews who died in the Holocaust, to those in Africa going through genocide right now at this very moment, to the children sold to sex trafficking every day, to any victims of the black and smoky fire of cruelty.

A light beside me - really a sweet sound - emerged from the cloud of mutual despair, and I turned, feeling dead, to see a painful smile broken on her face - attempting to erase the words still emblazoned in her soul. I then became aware that a small boy had tripped over a stack of chairs amid the rush in the hallway...a clumsy child, being a clumsy child. An act ignored, but plainly etched across all of our paths. Something simple. Something ordinary.

And I believe the side of my mouth tilted up just a little then. That trip, stumble, clumsiness...it was an angel.

But a short-lived one.

As I collected my books for my next class, I exchanged a few words with some other students I know. I wasn't really there. It was meaningless. How could I be there when... Babies.

My friend and I met up again walking to class. We never had to say anything, during all of this. We didn't need to. We got there early. I tore a page out of my notebook...and that moment, that tear, felt so good. All I could do, at the moment, to express my anger.

And then I began to write. I wrote a little of what I've just written here. Some ideas, thoughts. Just words. And I could never write enough. No one can write enough, or say enough, or sing enough, think enough... Babies.

Of course, class had to start. Of course, I had to continue the day. It was American History class now, not English. It was time to move on. But I never could. I didn't even care, as he handed back our tests, what I got. I listened to my teacher's words diligently, but my heart wasn't in it. I could have put my heart in it, if I wanted to - I can to anything - but I couldn't ignore the hollow feeling inside.

The rest of the day I felt subdued. Like I was only half-experiencing my life. Every small thing stood out in magnanimous detail. Every gesture, word spoken or read, touch sensed. It was all a dream, while I seemed to wear a black and grey veil, carrying with me the thoughts of all humans of all times. A burden.

I remember feeling, while I read Night, similar to how I felt when we did the Underground Railroad simulation at Camp Joy. How the things we experienced there, where there was no physical pain, no real family being torn from us, and still the promise of a soft bed later in the night, were so piercing. I felt like a worthless pig after only going through that for an hour or so. I was already reduced to nothing, to no one, just a body, following the line ahead of me. I remember my heart beating furiously, running away from me. Wanting to leave. I remember that horrible feeling. But what Elie experienced was so much worse. I felt guilty, almost, that a simulation was the closest I could relate those feelings to. And even worse, when I thought about how what Elie is relaying at this point in the book is only the beginning - that there is worse to come for him.

I've always had the sense that everything will be OK. I'll be fine. I'm safe. But I'm sure he felt that too. My life could turn around too. I could be somewhere like there, seeing those babies.

How would I even begin to grapple with those emotions?

I don't think I'll ever be the same. I still wear that veil. But I can't forget this. I can't let things be. I can live, live to the fullest, and live my own life.

"Never shall I forget that night, the first night in camp, that turned my life into one long night seven times sealed.

Never shall I forget that smoke.

Never shall I forget the small faces of the children whose bodies I saw transformed into smoke under a silent sky.

Never shall I forget those flames that consumed my faith forever.

Never shall I forget the nocturnal silence that deprived me for all eternity of the desire to live.

Never shall I forget those moments that murdered my God and my soul and turned my dreams to ashes.

Never shall I forget those things, even were I condemned to live as long as God Himself.

Never."

-from Night, by Elie Wiesel, page 52 of the Night Trilogy

And never shall I forget those words.

So good night, world of words. Live through the black cloud. Lift up the veil. But remember. Never forget the words of night.

Art

I was in a sort of gallery today, waiting for my parents to be finished with something, and I looked at all the art. There wasn't much - it's just one circular room with its walls almost covered with art from various local artists.

I love art. I love looking at it, and making it. And it takes a lot to impress me - the piece has to be original, and unique, not something anyone could do. If I feel like I could make something just as good myself - my interest is lost. And at museums, I don't like to linger. I look at something, appreciate it, try to understand why and possibly how the artist made it, and what it could mean, and move on. I try to do all of these things, but if the art isn't compelling enough, then I won't. But today, I had time to kill. So I resolved to really look at the art, every single piece, and try to give them equal attention and credit. The ones I didn't like as much, I looked at more, and tried to understand. Tried to see why they were hanging up on this wall, with a name and a painter's name and a price, when they weren't that good.

The thing about art is that it's a kind of therapy. And it's a great therapy - believe me, I know. In fact, my mom has a degree in art therapy. But if you're going to make art professionally, and sell it, and let that be your job, then you've got to separate that from therapy. Or else be extremely creative and original and precise in your therapy time. It's great, preferable, to be doing the kind of art you like, a piece you're inspired to do, something that your heart is in - but decide if it's for yourself or for art.

I realized today that art is a way of letting go. When you're making art, you think of nothing but the art. And when you see art, when you really delve into it, you think of nothing but the art. You can become completely absorbed into a flower petal or a tree or a little child's face painted on a canvas, and everything else is just...erased. Gone. For the moment.