Boxing Day Party

I really enjoy having secret movies. Memories to recall and favorite foods. I enjoy unanimous hatred of luaus, but only because our luaus have been so good in the past.

Even though they make me think, I like questions like, "Why are you studying that?" because when I'm honest I have no idea. Who would have thought when I was who I was?

More than anything, I like exclamations of, "HOW THE HELL DID I DO THAT?"

Home can be so good.

My sort of grown up Christmas List,

This morning, Ross and I wrote his letter to Santa. It went something like this:

Dear Santa,
I have been a very good boy this year. I learned how to pee on the big boy potty and I always help grandma clean up my blocks.
I would really like a dump truck. I would also like candy, a horn, and a bell, but the important one is the dump truck.
Merry Christmas!

I believed in Santa for a very long time. Longer than most kids, because my parents needed me to believe in Santa. They didn't want me to ruin Santa for my two younger sisters. I may have been as old as 12 when I finally stopped believing.

I had a burst of nostalgia while sitting under the Christmas tree tonight. What if I decided to believe again, just for the night. Just to preserve the magic of Christmas. What if I snuck upstairs (only after everyone was asleep) and left a letter for Santa where no one would find it.

This is what it may look like:

Dear Santa,
I've been as good a girl as any other year (which I think is pretty good). I know you only bring presents to children who believe, but I've mustered up the strength to believe again this year.
There aren't many things I want but there are a few. Could you leave me a cure to this restless feeling I have? Is there an antidote you can make up in the north pole?
Could you leave me a glimpse of the future, so I might know what career I'm headed toward?
Could you leave me love?
Could you leave me a fun filled New Years Eve?
Merry Christmas Santa,
Lindsay

I have this thing eating away in my head,

It happens every time.

My mouth opens and I let all the wrong things out.

I want to ask those around me to just stand it and let me pretend. I won't do or say anything more than a person in the corner would. I'll place a lamp shade on my head. I can pretend.

Suspended reality,

I spent eight hours in a soaring box. They gave me single serving dinner and a glass of wine. The plane was mostly empty and I had four seats to myself. I stretched out, leaned my face into the upholstery and let my ears pop. This is where time stood still.

This suspended moment is full of fairy lights and wrapping paper.

It snowed in Staten Island before Christmas for the first time that I can remember. It will snow again on Sunday, and we will have snow on the ground for Christmas. My brother put on his boots and covered my window with snow balls.

As long as I think about this, Christmas, I don't need to think about London and the ever present fact that I am not there anymore. Because no matter where home is, home is more beautiful in the days preceding Christmas.

The Process

On Thanksgiving, I think I am a joy to be around most of the day. I help in the kitchen, I watch my brother, and I even set the table.

Then we eat, and my mood changes. I'm so full it hurts and I mostly hate that feelings. So, its become something of a tradition for me to go upstairs and lay in Gagi's bed while I wait for the digestive process to do what it will.

I have eaten a very large meal for this semester. At times, I lost track of how full it was, but I see it now, I feel it now. All I'm asking for is time to digest. Time to step back.

I need the mental equivalent of Gagi's bed and a closed door.

Thoughts in the first person,

I don't frequently study. Part of me believes it is unfair to expect students to prepare for an exam which will test their knowledge of a subject they will forget soon after. I would love to see students tested for what they have acquired, through doing their homework and listening in lectures. I know there is no way to do this, and I know that tests will continue exist.

Really, all I am trying to say is I don't frequently study. I prefer to go into exams with whatever knowledge I have. Its all very nerve-racking and exciting, and its worked out for me okay over the years. I could have done better, but I did just fine.

I don't frequently study.

For the past five hours I've been studying for my History of Islam exam which shall commence in 9 hours. Five hours isn't unheard of, I know, but remember that I don't frequently study.

This studying has lead to acquiring more knowledge on this subject than I had ever prepared for. Its like living in a loft apartment and suddenly coming into the possession of a sectional couch. Just where the hell are you supposed to put the thing, know what I'm saying?

This knowledge has lead to thoughts, and those thoughts lead to emotions. I have a sudden birds-eye view of an issue. Okay, maybe not a birds-eye view, but I'm sort of standing on a fence. I can see for farther than I expected. Look at this big beautiful topic that's around us!

Then suddenly it occurs to me, no one knows about most of this. Listen, I am not saying that I think we should all go out and read the books and solve the worlds problems. I am not so ignorant as to believe that is possible. What I am saying is something unexpected.

I just had a sudden vision of going home and talking to my parents about some of it. I wanted to show them, LOOK you're confused! I could compose a power point! I could hand out index cards!

But then I remembered why it is I get depressed on my breaks - because my parents don't care. Then I thought, when was the last time I saw my parents riled up about an issue. The sad answer is that it has been awhile. As far as I can see, they don't think about things the way I do. They aren't excited about shocking facts which are literally just scattered around waiting to be picked up and collected. They'll just shrug, and then give me the face I hate. The face which is them telling me, you're too young to understand. Don't you know, they say, we've been through school and we've seen it all.

So this is my new fear. Am I being ignorant and too young? Is it just my parents or is this an epidemic in all of the adult human race? Is it inevitable? Am I just being young?

No answers.

Morning,

I want to be here, I don't want to be sick. I want to experience, I don't want to stay in bed. I want to look at the grey sky, not at the back of my eyelids.

But its so cold outside, and not matter how many scarves I don a breeze still finds my collar bone.

This all goes a very long way to persuading me to stay under my covers and read a book instead of walking around and being reminded of where I will be in two weeks.

Images,

I have a name.
When I snack, its on chips and salsa.
I grew up on a forgotten island.
My favorite color is this peculiar shade of purple.
I've got a crush on Shia Lebeouf.
I drink diet soda.
I want to retire in the English countryside.
I enjoy foreign deserts.
My future career is adventurer.
My brother is my favorite person.
I have a colorful personality.


I always say the wrong thing, if it means I will get a laugh.

"DESTRUCTIVE TESTING"

"I saw that sign," said Dwayne, "and I couldn't help thinking that was what God put me on earth for - to see how much a man could take without breaking."





I need a good read right about now. Something to tear me down and then build me back up again. But in some new and exciting way.

Let me DO IT,

From a journal somewhere,

There’s one part in Anthem by Ayn Rand that says this-

“We looked into each other’s eyes and we knew that a breath of a miracle had touched us, and fled, and left us groping vainly. And we felt torn, torn for some word we could not find.”

That’s how I feel! I feel like some fact or fundamental standing ground has tipped for me and I can’t go back and pretend I don’t know it anymore. I feel like I can’t believe Christianity is something that is meant to be taken in moderation. I can’t be comfortable anymore because I know that I shouldn’t be.

More than I bargained for at the museum

She sits in the Crivelli room and believes she is acting like she does again. Only, acting like "she does" could be one of two things. She could be finding beauty in something for the sake of finding beauty. Trying to smooth out a piece of ground for herself which no one had yet conquered. Screaming, for the sake of screaming, that she found what they, the world, had missed. When really, she was holding on pedestal a mere stepping stone in the grand scheme of things.

The other option is that this beauty and truth has found her, and she it.

She taps her toes in her shoe to match the rhythm of the rain hitting the ceiling above her head. It makes her claustrophobic and all of a sudden she must close her eyes to breath. Behind her eyelids she finds the Virgin Mary dressed in red stroking the head of John the Baptist while her baby cries in the background She watches the scene as one might who was watching a construction project. The air filling and leaving, filling and leaving her lungs is far more gripping.

She notices after thirty seconds that her body, again, has turned traitor. Her breaths, her simple life-giving necessary breaths have turned traitor.

Find me, her mind is sneaking into the echoing space in her head on the exhale, Find me.

She stands to join the shuffling. Stepping stone indeed.

Today,

She sits in the large beige chair and taps the pen against her thigh in time with the clock on the wall. The sun is slanting into the room at a more drastic angle now, her eyes are unfocused and far away.

Something is disturbing the surface of the milky tea which is balanced on her chair. It distorts the image of the window frame. As she focuses in on this the pen continues its beat on her thigh.

She has not opened the notebook in her lap yet. She went to retrieve it upstairs but it has been put to not good use. It is frighteningly empty of her writing. All she has collected are thoughts on the History of Islam and some scribblings which she thinks are meant to be probability equations. But she is so empty of words.

She finally cracks the notebook. The notebook she hates because it is large and bulky and no good at all for these things. She turns it in her lap so the lines are horizontal. She takes the pen, pressing down hard, willing the words to escape her. But all she can muster is this -

I am so empty of words.

This frustrates her, the mere appearance of these dreaded hated words on the page. She grabs the tea from the arm of the chair and takes a gulp. It has gone still and cold and she can taste the sugar on her tongue. This does not help and she grimaces as she swallows. She returns her gaze out the window and now, her pen beats its rhythm against the white paper.

The Day of Doubt

It is 12:16, and I have been in bed all day. I have been in bed all day reading my way through every book that could possibly capture my attention. I have started (and not finished) approximately 12 crossword puzzles. I drank seven cups of tea and I ate three pitas. I started knitting a new scarf, I expanded my amazon wishlist, and I drained the battery on my Ipod.

About a half hour ago I went into hyperactive panic mode as I downloaded maps of Heathrow airport. My room is dark and I am huddled over the screen on my computer like some kind of crazy person in my sweats because I still have the chills. Sex and the City is on right now, and that is only increasing the steadily panicking pace of my heart. Sex and the City is something familiar which I will soon be leaving behind as well. Its also not helping that I now have to live with the knowledge that Carrie Bradshaw comforted me in my hour of need and, my God, I am actually THAT GIRL.

It's so ridiculous to be afraid right now. A part of my head knows that, and that part of my head is congratulating itself on being rational enough to know how ridiculous the other half is. Especially because of this one strong truth - I have done this before.

I suppose this gives me the answer to a question I have pondered. Sometimes, your comfort zone doesn't stretch to certain areas, and as long as you keep stepping over that line you will still panic.

It's good though, I have been comfortable for a long time. Now I will go back to bed, and probably not sleep. I will carry my stack of papers with me on Thursday and I will look like a loon juggling them in my arms. But I will be uncomfortable, and isn't that what stepping outside your comfort zone is all about?

"Sometimes pool-pah exceeds the power of humans to comment."

Fewer more insightful words have I ever encountered.

I can comfort myself with the knowledge at least that hopefully later on in life when I am more mature I will be able to comment on the pool-pah of the present. Hopefully in a novel which will then put all the upright pool-pah to shame.

I don't ask for that much out of my life.

Another bus stop reflection,

The summer has used up all of its soft breeze and scorching days. Now it seems the leaves have all paused in their waving. They are breathlessly awaiting their dazzling finale.

These are the dog days of summer. The days which squeeze your heart and make you wonder how you ever live in other seasons. The days when you feel stretched and loose. Colors seem brighter against the dusty background of houses. Flowers everywhere are singing their final choruses in a well practiced harmony.

Everything you do is deliberate: you slip, you lay, you chop, you hum. Even your bones have long forgotten the chill of winter.

"Pause," you think as you stare at the clouds, ever-changing, in the sky. "Pause."

The answer to the why question I keep receiving,

"...his last words were, 'I go to seek a Great Perhaps.' Thats why I'm going. So I don't have to wait until I die to start seeking a Great Perhaps."

-Looking for Alaska

It's dwindling now, isn't it?

Caitlin asked an interesting question in the car this afternoon. She said, "How did my life get misplaced so badly?"

An interesting question, and one that applies to my return this evening. I came in the door after being accused of doing something ridiculous. I walked through my living room to the door to my basement and no one spoke to me. I came downstairs and found myself in disarray. My sister's clothes, not mine, were strewn across my bed. My pillows were missing. My books were pulled off my shelves. There was evidence of a ball of yarn, but no ball to be found.

How did this happen? How did I get moved out when I was gone for forty eight hours?

Or better yet, how did my life get misplaced so badly?

'Why does everything need to be labeled?' or 'Summer in the City'

To me, A Tree Grows in Brooklyn is two things. It is a love story to Brooklyn and it is a love story about reading. Now, when I first read Betty Smith's classic book I connected with her main character Francie Nolan. For a few weeks I insisted to my mother that she call me Francie, tried to climb the trees in my backyard and went on a kick where I visited the library everyday after school. I reread that book this summer and fell in love again with its beautiful story.

At one point in the story I was so awed by one quote that I literally placed the book in my lap while I tried to regain the air in my lungs-

"Because," explained Mary Rommely simply, "the child must have a valuable thing called imagination. The child must have a secret world in which to live things that never were. It is necessary that she believe. She must start out by believing in things not of this world. Then, when this world becomes too ugly for living in, the child can reach back and live in her imagination."

This morning I climbed out of bed and filled an over sized mug with powerfully strong coffee. I got my brother out of bed and made sure he was settled in front of the TV singing along to Diego before I went back down to my room to retrieve my book. Then, I began a routine which has been a part of every summer for as long as I can remember. I curled up on my couch and began to get lost in a new world.

The summer is a time where I could travel through whichever books I choose. I was a lonely kid and the summer only ever meant a lack of schoolwork for me. I could disappear in any corner of my house I could steal and read till I was found. But it was in these summers that I built block by block the world I now use to escape to just as Mary Rommely intended.

I looked around the walls of my room this morning and saw my collected books. My father has been bothering me for years to get rid of them. He wants me to essentially dig through my childhood and tell him what I can live without. I don't know how to explain to him that I can't.

But those books, the ones I read in the summers, are the ones that I remember most clearly. Those are the books which I have read multiple times, the books which even now I am tempted to take with me to school. They aren't always the most respectable books, but they are the books which have stayed with me and helped me build from the ground up, my imagination.

My heart beats with anticipation,

I'm going to write this in the first person, despite the fact that the first person scares me.

It all came together for me this morning. I have been in an odd place this summer. I couldn't really get a grip on myself long enough to enjoy things. Not that this summer hasn't been fun, I have just felt very different. I had one of those, I'm sure this is significant feelings all summer long. That tends to be a heavy burden to carry. You can't anticipate everyday being significant without triple checking everything. So it got tiring and annoying and I decided that I was going to ignore it and live my summer despite omnipresent significance.

But I discovered the significance as I was getting dressed this morning. I am, it cannot be ignored, at the end of a stage in my life.


This is the end of my before. My very distinct and drawn out before. But this summer a lot of changes have been made. I am comfortable with things about myself this summer that it has taken me twenty years to learn. I have come to terms with things that have happened to me and that I am who God has made me.

And that is the end of my before. I have no question that in one month's time when I get on a plane I will be able to say that I am staring my after in the face.

Hankering,

(Is that a real word?)

I wanted to write a blog about sunshine and fold-up chairs. About novels and over-sized sunglasses. About wisdom and tiny brown notebooks and characters who say, "IT'S ALL LIKE THE OCEAN!"

But at the moment I cannot find the words. So, I will write it all down in my little brown notebook, about all the wisdom that is absorbed while I absorb vitamin D and maybe later, I will copy it here.

Or maybe not.

Snapshots,

I.

She recalls how Billy Pilgrim looked back on his memories of the war with mixed feelings. One of his fondest memories was taking a nap in the ruins of Dresden. This, she believes, is the perfect morning. The sun has given everything a photographic look. It trickles down through the trees and reminds her of a nap. Both a nap and this sunlight incite the same feelings.

She knew it could only last a short while longer, but she cannot bring herself to care like she has in the past. She knows there will always be more sun drenched mornings with Mary-Ellen.

II.

"How much of my life," she wonders, "Has been hidden behind the off key music of an ice cream truck?"

It is the kind of melody which can float unnoticed in the back of your head for quite some time.

She leans back on two legs of her chair like her father is always scolding her for and knows it has been sent by God. She knows this because it is interrupting her and making it difficult for her to repeat her new mantra of, "I AM SO ANGRY." She sighs knowing that the sun will set on her anger.

III.

She stomps along the sidewalk watching dust clouds drift at the surface.

She thinks, "I don't know if I could feel this alone on a desert island."

She walks a few more paces and then thinks, "This does not hurt as much as it did before."

She blinks but this time the tears would not disappear. It may not hurt as much, but these tears will still not disappear. Even amidst the loneliness and the dull ache she can cling to this fact, though it may not hold her for long- It does not hurt as much as it did before.

IV.

She questions Ross about the sticks of chalk she found in the pool. He shakes his head and answers, "NO, LILA, GRANDMA GO HOME!"

What a calming release it would be to not understand the questions of life and thus not be required to submit answers.

He ruins all the charm he had by picking his nose when he thinks she isn't looking.

V.

Nobody, no nobody, who ever lived their life on the shores of an ocean can say that this world is damned. She feels the wave crash over her face and becomes at once herself and part of the world. For that one instant, while her previous breath goes stale in her lungs, she experiences infinity.


VI.


A boy with curly red hair and trendy sunglasses came and sat with her as she waited for her bus. He ignored her headphones, but her conscience would not allow her to ignore him. Twenty minutes later her bus pulled up to the curb, and as she shifted on the ground he offered her a hand and pulled her to her feet. Then he turned and walked across the grass. This red haired boy hadn't been waiting for the s56 after all. He just sat in the grass for twenty minutes with her.

She thought, I wish I could bottle that moment. It is equal parts magic and sunshine and God. It made her yearn to hold someone's hand. It made her want to run 100 miles, write old friends letters, and paint her bedroom yellow.

God, she knows, shows up in the funniest places.


VII.

The August crickets provide parentheses around her scattered thoughts. She has always called them August crickets ever though they usually appear in July. There are times when she can rest her elbows on the cooling cement of her stoop and pretend the voice of God is in the crickets.

It was listening to the August crickets that she first decided God was in the summer. As they chirped in a chorus around her ears her lonely childhood heart heard the words, "Take off your shoes for the place you are standing is holy ground."

One verse dimmed and another swelled to take its place. "Take of your shoes," the crickets whispered, "Take off your shoes."

At Two AM,

It is a firm testament to God and the work he has done in me that upon stumbling into my room a few minutes ago and finding a war zone I did not lose my cool and drop down dead.

No, God allowed me to overlook the lacrosse balls scattered across the floor and the clothes flung to and fro. God allowed me the strength to get to the light switch and shut it off so I could just stop thinking about it and finally FINALLY begin sorting through a months worth of emails.

God allowed me to find a song on Itunes that I can sing tomorrow in church without revealing my strained voice and God allowed me the strength to jot this down. Tomorrow I may try to use my limited skill to describe the love/hate relationship I have with Teen Week, but for now, I'm just going to sleep.

The most important "us",

Or should it be called the most important "we"?


We all have these us's and we's in our lives. We have the us that is our family. We have the us that is our friends. We have the us which is our country.

We can find them all over. The us that is the people in line at the grocery store. The us of two people sitting at a bus stop with their gazes directed straight ahead and not moving.

One of the most important us's in my life is a fairly large us. It is the us which is made up by the youth of the LB. The people who I have traveled with the camps and rally's. The us that has been part of epic snowball fights as well as lessons that have moved me to tears.

We have our own hierarchy (Norwegians please step up) but we are, at our very core, an US.

Hangin' with my Gnomies,

Prior to last week,

I spent everyday with my nose in the Want Ads hoping to find a more steady form of income than that which I am currently employing. I would send about three emails a day with my resume attached waiting for something to happen. Because I had an intuitive feeling something would.

However, I packed my bags and came up to Tusc last week without having heard back from a single person. I had questioned how this is possible but, not having too much experience with this method of job searching I didn't questioned.

Now, I checked the file holding my resume several times. I edited it at points thinking a tweak here and a tweak there would make someone bite.

Yesterday I accessed email for the first time in a week. I had there, in a row, replies from all those emails saying the same thing. That when they had tried to access my resume it had come up blank on their computers.

Now, I do hope that this time my imagination is not taking advantage of my gullibility. But is it too much to believe that God wanted me here at Tusc this summer and he didn't want any job or any amount of money to interfere with it?

What are you, silly?

I am sunburned. Not badly. I am the kind of sunburned where you were outside for a week straight and you thought you were brown enough to chill at the pool for an afternoon without sun screen on. Tomorrow it will probably be brown, and I will remember all that I love about having blond hair in the summer time.

I was eleven years old for six days and I had to remember that, yes, the Jonas Brothers are important to some people. I sat on the edge of a dunk tank and flinched every time a ball was thrown at me.

I was reminded, daily, by the screaming voices of my campers at session, that Jesus is my best friend, and nothing will ever change that. One little girl raised her hand in my devotion and said, "When is accepting Christ into my heart on the schedule because I don't want to miss it." Simultaneously down the hall a twelve year old girl had an orange squeezed out into her hair.

I am blissfully happy in this moment, and its extraordinary because nothing has changed. I always thought the world and circumstances would have to shift in order for me to be this degree of joyful. But in the midst of my six days as an eleven year old I realized something.
My life is pretty great.

The shape of my soul,

It's coming.
Oh, the thoughts I will think. Oh, the words I will write.
Junior Week 2008.

A Thousand Words,

I miss the summer I could have had.

If someone were to write a book about us,

The book would have to be written from an outside perspective. I can only imagine that we are that much more fascinating from the third person. To become disconnected from the fine threads of our lives which have become interlaced over time.

The bends and swirls of conversation and action so natural it must seem unnerving.

We, who feel extremely open and compassionate are probably seen as cold and exclusive by those trying to enter in.

I can see the lines typed on the bottom of some off white page between hardcover bindings. It will seem commonplace to some, but it will nail it on the head for others. (I enjoy using literary cliches when it comes to us).

"No one knows quite what to think when it comes to them," she said, her voice barely traveling the few inches to my ears, "they seem harmless enough, but no one can deny they keep to themselves."

On afternoons,

Today I sat on the beach and thought about the sun.


I woke up earlier than I should have considering the time I went to sleep. I am not a morning person but I managed to crawl out of bed and into the shower, letting the hot water run yesterday's chlorine down the drain. I brushed my hair out, letting the breeze dry it the way it would, and slipped into my most comfortable pair of shorts.

We all met at the park. Scattered in the far corner were tables covered in white and red checkered table cloths. It all seemed so picturesque, but this was real.

Almost immediately I found myself running down to the beach with friends. We walked along, picked up sea glass in a second nature kind of way, and chatting in the easy familial fashion. I didn't notice as my calves readjusted to the kind of walking one has to do on fine sand, and the burning sun didn't make my eyes squint.

Later, as the army of small blond haired children ran relay races I was shown the truth of the statement, "It takes a village to raise a child". Everyone's food was open to devouring, and everyone was fair game in the water gun fight.

Then I went to the beach alone. I didn't go far, but just long enough so the sand to seaweed ratio was a different and the people were fewer and far between. I turned my back to the ocean and glanced at the path behind me.

It was just a dirt path running through the few yards of trees that separated the park from the beach. But the trees on either side had overgrown and it created an arch over the entryway. It seemed like something sacred, and it reminded me of so many pictures I had seen on postcards. I knew that few friends of mine would believe something so achingly beautiful existed here on my island.

I turned back and squinted at what may be the ocean or may just be Narrows bay. If I squinted hard enough I could ignore the people at the very edges of my vision. If I concentrated on the sound of the waves hard enough, I could ignore the lifeguards voice to my right. With the slightest help from my imagination, I could see the sail boats in the distance being made of cheap plastic and containing doll house toys. If I were alone here, this moment wouldn't be any less beautiful. I could feel no less significant in this universe, even if all life disappeared.

Later, as I returned to the picnic, and surrounded myself with the stories, and the camaraderie I was faced with a question I will never be able to answer.

People without a solid church family... what do they fill that hole with? When that small part of you isn't allowed to blossom in the sun, where does it go?

On Billboards,

Before my concert last night, we parked the car in Chelsea. It just so happened it was right underneath a billboard for Armani featuring David Beckham.

All you boys should count yourselves lucky that I was able to stop myself from sending a picture of it to Moment pic.

The Day that Wendy's Broke My Heart,

My grandmother, being the saintly woman of God that she is, yelled down to me this afternoon while I was watching Lost. She told me that Kari had asked her to go to Wendy's, was there anything I wanted.

Now, lately I have been trying to break my addiction to Diet Coke (and really artificial sweeteners in general) so we haven't had any Diet Coke in the house for the past week or so. However, when a girl's grandmother is making a Wendy's run, your instincts tend to take over.

While running up the stairs I was already yelling, "Yeah, gram do you think you could get me a large diet coke!" (Because guess what, its diet, and you can get a large if you want to.)

Coincidentally, Hannah was yelling the same thing at the same time I was. I was not the only one feeling the pains of withdrawal.

So for the next half hour I thought of the most glorious thing in the world. The large yellow cup which my grandmother would walk through the door with. Hannah and I actually had a long discussion about how the majority of the world just doesn't, shouldn't, couldn't possibly understand the joy of the ice cold diet coke.

Well, you can imagine that when gram's silver Honda civic pulled back in the driveway, Hannah and I were sitting on the stoop waiting for her. The ultimate summer indulgence was about to be had.

The first sip was not as I had imagined. Why, may you ask. Because it was thick, intensely sweet, and with the sour after taste I had long associated with things I had no business putting in my mouth. Yes, I had in my hand a large glass of regular Coke. Regular, full calorie Coke.

Hannah and I just looked at each other, and walked back inside.

"Let's just absorb," Sarah proclaimed as the train came to a stop.

There are people on this planet who spend thousands of dollars on plane tickets and traveling expenses to fly to New York City and do exactly what I did today for $6. Every time I come home I remember this, and every time I leave I forget.

Sarah (my trusty and true travel companion and fellow adventurer) and I left the island at a spur of the moment decision that today we needed to be at the Metropolitan Museum of Art. So we went. Because Sarah and I listen to the wind and go where we are needed.

We ate our sandwiches in Central Park and Sarah tortured some innocent birds. Kristin's cinnamon cookies went to great use as a snack for this one baby bird, but before the baby could get to it a sparrow came and grabbed it right up. I believe Sarah startled some of the people present by shouting, "YOU LITTLE BASTARD GET AWAY FROM HIM! LOOK AT THIS LINDSAY, NEVER TELL ME TO BE NICE TO ANIMALS AGAIN."

Another of my favorite Sarah quotes came a bit after that. I was waiting for her outside one of the park bathrooms and she came storming out and said, "Lets just go." I asked her what had happened and she said, "Well, I went into the stall and there was pee on the seat but no toilet paper, and then some girl went in after me so she probably thinks I peed on the seat. Also, there were two girls making out in there and it just wasn't working out for me."

We found out after awhile that the Met was actually closed (as it is every Monday, apparently) but this was for the best. Because God had a whole lot more planned for us this afternoon, and like the girls we are we took it all and ran. Because Sarah and Lindsay are not held back by silly things like calendars. The good time is with us wherever we go, you remember that now children.

So we took to meandering, because we're so good at that. We strolled through the park, and sat and looked good doing it. We sat by the fountain and I thought about how if I could choose to be one place forever it would be right there. We ran down Madison avenue in the pouring rain. I had hot subway air puff at my face and realized no one else understands that feeling but New Yorkers. I finally told someone about the thing I'm doing which nobody knows.

We sat in Union Square for a good hour, watching the people walk by. We drank our Venti Starbucks (because we are the kind of girls who get Venti's) and tried to pick out the strangest looking people. We finished the day in the Strand, where I could have spent the whole day, and where I will spend many more rainy afternoons.

I discovered several truths and shall document them here-
I love doing nothing in the city more than doing nothing anywhere else.
Sarah and I are always moving full speed and enthusiastically in the same direction.
Rain does not dampen our days.

I read once,

I read once in a magazine that some celebrity believes that life moves in seven year cycles. That you can see common patterns in your seven year blocks. Common lessons you should be learning, common obstacles you come up against. That you are, in most ways, the same person for a solid seven years, until you shift into your next stage.

I've thought about this a lot lately. If any of it is true, I am close to ending one of my seven year blocks. I am seven months away from my twenty first birthday.

I will allow myself to indulge in this idea for a few moments.

In the years between 14 and 21 I have faced very little tragedy. I do not believe I have been tested to my limits and the idea that this next chapter could hold that is... frightening.

I have always been successful... could this this next chapter hold failure on the epic scale?

Could the things I have been yearning for be found in the next seven years?

My head is full and my heart holds no answers. My God is silent in directions and my feet don't want to move.

The newest type I am fascinated by,

People who are living on the fringes of one of the greatest cities in the world who believe their lives will begin once they leave the island.

How can we all be so willing to believe that our chances of going up are better than going down?

A thought on friendships,

I was very wary of coming home this year.

However, my Thursday night changed that for me.

Thursday night was spent in the company of three of my closest female friends. These are friends which do not need to be tended to all year long. These are friends who are growing closer and closer as the years go by. These are friends who I always turn to when I begin to lose myself. They can always remind me of who I am.

It's a fascinating pattern. We all move in separate directions for months at a time. Some of us battle the wintry winds of Western New York. Some of us spend their winters in flip-flops. Some of us stay here, waiting for the lost to return.

But inevitably, when our foot steps are all retread and we come back to the island. It all just fits.

Our friendships were hard. Sometimes we didn't all like each other, and sometimes it took a damn lot of work to make them happen. But now we are older, and time seems to have blessed us.

We have something valuable. It is so valuable that sometimes I can forget how much it means.

We have history together. We have grown and changed. As we watched each other change we would always shove over and make room for whatever was necessary. We have stuck by each other's sides and now we can look back with joy.

I love the blonde's from Staten Island I choose to spend my time with. I love how I can sit in a kitchen and talk to their parents just as easily as I can talk to them...

So now, yes, I am finally ready to start my summer.

Because my friends are readers,

1. Grab the nearest book.


2. Open the book to page 123.


3. Find the fifth sentence.


4. Post it, and the next 2-3 sentences along with these instructions.


5. Don't you dare dig for that "cool" or "intellectual" book in your closet! I know you were thinking about it! Just pick up whatever is closest (unless it's too troublesome to reach and is really heavy. Then go back to step 1).


6. See if anyone can guess what book it's from.

"She would have to send her kisses on the wind, hoping that the wind would touch the boy's face, and would tell him that she was alive. That she was waiting for him, a woman awaiting a courageous man in search of his treasure. From that day on, the desert would represent only one thing to her: the hope for his return."

I think I have a lot of political opinions,

I just don't say them most of the time. Because I know I am horrendously misinformed, and I try to avoid sounding like a moron. (Though it seems inevitable at times).

However,

I think its hilarious when I see John McCain running on television. You are 71 years old, sir. Jogging to the plane is not going to convince anyone that you are NOT an old man.

Please view-
http://www.thedailyshow.com/video/index.jhtml?videoId=170162&title=indecision-2008-full-release

This I need to cry for,

I feel like my heart just broke.

None of it. No wooden frames. No beaded necklaces. No T-shirts.


I don't know what summer looks like from here. I don't know what ground I'm standing on.


I wish someone could see me now.
I wish someone would explain to me why when the worst of the storm was over, I was just struck by a lightning bolt Zeus would be amazed by.
I wish someone would find the reason in the rhyme.

In the words of Maya Rudolph,

Oh Shia, you make me feel so alive.

If I could simply repeat a thought,

I am feeling disconnected and at the same time, I have no idea what I am feeling.

Simply the thoughts,

I wish I could write a beautiful story. My beautiful story would be about a girl who was entirely too innocent. She could see the consequences of her actions before they were made. But she could not stop herself. Some nights she would lie in bed and hop back and forth in time. She would revisit her moments of decision and then she would leap ahead and she would see the conclusion of her life.

It would all become too much some nights. She would just remain still and cry.

On why they're incredibly significant,

My family is interesting. My family is large.

I am not going to claim to have one of the biggest families in the world, but we're on the bigger side. We also have very big personalities so that makes it even worse. I also tend to label everyone as a 'cousin', even if we're only distantly related.

However, I do have four of the greatest cousins of all time.

On my father's side of the family I have an aunt and an uncle. Between the years of 1988 and 1998, seven girls were born. My grandmother treats us like her greatest accomplishments.

Only since going to school have I realized that my identity as one of a septuplet is unique.

So this is dedicated to my cousins. My cousins who make up the greatest part of my life.

In which I remember HOME,

I will be the first to admit that I did not want to come home this summer. In an ideal world my school would let all of its students stay on campus. They would give us meaningless trivial jobs and pay us to do them. Then all day long we would lay out on the quad, play Frisbee and watch movies.

In all honesty, that would be lovely. It would be amazing to spend my summers that way, enjoying the Houghton I see so little of at school. That's what I thought I wanted more than anything else two weeks ago. I took great pains to fight this summer as hard as I possibly could.

But sometime between then and now my mindset has changed. School and home for me are two different worlds which don't overlap much at all. So I was afraid to leave the comfort I had built up. But I am glad I did.

Because there is something about my life in Staten Island that I love.

I forget that every time I go back to school. I forget exactly how good a slice of pizza tastes here. I forget that I love driving on Forest Hill road at midnight with my music far too loud. I forget that I love having friends who have seen my bad times, and disregard it. I love that my friends and I have to travel to see each other, it makes it more genuine. I love that we have an entire city at our disposal and we haunt the same half a dozen places. I love that my cousin had about four free iced coffees today. I love that I could be at the beach tomorrow, or in a museum, or in Sarah's house, and I won't know until I wake up.

I love spontaneity and that is something that is vibrant and thriving here.

I love that my friendships are not predictable and that I have truly no idea what to expect from this summer.

Its true that had my fantasy worked out, and I could have remained at school, I would be having a fantastic time. Because my life there is beautiful.

However, my life here is far less comfortable and far more exciting. I have felt the urge to stretch my legs for awhile now, and I am glad the time has come.

As long as I'm on the subject,

This is my favorite thing that the Advance has ever reported,

Saturday, June 30, 2007
By GLENN NYBACK
STATEN ISLAND ADVANCE

STATEN ISLAND, N.Y. -- A peacock had to be put down after being cruelly beaten and kicked outside a Tottenville fast-food restaurant Thursday morning, and its assailant is still on the loose.

Witnesses said a man in his late teens or early 20s grabbed the helpless bird by its neck, struck it repeatedly with a baseball bat and kicked it in a Burger King parking lot on Page Avenue.

He then jumped onto the hood of a car and threw the peacock to the ground before running off when he saw police.

"He said 'I'm killing a vampire,'" said Felicia Finnegan, 19, who works at the Burger King and had been feeding bread to the peacock in the parking lot just after 7:30 a.m.

Miss Finnegan had gone out to look at the bird, an uncommon sight on Staten Island.

Shortly after going back into the restaurant, she heard the man screaming and saw him rip off his shirt before stepping on and kicking the bird.

"He was really beating it. I just think it was sick and demented. He shouldn't be walking around on the street," said Miss Finnegan.

The peacock never had a chance.

"We brought it back to our care center on [Veterans Road] but the injuries were so extreme, we had to put the animal down for humane reasons," said Richard Gentles, a spokesman for Animal Care & Control of New York City. "He was beaten so severely that some of the feathers fell out at the scene and others fell out at the care center. It's a horrible, horrible situation."

Miss Finnegan's mother, Sandra, said her daughter was hysterical after the brutal incident.

"What if somebody is walking around with a baby ... and he thinks it's a vampire in a stroller?" she asked. "It's horrible. I'm just amazed that it went on."

The beauteous bird's presence in Tottenville was explained by George Burke of Prince's Bay, who has raised peacocks for several years and gave some to a Tottenville resident a few years ago. He was appalled when told what happened.

"What's wrong with parents who let kids turn into [expletive] like that?" he asked. "I think the kid needs a little bit of psychological evaluation. Oh, what a shame."

The Staten Island Advance Strikes Again,

HIGH SCHOOL GIRLS' SOCCER

Fight shuts down Pirates and Falcons

Wagner coach Rago pulls team off field midway through second half with Tottenville leading, 2-0

Tuesday, May 13, 2008

By KEVIN FLOOD

ADVANCE STAFF WRITER

STATEN ISLAND, N.Y. -- For 63 minutes it was one of the best-played soccer games of the season, but all that effort by both teams went by the wayside when a multi-player fistfight broke out last night at Tottenville HS in Huguenot.

The host Pirates (second in the Island standings) held a 1-0 lead over third-place Susan Wagner at the 63-minute mark when Crystal Maialo took the ball down the left sideline and fired a pass to Kaitlyn Regan who was streaking toward the top of the box.

The freshman fired a 20-yarder into the lower left corner for a 2-0 lead, and that's when things got out of control. Maialo was running from behind the net to congratulate Regan when she was tripped by, or accidentally collided with Wagner's Valerie Incontrera. Each side offered contrary accounts of that detail. Maialo jumped to her feet, charged Incontrera, and started firing punches.

After the refs broke up the fracas, red cards were issued to Maialo and Incontrera as well as to Erica Bettini of Wagner.

"It's a shame it came to this," said SW coach Carleen Rago. "It was a terrific game and my girls were playing better than they have all year. I felt the whole thing started over an accidental collision, and when the refs met with us coaches, it was my decision to take my team off the field."

The altercation was a lose-lose situation for both teams as a decision on the outcome of the game will be made today by PSAL soccer commissioner Will Stasiuk.

"It was a very unfortunate incident," said Tottenville coach George Kaplan. "I've always taught my girls that if something like that happens, they are to go in the opposite direction and not get involved. It spoiled what was a terrific game."

Wagner had three opportunities to break the scoreless tie in the first half but a shot by Natalie Tombasco was stuffed at the goal-mouth, Jenna Smith fired just wide left from 20-yards out and Lisa Keevill had a 15-yarded stopped by Tot goaltender Veronica Bulger.

At the other end Wagner sweeper Samantha Malec led a stingy defense that held the Pirates to five shots on goal as the half ended without either team registering a goal.

Two minutes into the second half Wagner goalkeeper Maggie Studsrud was injured in a collision in front of the net and had to leave with a bloody nose.

Just 14 minutes later Maialo charged down the left wing and fired a 15-yarder just inside the left post to give the Tots a 1-0 advantage.

Minutes later the craziness began.

The idea,

The mere idea, of making coffee right now, just to work up the energy to unpack seems ridiculous. Yet I have a feeling, if it isn't done now, it will be a very long time.

Written [2007]

How many times must something be denied before it shifts and changes into something else?

For growth is the way of the world. Moments are not stagnant and the world shows us this. Even the cocoon, which seems to stand still in the roaring river of time, releases a beauty that proves this all wrong.

So what about feelings?

Feelings that rear their head in the dim slanted light of summer. Feelings that creep in like the warmth. Feelings that are never noticed because at the time, your heart is being kept in an envelope of joy.

Its always significantly later that you'll notice any real difference. The cold will have been leaking into your bones for months when all of a sudden a cloud will pass over the sun. For mere seconds, and you will come through your front door just as an orange diamond lands on the carpet of your stairs.

You can't help it, and you recall warm breezes and pieces of pizza. You recall midnight rides and loud music. You recall slanted smiles.

Somehow, between then and now something that hadn't been properly packed away has been allowed to grow. How long before they die? Because just like a cocoon, emotions cannot remain stagnant.

The world is full of hearts calling out to other hearts unanswered.

The world is full of people staring at other people's hands. Afraid to reach out. Afraid to shatter the thin glass that connects one person to another. Afraid that by wishing to draw one person closer, they will tip the scales in the wrong direction and never find their way back.

So with arms outstretched they hold back the tides. They could strive toward something better, but the possibility of something worse is too big a battle.

So we stare at each other's hands as long as we know their eyes are elsewhere. We try to remember the smiles and forget the frowns that hide so closely behind them.

Lindsay and Sarah - Summer of 2008 PLANS

[*Has 'escapades' in title]

1. Get a job = $
2. Become bronzed goddesses (beach)
3. Governor's island
(a) Bike Riding
(b) Picnic
(c) Concerts
4. 6 Flags
5. Manhattan Escapades*
(a) Too many to list
6. Cruise around blasting music Providing Staten Island with a musical education
7. Eat
8. Read the Strand 80
9. Seaview
10. Brooklyn Escapades
11. Learn new activities (Such as sewing our own clothes)
12. Museums
13. Attend a wizard Rock concert
14. Vintage Store Hopping
15. Marie Belles Hot Chocolate
16. Visit them folk in New Hampshire
17. Join Guerrilla Poetry Squad
18. Find Demetri Martin. Stalk Demetri Martin.
19. Stage door
20. Toilet paper Mike's car
(a) Dress in sneaky black clothes
21. Tuscarora, homes.
22. Life Cafe!
(a) Viva la vie Bohemme!
23. Prepare ourselves for Rent's departure
24. Commit a crime
25. Do something to better humanity
(a) (This is to counter the havoc caused by #24)
26. Eat sushi and edamame
27. SEE PLAYS
28. Make new friends
29. Attend a release party
30. Deck party
31. Play games - new and old
32. Movie nights
33. Go out and about in absurd outfits
34. Ambush/kidnap someone
35. Find an $8.98 sale at Steve and Barry's
36. Watch all of Lost
37. Haggle street vendor till they cry
38. Convince total stranger to give us something
39. Bonfire (with marshmallows)
40. PNC lawn seats
41. Make tie-dye shirts
42. Attend a parade
43. Throw a party
44. Crash a party
45. Swim in something that is not a pool or ocean
46. Have 700 sleepovers in obscene places
47. Celebrate free coffee day even if its not free coffee day
48. Document every activity in photographic form
49. Stalk Ashton Kutcher
50. Pick one day to dedicate wholly to movie watching
51. Form a band using homemade instruments
52. Monopolize DDR machine at Funstation and suck at it
53. Go on lots of walks and even get lost a few times
54. Join the Everything Goes cult
55. Arts and Crafts!
56. Have the world's greatest Wacky Wednesday costumes (as always)
57. Make and Oscar worthy movie
58. NOT kill someone
59. Yell inappropriate things out of some window
60. Keep up with the Kardashians
61. Cook something, maybe
62. D.A.N.C.E. A LOT
63. Prepare Lindsay for London

'Twould be an interesting experience,

and I think I may try it.

I may try limiting myself to the bare minimum. I am unpacking and I am astounded by the sheer amount of stuff I have. Things I am clinging to for no real reason. I have a drawer full of birthday cards reaching back to my twelfth birthday.

I am apparently a hoarder. I had no idea.

I have three trash bags full of clothes and pictures and notes from high school. I think I was saving them so I could one day look back on a perfect Polaroid of my life then, but do I need it?

A Book Found Me Today,

That is the only way I can describe it.

It went like this. I was in the back of the Strand bookstore, carrying on a conversation with Caitlin and hunched over one of the discount racks. I had just passed a hardcover copy of The Lovely Bones, when I stood up and began to move toward the next shelf.

It happened then.

I glanced down to look at the next book shelf, I looked up at the information desk, and looked down again and the book was sitting next to my hand, which was just resting on the top of a thick anthology.

The book is terribly ugly. Its purple and yellow and stuck in the eighties. The book is Letters to a Young Poet and it found me. I know it the way you know its your father who opens the door in the late afternoon. I know it because in the introduction the writer talks about how his copy of Letters to a Young Poet found him.

The book fit comfortably in the palm of my hand and I read it as Caitlin, Heather, Emily and I rode the trains all afternoon. I know from the words I have read so far that this copy of this book is going to be read a lot. I like the character of the water marks on the bottom of the page and they tell me that this book will travel places and touch people.

I am glad that on May 8, 2008 it found me.

Also, if someone could answer this question for me, I would appreciate,

How exactly does my professor expect me to write a paper on the current culture of London when all the books in the library were published in 1964?

I suppose in the end that this, like many others, is a question I will just have to accept not knowing the answer to. It is a question that college has actually supplied me with, rather than answering.

It's actually part of a set which includes, 'Why can't I cite wikipedia when you and I both know it's the only real source in this paper?' and 'Why can half of Europe be on the same currency, but my school uses MLA, APA, and Chicago style citation?'

The two sides of Monday morning,

Checks it out-
http://xkcd.com

To be taped upon my wall, in time

Everything has its season
Everything has its time
Show me a reason and I'll soon show you a rhyme
Cats fit on the windowsill
Children fit in the snow
Why do I feel I don't fit in anywhere I go?

Every man has his daydreams
Every man has his goal
People like the way dreams have
Of sticking to the soul
Thunderclouds have their lightning
Nightingales have their song
And don't you see I want my life to be
Something more than long....

So many men seem destined
To settle for something small
But I won't rest until I know I'll have it all
So don't ask where I'm going
Just listen when I'm gone
And far away you'll hear me singing
Softly to the dawn

Rivers belong where they can ramble
Eagles belong where they can fly
I've got to be where my spirit can run free
Got to find my corner of the sky

An acquired taste,

Last night I enjoyed ultimate frisbee. Generally, ultimate frisbee is one of those games which makes me want to curl up into a fetal position and get everyone to stop yelling about how I just can't catch it. It's like basketball. I cannot play basketball without allowing the fear of being shouted at hinder my ability to actually MOVE.

This, as all things do, says something about the quality of the people I spend my time with.

Intercultural Competencies

Professor- "I want you to write down right now, to you, what is 'Home'?"

wii2pretty (9:19:48 AM): Home is my bed.
Chocltkiss1988 (9:20:33 AM): I'm sure he wants us to say something like home is the place we eperience the least amount of culture shock
wii2pretty (9:20:50 AM): Good, you're so SMART.

wii2pretty (9:21:05 AM): You're an expert on intercultural competencies.

Chocltkiss1988 (9:21:12 AM): So can I leave then?
Chocltkiss1988 (9:21:34 AM): The place where my food is

Chocltkiss1988 (9:22:15 AM): Do you know what my most useful skill is

Chocltkiss1988 (9:22:27 AM): My ability to type without looking at the keyboard

Chocltkiss1988 (9:22:40 AM): Because I can make it look like I'm taking notes

Chocltkiss1988 (9:22:53 AM): When really I'm typiing to you

wii2pretty (9:23:05 AM): Wow, it is an useful skill.

wii2pretty (9:23:34 AM): But you realize that he would still think you're taking notes even if you were looking at your keyboard

wii2pretty (9:23:44 AM): Because you would be typing them
wii2pretty (9:24:36 AM): You know, unless he's stupid, he knows we're writing to each other

Added later:
wii2pretty (9:34:30 AM): That's my favorite blog you've ever written.

Only at this point, I believe,

Every moment I live now happens to be bittersweet. I love where I am, and I love who I am with.

I don't know that I have ever felt this way before. I can already see myself holding this memory like a photograph. Looking back through the haze of memory to see my bare feet against the stone steps of the chapel. I can feel the sun on my face. I can look out at my friends playing frisbee on the quad and remember, while at the same time knowing, that Life is beautiful.

This is only temporary. I know that, I have to force myself to know that. I am living in this beautiful state of euphoria on borrowed time. We literally only have a few weeks. Next semester I will miss out on this because one semester I will be gone and the next semester many of my friends will be gone. I am already antcipating the way my life will rearranging, and the way I will grasp onto the strings of other friendships until they seem natural. This feeling of utter comfort, at spending each day with the same people you have spent your days with for two years will be gone.

I think this is what it comes down to- Right now we are all a bunch of twenty-somethings, gathered together in one place, willing to believe and convince each other that our lives are going to be the wonderful dreams we always imagined them to be.

On Faithfulness and Time,

I'm just like any other church kid in the fact that my late childhood and adolescent years were spotted with camp sessions and youth group nights. Many times, I believe, I gave my life to Christ just to make sure I did it right. If all of my friends were going to heaven than you could bet my life I would be hopping on that train as well.

Slowly, through high school, the decision I had initially made for social reasons became something a lot more than that. But this is not going to be about why I love my God, this is going to be an entry about how that love has changed.

I've been troubled in the past few months about why I seem to have lost that mountaintop aspect of my faith. It feels like I've traded in the joy for the doubt. Even in moments where I think I can just glimpse God on the horizon of my life, there is a voice in me thats screaming, "Why are you even doing this? How much longer are you going to make a fool of yourself! Open your eyes, stand up, and GO HOME!"

This is not something that is easy for me to admit because how can I truly be worshipping when I hold so much back, when I have so many reservations? No one talks about this, so it is inevitable that a young Christian girl would start to feel ashamed of it.

So I began to start seeking proof of my faith, of course. Whenever this voice got a little too loud I would beat it back with ideas like - "Well what about all those people who have had experiences like spiritual dreams?" or things like "All of these people must have a better reason to believe than I do, they must have seen something I am unaware of." or the worst "Well if God doesn't exist, how are all those priests casting out demons?"

But eventually these all fall through because humans, as well as human experiences, are unreliable and not something to base a lifestyle on. All of our senses can be tricked. We are not flawless. Someone can imagine they hear the ice cream truck, believe me it is not a stretch to believe they imagined the voice of God.

The only real proof I have of my faith is something that I have only now learned. I can believe because of time.

My God is great in his faithfullness. I may have been doubting the whole way, but I can now look back down the road from where I am and realize that my God has never left me. My life has not been the easy life I once believed it would be. But two facts remain-

It has never been too much for me to handle.


I have always had enough to get by. In all things, physically and emotionally.

This is a big realization for me. I may not have any proof of my God's existance on this side of glory. But so far, I have no reason to doubt my God, he has not let me down. Also, if I had to wager I guess, I don't think he is going to.

Its kind of funny, isn't it,

It seems it's a very human characteristic to bare ourselves.

We admit things. We have emotional displays in front of others. We embarass ourselves. We all partake in activities that will bond us. These our like fishing lines being sent out with the desperate hope of catching onto something and anchoring us. Surely, if these connections are made then everything can be a bit more real.

I can believe in God because 'they' told me about their feelings.

However, this still presents a stumbling block. In spite of all my human experiences.

No one actually knows anything about who I am.

I don't actually know anything about who I am. Who I am appears to be just a jumble of the pieces of the world I have seen. The sounds I have heard. The foods I have tasted. How am I supposed to explain everything to someone else?

So I, and we all, make short cuts. We compile the person we are into a few short facts - I like vinyl's and I do not like scrambled eggs.

I am feeling disconnected and at the same time, I have no idea what I am feeling.

I am so tired,

I am tired of being submissive. I am tired of not arguing because it is easier than bracing myself for an attack. I am tired of not fighting. I am tired of letting the world build up inside of me and not letting anything out. I am tired of giving my things to anyone who asks. I am tired of hopping back and forth between dual bad situations. I am tired of using escape plans.

I am tired of the slightly burnt potato. I am tired of letting pictures be hung up in my place.

I am tired of sitting home at night so I won't disrupt anyone's perfect time.

I am tired of having to type this just a little quicker so that when she comes home she'll be able to hop right back on the computer and be able to pretend I'm not here. That I don't exist. That I am merely an entity which she use as she pleases.

I am so tired of being a sister. I am so tired of taking crap.

The Lessons of Houghton College,

We here at our humble institution tend to keep our hands off of other people's things. It's true.

When I was still in high school, an older cousin who had already graduated Houghton described it in this way- "If you left your bag open on a table, someone would probably put twenty dollars in it."

Now I don't think that’s necessarily true, but we are extraordinarily trustworthy with, well, not stealing things. Earlier this year I left my Ipod on the steps of the dorm and it was handed into the welcome desk. People are getting mugged in central park for their Ipods. Houghton is a funny place.

However, I have learned that our honesty and uprightness extends only so far. There are two things we are very likely to steal here in Houghton College, and I would like to address them now.

1. FOOD
Last year I returned from break with three of my favorite foods in the entire world. A loaf of Italian bread. A delicious marinated eggplant salad from the Italian deli by my house. The last thing? One ripe delicious mango. Because I was walking through the supermarket by my house, I had just read something about mangos on another blog. I wanted that mango, so I bought that mango.
I was, tragically, lured into a false sense of security in my freshman year. Freshman year is a strange time where you don't even realize you’re wandering around in a haze of confusion. I had gotten back to school kind of late, and left a bunch of my things lying about, some in the kitchen, anticipating that I would put them away in the morning.
This was where it all starts to go downhill. Yes, that’s right. The next morning, I found my eggplant salad and my Italian bread. The mango? Gone.
To the person who stole my mango- I have spent all year trying to understand you. Did you think you wanted my mango more than me? Did you think you deserved it more than me? Did you even know it was my mango?

2. LAUNDRY
Yes, laundry.
Let me take you back to another day in my freshmen year. It’s late. I spent a bit too much time last year awake in the wee hours of the morning. I put my laundry in the dryer, and as my eyelids began to droop I thought, "What kind of self-respecting person would actually steal someone's laundry? It's surely safe for another few hours!"
I went to bed.
The next day, after I was showered? I went down to the laundry room to empty the dryer. I didn't notice that anything was wrong at the time. Why not? Because like any other college student I only realize I need to do laundry when one thing happens. When I run out of underwear. It's not even worth denying.
What happened four days later? I ran out of underwear.
Yes. Someone had stolen out of a dryer TEN pairs of underwear. TEN. Someone dug through my laundry in the middle of the night and specifically decided to steal my underwear. Someone is walking around my school wearing my underwear.
So many questions could be asked, but the most important is WHY. Why are you so disgusting you filthy rotten thief!

One thousand days

Three years

No, thirty-six months

No, one hundred and fifty six weeks

No... more than one thousand days

Still, thats about twenty six thousand hours

There the numbers become something tired

almost something too large,

There the numbers are blurred

almost like the sound of chewing

Twenty-six thousand, thats too large for the mind to bend to

But one thousand days

A human mind can easily see one thousand days

We all expect to live a thousand days

In fact, we all expect to live more than a thousand days

A thousand is enough though

For it all to start

In a thousand days you can forget all memory of you

and who you were before

In a thousand days it's true

an egg could fall and break,

or a worn pair of jeans could finally rip

BLAH-HAH BLAH

So many things hide,
In dark sooty fireplaces,
To hear the little babies cry
at the clown paint on their faces.

My clothes all smell like smoke,

But not the sour tobacco smoke your mind in conjuring. Oh no. Because I go to Houghton College, I mean ashy woodland smoke.

Because at midnight my room mate and I shut off the light and decided to go to sleep. We did. We were safely in dream land when all of a sudden a loud BANG awoke us.

I thought nothing of it until several more loud bangs soon followed.

"What, exactly, huh?" my room mate bumbled, and I managed to sneak a hand out of my blankets to push the blinds aside.

There were two of our friends throwing snow balls at our window. They conned us into making a fire in the woods with promises of free coffee.

On top of this being the first time I have made a fire, it was the first time I had been caught in the act of doing something against the rules here at Houghton.

Plus, we didn't even really get in trouble.

Now, I might actually go to bed, but not before I think about how satisfied I am that we went. Because I probably won't remember how tired I'm going to be tomorrow in Bio, but I will remember the smell of smoke on my T-shirt when I wake up in the morning.

I wants to write a book,

Here's how my story goes. I am sitting at my dining room table, which just for descriptive purposes doesn't have a tablecloth on it. The television is on to my right, and poker or some crap is on because it is three AM and all I can think is BOOK BOOK I WANT TO WRITE A BOOK.

Because I DO. If the average person spends tens years of their life on the toilet, I have spent far more than that with my nose in a book. I think it was Joan Didion who said something along the lines of, " When I am near the end of a book I need to sleep in the same room as it." I know exactly how that feels. There is a feeling of literally wanting to lean forward and fall into the binding of whatever story you’re involved in.

Then when you read that final paragraph with bated breath there is always a sense of I want to write a story as beautiful as this one.

But the thing is, I think I can. I know it would be hard, and I know I would probably get frustrated and give up a few times, but God has given me a few good tools. For one, I have an out of control imagination. I also have a fairly decent vocabulary and I know I can string all those words together pretty well.

Oh yeah, I've gots a lot of opinions.

I just, I also have this feeling of not now and just a bit longer. Does that make any type of human sense? Are novels like cakes that you put in the oven and need to wait for? Scary thought- Are they also like cakes in that if you leave them in the oven too long they'll burn?

SO HOW CAN ONE POSSIBLY KNOW? Are there characters inside me who have been growing with me? Is there a girl who remembers exactly what it was like to be in 4th grade with braces and a mother who picked out all of your clothes? Has she grown up with me and is just waiting until she has enough energy to rip out of me?

Are there landscapes inside me which have developed with each crying jag, and each laughing fit.

I just want to write. So because it is three AM and I have nothing else to write, I will write this blog entry about wanting to write.

Does this post make any human sense?

Because it's relevant THAT'S WHY

"THIS is what's wrong with this school. That people don't understand that Britney Spears IS a substantive topic! She is a human barometer by which the mood of the country can be determined. When Britney does something outrageous, people reach excitedly for their copies of US Weekly and In Touch magazines. Britney gives us all something to look forward to. Yes, there may be murderers and natural disasters and other downers in the news. But then there's Britney, French-kissing Madonna on the MTV Video Music Awards, and suddenly, things don't seem quite as bad as they did before."

-Meg Cabot

On the house I grew up in

Last year when I came home from break my mother had cleared an entire closet the room I shared with my sisters. Their clothes had been compacted and their shoes were places in areas undiscovered so that for the short week I was home I would feel comfortable.

Last year when I came home the house would be cleaned and the candles all lit. There would be no evidence of the family I was a part of unless I tried to find it. All of Ross's toys were placed in his room instead of on the floor.

Last year when I came home dinners were made with me in mind. My mother found some untapped energy so she could peal all of the potatoes and slice all of the onions.

Now when I come home, my parents have already gone to bed. If I sneak into my brothers room he'll hold one hand out to me, but with the other, he'll hold a finger to his lips. He's only three but he has already learned that in our house you must be quiet at night.

Now my bed has been moved to the basement because my sisters have expanded their possession in our old room. On that bed I may find a sheet but rarely a pillow case. Slowly my things are finding their way into boxes and spaces that aren't needed. It is a mysterious migration to the basement that I cannot keep track of.

Last year, my family, and my house, was still aware of the space left over when I went to college. Now, it is becoming more and more apparent that my family is stretching its legs and enjoying the room it has found in our small house.

All this makes me think that I am quickly approaching the day when I won't come back here. When I will have another house. A house where I will fill all the empty spaces on my own. In some ways, this is a day I wait eagerly for. It will mean I can finally count on finding my own laundry where I left it. Where possessions will not be moved from the place I set it down.

Living with three siblings in a small house is not an enjoyably experience. But it is an experience that has shaped me.

I used to think I would cling to my childhood and be too afraid to leave home. Now it seems that my house is forcing me to leave.