At this hectic time of year, I start to feel restless.  Why, do you ask?  Because it reminds me of my complete lack of control.  Not only over my lack of free time, but I can't control  my own emotions or affections, either.   Scientifically, emotions are basically the brain's chemical responses to external stimulus . . .  (I don't know why I'm thinking this way today, but my detachment seems to be due to the rat dissection . . .)  So obviously I have very little control over my emotions.  My horemones and environment dictate those.  While I could take a positive attitude, that in itself is easier said than done.  Well, my affections, I'll not get into the inpredictabilitly of those.  Controlling my environment--an impossibility as long as I'm still in school.  And when I get out of it, if I get into my feild.

I've realized recently, that one can never fully control another human being.  I don't know where those thoughts came from, but I blame history class.  So much slavery in those ancient civilizations . . . but you really can't control anyone enough to trust them, truly.  Well, that is my opinion, merely.

I wish I had some sort of inanimate object to control.  In my house, things are always lost and shuffled around.  Between my neat-freak mother, sister, and of course the pets, I don't really have control . . .  And over pets and animals, I feel guilty.

I suppose this obsession is unhealthy.

I think I need a rock, a smooth polished stone in the pit of my pocket.  It'll remind me that everything is really out of my power, but than I will be weathered and polished by the obstacles and stesses life send my way. 

In between classes somewhere, I slipped into my philosophical debate mindset, and I began to wonder: why is it that one person favours another?  We have to face it that in this world we're not going to get along with everybody, and some people rub you the wrong way.  But then there are those people who are dear to your heart that you would do anything for.  What causes this difference in affection, or favour?  I don't just mean this on a one-on-one basis, though this may or may not have relevance in other areas of my life . . .  Personality traits and other such notions are too superficial.  People get so stuck in their rut that they don't even realize what it is that they're doing anymore.  Why do people clump together into little groups?  I assume that's due to instinct.

Well this train of thought is kind of heading onto a different track, so I'll head straight to the point, or at least the point I came to, for yours may be different.  I got to thinking that loyalty was the purpose for favour.  If you trust this person because they are loyal to you . . . aha! but there is a flaw.  Where does that loyalty stem from?

Human instinct is a facinating thing, folks.  I wish I understood.  I suppose this is one of those questions that shall go unanswered--that is, if it actually makes sense to you in the way that I had intended it.  It's interesting to think objectively about little things we take for granted, and use as a base for everything else . . . very educational.  I guess I've learned my lesson for the day. 

You wait, little girl, on an empty stage, for fate to turn the light on.  Your life, little girl, is an empty page ((and I leave the rest of the verse off, because it doesn't apply to me.))

~From the song Sixeen Going on Seventeen from the Sound of Music.

I love that movie.  But it's funny.  When I was younger, I thought the song had lost relevancy--was out of touch.  I thought that by sixeen, girls were much more experienced than poor niave Lissel.  But what do you know, I'm just as naive as her, if not more so.  The whole opening of the song (with the exception of the omitted line) pretty much describes my situation.  I always seem to be waiting for someone else to make the first move, because I don't quite know how to make it myself.  Or perhaps I do know, but only in theory.  Application is difficult for me to grasp.

Ah, the things I think of at a quarter to two in the morning.  I should probably get some sleep.  Sweet dreams.

Why does everything always work out better in theory?  It's not fair.  It thought to myself last night, okay, I've procrastinated doing my math review, but it isn't really procrastination because I was doing other homework.  I've worked hard all week, and I'll have a break tonight.  So I had a break.  A lovely blessed break.  I went to the play and made snow angels and wrote in this journal and it was lovely.  But that was yesterday.  I

 had decided I was going to work on math all day today.  And I did.  I woke up at 11, had some breakfast, did what my mom yelled at me to do and had my textbook out by twelve.  Yet of course I'd lost my calculator, had to go buy a new one, had to make supper, and all this other crap that I really could've done without doing but my mom would have killed me otherwise.  So now I stare at the pages of the textbook, at the questions for the Chapter that I had just summerized, and they make no sense.  My plan has failed.  Again.  Why do things always work out better in theory!  I know I have to account for the agendas of other people, but honestly I thought I could at least count on myself.  I just want to break down and cry, but what would that help?  I'd just waste more time and energy and go on feeling sorry for myself when it's really all my fault.  I have no excuse.

I guess I'll say it because at least it'll harden me, but let me end with what I know everyone else who's going through the same stressful math and biology exams on the freaking first freaking day of freaking exams is thinking:

I HATE EXAMS!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! 

My brain is officially fried.  And it's not rare--it's well done.  But at least I've got a lot of that math done.  I'm now taking a break.  Blissful non-thought.  I am content.  I keep getting distracted.  I found a letter-opener sword, and that amused me for quite some time.  Oh!  And there was sunday school today.  We were making a heart-shaped pinata with the kiddies.  Imagine this--5 children under three, one girl in grade two, and a boy in grade one who refused to help but instead played with dinosaurs.  All armed with tissue paper, newspaper, paintbrushes, and watered down glue.  I've learned my lesson.  Tissue paper stains.  It was quite an ambitious project . . . ah but it's done.  Yep, that's my day; six hours of math homework, and supervising three year olds.  Ugh, I just want exams to be OVER!

Four more days, just four days, and you'll be fine.  Sure, there's history and anthro exams later, but those won't be so bad.  Why do I always trade in the moment for the future?  I screw myself over.  I should have started that math over the break . . . ahh, blissful break.  It seems so long ago . . .

On another scary note, only three semesters until highschool is over.  And then I begin again, on a larger scale.  Fourteen years of semesters, exams, all worth a great deal more than 30% of my final mark.  Scary stuff.  Well, not so much scary as depressing. 

Why does the world have to be so big?  Remeber the good old days, when everything you knew was passed on to you from your parents?  Or maybe if you were shipped off to a convent or something.  Sure, it was simpler, but a lot less hygenic :).  Now there's so much choice, and to be honest, I'm not entirely sure if so much choice is a good thing.  There's a lot of room for error.  People need some kind of life guidebook.  Maybe mothers are pregnant, they should write out a book for the child of everything important that they've had to learn the hard way.  Wouldn't that fix a lot of problems?  Then give the book to the child when he/she is eleven or so.  Ah well.  Wouldn't it be nice.

Oh, one more late-night revelation (of last night when I was try to sleep).  Noone can ever prove or disprove the existance of God to a person of an opposing viewpoint, because they do not accept the same material as evidence.

That's my random philosophical statement of the day.  I'd love to hear your opinion!

Random Question of the Day:

Where do butterflies go when it rains?

Erin Chezick's rant got me thinking about all of the ways parents live through their children.  And there certainly are a lot af ways.  It's sad when you think of it.  A person never begins with a cleared slate, but rather one already muddled by the handling of parents.  Forgive me if this post sounds overdramatic, oversimplified, or as if such an activity is necessarily horrible.  I have yet to master my native tongue.

There are parents who clearly define the paths their children are to take.  The mould for which these children are prepared is rigid, and parents unforgivingly try to conform said child to their will.  Flaws are unacceptable, and parents constantly attempt to work these out of their children.

Another sort is those who try to experience their own dreams through their children.  These include the cutthroat parents of child stars, but may take a gentler form.  They may urge their children to join certain clubs at school, or to pursue different activities.  Generally, the aim is to have the children achive exceptional prominence or ability in a field that the parent greatly admires but has not mastered.

There are parents who overlay their own activity during youth upon the child.  They worry about the child's welfare and safety, and may accuse said child of committing illicit activities, even if there is no reason for such suspicion.

Some parents also assume that because their child is of their genes, he or she will be a carbon copy of the parent (not to be confused with the previous sort).  They tend to use phrases like, "When I was your age, I'd already (fill in blank)", or "How can you be so (fill in blank) ?  I was always so (fill in blank)," or "That's not the way you were raised".  They expect their offspring to follow in their footsteps.

There are parents who encourage their children to surpass their own station, which can be a good or bad thing, depending on the extent, course of action, and feelings of the child.

Finally, there are the sorts of parents who see so much of themselves in their child that they are frightened.  This may be open or guised,  They may try to prevent the child from taking certain routes, but then again they may not.

Of course, all of these sorts exist in different degrees, and stem from the parent's own insecurities.  They can also exist in mixtures.  Deep down, most parents just want to motivate their children to achieve all that they can, in the way that they see best, though this way may be shortsighted.  Love them or hate them, you have to respect them, to some degree.  So ends my rant for the day.

What's the verdict:  Do you agree?  Disagree?  Have something to add?  Want to classify your own parents?  Or have I just spent too long in Anthropology?

Isn't it odd to see people grow up around you?  People you knew from your youth as, say, the whining, teacher's pet, tattletale emerges from his coccoon into -- well you can figure out the rest.  So the rest of  the school can enjoy this person as eye candy or whatever it is that they chose, but then you can't because you know them too well.

I'll shut my mouth about this aspect now -- Suzie you know who I'm talking about, I think, if you remember . . .

But it's also weird because I look at said person and think, "Wow, he's changed so much."  Then I think to myself, well, I must ahve changed a lot too.  Which is odd.  Because physically I haven't changed that much.  Seriously, my hair's the same as grade eight, I haven't gone through any growth spurts, or anything to that extent.  I've grown a lot spiritually and internally I believe, thinking of some of my former viewpoints . . . But now I'm going off-topic again.  I've gotten my message across.  People change.  We change.  And sometimes we can't appreciate either.

I'm almost ready for my exams, I think.  My head feels like it's been stuffed with cotton.  At least I know where the stuffing goes now when it's knocked out of me!  Everything feels muffled, and I just want to submerge my head in a bucket of icy water to make my eyes stay open.  That's pathetic, because it's only seven o'clock.  I just want to sleeeeeeeeeeeeeeeep!

Also, my naivette has been proven yet again.  I never realized how much I assume when I encounter someone.  Not necessarily prejudices, but just how much I tend to trust people, and believe that what they're telling me is true.  Sure, that sort of trust can be a good thing, but it'll get me into a lot of trouble later, mark my words.  There're just so many things that I don't think to question . . .

There are a few things as well that I'd like to question, in other areas, but I don't know how to go about it.  Ah, well.  I can wait.  Take my sweet time.  Maybe I'll get to the point I'm alluding to later.  Who knows :).

Well, firstly I'll say that my snowfort mission is accomplished, after a few setbacks (roof cave-ins--naturally).  Anyways, it's done.  And if I ever figure out how to post pictures in my page, I will.

Ah, what was I going to discuss?  Ah yes.  My first love.  Have you ever heard the bedtime story about the two sisters who gaze at the stars and pick out their husbands' eyes?  One picks a star, her husband's hawk eye.  The other chooses an eagle star eye.  Anyways, they go to sleep under the stars, and when they wake up, they're somewhere entirely foreign.  But they have husbands, one with an eagle eye, and one with the hawk's eye.  The girls--now wives-- meet with the chief, who tells them that they can live with their husbands and such as long as they never moved and looked under a rock or pot depending on the version.  Of course, after some time, their human curiousity kicked in and they looked beneath, and saw the earth far below them.  They became homesick for their family and village, and the chief sent them home (without their husbands).

What does this story have to do with me?  Not much, actually.  I'd just like to recount one of those crazy childhood dreams that we all have.  Come on, we've all had outrageous, impossible fantasies.  And here's mine.  I need a deep breath.  Here I go.

When I was young, my parents tried to teach me about constellations.  Of course, I could never keep them straight.  it was like a grid, all jumbled up and out of order, a spangled net hung in the sky every night, but always in a different order.  But oh, those specks of light could not stay in the same place!  And so it became that I could only identify one constellation, strewn across the winter sky.  The three telltale stars, lined single file, the blazing belt of Orion.  And so it came to be that I displayed favouritism to this constellation.  The legend of Orion, you wonder?  How did it come to be that he was hung in the heavens?  Legend has it that he was one of Artemis' hunting companions, of such virtue and skill, and fairness of face of course, that Apollo worried for the reputation of the chastity of his twin sister.  So he set the giant scorpion Scorpio to chase him.  Some other god took pity on him and placed him in the sky.  Scorpio chases after him, still.  So I guess my reasoning is that if he's good enough for Artemis, he's good enough for me.  And so I had a childhood crush on Orion.  Even now when I gaze up at the night sky on winter's eve, I see him there, and smile in rememberance.

FEMINIST MOMENT: In all of the myths of old cultures that we studied in history, there are powerful women goddesses equal to the power of male gods, yet in society, womenfolk were treated like livestock, or a disposeable commodity.  Why did the goddesses have so much power?  It seems inconsistant for things to be done this way.  Wouldn't it encourage rebellion?  "Things that make you go hmmm," as Foulds would say.

You think that I go home at night,

Take off my clothes, turn out the light

But I burn letters that I write

To you, to make you love me.

(Portion of a song).  I'm still debating whether or not to post this.  I don't know how personal is too personal to post on this blog . . . Okay, I'll post it, but I won't offer any names or explanations.  Oh, and I don't burn the letters.  I keep them.  And it's not love.  It's infatuation.  At least I'm still sane enough to recognise that.

Okay, it would be really stupid for me to post this.  But I will, because I need to be more open about some things.  Ah well.  I'll stop now, before I dig myself in deeper.  I may or may not delete this entry later.

Have you ever read George Orwell's 1984?  It hits a little too close to home for some, I believe.  But it's really interesting.  It was written in 1945 about life in 1984 . . . some scary stuff.  It's about an opressive totalarian state where all things that we currently use to define humanity emotion and spiritually are erased and repressed.  There is no love, and lust in itself is rebellious.  I really recommend reading it.  A scary thought  though -- an opressive rule so great that even rebellions are led by the state, and history is constantly rewritten to serve the moment.  Hopeless.

It really makes me appreciate how much our actions can impact the world positively.  We can leave a mark, if we really try to accomplish something.  That's my thought for the day.  Nay, not thought.  Challenge.  I challenge you to impact the world for the better today!

I love volunteeting.  It makes me feel so useful.  And I realize partially why I do it is because I wish another youth would do the same for me.  Which begs the question, is the idea behind the golden rule selfish?

I mean, when we're young, we learn about the golden rule: to do unto others as you would have them do unto you.  So stop to think about it.  You're basically being nice to people for your own sake.  It's very selfish.  Shoot, lost my train of thought.  But you get the point.  That is all.

Orion blazes brightly in the sky tonight.

Sorry, I just can't leave the mythology alone.  Okay, a few random thoughts.  Bear with me please.

Which is worse: not to know what you want, or to know what you want but not how to get it?

Who has it worse?  Big sisters, or little sisters (I shall not speak for brothers--I have no experience in this department).  I'll elabourate on this a bit more.  The oldest sister has to fight hard for every freedom from the parents; pushing for later bedtimes, higher allowances, allowances PERIOD, and those things that parents see as "growing up", or as things that you're "too young" for.  You know, like going to movies with friends and such.  When younger sisters reach these points, the path has been cleared.  Everything the eldest has fought so hard for is handed to them.  Ah, but you younger sisters may also argue that you are measured to the standard of the eldest.  Alas, the eldest is measured to the standard of the parent.  Overall, it is my opinion that the youngest get more opportunities, whether they want them or not.  I am the oldest; can you tell?

What else do I have to say?  I showed off my Penelope to my aunts; this is the first time my uncles and Auntie Eileen and Auntie Ev have seen her.  It was Auntie Linda's birthday, you see.  We watched Chevy Chase's Europe Vacation, and Tam I hope that our trip turns out nothing like that!  My family has a thing for Chevy Chase, okay?  You'd think that a family vacation movie would be family appropriate, but this-- well let's just say the mother's bathroom antics on film are stolen and published by a pornographer, and that's not the worst.  Yeah, may our trip be nothing like that.

Ah yes, had another thought.  I want to do that glass etching stuff that Roberts is always doing.  I've decided that I'm going to do that for open studio.

I had another but it evades me . . .   Ah yes, there you are, thought.  Came back here, you imp.  Speak up dearie, what is it you say?

Sorry, done.

What I was eventually getting to is that I love doing nothing.  I relish in the fact that when I woke up today, there were no consequences for my actions.  I could actually choose what I wanted to do!  I've missed this choice.  I think I've tasted it's sweet freedom before, but it had been so long ago that I hadn't remembered.  Yes, I do have an exam monday.  But I am frigging ready, I think.  History is my passion.  But you knew that.  Menes was the first pharaoh to unite Upper and Lower Egypt.  Thutmose III was the Napoleon of Egypt.  Hatshepsut was the first great woman in history.  Hammurabi's code was the first written law code.  Draco first codefied laws in Athens.  See, I am so ready!  I kow, I'll study tomorrow some more.  But as for today, I tasted sweet freedom, and while I'm sure soon I'll be forced to choke down some humble pie, today I am unbridled!  My own woman!  A slave to my own whims!  Okay, enough with my cheesy allusions.

Speaking of humble pie, do you know where that expression came from?  It came from england, the name of a dish that the poor made, throwing in all sorts of gross scraps . . .

 England is also where the slang 'snob' came from, but I'll get into that another time, because it ahs nothing to do with my day.

Mary Mary, Quite contrary, how does your garden grow . . . .

 I had a dream last night.  The sort of dream that could change my life.  If I let it, or knew how, or was more sure, or didn't have so many excuses . . . I usually dream, but it's never anything like this.  They're usually pretty random, and this was surrounded by randomness, but really sticks out in my mind.  I'll write it out, and you can tell me what you think.  Here goes:

I had this teacher, who was taking me to different sites and telling me parables.  Of these, I remember one, standing in front of an olive tree.  The olives represented the planets, and the tree represented the universe.  But what made the olives gain in weight? (the specific weight was one gram).  Where does that come from?

So I'm really not sure what it was supposed to mean.  Was God the air surrounding the olives?  The force making them grow?  The sun?  The rain?  The nutrition coming from the earth?  The earth itself?  Or the gardener?  Maybe was He all of these things?

I just don't know.  My day didn't influence at all.  If it had, I would have dreamed of Mesopotamia or Byzantium which I'd been studying.  I didn't even review Greece!  What do you think?

Yes, that's right.  Today's rant is all about milkmen.

I wish that there were still milkmen.  You know, the sort who delivered milk to your doorstep in the wee hours of the morning?  There used to be milkmen . . . there used to be a lot of specialized door to door salesmen.  What happened?  Has our society reached such a point of impersonality that these neighbourly, familiarlized industries cannot be included?  Are people so concerned with the almighty dollar that the human aspect of service ceases to be of any value?  For the few extra pennies it would cost, we cease to have milkmen.  This seems to me to be a tragedy.

On another note, since some people are lactose intolerant, would we have soy milkmen?

As a month, as compared to other months, I never particularly cared for February.  Cry fair and foul and all that jazz but it's not going to do me any good.  It's just the month that everything's melting and the refreezing, and you can't do anything.  It's dreary, dismal, and all around inconsistant!  I mean, And all the rest have thirty one, except for February, which has 28 days fair and square, and 29 each leap year.   What up wit dat? lmao.  Arguably the only good thing about the month is Valentine's day, unless of course you're Chinese and have Chinese New Year to look forward to . . . I'm really not a big fan of Valentine's Day.  I could go into the Hallmark Conspiracy mode and complain about the commercialism and artificiality of sugar-coated 'love', but that's really overdone.  I don't believe in overusing the word love myself, though arguably that's because I've never had such an issue.

Anyways, if I was braver, thought about consequences less, knew how to do so, or had fewer excuses, I'd maybe try something.  Cupid's arrows just don't particularly do enough for me, but I'm too darned lazy to shoot em off myself.  You know me, never one to make the first move.  Ever.

Why am I so concerned with such a trivial holiday?  I don't know.  It's February.  Cut me some slack.  Happy February, y'all.

(Yes, I just said 'y'all'.  I don't know why.  This month is getting to me already.)

Doesn't the sound of an unaccompanied human voice, pure and unbridled, send shivers through your spine?  Don't the tones course and vibrate through your whole body?  And if it's more than one voice, three or four or more harmonizing and mingling together, doesn't one try to sort out the individual voices?  However, they are so melded together that unravelling the beautiful weaving they've created is impossible, and when you feel you've discovered some key to sort it out, the song is over . . .

I've always loved the church hymn Simple Gifts.  Call me crazy lol.  Well I just got back from A Giant Heart for Rwanda (an event put together by a bunch of local churches to fundraise for building a school in Rwanda) where my youth group was ushering.  And it's got me thinking about all of these simple pleasures, and how I really don't appreciate life enough.

I've done a lot of stupid things in my life.  Things that I've regretted.  And while they may not rank among the darkest of attrocities, taint is taint.  I am burdened with guilt nonetheless.  Today I've remembered, and I feel lower than low.  I want to melt into a pool of ooze and be swallowed by the earth.

On another note, I'd like to share a song with you.  It's by Al Jolson.  I'm learning to play it on the piano now, but it's lovely, and optimistic.  It's called April Showers.

Life is not a highway strewn with flowers,
Still it holds a goodly share of bliss,
When the sun gives way to April showers,
Here's the point you that should never miss.

Though April showers may come your way,
They bring the flowers that bloom in May.
So if it's raining, have no regrets,
Because it isn't raining rain,

You know, it's raining violets,
And where you see clouds upon the hills,
You soon will see crowds of daffodils,
So keep on looking for a blue bird, And list'ning for his song,
Whenever April showers come along.

I've been reading a lot in the past three days, and one english starts I won't be able to, so I better finish the other six library books!  Ha like that'll happen.  My mother's got an agenda for me . . .  I've been thinking a lot on growing up, because the books I seem to be reading deal with personal evolution in the protagonists.  Growing up scares me.  I understand that in theory personal evolution is a good thing, and change is a necessity within the world.  But when it happens, I never seem to find myself ready to cope with it.  I know it probably seems to people I've known my whole life that I really haven't changed a lot compared to some.  Partially because my changes don't tend to express themselves physically, and I've withdrawn considerably.  Sure, I tend to go through brief periods of outgoingness (is that even a word?), but I tend to drift into my old habits, routines, and ways of doing things.  It's hard to recognise that I too have changed.  I recognise that those around me have altered significantly.  I recognise considerable detachment between myself and others I had once felt a supreme closeness to, and I am not so open about my emotions and doctrines as I once was.  Though I register all of these internal changes, I feel as though externally I should be . . . perhaps I'd explain better with an example that may or may not be relevant.  I have not really recognised my own reflection in a while.  When this  came about I do not know.  But when I peer into the looking glass I register shock every single time.  I feel as though the girl there should be about four years younger.  Am I insane?

I know this post may appear dismal or depressing, but I assure you my overall mood reflesct neither of these.  I feel an openess today.  I like this feeling.  I congratulate those of you who actually read the whole post.  I recognise that it is quite lengthly, and for that I appologise.  I wish you this: may each of you continue to grow in a positive and construtive way.

Everyone learns lessons in thier lifetime.  Everyone.  And if you haven't, well then there is someting seriously wrong with you.  Seek mental help.  Now that that unpleasantry is out of the way . . . Anyways, I find myself needing certain lessons to be repeated.  Here're a few of late.  I'll even number them to make it easier for you.  Aren't I nice? (Stop snickering!  I am nice!  I mean it!  Ooh, if you don't say I'm nice RIGHT NOW I'll pound your face in!)  Sorry for that little aside *smiles angellically* (I do mean it!).  Anyways, life lessons.

1) Be polite and attentive to people even if you think you'll meet them only once.  You never know when you'll see them again (I met my driving instructor this way--yeah, let's not get into that)

2) People with no friends aren't always nice people.  Okay, this sounds cruel.  Really, it isn't.  I just tend to assume the best of people, and I have in the past gone out of my way to befriend those without multitudes of friends.  Usually the results border catastophe.  Okay, I'm exaggerating a little.  But it's best not to make assumptions about people, even GOOD assumptions.

3) Don't make assumptions about people.  You never know what's REALLY going on in their lives.  Okay, this one's pretty self-explanatory.  You can't percieve entire people with a glance.  It just doesn't work.  I'll leave off examples--this is a little personal.

4) You need sleep to function.  I cannot stress this one enough people.  If you doubt me, I'll drag you to guide camp, plunk you in a tent with those lil buggers (and not the good ones that go to sleep right away, either!)

5) Take time to smell the roses, and find joy in life's simple pleasures.  Well, I'm too lazy to type about this one.  Read back on some previous posts for this.

6) Life is not like chess.  it is not like a box of chocolates.  I'm sorry Plato, but your cave analogy is WRONG!  No one analogy can explain life.  It cannot be simplified. I think life can't be simplified partially because it cannot be defined, but that's a personal opinion. 

There're my guidelines to life thusfar.  Aren't you proud of me?  (Be proud of me, darn you!)  Don't learn these the hard way.  Learn from my mistakes, and/or lack of wisdom.

This entry makes me want to listen to 100 Years.  In fact, I think I will.  I recommend you download it.  100 Years by Five for Fighting.  Best song EVER!  Okay, best song written after 1960. lmao.  Sweet dreams.  Sweet awakening.  Life is good, and sanity is relative.  Therefore life is relatively good.

My life, or at least my moods seem to be governed by phases.  ALL OF YOU STOP SNICKERING!  I didn't mean it like that.  I'm sorry, I'm slightly on edge today.  Anyways, I go through phases where all I do is really one thing.  For example, I read, I write, or I draw.  I go through cycles of extroversion and withdrawl.  there is no basic time unit for the length of these phases.  something inside of my brain just switches on and I'm off pursuing flights of fancy.

That's another thing I've noticed.  I have this bizarre preoccupation with the idioms and proverbs of the english language . . . Well no doubt you've noticed my literary peppering of cliches.

And with this whole back to school thing, I'm already feeling lost and out of place.  It's overwhelming.  Yet I'm already slipping away, gazing out of winows into the eddies of swirling snow, dreaming.  Of what do I dream?  Nothing in particular.  I haven't succumbed that far.  I'm content with a blank mind, staring into feathery flurries and thinking of nothing.  I've already started talking to myself.  And actually, I've figured out why.  I talk to myself because when I verbalize things, I clarify them, other than just leaving a tangled web of undistinguishable thoughts lodged between my ears.  If I can release it, I can pursue it.  If that makes absolutely any sense to you. 

I think I need to get out of my head for a while.  Give myself some space.  But then, thinking about that, if I left myself, where would I go?  But really, the more important question is would I like what I found when I came back?  That's a scary thing to think about.  To be out of touch with others is a scary thing.  But to be out of touch with oneself . . . I obviously need to refine the finer points of this plan to escape myself, apparently. 

One more thing, and it's important so I'll bold it.  Would anyone like to buy tickets to the Travel Club Spaghetti Supper saturday night?  $8 per adult, $6 per child.  If so, buy one from me, and it's at St John's Anglican Church (by the casino) 5-7PM this saturday, the 12th.  Please come!!!  Bring the family!

Wow, I'd be a horribe advertising agent.  So I won't be one. So but tickets anyways.

note to self: "inspirational" books

I haven't had a day this bad in a long time.  I don't know why I'm posting this; I don't want to say exactly what went wrong, only that a bunch of little things and one not-so-little thing went wrong.  When I'm upset, I don't need to be hugged and coddled and comforted in person.  I need to vent my frustration in writting, and focus it so at least I know who and what I'm mad at, exactly, and how to fix it next time.  Though of course I'm not at that phase of my anger/ drepression/frustration/grumnpy-the-dwarf-on-his-worst-day-Mindset.  I want to beat my head against a very hard object.  I want to go back to bed and start the day over.  I want to curl up in a corner and die.  I wish I hadn't gotten out of bed this morning.

Don't worry, I haven't done anything to hurt anyone else and I don't need to set anything right.  I just don't see why people didn't tell me . . .

But where did my day go wrong?  I guess my first inklings of it were in French . . . nope, actually definately when I woke up this morning with a scratch on my foot that I didn't know the source of.  off to a great start, don't you think?  Well it just kept getting worse and worse.  And it will continue: I have guides tonight and a family birthday party to get through yet.  Doesn't that sound appealing?  No wait, my first clue to a horrible day was waking up from a nightmare.  And now that so much has occurred, I can see the meaning of specific events of the dream. 

Don't worry about me.  I'm probably making a mountain out of a molehill.  The cat's cheeting my up a little now, chasing the computer arrow on the screen.  She keeps pressing the plus sign and I keep having to delete it (she's half-sitting on it.  She's watching the words that I type, I'm still waiting for her to bat at them.  I'll be fine tomorrow.  And at least art remains as an uncontaminated oasis in my day. I'm going to go now.  I may or may not make this entry private later.  I'll leave it here now, so that my misfortune may amuse you.  No, that's not right.  I know that you are above that.  I don't know why I'm leaving it.  I figure that today cannot get any worse, so hey, why not open myself up a bit.  Wrench out a few internal organs through the gaping wound, eh?

I'm going to leave you.  I shall feast on my misery alone, thank you.  I prefer to digest these things by myself.  Just a quick question,

If April showers bring May flowers, what do tempests bring?

Time is the only soldier.  That's a line in one of my dad's cheesy folk songs.  At least I think it is.  I can never seem to understand what some of them are saying . . . they blur the words together.  Today was better than yesterday.  But I knew it would be.  And I'm almost done my art folder!  It's so exciting.  lol I know, I'm a nerd.

Tomorrow's the dance.  Who's going?  I am.  Are you going?  Looking forward to it too.

I'm also disappointed in someone I've grown up with.  Someone who I knew as a child is dropping out of highschool.  I am not only sad, I am REALLY peeved.  This person had a LOT of potential, and was always on honour roll in grade school.  And this person is dropping out for what?  To be a hairdresser!  In previous conversation, this person has stated that the years sent in highschool are the best years of your life (I point which I emphatically protested)  and this person is CUTTING OUT ONE AND A HALF OF THE BEST YEARS OFF OF HIS/HER LIFE.  DOWN THE DRAIN.  WASTED!!!  I fear that his/her prophecy will be true.  I'm scared to think of what will become of this person.  Will he/she go back to nightschool at thirty, and take highschool?  Will his/her dreams be crushed?  I hope with all my heart for their success, but feel in my gut that it's unlikely.

Oh, another thought.  Dropping out before the age of eighteen is illegal in Ontario now.  He/she isn't eighteen.

Sorry, it's not 'Time' is the only soldier, it's 'Love' is the only soldier.  But I like Time better.  Because it's time that keeps on marching on, no matter what.  Love may fight for it's own sake, and own life, but Time is the real hero.  It remains unfazed through all events.  But soldiers are only human.  They live and die.  Therefore love makes sense, because debatably it lives and dies . . .

I've stopped making sense, haven't I?

Well, seeing as the dance is TOMORROW (I'm a lil excited.  I need a break!  And there it is!)  here are some song lyrics, to My Funny Valentine by Frank Sinatra.  I like the song, love the words, and I'll shut my mouth now.  Or rather cease my fingers.  Here it is, just for -- once again I'll shut my--cease my-- ugh you get the point.

My funny valentine
Sweet comic valentine
You make me smile with my heart
Your looks are laughable
Unphotographable
Yet you’re my favourite work of art

Is your figure less than greek
Is your mouth a little weak
When you open it to speak
Are you smart?

But don’t change a hair for me
Not if you care for me
Stay little valentine stay
Each day is valentine’s day

Is your figure less than greek
Is your mouth a little weak
When you open it to speak
Are you smart?

But don’t you change one hair for me
Not if you care for me
Stay little valentine stay
Each day is valentine’s day

"I am half-sick of shadows," said the Lady of Shalott.

That's part of my ISU poem, and I'm actually really interested in it.  So many themes . . .

But it depresses me in a way.  I know she dies because she surrenders her innocence and defies her fate and that's what destroys her, but I think that it makes the poem more interesting rather than depressing.  I am more aggrivated with the total lack of chivalry in the world today.  I know that the feminist movement was supposed to level the playing field, and it has considerably, but not completely.  Mmkay, I'm not in the mood for a feminist rant right now, so I'll just leave it at this.  I mourn the death of chivalry.

There, I've said it.  And I've had difficulty tracking my train of thought.  Oh, one more thing.  For no apparent reason, I seem to be on Dolce-Sutch's better side.  I know, scary stuff.  That is all.  Hope to see you all at the dance! 

(Btw, I'm the flower girl at two weddings.  But none in the works for myself, I'm afraid, lol.  Ah well -- I'm not even going to board that train [of thought] lol.)

Well, I've not too much to say today.  I've been considering futility with certain relationships, and thinking about how people cope with them.  I seem to be the sort to tune out these people, and confront issues only when absolutely necessary.  Though I have in the past had some pretty serious spaz-outs.  Yeah, not good.  I'm so mellow now, as compared to how I used to be.I'm not in the mood for getting too in depth with this, so I won't.  But I used to be a lot louder, in the good old days.  Then I found these little inkling at the back of my mind, and he said his name was Conscience.  Conscience stopped a lot of my fun, but also showed the harmful effects it had not only upon myself, but on other people, though Conscience admitted I never was a truly wild child.  We all have our virtues and we all have our vices.  Perhaps Conscience overdid his renovation.  However, I am confortable with my degree of verbalism most of the time.  When I'm not, I shall enter another coccoon, to undergo metamorphosis and change.  Survuval of the fittest.

Speaking of Darwin, I was thinking about natural instincts.  And it seems to me that the reason, evolutionarilly, that humans are so successful is that we have fewer instincts to hinder us.  This way, we can adapt to whatever changes are thrown our way.  That is not to say that our challenges are by any means trivial, or are solved on the first try.

What else was I going to say?  I'll remind myself to later give my laziness confession.  But that's a story for another day.

The dropout's locker was cleaned out today.  And I am angry that a certain person whose name will remain unmentioned is eccstatic over the extra locker space that she'll benefit from it.  Obviously, I'm still upset about this issue.

Oh, and today in Art I took my first crack at glass etching.  it turned out decently, especially for a first attempt!  It's a closed crescent moon in a thin line border, with a splattering of stars.  My corners aren't as crisp as I would have liked, but the stars really turned out well!  And it was good practice.  So next time, Norse/Celtic knot dragon!

Monday's child is fair of face,

Tuesday's child is full of grace,

Wednesday's child is full of woe,

Thursday's child has far to go,

Friday's child is loving and giving,

Saturday's child works hard for a living

And the child that's born on the Sabbath day

Is bonny and blithe, and good and gay.

Is it sad that I only had to look up the last verse?  I'm Tuesday's Child by the way.  And the 'full of grace' bit is a laugh and 3/4.  Yeah, just too darn klutzy.  But surprisingly, at today's spaghetti supper I didn't spill, break, or drop anything!  And I was busing tables!  That's exciting.  And there is not a stain on me, either.  I am proud of myself.

Yes, as you may or may not know, I am now sick.  Laugh, go ahead.  You've all been sick.  Now mock me in my misery.  I don't mind, really.  I'm just frigging exhausted.  I had a good 9 hours of sleep last night, yet I had an hour and a half nap in the afternoon.  I went to Roseview this moring, the set up for supper, then lunch and nap, then back for serving supper, and now I'm here.  Didn't get home till 10 to 9.  I'm more exhausted than I have a right to be.  So as soon as I finish this, I'm going to bed.

WOW.  My sis has my grade eight grad picture in here  (I'm in her freakish pink room--it scares me.  I hate the colour pink most of the time.  And in here, it is SMOTHERING.  Pinkness and cows.  What a combination).  I've grown up more than I thought.  Nice to have a little reality check once in a while.

Speaking of a reality check -- actually this doesn't relate at all, so I'll jump right in.  This is the time of year where a lot of -- ugh never mind that.  I'll try again, I'm just too lazy to delete lol.  Well Nessa chopped off all her hair (I can't believe it's so short!) last thursday.  And it got me thinking about how I'm too damn lazy to cut my hair.  Now that may sound retarded, because I still have to brush it, but I just don't want to give up half an hour of my morning every morning because I do so hate mornings and extending those chaotic early hours is CRUEL and does not make Tara a happy camper.  Just like all work and no play makes Jack a dull boy.  So yeah, I'm lazy.  That's my thought for the day.

Please ignore any irrelevant information that appears in the writtings before you, as I am in a delirium at the moment.  I'm off to bed now, so I'll be able to breathe through my nose again.  I miss being able to do that.  Sweet dreams. 

I had a good twelve hours of sleep and I'm still exhausted.  Plus I taught Sunday school.  It makes me sad; Little Mac is getting so rebellious!

I just finished reading a book, by an author I thought I'd read all of.  it's about this girl in Maine after WW1, and how she grows up in the course of a week  Basically she learns to deal with the fact that she isn't important, the people she loves most are the ones that hurt her most, and sometimes there must be pain before healing.  Oh, and that healing comes in ways one doesn't expect.  It was really interesting.  Here're a few memorable quotes:

"The design is mine, the embellishments are your.  I do not make wars; men do." -- The Voice

"The things that grow upward like the sunlight.  The things that grow downward like the rain." -- Jeb Twohey (The wise fool figure) 

I think that's all I've got to say today.

Well, not really a rose, a carnation, but definately more than I could've asked for.  Nessa-my-Nessa sent it to me from Iggy!  Thank you Nessa, if you're reading this!

It's beautiful outside, isn't it?  All of that lovely snow . . . It looks as if some mysterious lace mistress has tatted a lace shroud and spread it over the city.  I just love the trees in weather like this!

I was thinking today.  About thought.  Well not about thought specifically, but memory.  How are memories stored in your brain cells?  Are they contained in the genetic information?  Are there special memory-containing organelles?  Or are they codes to some arcane electrical impulses?  I should like to know.

Remind me to share with you my Spring Fever song later.  Overall, it hasn't been a bad day.  I'm in a good mood, oddly enough.  I don't know why, but it's nice.  Well, that's all I've got to say that isn't complete rambling.  See you tomorrow!

Well, not literally.  But I'm in a freakishy good mood today. 

Wow, I didn't realize that would save.  I woke up with energy this morning, obviously.  My babbline even scared Jodi.  We have formulated between us yet another world domination plan . . . well, not quite.  World Domination is the specialty of Kylie and myself (PIZZAMAYKKA!).  Jo and I have devised just a little thing called Operation Oompa Looma, in which we tar and feather a certain friend, but include orange dye in the tar as to stain the skin, and dye her hair green to transform her into an Oompa Loompa.  From there the plan gets slightly hazy.  I believe we should import a REAL Oompa Loompa or perhaps Willy Wonka himself, and take bets on the fight.  We could use the money towards Europe!  But Jodi disagrees.  That's for another plan, she tells me.

Yep, I'm a bit hyper today.  I've settled down a lot; by chemistry I was pretty much dead.  (Does Mercier put anyone else to sleep?)

I also got to thinking about thought.  Actually, I think about thought a lot, bizarre as it is.  I wonder how many thoughts that we have are really new, because most have been thought of before.  It ususally takes time for people to put things to action, but thoguhts about basic human need are pretty redundant, and that's occupied most of our history . . .  Arguably what sets people apart is our ability to think.  (Biology defines it as curiousity, anthro defines it as adaptability, but it all comes down to the same mental processes that we believe are unique to humans.)  But have other people thought every thought that I myself am thinking before I have?  Are they the same thought if they're applied differently?  Do people even think them first at all?  Are we honestly really doing anything new?  I'm assuming God has thought each of our thoughts before we've thought them, or has He?  Because a lot of our human thoughts are too nasty and fleshy for the Creator . . . but after all he did create us, so did he think them after all? 

I've talked myself in circles.  I suppose I think about thoguth because ome of the Greek philosophers determined that thought is the only thing that we know for certain exists, but I'm not certain if I agree entirely with that thesis.  Be it true or be it false, I still want to know where thought comes from.  Is it from us?  Is it from Him?  Is it from others?  I wonder does it have more substance than we as a species accredit to it?

Ah well.  I've pondered enough of Life's mysteries.  Now I must ponder a "certainty" (is anything really certain in life?  A question for another day.  Questions are certainties, I believe, but that's another level and another issue altogether).  Well, I'd best start upon the "certainty" of chemistry homework.

Today has been bittersweet.  Wait, no it hasn't.  It's been bitter.  I'm sick of people -- well a certain person in particular -- manipulating the situation to make me do what she wants me to do, against my wishes and without my imput!  I am sick of this person prying into my affairs, complaining about everything I do/say/think.  It bothers me excessively that knowing that no matter what I do, I'll get the same reaction.  I can't do anything to fix my relationship with this person; I can only grin and bear it.  Sometimes this rage bubbles up, usually following an escapade.  Well, today consisted of escapades abundant.   

On another note, though not much happier, another companion of mine is . . . wait that's not what I wanted to say.  I hate to see people go back for a second serving of pain.  Fragile hopes can entice one to attempt again a doomed certainty.  I should hate to see this person hurt again, especially when it can easily be prevented.  I don't approve of the easy acceptance of these terms, nor do I approve of the conditions under which they were raised. 

Anyways, I'm not a happy camper.  Tomorrow shoudl be better.

I have nothing for you.  In fact, I have nothing for anyone.  Except perhaps a song.  Here's the Spring Fever lyrics to a song I love so much.  From the movie State Fair.

I'm as restless as a willow in a windstorm
I'm as jumpy as puppet on a string
I'd say that I had spring fever
But I know it isn't spring
I am starry eyed and vaguely discontented
Like a nightingale without a song to sing
O why should I have spring fever
When it isn't even spring
I keep wishing I were someone else
Walking down a strange new street
And hearing words that I've never head
From a girl I've yet to meet
I'm as busy as spider spinning daydreams
Spinning spinning daydreams
I'm as giddy as a baby on a swing
I haven't seen a crocus or a rosebud
Or a robin on the wing
But I feel so gay in a melancholy way
That it might as well be spring
It might as
Well be
Spring

When I was young, I used to read a lot.  In fact, I still read a lot.  But I used to devour books, novels, in any shape, size, form, or subject . . . which lead me a little too soon to "Are You There God, It's Me Margeret", but that's a story for another day.  Anyways, I used to aspire to be like the heroines in my storybooks.  They tended to be the sort that were somewhat corny, the characters all with tragic pasts and magic powers or the undying belief in some unworthy belief or person . . .  They all ended up with special abilities themselves, or something corny.  Well all of the characters were to me terribly interesting and I wished to be just like them, embarking on adventures, and doing great exciting things with my life.  Well I couldn't do these things.  After all, I was just a grade school girl!  Ah, but what I could be more like them in personality.  Each had a different personality you see, and I couldn't possibly mirror them all. But they were all terribly mysterious.

And so, from my childhood readings, I aspired to be mysterious.  I know, I've failed miserably at this.  And I recognise it.  But it wasn't until recently that I actually thought about this.  And I realized the boring thing with all of my book heroines.  All of these young women were mysterious once, then they released their deep, dark secret, and accomplished whatever.  But by the time it was done, they were no longer mysterious.

So yes, I'd be a horrid herione.  Not that my life is interesting up, nor my personality traits exceptional enough.  I do not have a tragic past, nor a rare ability.  So I'm me.  The writter of stories, rather than the subject.

I haven't thought of this song in a long time, but now that I have, I wish to share it with you.  You may or may not remember it from the height of its popularity, but it's Gravity by Soul Decision.  It doesn't apply perfectly to me or my situation, but I identify with aspects of it and anyways, here it is.

You're unavoidable
Simply irresistible
And certainly you're kissable
But next to you I'm way to shy
And lose my backbone
Leave my feelings unknown
Play should've could've on my own
Then I'm left to wonder why
This is so hard
Letting down my guard
It's all the same, it's I blame
But maybe that's not right
So I'll blame
Gravity
For always holding out on me
When I just want to run away
It trips me and I fall for you
Makes perfect sense to me
Lose responsibility
Ten every time I fail to see
How easy this could be
I can put the blame on gravity
You're undeniable
Truly unbelievable
And certainly achievable
If only I could speak my mind
But I deliberate
Simple things, I complicate
Then I think it best to wait
It happens to me all the time
This is all so hard
Letting down my guard
It's all the same, it's you to blame
But maybe that's not right
So I'll blame
Gravity
For always holding out on me
When I just want to run away
It trips me and I fall for you
Makes perfect sense to me
Lose responsibility
Then ever time I fail to see
How easy this could be
I can put the blame on gravity
There is something I must confess
I was happy with loneliness, oh yeah
Weightlessness is so easy to be
Now I'm up in a different spin
Out of control and completely into you
So why put the blame on me
When I can put the blame on gravity
[Chorus]

I'll write more later.  Tomorrow I'll recount the experiences of today.

I've been feeling very detached lately, and there's no continuity to my days.  It's as if I haven't woken up in this same skin for the past sixteen years.  I mean, how do I know that yesterday really happened?  I don, that's how.  Every day's like a mini birth, a fresh start.  Except it isn't really.  And I know it isn't.  Everything is growing and changing, but each day seems like a snapshot . . .  I don't like this.  I can't follow through with decisions . . . It's complicated.

Between this and english . . . when did I add stagefright to my list of shotcommings?  I used to enjoy public speaking.  What happened?  Or rather, what is happening?

I can hardly believe it.  Seventeen days until europe.  I think I'll do a song countdown with the number in the lyrics every day until I go.  Or I'll try to.  Today's song: Strawberry Wine.

He was working through college on my grandpa's farm
I was thirsting for for knowledge and he had a car
I was caught somewhere between a woman and a child
When one restless summer we found love growing wild
On the banks of the river on a well beaten path
Funny how those memories they last

Like strawberry wine and seventeen
The hot July moon saw everything
My first taste of love oh bittersweet
Green on the vine
Like strawberry wine

I still remember when thirty was old
My biggest fear was September when he had to go
A few cards and letters and one long distance call
We drifted away like the leaves in the fall
But year after year I come back to this place
Just to remember the taste

Of strawberry wine and seventeen
The hot July moon saw everything
My first taste of love oh bittersweet
Green on the vine
Like strawberry wine

The fields have grown over now
Years since they've seen a plow
There's nothing time hasn't touched
Is it really him or the loss of my innocence
I've been missing so much

Like strawberry wine and seventeen
The hot July moon saw everything
My first taste of love oh bittersweet
Green on the vine
Like strawberry wine.

Case and point: my parents' music once again contaminates my young, impressionable mind.  Why am I so interested in songs about growing up?  Ugh. 

Last night I came to partially define part of my recent restlessness--or lack thereof, actually.  I currently lack much motivation and fail to see purpose in life.  And I came to the realization that I am not living life.  Life is living me.  I don't know if that's a good thing or a bad thing.  To a degree, it's essential.  Because you can't plan your whole life, without interference.

Ah yes, planning.  I know this aspect of life too well.  Is anyone else completely stessed by these option sheets?  Cause I have no idea what the prerequisites are for my university courses . . .  I don't even know what university I want to go to!  Am I supposed to?  Because I don't.  When am I supposed to find time to do that?  I made an appointment and Mr Valente said he teaches us all about it in grade twelve.  But this is the guy who gave us the hour long lecture yesterday about "being careful what courses you take -- you won't be able to switch out of the later" blah blah blah.  Well then tell me what the frick to take!!!!!!!  I'm just a little peeved.  I hate thinking about the future all the time.  It scares me.  The unknown, the indecisiveness, the fact that I know it won't be anything like I expect.  Even in expecting the unexpected I shall be betrayed.

So yeah, that's that.  Here's my countdown song for today.  Day sixteen.  And yes, I realize I could have chosen this song for yesterday.  But I didn't.  And here it is.  Sixteen going on Seventeen, from the Sound of Music (you didn't think I'd let you get away without any old musicals, did you?)

[Rolf:]
You wait, little girl, on an empty stage
For fate to turn the light on
Your life, little girl, is an empty page
That men will want to write on

[Liesl:]
To write on

[Rolf:]
You are sixteen going on seventeen
Baby, it's time to think
Better beware, be canny and careful
Baby, you're on the brink

You are sixteen going on seventeen
Fellows will fall in line
Eager young lads and rogues and cads
Will offer you food and wine

Totally unprepared are you
To face a world of men
Timid and shy and scared are you
Of things beyond your ken

You need someone older an wiser
Telling you what to do
I am seventeen going on eighteen
I'll take care of you

[Liesl:]
I am sixteen going on seventeen
I know that I'm naive
Fellows I meet may tell me I'm sweet
And willingly I believe

I am sixteen going on seventeen
Innocent as a rose
Bachelor dandies, drinkers of brandies
What do I know of those

Totally unprepared am I
To face a world of men
Timid and shy and scared am I
Of things beyond my ken

I need someone older and wiser
Telling me what to do
You are seventeen going on eighteen
I'll depend on you

I don't see what everyone else sees about the age sixteen being so special and significant.  I didn't magically emerge from the awkward, stiffling coccoon of childhood and naivette to become a blossoming, beautiful, sixteen-year-old butterfly.  And I'm not sure I want to be that butterfly.  I really don't understand why people tend to put so much emphasis on the transformation of the butterfly.  Because butterflies are needy, and butterflies die.  Quickly.  So would I rather be a long-lived caterpillar?  I don't know.  Insects and their larval stages don't particularly appeal to me.  All I recognise is that beauty fades, quickly.  So as an awkward, childish being, I have a better chance for survival.

Yes, fifteen days.  I'm so excited.  But I really need to know how much stuff I can bring back duty free!  Anyways, I wrote a sonnet last night.  It's not about me, or my emotions.  I just had this whole visualization of a metaphorical feast of misery as the other party attempts to rekindle a failed relationship.  A relationship that is destined to fail again.  I recognise that it's not polished.  Could be worse, though, and it fits the rhyme scheme while remaining consistant.  So here is my sonnet.

A Second Serving of Pain

A scheme you've conspired to win my attentions,

By fate's forceful hand to you will I am bound

To revive smouldring embers of once passionate affections;

Faded memory's prisoner, your lost queen I am crowned.

We feast upon misery, I must dine at your table,

Dry, tasteless, bitter; course upon course;

Ingesting forkfuls of anguish--as much as I'm able,

Though I choke on disquiet, you show no remorse.

Through my heart you desire as merely possession,

Promises empty from lips forth doth spill

I listen intently to all your confessions,

My confidence swayed, I am bent to your will.

All fear, apprehensions aside I have lain,

I arise from my place for a second serving of pain.

So that's my sonnet.  Let me know what you thin, and how I can improve it!  Oh, and my countdown song for today is 100 Years by Five for Fighting (Suzie, you must have known this was comming!).  So here it is, one of my favourite songs of all time!

I'm 15 for a moment
Caught in between 10 and 20
And I'm just dreaming
Counting the ways to where you are
I'm 22 for a moment
She feels better than ever
And we're on fire
Making our way back from Mars
15 there's still time for you
Time to buy and time to lose
15, there's never a wish better than this
When you only got 100 years to live
I'm 33 for a moment
Still the man, but you see I'm a they
A kid on the way
A family on my mind
I'm 45 for a moment
The sea is high
And I'm heading into a crisis
Chasing the years of my life
15 there's still time for you
Time to buy, Time to lose yourself
Within a morning star
15 I'm all right with you
15, there's never a wish better than this
When you only got 100 years to live
Half time goes by
Suddenly you?re wise
Another blink of an eye
67 is gone
The sun is getting high
We're moving on...
I'm 99 for a moment
Dying for just another moment
And I'm just dreaming
Counting the ways to where you are
15 there's still time for you
22 I feel her too
33 you're on your way
Every day's a new day...
15 there's still time for you
Time to buy and time to choose
Hey 15, there's never a wish better than this
When you only got 100 years to live.

Fourteen days.  Well I went to get Euros and Great British Pounds today, with my mom at the bank.  The money looks so funny!  And a credit card.  I learned a very valuable lesson today.  NEVER EVER have a two-line signatue.  Because I signed that way when I got my passport back and it doesn't fit anywhere . . .  Yeah SO many complications, and I can't change it for another four years, tho my mom says when I go to university I'll have to pay to get my own new passport with a PROPER signature.

I don't know any songs with the word fourteen in them, so here're some random lyrics:

Fourteen!
Fourteen girls in baggy pajamas
What if I'd gone to the south Bahamas
Told me I had won the mystery prize
Tied my head behind my back and blindfolded my eyes

Fourteen tons of golden ripe bananas
The one I'd trade for my long lost bandana
The one I won one time at the State fair
With little pictures of James Dean slicking back his hair

Fourteen is not my favorite number
At night I dream, I see Fourteen spelled out in lumber
Fourteen - I can't understand
Fourteen - 'cause I'm just an ordinary man
Fourteen - I can't understand
Fourteen - 'cause I'm just an ordinary man

Fourteen men to witness my confession
If I'm ever sentenced and die for my obsessions
There's Fourteen songs all named Fourteen
With Fourteen verses each that I dearly love to sing
X-I-V is how the Romans said it
In retrospect I'm sure they don't regret it
Eventually their empire finally fell
F-o-u-r-t-e-e-n is how we came to spell

Fourteen - is not my favorite number
At night I dream, I see Fourteen spelled out in lumber
Fourteen - I can't understand
Fourteen - 'cause I'm just an ordinary man
Fourteen - I can't understand
Fourteen-'cause I'm just an ordinary man
An ordinary man, an ordinary man
Fourteen!

So that's today.  Tomorrow is guide camp, so I get zero sleep this weekend (tonight is curlig w youth group--I've never curled before, so we'll see how that goes).  My sister, the dragon she is, is breathing down my neck, so there'll be no meaningful insights for today.  Fare thee well.

Okay, I'm not much of a curler.  But that was a given.  It's an activity involving aim and upper body strength.  lol.  I've rediscovered the glory of the Arrogant Worms.  Here's the Vegetable song.  Actually, it's called Carrot Juice is Murder.

Listen up brothers and sisters, come here my desperate tale
I speak of our friends of nature, trapped in the dirt like a jail
Vegtables live in oppression, served on out tables each night
This killing of veggies is madness, I say we take up the fight
Salads are only for murderers, cole slaw’s a fascist regime
Don’t think that they don’t have feelings, just cause a radish can’t scream

I’ve heard the screams of the vegetables, watching their skins being peeled
Grated and steamed with no mercy.. how do you think that feels?
Carrot juice constitutes murder.. greenhouses prisons for slaves
It’s time to stop all this gardening.. let’s call a spade a spade.

I saw a man eating celery, so I beat him black and blue
If he ever touches a sprout again, I’ll bite him clean in two
I’m a political prisoner, trapped in a windowless cage
’cause I stopped the slaughter of turnips, by killing five men in a rage
I told the judge when he sentenced me, this is my finest hour..
I’d kill those farmers again, just to save one more cauliflower

I’ve heard the screams of the vegetables, watching their skins being peeled
Grated and steamed with no mercy.. how do you think that feels?
Carrot juice constitutes murder.. greenhouses prisons for slaves
It’s time to stop all this gardening.. let’s call a spade a spade.

How low as people do we dare to stoop
Making our broccolis bleed in the soup
Untie your beans, uncage your tomatoes
Let potted plants free, don’t mash that potato!

I’ve heard the screams of the vegetables, watching their skins being peeled
Grated and steamed with no mercy.. how do you think that feels?
Carrot juice constitutes murder.. greenhouses prisons for slaves
It’s time to stop all this gardening.. let’s call a spade a spade.
Is a spade is a spade is a spade is a... spade

Good stuff.  Ah, well.

Well, I couldn't post yesterday because I was off to guide camp . . . I didn't get much sleep, I froze most of the time, and I'm sick.  Not a good combination.  The result you ask?  I had a five and a half hour nap when I got home.  And I'm still tired.  Ah well.  Twas fun, at least.  Even if Nessa and I were too sick to participate any of our usual camp evening rituals.  So thirteen.  The only song that comes to mind is Original Prankster . . . I blame art last year.  They'd listen to the SAME STUPID CD EVERY DAY.  Obviously, that was one of the songs. 

You can do it!

Until the break of dawn
Life, Life, Cannot go by the letter
Time, Time, Prozac can make it better
Noise, Noise, any kind will do
Can you feel it slip away, well it's all on you

Hey!

Crime, crime, rockin like Janet Reno
Time, Time, 18 and life in Chino
Freud, Freud, all alone it true
Well you see the coming day catches up to you, yeah

CHORUS:
Knock down the walls
It's alive in you
Knock down the place
You're alone it's true
Knock down the walls
It's alive in you
You're gonna keep your head up through it all
You're gonna bust out on it
Original Prankster
Break out, yeah
Original, yeah
Bust out on it
Original Prankster
You'll never stop now, stop now, that's what the main man say

You can do it!

You know it smells like shit, goddamn
Tag team, the double header
Son of Sam, fire always makes it better
Navigate, with style and aplomb
Cause wherever you are at that's the trip you on!

Hey!
Hey!

Lies, lies, says he down in the Bahamas
Tries, tries, bangin little hoochy mammas
No way, none of this is true
Well you see the coming day when the joke's on you, yeah
Hey!

CHORUS

Hey!
You can do it!
Time, time, so good to see ya
Nein, nein, don't wanna be ya
Dime, dime, so good to see ya
Nein, nein, don't wanna be ya
Crime, crime, fine sensimilla
Crime, crime, fine sensimilla
Crime, crime, fine sensimilla
When you see the coming day catches up to you, yeah

CHORUS

You'll never stop now, stop now, stop now, stop now, that's what the main man say
 

And for twelve, I do with the classic Twelve Days of Christmas (come on, you knew it was comming).

On the first day of Christmas, 
my true love sent to me 
A partridge in a pear tree. 

On the second day of Christmas, 
my true love sent to me 
Two turtle doves, 
And a partridge in a pear tree. 

On the third day of Christmas, 
my true love sent to me 
Three French hens, 
Two turtle doves, 
And a partridge in a pear tree. 

On the fourth day of Christmas, 
my true love sent to me 
Four calling birds, 
Three French hens, 
Two turtle doves, 
And a partridge in a pear tree. 

On the fifth day of Christmas, 
my true love sent to me 
Five golden rings, 
Four calling birds, 
Three French hens, 
Two turtle doves, 
And a partridge in a pear tree. 

On the sixth day of Christmas, 
my true love sent to me 
Six geese a-laying, 
Five golden rings, 
Four calling birds, 
Three French hens, 
Two turtle doves, 
And a partridge in a pear tree. 

On the seventh day of Christmas, 
my true love sent to me 
Seven swans a-swimming, 
Six geese a-laying, 
Five golden rings, 
Four calling birds, 
Three French hens, 
Two turtle doves, 
And a partridge in a pear tree. 

On the eighth day of Christmas, 
my true love sent to me 
Eight maids a-milking, 
Seven swans a-swimming, 
Six geese a-laying, 
Five golden rings, 
Four calling birds, 
Three French hens, 
Two turtle doves, 
And a partridge in a pear tree. 

On the ninth day of Christmas, 
my true love sent to me 
Nine ladies dancing, 
Eight maids a-milking, 
Seven swans a-swimming, 
Six geese a-laying, 
Five golden rings, 
Four calling birds, 
Three French hens, 
Two turtle doves, 
And a partridge in a pear tree. 

On the tenth day of Christmas, 
my true love sent to me 
Ten lords a-leaping, 
Nine ladies dancing, 
Eight maids a-milking, 
Seven swans a-swimming, 
Six geese a-laying, 
Five golden rings, 
Four calling birds, 
Three French hens, 
Two turtle doves, 
And a partridge in a pear tree. 

On the eleventh day of Christmas, 
my true love sent to me 
Eleven pipers piping, 
Ten lords a-leaping, 
Nine ladies dancing, 
Eight maids a-milking, 
Seven swans a-swimming, 
Six geese a-laying, 
Five golden rings, 
Four calling birds, 
Three French hens, 
Two turtle doves, 
And a partridge in a pear tree. 

On the twelfth day of Christmas, 
my true love sent to me 
Twelve drummers drumming, 
Eleven pipers piping, 
Ten lords a-leaping, 
Nine ladies dancing, 
Eight maids a-milking, 
Seven swans a-swimming, 
Six geese a-laying, 
Five golden rings, 
Four calling birds, 
Three French hens, 
Two turtle doves, 
And a partridge in a pear tree! 
On the note of Christmas carols, I was going to provide an analogy to explain some of my irrational thoughts, but this entry's long enough already, and I doubt anyone would read it.  So I'll save that for another day.

I thought collies were supposed to be graceful.  Because mine is definately not.  And she's growing up way too fast.  I mean, people in the puppy classes notice a difference, and that's only over a week.  Her colouring is getting darker, and she's doesn't have so much of the creamy gold puppy fuzz anymore.  She's not cute anymore, she's gorgeous.

Do parents get that way about thier children?  Wait, you don't know what way I'm talking about.  I get so anxious to see her grow up so I can know what she turns out to be.  I know I'll want to take her back to this stage later, but I can't help it.  Do parents get that way about their children?  Are they so anxious to see them grow up that they don't enjoy the moment?  We're always asked as children, from the time we can talk, "What do you want to be when you grow up?" and the parents tend to superimpose their own dreams over the children (to what extent greatly varies) . . . but off I go.  I'm not talking about my dog anymore.  I'm glad she's growing up.  But I'm not so glad about my own transformations.

A few thoughts before I begin.

I have a really weak immune system.

Is it sad that my day was made good with a singe glance?  Why is it that the split second instants define the core of an event, emotion, feeling, period of time . . .

I'm babbling, I know.  I just love being able to appreciate the little things.  I love being easily amused.  Anyways, I'll give you the song for today.  Mmkay, I used to listen to this on my little walkman when I was little.  (My parents didn't like listening to all the kids tapes when my sis and I were youg, so they got some walkmans and listened to their own music on the car stereo.)  Yeah, this was on my sister's fave kiddie tape.  I always hated it, because I was like seven and didn't see a point to wishing my life away for one "heavenly" year.  So yeah, here it is.

Well, it seems I can't find it.  Just picture a chorus along the lines of "I'm in heaven/ I'm eleven/ don't you wish you were eleven too" etc etc.  Yeah, maybe the lack of lyrics isn't too much of a waste.  If I have energy and time later, I might dig up the tape later, and type out the lyrics.

I feel as if I've been keeping the world at a distance lately.  People and their problems an arm's length away.  Where I can bail out, or observe, or . . . I don't think I've thought ahead enough to know what I'm doing at or with this distance.  I just like to dreamily drift about . . .

Well I recognise this lack of attachment is bad for me.  I need to "get plugged in to my life," as Dr Phil would say.  I need some sort of inspiration.  Some sort of obvious reason for waking up every morning.  Because I do wake up, and get dressed, and eat, and when I get to school I wonder, "Why am I doing this?  What's the point?"

This isn't some sort of plea for attention.  It's an issue  And I need to resolve with myself.

I've reinvented--I'm not sure what to call it?  My attitude, I suppose.  However, "outlook" seems to be more appropriate.  Perhaps it's not so much a "eureka" as a grudging consent [to what I already knew, but was too lazy to do all along].  Baby steps.  Have any of you ever seen the movie "What About Bob?" ? Funniest movie EVER!  You haven't?  Then you don't get the "Baby Steps" thing, I suppose.  But the movie is about this neurotic guy who slowly drives his shrink crazy. 

Anyways, back on track.  I've decided that if I wake up in the morning, as long as during the day I give back even a little bit more than I take, it's been worth it.  Life doesn't work very well when you live it half-assed.  I'm going to use my whole ass, darn it!!  If I'm here, then I might as well DO something!  I'm going to leave things a little better than I've found them.  What, I'm not sure of yet.  Nor am I sure of how.  But I'm getting there!  Baby steps. 

I think to be able to do this to the full extent, I'm going to need to get louder.  I've recognised that I've needed to do this for a while, but I didn't know how . . . involved . . . I wanted to get.  But don't hold your breath for this one, folks.  It's gonna take a while.  A work in progress, right?

Nine days.  Single digits.  This is big, folks.  I'm going to pack some stuff tonight.  But anyways, my song for today shall be Ninety Nine Red Balloons.  The version I listen to is by Goldfinger, but there're all sorts of versions floating out there.  Just make sure the one you get is English, not German.  lol.  So without further ado (or a-don't -- sorry, couldn't resist the lame joke), here it is.

Goldfinger
99 Red Balloons

Not much on my part to say today.  I went to a travel club parent meeting thing, and shoe-shopped (I really don't understand why people can actually like shoe shopping.  I find it stressful.)  Anyways, so that was my uneventful day. 

But earlier I also had this wave of . . .  Do you know that feeling, that you're not seeing the forest for the trees?  (Can't avoid the cliche . . . sorry).  I'll elabourate,  Looking at something, you feel you're seeing--really seeing--it for what it is for the first time?  I know this can be taken as a bad thing, but it's more a clarification, a noticing of details that didn't seem to be there before . . .  It's a nice feeling.  Fulfilling, awe inspiring, and envigorating, if that makes any sense.

So anyways, here's my countdown song; Eighth World Wonder by Kimberly Locke.  (Note: I only followed the first and second seasons of American Idol.  Kimberly Locke was my favourite in Season Two.  Ah well.  Here's the song.) 

One week.  In exactly seven days, I will be on a plane.  That is craziness!

Seven days . . . that reminds me of the movie the Ring.  That movie wasn't too bad but when we watched it, Jodi tried to get someone else to call at the end of the movie and say "Seven days".  The plan was mostly targeted at Mandy . . .  Ah, grade nine.  The movie the Ring reminds me of Lord of those rings which reminds me that those books are BORING.

My grandparents are going away soon . . . I had lunch wiht them today.  I'm gonna miss them SO much!  (For those of you who don't know, I see my grandparents on a daily basis, and they're VERY active.)

I've sort of realized why I'm so indecisive.  And It's because I don't trust my own judgement.  I don't know if it's really me making my decisions, or chemicals in my brain affecting my judgement, or horemones, who knows what else.  I just don't have any faith in the soundness of my mind anymore.  It's like my theory . . . sort of.  (Is it a theory?  It may be a law.  Ugh.  You get he point.)   You can't psychologically diagnose yourself because the condition itself would interfere with your judgement deciding which condition it was.  Does that make sense?  So if that theory/law/principle is correct, which it is, then who am I to say whether or not I second guess myself entirely too much.  It is also the reason why I tend to revert back to the same routine and state of mind, without making any alterations.

As for my countdown, I'm sort of cheating today.  Because it is one week, my song shall be titled and contain the word week, instead of seven.  if you are severly offended, then by all means look up a song with the word seven in the lyrics.  My only request is that it be CLEAN.  Anyways, here's the song.  One Week, by Barenaked Ladies.  This song amuses me in its randomness.

It’s been one week since you looked at me
Cocked your head to the side and said I’m angry.
Five days since you laughed at me
Saying get that together come back and see me.
Three days since the living room
I realized it’s all my fault, but couldn’t tell you
Yesterday you’d forgiven me
But it’ll still be two days till I say I’m sorry

Hold it now and watch the hoodwink
As I make you stop, think
You’ll think you’re looking at aquaman
I summon fish to the dish, although I like the chalet swiss
I like the sushi ’cause it’s never touched a frying pan
Hot like wasabe when I bust rhymes
Big like leann rimes
Because I’m all about value
Bert kaempfert’s got the mad hits
You try to match wits
You try to hold me but I bust through
Gonna make a break and take a fake
I’d like a stinkin achin shake
I like vanilla, it’s the finest of the flavours
Gotta see the show, cause then you’ll know
The vertigo is gonna grow
Cause it’s so dangerous, you’ll have to sign a waiver

How can I help it if I think you’re funny when you’re mad
Trying hard not to smile though I feel bad
I’m the kind of guy who laughs at a funeral
Can’t understand what I mean?
Well, you soon will
I have a tendency to wear my mind on my sleeve
I have a history of taking off my shirt

It’s been one week since you looked at me
Threw your arms in the air and said you’re crazy
Five days since you tackled me
I’ve still got the rug burns on both my knees
It’s been three days since the afternoon
You realized it’s not my fault not a moment too soon
Yesterday you’d forgiven me
And now I sit back and wait till you say you’re sorry

Chickity china the chinese chicken
You have a drumstick and your brain stops tickin’
Watchin x-files with no lights on, we’re dans la maison
I hope the smoking man’s in this one
Like harrison ford I’m getting frantic
Like sting I’m tantric
Like snickers, guaranteed to satisfy
Like kurasawa I make mad films
Okay I don’t make films
But if I did they’d have a samurai
Gonna get a set of better clubs
Gonna find the kind with tiny nubs just so my
Irons aren’t always flying off the back-swing
Gotta get in tune with sailor moon
Cause that cartoon has got the boom anime babes
That make me think the wrong thing

How can I help it if I think you’re funny when you’re mad
Trying hard not to smile though I feel bad
I’m the kind of guy who laughs at a funeral
Can’t understand what I mean? you soon will
I have a tendency to wear my mind on my sleeve
I have a history of losing my shirt

It’s been one week since you looked at me
Dropped your arms to your sides and said I’m sorry
Five days since I laughed at you
And said you just did just what I thought you were gonna do
Three days since the living room
We realized we’re both to blame, but what could we do?
Yesterday you just smiled at me
Cause it’ll still be two days till we say we’re sorry
It’ll still be two days till we say we’re sorry
It’ll still be two days till we say we’re sorry
Birchmount stadium, home of the robbie

Six days.  Less than a week!  I'm soooo pumped.  I've been out and about today, getting things last minute.  Like travellers checks.  I've also been working on my english.  Finished unpacking my poem, that took FOREVER, and I'm done about a third of my random acts of kindness.  I've completed the first act, the second occurs tomorrow, and the third--well I've got a decent idea, and that'll be monday.  The journal has been drafted, I just need to know a bit about chronological order of it, and revise the order . . . my symbol and its paragraph are done.  Does anyone want to do some proofing for me?  Please?

So, six.  Here's my song for today.  I recognise that it has other numbers in it, but I have better songs plotted for those days (muahahahaha!).  It's from the movie Josie and the Pussycats.  Yup yup.  3 Small Words, here it is. 

(yeah!!!)
im a punk rock prom queen
brown paper magazine
hotter than you've ever seen..
everywhere and in between
im a 10 ticket thrill ride.
dont you want to come inside?
5 star triple threat
hardest of the hard to get
no one's little red corvette
ain't seen nothing Like me yet
(chorus)
it took 6 whole hours, and 5 long days
for all your lies to come undone
and those 3 small words,
were way too late
coz you cant see that im the one....
( friends first )
im your late night head rush
ace high royal flush
red velvet orange crush
you just don't impress me much
a glossy, double cover spread
opened up inside your head
a black cherry paradise
half the sugar, twice the spice
i dont want to treat you nice
c'mon baby roll the dice
( chorus)
josie.......etc
it took...
( chorus )

Darn it, I should've used this for ten.

Some people say variety is the spice of life.  I beg to differ.  In my case, the seasoning is irony.  Perhaps I just get a higher dose of such in my daily diet.  Which is probably why when I think of it I bite back a laugh and grin like an idiot rather than reacting differently.  Ah, good times.  Now for the lovely transition time.  I really enjoy this time.  It makes everything seem clear, and I'm more appreciative, though also I feel as if I'm stretched in many directions.  That is the downside.

Today I will break my own cleanliness rule, my song is White Houses by Vanessa Carlton.  I like the innocence of this song, though I don't believe that this is the medium through which childhood is lost.  Personally, I believe one is no longer a child when one ceases to believe that there will always be a happy ending; and one can succeed no matter what.  But that is personal opinion.  So yeah, five days.  White Houses.  Here it is.

Crashed on the floor when I moved in
This little bungalow with some strange new friends
Stay up too late, and I'm too thin
We promise each other it's til the end
Now we're spinning empty bottles
It's the five of us
With pretty eyed boys girls die to trust
I can't resist the day
No, I can't resist the day

Jenny screams out and it's no pose
'Cause when she dances she goes and goes
Beer through the nose on an inside joke
I'm so excited, I haven't spoken
And she's so pretty, and she's so sure
Maybe I'm more clever than a girl like her
The summer's all in bloom
The summer is ending soon

It's alright and it's nice not to be so alone
But I hold on to your secrets in white houses

Maybe I'm a little bit over my head
I come undone at the things he said
And he's so funny in his bright red shirt
We were all in love and we all got hurt
I sneak into his car's cracked leather seat
The smell of gasoline in the summer heat
Boy, we're going way too fast
It's all too sweet to last

It's alright
And I put myself in his hands
But I hold on to your secrets in white houses
Love, or something ignites in my veins
And I pray it never fades in white houses

My first time, hard to explain
Rush of blood, oh, and a little bit of pain
On a cloudy day, it's more common than you think
He's my first mistake

Maybe you were all faster than me
We gave each other up so easily
These silly little wounds will never mend
I feel so far from where I've been
So I go, and I will not be back here again
I'm gone as the day is fading on white houses
I lie, put my injuries all in the dust
In my heart is the five of us
In white houses

And you, maybe you'll remember me
What I gave is yours to keep
In white houses [x3]

I'm starting to amass my homework for my voyage . . . I've got my Macbeth beast.  And today I dream of carousel horses.  I miss that spark in my day.  I did have a day that even friday I would have enjoyed, but it was so tasteless.  (Metaphorically,) I need to learn to season my own meals, and not rely on the seasonings of others.  I need to fulfill my own needs and whims, darn it!  Well, I'm all done my random acts themselves, I just need to write up the essay.  The paragraph and journal are done . . .  can't say so much for the language manual.  I am so sick of the Nintendo Death Music that they play every day in art!  the same "Get ready to die" song EVERY DAY.  It's got these words instucting the listener to kill their neighbour to the melody of a happy supermario-esque tune.  

I think that I think to much.  I think I need to act on those thoughts, and do.  But once again these are just thoughts.  I think--no, not think, I am going to set some time limits for myself to fix it.

Anyways, four.  I'm too lazy to find a song for today.  I think I'll just refer you back to the line "I'm FOURty five for a moment in good ol' 100 Years.  How I love that song.  But off the top of my head I cannot think of another song containing the number four.  Feel free to post your own, if you do so desire.

Three days.  Three.  That is craziness!!!  I so want to go RIGHT NOW.

I love this newfound clarity.  It's starting to make life a little more interesting.  Okay, not interesting, but promising.  I can see clearly now, the rain has gone.  Sappy song moment for the day.  I was a little hyper after school and in last period . . . maybe I've still got a bit left.  I'm still talking to myself, so I assume so.

I went to Girl Guides tonight (once again, I am  junior leader) and ironically, what were they learning about today, but TRAVELLER'S BADGE.  So twas good.  We imported a travel agent and learned all about travelling ettiquette.  Which reminds me, I must look up local laws.

So today's countdown song is from one of my favourite movies of all time, White Christmas.  It's from the show they present at the end -- the army song.  If you're farmilliar with the movie at all, you'll remember the fat butcher suits lol.  Anyways, this song is ironic propaganda, and I wish to share it.  It doesn't ONCE mention death as a possibility for the soldier.

Berlin Irving - Gee, I Wish I Was Back In The Army Lyrics

Two days.  Just two.  I am SOOOOOOOO excited you wouldn't believe it.  And I still need to pack shampoo . . .  You didn't really need to know that, I'm reminding myself mostly.

But I feel like I'm missing something.  Even though I just found something that was right in front of my nose the whole time.  (Not a bad something, necessarily.  Actually, a good something.)  Did I refuse to see it?  But then, there's this side of me that's protesting, thinking it too easy to be right.  Maybe I just like looking, rather than finding.  Maybe I don't want the right answer at all.  Maybe I just want the one that I know will screw up.

I'll stop now.  My ambiguous references must be boring you.  Or overexaggerating.  Forgive me, they are merely musings and not at all major.  Today's song is Just the Two of Us from Autin Powers the Spy Who Shagged Me.  I'm sure you're farmilliar with it.

Dr. Evil
This is a very sensitive subject...

Just the 2 of us (repeat 2x)

yeahhhhhh ahum ahum ahum

verse 1
From the moment I heard Frau
Said I had a clone
I knew that I'd be safe
Cuz I'd never be alone
An evil dr. shoudlnt speak aloud bout his feelings
My hurt and my pain don't make me too appealing

I'd hope Scott
Would look up to me,
Run the buisness of the family
Had an evil empire,
Just like his dear old dad
Give him my love and the things he never had

Scott would think
I was a good guy
returned the love I have
make me wanna cry
Be evil, but had my feelings too
Chaged my life with Opra and Mya Angelou
But Scott rejected me
C'est la vie

life is cruel,treat you unfairly
Even so, a God there must be
Mini Me, you complete me.

Just the two of us (repeat 10x)
uh-huh
yeah
just me and you
gettin jiggy with it
yeah ahum
quite pleasent really
YOU AND I
daddy loves you
daddy loves you
you and I

I cna't believe that I'm going TOMORROW.  I'm so excited!  And energetic!  And talkative!  And wow!  Well, I've found a more appropriate song.  Here I go!  (From Annie, sung by Annie.  I used to love that movie when I was little.  My dad hates this song :p.  I used to bug im with it.)

Just thinkin' about
Tomorrow
Clears away the cobwebs,
And the sorrow
Till there's none!
When I'm stuck a day
That's gray,
And lonely,
I just stick out my chin
And Grin,
And Say,
Oh
The sun'll come out
Tomorrow
So ya gotta hang on
'Til tomorrow
Come what may
Tomorrow!
Tomorrow!
I love ya
Tomorrow!
The sun'll come out
Tomorrow
Bet your bottom dollar
That tomorrow
There'll be sun!
Just thinking about
Tomorrow
Clears away the cobwebs
And the sorrow
'Til there's none!
When I'm stuck with a day
That's gray and lonely
I just stick out my chin
And grin, and say--
The sun'll come out
Tomorrow
So ya gotta hang on
'Til tomorrow
Come what may
Tomorrow!
Tomorrow!
I love ya
Tomorrow!
You're always a day away
Tomorrow
Tomorrow
I love ya tomorrow
Tomorrow
You're always a day away!

I was actually singing this through part of my day.  Good times :p, though not as good as those YET TO COME!!!!! (there is no emoticon to the elation I'm feeling!)

Well, I'm back.  And it was absolutely AMAZING.  I can sincerely say that I thoroughly enjoyed every minute (except for the take offs and landings on the way home when my ears wouldn't pop.  They still won't).  It seems I picked up an additional souvenir -- a french cold.  I'd be happy to pass it on to you, lol. 

I'm not going to go inot detail about the trip.  If you can read my handwritting, I'll let you flip through my travel journal should you wish it.  I just want to say that everything back here looked so clear from a distance.  My horizons have really been broadened.  I've grown up a bit, I think, and while I have not yet hatched from my shell, at least its thinned.

Well, there are about a million and one things I should be doing, from unpacking to four days of chem homework, so I suppose I should get started.  I should at the very least eat something.  See you tomorrow!

Do you know what it's like when your head finds something your heart has missed?  And so then your head decides that something would be nice . . .  but then no matter what logical angle your head attempts to persuade from, the heart refuses to agree.   Ah well, I suppose the heart wants what it wants.  (Can't remember where that saying comes from.)

Ah well, I suppose it's not a big deal.  I have bigger issues to face I suppose.  Like the speech arts competition.  And catching up in chemistry.  And english.  It just aggrevates me when I can't control myself.

Simplicity seems to be a subject often reoccurring in my blogs.  Well, I'm sorry to those of you whom I'm boring to death with such.  Today's rant has a slightly different twist, so perhaps that is acceptable.  Here I go.

In my life thusfar, (yes, I am of a mere sixteen years so I recognise that my experience is minimal, but) I have often found that the simplest explanation offered for most situations is often the most accurate.  Yet I find it the most difficult to accept this explanation (and often the solution or course of action entailed by it).  Why is it so hard to accept the easiest answer, even if it is right?  Is there some aspect of human nature, perhaps our insatiable curiousity, that is disappointed with simple solutions for seemingly-complex situations?  I find myself now presented with these answers, yet that little voice in the back of my mind screams, no, that can't be right!  There must be more!  Is there more?  I can't help wondering.

Why must I be so impulsive and impatient?  (An undoubtably I am becoming more so.)  It seems that every time I give up on something I have pursued for a great--or at least fair--length of time, it is just short of achieving that objective . . .

I have no specific example to share, just a handful of general applications.  Perhaps, though, the lesson I need to learn is persistance, rather than patience.

Just a few thoughts on my mind.  Well, many, actually.

I think that I'm getting in over my head with this speech arts thing.  I must admit, I'm a mediocre actress at best.  I just can't get into the skin of a character . . .

In other [boring] news, or lack thereof actually, here're somewhat philosophical thoughts to ponder that have pestered me on the weekend.  Feel free to comment.

~ "Youth is wasted on the young" (something my grandpa often says to me)

~ How the more I learn, the less I know [for certain]

I've got some song lyrics special just for . . . well, me.  We sang this at guides tonight.  It made me happy.

Boom, boom, ain't it great to be crazy?
Boom, boom, ain't it great to be crazy.
Giddy and foolish, the whole day through,
Boom, Boom, ain't it great to be crazy!

A horse and a flea and three blind mice
Sat on a curbstone shooting dice
The horse he slipped and fell on the flea,
Oops! said the flea, there's a horse on me!

Chorus

There was an old doctor and his name was Peck.
Fell down the well and broke his neck
Served him right, he was doing wrong.
Should have tended to the sick, and let the well alone.

Chorus

Way down south where bananas grow,
A flea stepped on an elephant's toe.
The elephant cried, with tears in his eyes,
Why don't you pick on someone your size?

Chorus

Way up north where there's ice and snow
There lived a penguin and his name was Joe,
He got so tired of black and white,
He wore pink slacks to the dance last night.

Chorus

Papa Moses caught a skunk

Mama Moses cooked a chunk

Baby Moses ate a hunk

Holy Moses how they stunk!

Chorus

Eli, Eli he sells socks
Ten cents a pair, and a dollar a box
The more you wear 'em, the stronger they get
Put them in the water and they don't get wet

Chorus

A man bought a pair of combination underwear
Wore em 90 months, without a single tear

Wore em 90 months, without exaggeration
Couldn't get em off because he lost the combination.

(can you tell where it was that the internet lyrics ran out? lol)

Don't worry, I'm not ranting too much today.  Just a brief statement I've composed, you may dissect at will.

Time is both the greatest ally and worst enemy of youth.  Just a thought, but do you ever wonder what life would be like if it sort of went in reverse?  I mean, if you started off elderly and slowly became young?  How different the world would be!  But would it be better or worse?  Would we be wise by the time we have strengh, therefore much would be improved of the world, or would we all laze about and dream until we were able to accomplish . . .  Just a zany thought.

Today was (and still is because it's ongoing) and interesting break from the norm.  Area Annual.  My first Area Aunnual, actually, with all of the girl guide leaders from North Western Ontario.  It happens once a year, alternating between good ol T-Bay and Sault St Marie.  I learned a lot, and have been inspired to try some new things I wouldn't otherwise have done . . . guides always awakens the crafty side of me.  Who knew there were so many things one coud do with polar fleece?  Wait, I did.  lol.  I just didn't know how.  I want to make a crazy quilt now.  Seriously.  It probably won't get finished, but . . .

I've also in the last few days finished the first random pencil sketch I've actually completed since anthro class . . . what else?  Delved into more Victorian romance classics (this time by the other Bronte sister--Emily Bronte's Wuthering Heights).  The dry wit and repressed sexuality amuses me.  And it took me a long time to actually figure out that the main character was a guy.

My readings have also awakened my hankerings to write again, though not in this blog as the absence of recent entries states louder than any words I could have chosen.  So I've picked up my Centaur story again and am attempting to pick up where I left off, maybe.  I really ahven't written anything ficticious of my own free will since grade nine.  Except for my Wax Girl short story last year, but that was a fit of madness transposed, pretty much.  And perhaps there is too much truth for it to be called 'fiction'.

On another note, the Speech Arts thing went relatively well.  I was pleasantly surprised.  If I do it again (and I think I will), I'll pick a piece with more room for character.  And to those of you who find it odd that I stood up there and recited a poem about a medieval lady in a fairy costume, honestly there is noone else who would know the full story.  There was so little room to play with, or express personality with it, but I absolutely adore that poem!

And once again, hats off to Suzie, for doing an absolutely phenomenal job, and taking first prize while she was at it!  Honestly, you earned it.

Well, that's about all I have time to say.  I'm off to dinner.  Oh, there's Spring Ahead this weekend--oh ow I loathe thee.  Sorry, the flowery MacBeth language is rubbing off.  Goodbye all, have a great weekend (or what remains of it).

Today I thought I'd write, but as I sat in front of this blank screen with the cursor flashing before my eyes, blinking in and out of virtual existance, I realized I have nothing relevant I wish to say to you.

Sure, there were things I thought I might rant about, but I'm really not in the mood, to share them or to rant in general.  I'm definitely not in the mood for being ambiguous and vague today, which is what I'd end up doing.  So here is my entry: for once short, though not so sweet.  Happy Monday, all.

I feel the need to vent once again, though I suppose the people who really need to know this information won't hear it, which may or may not defeat the purpose.

But I'll start with the lighter stuff.  You all know I've been holding out on getting my first [regular] job.  (I've babysat, but never on a regular basis).  Well, now I have one.  That is, if one hour of week a work counts as a regular job.  I am a math tutor.  Well, grade ten math.  But still.  I am no longer a complete sponge! lol.

And now for the angry rant.  I think that certain people should stop worrying about who and what I see and do outside of time spent outisde of school or without said person.  Especially if said person confides absolutely nothing about her own activities in me!  I mean, this suspicion is ridiculous!  And it's absolutely none of her business!  And it's particularly aggrivating that her suspicions are entirely unfounded, and have no basis of truth to them whatsoever.  This is another link in the chain--excuse me for being a mite overdramatic--of emotional abuse.  Another method to the madness.  Ah well.  Angry rant complete.

No I am not eating.  That is a contented, contemplative "Mmmm".  I've had a lovely day, if long.  Show class with my Penelope, then with my aunt's Jasmine, Jade, and Jem--the pekingese puppies (they are absolutely adorable!  They're just little fuzzballs at this stage!) and obviously there were different challenges with the different dogs.  With my Peenie, well there was no way I could get her stacked (to stand still so the teacher/mock judge) could go over her without constant luring (with sausages--spoilt dog).  She kept swinging out.  But she walked beautifully, if not somewhat distractedly by the other dogs, but really she was very focussed on me.  It's hard to remember that she's just a baby sometimes, because she's so big.  The pekes though, they were more difficult.  They did not like walking at all, and were very conscious and resistant of the leashes.  But they stacked easily and beautifully!

I saw so many puppies today-- after the second class, the 3 peke babies were released in the studio with four daschund puppies--so little!  Only 9 weeks!  And so sweet!  Those babies will sleep well tonight.  Jade especially tore after those daschunds . . . dear little Jadey.  When the daschunds (because they were littler) got scared or otherwise sought sanctuary from fuzzball assault, they barrelled towards the lap of one of the people sitting on the floor (ie me) for protection.  They were so sweet!  My Penny whined though during this.  She was jealous.  But we couldn't let her out at the same time because she was so much bigger and could've hurt the babies (my Penny is a collie).

And after that my aunt took me to see a litter of german shepherd puppies.  They were going to homes that day.  They were so little and cute, but vicious with their little needle-teeth that HURT.  Very playful too.  The mother was gorgeous too.

Hmm I guess that's all that's interesting that happened to me today.  I love spending time with my aunt.  And by now I'm sure you've recognised that I am an animal person.  (With the exception of prissy, white, yappy, poodlish or bishon dogs, with rare exceptions to this generalization which otherwise I very severe dislike.  Oh, and irresponsible mixes--not general mutts, but deliberate screwy dog crossings ie "golden doodle"--golden retrievers and poodles were not made to be crossed.  Period.)  So yes, I'm an animal person.  End of random rantish/diaryish/entryish/random blog.

My passion feels like a sweater that's been tossed about a few too many times in the wash.  It seems threadbare, and bland, and faded.  But also comfortable, like an old favourite.  Ah, the confusion of a washed-out existence.   The unrest of a bored mind.  Why should life feel so bland when it's only yet beginning?

I seem to be displaying all of the symptoms of a case of Spring Fever.  That is, except for one.  I have no particular romantic unrest, or longings.  But isn't that what characterizes Spring Fever?  Is it not the distinguishing factor between spring fever, and, say, cabin fever, or any other such issue?  Well, for one thing, my former snow fort has shrunk to the size of a pizza pie in my backyard.  So my restlessness must be Spring fever. 

Though my diagnosis may be correct, I am still left completely and utterly unmotivated.  I do simply as I have done because I have always done such, and there is no purpose.  There is no spark to my day. 

Lucy in the sky with diamonds.  Every time I think of anthro, I think of that song.  Though I only know that verse.  I don't know any more of it.

Don't worry, I wan't going to babble about Beatles songs all day.  I had a point.  And that point was this: old dreams die hard.  In fact, any dreams die hard.  Well, in my case, not so much dreams as a certain degree of faith in people.  I'm really more trusting than I should be, you see.

Well, I've said all that I've wanted to say and then some.  Well, not quite.  But I'll stop writing anyways.

I'm sorry, but it is high time I vent about the extreme aggrivation that Madame Brochu-Taniwa stirs within my conscious.  I'm sorry guys, but this rant is way overdue!  Do not proceed in reading if you are not in the mood to listen to my angry babbling.  You know, I try my best to be patient with people, but even then there are some people I can only take in small doses.  It is not a good thing when those people are grading your studies.  And seventy-five minutes a day is not a small dose.  Especially first thing in the morning.  That woman makes me want to lash out violently. Positively murderously!  I am sorry that guidance counsellors who I HAVE ABSOLUTELY NO CONTROL OVER WHATSOEVER (sorry Madame, I am not a puppeteer) have arranged it so that I HAVE NEVER BEEN IN YOUR CLASS BEFORE.  How could I have not recognised that that is all my fault?  How stupid of me.  Please, enlighten me on what I SHOULD have done??  Oh, and I also appologise for not being able to conjugate verb tenses that I have NEVER LEARNED, for not knowing trivial vocabulary that I have NEVER BEEN TAUGHT, and for FORGETING THINGS I have learned in YEARS.  I'm sorry for tainting your otherwise-perfect senior French class.  Perhaps you should disclude all of the actual grade elevens?  You seem to be happy enough with last year's Tens.  Well, Madame, since I obviously can't converse in French with the words you haven't had the opportunity to teach me in years past because it's totally my fault that I haven't been in your class before, maybe I should converse in English instead?  I'm pretty fluent in that language.  Oh wait, that would hurt your ears.

Deep breath.  End rant.

I don't quite know why this blog is so titled.  Well, I do.  The awards for the speech arts (as part of the music festival) were presented tonight . . . all said and done after entry fees and entrance fees, I made five bucks :).  Oh, and of course I'm richer for the experience.  And I really enjoyed the performances.  Tonight, sort of in the tri-sided-nature-of-life spirit of Macbeth, I experienced what has been, what is, and what could have been.  No, not experienced: glimpsed.  But yet a brief glance sufficed, as it's impact was profound.

And my dad and I drove my old piano teacher home!  I haven't really talked to her in ages; well she came over at Christmastime, but . . .  Well that was my glimpse of the past.

The other bits I'm really not in the mood to discuss.  The workings of the mind when one listens to Schubert . . .  But I've decided that I really can't imagine myself in any other skin, I'm comfotable with what I am (and all the restrictions such my character entails), and I really feel that I'm right where I should be.  (Mmkay, I totally didn't intend for italics there . . .)

I've reflected on other things, but those are to be shared perhaps on another blog.  But this is getting a little corny and babbly, so I'll stop.

Bu-ut uh, oh, those Summer nights.

I love that movie.  The songs will never die (though Grease Two totally bombed, except for ONE song).  I first saw it when I was about eight. When I was little, all of the sexual connotation went totally over my head . . . I was quite upset when I learned what the whole clingwrap thing in the song "Greased Lightning" (or even the second meaning of the song itself!).

But my point was not to discuss the sexual undertones of the movie.  Actually, I was intending to relate some of the characters to people among my group of friends.

You see, I got to thinking about Frenchie, and how she dropped out of highschool for beauty school.  Does that remind you of a certain other recent drop out?  (I'm sorry, I'm still upset about this!  I mean, my little Nadia, who I've known well since grade six, but knew also in grade one!  Droped out of highschool to become a hairdresser.  I'm bitter.  And disappointed.)

Rizzo is a lot like a certain other friend.  She gets something in her mind, and accomplishes it.  She also doesn't care who she tramples to get there.  I'm not going to go into other parallels with these.

I'm not like Sandy, I haven't got the romance.  In fact, I'm not sure who she is, at all.  Wait, I am. lol.

Anyways, I could keep going, but I won't.  Oh, who am I?  Jan, I guess.  Because of the annoying tothpaste commercial . . . I do that all the time.  That is, sing/hum/whistle random musical things around people I know well, and tend tot annoy the heck out of them . . .

End rant.

I am not afraid of silence.

That's a massive thing to realize.  I am acquainted with many who are: people who detest silence, and in their wariness seek to fill the empty moments with an idle stream of chatter.  What is this, but a string of words to spin and be released, to but return to the downy fibres of which they were forged?  Or else, the slipage of one's deepest and innermost thoughts, revealed too soon to the other.

No, I am not afraid of silence.  Comfort can be found in the quiet companionship shared with another.  I do savour the passage of silver silence, relishing in the charge of natural ease.  Content in the calm of my own thoughts while in the presence of another.

Perhaps this is so because I do not fear the workings of my own mind, nor the tendancies of my heart.  I am not uncomfortable in my own company.  Perhaps it is so because I do not fear so much the thought of the other as I do fear the verification of a far-fetched suspicion.

These last few days have been busy, and I've gone through a range of experiences.  Though I still feel entirely powerless.  Powerless over my own life, powerless in my attempts to aid others . . .

~Firstly, it's lovely to eat again.  I did the thirty hour famine with my youthgroup this weekend, so I ate again at 6:30, and man it was a FEAST!  We had a sort-of potluck feast, with spareribs (two kinds--sweet and sour, and garlic), lasagna, prospector buns, caesar salad, a three-foot sub, pickles, assorted veggies,  pizza, oooohhhhhh so much food, and of course dessert, with two different types of cakes and two kind of cookies.  I am SO stuffed.  The famine was fun. 

~Secondly, my head and heart have finally come to an agreement.  I am content with this decision.  However, my discretion refuses to ally with the team.  Therefore no actions will be taken to act on said decision.

~Thirdly, I do recognise that I rarely act on such decisions.

~Fourthly, I've been "let go" from my first official-esque job.  Three weeks of tutoring (and for good pay I tells ya!) and they've found someone with qualifications.  However, I don't think I'll be seeking out new employment anytime soon.

~Fifthly (and finally), Friday I came to the conclusion that in a friendship, I expect to at least get back what I put into it, within reason.  If I contribute excitement, I expect excitement in response.  If I put in respect, I expect that to be reciprocated.  If I contribute apathy, then it would be the expected to be returned onto me.  For my patience and relatively laid-back contributions, as well as the enormous amount of respect I have invested, I expect AT THE VERY LEAST respect in return.  Not attempts to control me, for whatever personal motivations exist.  I wish I could view this situation objectively, rather than subjectively.  Really, I can't see a possible option out of this, rather than a gradual move away.  I do not understand why I am the focus of this "friend" 's negative attentions, and the only target of such behaviour.  I think I need some objective imput before actions are taken, and I assure you they will be taken.

~Sixthly, I beg of you to be patient with any possible overdramatizations of today's multiple rants.

Have you ever had a secret you couldn't share with anyone?  No, I am being overdramatic again.  Not really a secret, per say, but merely a knowledge that may seem inconsequential to some, but once divulged, you know that if it is futhur spread, it will hurt both parties involved . . .   I hate this feeling, the bottling up, especially since the source doesn't realize that I am under this strain . . .

Ah, aggrivatingness, what but comes of a casually-tossed statement . . .

Oh, and I'll throw in a random quote of the day.  I think it's Shakespeare, but I'm not entirely sure . . . it's certainly not Macbeth.

Hell hath no fury like a woman, scorned.

Maybe I should look it up.  Bah, but Im lazy.

Mmkay, because I'm such a huge nerd, I looked up the source of the quote.  Here it is:

"No one is angrier than a woman who has been rejected in love. This proverb is adapted from a line in the play The Mourning Bride, by William Congreve, an English author of the late seventeenth and early eighteenth centuries."

Or not so much all over actually, as somewhat random.

A day just isn't really truly a day for me without some sort of klutzy accident . . . yeah, enough said.

Actually, there's nothing more I feel like "sharing with the class" today.  I'm just sort of running over some not-so-nice memories today in my mind.  Yay for not-so-random nice things to cheer me up.  I just wish there were more.

Why is it that whenever I’m angry, I write fairy tales? It’s not perfect, but that’s to be expected.It still needs more than a little polish.  Let me know what you think. On, and what you think it means. I don’t tend to be very good at metaphorizing these things. They tend to be more than a little obvious. Oh, and I need a title. Maybe "For the Flower.’ SO without further ado, here’s

For the Flower.

Once upon a time, long ago and far away, lived a young maiden in a secluded valley. This maiden was not exceptionally beautiful or notable for any such virtue, but this maiden was special. She possessed, deep within, a secret magical gift. Now, you must understand that this gift could be a very powerful thing, used for good or ill. Either way, it possessed a tremendous power.

There were many such individuals who saw an opportunity in the girl, and that in a scheme cleverly designed, she would be a perfect tool. So mystics from about the land flocked to her: sorcerers and wizards, witches and warlocks. Each had devised a plan, that would be completed with the aid of the young maiden. When the pack descended upon her, they began to squabble amongst themselves, regarding whom would be permitted the usage of the maiden. A deafening clamour arose from the bickering masses, in which all were engaged. That is, except for three. Two particularly sly sorcerers has snuck away from the swarm, and were tugging at the body of the maiden herself. Each had thought to sneak off with the maiden, but had been foiled by the other. The two sorcerers therefore grappled over the maiden, and each grasped at an arm, attempting to fulfill his designs.

The strain upon the maiden grew to be so great and terrible, that she yelled out to the crowd "STOP!" And a silence that was both complete and horrible descended upon the masses, who ceased their squabbling momentarily, and the maiden’s words permeated the gatherers in entirety. They echoed eerily through the valley. "I don’t want to be in your plans! I have my own!"

And with the end of her words, the mob began to grumble. The grumble gradually became a roar, and they all charged upon the maiden, trying to take her away, to complete their designs. They took hold and yanked at her, every which way, grasping every feasible portion of her body, pulling her in every possible direction. And with their grappling, the mob tore the young maiden to bloody, ragged shreds.

Once ripped, all of the magical practitioners grumbled, taking their pieces of the young maiden away. Nothing could be done now, no schemes were to be fulfilled, for without the tool of the maiden, all scheming was for naught.

But the demise of the maiden was not entirely in vain, for the crimson blood spilt by her shredded personage watered a poor parched flower, which had stood beneath her feet.

Once again, I hit a creative writting mood last night . . . I hope this isn't TOO incredibly sappy, because it is more . . . I don't know, romantic than usual.  Perhaps I should make it into a poem later, but for now it's a beautiful paragraph (or so I should like to think).  Critiquing and comments are encouraged.

Your smile is an elusive marvel, mouch sought, but seldom found.  Yet, the proud banner flying upon the corners of your cheeks, is caught in the filtered net of my glance.  It is drawn carefully, tenderly, in through the portals of my eyes, to the sweetly-scented cedar trunk of memories.  Within it is cradled, and locked away with a silver key.  Wrapped gently in the silk reserved for the most cherished of dreams, it is packed away, to be reserved, that it may be unfurled on special occasions.  Ah, that I may bask in the glory of your smile once more; a smile that was just for me.  

Ahhhh, I love spending time with my aunt.  We went to a dog show today, in which her Belgian Tervern, True, was competing.  I didn't show him, Trish (my aunt's friend) did.  I was there to oberve, cause I'll probably be showing my baby girl soon.  Speaking of Penny, her mother, brother, and aunt were being shown today.  They did well!

There were so many gorgeous dogs there . . . and some not-quite-so gorgeous ones . . .  I really don't see what was so special about that bearded collie.  I must say I've never seen such fluffed-out huskies, or such absolutely stunning Shi-Tsus . . .  It was a fairly large show, not that I have much--or any--experience in this matter.  Just to give you an idea, there were seventeen German Shepherds alone.  How, that was the most prominent breed in the show . . .  Shepherds are pretty popular in Thunder Bay.  The way they're stacked is WEIRD.  The rest of the dogs have their two back feet waaaaaaaaay stretched out, but shepherds have one out, and one kind of sprung underneath--bah, it's just weird.  Here's my first attempt at posting a picture

 http://home.earthlink.net/~neiner1/ShepherdStacked.jpg

Okay, that failed miserably . . .  well, you can still see.

True won his breed, but he was the only contestant.  He lost in the group, though.  He was robbed!  He looked so handsome, and the judge barely glanced at him!  He was groomed gorgeously; I've never seen his paws so neat and clean . . . his coat was blended like watercolours . . . just amazing.  I'll post another link, because obviously I don't know how to post them properly.

http://www.k-9studio.com/illions/images/true11.jpg

Obviously, this picture was not taken today . . . ah well.  You get the point.  He's tall, dark, and handsome.  And wild!  Oh boy.  Absolutely magnificent animal, though.  I'll stop now, I guess.  I've probably bored you all.  It was just a wonderful experience, though.  I can't wait to try it myself, but Penny and I have a LOT of practicing to do first!

I've been really distant lately, from people I'd normally say I was close to.  I just haven't been opening my mouth to speak recently.  What precicely does this mean?  It means that the rather boring and pathetically typical schoolgirl's thoughts have been bottling up within my mind, without means of release.  I need a confidante.

Well, technically, I have one.  I just haven't seen her in over a month.  And I'm really not a phone person.  That is, I don't take the initiative to actually dial.  I've had a few nice, long phone conversations, but I'd really rather discuss thing on person, or on the internet.  But back to the subject of confidantes.  There're just some things I find awkward to discuss, and there are certain people for whom the topics I discuss with are apt to become the subjects of blackmail, or the fuel for personal obsession. 

I often wonder why I create certain situations for myself.  Because undoubtably I do.  Bah.  All in the name of excitement . . .  But very draining.

Today is sort of a day of tying up loose ends . . . I've been finishing up a bunch of art projects (that frigging bird book took FOREVER) that have been abandoned for quite a while, and I must say I'm happy with the results.  well, the mask kind of didn't turn out quite as what I expected, but that's my fault because I forgot the gold, and I didn't really have a clear idea of what I was doing.  I think next time I'll mould it to someone else's face, so I can shape it better . . . does anyone have a spare second period???

So I finished that and my "blue skies", and Circe and the witch french sketch I finished yesterday . . . Circe was exciting, because it was a painting (of Circe from the Odyssey--the beautiful witch who turns men into pigs and held Odysseus hostage for years . . . well I painted her as he was sailing away.  I think tomorrow I may attempt to add a tear . . . )

All of these are of course better than my disturbingly-manly flapper (who by the way scares me and looks like a Coca-cola ad).  So overall I'm in a good mood from all of this art . . . hopefully tomorrow we won't actually start an assignment, and I can do that stained-glass properly.

In French tomorrow I'm planning to work on the jester chick I drew in anthro . . . I think I'll colour her, because the last thing I coloured was way back in anthro . . . in that class, we did NOTHING.  Three projects, one test, and three classes to do questions that took one.  I sypathize with those of you who have anthro this semester.  And I am SO happy that we are done with the sappy French onion story.  You would not believe.  I can't take soap operas in both French and English, simultaneously! 

I suppose I'll stop now.  See you tomorrow.

I need to stop <insert verb listed above here>ing for impossiblities.  Yes, I know that the opinion that the American Dream is entirley unattainable belongs to F Scott Fitzgerald, and just because an author writes something doens't mean that it's true . . . and all that other jazz.  But of course, that would be entirely too easy to base a mode of thought upon.

It could be said that I should "grow up" about these things, but personally I believe regression would be more beneficial.  So long as I don't remain stagnated . . .

Well I suppose there's no fear of that.  There's entirely too much change in life for that to be possible.  But what is more powerful than my desire for that which I cannot have is the desire not to desire such. 

Hopefully that made sense.  But of course, that desire may change as well.  Everything changes, shifting about.  People, and their connections.  And those things that seem as if they're standing still, are just more subtle in their alterations.  Perpetual metamorphosis . . .  How I loathe change.  But at the same time, I respect its necessity.

Jack of all trades, master of none.

 Are you farmiliar with that idiom?

It about sums up how I feel right about now.  Why do certian people try to force me to do things I'm good at but will never use?  Yes, this is a Brochu partial-rant, but I promise it won't be too indepth.  Somehow I managed to get on her better side (note I didn't say GOOD side--just BETTER side).  She wants me to take french again, and I'm really not ready to do that.  I'm not going to be a teacher (I'm really not patient enough with arrogance and stupidity), and I'm not going to do anything that involves French--well, French grammar . . . and I really want to take english creative writting . . .

I do too many things passably, but there isn't one thing at which I excel . . . I wish I weren't quite so well-rounded.  Because Renaissance men don't last in this modern world.  Well, they last, but they don't thrive.  So many choices.  I need more time . . .

Okay, you may or may not recall that I've become a converted Sinatra fan . . .  in my childhood, I held a prejudice against him because of the muscial movie Carousel, and his diva-esque attitudes . . .  He almost played the male lead, but wouldn't take the role because every scene would have to be shot twice . . .  Gordon McRae got the role instead.

Anyways, I'm getting off-topic.  I'm a Sinatra fan now, and I've taken to listening to it in the mornings.  This is mostly because I can never be sure whether or not the music on the radio will be crud or not, and cruddy music is just not a way to start off the day!  Well, following the discovery of my Blue Skies (which I don't happen to appreciate the arrangement of so much as Bing Crosby's version in White Christmas), and yes, Blue Skies is MINE.  I often claim ownership to certain songs, but usually that only happens after I learn to play them on the piano, and I wish I had the sheet music for Blue Skies!  But I don't.  Anyways, I've discovered after my Blue Skies track number nine which is this cute little ditty (the majority of which consists of a band playing the melody with several harmonies attached . . . Well I love it.  I also appreciate the lyrics, though my connection I suppose is not the intended.  It's a very Great Gatsby-ish song, except, you know, twenty-or-so years off.  (Seems like the Gatsby/Daisy stalkerish pursuit, to me.  My infatuation is much less stalkerish, and in general . . . I'll shut up now.)

How Do You Do Without Me--Frank Sinatra

How's your love life,
how's your heartbeat,
how do you do with me?
How's that new boy,
how does he rate,
how do you do without me?
My doctors say I'm fit and healthy,
I really come on,
My bank will tell you that I'm solvent,
except that I'm overdrawn,
So how's forgiving,
how's forgetting,
how can you do this to me?
And how's for living,
how's for getting a flat with me as a lessee?
I tell you what,
you're in a rot,
you need a caretaker, see?
Honey, how could you do,
how do you do without me?

I don't understand my strong need for short-term goals.  Sure, I recognise that no person can live in and for the future, but my tendancy to divert from my "plan"/ course of action is quite aggravating . . .   In my quest for focus therefore I often end up doing absolutely nothing, and getting zilch accomplished in either the present or for the future, which doesn't help at all . . . 

I guess the portion of the issue that I am most upset about is the fact that I invest all of my energy in planning to accomplish absolutely unattainable short term goals, and then failing to act upon those plans.

So there are two possible courses of action.  Wait, three.  I can either keep going with this one, and whining about it, I can select a new goal, or I can give up on this system entirely (which is harder than it sounds) . . .  It is hard for one to teach oneself a new way of approaching issues.  Ah well.

It takes two to tango, but I don't want to dance.  However, I cannot in all honestly say that my legs are numb below the knee, and my feet resist motion altogether. But in this dance, I most certainly do not lead.

Though the rhythm of confrontation courses through my veins, and permeates my muscles, and the motions of response were intitiated and perpetuated by another, but does that make me any less guilty of participation?

Well, as you may or may not know, I spent the weekend at the Biennial Lake Superior Youth Symposium.  I learned a lot.  Some parts were fun, some not so fun, but I'm not really in the mood for confessions . . .

A few highlights:

~ Too many rainy days and early mornings.

~ The Paleo-DNA lab was AWESOME

~ I do not EVER want to live in LU residence (cause that's where me n ma sis stayed)

~ I've filled my quota of slideshows for the next six months.

~ I HATE SYNFUEL!!!!!!!

~Sweet Caroline, BA BA BA, Good times never seemed so good . . .

~I've witnessed yet again how so many boys have only one thing on their minds.

~The dance was bizzarre.  Sort of a grade six deja-vu-flashback-esque sort of thing

~I hate dealing with morning people in the morning

~Therefore I hate dealing with my sister in the morning

~It's difficult to recite poetry with a microphone

~I need several hours more sleep to stay awake through long redundant slideshows.

~There's so much conflict between preservation of resources and the need for progress . . . and it is only through new concepts and not the rehashing and tailoring of old ones that can serve to find a balance.

That about sums it up.  That and I had some very nice dreams while there, if entirely too little sleep.

It never ceases to amaze me how one can avoid confronting an issue placed right before one's nose.  So blatant and obvious, this bold and blaring apparancy, simply to be overlooked.  When one clutters the mind with a multitude of demanding distractions, the underlying issue is disguised, and able to be ignored.

There are a few things I need to own up to, some personal and not-so-personal issues to face.  I have inner demons to slay, and underlying dragons to take my sword against.  I know what the major issue is, and I know what the overlying, superficial distraction is, yet I cannot quite disregard the illusion.   

Chemistry makes me think, in ways I assume I am not supposed to.  Let me explain my musings . . .  You are familiar with the atomic theory.  Well are you also farmiliar with the idea that protons, neutron, and electrons are all composed of energy?  Therefore everything that exists is composed of energy and empty space . . .  That boggles the mind . . . Does that make empty space just a lack of energy?  And how does energy transpose into consciousness?

Just a few of the thoughts that travel through my mind in chemistry class.

Mother Nature, you cruel temptress.  You wave your beauteous bounty before me, your soft breezes murmuring a siren's song.  You call me by name, an invitation for me to join in your guilty pleasures.  That I may frolic among your tender emerald grasses, beneath budding boughs laden with promise, and feel the caress of newly-awoken sunshine upon a cheek you have forsaken since the autumn.  Your clear vivid skies evoke nostalgia for blue eyes, a desire for a particular pair.

Outside.  A place I cannot be with my prison guards of an ISU and Chemistry Culminating Activity, the harshest and most judgemental of captors.  Their breath upon my neck and oppressive authority upon my spirit, they bar me from you.

I am a creature of habit.  I feel do disjointed from my life . . .  kind of like I've been in my own skin so long that every time I try to step outside of my normal zone of exitence/comfort/routine, I feel like I'm watching someone else live.  (If you could follow that statement, I commend you.)  It's not to the point where I feel like I'm watching my life as a movie, it's more an intense deja-vu-ish feeling, and a "what the heck am I doing?  Am I honestly doing this?" Train of through flickers dimly in my mind.

There is a boundary between discretion and self-imposed opression.  I've crossed it.

Well I'm off to camp

See y'all. 

Well, I returned from camp, and I must say it was a well-enjoyed and necessary break.  It was supposed to have been at Trowbridge, but there was a power outage, so they wouldn't let us (though we didn't need electricity for anything!  Grrrrrr..... We could've used flashlights in the bathrooms, that's the only electricity we'd have used.)  Well we were displaced to the back yard of my cottage but I would like to stress that WE DID NOT use the cottage, and I slept in the tent thankyouverymuch.

I know I really don't seem to be the outdoorsy type, but I've camped since I was a little girl (real camping mind you--none of that cabin crap--that isn't camping, that's cottaging.  Though we do have a cottage, it's not necessarily camp).  Yes, I'm still involved in girl guides.  So this weekend was the camp that actually involved work on the part of Nessa and I, (we attached ourselves to my sister's Gold Pathfinder Camp, but stayed slightly off-site, did different activities than they did, and cooked our own food.  Our Finish pancakes turned out surprisingly well.

There's nothing like latenight camp gossip (well, not gossip per say, more confessions than anything I suppose).  The rain on the tents was very soothing, and surprisingly not too much in our tent got wet.  I slept easily, beacuse there really is nothing like the soft patter of rain on nylon walls surrounding you, to soothe sleep.  But I ought to say I have had some bizare dreams.  I usually do remember my dreams, and they tend to be odd, as they rarely concern people I know, and are set in in odd combinations and compositionsof places . . .  Well, I dreamed that I was chasing a black deer buck.  (Well, hunting it, but I had no weapons, so I don't know if that cfan be considered hunting) . . .  There aren't black deer.  It was really vivid, though.  I remember the ornateness of the antlers, they were more like tree branches really because there were so many sprouts, I remember the path I took . . .  it was weird.

Anyways, it's back to reality for me I suppose.  I better get working on this chemistry beast.  See you Tuesday.

Oh, and Wednesday is Rubber Boot Day.

There are certain incidences when I turn to one friend or another for advice on particular matters.  Of course, this varies by situation . . .  but lately I've realized that doing this is just rying to get the blind to lead the blind.  All I'm doing is seeking the answers of the opposite extreme, and how will I uncover a healthy balance with such an ideological imput?  But then again, how can I uncover a healthy balance without knowing what healthy is?

To speak metaphorically, if I weren't "blind", it would be a lot easier to tell who it was that could "see", and who is lying.  Well, I suppose not lying per say, but veiwing a fabricated or warped reality.

It's so gorgeous outside today . . .  absolutely beautiful.  I wish I could've had a picnic . . .  But I got distracted as I'm painiting again and didn't want to leave.  I wanted to finish the sky and bushes, and I've succeeded in that, so I am content.  For now.  That is until tomorrow.  We start something new then *shudders*.  Definately not looking forward to that.  I want more open studio time . . .  I really don't know what I'd do this semester without that class . . .  french puts me in a horrendous mood, excepting the tiniest of details which really doesn't help enough at all.  That class is torturous . . .  I count down minutes.  Heck, I count down seconds!

Anyways, returning to the much more pleasant subject of the gorgeous weather . . .  with it, I can't seem to get my head out of the proverbial clouds.  And even though the skies are cloudless, I seem to generate my own.

Lyrics -- One Tin Soldier

One of my favourite camp songs . . .  thought I'd share it with you.  It has nothing to do with my day at all . . .  I'm just not in the mood to vent or make small talk.  So here's my not-so-happy song.

Listen, children, to a story
That was written long ago,
'Bout a kingdom on a mountain
And the valley-folk below.

On the mountain was a treasure
Buried deep beneath the stone,
And the valley-people swore
They'd have it for their very own.

Go ahead and hate your neighbor,
Go ahead and cheat a friend.
Do it in the name of Heaven,
You can justify it in the end.
There won't be any trumpets blowing
Come the judgement day,
On the bloody morning after....
One tin soldier rides away.

So the people of the valley
Sent a message up the hill,
Asking for the buried treasure,
Tons of gold for which they'd kill.

Came an answer from the kingdom,
"With our brothers we will share
All the secrets of our mountain,
All the riches buried there."

Go ahead and hate your neighbor,
Go ahead and cheat a friend.
Do it in the name of Heaven,
You can justify it in the end.
There won't be any trumpets blowing
Come the judgement day,
On the bloody morning after....
One tin soldier rides away.

Now the valley cried with anger,
"Mount your horses! Draw your sword!"
And they killed the mountain-people,
So they won their just reward.

Now they stood beside the treasure,
On the mountain, dark and red.
Turned the stone and looked beneath it...
"Peace on Earth" was all it said.

Go ahead and hate your neighbor,
Go ahead and cheat a friend.
Do it in the name of Heaven,
You can justify it in the end.
There won't be any trumpets blowing
Come the judgement day,
On the bloody morning after....
One tin soldier rides away.

Go ahead and hate your neighbor,
Go ahead and cheat a friend.
Do it in the name of Heaven,
You can justify it in the end.
There won't be any trumpets blowing
Come the judgement day,
On the bloody morning after....
One tin soldier rides away.

A minor philosophical question, really.  Is time infinite?

Not only that, but is it linear?  Perhaps it's logarithmic.   Perhaps it's speeding up.  Hey, we thought the earth was flat.  Why can't time be spherical?  I suppose because it is not concrete.  We cannot touch it, see it, hold it in our hands.  We can merely watch it's shadowy reflections upon the walls of Plato's cave. 

Nor can we truly guage the time that others experience.  We can only guage our direct experiences, and even those cannot be quantitatively assessed, as they have been marred by judgement and personal perception.

Arguably, time only exists for as long as humans do, for we measure time and therefore generate it, as opposed to . . . what is unmeasured time?  Of what stuff would that be?  The untold lifetimes of matter and the dictation of life's cycle?  And without life altogether, what is time?

Can it be proven with atoms, those nearly-indivisible, immortal bricks which compose all . . .

I recognise that this entry is incomplete, flawed, and somewhat irrational.  But I would love to hear your opinion on the matter.

That's the title of a song in the musical Carousel, written by Richard Rogers and Oscar Hammerstien II, and I found it appropriate to describe this blog.  I feel so sing-songy today.  Perhaps not so much this song, but more "Oh What a Beautiful Morning." There's a bright golden haze on the meadow . . .

I love the change of the seasons!  I know that it's been summery for a while, but this weather fills me with happiness, which spills the brimming vessel into action and activity, and overall hyperness.  That is, while outside.  I cannot honestly admit to the possessing same feelings while caged in the vile concrete block that is deemed "school".  But then school has it's advantages . . .

I love the flowers!  I've missed leaves a lot . . .  to a surprising and perhaps freakish degree.  The blossoming trees . . .  There's this one tree, on regent street, perhaps it is a crabapple tree.  All year, I look forward to the one week of the year that it bursts into vivid pink blooms, clinging as pompoms onto the ruogh limbs of the tree.  Each a glistening opalescent gem upon the gnarled fingers of the tree.  The blossoms are beginning to open, and I am EXCITED.  Perhaps it is more than remotely pathetic that a simple tree excites me to this degree, but I love being able to enjoy and appreciate nature.  I'm so glad that it's out there! 

And if you don't mind, I'm going out to enjoy it right now.

A song that I love . . .  I've been listening to it--perhaps it's distracting me from this frigging French.  Nevertheless, I love it.

Hurt--Johnny Cash

I hurt myself today
To see if I still feel
I focus on the pain
The only thing that's real
The needle tears a hold
The old familiar sting
Try to kill it all away
But I remember everything

What have I become
My sweetest friend
Everyone I know goes away
In the end
And you could have it all
My empire of dirt
I will let you down
I will make you hurt

I wear this crown of thorns
Upon my liar's chair
Full of broken thoughts
I cannot repair
Beneath the stains of time
The feelings disappear
You are someone else
I am still right here

What have I become
My sweetest friend
Everyone I know goes away
In the end
And you could have it all
My empire of dirt
I will let you down
I will make you hurt

If I could start again
A million miles away
I would keep myself
I would find a way

I actually listened to that song for the first time ever, though I've always sang the title verse in hyper moods . . .  I was in a good and somewhat brave mood today, and Brochu was suspicious.  Those of you in my French class witnessed her outbursts . . .  Oh Madame, just because your student is smiling does not mean you have something on your face. 

Mrs. D, Mrs.  I, Mrs. F-F-I, Mrs. C, Mrs. U, Mrs L-T-Y.  Ah, Matilda.  I used to love that movie.  But that is what I have in the approach to certain matters (Though Suzie you may differ in opinion regarding this statement, after saturday's Lady Marmalade escapade).  I was going to continue with this thought, but you really have no need to know, so I'll stop now.

Good evening. and good luck with your massive loads of homework.  If it helps any, know I'm doing the same.

French was a waste.  In art, I got a fair bit done, and chem was again a waste.  Let's just not discuss english at all--I'm not in the mood to go there.

When I got home, I played Superman (by Five For Fighting) on the piano.  That song always cheers me up.  Here's the lyrics, actually  . . .

Maybe my "F9" key doesn't work.  I don't know.

Anyways, what I wanted to say was that I am the most awkward adolescent that I have ever encountered.

That is all.  Good evening, all.

I've scattered my thoughts to the four winds, hoping they'd return to me, with knowledges from all corners of the globe.  And secretly praying that they'll stay right where they are.

I have so much and so little that I want to say.  So I'll compromise and say none of it.  Yes, I recognise that it's a failure as a comprimise.  Perhaps I'll phone Nessa and talk like a normal North American human being.

But unlike the average North American, I've learned that I cannot expect results immediately.  That's the moral of today's story, kiddies.  What story, you might ask?  Well, obviously, the one I have not writen.  Or that has not yet occurred.

Or that has been postponed. 

Bah.

How is it possible?  Seriously, How is it possible?  That within twelve hours AT THE VERY MOST, every member of my family knows?  Already?  And that's twelve hours TOPS.  Every aunt, every uncle, every cousin, every grandparent . . .

Not exactly what I expected to be yelled out IN THE MIDDLE OF SHOW CLASS, but then again, what am I to expect of dog people?  Or at the very least of that aunt, who is a dog person.

I have come to the conclusion that in my family, personal lives DO NOT exist.

End rant.

I'd be excited perhaps if I weren't so tired.  But my frigging French is DONE.  Whooooo.  Now I get to do the chem review that's due tomorrow.  And don't you DARE lecture me about leaving things to the last minute, because I most certainly HAVE NOT!  I've been working my butt off to get these done, but when it rains it pours I suppose.  Two projects down, three to go.  Ish.  That is to say, both art projects, and my chem review.  Plus exam reviews too, BUT those don't really have specific due dates.  Sweet dreams, because I won't be getting any.  Goodnight.

Six days.  No, not till freedom.  Till exams.  But still.  It's almost over.  I just have to get through this gauntlet first.

Do you remember when we used to sing,
Sha la la la la la la la la la la te da

Today was a day of opressive inadequacy.  From the moment that I woke up, I was behind, so from the start I suppose it was an ill-fated day.  The French seminar did not run so smoothly as I had hoped . . .  I did my chem review in art, and I'm not in the mood to discuss my afternoon, any other daily trivialites, or bore you further.

I want to retreat to near-hermithood in a remote mountain village.  I want to be revered as a witchdoctor in an obscure African community.  I want to escape to somewhere where my horrendous ignorance will not be challenged; where I can be content in my own realm of tailored facts, and oblivious to all other schools of thought but my own.

I recognise that intellectual stimulation and challenge is a healthy, natural, and necessary thing, and if I were less exhausted at this point, I'd probably be more ashamed that I am approaching my issues in such and egotistical manner, and selfishly proposing outlandish and ignorant solutions to cope.  However, as it is, I'm not in the mood to regard this objectively.  I want to be subjective, darn it.

I still love the rain.  I suppose it's one of the better portions of this day.  (Not that it didn't have ot's good hyper moments . . .  they were just fewer and farther between than I have a tendancy to be accustomed to.)  Don't worry, optimism will be back tomorrow.  I just needed an angry rant/vent.  IAfter some more procrastination, I'll get started on that art project.  Don't you worry.

Actually, there weren't altogether too many contemplations today, but a few moments where I randomly lost myself in the hugeness of the universe.  Sometimes, in chemistry, my mind slips from it's focus on the point of my pen, and into the realms of the infathomable nature of the universe.

I suppose it doesn't help that I had one of those incredibly deep, spiritual, important-seeming dreams, but I can't recall the essential concepts divulged, which severely aggravates me.  And I never dream the same thing twice, so I suppose it's lost forever.  But one image of a man in a billowing red cloak mounted atop a white horse, approaching . . .

Bah, I blame all of the Mannerist art history for that image (it was so painting-ish an image), though I didn't see any pictures quite like it in the book, it was stylistically so similar . . .

Ah well, a beautiful day, I snapped a few pictures to send to Laura Heikinnen (a few candid, and a few not-so-candid . . .  as some have learned beter than others).

Okay, I've learned my lesson.  I thought I would have no privacy issues in leaving my blog viewable to all, but apparently that was not to be the case.  I'm not particularly bitter about it, nor do I hold any hostile sentiments, I simply wish to correct the issue, in that I would like to know if certain people are or are not reading this, because obviously they're not owning up to it of their own free will.  So therefore a change has been made.

End semi-rant.

In every other aspect, except for Art History and certain meddling family members who shall remain unmentioned, today was wonderful.  Three more days.

I'm still not done that art.  I will finish though.

Don't you hate it when someone says something about you but you don't realize that they've done it until much later because its . . .

Urg.  I'd better get back to work.

Procrastination.  I hate confrontation.  There are some people I have so much difficulty talking to about certain things . . .  I should, theoretically, have learned that situations only escalate when given time, they fester . . .  Bah, I'm not in the mood to pursue this train of thought.  The point I was trying to make was that generally, if one waits long enough, the confrontation will come to me, and the decision will be made for me.  Usually, this has adverse effects.  I do not yet know the extent of these, but at this point, frankly I don't care.  That is all.

(. . . or was that the Futility of the Pursuit of the American Dream?  Actually, I do mean Chemistry)

I know I've ranted about chemistry before, but the pursuit of its study seems even more futile to me now than it did previously.  Chemistry is basically learning to apply the most basic laws of the universe and its contents, and how matter adheres to them.  Well, I have knews for this so-called study:  the atoms that i'm composed of are model citizens, and already follow your laws!  My body is based of carbon, and it's compounds aren't  going to suddenly materialize of chlorine.  I just don't see why I'm being punished for crimes that nature has not committed.  Chemisty, I have no intention of breaking your precious laws anytime soon, so I don't particularly need to know what they are.

But that is simply the opinion of one rather primitive but conscious, organic-based lifeform.

I don't want to study.  I don't want to do anything, really.  But I will.  I need to take up that chem review tomorrow.  And get that english exam checked.  Plus my french and art exams are tomorrow.  And I don't want to do any of it.  But can you blame me?

Bah, I'll go.  I'll get some French in before I whine my whole way through this blog entry.  Oh wait, I've done that already.  Sorry, guys.

Okay, so I didn't get to work.  I made a new blog layout, because mine screwed up, and I couldn't find anything else I was happy with.  The painting above is called "The Sorceress", and it's by John William Waterhouse.  I think he is my favourite painter . . .  I haven't had a favourite painter before.  I've had favourite authors, because I've admired their work.  And I definately admire Waterhouse's, so why shouldn't he be my favourite painter?

I really need to get to work.  I really don't want to.

(How do I change the colour of my link things?  I don't like the pale blue . . . )

I am a self-admitted creature of habit, and one of those habits tends to be that I confide in certain people about certain things, and ask their advises on specific situations.  However, I also tend to reevaluate often the reasoning and issues that arise from everyday routines, so being my inquisitive self, I decided to probe the issue, and I've come up with this:  Why do I ask advice from individuals who do not themselves know what to do?  That is to say, the situations of these individuals are not ideal, or are at least circumstances in which I would like to find myself.  I have come up with two explanations for my behaviour:

a) I believe in some twisted psychological sense that if I combine two separate flawed viewpoints, I can hybridize the ideas to tailor a more suitable decision.

b) I prefer the direction given to me by the misguided than the guided; perhaps if I asked someone who knew what he or she was doing, I would not like the option--and the truth--that is offered.

Anyways, random procrastination thoughts once again.  I love my psychological self-exams.

Mmkay, once again I took matters into my own hands with this blog layout thing, and I attempted to fix it . . .  It's somewhat better.  It coordinates better . . .  I do love Waterhouse's work!  Though my favourite painting of his that I've seen thusfar is Hylas and the Nymphs . . .  Tasteful nudity is a lovely thing in artwork, or at least it has the potential to be, though I do admit I don't tend to feature it in my own.

Speaking of artwork, the Cawlie Dawg herself, Miss Penny, is now a work of art.  She was groomed today for the show, and she looks GORGEOUS, but whiskerless, so that's funny to see.  Her ears are once again free, and they're perfect (to the breed standards).  I still haven't figured out when the show ends, I shall have to talk to my aunt.  But the show means dinner at the Stanley hotel!  (Quite possibly the best onion rings ever--at least the best I've ever had--and the mushroom caps are to die for!)  Can you tell I'm excited?  (Just a wee bit perhaps?)

Wow, after this chem exam (which by the way went WAY better than I had expected), I suddenly have so much freedom!  That is, to do the things I've procrastinated doing for the past few months . . .  I've started on them.  Next project up: Hazel's cage.  I'd better get on that.  Here I go.  Tallyho!  

I haven't been able to indulge in the luxury of idleness, I am naturally lazy by nature (aren't we all?) and perhaps I'll be able to satisfy that stirring for a short while.  That is not to say that I'll do nothing this summer; just don't expect me to do all too much in the next week or so.  Bah.  I think I'll go, and do . . .  nothing.  Maybe some writing.

Oh, and Dolce-Sutch scared me today.  On the way out of the english exam.  Thank goodness that there were only two other people in the classroom left.  It was almost as scary as that time my piano teacher . . .  bah, that's a story for another day.  She's nosy.  Almost as nosy as my aunt, who by the way had some particularly nosy questions and choice comments for me at the show today.  (This is the aunt who proclaimed a certain goings-on at a certain show class before a certain room full of certain dog-people.)  Ah well, I love her anyways.  She's family, what can I say?

I think I'll go now.  I ahve to be ready to embarrass my sister when whomever-it-is that she's going to see Star Wars with (again!).  Ooh, he's here!  I'm excited (sweet revenge).  ttyl! 

I went to the dog show today, and Penny did extremely well!  I however, did not do quite so well handling her, and quite botched up the puppy group classs . . .  I had very little idea of where to go or what the judge meant when she gave me directions . . . nevertheless, she won the Junior Puppy of breed class (of which she was the only contestant,) then the best bitch of breed, against a tri-colour female, which means that my baby got a point!  Then we competed in the winners of breed class, and we came in second, but that STILL means that we got best of opposite sex, AND best of winners (which we totally didn't have to get!)  So Penny got two points today!  (And that is a big deal!)

For those of you who don't understand the point system, I will attempt to explain.  In order for a dog to be a "champion" show dog, in addition to the approved pedigrees, papers, and registrations for the Canadian Kennel Club (not to be confused with the American Kennel Club . . .  completely different), a dog needs to have a total of TEN points from shows, and that has to include one "big win" of two or more points.  I'm not entirely sure how the number of points is judged, but I know that in order to get a point, you need to actaully beat a dog in a class, if you're in it by yourself, when you win, you get nadda.

Anyways, I've been told by people who know that I did very well; I went in without expectations of getting any points, and our Glenwater's Lucky Me is now 1/5 of the way to her championship.  We go back tomorrow to try again.

Really, she was VERY well-behaved, though she did attack my skirt (the handlers are supposed to be dressed fairly formally) during the puppy in group class, she stood still when I asked her to, and didn't jump up tons when we were demonstrating the gait, either.  Bah.  I love my mutti.  (And I also love shameless bribery.  Cheese is a powerful thing.)

Oh, and we took a picture, with the judge, to commemorate out day.  It's formal and posed, maybe I'll post it later (if I can ever figure out how).

My dad has taken out the guitar, which is something he only does once in a while, and he and my sister are crooning through some songs, as he fgures out how to play them . . .  he's no pro with the guitar, he quit lessons as a kid, but he knows the basic chords.  ah-Ahh-Ahhhh-AAAARRRGGGGHHHHHHHH GODZILLA! Anyways, there's nothing like the arrogant worms --  a little Rippy the gator and Tokyo Love Song.  In fact, I'll post the lyrics, so you can share in their gloriousness . . .

Excuse the cliche, but I am most certainly exhausted.  We had our last day of showing today, and I should like to think that I did somewhat better, actually knowing what to do to a point, and my Mutti (that's my nickname for Penny) got a point!  She got best bitch of breed (which is a good thing, and means the word in it's original and truest context), so she got a point!  And I now understand some of the point system better myself, apparently you get points for winner's male, winner's female (which is what my baby got), winner's best, and the breed winner. Then there's the group rankings but I'm really not sure how those work, at all, and I don't see myself getting there anytime soon.  At least, not realistically.  You don't get any points for puppy best or puppy best in group or show, I don't think.  At least you don't get them for breed.  The adult best gets a whole whack of points, though, I think it's five for some reason though I'm not positive.  Her brother beat her in best puppy today (but oddly enough he didn't get any points, only reserve, and you don't get points for that), but we got to leave early and didn't have to stick around (though we did watch the puppy toy group, as my aunt had her Pekingese in there.  It was an adorable class to watch, complete with aYorkie, Pomeranian, Papillon, a hairy Chinese Crested, Cavalier spaniel, and the funniest looking miniature poodle . . .  there were some others besides.  My aunt didn't win it, though, and that Peke is finished her championship.  Now she has to finish the other two girls).

Oh, and I got the picture back today.  I'll post it later; we're going down to camp soon so Penny can swim and mess herself up (she's been gorgeous all weekend, now it's time for her to get dirty, I suppose).  We're staying over night, and I'm definitely not looking forward to that; or at least, more specifically , the early morning return (I have a driving lesson tomorrow at 9:30 as well, not looking forward to that either--my first since January and I haven't attempted since March.  I suppose the snow is gone, so I have no more excuses to offer).

But anyways, three points in two days, on our first attempt!!  That is pretty friggin amazing, I should think.  She's 3/10 towards her championship.

Oh, and I've had a song in my head.  State Fair is a very good old musical (the oldest version--they redid it 10 years after, attempting to "modernize" it, but they ruined a character entirely, as well as one of the best songs).  So here's one of the songs that somehow made it's way into my mind today:

Isn't It Kinda Fun?

WAYNE:
Maybe you'll never be the love of my life,
Maybe I'm not the boy of your dreams.
But isn't it kind of fun to look in each other's eyes
Swapping romantic gleams?
Maybe you're not a girl to have and to hold,
Maybe I'm not a boy who would stay.
But isn't it kind of fun carousing around the town
Dancing the night away?
Isn't it kind of fun holding hands
According to a sweet and corny custom?
Isnt' it kind of fun making vows?
Admitting that we both intend to bust 'em!
Maybe we're out for laughs, a girl and a boy.
Kidding across a table for two.
But haven't ya got a hunch that this is the real McCoy
And all the things we tell each other are true!

EMILY:
I'm not a girl for sentimental hype,
I never go for the Romeo type.

WAYNE:
Over a dewy-eyed Juliet
No one has seen me drool yet.

EMILY:
I never say in love's eternal tie
May our hearts never be severe.

WAYNE:
But using words less diginified,
Isn't it kind of fun to be together?

EMILY:
Maybe you'll never be the love of my life,
Maybe I'm not the girl of your dreams.

WAYNE:
But isn't it kind of fun to look in each other's eyes
Swapping romantic gleams?

EMILY:
Maybe I'm not a girl to have and to hold,

WAYNE:
Well, maybe I'm not a boy who would stay.

EMILY:
But isn't it kind of fun carousing around the town
Dancing the night away?

WAYNE:
Isn't it kind of fun holding hands
According to a sweet and corny custom?

EMILY:
Isnt' it kind of fun making vows?

BOTH:
Admitting that we both intend to bust 'em!

WANE:
Maybe we're out for laughs, a girl and a boy.
Kidding across a table for two.

EMILY:
But haven't ya got a hunch

WAYNE:
That this is the real McCoy

BOTH:
And all the things we tell each other are true!

It's vaguely cute, is it not?  Just a little, even?  I love old movies, and State Fair is definitely one of my favourites (though it doens't beat White Christmas).  Anyways, this was a rather lengthly and babbly entry.  I commend you if your read the entire beast.  Mmm, better get ready to go.  Naw, I'd rather procrastinate a bit longer.  it's so nice to be sitting still (and by the way, the Stanley hotel has the best onion rings ever!)

It's official.  I cannot drive.  Before my next lesson, I have quite the to-do list.  And first on that list is to remember which is the gas pedal, and which is the brake . . .

9:30 AM driving lessons are cruel and unusual.  That is all.

Mmm, I lunched with the grandparents again, twas lovely.  We had tarts, and I reviewed recipe books with my grandma . . .  we'll probably do some baking sometime soon.  She'd done some baking without me, and we had some delicious rhubarb tarts . . . which reminds me:

The Queen of Hearts,
She made some tarts,
All on a summer's day;
The Knave of Hearts,
He stole the tarts,
And took them clean away.

The King of Hearts
Called for the tarts,
And beat the Knave full sore;
The Knave of Hearts
Brought back the tarts,
And vowed he'd steal no more.

Ahh, nursery rhymes.  I'm definitely in the mood for random childhood reminders today.  I really don't want to start physics.  But I will.  Maybe I'll finish that book first, though . . .  not quite sure, yet.  I suppose I'll wait and see.

Hip hip hurrah!  Okay, these attempts tend to be more than vaguely pathetic, but humour me somewhat.  It's still a work in progress, I'll probably regret posting this in the morning, and it didn't express things quite as I had intended.  All in all, I'm not entirely disappointed in it.  Though the emotions aren't quite right, I'm content with the imagery, at least, I think.  Though I'm not sure about the big fish cliche, that may be over the top.  Feedback is very welcome, I'd love to improve this beast.  Here goes:

After All

Criss-crossed courses with

Their keystrokes of chagrin

Written across my fazed face.

Lost in a sea of waning wonder;

Upon the distant horizon,

The promise of hope

Blooms, unfurling pearly petals

As a platinum blemish upon the inky black

Of my innermost despairs.

I slip into the realms of forgotten pleasures

And those of newfound joys uncovered

Through bubbling cascades of bumbling confusion

With a rush, deposited into the sepulchral sea;

As a big fish among oceans of congruencies.

I’m swept away, caught in a current of cursed desire.

In quest, I seek the arcane key, whilst

Aspirations of altruism hover close

Yet elude my most meticulous nets;

Of them I may not grasp.

The grandest of illusions, the ideal

The perfect reflection of an imperfect you

Dissolves in the mists, giving way

To another apparition. Though,

Mettled of flesh and blood,

You may not be

An apparition

After all.

Once again, feedback is appreciated and encouraged!

Well, I've wrapped up the oh-so-incestuous soppy series that I was reading . . .  I do wish now that I had stopped reading after the first book, when the "heroine" was suffering for others' stupid mistakes, and not her own.  Still, for all it's disturbed drivel, it provoked a few questions, like where does one draw the line between morality and happiness as a person?  What is the value of morality?  And what is one's responsibility to one's child, and the personal sacrifices that must be made?  Ugh, way too many cliched mistakes in that series, I tell ya.  The whole long-lost identical twin thing?  Yeah, way overdone.  And when she married the first husband, it was obviously a VERY stupid thing to do (considering that it was her half brother and all . . .  arg).  I will avoid that author now, I believe, except to finish off another series which I had already started, and which had been considerably less . . . disturbing . . .  Anyways, I've moved on to more appropriate literature, historical fiction and whatnot, and I've already revisited an old favourite.  I think I may wait till tomorrow to start the next.  Well, four books done out of my eleven, and they're due the tuesday after next, should'ne be too bad because I've got through the beastliest.  Mm, I love summer.  Perhaps I shoudl start that physics, though?  Naw, I think I'll procrastinate a bit longer.

Oop, and going out to camp for the night.  The fireworks should be interesting at the least.  We're setting off a few of our own, just cheap ones mind you, but I prefer the distant ones, set off across the lake . . .  but that's just me.

 I have nothing that I want to say.  That is, nothing that hasn't already been said.  Yet.

In some ways, you're far superior to my cocker spaniel. 

That is all.

Doo-dloo-doo-doo-doo
Doo-dloo-doo-doo-doo-doo
Doo-dloo-doo-doo-doo-doo
Doo-dloo-doo-doo-doo-doo...

I'm singing in the rain
Just singing in the rain
What a glorious feelin'
I'm happy again
I'm laughing at clouds
So dark up above
The sun's in my heart
And I'm ready for love
Let the stormy clouds chase
Everyone from the place
Come on with the rain
I've a smile on my face
I walk down the lane
With a happy refrain
Just singin',
Singin' in the rain

Dancin' in the rain
Dee-ah dee-ah dee-ah
Dee-ah dee-ah dee-ah
I'm happy again!
I'm singin' and dancin' in the rain!

I'm dancin' and singin' in the rain...
[ADDITIONAL VERSE]
Why am I smiling
And why do I sing?
Why does September
Seem sunny as spring?
Why do I get up
Each morning and start?
Happy and head up
With joy in my heart
Why is each new task
A trifle to do?
Because I am living
A life full of you.

I suppose dancing in the rain will have to wait till next time . . .  I missed it because of church.  But that is okay, I got the singing in :D.

Yesterday, my readings reminded me of something I read years ago, among reinterpretations of Athurian legends.  An anecdotal legend in itself, that was part of the larger work, I just thought I'd share it with you.  Please bear in mind that my memory is imperfect and this version undoubtably differs widely from the original.  I couldn't find the original on the internet, so I will recount it to the best of my ability.

[Note: Keep in mind that it wasn't particularly important for women to speak in medieval ages, nor was it desired.  Now, if someone believed that statement to be true regarding today's women, I would smack them.  Hard.]

Once upon a time, long ago and far away, lived a Queen and King, and she bore him a crown prince.  The Queen loved her son greatly, so greatly in fact that when he grew to be of mariageable age, there was no princess or young lady brought before him that she deemed suitable.  A ceaseless parade of marriageable females was brought before her, but none were enough for her son, so the Queen decided to take matters into her own hands.  She sought out a witch, and asked for her assistance in the matter.  The witch conjured for the queen a simulacrum to wed her son.  She conjured of flowers a beautiful lady, physically perfect, with long ebony hair, smooth ivory skin, and a face like a flower.  However, this simulacrum was offered with a warning, a condition.  The witch warned the son that his bride would be with him always, obedient and loving, just as a real person, but only so long as he did not ask her to speak.  For, the moment he did so, the spell would be broken, and a curse would come upon him.  The prince happily agreed to this condition, for he fell in love with the beautiful simulacrum, and returned to the castle with the Queen and his new bride.  They wed, they feasted, they danced, and for a long while, they lived happily as a couple.  And day by day, the prince fell more and more in love with the simulacrum,  and doubts began to plague his mind.  Did she feel the same way?  Did she return his sentiments?  Or was se merely performing the duty that she was conjured to perform?  And so one evening, as the couple was preparing for sleep in the chamber that they shared, the prince could bear it no more.  He asked her to speak.  He asked his bride "Do you love me?"  She replied "yes," but the spell that bound her together was broken.  The simulacrum dissolved into a pile of flowers, those of which she had been conjured. 

What has this to do with anything?  Curiosity.  The simultaneous blessing and curse of humanity.  It is curiosity that prompts us to destroy a potential perfect bliss, such as the story above.  It seeds doubts, worries, fears, which gradually grow to errode the face of our mental state and cause us to take actions that shotchange personal happiness or the big picture.  How many times have you looked at historical events, or events in your own life, through the scope of hindsight, and thought "If only I/they had held on a little bit longer, ____ would have been so much better." Well, if 'ifs' and 'buts; were candy and nuts, we'd all have a very merry Christmas.  Act.

My grandparents are awesome . . .  I slept at their house last night, and they even let me sleep the morning away . . .  Twas lovely.  I did some baking with my gram, a delicious orange cheesecake which I'm anxious to taste, but it isn't quite set . . .  The components were good, though.  And we had a manageable shopping experience--not too many former pupils were encountered.

I do love talking with my grandparents, though, and learning about what things used to be like.  Sometimes I come across things that are particularly interesting--for example, my great great grandmother (my grandma's grandma on her mother's side) was a bootlegger.  That is, during the wars, she sold her alcohol rations to a bootlegger . . .  my grandma, then six years old, was forced to wait on the wooden sidewalk outside while she conducted her business . . .

Yes, it was interesting.  I also learned about my grandpa's first day of highschool.  He attended Hillcrest, my gram went to PACI, but that's not the story I intended to tell you . . .  anyways, my grandpa's first day was very interesting indeed, because as they summoned each student to inform them of their schedules, his name hadn't been called, so he went home a very baffled boy.  His parents informed him that his name hadn't been called because it was legally Gustav Oberg, rather than Jackie, which he had been called his entire life.  Apparently, noone thought to inform him of this.

I learned a lot this evening, twas very interesting.  So much about the childhood of my great grandpa and his father; I gots me some humble roots.  Some very VERY stubborn women in my family tree as well . . .  which probably explains a lot.  I should write all of this out.  I could make a family saga, like the Icelandic people used to, but those were really more myth than fact, and I doubt anyone other than my own family--if that--would read it.  Nevertheless, I will record some of it.

Oh, and Nicole, I finally did start that physics.

Camp-ho!  We're off to Sibley soon, apparently back tomorrow night.  What grand adventures await us, our humble group of six?  (Comprised of my own family, and a girl guide leader and her daughter.  And of course, my dog.)  I'm not altogether looking forward to this camping trip, espeially the 18k hike . . .  arg X).  Well, if I survive, I'll come home tomorrow, and knowing me I'll laze around the house all weekend.  There was something meaningful I had intended to say, but it seems to have slipped my mind.  Ahh well.  It'll come back to me.

Isn't it funny, how if you wait long enough, most things, people, feelings, return to you of their own accord?  Most, but by no means all.  Some things won't return to you no matter how long you wait for them,   and you have to pursue them, hunting in an elabourate cat-and-mouse game.  There are still others that cannot be regained no matter what effort is expended . . .  The true talent in this matter comes from the ability to accurately determine which route is appropriate.

That wasn't what I intended to say, but I suppose it will suffice.  They're here.  We're off.

Strawberry shortcake, Blueberry Pie, Who will be my lucky guy . . . A, B, C, D . . .

I'll never tell.

Honestly, I haven't jumped rope in years, but when one is beseeched by a pleading six-year-old, such an attempt is difficult to resist.  She recited the rhyme, one of the many that I myself used to recite as a child . . .  My favourite was the classic "High, low medium slow, snakes and cradles and jolly old pepper, eyes closed, open too, heel-toe heel-toe can-can too" (wow I'm amused).  I had another favourite, the tinker /tailor /soldier /sailor /richman /poorman /beggar man /theif /lawyer /doctor /merchant /priest . . .  II'm not in the mood for the rest . . . For some reason, though, I did much better today than I would have in my skipping years, I never was particularly professional.

Yes, I'm helping with a summer Bible school in the morning at my church this week.  Yes, that means that I actually have to wake up in the mornings.  I was sort of upset that my mother volunteered me for it without consulting me, and warned me SATURDAY, but when the kids started showing up, I realized it wasn;t going to be horrendous.  They're good kids, for the most part, with a few firecrackers thrown in to make it interesting.  I love kids.  It's so easy to make them happy--they're amused by the simplest things.  It's wonderful to see them happy, even if they are rushing about haphazardly, and somewhat destructively, to form a vortex of chaos in the basement of the church.  At least they're well-intentioned.  And happy.  And that's what matters.

I love origami.  It's a wonderful art.  Sure, I assumed for years that is was an entirely useless talent, but it wonderfully amuses young children.  Their fascination in the folded sheets of paper that form miscellaneous members of the animalian kindgom keeps them amused, keeps them quiet, and most of all, keeps them sitting still!

Sure, I recognise that such a diversion does not last indefinitely.  However, it is blissful while it does.

This morning was fun.

We took the children to Centennial Park today.  I served as a sheepdog, attempting to keep the eleven whippersnappers somewhat together.  I learned a few things, for example, the joy of circle games for children (ie Stella Ella Olla--I knew how to play before, but it served me very well today . . .  oh I'll get to that later).  Surprisingly, the sprouts didn't complain about the hike.  They loved the farm animals, and the play equipment, and the random train cars and pieces of aged machinery . . .  perhaps too much.

We did however have one casualty, and the boy is going for a tetnus shot.  He didn't cry, though (which was really surprising).  The rest of us played Stella Ella Olla while he recieved first aid.

I had a lovely evening.

That is all I have to say.  For now.

I sit in front of a gorgeous lake, whose waters reflect the faded blue of the cloud-streaked sky.  Well, the sky isn't so much streaked, as it is peppered with tufts of cotton.  Two white fans pivot their heads, sending a breeze in my direction  every once in a while as they survey the vacated room.  I am alone, but for three pekingese dogs and one very horney chihuahua.  The gentle lapping of the waves is inaudible above the whispered murmur of the fans, and the buzzing of the lawn mower pacing the lawn next door.  Yes, it is summer at Wild Goose bay indeed, and I have stolen away a quiet moment in an otherwise fairly interesting day.  I am reflective, as are the waves across the bay, which mirror the boats and houses at the bay's tip, the penninsula in streaks of bold colour.

Though I do remember now why I despise dial-up so greatly.  And I miss my proper computer mouse.

Mmm, old musicals are wonderful, especially when shared in the proper company.

I had a driving lesson today, which was not nearly so calm as the scene before me.  But then I suppose that was a given . . .  yes, indeed.  I had my first crack (not to be confused with heroin, eh?) at traffic lights, and also attempted to parallel park.  I drove to camp.  I survived a four way stop!  And I drove eighty, whoo! 

But now all is serene, tranquil, and quiet.  And that is just the way I like it.  I will not take to the roads and disturb the fragile peace for quite a while.  Citizens of Canada, you are safe until tomorrow.

A brief moment at home--won't last long, I'm out of here within fifteen minutes, unfortunately.  However, I am off to grandma's, to sleep over before our berry picking excursion tomorrow.  (It's the last day of the strawberry season at the farms, we put it off this year!)

Today was interesting--the last day of Bible school, and we hosted it at our camp.  Though it did not begin until 9:30 AM, and they left at 3:00, it was nevertheless a VERY long day.  My skills have stretched to the level of a sheepdog/police officer/mind reader . . .  (the former to keep the children in a somewhat centralized location, the second to enforce and create rules in order to keep them safe, and to determine whose turn it was to utilize the desired object/item, and the latter to determine the rules others have created in order to keep the children in line.  Not that they ONCE stayed in line during the entire line.  Do you have any idea how hard it is to determine of ten children, whose turn it is to paddle, steer, and/or ride in a paddle boat built for six passengers AT THE MOST?  Let alone enforce and keep track of whose turn it has been, ESPECIALLY when two of the children involved are identical twins which I can't seem to keep straight . . .  Ugh, not just them, they were somewhat mischevious, but it was the tantrum-prone (but cute) little girl, the cockiest (and one of the loudest) six-year-old boy I've ever encountered, and then of course the older kid with ADD that  did not make for a safe or quiet day, let me tell you!  However, the day was without casualties.  (There were no drownings, though I'm sure some of the cottagers wouldn't have minded . . .  I'm sure we woke them up early!)

Thus was the conclusion of Bible school.  I'll miss them, to be sure.  Or, at least most of them.  I think there was only one that I didn't like at all (but of course I maintained patience with said person, and did not make my bias known).  Two of them I will see again Sunday, I have a babysitting job!  (I like to babysit, but the children in my family are all older, or living far away . . .)  This will be my first babysitting job since the Shrek/City Bus incident of last year.  The parents, however, are more responsible than the last, and won't put me out of my comfort zone like that.

Anyways, I think I've said enough.  Farewell . . .

I love babysitting, in fact, I love kids, but I don't babysit often.  My relatives are all older than me, or else live far away, except for a few who have boarders in the basement so they don't need babysitters anyways.  My neighbourbood is relatively aged, so there aren't any kids about there.  And in my last job, the culmination of my klutziness combined with my lack of bus skills cut my career tragically short.

I think I'd prefer babysitting to any other teen job avaliabe.  I'm not menially flipping burgers, or tediously repeating some rather dull routine for hours on end, fir weeks and mothns until I got fed up with it, or fired.  But babysitting is different.  Every time I sit, there's something new; an adventure to be had.  Sure, there's a lot of thinking to be done on one's toes, but overall it is rewarding and fun work.  Tonight was definitely an adventure.

Have you any idea how difficult it is to entertiant a two year old, a five year old, and a seven year old AT ONCE?  With as little damage as possible?  And they weren't quiet kids--each of them was VERY active, in his or her own way.  The seven year old was one of those very clever ones that are well intentioned, but nce in a while his cleverness runs away a bit and I can never seem to tell when that is.  He kept trying to trick me, but I couldn't tell it apart from when he was sincere . . .  He was quite rambunctious himself, and rather loud, but a sweet kid.  The five year old (I'd thought she was six initially) was overly nosy and emotional.  She really liked to be the centre of attention, but she could be recruited as a helper.  The two year old was busy!  Whoo, was he busy.  Slightly cranky, had to be a bit careful there . . .  he hadn't had his afternoon nap that day.

So I had my hands full.  I brought out all the big guns--origami (the two year old was sleeping at the time, through most of that), but that lasted about ten minutes before the seven year old lost interest, then I attempted beadie buddies (lizards and the like), and the five year old enjoyed that but the seven year old decided to get creative, and made some sort of "cobra rattle", then began to make himself some cheerio concoction with marshmellows and chocolate chips . . . by this time the two year old was up and about.  after some snack-related pandemonium, I decided to attempt to centralize the activity with a movie (they chose Willy Wonka, but that was quite the battle in itself) and popcorn (a somewhat healthy snack).  We had to make more Koolaid (have you ever tried to divy it up so that there are three jobs to it?  Not so easy to do when the kids can't reach the counters).  Of course, interest in the movie was lost in about half an hour.  So then I decided to do something not incredibly destructive in the grand scheme of things, and make a fort in the living room.  The kids stockpiled all the pillows in the house except for the ones on their parents' bed, we had quite the quest to find the materials, and we made a fort of all the dining room chairs and a sheet from the linen closet.  We then watched more of the movie, which had regained its magic when viewed from beneath the fort's canopy.

I didn't get a chance to clean up before the parents got home, therefore the kitchen was a wreck.  as was the livingroom.  We were all sitting in the fort, but I knew I'd done a good job, because when the parents tried to get in the door, the little girl physically tried to force them out, and the seven year old was shouting at the parents to move out of the house so that they could play with me some more.  The parents didn't mind the mess, and are letting the kids sleep in the fort tonight.  That got the littlest two scurrying to put their pajammas on.  The seven year old inquired repeatedly as to the next time I'd be babysitting.

Success.

Though I've used all of the big guns this time.  What to do next time?  I'm glad I brought my bag of random things to do, let me tell you!  Perhaps next time I'll bring costumes, for dressup.  That's about all I can think of . . .  and more food bribes.

My boycott of Harry Potter continues.  As it shall.  Indefinitely.

Golf camp today.  Was an interesting experience.  I was prepared for the cattiness, yes, but not the sluttiness, whoo dear.  I did not anticipate the group of four girls--just exiting grade ten I suppose, I didn't get too close to them--who shamelessly flirted and picked up a random guy from the golf course.  Nor was I prepared for the apparent pedophile who supervised the ten year old girls on the driving range, who our instructor spazzed on.  Yeah, real nice there.  Then we got rained and lightninged out, and had to go in on the sixth hole.  Otherwise the weather was really nice for golfing.

Okay, once settled with the library books, I've begun and finished a fair sci-fi binge.  I don't read sci-fi often; I need to be in the mood.  The first book was awesome, yet depressing, as it was the beginning of a trilogy and the rest was not to be located.  It was interesting; a society based on plastic surgery that also altered the function of the brain.  The second book, which I wrapped up today, was more about opposing schools of thought, war/peace, resistance/surrender, and that in surrenderring--well I can't really explain it well, but the idea was that the victors of wars don't really win anyways, because they become assimilated into the conquered culture, and the result is a stronger culture technologically and intellectually.  However, it was hard for me to get past the bizarre alien races and technologies; interplanetary sci-fi was never my thing.

Now I've moved on to an old favourite medieval fantasy duet, which I had been thinking about before going to the library . . .  I remebered that I had enjoyed it particularly, but I couldn't remember anything about it.  Now that I've started it again, I remember a few of the concepts, but the plot is entirely slipped my mind.

And it was Mr Foulds who I ran into at the library.  He was getting some do-it-yourself cermaic tiling videos, to attempt to renovate his mother's bathroom.  His first attempt to do so.  That I'm sure will be interesting, to say the least.

What more do I have to say?  I attempted to bathe Penny today, that required the assistance of my mother.  She looked so funny, sitting in the tub forlorn, looking betrayed.  Her fur was veritably plastered to her body  in suds of shampoo, and with sprigs of fur stood out in haphazard spikes here and there.  Her expression was altogether priceless . . .  I'm showing her saturday and sunday.  Arletta's showing her friday.  You would not believe the noises my Mutti makes when we're attempting to comb out the mats behind her ears . . .  it takes two--one to hold her down, the other to comb, and all the while Penny wriggles about, screeching and whining.  It connot possibly hurt that much.  Mom and I were being gentle.  I conclude that she is a wuss (particularly when it comes to her ears) but then I wouldn't have it any other way.

It's a small world after all, it's a small world after all, it's a small world after all, it's a small, small, world . . .

My uncle hates that song--he got stuck on the ride in Disneyworld for hours, which explains his loathing.  But the song doesn't apply to the world so much as it applies to Thunder Bay.  You may or may not know to what I am referring.  I can't get away with anything.

I suppose I should appreciate having a history.  That is, living an life where everybody already knows or at the very least has access to the story of my life.  I have a history.  Though this tend to surface more as an embarrassment than as a blessing, I do realize sometimes that I should appreciate this time.  In a few years, when I'm off to university or to an exchange, I won't have that priviledge.  You've seen me change and grow.  or at least, you can contact witnesses readily who have seen me change and grow.  And same goes from me to you.  Things are in several respects safer this way.  One knows exactly what one is getting into; or at elast one can have a very well-ballparked idea.

I've begun to tie up some loose ends.  Yesterday, my baby was in the dog show.  She got two points!  My baby got best of breed!!!  I didn't handle her, though, because I was at golf camp, and I must say, my game has improved.  I no longer triple par :p.  Mitch and I went to the dog show today, but I didn't stack the mutt very well, and long story short, we received some pretty ribbons, but no points for us.  But her brother is finished his championship!  So Penny's loss is my fault, rather than hers . . .  ah well. tomorrow is another day, though he class begins at 8:30, so my aunt and I need to be out there for seven thirty, which means we have to leave the house at seven, YUCK.  My aunt was on her best behaviour today, surprisingly enough, so guaranteed I'm going to get it tomorrow, threefold.  Or else she's waiting until my guard down, and then she'll strike.  In the most inoppotune moment.

I've wrapped up many loose ends, yes, in the past few days.  I've finished the scheduled two weeks, and I've been allotted some breathing room for the next few weeks. that is, until I once again face my archnemisis the accordion at music camp.  No, that's not ntirely true.  I enjoy the accordion.  nevertheless, I have two weeks of freedom, and boundless possibilities.  I will fill them with lazy summer daydreams, fun in the sun, and of course the far less desireable physics.  However, it needs to be done, and it will be.  That's monday's project.  Oh, and I still have six more library books, though thse shouldn't take me too long to get through.  My grandpa's no taking me to the library again until I finish ten physics lessons.  Boo.

However, I am open to as much diversion as is humanly possible.  (Golf, anyone?)  Anyways, we have company now t camp, people from my mom's work, so I'd better go and at least attempt to be sociable.  Fare thee well.

My thoughts, they shy away from the light of revelation.  Quick as recognition, they slip, darting away.  They hover among the fringes of my of consciousness.  They are skittish, but not timid; not merely meek, but stubborn.  My drowsiness excites them, and their taunting increases in speed and intensity, ever elusive and beyond my reach.

The visitors at my camp, my mom's day hospital co-workers, have left me with some personal questions indubitably they do not realize that they have raised.  Once again I feel incredibly naive, and foolish.  For all that my mother proclaims me a cynic, I am not entirely so.  (Well, obviously.)  I do believe a have a tendency towards optimism, but that is not what this issue concerns.  Or rather, it does not today.  My naivette sometimes frightens me.  No, not quite frightens, but rather surprises and alarms me. I never know when to take things at face value, and when they are "embellished".  Or when, for that matter, they are marvellous lies.

I'm having a lovely discussion with Laura Heikinen today, we coincide over MSN every so often, and I update her on what's going on in my life, and vice versa.  It really makes me realize where I've come to now from grade nine.  Not that I've necessarily come far, it's just that life is different.  More complicated.  Less idealistic.  The eyes I use to view the world are tainted somehow from those of two and a half years ago.  Purer.  More carefree, though not in entirety.  More predictable and more fun, somehow.  Even grade ten seems darker to me somehow, in fact my memories seem the darkest for that year, seeming to be a shadier and almost comical twist casts shadows on the memories.  As if . . .  as if consequences lurked in it's shadowy uncertainty, whereas grade nine was merely a boundless plain filled with promise.  Good things lurked out of sight, it seemed.

And now?  Now there is more fear.  More constraint.  A self-imposed bridle to steer my future through the ride of my present, not to "go with the flow" as had been the wont of ninth grade, or to fear the future, but to guide it.  I've changed.  The people I fancied that I knew have changed.  And now I no longer fancy that I know much at all.  And when I do, I am reluctant to admit it, because it is in the moment that said knowledge is relinquished that the base changes.

I recognise that you probably care little for the remeniscence of recent events by a babbling and somewhat overdramatic me, but I find these frequent reflections to be beneficial.  Therefore thank you for humouring me nonetheless.

Driving lessons are always an adventure.

I have come to the conclusion that I have no common sense whatsoever :D.

Seriously.

Busted.  The fruits of my procrastination have brought me to face the reprecussions of, what is to me, old news.  I might actually deal with it this time.  Who knows?  I'll think it over tonight, see how to deal with it.

Oh, and I'm busted in another sense, of course, on the familial terms.  Why am I the only one who ever has consequences for certain actions?  I swear, my sister, my father, do things every day, and I try ONCE and I am the one that suffers for it!  NO, this is not going to turn into a rant of self-pity.  I'll halt myself now.

Today was overall a good day, except for when it came to dealing with mummy dearest, but isn't that the way it always goes?  Skimming across the waves of Lake Superior clutching my tethered tube behind the motor boat, I skipped as a stone of shale.  That was the good part of the day.  Hopefully mum'll soon forget her revolutionary alterations to the house rules, as per usual, and things will continue as they have.  (The best thing about inconsistant parenting is that new rules rarely last.  The bad thing is that this rule-of-thumb itself is not consistant, and sometimes these new rules do.)  So I take it, today is not a good day to bring up the Dryden dog show with her.  Sorry, Auntie Linda.

I am so tired.  I am so so tired.  A bunkhouse can be a prison, when one is trapped within avec an eight-year-old, a twelve-year-old, and a fourteen-year-old that has to be watched like a hawk.

Yes, Campers' picnic at Wild Goose Bay.  I've had my yearly bingo fix, and the one day I year that I wish I were remotely athletic has passed.  I'm not too competitive a spirit, but these things can be made to come out with effort, though I didn't get too entirely competive about the whole thing.  Now that shall lay dormant for I don't even know how long.  The funny thing about the races (because there are races), which are mostly for the little kids, is that the parents are more competitive than the kids are.

I;ve stopped making sense, haven't I?

Despite my lack of sleep, I've had some interesting dreams in the past few days, though why I would dream of painting is quite beyond me, after all of that physical activity.

Ah, well, sleep will be good. 

I should've slept earlier.  I've been up since nine.  Ah well, the company is all gone now.

I am infected with a severe case of homebodyitis!  And there's no cure!  I'm going to have to wait it out, and suffer through the illness.

There is only one thing that could possibly get me out of this house today.

Okay, maybe there are two.  I know what you're thinking: the second possibility is incredibly unlikely.  I also have serious doubts that a pink-spotted elephant will appear on my front lawn.

Which explains my original statement: there is only one thing that could possibly get me out of this house today.

Well that was rather anti-climactic, come to think of it.  But I suppose, other than that, I've no complaints.  Certain issues have been clarified.

I do admit, though, that was the single lengthliest phone conversation that I've ever had.  And most of it was about nothing!  I thought I'd regret staying up that late when I woke up in the morning, but the odd thing is that I do not; not at all.

I feel your pain during the inevitable inquisition tomorrow, though hopefully you'll sleep through most of it.

But then I face my own inquisition tonight; I've no ideas the twists and turns it will take, whether the inquirer will be angered that I withheld information for so long, or will be excited in the . . .  I don't know, that option probably won't happen, judging by previous reactions . . .  I don't know whether or not the reaction itself will be genuine, and even if so, where will this information spread to, afterwards?  Well, not so much that, as with which manner of spin?  I know from experience that said inquisitor often embellishes fact, and while I can appreciate this in a humourous anecdote regarding a comical babysitting experience,  I cannot appreciate it in gossip regarding me.  Call me crazy, but that's not the way it works.

Anyways, I've probably said more than I should here, but writing helps me sort out thoughts so I suppose it's excuseable.  If you were bored you would have stopped reading.  So therefore my rambings are easily excuseable.  There are a few more things I should like to say, but I should really stop using the computer as a crutch for my own sub-par social skills and . . .  well tonight I'll be crutch-less.  And I'm worried.  But I suppose that's excuseable, on some level.

My mother is really becoming unmanageable.  It's incredibly aggravating.  Honestly, she's absolutely unreasonable about this physics!  She has no idea how much work it is!  And now she's trying to blackmail me into working on it, which I already AM, I just need time and a house that's not full of noise.   (I swear, my sister makes noise all the time, and she doesn't even realize that she's doing it!)  I love my family to bits, but sometimes they do not harbour the best woprking environment.  Ugh, I wish this physics could just be done!  (Now, if only I didn't have to actually do it . . .)

However, I suppose there is one fewer distraction about to keep me from physics (hurry back! :p)

Well, yesterday's confrontation was rather anti-climactic.

And I suppose I'd better get my nose back to the grindstone.  I've said it before and I'll say it again; stupid physics.

A productive day.  Yes. I'm still very much easily distracted, but overall it's been a very productive day.  Two physics lessons produtive.  Impressed?  I thought so.

Oh, and my parents gave me my graduation present.  Usually it's not too big, about $20 for something or another, it's been dragon figurines in the past, but this year it was bigger.  My parents were getting my sister a bike (because she really needs a new one, the old is severely outgrown) so that was to be her gift . . .  well it took them until three days ago to find one for her that was suitable, and in the meantime, no mention of what was for me.

Now, call me counter-capitalistic should you wish (no I suppose that really isn't an adequate term, but it shall suffice) but I could not honestly for the life of me think of anything that they could buy me that would be comparable.  I'm sorry, but spending howevermuch on a random gift, I just can't place anything that I really wanted/needed.  Except the ld'fashioned sky-blue beetle on the way to camp--my dream car, mind you--but that's hardly fair of me to expect, and not at all a decent tradeoff for the sister who's getting then bike.

So anyways, the graduation presents were finally dispersed ysterday, and--drumroll please--I was presented with a brand spanking nw, top of the line (or almost anyways) digital camera!  I'm quite impressed, it certainly tops the family one, though I have suspicions that it is less a toy for me than for the enjoyment of the entire clan.  Though, my father has been quite insistent that it is just mine.

Anyways, I've said about everything that I wanted to say.  Except one thing:  I dreamed of conspiracy.  And I liked it.

I said a bit extra as well, I've blathered quite longer than I had expected to.  Anyways, ta ta, I'm off to entertain.  Farewell.

I have returned from battle from the most fiendish of fiends, the raspberry bushes.  And not only those, but the even more vicious black raspberry bushes . . .  You must understand that the blushes of the black rasperries are at the least twice as spiky and spiny as those of your average red raspberry, and are therefore at least twice as painful.  The flesh of my arms and hands has been sufficiently gouged, let me just say. 

As I plucked the succulent berries from their cradle of thorns, I realized how like people, and even life, these raspberries are.  The black raspberries are a great deal sweeter, juicier, and less bitter than the red . . .  but they're also a lot more work to acquire.  Yet the reward is sweeter.

That is all I wanted to say.

Just because it's such an aweseome movie, and this song has been in my head since I watched it which was like, last wednesday :p. (I know, it's certainly not the best song from the movie, but as I said, it's been stuck in my head for quite a while--not constantly, but on and off.)

Funny Honey (from Chicago)

[ROXIE]

Sometime's I'm right

Sometime's I'm wrong

But he doesn't care

He'll String along

He loves me so

That funny honey of mine

Sometime's I'm down

Sometime's I'm up

But he follows 'round

Like some droopy-eyed pup

He love me so

That sunny honey of mine

He ain't no sheik

That's no great physique

Lord knows, he ain't got the smarts

Oh, but look at that soul I tell you, the whole

Is a whole lot greater than

The sum of his parts

And if you knew him like me I know you'd agree

What if the world Slandered my name?

Why, he'd be right there Taking the blame

He loves me so

And it all suits me fine

That funny, sunny, honey

Hubby of mine

[AMOS (Spoken)]

A man's got a right to protect his home and his loved ones, right?

[FOGARTY (Spoken)]

Of course, he has.

[AMOS (Spoken)]

Well, I came in from the garage, Officer, and I see him coming through the window. With my wife Roxanne there, sleepin'...like an angel...

[ROXIE]

He loves me so That funny honey of mine

[AMOS (Spoken)]

...an angel!

 I mean supposin', just supposin', he had violated her or somethin'...you know what I mean... violated?

[FOGARTY (Spoken)]

I know what you mean...

[AMOS (Spoken)]

 ...or somethin'. Think how terrible that would have been. It's a good thing I came home from work on time, I'm tellin' ya that! I say I'm tellin' ya that!

[ROXIE]

He loves me so That funny honey of mine

FOGARTY (Spoken)]

Name of deceased... Fred Casely.

[AMOS (Spoken)]

Fred Casely. How could he be a burglar? My wife knows him! He sold us our furniture!

[ROXIE]

Lord knows he ain't got the smarts

[AMOS (Spoken)]

She lied to me. She told me he was a burglar!

[FOGARTY (Spoken)]

You mean he was dead when you got home?

[AMOS (Spoken)]

She had him covered with a sheet and she's givin' me that cock and bull story abou this burglar, and I ought to say that I did it 'cause I was sure to get off. Burglar, huh!

[ROXIE]

Now, he shot off his trap

I can't stand that sap

Look at him go

Rattin' on me

With just one more brain

What a half-wit he'd be

If they string me up

I'll know who

Brought the twine

[AMOS (Spoken)]

And I believed her! That cheap little tramp. So, she Was two-timing me, huh? Well, then, she can just Swing for all I care. Boy, I'm down at the garage, Working my butt off fourteen Hours a day and she's up munchin' on god-damn bon bons and jazzing. This time she pushed me too far. That little chiseler. Boy, what I sap I was!

[ROXIE]

That scummy, crummy Dummy hubby of mine! --------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Quite possibly the three words that make the vaguest impression in the english language when strung together in a phrase.

No, make that the second vaguest impression.  Not that I've had much experience with the first, mind you.  (At least, not in the most idealized context.)

The issue with "I miss you" is that the base that the phrase covers is such a broad one.  Sure, generalized they simply mean "I wish I were with you", or "I wish you were with me", or "I wish we could be together", but the contexts that this spans are so wide that this trio of words so often seem inadequate to express one's heartfelt thoughts or emotions.

It could mean so many different things.  "I miss you could mean "I grieve and mourn your death," or "Your physical presence is absent and noted", or "I'm lost without you", or "I'm lonely without you", or, simply, "I'm bored without you", along wiht a slew of others that I don't care to list.

Anyways, you get my point through the rambling.  I've adequately expressed myself by this point, to be certain.

Well, I finished reading The Witch's Boy (my mom took me to Chapters, well, made me drive her there, and we stayed for an hour and a half, and she honestly expected me not to get anything!  Ha!)  Well there's a nice little song in there, and I thought I'd share it with you.  (This book basically reworked almost any fairytale that you can imagine--Pinnochio, Rumplestiltskin, Sleeping Beauty, Red Riding Hood, Rapunzel, Snow White, Cinderella, Hansel and Gretl, as well as a few others, while conveying a relevant theme.)  Anyways, I thought I'd share the song, because it's cute.

"I was born of high and royal breeding,

And at my birth, the king my father said,

'Let all the fair folk that dwell within my kingdom

Come and lay their faery blessings 'round her little bed.'

And so they came, and they were twelve in number.

They brought their gifts: first beauty, then a pleasant voice to sing,

Then charm, a kindly manner, grace to tread a lively measure,

And all else to wed some rich and handsome king.

But now the thirteenth faery entered,

And wroth was she and bleak of bone.

Cried she, 'These gifts you gave are for delight of others.

You give the baby nothing for herself alone.

So listen well: upon her eighteenth birthday

She'll have my gift, a present that is just for her.

Upon a spindle, she shall prick her little finger

And fall asleep, and nevermore shall stir.'

Thus did it pass, as she had spoken.

Although my father banished spindles from the land,

Yet one survived, kept secretly, I found it

And spun the wheel and pierced my little hand.

Thus did I fall into the land of dreaming,

A land I loved, so beautiful and free.

Oh, you who sleep but hours, how can you imagine

The dreams of years?  Do you not envy me?

But then from paradise I was awakened

By th' prince's kiss, for which I did not ask,

Woke me to love and pain and loss and chidbirth

And tears and many years and many a heavy task.

And now my beauty all has faded

That in my dreams I could forever keep.

I curse the prince whose selfish kiss awakened

Me.  I bless the faery sent me to that sleep.

I am the girl called Sleeping Beauty

I never answer to that name,

For I am a slave to love and duty.

It was the kiss that brought the chain."

P.S.--Welcome home, Mitchell.

Do you ever find that there are just some things that are worthless once you have to ask for them?  That only mean something when they've been given without prompting?  Ahh, I'm not going to continue with this thought.  It's entirely too cliched. 

I suppose that these questions are merely an abbrasion on the surface of . . .  things.  Anyways, I think I'll stop before I metaphorically dig myself in deeper (deeper trouble that is--the thoughts shall continue to run rampant; just not so publically).

Mischief managed. 

Or it would be if there were any mischief to be had.  Physics seems to be stealing away all my time, burgling and stashing it in some arcane hoarde.  Will I find it, perhaps?  No, I suppose it is gone forever, though the theif often returns to the scene of the crime I fear that alone isn't enough to recover the stolen goods.  However, mischief on the other hand, can be arranged for a great deal of time is not necessary to accomodate it.  But who knows for certain?  I can, however, think of someone who hopes for a mischief-free evening.  But, come on, that would be entirely too boring.

Hope to see you all at the ballgame.

And Nicole, I need more physics help.

[NOTE:  the majority of this was written BEFORE attending the game, which was a good one--I ran into Laurie and Juliane (from my church), and instigated sufficient embarrassment, even if it was in a way I did not expect.  Expect the unexpected!  Always!  (However sometimes when you expect the unexpected you get exactly what you expect, so chew on that!]

Curiousity killed the cat . . .

 but satisfaction brought him back.

That is all.  I am satisfied.

I am saddened.

A little brown bird I had once known, plain as a sparrow but free as a lark, and with the lovely voice of a nightengale, this little brown bird has decided to become a dull twig, she has shed her plump curvaceous feathers of confidence for the harsh angles of branchhood.  Twigs.  The like she had once made nests of.

I may refine these thoughts to make a poem.  Who knows.

Oh, and music camp today.  I am totally prepared to crash, and it's only eleven.  That is incredibly pathetic.  In fact, there are things i should do now, but I have ZERO energy.  It's gone.  And overdrive has faded.

I feel nothing.

Not even the presence of snowballing imminent embarassment.  Please, do not witness the humiliation.  Why do I let myself get talked into these things?

I've captured a thought that I thought I'd lost quite some time ago . . .  I think I'll share it

I think I should like to write a romance novel.  Yes, a full blown, chalk full of cheese, sappier than maple syrup, ribbons and lace, horrendously typical harlequin romance.  You know the sort--they're all the same--where the broken old experienced man--dashing, and charming with the world at his feet--gradually falls in love with the niave, sixteen-year-old virgin and blah blah blah.   Complete with vomit-worthy sex scenes in excessively formal and flowery language.  Yes, I think that I should like to write some of that filth, but with one tiny exception, barely worthy of note: it wouldn't end with the sappy drivel that they offer up as a conclusion.  I wouldn't wrap up the filthy package with the nice pretty bow of sticky-sweet pleasantries where he declares his undying love for her and they give up everything that makes them individuals to live together for a happily ever after and whatever consequences may have arrisen to their previous contacts.  I would make an ending where SHE recognises his disgusting fetish for young girls and moves on with her life to some semblance of a passable reflection of reality and her own life.  Maybe he could find himself a nice middle-aged widow.  I'm not entirely certain.

That's my master plan.

I've discovered muscles I never knew existed.  The hard way.  I think that about sums up today.  Oh, and I can play a pretty mean polka now.  But it must be said that the accordion is not a subtle instrumment.  "My Heart Will Go On" on the accordion is something that noone should hear.  Ever.

Saturday's concert is on one hand comming up way too quickly, though on the other, I wish it would never come at all.  I am dreading that solo.

It is over, and with only a few hitches throughout the entire event . . .  not much time for quick changes, mind, but then as little time as possible was spent dressed in the Frilly Pinkness as possible.  My accordion numbers were botched up, but it was RIGHT after Ukrainian dancing so I was a mite out of breath.  Well Suzuki Strings Music Camp was quite an adventure this year, anyways, I have a million and one little stories about people I met and knew before and I think I;d like to learn more of this beast called the accordion, perhaps I should tame it . . .

Ugh, there are a million and one other things I'd rather be doing now.  Almost anything, actually, is prefereable to this physics.  But I can think of a few things in particular . . .

I haven't been particularly blog-babbly recently . . .  I'm not entirely sure that it's a bad thing, mind you, it's just odd.  I know that it's not that I have nothing to say, as you know lack of relevancy has never been an issue for me before, it's just that . . .  well anything I say from here on would in all likelihood be horresndouly misconstrued.  So here I go.  Saying nothing.  For once.

Nothing, nothing, nothing at all.

It seems so odd to me . . .  I mean, it has occurred to me before, but hasn't sunk in to such an extent previously that this is the last real summer of my life.  That is, the last summer of my accademic career, the last without work, of the traditional timing . . .

There was something else I wanted to say . . .  Oh yes.  Late last night (or this morning, rather), I was half-heartedly straightening my room (which means mucho distraction, to those of you who aren't farmilliar with my cleaning habits).  Anyways, I found some interesting things.  (Though the room itself is far from clean, but at least some floor is visible now :p), anyways, why do I feel like a little girl playing with mommy's makeup whenever I put on lipstick?  It just feels so unnatural (and looks that way too).  Ahh, frivolity can be quite amusing, however, I think I'll put that back in the vault for a while.

(Or perhaps I am mad, rather than the dash.  I'm not entirely certain whether or not I am fit to be the judge of that.) 

I eat, sleep, and breathe physics.  Nearly eveny waking moment bursts at the seams with the dreary, mundane business.  Unit Two has been sent in and marked.  I did surprisingly well!  Unit Three should be off today, if I get my act in gear . . .  hopefully it won't take so long to do as Unit Two . . .  there aren't so many random diagrams to be redrawn in paint, I don't think . . .   I'm optimistic.  Well, here I go.  Back to work.

". . . If le oiseau gets le sucked up in le engine, there are only enough parachutes for le crew: not le YOU . . ." -- The "French Air" Stewardess.

 Priceless.  Absolutely priceless.  I honestly don't know how she said it with a straight face.

A lovely poem, with some not-so-lovely . . . bits . . .  but nevertheless, I like it, for some reason.  It's inspired some lovely artwork, shoudl you care to google the title.  (What can I say?  I am a Waterhouse girl . . .)

La Belle Dame Sans Merci

by: John Keats

Ah, what can ail thee, wretched wight,
Alone and palely loitering;
The sedge is wither'd from the lake,
And no birds sing.

Ah, what can ail thee, wretched wight,
So haggard and so woe-begone?
The squirrel's granary is full,
And the harvest's done.

I see a lily on thy brow,
With anguish moist and fever dew;
And on thy cheek a fading rose
Fast withereth too.

I met a lady in the meads
Full beautiful, a faery's child;
Her hair was long, her foot was light,
And her eyes were wild.

I set her on my pacing steed,
And nothing else saw all day long;
For sideways would she lean, and sing
A faery's song.

I made a garland for her head,
And bracelets too, and fragrant zone;
She look'd at me as she did love,
And made sweet moan.

She found me roots of relish sweet,
And honey wild, and manna dew;
And sure in language strange she said,
I love thee true.

She took me to her elfin grot,
And there she gaz'd and sighed deep,
And there I shut her wild sad eyes--
So kiss'd to sleep.

And there we slumber'd on the moss,
And there I dream'd, ah woe betide,
The latest dream I ever dream'd
On the cold hill side.

I saw pale kings, and princes too,
Pale warriors, death-pale were they all;
Who cry'd--"La belle Dame sans merci
Hath thee in thrall!"

I saw their starv'd lips in the gloam
With horrid warning gaped wide,
And I awoke, and found me here
On the cold hill side.

And this is why I sojourn here
Alone and palely loitering,
Though the sedge is wither'd from the lake,
And no birds sing.

Crazyshoppingweekend starts here.  As of yet, I'm still alive, though we have not yet made contact with the Hinzes.  I should've started with enough sleep, but I guess it's too late.

Okay, I was a tad rushed on my last attempted entry (the hotel's complimentary internet access is somewhat convenient, but not so much as it is made out to be--there is one computer for the entire hotelful, and well there're at least 100 rooms, so . . .)

The little buggers are swimming now, and we've all just had breakfast (though not exactly together), and I have no intention of spending the next few hours with wet hair, so here I am.  So far this little misadventure has been somewhat successful . . .  we made a 6-hour dent yesterday, Kohls had a midnight madness sale, and we've already hit Target.  I found an interesting book there--historical fiction, about Anne Boyelyn's sister, looks promising.

And I have a few comments.  Well, in the shirt shopping business yesterday, while seeking lovely sarcastic shirts, I became quite aggravated.  I noticed that most of the sayings, which ranged from such lovely sayings as "Buy me something", and "I can only please one person per day . . . ME" to "I'm not cute?  Your boyfrend thinks so", and I noticed that they all (or at least msot) seemd to reflect selfish consumeristic self-images of perfection, or put down other girls.  Is that what we need to feel happy, confident, and satisfy ourselves?  Material wealth, or the jealousy of other girls.  What an age we live in.

I hate it when I know I'm being unreasonable.  And I am.

I need to get out of this house.

Before I started grade nine, I wrote this little booklet, not much mind you, a few scrawlings on scrap white paper, to record my values at the time, what I wanted out of life, to become, my "to do" list per say, as well as a few beliefs of the moment . . .  who I wanted to be close to, my future career goals, familial goals, where I thought I was psychologically . . .  I guess I was a weird kid that way . . . I never could consistently keep a diary (not for more than about 10 entries).  Well now here I am and I'm not exactly sure where I placed those paper pieces, but for the most part I have a pretty good idea of what I wrote . . .   funny how things can change so quickly, so many things to factor into my future that I'd never bargained for.

You'd think that by now, I'd have learned my lesson, but here I am still, surrounded by little paper pieces trying to calculate and put together for myself a little paper life.  Trying to map and plan my direction and goals, charting a course which I'll never quite sail.  And I know that, while planning.  But I'll never bargain for everything.  Life will give a little, take a little, and a few years down the road maybe all I'll be left with is memories of what might have been a dream, and what?  More little paper pieces.

(Actually no, but that's another good song--or at least, the right remake can be.) 

I have a song on my mind.  In fact, I just heard it on the radio . . .  an oldie but a goodie, one I not-too-long-ago found all too relateable . . .  In fact, scrolling though some VERY old entries, I'm sure that you'll find it posted, somewhere.  Now that it's not-so relateable, it still makes me smile, to think of who I was when it was.  I've had quite a few Unbirthdays since then; I'm a good bit older and wiser.  Ahh, Gravity . . . (by souldecision . . . I used to love that band.)  It's just like physics!  Gravity always gets the better of everything in physics; ugh!  I really don't feel like summing up today's lesson . . .  You'd be in the class if you wanted to know, I'm sure!

There are, of course, a few more things I'd like to rant about, but I think that I'd rather not bore you all.  I have noticed that the length of my blogs has gradually shrunk, like so much laundry in the dryer.  I'm sorry, that was a bad allusion (but I really need to do some laundry!)  Ah, so much to do, so little time, and I can think of a million and one things I'd rather be doing, in the company of someone I'd rather be with, rather than this cold, clicking block of plastic and metal.

That is a declaration, not a promise, though what the difference is at this point, I'm not entirely certain. I am so sick of being rational!

As a child, I had loved hide and seek. Apparently, I still do.

I find myself distracted from this physics yet again . . .  my mother's changed her tactics from boundaries and blackmail to bribery upon this beast, and while I would not say that they are working, the change in techniques is certainly welcomed by me.  Unit three cannot be sent off, I'm going to talk to Mr Childs about a few questions, and today I'm wrapping up Unit 5.  I'll get to Unit 4 after that, but I really need to feel like I'm getting something DONE.  I'm sure you've been at that point before . . .  I'm optimistic that it will get done this weekend, except for that smidgen of math help . . .  I won't be working on it this evening, though.  I'll be attending a very snazzy gala (which means I'll have to dress up--in a dress--and try not to spill anything on myself all evening, which should be quite the challenge).  Well, what is this for?  It's to commemorate the 50th wedding anniversary of my cousin's grandparents.

50 years.  I can't even fathom that.  Honestly, stop to think of it.  Who makes it through fifty years of marriage anymore?  Who will, of our generation?  The divorce rate in the States (yes, I've watched WAY too much Dr. Phil) is something like 1/3 of marriages fail in the first I-can't-remember-how-long.  In my sixteen eyars, I can only remeber one other couple who made it to their golden anniversary . . .  my former neighbours, they're both dead now.  

But then, children, I suppose, have very inefficient memories.  Though I mysef am a self-admitted memory packrat, my own childhood rememberings are sketchy at best.  They contain such gaps and holes that at times I wonder what manner of moth has entered my skull and eaten the quilt of my memory, like so many wool sweaters of old.  Okay, bad allusion, but you get the point.

Speaking of memories, my family somehow dug up the tape of my sister's christening this morning.  I'm sure some of you are familiar with the tramtic incident of my childhood that occurred the evening before, and to those who aren't, well let's just say that the damage was written across my face.  In fact, the cameraman got a few good closeups . . .

How many memories are made in fifty years?  How fare the patchwork memories of the Vinnys?  Are they moth-eaten as well, like my own, or are they intact, unforgettable as some well-written work of classic literature . . .  perhaps like neither, more a montage of the collective memories of both parties involved, as well as their three daughters.  Memories of laughter, pain, joy, surprise, trial, and everything in between . . .  I wonder if their cherished memories are the same, those that they value, and hold in high regard.  I wonder which have each allowed to slip away, forgotten.

Well, I suppose that I've rambled quite enough.  I'd best get back to work.  Fare thee well!

School is odd.  That is, the way I've been handling school is odd.  That is, I don't know what that is.  I think I need more sleep.  I hope I don't get sick--everyone around me seems to be contracting some ilness or another--my mother, people sitting around me in my afternoon classes, my sister as well, I think . . .  All this learning just tuckers me right out!

I'm probably boring you, aren't I?  Sorry.  You can stop reading if you wish.

I find myself zoning out.  In physics, to keep awake, I've resorted to writing a random story . . .  I think that I've actually figured out a plot for it.  Actually, I was more alert than yesterday.

I'm rambling.  Well I'll point out the obvious underlying message to this--well, it's not very well a rant, is it?  It's entirely too drab--, and I suppose that point would be that I'm bored of this school thing already.  That is sad.  School has just begun.

As I've previously stated, I became incredibly bored during physics, and to keep awake, I wrote the start of a story . . .  anyways, I thought I'd post the beginnings, as many of you can't read my handwriting anyways . . .  nor would many of you otherwise attempt.  (Yes I'm procrastinating doing actual homework.  As if that wasn't entirely obvious.)  I rewrote yesterday's attempt, and here's what I've got.  Please keep in mind that yes, it is short, but it was taken in between scrawlings of acceleration vectors involving velocities of different directions (aka Not Fun).  Here goes:

"Tell me a faery story," the lad whispered, his rushed murmur filling each velvety contour of his young aunt's ear, and reverberating a tainted unease up to the drafty attic rafters.  The night's silence seemed to deepen, and wait for the maiden's response to such an unusual demand.

The slender slip of a maiden was caught off guard, and she felt shiver run through her entire body, even beneath the goosedown quilt on a late spring's eve far from chilly.  "You know that the Fae are wicked, wicked folk," she chastised her nephew, with the slightest waver of fear audible in her voice, "and it does not do to romanticise so . . ."

"Rhow-what?" he implored quizically, his glistening emerald eyes brimming with curiousity, and peeking out from within a nest of patchwork.

"Romanticise.  It means to imagine something to be better than it really is," she explained gently.

"But isn't that a good thing?"

. . .

(to be continued)

Well, I spent most of the period trying to pick out a boys' name for the character, and I've found two by now that I think I like, but I'd like some feedback, perhaps.  Which do you prefer? Thomas / Samoht, or Samuel / Leumas?  (My criteria are that the name spelt backwards has to sound sort of like an actual name--that's to come in later if I get to that point.)  Ah well, I've named the aunt, at least, editted a little in the first edition, and named a few character that have yet to come in . . . well, here goes with today's addition:

"But isn't that a good thing, Auntie Rho?" he asked, a fog of confusion clouding the vivid garnet of his left eye.

"Well, ____, it both is and it is not," she declared pensively, for a moment enwarpped in her own thoughts and memories, the likes of which were a world apart from those of the bold, naive seven year old before her.

(To be continued)

Tonight I had my first piano lesson of the year, and I must admit, the tones coming forth from the ivories were a great deal more harmonious than I had anticipated . . .  well, my piano teacher read quite a bit about my life from my playing, because, well, that's what he does.  He knows the nuances of the piano--of his own playing, and others'--and he had some interesting comments about that.  Apparenntly my posture is much better . . . I used to hunch over the keys, and now I sit with straight back, in a neutral position . . .  I used to press and prod, jabbing at the keys, pounding almost, and now my fingers are much lighter, like I "used to hunt for something," but that was satisfied.  He says I've matured . . .  I'm nto so sure about that . . .  Ah, piano therapy.

I started a new song, or rather, picked one out, and it is an old song for that matter.  I'm continuing with American Pie, of course, I should have that polished for the Christmas recital . . .  I want to memorize more than the chorus, because all I have now is 100 Years (still).  I want a Chicago book . . .  I love that music . . . I have "And All That Jazz" in my broadway book, but I think that I'd like Hot Honey Rag, or "But I Can't Do It Alone" (I love both those).  In fact, I'd probably play most of the songs, save Cell Block Tango, that one's much more fun to sing!

Ah well, I'd best get back to work.  Physics ahoy!

I don't know why I'm actually joining school-run extra-curricular activities this year--it's odd.  First golf, then this newspaper thing, plus there's AP English, and who knows from here.  I was hoping to get to the debate meeting (I just plain like arguing once in a while :p), and who knows what's next.  Maybe a burnout.  I'm not quite sure why I'm doing this all of a sudden, I just realized last night that for the first time in a very long time I'm comfortable in my own skin.  No, I'm not going to go into lame butterfly/caterpillar analogies, because I'm quite the same crawly little caterpillar that I have always been, but I'm okay with that, and I guess I wasn't before?  I don't know.  I will cease trying to explain the inexplicable, and accept this positive--well it's not really a transformation, is it?

Okay, so some actually serious discussions about my potential exchange today with my mother.  Well, it's her that I have to win over with the plot, and now she's afraid of terrorism (honestly, I'll be spending a year in Europe, not that I'd know where until I actually applied.  Well, I'm excited!  Will keep ya posted!

Launching potatoes was awesome.  Seeing the spud core flying through the air in waverly park, simply breathtaking (if the running back and forth to measure the distance our projectile flew had not already stolen it).  That absolutely made my day (which, by my standards, was a pretty good day anyways).  I never knew that physics could be so beautiful . . .

Speaking of physics, I'd best get back to work.

Just because I've been singing it all day, a song:

Let me know that I've done wrong
When I've known this all along
I go around a time or two
Just to waste my time with you

Tell me all that you've thrown away
Find out games you don't wanna play
You are the only one that needs to know

I'll keep you my dirty little secret
(Dirty little secret)
Don't tell anyone or you'll be just another regret
(Just another regret, hope that you can keep it)
My dirty little secret

Who has to know
When we live such fragile lives
It's the best way we survive
I go around a time or two
Just to waste my time with you

Tell me all that you've thrown away
Find out games you don't wanna play
You are the only one that needs to know

I'll keep you my dirty little secret
(Dirty little secret)
Don't tell anyone or you'll be just another regret
(Just another regret, hope that you can keep it)
My dirty little secret

Who has to know
The way she feels inside (inside)
Those thoughts I can't deny (deny)
These sleeping dogs won't lie (won't lie)
And now I try to lie
It’s eating me apart
Trace this life back

I'll keep you my dirty little secret
(Dirty little secret)
Don't tell anyone or you'll be just another regret
(Just another regret)

I'll keep you my dirty little secret
(Dirty little secret)
Don't tell anyone or you'll be just another regret
(Just another regret, hope that you can keep it)
My dirty little secret
Dirty little secret
Dirty little secret

Who has to know
Who has to know

(And the lyrics aren't posted, I couldn't find them with Google, so I had to type them MYSELF, so please be patient with and possible miscontruations of the words.)

Wonderful (It's Superman)

By Andy Stochansky

I sing you this song, to let you see

Whatever became of me.

This summer I will wait under your cherry tree

Just to hear "wonderful"--

From you.

I sing you these words, so you can hear

I know how wet I am, behind the ears.

And if you could once, just for one reappear,

And let me hear "wonderful"--

From you.

I fall, I crawl, to pull you up

I sleep for years to wake you up

How the world we can tell,

To today, yeah--

Wow Wow Wah

It's Superman!

I stand from afar, blow clouds away.

No LA traffic, just Milky Way.

And yes, I will wait for the day that you say:

"This is all wonderful,"

I need to hear "wonderful"

From you.

I fall, I crawl, to pull you up

I sleep for years to wake you up

How the world we can tell,

To today, yeah--

Wow Wow Wah

It's Superman!

Start!

Yes, I can fly, yes yes I can fly I can fly I can fly, now tell me now--

I fall, I crawl, to pull you up

I sleep for years to wake you up

How the world we can tell,

To today, yeah--

I fall, I crawl, to pull you up

I sleep for years to wake you up

How the world we can tell,

To today, yeah--

Wow Wow Wow!

I'm rather distraut--I honestly have no idea where that notebook went!  And it has to be somewhere, I know it hasn't left the house.  Or, to my knowledge, my room . . .

I've been out of it, lately . . .  that I know.  Perhaps I need sleep.  But I'm also pretty upset about this thing . . .  well one of the girls I was semi-close with in grade nine (I didn't see her much in grade ten, at all) is pregnant . . .  she's keeping it . . .  I firmly believe that kids shouldn't have kids, or rather shouldn't raise them, and I feel horrible because I know she's got noone (literally) to turn to . . .  but I wouldn't know the first way to get in contact with her or for that matter how I could help; there's not much I can do without my parents' approval, obviously, I can't take her in or whatever, it's their roof and their rules, not that I'd go to quite that extreme but still it bothers me

Help!  The internet police are nigh once again!

On another note, or rather without a notebook, as of yet I am still sans notebook and am rather concerned.  All of my retrieval efforts have proved fruitless.

Ah, but I'd best get back to work before I'm charged with possession of FUN.  House arrest just got a heck of a lot worse.

Golf is la creme of all highschool sports--no tryouts, no practices, just a Get Out of Jail (aka physics) Free Card for the afternoon, so I can play in the fresh air, and beautiful weather.  Now, that's my kinda sport.  The only catch?  I can't golf.  Well, I can, but not well.

The testament to that?  My scorecard (I haven't kept my own scorecard in quite some time).  Well, I didn't quite double par, but I came very, very close.  That's probably a personal best.  Our girls' team did very well!  Samantha tied for first, my sister came third!  And I didn't come last!  I came 8th, out of fifteen . . .  actually, 8 was a magic number for me today . . .  I shot 8 on seven holes today.  Oh, and I got my first Bogey!!! (Did I spell that right?)  If you can't tell, I'm a little bit excited, or rather, I was . . .  I'm tuckered now.  And I have Rangers tonight (I miss my Junior Leadering!  But wow, Guides'll look good on a resume.  Eight years . . .  I didn't realize that it had been so long.) 

Anyways, onwards and upwards, I made a new friend today . . .  that sounds much cornier than I expected.   I had a great time on the course, sang some lovely random songs, and what else?  Not too much else that I can think of.  Maybe I'll make some mroe new friends.  Life is a wonderful adventure, is it not?

I guess I'm in a better mood than I thought.  Meh.  I'd seriously better go, though.

Helter skelter in a summer swelter.
The birds flew off with a fallout shelter,
Eight miles high and falling fast.
It landed foul on the grass.
The players tried for a forward pass,
With the jester on the sidelines in a cast.

Now the half-time air was sweet perfume
While the sergeants played a marching tune.
We all got up to dance,
Oh, but we never got the chance!
`cause the players tried to take the field;
The marching band refused to yield.
Do you recall what was revealed
The day the music died?

ARG!  Does my mother want something done RIGHT, or done RIGHT NOW?!?!?!?!  Personally, I'd rather have it done RIGHT!!!  DEVELOP SOME PATIENCE, WOMAN!

Okay, okay, I'm calming.  Deep breaths, deep breaths.

I FOUND THE NOTEBOOK!!!!!

 :D:D:D:D:D:D:D:D:D:D:D:D:D:D:D:D:D:D:D:D:D:D:D:D:D:D:D:D:D:D:D:D:D:D:D:D:D:D:D:D:D:D:D:D:D:D:D:D:D:D:D

Now I'd best get cracking on physics.

ONE MORE QUESTION.  JUST ONE MORE.  AND THEN IT'S DONE.  FOREVER.  ALWAYS.  GONE.

(Yes, I recognise that the caps are rude, but I needed them for emphasis.  None of you, except Nicole, know how much frigging work and frustration this beast is.  I have to convey my eccstatic joy.)

But it will have to wait until tomorrow.  Tonight I must study for my grade twelve physics course.

OH!  And for any of you out there who are considering correspondence courses, DON'T!!!!!! 

Off to physics I go!

fools, because they have to say something."--Plato

Here are so random quotes, just because I can:

"Wit is educated insolence" --Aristotle.

"We live in deeds, not years: In thoughts not breaths; In feelings, not in figures on a dial. We should count time by heart throbs. He most lives Who thinks most, feels the noblest, acts the best." --Aristotle

"The roots of education are bitter, but the fruit is sweet."--Aristotle.

"Probable impossibilities are to be preferred to improbable possibilities."--Aristotle.

"No great genius has ever existed without some touch of madness."--Aristotle.

"Hope is a waking dream."--Aristotle.

(not to be confused with sawdust.)

Starlight, starbright

First star I see tonight;

Wish I may, wish I might

Have this wish I wish tonight . . .

I woke up today, and asked myself; "What do I want to do today?"  Honestly, that was such a wonderful feeling!  I haven't been able to do that since July!  And do you know what I did?  I stayed in my bed with a purring pussycat, and read.  That's also something I haven't been able to do since July as well, before my parents banned me from the library (and--better yet--the book I read is no longer contrebande!) . . . 

I suppose tomorrow I'll have to settle back down, to reality.  I'll get that biology homework done then, and my calculus . . .  Mmmm, but today was lovely.  With the delicious fruits of leisurely labour to leave a wonderful taste in my mouth and undoubtably sugary-sweet dreams tonight..

I realized something today.  Perhaps it isn't major, but perhaps it is, either way someone will find it odd . . .  I think that I should perhaps find it odd.  I don't know, it's one of those things that's been the way that it is for--well, ever, I guess--and I just didn't think about it.  Most people I talk to--of my own age--are anxious to get out into the world and workplace, and look at me pityingly when I say that I have fourteen-ish years of schooling ahead of me.  I'm more afraid of my entry to the workplace than of all the academics that are apparently before me--of doing the same thing every day, day in and out.  I know that one you leave school, you don't stop learning, but it seems the lessons learned are life lessons, and are fewer and farther between than in an institution designed to educate.  I'm afraid to stop learning.

Anyways, that's my random rant for the day.

I need to vent.  But this is not the appropriate combination of time and place for such matters.  Not publically, at any rate.  I'm not sure, at this point, whether or not I am more disappointed or frustrated at this point.

They're deliberating right now.  My academic fate is in the hands fo the judges.  I am not happy with the sitation, either way--I'm confronted with the choice between two evils.  Three, in fact, if I think about it.  I read a quote somewhere that said "When confronted with the choice between two evils, choose neither; when confronted with the choice between two good, choose both."  Well, that is much easier said than done.  Stressed.  On edge.  We shall see what tomorrow brings (hopefully sooner rather than later).  Hopefully now.  Tonight.

I need to go do something else.  Get away.  i'm not in the mood for story time right now, but I will be once the results are in.  Up, up, and away!

Today was a day for cleaning up my messes.  And I think that I might actually be able to straighten things out, before its too late.  I'm optimistic.  I've a lot of work ahead of me, but at least it'll be productive work.

And one more thing--I'm frustrated with a certain person for not mentioning a certain thing that he/she found, what was the word, "disgusting"?  Was that the word?  Or was that a misinterpretation, manufactured by the rumour mill and warped by the grapevine?  If he/she had an issue, he/she could have simply brought it to my attention, I would've been receptive to relevant criticism, at least!

I've been all smiles all day--who'd have known that dropping a class could make one feel so great?  So footloose and fancifree?  I've dropped physics.  And it is wonderful.  Today, instead, I took a trek to the waverly library, and though I failed in my quest for Thomas Hardy's Tess d'Ubevilles: A Pure Woman Faithfully Portrayed (the title is very decieving), and Oscar Wilde's play The Importance of being Earnest.  Anyways, I ordered them both from other branches, and returned to school.  I found an 'Earnest'-inclusive Oscar Wilde collection at school, and am working my way through it.  I didn't see it at first, and got through the intruduction of a VERY dry Marlowe's play Dr Faustus ("was this the face that launched a thousand ships / and burnt the topless towers of Ilium?" ).  Anyways, the Wilde play is really very humourous--I didn't catch a lot of that when I actually saw it--I was chuckling in the library to myself, and I swear the grade ten girls in there thought I was crazy.  It didn't help that I knew them from gradeschool (they were in my sister's classes, back in the day).

Anyways, I've rambled about irrelevancies quite enough for one day, I should think.  I'll enjoy this week until my grade twelve correspondence physics arrives.  (I know, I hardly get myself out of one course before I set myself up for another.  Well, it's better than Sloan's course, surely).  I know I'll work well with the time constraints, because I have an enforced schedule.  Speaking of taht, I'd best get started on my art homework.  I think I'll get that proposal done tonight.  Or at least most of it.

Yes, I've been feeding my brain, sorry to say.  You're all in for it now--Tara on a semi-intellectual rant, or tangent, or . . .  in any case, it's dangerous.

Tess of the D'Urbervilles.  By Thomas Hardy.  I ran across it researching for my ISU essay last year (Tennyson/Tess--they're very close together in english literature subject encyclopaedias.  I got distracted.)  It's a surprisingly good book.  I'm reading it for AP english, (noticed it on the list and picked it up)and I'm enjoying it, though I'm not quite a third into it.  It's definitely not light reading material, but I have no idea what is going to happen with this.  I suppose I could look it up, but that seems like cheating to me.  In any case, it inspired a ramble.  I'm sorry to subject you to this.

No, actually, I'm not sorry.  I feel it needs to be said.  It's about time.

I read this book of excessively-formal language with metaphors referencing household items that are no longer common in industrial nations.  This book is about innocence lost by no fault in thevictim--merely a toy of fate and power, yet she is morally degraded in her own esteem and in that of all those who encounter her.  The sins of others rule her life!  And in our society, none of this would be an issue; we would send her to therapy or some of the like, and the whole tragic misadventure could probably be avoided.  But that isn't what really bothers me, the societal flaws of an England transforming through the Industrial Revolution; what bothers me is how we today so freely and carelessly give up something that was of so much value to these people.  Like it is worthless.  Now is it worthless?  I don't know.  I suppose it's not my place to judge.  But whyever would we treasure this thing when the morals that pertain to it seem to us to be outdated, and furthermore are founded in a system of fundamental beliefs that few actually believe.  This is sad.

My point is that were are not Tess.  Our mistakes are our own, and not the result of some twisted abuse of authority.  Well, I guess that wasn't really my point at all, but that doesn't make it any less important.

The original point was that if something was at one point seen to have value, then it probably is valuable on some level, and it should be respected.  You may debate this point if you wish.

(don't worry--this excerpt is clean, I just liked it, so I thought I'd share it.  Some 'food for thought' for ya.)

" . . . Abraham talked on, rather for teh pleasure of utterance than for the audition, so that his sister's abstraction was of no account.  He leant back against the hives, and with upturned face made observations to the stars, whose cold pulses were beating amid the black hollows above, in serene dissociation from these two wisps of human life.  He asked how far away those twinklers were, and whether God was on the other side of them.  But ever and anon his childish prattle recurred to what impressed his imagination even more deeply than the wonders of creation.  If Tess were made rich by marrying a gentleman, would she have money enough to buy a spy-glass so large that it would draw the stars so near to her as Nettlecombe-Toute?

The renewed subject, which seemed ot have impregnated the whole family, filled Tess with impatience.

"Never mind that now!" she exclaimed.

"Did you say the stars were worlds, Tess?"

"Yes."

"All like ours?"

"I don't know; but I don't think so.  They sometimes seem to be like the apples on our stubbard-tree.  Most of them splendid and sound--a few blighted."

"Which do we live on--a splendid one or a blighted one?"

"A blighted one."

"'Tis very unlucky that we didn't pitch a sound one, when there were so many more of 'em!"

"Yes"

"Is it like that really Tess?" said Abraham, turning to her much impressed, on reconsideration of this rare information.  "How would it have been if we had pitched a sound one?"

"Well, Father wouldn't have coughed and creeped about as he does, and wouldn't have got too tipsy to go this journey; and mother wouldn't have been always washing, and never getting finished."

"And you would have been a lady ready-made, and not have to be made rich by marrying a gentleman?"

"O Aby, don't--don't talk of that anymore!" . . . "

I have just a brief philosophical question for you, and the teensiest of background stories.  As I walked to my home on an avenue ablaze with the shades of autumn, the breeze ruffling leaves about, and sending a few tumbling to the moist earth below, I wonder . . .

Is there anything in beauty that is not natural?  Can beauty (in anything) ever be manufactured?

Yes, I am aware that I have posed two questions.  Nonetheless, I would be intrigued to hear your opinions on the matter!

Hope you enjoy the cliché.  Yes, today has presented to me many challenges, and as a result I am another day older and wiser because of it.  Happy unbirthday to me.  It is not the cause for proper joyous celebration as an unbirthday should be, of life and its lessons, but I have nonetheless learned something:

I need to up my game.

Not of course that life is a game.  I just need to put a little (okay a lot) more effort into things, and I'll make it through without crashing and burning.

A truly valuable life lesson for the day, though I am remotely curious as to how long this resolution shall last.

A very merry unbirthday to you, as well.

or slice it with a knife; it's electric, a jolt of power sent from my toes up my spine. It sharpens my psyche, taking the numbness from me, and forcing an urgency in my mental processes and actions.

Stress.

The physics exam is tomorrow night.  At seven.  Wish me luck!

I guess I haven't blogged in a while . . .  I guess I should . . .  there's nothing exciting to say!  The halloween costume is progressing, I'm sure that I passed the physics exam, I'm ahead of schedule with my grade 12 physics--which reminds me, I have to type up my last few days' physics coursework.  Life's been busy lately; so much to do and so little time equates to even less sleep.  And I still don't know what to title my Donkeyskin-keyhole painting.  "Donkeyskin through the Keyhole"?  "Once upon a Keyhole"?  "Glimpse of Solar Radiance"?  I honestly have no idea.  Any suggestions?

I recognise that this blog is rather random.  For that, I appologise.

Mama ain't happy.  And when Mama ain't happy, ain't nobody happy.

I've got a new musical morning obsession: The Beach Boys.  (Yes, Mitchell, I know you think that it's horrible, but it's got the right amount of pep to get me going!)

My personal favourite song of the CD, as of yet: Heroes and Villains.  The lyrics are as follows (though the harmonies are entirely bypassed--the song is good, if drawn out.  At least I like it):

I’ve been in this town so long that back in the city
I’ve been taken for lost and gone
And unknown for a long long time

Fell in love years ago
With an innocent girl
From the spanish and indian home
Home of the heroes and villains

Once at night catillian squared the fight
And she was right in the rain of the bullets that eventually brought her down
But she’s still dancing in the night
Unafraid of what a dude’ll do in a town full of heroes and villains

Heroes and villains
Just see what you’ve done

Heroes and villains
Just see what you’ve done

Stand or fall I know there
Shall be peace in the valley
And it’s all an affair
Of my life with the heroes and villains

My children were raised
You know they suddenly rise
They started slow long ago
Head to toe healthy weathy and wise

I’ve been in this town so long
So long to the city
I’m fit with the stuff
To ride in the rough
And sunny down snuff I’m alright
By the heroes and

Heroes and villains
Just see what you’ve done

Heroes and villains
Just see what you’ve done

An observation--yes, I'm a nerd--but nonetheless those of you who have or are turning seventeen this year (as I am) might find it somewhat interesting:  Whatever day of the week that it is that your birthday falls upon this year is the day of the week that your actual birthday was.  Do you follow that roundabout statement?  Good.  To accompany that random bit of trivia, the age-old rhyme-- 

Mondays child is fair of face,
Tuesdays child is full of grace,
Wednesdays child is full of woe,
Thursdays child has far to go,
Fridays child is loving and giving,
Saturdays child works hard for his living,
And the child that is born on the Sabbath day
Is bonny and blithe, and good and gay.

I'm tuesday's child, but I disagree with the statement concerning me . . .  yeah, I'm pretty darn klutzy.  I had an odd discussion though, the other day.  Surprised that I hadn't had certain things (or anything for that matter) organized, I was told that I had seemed "so put together".  Now how the heck I pulled that one off at all let alone maintained that image for three years of highschool is quite mind-boggling.  Anyways, that about ends my rant (which has derailed from the track of its topic in entirety). 

Anyways . . .  I'm curious to know--what days are you guys?  (It's not that hard to find--just look at a calendar.) 

Today is my last day of being sixteen.  It seems cruel--I had only just gotten used to it!  And now it's gone . . .  seventeen seems so much more . . .  well it's older, and my impression of it is to be a much less innocent age, which scares me, as I am me . . .  I'm growing up.  That scares me even more!

I recognise that I am all over the map with my musings today.  For this hard-to-follow and far-from-expertly-written entry, I appologise.  Unfortunately, I shall divert further from any semblance of a central point, and take this opportunity to rant about . . .  you know what?  I don't feel like ranting about it.  Not today.  Not here.  Happy Birth-Eve to me.

Actually, maybe I will.  At least, partially.  Here goes.  I've never been a particularly rebellious child by any stretch of the word, nor do I intend to become one.  That is not to say that I do not have my share of idiocyncracies, for I certainly am far from ideal, it's just that I do not believe that I am the epitome of any parent's teenage nightmare . . .  [You know what, I know where I'm going with this rant, but quite frankly, I'm not sure how to get there.  So maybe I'll share another day, if deemed relevant.  Maybe not.  We shall see--JUST LIKE WE'LL ALL SEE THE COSTUME, RIGHT MITCHELL?.]

Just to conclude this entry before it sprials into oblivion, I'll post a song that I deem relevant. 

[Rolf:]
You wait, little girl, on an empty stage
For fate to turn the light on
Your life, little girl, is an empty page
That men will want to write on

[Liesl:]
To write on

[Rolf:]
You are sixteen going on seventeen
Baby, it's time to think
Better beware, be canny and careful
Baby, you're on the brink

You are sixteen going on seventeen
Fellows will fall in line
Eager young lads and rogues and cads
Will offer you food and wine

Totally unprepared are you
To face a world of men
Timid and shy and scared are you
Of things beyond your ken

You need someone older an wiser
Telling you what to do
I am seventeen going on eighteen
I'll take care of you

[Liesl:]
I am sixteen going on seventeen
I know that I'm naive
Fellows I meet may tell me I'm sweet
And willingly I believe

I am sixteen going on seventeen
Innocent as a rose
Bachelor dandies, drinkers of brandies
What do I know of those

Totally unprepared am I
To face a world of men
Timid and shy and scared am I
Of things beyond my ken

I need someone older and wiser
Telling me what to do
You are seventeen going on eighteen
I'll depend on you
 

I love that song . . . and that movie . . .  in fact, my new music box rocks my socks (that is, if I were in fact wearing socks).  See you all tomorrow.

The cake was a rich, moist chocolate morsel shrouded in sweet shadow frosting.  The icing itself, as prepared by grandma, was raised in the peaks of a miniature turquiose mountain range.  I found it to be positively delicious.

Unfortunately, the dog thought so too.

(As a result, there are fewer leftovers than previously anticipated.  Breakfast.)

[CAUTION: ramble ahead]

As I waited for my ride to arrive to take me home from piano lessons, perched upon the cement curb fringed by the lawn of my piano teacher's house, I stared upon the jewelled cityscape peeking between the naked trees.  With my eyes, I traced the path of the barren branches to the spangled sky, and gazed at the expanse above me, sprinkled with the glitterings of thousands upon thousands of distant suns.  There are so many stars, and yet I know the names of only of a handful.  Of the groupings, constellations, I can reference but a few.  As with people.  Only a few individuals throughout history possess such a tenacity in life that their deeds and in fact very existence burst with such oomph that they are not forgotten throughout the years, decades, centuries, millenia that ensue . . . 

That was Alexanander the Great's ambition.  To become immortal.  He pursued such by pushing himself to such deeds that no man had ever done, and of course burning out with a burst of brilliance at a very young age (but of course with the gratest empire ruled by any one man to that date).  Alexander acheived his ambition, but only a precious few will ever be so immortalized.  Who else would make that short list? I wonder which people, politicians, of today

Certainly not I.  Not that I mind, mind you.  Not that I mind being a player behind the scenes of life's stage, I just wonder, whose empire am I helping to build?

Ugh, I'm sooooo sick of bio! . . .

Oh, and I seriously hope that is my physics mark.  I'm quite anxious about that, to tell you the truth.

Well, it's not so much a stalemate as the observation that I have no idea what my next move shall be.  As mediator, confidante, advisor -- what is my role?

Drama, drama, drama!

I'm not sure who I'm attempting to protect with this keeping of the mouth shut business.  Both parties perhaps?  Or do I just not want to perpetuate things?  The thing is, I want to discuss this.  I think.

Maybe I just need to suck it up, write things out, and move on.  But where do I move on to?

I'm on quite the sugar high right about now!

Gotta love this happy caffiene-charged holiday (it shall infuse some excitement into my lunches for the next three months).

Yes, I went trick-or-treating, with Ashton.  Yes, I am fully aware that I am seventeen years old, and in my last year of highschool.  Surprisingly, however, among the throngs of children knee-high-to-a-pig's-eye in her neighbourhood, there was no hassle for us at all!  There was one rather bitter lady, who asked us snarkily how many bags of candy we had already filled, but certainly no "they're getting bigger every year"s or "Aren't you too old for this?"s (not like in Laura's neigbouhood last year, when the clan of us went out as Ghostbusters, toting pieces of vacuumcleaner hose and random technological gadgets, blasting the theme song as we went.). 

I think we did so well (I am certainly stocked up!) because our costumes were so non-threatening . . .  I mean, come on, a princess and a pumpkin.  How much safer can you get?  (I went out in a homemade Belle from Beauty and the Beast costume-- I figured that as it was my last hallowe'en, I'd go all out). 

Oh!  I want to share the highlight of my night, a brief conversation with a five-year-old-knight (he was helping his mother and his angel-sister give out candy).

ME:  Oh, you're a knight.  Whose are you, are you my knight?

HIM: (shyly) No.

ME:  You're not going to protect me?  Well, whose knight are you?

HIM: My sister's.

ME: Awe, well you take good care of her.

Alright, well I guess it doesn't sound quite as adorable as it was in person, this shy little boy sticking up for his sister like that, but I have a soft spot for kids.  I guess it's odd that I'm so maternal at such a young age.

Anyways, was quite the night, even though the "halloween party" ended p being two of us heading out, tirck or treating.  Nonetheless the fruits of my labour will be enjoyed for quite some time.

Happy Hallowe'en, all.

I thought I should share a short story with you . . . er, that is, I'd like to.  I really like this work, for some reason.  The character growth, perhaps, is what attracts me.  And F. Scott Fitgerald's writing is superb, of course.  Anyways, without further ado, here's "Bernice Bobs her Hair" by F Scott Fitzgerald.

http://www.sc.edu/fitzgerald/bernice/bernice.html

Bet your bottom dollar that tomorrow, there'll be sun . . .

My dad hates that song.  With a passion.

But seriously, I'm quite hyped for tomorrow, for my rotary interview . . .  speaking of that, I'd better do some research!  I'll get on that riiiiiiight about . . . now.

As I probably have already informed you in an overly-excited state at some point during the day, I had my initial interview with the local chapter's representatives of the Rotary Club at 6:30 PM tonight.  Though it's results don't COMPLETELY decide that I will definitely going, there has been no incidence of an applicant sent from ol' T-Bay being denied at the district level.

I think that I did well, or at least my parents do.  Apparently I didn't shake visibly, and I didn't fidget.  I couldn't drive there or back, though I've stopped shivering now (it was damp and cold).  Their stack of applications was very short, but they're only taking three applicants from Thunder Bay (and there are certainly more applicants than that!  Alt least six?)!  So I'm worried!  

My parents think that I handled myself very well . . .  the rotarians themselves seemed to be impressed that a) I did my own laundry, b) well my "biggest weakness", c) my resilience in certain situations and d) they want me to teach them to golf [not that I'd be much help].

Oh!  And I tonight I also learned something in career studies--from Nichols.  Surprising, eh?  I even applied it tonight :D.  And hopefully I get brownie points for my poppy :p.

I hope that I'll get in.  Yeah, so I shall know by early next week whether or not I've passed this phase.  I am excited!

I don't get to do it often, though I teach sunday school, and ran a girl guide unit, but my sister and I are the baies of our family, so there's nothing there for us.  Perhaps I love it because as I've previously mentioned my maternal instinct has kicked in prematurely, or maybe I just love playing with the cool toys.  Whatever it is, I do appreciate the company of the little people, though I haven't done it (that is, babysat) since August, and suddenly, poof!  This weekend I do so, for two different families, decided the night after my mom and I talked about it, acutally.  Ironic.  Carolyn was adorable tonight; she's learned to speak since I've seen her last.  I want to keep writing, but for some reason I can't focus right now.  I think I need sleep.  No, I  know I need sleep.  Bah.  Yay for trivial, pointless blogs that noone bothers to read. 

I'm babysitting for the Hunt children tomorrow.  Some strategizing beforehand is definitely a requirement (one babysitter, three children of very different personality types, each demanding in his or her own way).  Babysitting makes me appreciate the little things that can amuse kids for hours.  I love crafts.  And books.  And videos.  Maybe I'll make cookie dough in the morning, so they can make shapes.  That would be fun.  And we can make little booklets.  I'll dig out the ever-popular pony beads, and I've always got origami if I get desparate.  I'll bring some picutre books . . . and the xylophone.

One more thing . . . I finally got that physics mark in, and I guess it was my mark in the ejournal.  (Dear Lisa indeed.  hmmph!)  So yeah, I finished decently.

I suppose that about wraps things up--for now.  Tomorrow will be interesting, without fail!

Don't tell me to be adventurous.  I am traditional in my approach.  I am old-fashioned.  That is part of my charm, or lack thereof.

Don't tell me to change.  I warn of of this not because I will remain entirely impassive and impenetrable to adaptation, steadier than the stones.  (For stone too is susceptible to wear of gentle rains and the carress of breezes.)  I caution you to this because I will do so.  However, any alterations to my personage will not be in the way that you desire.  It will oppose your will.

Don't tell me to listen.  Obviously if I am not listening, I have not heard your statement compelling me to commence such.  Perhaps I am listening, but am not ready or willing to follow your direction.

Be patient with me.  I take my time, for time is sweet and has looked kindly upon me.  Thusfar treated me with utmost respect, unlike the inspiration for this rebuke.

what, I'm not sure, entirely. Danger.  Disaster.  Chaos.  Pain.  Injury.  Oh, and a very miserable but impending defeat for PACI's sports.  Oh, and humour for those who watch.

Seems I'm up for badminton after all.  Help us all.

(but then again, the condition may yet come into effect.)

Hope all went well for you tonight, Mitchell.

I'M IN!!!!!!!!

(or at least till the next level . . .

but historically noone from Thunder Bay has been declined from this point!

SO I'M IN!!!!!!)

What a lovely blustery day--the absolute epitome of an autumn eve.  And speaking of eves, it's an 'eve' of another sort, isn't it, Mitchell?  (And I'm determined not to forget this time!)  With muddled clouds casting over glimpses of a crisp blue sky of a purity and intensity only ever present in the fall, and the winds whipping leaves and locks of hair about, the absoluteness of the scene set me raving despite my shivers.

Some other news as well, before I scuttle off to frantically study for tomorrow's calculus test--I found out T-Bay's only other exchangee is also from PACI, and is a young lady in the bookclub with me (I was rather excited to discover this tidbit of information).  I wonder where she wants to go . . .  Oh, and after all of this recent kaffuffle in France, my mother won't let me go there.  (She's afraid I'll be attacked, etc.  I'll humour her.  Her firstborn baby is running off to a foreign country, so I'll entertain her pre-empty-nest syndrome, to a degree.)  Anywhoo, I've a lot to do, so I'd best get at it! 

Toodle-loo! 

Raindrops on roses,
And whiskers on kittens,
Bright copper kettles,
And warm woollen mittens,
Brown paper packages,
Tied up with strings,
These are a few of my favorite things . . .

Cream colored ponies,
An' crisp apple strudels,
Doorbells an' sleigh bells,
An' schnitzel with noodles,
Wild geese that fly with the moon on their wings,
These are a few of my favorite things . . .

Girls in white dresses,
With blue satin sashes,
Snow flakes that stay on my nose and eyelashes,
Silver white winters,
That melt into springs,
These are a few of my favorite things . . .

When the dog bites,
When the bee stings,
When I'm feeling sad,
I simply remember my favorite things,
And then I don't feel so bad . . .

Roses....hmmm kittens...
Kettles.......mittens....
La dee da, la dee da,
La dee da, da,
These are a few of my favorite things . . .

When the dog barks,
When the bee stings,
When I'm feeling sad,
I simply remember my favorite things,
And little by little my heavy heart sings . . .

And then I don't feel so bad . . .
 

Yes, I am overjoyed to announce that my music box is FINALLY complete.  I just need dusst off the excess flocking, screw in the music box, and to place in the feather and the "nettles" under the panel of plexiglass.  But I can't do any of that until the morning, because the glue needs to dry. It's a five minute job, and I think the whole thing looks pretty darn good!

It hurts me to see others hurting, observing their futile struggles from a distance, and watching as they work themselves deeper into tangled mass of barbed wire and words that has been woven for them.  The cruel snares and stares, the bitter words that poke and prod at the poor people.  I long to protect them, to scoop them up in my arms, to tell them that it will all be okay, and to make it that way.  I desire the power to rearrange the world, to show these individuals that there is beauty in life and in others.  I want to fix everything, but I am not handy, and I never have been.  I cannot.  I merely may offer my friendship, my support, and advice that is nearly impossible to follow (for it is indeed always easier to give advice than to follow it; to know what is the right thing to do and to actually do it in an adverse situation are incomprehensibly different).

This is my blog, so I will not reveal their pains, just my own frustration at being a mere observer and emotional nurse, rather than being able to ride in on my noble steed to save the day for these very deserving, mishandled and mistreated individuals.  A great philosopher (though I cannot remember whom it was) once said that every person feels as if he or she is an observer to life, rather than an active participant.  I need to learn to conquer my passivity in this respect, and to participate.

I recognise that this entry probably appears irrelevant, sappy, and misplaced, but quite frankly this entry does not concern those who dismiss it as such.

But then again, maybe it concerns them most of all.

Tattered and frayed, my gently spun words lie in shreds upon the floor.  I again gather the gossamer-strands.  They are fine and fragile, lacking in substance.  Yet, somehow i did not expect for them to be torn apart so absolutely.  My smithery has failed, but I must try again to forge them into a stronger tool. 

[Yes, the exchange application is ALMOST done.]

Though I am, of course, much worse for the wear.  But I think that it's worth it (I hope that it's worth it).   It's in.  I had to miss art class and three quarters of biology to accomplish such, but that brutish beast of a form is dropped off, placed in the hands of our local Rotary representative, to do with what he will.  Complete with essay questions.  My mother is peeved at me for this entire ordeal, quite frankly I;m exhausted from staying up till at least 12:30 every night this week, including last night when my mom kept me up till one with a lecture when I really was doing my best to edit my essay questions and ARGH! and I am looking forward to crashing.  But that's a few hours off.  I have tp survive three hours or so strapped in skates . . .  with my incredible klutziness we shall see how that turns out (coupled with this lack of sleep, it's looking to be a fatal combination).  Well two good things may come out of today, but these have yet to be decided.  i guess I just have to suck it up and take it, hoping for the best.

On another note, though nonetheless still whiny and complaining, I don't know how many more of these lectures I can take from my mother.  Every little lapse in chores leads to ". . . you have to learn to be more organized, Tara.  to put things back where you found them.  To do things the first time that you're asked.  How would you feel if you let someone into your home and all they did was make a mess? . . "  Well, quite frankly I don't believe that there are all too many people in the world who care if the red pepper is moved over two inches on the fridge shelf, or that the dishes aren't dried and put away the moment they're placed in the drying rack (isn't that why we have the rack in the first place?).  It might help if I had less pressure regarding my schoolwork, and it would also benefit me if she didn't start complaining sbout something else the INSTANT that I fix what she had pestered me about so incessantly.

Oop, look at this, all this babbling and all of it is complaining.  I appologise.  I won't do it again--at least, not for a long time--promise.

Expect the unexecpected.  Today I failed to do so, and in turn met it in the form of a gray-garbed girl whom I had once known well.

I wonder what it would take to get things to be back where they were.  Yet, at the same time I know they can never be.  I think that we would each pity the other too much; I know that I am no longer the child I once was and I grudgingly admit the barriers between us.  They shall not be broken without dramatic reform on either of our parts.  It is not comming from mine, and from hers, I doubt more still.  I juxtapose the dated young lady to the athletic ragamuffin perpetually garbed in jeans and a t-shirt.  The difference saddens me.  In some ways, she has grown up so much, but in others I feel she has reverted.  I wish her well, I think.  Though, I can't help but wonder what she gathered from the encounter.  Surely it was something?  I no longer know her, so I cannot guage.

Today's been a day of awkwardness, on so many levels.

If we ponder for a moment those individuals who we believe are true geniuses throughout history, a handful of names may come instantly to mind.  Albert Einstein, Sir Isaac Newton, Mozart, DaVinci, Galileo, Plato . . .  to get you started.  But what is it that defines one as a genius?  Is it the extremely elevated thought processes, the individuality and originality of these, or the insatiable curiousity of these individuals?  Today I have wondered how many obscenely-smart individuals have existed throughout history were simply too lazy to pursue their gifts to the maximum of their potential.  (Sidenote: Not that anyone, really, fulfils their potential in entirety . . .  I wonder if that is even possible.  Perhaps some of us just come closer to it than others.  I recall distantly a quote of some 'genius' of the literary sort, who said something along the lines of "People are not afraid of failing to reach their full potential, but rather accomplishing all that they can and finding it insufficient."  Clever, isn't it?  And rather deep.)  So are incredibly-intelligent but lazy individuals also geniuses?  Those that do have the brainpower?  Or is self-motivation an essential component to this categorization, as well?

I am curious as to your throughts.  What is your definition of geniushood?

Firstly, I must say kudos to those who actually planned the hampster dance "stop the bop," you've effectively planned the most annoying fundraiser ever while those of you on the fundraising committee are not there to endure it.  Clever.

Though I must admit, I am holding up surprisingly well under the pressure, I'm even starting to--dare I say it?--get caught up in the spirit of the hampster dance.  Yesterday the rhythms felt perverse and invasive, forcing my body to move in congruency with the severely infectious beat.  I craved quarantine, to prevent the infection from spreading throughout my limbs, the beat and catchy melody influencing them as if a puppeteer.

Today the music felt much more natural, much peppier, and infused a definite spring in my step.  The Hampster Dance is growing on me.

I still say that the teachers will crack before the students--the secretaries are already gone. 

Just a note to those of you on students council (it was you guys who organized this, right?), you should try another musical fundraiser--in exchange for a donation of a pre-determined size, or greater, play the donator's song-of-choice over the morning announcements, with a dedication message, or the like.  Just a thought.

Today was not fun.  Note to self: remember crappy ancient cell phone, because I walked home in the torrential rain all alone, and I was soaked.  The only part of me not soaked by the time I reached home was a little six-inch-squared patch beneath each knee; I had to puddle-hop the whole way,  As a result, I was chilled to the bone. 

Yes, I am finished complaining.  For now.

A very long, long day.

Like the Long Long Trailer.  That's an old (colour) movie with Lucille Ball.  I say it once, rather humourous, and good, clean family entertainment.  There's not much of that.  At all.  Anyways, I recommend the movie nonetheless.

Tonight was nice.  You have no idea how beautiful it is to have a homework-free evening!  (Well, maybe you do.)  Definitely a breath of fresh air!  Now hopefully I'll finish that painting tomorrow, add some depth and dimension to it.  I think I'll have to add veins and arteries to the trees in the background too, though.  Not looking forward to that. 

What more can I say?  My day got better.  I need to get on board with physics again.  (Not that I had ever abandoned ship--I'm still on schedule!)  Unit two is almost wrapped up, so we shall see.  I just wish that my teacher's comments were legible.

Have I ever mentioned how much I truly despise playing the "he said she said" game?  Consider my hatred of this game and any of its many variations, including the "he said he said", the "she said he said", and the ever-more-frustrating "she said she said" versions announced, renewed, and thriving.

End rant.

What would one possibly need a sponge for, it's just a dissection!

Where shall I begin today?

Oh yes, the eyeball.  Of course, the eyeball.  (I still reek of fermaldehyde.)  We dissected sheep eyes today in biology, and that was quite the experience.  It occurs to me that it is odd that one would perform surgery upon something dead in order to learn about life . . .  sorry, just a sidenote.  Some of the components of the eye were surprisingly very beautiful, particularly the retina.  The wonders of nature never cease to amaze me.  I wish we had more time to manipulate it, it took a while to get past the squishy feel and to actually punture the thing in order to bissect it, but it was thoroughly worth the effort.  I just wish I could've expored it more thoroughly.

Mr Foulds is right, though.  There is something ironic about looking at an eyeball with one's own eyes.

There are a couple other things I wouldn't mind raving about, such as the success of the grad potluck, or the short story about penpals I read today, or the dissolution of certain personal inhibitions, but I am really not in the mood to do so.  These rants shall have to wait until another day, if they shall be released at all.  We shall see.  I am certain you've better things to read about, anyways.

I find myself again, craning my neck and straining my eyes to perceive what is comming, what is in store for me as I round the next bend in the path of my life.

Cheesy analogy, I know, but bear with me.

It's funny, how childhood dreams, ambitions, and promises that I have made to myself have seemed to come true, if not in the way that I have expected.  The whole LU presentation yesterday really got me thinking about the future (again), and being the person that I am, I can't consider the future without first reflecting upon my previous perceptions of it.  You see, through my lifetime, I had about three major phases of career goals (not counting the week of ballerina-dreams, or the fortnight marine-biology ambition).  When I was really small, well I guess until about grade five, I had in mind for myself a simple career, albeit repetitive and low paying.  but then, in those days i didn't consider how tedious tasks that I found fun would become, or how little choice there was, and how very little pay there would be for me.  From that, I blossomed to another dream, that I would become an ambassador for Canada.  (Of course I overlooked my tendency towards homebody-hood,, and need for famlial ties, as well as the necessity for patience and pleasantry, as well as the diguisal of all emotion.  Not to mention the excessive amounts of political butt to be kissed.  Tenderly and repeatedly.)  Well, I guess that childhood dream will be realized next year, to a point, with the student exchange, though that's not quite the manner I expected it fulfilled at the time.  As for my goal since about grade nine, well psychiatry is the path for me, but we have yet to see how that shall work out (let's roll the dice to get into med school.  2 200 applicatns for 25 spots.  Yeah, shall be interesting, I'm clever but not that clever).

Anyways, several other childhood resolutions have also been adhered to, some in ways ironically unwanted at the time, but I won't bother to bother you with that.  The future scares me.  I thought I'd leave you with that thought, because it's honest.  I know that it can be taken in many contexts, but the unknown has always unnerved me.  This doesn't strike me as odd--"going with the flow" would seem to me the much more . . .  bizarre, abnormal and dangerous approach.  But then, it is only in facing one's fears that one it truly brave (who said that, or something similar?  Why do I pick up all of these quotes, but never the speakers?)  Anyways, I'll attempt to prepare myself for this future to the best of my ability, and face it.  Im afraid of it, I won't be taken to our encounter kicking and screaming.

There is nothing like a cranky three-year-old in utter seriousness declaring at bedtime that "I don't love you anymore."

I tried my hardest not to laugh.  Frankly, I'm flattered that I was loved in the first place.  The admiration of a child, one of the most beautifully simple marvels of life.  For the admiration of three such creatures, I was certainly blessed tonight.

This isn't fair.  It can't be.  I'm not READY to be sick.  I don't have time.  There's no way . . .  not for semi . . .  NOOOOOOOOOOOOOoooooooooooo . . .

Tomorrow will show for certain, whether this is a fluke, or actually an illness.  Definitely.  Not.  Cool.

Wow.  How mature.  I, for one, thought we had all grown up, and moved beyond this level of behaviour by about grade three.

Personally, I don't mind this silent treatment business tremendously.  My one regret is that the policy of sealed lips does not extend to conversations  held behind my back.

I know that it's often said that every teenaged girl 'turns' on her mother.  I suppose I am no exception in many respects.  Yet, I wonder to what degree the mother 'turns' on her own daughter?  Presumably there is some, as it is impossible for a person to remain exactly the same as the woman who brought a newborn babe home seventeen years ago.  Sure, the daughter has metamorphosized more rapidly, but so too has the mother.

I remember being told that this would happen as a child, that I too would 'hate' my mother.  I promised ferverently that I wouldn't, and yet I was compelled to break that vow.  The sworn word of a child is a precious thing, honest but foolish.  Yet I find myself wondering if I would be angered by the woman she was then?  I find myself wondering whether or not my frustration is just, and rightly-placed?  Or is it just the work of more of those kooky teenaged horemones?

In either case, I need to fly the coop.  Soon.  Mama Hen's act is growing rather tiresome.

I've lost it and I can't seem to find it.  Where did it go?

Such a relief to once again express myself though, over the computer.  All I can do is write and type--use of my vocal chords was restored for part of the afternoon, but they're once again out of comission.  Completely.

Anyways, even with the illness, semi was wonderful.  I'd write more but there's a mental haze clouding my thought processes (for that matter my ears are plugged--I didn't really realize this in entirely until I attempted to practice for my piano recital, which is sunday.  The whole piece sounded like it was underwater.  The illness is throwing off the rhythms, though, according to my piano teacher--I had a lesson today--so we shall see how that goes over.)

Anyways, even though I went home during my spare and crashed till 5:30, I'm still exhausted, so I'm heding off to bed.  In all liklihood, I'll sleep until morning, when they're Christmas Pageant Practice at 9 AM.  Oh.  Dear.  God.  You do the math: Screaming children + No voice for me = not good.  Yeah.  Hopefully my dreams will be sweeter than those of my nap.

And by the way, Happy you-know-what, Mitchell.

I look like a trainwreck . . .  I feel like a trainwreck . . .  therefore, I must be a trainwreck.

Maybe I just need some more sleep.  But then, I've slept at least fifteen hours of the last twenty four, and drank enough apple juice to float a modestly-sized oceanliner.  That's not even mentioning the half-box of kleenex I've gone through, and the fact that my tonsils are swollen to the size of very large peas.  I know that I've said it before, but I miss my voice. 

I hate being sick.

When I think about it, really think about it, that's a long time.  A very long time.

And I've enjoyed every minute of it.

I find myself in this place, a position which I had never expected to come to.  Assumed knowledgeable, I'm consulted on things I know nothing about.  Yet, apparently it's useful.

I wonder how many of these little battles are fought without the concerned party ever even knowing . . .  

With a passion.  If you make one little mistake, there's no way of fixing it without changing it all.  Can't recover white.  Have to do all of that fancy wash business.  But you know who was an eerily good artist?  Hitler.  Yes, I wrote that correctly.  Adolph Hitler was an amazing artist.  I'm in a contemplative mood today kiddies, so it's storytime.  Once upon a time long ago and far away was a young, impressionable but manipulative boy who wanted to become an artist.  But alas, this boy's father was a civil servant, and didn't like this idea.  So the boy grew up a little and he left home.  He tried to make a living on his own, but noone would buy his pretty paintings.  The boy, now a young man, painted and painted, mostly of architecture, and also read a lot of Anti-Semitic literature.  Then he went off to fight in World War I.  Here, the boy was gassed, and though he survived, his eyesight was ruined and so, therefore he could never become an artist.  So the young man came home from the war, joined and manipulated a political party, became puppetmaster to half a continent, and instigated the slaughter of eight million people. 

What would have happened had people bought his art?  His peddled postcards?  Kept him busy with ordered, and away from that litereature?  A few pennies from a tourist is a small price to pay for the millions of lives lost.  And the lives were lost for what?  To steal their money and businesses, to finance a war to end depression?  To fuel an unjust hatred?  To satisfy one little boy's sense of injustice within his own life?

I shouldn't think of these things, though just to prove a point, here's a sample of his work:

http://members.tripod.com/~Propagander2/hitart08.JPG

http://www.fpp.co.uk/Hitler/artist/Cullis/AH_1913_11x16cm.jpg

http://www.artseoul.net/artnews/news01/images/hitler1.jpg

http://www.artseoul.net/artnews/news01/images/hitler2.jpg

and possibly the most scary (for me): http://www.wintersonnenwende.com/scriptorium/deutsch/archiv/artikel/NSChristentumMaria.jpg (that would be the virgin Mary)

 On another (considerably less inflammatory) note, I much prefer acrylics.  I'm still not sure what I'm doing with that art.  Honestly, I've no idea.  And that worries me.  Any ideas for a landscape or architecture watercolour painting anyone?

Are those sleighbells I hear?

Christmas is comming, Christmas is comming!

Some things never change, and the electrically-charged aura that surrounds the holiday season and infuses me with this childlike enthusiasm is definitely one of those things.

I'm sick of television these days.  I find more and more often that one person's lifetime of suffering is condensed into fifteen minutes of engagement for us, where we coddle and coo their endured injustices, or revamp their lives and personae completely for our mere entertainment.  This frustrates me.  I find that that it's not only the violence and sex portrayed on television that have desensitizing effects, but also the emotional shows, the talk shows, the Oprahs, and Dr Phils, and Maurys.  In these, they bring out the guests, the messed up, or emotionally wrecked, the spiritually scarred, to dissect the fabric of their lives.  And once we swiftly inspect all that has made their real lives a real Hell, we sweep the off to the side, and analyse another.  We compare the incomparable.  We catch ourselves thinking, "Well, that's not so bad, the one last week was worse," but really, the majority of these experiences are such that noone should ever endure.  And makeover shows--an aspect of one's life is shredded publically, and their history and memories in this department becomes a subject of shame.  Five, ten, fifteen years of shame.  It's not fair to toy with a human being like that, to derive amusement in such a manner.

I'm sorry, I'm rambling,  I suppose this was sparked by a poll Jessica read me from a magazine today.  The subject regarded the belief that beauty had to be cultivated, and could in cases only be otained through plastic surgery.  This poll reported that 87% of some population of teens believed this to be false.  This, for some reason, seemd to other listeners to be completely natural, but I wonder, what about the other 12 percent?  Apparently there people somewhere who actually believe that it is only with the aid of silicon and a scalpel that they can be attractive.  Quite frankly, that both scares and saddens me. 

Evidently, I'm rambing further.  I'll stop now, Mitchell reminds me that this can be dangerous.

An introduction to today's biology concept of choice, a warning:

Mind your 'p's and 'q's.

'Hardy' har har.

And it nearly is all over.  And by 'it', I mean school before Christmas break.

Today was . . .  progressive on many levels.  Yet regressive on others for reasons I don't fully understand.  On another note, I'd forgotten how beautiful Christmas hymns are.  O come O come Emmanuel . . .  That should be in my head for the next few days.

Yes indeedy, I certainly have been infused with the Christmas spirit again this evening!   First making chocolate "haystacks" with my grandmother after school.  It's always a pleasure to spend some time with the awesome grandmother, because she really is a "Supergrandma."  This is something I've known since I was a little kid; most kids' grandparents didn't swim halfmiles, take them downhill skiing, or ferry them about to music lessons.  Most grandmas sat back in their rocking chairs and knit, something mine claims that she has neither the time or patience to do.  Anyways, it was just her and I and a kitchen filled with goodies, so when supper came around I wasn't all too hungry.

After dinner, she and the family (minus the grandfather) attended the Nutcracker ballet.  I've never had the grace, flexibility, or aspiration to be a dancer (excepting certain performances restricted to the family unit taking place under age five in frilly lace crinolines--but that was a joint sisterly effort).  Those ballerinas and ballerinos (what do you call a male ballet dancer, anyways?) were insanely flexible.  Plus I saw a certain sugar plum fairy, which was a nice wrapup to my somewhat malformed watercolour attempt.  We and met up with some family friends during intermission and went to Tim Hortons afterwards. (Not too happy to be out and about in the formalwear, but at least I didn' have heels!  Now in the ice and snow, that would certainly have been disastrous.)  What more can I say?  I think I'm ready for Christmas now, excepting the baking of shortbreads tomorrow, and the wrapping and completion of a few presents . . .  and the arrival of a couple more.  (I love e-Bay.)  Ooh, and wrapping, which reminds me, construction.  Oh dear, it seems I have a fair bit left to do afterall.  No matter; I'm in the spirit and thus all shall be well!

Mmmmmm, more Christmas baking.  This time, the shortbreads (and they are delicious, if I do say so myself).  However, the cookie press was acting up, and a few ended up broken, so they had to be "disposed of" , if you catch my drift.

On another note,  it appears due to a certain 2 000 word essay, in addition to an AP essay, and a take home biology test, there will be no "break" to my Christmas break.  That's not even mentioning the three other art pieces I've got to do, the Calculus culminating activity, the physics pressure to work on THAT from mom, and considering that I'm leaving on the 31st . .  .

May the holidays be happy, although they're already hectic.

Words of advice for the day:

 Take it all with a grain of salt.

I suppose this advice is useless, as it is directed at one who does not even read these ramblings.  And yet, this is a valuable life lesson for us all to learn.

Happy holidays.

MMMmmm, the delectable aroma of turkey wafting from upstairs has stimulated an appetite in me that I had thought lost forever after my gorging on creamcheese and cherry sandwiches at lunch.  This is indeed the calm before the storm; the flurry of Christmas spirit that will descend upon the household.  Our little brick house will be bursting at the seams with a mixture of relatives from boths sides of the family tree, and a few others as well.  However, it seems that my mother is tuckered, which means that I have not yet been drafted for kitchen patrol!  I am safe.

I hope Santa has been kind to all of you, he certainly has been cordial with me!  Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good night!

I wonder if people are like socks, all waiting patiently in a massive laundry basket we call Earth for some cosmic Sock Sorter to pair us with our perfectly-matched mates.  For each sock there is only one match, and thus the divine Laundry Folder presiding over us all provides a completion to the coupling to the best of his or her ability.  Somtimes, one of the pair gets lost in the wash, and it may take the Laundry Folder some time to locate it, and pair it with its mate.  Sometimes the sock is lost forever..  Increasingly often, the socks are mismatched, and thus the set is never completed.

Of course, I recognise that this idea is ridiculous.  However, it's a considerably less romantic but more modern interpretation of Plato's theory, that a whole sphere splits in half, and each half becomes the soul of a human being.  We supposedly spend our whole lives searching for the other half of this whole, in another person.

And this is what runs through my mind as I frantically search for socks to pack away.  I'm off tomorrow!   I'll probably post later today, in fact.  But we shall see.

Or snow flurries, as is my case.

I just got home.  Into the airport at 12:00, exactly.  I defintitely came home several shades darker (and about ten pounds heavier :D), but true to my olive complexion am not burnt.  My dad was right, when he said that cruises are a fantasy world . . .  but I'll elabourate when I'm no so exhausted.  I'll just say this:

'Mid pleasures and palaces

Though we may roam

Be it ever so humble

There's no place like home.

That is so true.  But unfortunately there's a prison called highschool and its most horrendous torture of calculus and they beackon me tomorrow morning.  Blah.  Considering that I was up at quarter to seven this morning--sweet dreams all.

Note to self: sunflowers.

Will extend to actual thought later when actual thought is possible.

This university business unnerved me beyond belief.  I'm so glad next year my REAL decisions happen.  Bah.

I wish I had time to blog.  I really do.  But I don't even have time to do everything I'm supposed to.  Calculus, Bio, Art . . . my head is spinning with tests and projects and exams and homework . . . so much to do, so little time.  at this rate, I'll develop an ulcer, or heart disease, or have a panic attack, or develop some other stress-related disorder in the next two weeks.

So much for Physics.

My verdict, the point of my rant per se?  Well, that is really reather straightforward: January should go die.

(do you dectect a whif of sarcasm?)

An irrational rash and an irrational me.  Why is it so easy to recognise, and so hard to remedy?  I am aware when I am behaving unreasonably, but this registration is distant, and somehow I cease to care?

Maybe I'm allergic to stress.  Maybe that's it.  Or, maybe I'm allergic to calculus.  I'll get some sleep, and see if that doesn't help my temperament somewhat.

I know what you're thinking--where the heck is Brainerd?

To answer your question before you ask it, it's about three hours west of Duluth, Minnesota.  In a snowbelt, no less.

Ooh!  I know what you're thinking again!  You're thinking, so why the heck do you want to go there? 

Well the answer is simple really-- it's my final Rotary exchange interview!  It's the interview where they decide if I'm "suitable"--that I'm "emotionally stable and mature" enough to go, and I know enough about "Canadian and world politics, and the Rotarian organization" to not be politically inflammatory, if my "educational and career goals" afterwards qualify me, and that I have "parental support."  So I get to give my two cents about where I'm going-- in three weeks it could be determined that I'm off to Italy (choice one) or France (choice two) or Belgium (choice three) or Portugal (choice four) or Greece (choice five)!!! 

 Im about 99% assured of getting through at this point; noone from this level in ol' T-Bay has been turned down in the 60 years the program has been opperational!  I am excited.  And I like bolding things.  But in the meantime I have to get through a calculus test, an AP essay, and part of a calculus review.  Yuck!  Plus prep for my 90 minutes of interview.

Anyways, I shall resume the position of nose to the grindstone, and be on my merry little way.

. . .  or "bitter" as the case seems to be.

I return from a weekend of compressed bonding with amazing people from a diverse assortment of coutries--with ambassadors and ambassadors-to-be.  Hopefully.  I did so many things this weekend that I've never dreamed before of doing.  Like shooting a gun.  At moving targets.  I am proof that Americans really will give anyone a firearm.

This weekend was a prelude.  It was so unlike anything I've attempted before--the watching of the Canadian tongue, the inability to comment on international policy, as well as having the ability to trust people immediately--approachability without reprocussions is an interesting concept for me, and a novel one.

So how did the interviews go?  As expected, the political one was horrendous.  It was rapidfire question and answer, so twas not so hot.  BUT I did name 5 of the 7 countries of Central America!  I found that rather impressive. 

I will know in a week to two weeks where I shall be headed (God willing.  Provided no natural disasters or wars occur, and no major flaws are found in my character).  My list ended up being like so: 1) Italy, 2) France, 3) Belgium (neither Portugal nor Greece were avaliable).  There is competition for certain countries, so again we shall how the chips fall!  I think I'll be happy wherever they send me as long as it's not to Russia, Thailand, Turkey, Central/South America, Mexico, or Japan (which leaves about 8 European countries for them to place me in--Denmark, the Netherlands, Slovakia, Spain, Norway, and Sweden come to mind, but there might have been others.)

So 25 inbounds and 8 outbounds.  (The outbounds are those heading out next year, optimistically.  The inbounds are "in" from other countries).  And one other girl wants to go to Italy.  Grrr.  But we shall see how the chips fall.  Two weeks seems impossibly long to wait.  And yet I know I'll be busy back here in the "real world" woth exams.  Speaking or "real" school, I'd better get some "real" sleep so that i can get some "real" concentration.  I appologise for my ramble.

You know, I thought that this anxiousness would get better.  This awareness of waiting, of being trapped in a helpless limbo, I thought would be smothered by the stresses of upcoming exams.  I assumed they immediacy ould distract me somewhat.  This apparently is not the case.

I really do hope to know sooner rather than later-- at the very least in the timeframe that was set.  Six to thirteen days--the vague coundown begins . . .  YESTERDAY!

I feel like a bad kid waiting for Christmas--I can't sleep, I just keep womdering if I'm going to get coal, of underwear, or the best present ever!

Arg, this waiting is not getting any easier!

. . . live and let live.  I know I should avoid letting it get to me.  After all, that is the intent; for it to get to me.  Therefore I should let it all roll off of my back.  Yet that is hard to do, because it is not droplets of water mettled of the morning's dew of which I speak.  Instead, intended daggers are poised to slash at the stuff of my very soul.  It is hard to let these metal shards slide from my flesh, as they seem to desire to stick in place.

Honesty, honesty, above all HONESTY.  I crave, I desire, I need for sustenance!  I don't understand why others would squander the value of this virtue for petty pleasures and personal 'glories'.  In fact, this negligence of truth rather disappoints me.  I wish to think that at such an age, one would know better than to sugar-coat daggers to wield with hypocritical hands.

I am convinced that good timing, like Sasquatch, is just another myth.  A hoax designed to fool the entire human populace, to inspire something arcane known as "optimi . . ." What?  I haven't seen the meaning in so long that I've forgotten the word.  Such an obscure term, too . . .  oh yes, that's what it was, "optimism."   Such a funny word.

I suppose, in all honesty, it could've been worse.  For the aversion of that tragic coincidence, I am grateful.  Yet this gratitude is eclipsed by the bitterness of current less-than-lovely timing circumstances.

Calculus should go die.

Within 8 days.  Sometime within the next 8 days, I will know where and if I'm going. 

I've already checked my e-mail 5 times today.

Darn it, I want to know!  And I hope it's sooner rather than later!

I. Am. So. Sick. Of. Waiting.

I have nothing intelligent or witty to say.  My brain is mush due to today's biology exam, and the very little sleep I got beforehand.  I am still anxious to know WHERE I'M GOING!

I suppose if I think about it, I got nothing accomplished today that I had hoped to.  Does anyone know how an appropriate ISU book can be selected?  I think I've found one that I could babble about for 10 pages . . .  I haven't read it yet but it was written about in the prologue of my copy of The Time Machine by H G Wells.  So I didn't get that approved nor did I find out my calculus mark, nor did I get my AP essay back.  I'll do even less tomorrow.  Sweet sleep . . .

It could be here this second.

It could be here this minute.

It could be here this hour.

It could be here this day.

It will be here before Monday.

The tension is killing me.  One e-mail will determine the course of a year of my life--nay, my entire life, and the way that I shall live it.  Italy, France, Belgium . . . Lakehead; a year spent in one or none of these aforestated options.  Such a small thing makes a world of difference to my meager worldy experiences . . . 

Does one not feel compelled to be honest with another human being?  What would provoke one into such a dance of deceitfulness, instead of blunt confrontation of the issue?

It seems like common sense to me to tell someone when they do something that upsets me.  But maybe I'm just old-fashioned in my approaches.  Outdated.  Perhaps I'm an old soul.  I just can't seem to keep up with the whippersnappers, even be they so close to my own physical age.  Emotionally, I suppose, we're years apart.  I wonder--with certain individuals in particular--if we'll ever be upon the same level.

It is comforting to have found a handful of kindred spirits.  For them I am grateful.

For the rest, I feel not anger, but rather, pity.

When I write those three words, I feel as if I am stranded on a deserted island, awaiting rescue;  The coconut supply ran out today.  Still no word from the mainland . . . 

Or an embowered medieval princess writing a diary in her castle room; Lord Gregor plays patron to a new minstral this night, to lift his spirits.  Of his son fighting in the Crusades, there is still no word . . . 

A tacitician plotting strategy for a war; Advance the right company to five miles southwest of the Rhine, hold them there until we recieve news from the front; there is still no word . . .   

Still no word, still no word, still no word . . . How long must this stalemate continue?

"It was the straw that broke the camel's back."

Consider my vertebrae ground into a fine pulp.

Which is, notably, not to say that I do not have a spine, as will be certainly be demonstrated within the next while.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going!!!!!!

 . . .

But the question is still 'where?' . . . .

(from my sister dearest while we attempted to conduct a sunday school game--the key word being 'attempted')

"Happy dagger this is thy sheath . . .  I mean, I love kids."

(NOTE: if you don't recognise the initial line, it's what Juliet says as she commits suicide in Romeo and Juliet) 

I got the phonecall, and recieved no definite news.  Only that I won't be going to Italy, which was what I had my heart set on . . .  hopefully I can salvage a year of french out of this, but where they intend on shipping me off is not so practical.  I'll have to phone and talk to the outbound coordinator tomorrow--err, today.

Now if only I could get some sleep . . .

So hopefully I'll find out.  Tonight.

Yes, more waiting.  Ugh.

http://www.dogpile.com/info.dogpl/clickit/search?r_aid=8763446BF983490EA6892B8B813ACA00&r_eop=3&r_sacop=4&r_spf=0&r_cop=main-title&r_snpp=4&r_spp=0&qqn=g7_5dRjy&r_coid=372669&rawto=http://fernsehkritik.tv/Resources/Jeopardy_think.mp3 

The judges are in deliberation--I'll know for certain within the hour.  Fingers crossed for France!

So it's official, I am going to Japan next year!

For a whole year.  Or at least eleven months.

That is, Yes, it's going to be a massive challenge--learning about the language, customs, and living in such an urban setting!  I'm so used to my spacious Northwestern Ontario, which has WAY more trees than people . . .  Ahh, t'will take some adjustment. 

I'd ramble more, but I'm rambled-out.  I appologise for the recent abbreviated blogs--I suppose you've gathered that I babble less when I'm tense.  I'll leave that up to you to decide whether or not that's a good or abd thing.

Some people are so full of bullshit that I can't help but wonder how they can breathe.

Enough is enough.

 . . . and I had once thought by language ladylike, and well-mannered.  I suppose "to everything there is a season," and that season has passed.  Hopefully it may return soon.

Well, so my pre-Japanese adventures begin.

I honestly have no idea how I'm supposed to prepare myself for a hyperpolite society, of which I know no nothing of the language, culture, customs, or even alphabet.  What am I getting myself into?  Seriously, what am I getting myself into?  Furthermore, how long will it take until people get sick of me talking about this.  I'm presuming not very long, so I'll rant while I can.:p

I've figured out the one location in the city where I can take Japanese lessons.  Unfortunately, it's on my onw sleep-in day.  I can tell this semester is going to be fuuuuuun!  (Do you detect a whiff of sarcasm?  No?)

Let me tell you why this semester will be so engaging.  I have Writer's craft, Data Management, Chemistry, and English, for starters.  Oh, and AP English for good measure.  Plus I have to finish that correspondence physics before I go, AND learn Japanese.  The Jr Leader program to finish up, piano still on the side . . .

Bah, I'm complaining.  Noone wants to hear that.  I could keep going, but it's not worth it.  I'd best get back to work, nose to grindstone, etc etc.  Ah well, the english essay is done, at least!

When I was younger, I believed that when I grew up a bit more and found someone to share it with, that I would enjoy Valentine's Day.  Having grown a bit, I've found that I still find the holiday overcommercialized and pointless.  I choose not to celebrate it.

For a few hours, all of this tension was evaporated and seemed resolved, or at least within reach of being resolved.  It mas as of yet be resolvable.  I thought ut was over, but it was a cruel taste of resolution.

It is lovely, however, to know that someone is standing up, before and behind the scenes.

Recently I have become aware of certain processes that were previously foreign to me, with some minor reflections about this Japanese voyage.  For example, have you ever been aware that your thoughts occur in a certain language?  I mean, at the back of one's mind this is obvious, but it's never the sort of thing that one dwells upon.  Well lately in the half-hour or so before I drift off to sleep I've found myself attempting to compose little things to say, introductions and the like.  I don't know why, but I do.  (I know, I'm an odd duck.)  Well, as I know a whole two japanese words and a song, these little phrases find themselves translated into French!  Yes, French.  That being the only other language that I'm vaguely familiar with.  Fat lot of good that it will do me.

Anyways, that wraps up my bizarre and rather pointless ramble.

When did music become a haven for me; my safe place, my hideaway-of-hideaways?  I believe that somehow in the past few years my affinity for the ivory keys has grown into something vaguely resembling a friendship of sorts.

And somehow this blossoming companionship consoles me as thirteen years of "friendship" crashes and burns before me in a silent, flaming pile of crap.

I suppose I post lyrics fairly often, or at least from time to time, but lately I've found this particular song very much mirroring aspects of my life (or at least the bolded bits are).  Ugh, goes to show you how this whole business is making me rather unstable.  I'll probably regret posting this later.  Bah.  My judgement has officially flown out the window (or perhaps it's been a casualty in today's skirmishes).

If You're Gone, by Matchbox 20

I think I've already lost you
I think you're already gone
I think I'm finally scared now
You think I'm weak - but I think you're wrong
I think you're already leaving
Feels like your hand is on the door
I thought this place was an empire
But now I'm relaxed - I can't be sure

I think you're so mean - I think we should try
I think I could need - this in my life
I think I'm just scared - I think too much
I know this is wrong it's a problem I'm dealing

If you're gone - maybe it's time to go home
There's an awful lot of breathing room
But I can hardly move
If you're gone - baby you need to come home
Cuz there's a little bit of something me
In everything in you

I bet you're hard to get over
I bet the room just won't shine
I bet my hands I can stay here
I bet you need - more than you mind

I think you're so mean - I think we should try
I think I could need - this in my life
I think I'm just scared - that I know too much
I can't relate and that's a problem I'm feeling

If you're gone - maybe it's time to go home
There's an awful lot of breathing room
But I can hardly move
If you're gone - baby you need to come home
Cuz there's a little bit of something me
In everything in you

I think you're so mean - I think we should try
I think I could need - this in my life
I think I'm just scared - do I talk too much
I know this is wrong it's a problem I'm dealing

If you're gone - maybe it's time to go home
There's an awful lot of breathing room
But I can hardly move
If you're gone - baby you need to come home
Cuz there's a little bit of something me
In everything in you

Yes, my analogy is lame.  But it serves its purpose well.

So ends the temoporary cease fire, the semblance of civility.

Well, I didn't honestly expect it to last, did I?

Ah well, I am consoled.  Some things certainly have the ability to cheer me up no matter what.  The kindness of just-met strangers amazes me.  I am brightened.

I suppose I haven't posted too many positive things lately . . .  I've generally been rambling disjointedly about friend (and I use the term very loosely) drama.  So I've filled this blog with cynical, angsty, and abbreviated business lately, and just as I've had enough of certain people, I've had enough of that.  Suzie reminded me a couple days ago of something that I had forgotten--that I am hopelessly an optimist.  In my opinion, that is far better than a truly hopeless pessimst.  There is a silver lining to every storm cloud, and though I've been aware of that elusive gossamer of dreams many times the thr course of the past few weeks, I've chosen to ignore it and have failed to reflect upon it. 

So here is a shred of silver lining that I have to share . . .  a beautiful, bouncy, song that just fills me with joy.  Ah, piano, what a great relief you can be.  Here 'tis:

Shall we Dance Lyrics

(from The King and I)

Shall we dance?
On a bright cloud of music shall we fly?
Shall we dance?
Shall we then say "Goodnight and mean "Goodbye"?
Or perchance,
When the last little star has left the sky,
Shall we still be together
With are arms around each other
And shall you be my new romance?
On the clear understanding
That this kind of thing can happen,
Shall we dance?
Shall we dance?
Shall we Dance?

Anywyas, I think my rambling there was sufficient . . .  I shall again ramble at a later date . . .

Yes, they cascade from her eyes, prettily, each glittering like a precious diamond.  While tears are tears, the eyes the faucet of a broken heart, they are still the tears of a crocodile.  And she would still love to eat me for dinner. 

My sympathy only extends so far.

(On another note, I do wonder where that expression came from . . .)