Kitten Eyes

There's the puppy dog face abound, but do we ever wonder where a kitten watches and how? While watching Downton Abbey with my mom, Merlin decided to creep up next to up but stopped purring when he saw the computer screen. Solemnly, he sat, and watched for a full episode. Nonresponsive to petting and coos, his ears perked slightly at Lady Mary and flattened at mention of Thomas (for good reason). I can rest assured that my kitten and his face have at least some good sense.

Discord

This blog is out of order, and so I am. No more is every day simply a few emotions to reflect back onto this page. Now posting is the last thing before I go to bed, sometimes too tired to remember. Why? It's the end of the year. I remember the first day of school waltzing into my Spanish class late and whispering to the eighth grader across the way, "Where's the main office?" They told me they had no idea. I convinced myself with letters and stories and pop quiz trips to the auditorium and room 251 that I would know by the end of seventh grade. That I would establish myself as one of those ancient statues the Greeks could no bring themselves to break down into Hellenistic trash; have a standing appointment at eleven for lunch, a place to go after the last day of school to celebrate. Yesterday was it. Some went to the beach, some to another beach, some to a candy store...

My blog is broken because I went home. Because I felt empty and there was nothing to reflect. I spent the afternoon scrolling further down on social media pages and looking at everyone else's smiles. I wondered where the future self I had written to in September has gone, and where I, the other future self, will go. (Somewhere, I hope.)

Beakers

I never understood before this year that there is something more to my relationship with science than sitting in a room... in a chair... and falling asleep and someone drones in the background about ENzymes and ANGIosperms. This has been my experience, until now. But the teacher who converted me is going off to learn more, and I'll be stuck in another room's chair learning less. It's weird, I guess; I'm usually so weepy, and this time I was the one dry-cheeked kid who awkwardly stood in awe of how incredible Ms. L is. She said this is why she became a teacher. It's why I became a student, too.

Voice

Isn't it funny that my voice died right after I needed it? I'm a stammering, throaty, hoarse mess on the phone; I can barely imagine what people think when they hear me scratching through the line. I've made too many phone calls today, and been too embarrassed to leave voicemails waiting in an invisible box. Isn't it funny that when I had my voice this weekend, there was a whirlwind of hope catching me up and dragging me off to Oz... People told me I was "a Disney princess," "going to be on Broadway," and I was crashing up...

But physics states it all: What goes up must come down. What goes into an invisible box must be taken out, but there is nothing but obligation keeping the recipient from walking away.

Four Poster

I have a new antique four poster bed sitting in the middle of an empty room with a warped floor and I am lying on it. For two years now it's been nesting in a southern storage unit, untouched and in the dark. The wood tightened a bit in the colder seasons yes, and relaxed in summer, but all in all nothing changed. Until my big-time mother maneuvered a truck all the way up the coast on three lane highways to our new house, and told some one-day workers where to place it. She didn't tell them to put it in the corner so they left it by the window, in the middle of an empty room. It's old, new, full of spirit, empty and alone, it's an oxymoron in a piece of furniture and I picked it from a handful of one to be my own. I couldn't reject myself.

Asterix *?$!@

When you are younger, you can hear everyone whispering in the background telling parents not to worry, that children go through a long phase where they simply feel the need to say everything that's been stuffed inside their throats when their mouths get covered to keep it in. It is natural, one says, to curse for attention, to curse to seem mature and cool. And then we move on, and people forget that those once repelled words and phrases ever bounced back. We don't remember that we ever assumed that woman swearing on the bench was crazy. The taboo has become acceptable because we, teh few who tried to fight, soon grew tired of interrupting every sentence. But a dress rehearsal? A lost scene change? And someone cursing? I'm too old to reprimand you and too young to try and guide you away, but you better not do that for my cousins. They are younger than attention-seeking pirates stumbling up school bus stairs. They are younger than covering the mouth for fear of release. They are an ear-covered, semi-swaddled, innocent, unbroken glass toddler pair. But soon enough, they won't be.

Green

Everybody is tinted green, but I must be a fluorescent lime. My jealousy is out of control. It seems like everybody around me knows just how to dance: time step, keeping everything under control and not losing track of minutes and hours and days spent vegetatively thinking, sprinkler, showering everyone with flirtatious remarks and witty smiles with perfect teeth, running man, getting out of a problem before they are buried alive. And I simply can't get the rhythms right. I have two left feet, and K3 makes sure I know it. It's probably a good thing. This way I won't enter a contest and lose.

Concert Dress

We call them, however it might sound, our blacks. Long black shirts, with no decals, no detail, no attempt at interest. Black skirts or pants, ankle length (or with black nylons). Black shoes, which I forgot, so I had to trudge onto the stage in my black socks. First period today was science with a side of fresh for torment substitute, who quizzed us relentlessly on a topic we never studied: the electromagnetic spectrum. At least I think that's what it's called. We learned, between trying to say each other's names during attendance and pointlessly flipping through our notes looking for answers, that black is the absence of light. But nothing can be truly black. A raincloud hovering ominously over a city - darkest gray. Me today - impending disaster, ready to snap... I snapped... but the absence of light is nonexistent in my life. There is, no matter what K3 says, ALWAYS hope.

Averages

In the end, the result of your high school experience comes down to the cold calculation of which way the wind is blowing via compass points; e.g. there are only 13 averages. Unlucky thirteen. You can get up to an A+, but only if you only stay above 97. You can get down to an F, but... I don't want to think about that. No matter how many friends you have, no matter your reviews in the school paper, no matter anything else that floats around in the ether there are thirteen distinct planets, from biggest to smallest, and if you run out of water on the farthest one from the sun, sucks for you I guess. You know what I need? A space shuttle, stat.

Tech

Today at rehearsal, there will be moving pieces throughout the stage, blocking my way and the light and one of the fire exits. (Oh well.) I won't be sure where to stand or what to do in the oddest set I've ever been a part of, yet another door on hinges spinning back and forth and looking for someone to bang into. It's like the walls have minds of their own, as though they want to undermine the entire show and turn us on our heads. I won't know where to stand, but I certainly will know where to be: beside everyone else, working to undermine the set back over itself again, and crack the whip in favor of an excellent performance.

Somewhere is Here

I heard in Art History class that the idea of a Muslim reflecting pool is that the reflection of the actual world representing the otherworldly heaven. A reflecting pool is manmade, but does the same apply to a lake? Because the lake I've spent the weekend in front of has shown me exactly the color blue of the sky, and the underwings of a bird, and the shape of the sun before it sets over the mountains. I was just wondering if that exactly is the otherworldly, if I am living in a state of perpetual perfection and I just don't know it. Things don't seem perfect at all. But maybe perfection doesn't exist and a bit of happiness at last is as good as it gets.

Hoarse

I have an intense fear of embarrassment, as do probably most people. My throat, still recovering from a sour soreness and then a slimy coat, is unwilling to hit the notes I'll need to tonight onstage. One more week until the show. The first real show I'll ever lead. One more week, and what if I still can't reach high E flat or low G? Regardless, tonight I'll step onstage and have to practice. And lose the lingering respect of anyone who will be watching. Tonight, my dreams will shine like mud. I hope, with all of my heart, that the vocal chords pull a miracle out of some back pocket and I can sit on them and wait until the end of my solo.

Tucked In

It's always so nice on Mondays, when our housekeeper stops by for her weekly cleaning of our tiny little apartment balanced on seven teetering ones below. She fixes the blankets I've tossed around in my sleep, thrown onto the floors and into the crack by the window. I crawl into bed that night and everything is so soft, like the inside of a silk thread cocooning a worm. Everything is secure, tucked into the sides of the frame.

This was a short blog. I'm tired. I'll go sleep now.

Erase Button

People deal with anger or feeling uncomfortable in as many ways as there are fish flopping in the sea's watery kingdoms. Some will crack jokes, to release the tension pushing their skin outward. Some will yell, or scream, to make everyone around them aware of their current state of being: fury. Others, like me, prefer to pretend we were never there. While everyone is giggling or screeching away the pain, we grab everything and scurry away, so when they come up to breathe we are not there to look in the eye. Perhaps one day this way of running away from the source will be my curse, but for now, I can be happy I escaped. This time.

Disaster on the Floor

I had all the remnant materials together to bake a beautiful cheesecake. I'd melted the butter in the microwave. Crushed the cookies in a bag. Poured the last bit of sugar from the canister. The cheese and milk sat in wait in the spotless new fridge. Until... I tapped the edge of the springform pan and everything fell onto the floor. I'm sorry, A. I used up everything too quickly. Everything is such a mess right now; I'll go clean up.

Prank Call

While watching Downton Abbey with my parents this evening, I received a call from a private number. Innocently, I paused the video and answered. "Hello?" I asked.

"YOUR LOVING GIVES ME DIABETES!"

After a brief banter, during which I accused the caller of being E2 and they denied it, I hung up the phone. My mother, amused by the situation, grabbed the phone from me when it rang again seconds later. Adopting an accent, she stuttering, "Hello?"

"AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!"

And the line was disconnected. My dad complained that he wasn't getting any of the fun, so he took the phone... And this continued. Ah, how I love the reality of having occasionally ridiculous parents.

Inverse

I spotted an opposite today. It was on the drive home, at the one spot on the highway where a northern building looks southernmost and things are generally upside-down. There was a large black cloud covering half the sky, hanging over a brushed-gray sky. In the latter hung some small, wispy black ones, and above some wispy, small white ones. As different as can be, but made from the same part. It's almost the end of my first upper year. The strange thing is, though the colors are different, both skies, both floating worlds, are made from the same parts.

Recovery

The contra dance in my part of the city has so much electricity running through its people that you could power an entire third-world country. They are young, smart, and nice, as my dad puts it; these are the people that will take control of this dying art when its originals start to fade away. I danced as much as I possibly could, collecting compliments and introductions, and my hair flying in my face served as a sufficient shield against those who creeped me out more than the average human does. The midway break rolled around, and I was enjoying too many peanut butter cookies in the corner, my father approached me, a strained expression staining his face. When I asked what was wrong, he responded, "My shoulder is..." He winced as his words faded away, faded away. "I can't stay."

The remnants of the internal energy lingered on our sweaty skin as we walked the mile home in suddenly 40 degree weather. We were not cold. When I asked what was causing all of this trouble with each shoulder, he told me, "I don't heal as quickly anymore." Add two months onto this whole situation: I'll be a teenager. Add thirty and I'll be the caller behind the microphone at some dance that people think I'm too old for because I still am wearing fedoras long after the craze. Add that thirty and my father will be slowly disappearing into the background, fading away...

Subtract thirty, please.

Running

Waiting at the deli for J3's BLT to pop cleanly out of a thrice-used toaster, the rain picked up until it gushed in rivers down the hill towards the river. R was the first to notice. The first to throw off her backpack and hoist herself into the fray. She screamed, ran around for a few seconds, and returned as if she had just stepped out of a cabin shower. "Watch my stuff." I ditched my blue purse, my lunch bag, my wheelie, and opened the door. The wind was that of the Kalahari, with the moisture of the Marianas. My head was that of an action figure banged against the wall: a little bit looser than it was before. Without a backwards thought, I rushed out and laughed harder than I have. A woman stopped to stare at me under her spineless umbrella. I didn't care; all of the cigarette butts from the past few weeks were hurrying down the storm drains.

Yearbook

There are currently eight yearbooks on my shelf - not including the dusty, folded ones my mom forgot to get rid of or forgot she wanted to keep. They are in order of year, the first from my finger-painting days at age 4 (the earlier years they just gave us placemats with our picture on them) and the last from my sixth grade at age 11. Each has its own distinct theme; one is globally themed with maps on every page and red marks instead of name plaques, another is board game themed featuring a Game-of-Life-esque roll-and-move board on the inside cover. Today, I walked into my Wednesday club to discover that my seventh grade yearbook was off the presses. People were laughing at their photos, examining their friends', and reminiscing about the year. No. Wait. No one else was reminiscing. I couldn't help it. I could just see the bold red spine sitting on the shelf in a few weeks, waiting for its younger siblings to slowly file into place.

On The Roof

It was somewhat of a movie moment, when we all, the four of us, emerged into the juicy sunlight. Instinctively our hands flew to our brows and we laughed. Everything around us was radiant green or milky gray, the color of my eyes in that second before I burst into tears. But the lines... the lines were so sharp. The stiff sides of a building someone's grandfather was underpaid to build loomed on the right. To the left, an artificial hedge so that we wouldn't see the drooping awnings below. Any sign of weakness was eliminated, intimidating the tourists, rejuvenating the patriot, and wildly confusing me. "Take a picture," I giggled, holding out my camera to them. The burning, scorching, invasive sunlight pushed my borders until ironic tears burst upwards like geysers and I shut them out tight. I couldn't stop smiling. Downstairs, examining the pictures, I discovered the most peculiar thing: In every wrong picture, I fit right in with the world around me: the world over the edge, not the superficial garden, like a popular clique making your imperfections stick out and hiding their own with concealer or mascara or picturesque buildings in the exact place a real person can't open their eyes.

New Day (or Chain of Events pt. 2)

It's Monday. The start of a new week. And things are already resolving themselves. I was late for one class today, one that doesn't involve lessons. My grades are gradually pulling back up as if suspended from a wire. I have almost no homework, so I can't finish it late. I found my copy of To Kill A Mockingbird before I had time to hand over fifteen dollars cash for its replacement. I don't have to worry about singing because I have a cold... but only a cold, no fever, stomachache, dizziness... One GOOD thing, too, and it's like more waves. I finally feel like all of the poison has been pulled away, magnetically almost, and now it's time for Tuesday. And moving on.

Energize

I dropped the TV remote in front of a cabinet and the back of the battery pack jumped off, scattering the two boxes of energy to the winds. We got out flashlights and yardsticks and poked around under every piece of furniture, finding long gone cat toys and newspapers from January but no batteries anywhere. Eventually I had to open a new package and restock the supply before the TV noises became too obnoxious to bear. Annoyedly, we rummaged through closets on ladders to find some new ones, but in the end, the power was right there, only hiding. The power was behind a couple of doors but ready for immediate installation.

Chain of Events

Since 2:02 p.m. on Wednesday afternoon, an increasing number of bad things have been happening to me. The weirdest things, too, as though they were stolen from someone else's destiny and decoupaged onto my own. Arriving late for class, because I forgot I had anything to do, an end purpose. Bad grades, some of the worst I've ever received, for stupid things. Not finishing my homework until four hours after my usual, and sometimes forgetting parts altogether. Losing school materials and facing a steep fee. Not singing well at rehearsal, and having your directors notice it. Waking up this morning with a headache, nausea, stomach pain, and a rubbed raw sore throat that tea can't help, and then finding out I'm still required to go to school on Monday because I don't have a fever. One bad thing and it's like waves: The momentum of the crash flings some more water up, and then the only place to go is down again.

Songwriting

My friend L is an exceptional songwriter. And an exceptional editor. Which means her songs are great. But sometimes she inadvertently makes mine look like plastic bags floating in the wind that will someday choke a turtle: worthless. It's not that she says that - no, no, L is a joy. The problem is that she is really good at everything even when she says she isn't. So I used to be good at English - oh wait, L is better. I used to be good at acting - oh wait, L is better. I used to be a songwriter - oh wait, L is better. And I'm honestly proud of her. She's moved past my simple chord progressions and still doesn't see the originality in her taxi cab metaphors, and such.

But here I am. Just finished writing a song. Here's a quote: "I'm not gonna torment you, never want to hurt you, even if I did you'd still walk by free, me lonely. You've a right to hate me although it frustrates me, but I won't throw away the words you gave me. The past can't run away like some yesterday, I won't let it run away." I emailed that bit to another friend, E, and asked for advice. It's late. Almost no one is up. I really didn't expect anything. But suddenly, a message came through: "Keep it up!" I was stunned. And thrilled. And suddenly it didn't matter if L was better than me. It mattered that we had both managed to transform our pain into beauty, which sounds cliché but is one of the hardest things to master. Now that all of those tears, and frowns, and heads-being-banged-on-walls are on the page, I can rearrange them. Rearrange the letters in heads-being-banged-on-walls and you get: We all beg-and-bashed in song.

Walking In

I walked into art and there was everyone. I was late, like always, and you always discount the outlier when calculating the average, so I'm used to sliding around to my chair by the back row, quietly. Today, everyone was staring at me. No one spoke. I was almost positive they had just been talking about me. Silently, I slithered into my seat. I heard a few pestered whispers from somewhere to my right. Turned over my shoulder quickly; mouths were shut. I'll never know what they were saying. But I'll make myself not care if it's the last thing I do.

Blurry

Do you remember the way the world looks when you've just come out of a pool and the chlorine has clouded your vision? When you cry over something stupid and the liquid makes everything wobble? Do you remember the way the world looks when you are unconditionally happy, to the point that laughter and song and spilling out of your mouth, your ears - your eyes? They're not really that different when you think about it. In both cases you can't tell what's right in front of you and what's far away, and what's even there at all. In both cases you can barely remember how you got to where you are and how on Earth to get back. In both cases it's impossible to know what the world looks like to a normal person, someone a little less dislocated than us. Think of that: To that unstuck elbow joint, where are you? And who else is there? And do they honestly care if that thing in front of you is a person or a telephone pole? Not unless you walk into its waiting steel arms and bang your head. And forget everything.

"Can't you see that you lie to yourself? You can't see the world through a mirror. It won't be too late when the smoke clears, because I? I am still here." -Avril Lavigne, describing the life of one C Lev

Owl Pellet

The Owl Pellet Laboratory Exercise is a stereotype in public schools. With little funding, all you need is an owl pellet and a pair of tweezers and you're off. For those of you lucky, lucky ones who get lots of private funding, basically you pick through the remains of what an owl didn't want, couldn't stomach, had no way to deal with. It's been compacted into one "Forget It" bundle, and it's our job to find the "Save It" few. Looking through all of these bits of fur, shards of bone, scraps of plant, I couldn't seem to find anything worth saving. Looking through all of the risks I didn't want to take, chances I couldn't stomach, opportunities I had no way to deal with, there's so much I wanted. But now that it's all in the "Forget It" bundle I'm too tired to reclassify. And too scared.

Stripedy

I wore my striped socks today. No one could see them, because I pulled my black boots on over, but they were there, just as they had been for years on years. They are completely worn through. In fact, even now, lying on my bed with the blue curtains shut, I can see two of my left foot toes peeking out next to me. Many, many times before a stoop sale, my mom's gone through the sock drawer with me and stopped on these rainbow dusted ones: "Hey, aren't these ready to get rid of? Should I throw them away?" Before she could say anything else, I always grabbed the socks and yanked them back towards me. They remind me of a time before I knew what curse words meant, before I had gaping purple bags under my eyes, before I cared if people say my mismatched rainbow socks. I wore boots over, covered all of that old, wrinkled fabric. So maybe I am ready to throw them away, in the trash along with the one Barbie doll I owned, my chewed-up stuffed dog Sleepy, and the dress I wore to my fourth grade graduation. Goodbye, socks. (Hello, stockings.)

Falling Apart

It seems that I'm the only uncracked egg left in the carton. My mother sprained her arm. She bandaged it up herself with tan gauze and closed it first-aid style, as if she was back at camp and fell off a canoe onto a rock, and they lost their paddle, and... and this metaphor is getting longwinded, I'll move on. My father stretched his shoulder. He leaves it like normal and tries not to say anything about it to me, with little etchings of discomfort on his cheeks as if unable to erased. And me? I'm insanely fine. So here I am, feeling like I shouldn't be so serene. So here I am, feeling it is wrong to be happy. So here I am, half of me, away from the rest, not caring. Being happy is nice.

Cityscape

When my uncle came to town for the first time since entering our closely knit and widely spread family,  for my aunt's baby shower, he was surprised at three things: Number one. I was suddenly 5' 3'', a shocking revelation. I could feel him make a conscious choice, reluctantly, that from now on, he had to tilt his head down a little less and accept that I was catching up to him. Number two. Jewish families are weird. This was his first non-holiday interaction closely with the branches of his wife's family tree, and more than once, in a car or on the street, he said, "Are you sure?" to which we responded with a vigorous nod. Southern hospitality is instinctual, but Jewish advice is ironwill. Number three. My room had an incredible view of the entire skyline, left to right, up to down, with an indirect view of the bleeding sunsets. He walked in. It had enough floor space to fit a classroom art table, plus my bed, propped up against the window. I had never looked on it as anything more than a disappointment, a 4 foot subway car I had to crane my head to get into. But uncle W? "WOW!" he exclaimed. "Now this is city living! Almost nicer than a big house! I think I'd rather live here!" I looked around with his eyes. The blue paint on the walls was quaint. The cityscape out the window was amazing. I loved the city, and yearned for a bigger window, a larger zoom on my camera, and a balcony to walk out onto and scream whenever I needed to. I could settle for city. I could rely on city. I could be a part of the city, like a bead on a necklace: You could get me off, but not without removing everything in sight and splitting open the threads.

Sunshine

The park is so beautiful this time of year: The ground strewn with petals, sitting gently on the heads of winter's leaves, the trees the green of animation forests, lit by sunshine tinted by the waves of wind upon your face. There are just the right number of oaks to hide behind. There are just the right number of sticks to scratch notes into the dirt for anyone to find. There are just enough blades of grass that you will never finish counting them. You will never see where the dandelion seed goes as it blows away from you. You will never know exactly when the dirt turned so rich and dark, exactly when the sky fell open and showed its blue underbelly, exactly when the path turns into ground turns into forest and stone. Nothing is too many or too few, except the seconds spent in the calm. I could live in a park alone for days on end without remembering my identity, while still knowing who I am.

Blasted

I'd never been to a concert until today. I'd asked. My parents, with their cautionary fingers, warned so long ago, "You don't WANT to go to a concert. It will be so loud you won't be able to tell where the stage is and where the door is. You'll be trapped, without identity, in a world of left and right and drums and guitars. You won't be able to hear the words." They were right about the last bit. They were right about everything. But it was a pleasant pandemonium. I loved the way we all laughed when they checked the mic. We sat down when our feet hurt from stomping and our thumbs from snapping and our palms from clapping - perfect. Yes, they were right, I didn't know who I was, but I was sure who everyone around me was. I could tell you all their names, but then you'd live in the moment, halfway there without fully understanding the chaos of hearing a million songs you've never heard and not knowing when you're supposed to scream. Let it suffice to say that there were six of us (plus two alone in an aisle below) and we shouted until we couldn't breathe.

Explosion

Every morning, I wake up with something... interesting.... sitting on my head: my hair, tangled and browned from the night before. I brush it; I rub antifrizz stuff through it. And then I get to school and it looks just like it did when my alarm went off. I run my hands through it and try to pull it over my shoulder, tangles getting stuck on my fingers and thumb. And then I get home and it has exploded it can't be controlled.

My hair is life. That sounds superficial, let me rephrase. My hair represents life. There's always a calm before the storm, and after the worst of hurricanes - or, in hair's case, days, it's always back to normal in the morning. See you in the morning.

Mac Lab

I worked on my electronic mandala for about an hour, creating tiny purple wedges, copying them, turning them, trying to form a curve around the center. It was only at the end of the hour that I realized that I could have simply made a purple circle and moved the layer back. Oh well. Yeah, I didn't take the easiest course of action, but the end result was beautiful.

*smiley face*

I didn't finish. It's okay. I finished what I needed to.

The Elusive Yellow Dress #2

"The Elusive Yellow Dress" is the name of my very first blog post. When I wrote, I hated myself. I had no hope at all. The entire purpose of Improbability in the City was to vent. In the first few days, I only had around ten views a day. That's built to an average around 55. At its highest, 147. Today I wore a yellow dress and it reminded me of the person I was three months ago. I was scared. (Still am.) I was hopeless. But that can in its own way be a good thing because you can't fall any further down. I had no idea what to do. And neither do I.

But I have changed. Three months ago, I never would have worn a bright yellow dress.

Accidentally

If you don't remember how I feel about secrets, please go back into the archives and read "Deepest." Good. Moving on. I despise the way that secrets drip their way out of washing pots and pipes and find themselves in open space for anyone to find. So I was careful this time: 2 close friends, enough to keep the holes from spilling through. But things happen, simply by accident: Not by them letting the water spill but by me sloshing it around. Add one for the time she asked me why I was so upset - makes three. Add one for the way she shouted her hypothesis aloud and I needed to shut her up - makes four. Add one for how she'd been guessing for ages, and I really couldn't lie when she finally figured it out - makes five. Add one for the friendly torture she'd inflicted upon me, with clues, pokes, and reputation crushing, in order to get me to give it away - makes six. Add one for no ideas, and doubts about where the intel came from - makes seven. Add one for he just knew and I was tired of talking about it - makes eight. Add one for he told her flat out, right there in the hallway, and I panicked - makes nine.

If three's a crowd, I wonder what on earth nine is.

Turn To Verse

Give me thirty minutes. Give me a thumping emotion making a noise in my ears, impossible to ignore. Give me a pen, a slip of untouched paper. Give me a few blue ink lines across it to mark my thoughts off. I will give you a sonnet.

Because Shakespeare is the genius I've never lived up to. Because Shakespeare is the inspired force behind my drive. Because writing in iambic pentameter lets you organize what you really mean. There is only one missing piece: I'd never, ever, show them to you, X. You'd never look at m the same.

Skipped

It was an accident; I know, in all actuality, it was a natural accident. I know that no one intentionally ruined my scene. I know that no one meant to glide over me like a lowly beetle. I know. Believe me, I know that J6 feels terrible, and I tried to reassure him I was fine. I don't know if anyone believed me. In a fit of rage I kicked my already loose flat so kick it ricocheted off the ceiling. Over the past two weeks, I have worked for about 45 hours on this play, and there were plenty of rehearsals before that. I do almost nothing throughout the entire show. I have one shining moment. And they skipped it.

And I wonder if I'm doing the same thing to myself. There was a moment at the Halloween dance where I felt something. I felt perpetually happy. I felt at peace. I felt alive. I spun so fast that I couldn't tell where I was, but I could tell who was around me. I could tell I had finally done something with myself and come into my own body, like zipping up a VISIBILITY cloak around myself. But maybe this is the time of my life. I should be taking a risk, while I have the chance.

Anonymous

One of you is reading this blog. I don't know who you are. You comment as "Anonymous." You comment as though you are my best friend. It's out there, somewhere in the ether, your hair, that I wish I could grab to pull you back to me. It's exhilarating to have a cheerleader, even if I don't know them. Everyone keeps warning me: Blogs put your personal information at risk! Blogs put your life on display! People in Germany are stalking you! But I'm being safe. I haven't revealed anything important -  well, anything concrete and important. And is it crazy that I'm relying on Anonymous to boost my self-esteem? I'm not denying it. I just want you to know, Anonymous, your comments aren't going out my ear. They are sticking like post-its on a wall. A wall once impassible. Now covered in little windows.

New Shirts

I've never been popular. It is not in my nature to be popular. I have grown out of wanting to be popular. It isn't who I am. So therefore, for better or worse, I have never had the feeling of being part of the in crowd. Of walking down the hallway with a group to look for. Of knowing a place, particularly and specifically, in the midst of a busy school. When we got the shirts for the middle school play, and we had to wear them today, I suddenly walked to class and waved to people. They hesitantly waved back. But regardless, I knew them. Our too-big blue cast tees pulled us out from everyone else, like walking light-up arrows pointing at each other. But it's not me. It's fake. I prefer to be myself, and not someone's partner in crime.

Acknowledgement

I would like to publicly recognize my new friend Y. I started talking to her a few days ago and simply couldn't stop. She actually cared about what I was saying, unlike my friends who are beginning to grow bored of my always-the-same questions for them; she listened to me as I spilled a nameless heart to her in little moments that we had time to spare. It's an interesting thing, looking up to someone. You think they're always right, and they have to assume they are to avoid the guilt that goes with leading someone astray. There is no one to check the balance. There is no way to know what I should do next. So Y, thank you, if I can really thank anyone at all.

GHOS_

If you are intellectual youth in the city and you have never played the game GHOST, you have never understood what a game is. For those of you unenlightened folk, GHOST is basically a spelling game, where a series of players take turns saying one letter, attempting NOT to be forced to say the last letter in a word. I used to be exceptional at this game. Then the deaths; then the double rehearsals, darting back and forth; then the drama; then the night upstate; then everything else - needless to say, I'm too tired to effectively concentrate.

I played with T and L today. Whenever I play with T, three wonderful and very annoying things happen: A) He wins. B) He forms an alliance with the other player against me. C) He knows the etymology of every word. Regardless, I lost. I lost because I couldn't remember the words masculinity, geriatric, and ricotta.

I have to get used to this perpetual sense of exhaustion. I have to become accustomed to losing at GHOST, and everything else. It all depends on who you're playing against. Now I'm in a new environment. Now I'm playing against T.

Curiosity

One of the biggest themes in "Still Life with Iris" is curiosity. I could learn a lesson or two from the main character. Always asking questions, always risking everything for double or nothing. Sometimes I know an answer so well that I am afraid to hear it said aloud, so I don't bother asking in the first place. Sometimes I worry that if anyone has to actually tell me the answer, it will change. I can live with knowing. Or, I could. But now I'm starting to wonder what would happen if I did ask the questions. It's killing me to go day to day basing everything on a possibility, as close and as far as the ground eight floors below me, but nowhere near as stable. What ifs are not good for my health.

Exhaust

I was so tired that when I got up from the thrice-painted floor I couldn't walk in a straight line. I was so tired that after standing onstage for about twenty seconds I had to collapse onto a nearby platform. I was so tired that I couldn't smell the hairspray being messed with inches from my face. I was so tired that I couldn't find the gap between the curtains where I could walk backstage to lie down again. I was so tired that I let myself be a normal middle school for once and gossip a little - don't worry, I wasn't mean! I was so tired that when L asked me what I was thinking about, my biggest secret, and my obsession, I couldn't remember the answer. I could only remember that they were all the same thing.

P.S. Now I remember.

Night

They talked forever on the night hike, into the field and down the road, and I could feel the life flowing away from the area, the magic disappearing, if it was ever there. Even when we reached the hill, they kept chattering and catcalling into the darkness. A few of us wanted the magic. I guided us to the edge of the clearing. The moon was the size of my palm, as smooth as the skin on a baby's. Together we stood and watched it not move. We talked about being small. A said, as M sang "Somewhere Over the Rainbow," that we were all so tiny, like waves in an ocean. "But each wave rises and crashes on its own," I said.

Taconic

We're off on the class sleepover for a year, one night in cabins in the woods to get a taste of each other and the natural world. I've heard so many things about the trip: You'll be bored. Best time of my life. Interesting things will happen. But despite the varied opinion, I have my own cringing worries. The last time I went on a class sleepover, my cabin was composed of me, my best friends, and a couple of popular people who didn't fit in the same cabin with their friends. The good thing: There are no awful cliquish people in my class. The bad thing: I can't stay isolated to one class out of nine forever. Eventually I'll have to venture away from my comfort zone and see the world - or at least the other end of the grade hallway.

E

Taking a math test is little cause for panic on a usual basis; there are no facts to memorize, only concepts to master. But this test was different. The results will determine my math education for the next four years, and possibly beyond. We arrived to the room at eleven, at which time the exam was supposed to begin with closed doors. They instructed us to take out a pencil, and I saw green slips of paper fluttering like dollar bills from my teacher's hand - the Scantron sheets. I realized with a sinking feeling that I had only prepared with a pen.

Back I dashed through the hallway, screaming for a pencil with might. No - no - no - only got one - no - yes. R produced a yellow pencil and I gratefully grabbed it, scurrying back to the exam room. Turning over the pencil, I noticed a small marking on its base - a number three.

It brought me back to the terror I felt at the end of fifth grade when I accidentally did my standardized tests in number three pencil. They were my qualifiers for the school of my dreams. And then I thought about what those tests got me: the school of my dreams, and absolutely no sleep. And I wondered why I was so anxious about not getting into advanced math when I should be worried about the other outcome.

Green Space

There's a spot a few blocks from my house, right by the subway station, which looks out at the most gorgeous building in my neighborhood, old and crusted with detail and rented by all the big names for film shoots, and sits beside the Hope Hill, as I call it. The Hope Hill is planted with the daffodils Amsterdam sent after 9/11, and each spring they bloom among the ivy and trees. The canopy of leaves ahead blocks out the sun and forms a little cocoon from the outside world.

Waiting for my father, I sat down on the bench. For the first time since Janet's death, I took a deep breath and let the muscles in my stomach, in my shoulder, in my heart relax for a second. Science fair is over. I've done what I can for the math placement exam. Now it is time to breath in daffodil smell on Hope Hill.

Collective

My cousin E told me about the fainting incident in Texas when I told her about the meltdown series. (Last week in my class, about three quarters of the girls broke down sobbing and were inconsolable. Five, including me, cut English to go to the guidance counselor. Even though she forced our teacher to excuse us, we were given a pop quiz the next to make sure we'd been paying attention in the class - that we had missed.) Apparently, around my age, girls are extremely social and look to each other for guidance on what to wear, to say, and how to act. In Texas, a girl fainted at her school. Suddenly, all the girls were fainting. Physically fainting, although medically there was no explanation. It went on for months like this, the girls' minds forcing them to faint inexplicably. This, E suggested, was akin to the meltdown series.

Sometimes it feels like it's over. We no longer cry during lunch. We manage to finish our projects - or at least hope we will. But I still feel the perpetual sense of helplessness throughout our little group. Wednesday is looming: Science fair in the morning, then performing our melodrama, the math placement exam, callbacks for the school play, rehearsal for the other school play, lacrosse practice, and a baseball game. We cower and try not to think about. That's my explanation for the calm: No one is thinking about it. If we were all thinking about, we'd all be fainting, wouldn't we?

Boy

You don't have to say it; I know I missed another day of blogging. Sorry. I was distracted by all the people at my aunt's baby shower asking me about my blog. (They like it.) I was distracted also by the enormous stork balloon tied to a chair, and the miraculous bump in her belly. Until three years ago, I was the youngest of my twelve cousins. I always read the Four Questions at Passover. Made sure to leave the note for Santa on the table. But all that changed when O was born, then C3. Next, who knows? A miraculous bump that grows and grows and then disappears again, although somehow, the matter has multiplied. It happens all the way. A little bit of knowledge becomes an encyclopedia, a little bit of talking becomes a speech, and a little bit of love becomes an eternal adoration of the little thing.

Silently, Not

Today was the National Day of Silence in support of LGBTQ individuals who are silenced in their everyday lives. Although my school greatly supported this plan, even excusing participants from participating in class, one girl in my class - J3, I believe I called her - was very pointed about the idea before it was announced school wide. Several emails were hustled around about the purpose, the means, and the verdict: Yes, I'll be a good person, or no, I'm too lazy. I said the former and did the latter.

That seemed to be everyone's problem today. It's crunch time, like we're all stuck in a room with a bomb in it and we have only a little time left to crack the code to survival, so we can't afford to make another mistake. Not being able to ask questions about the major project in science? Being forced to play a game in Health without making a sound? I gave in. Pathetically.

Today was like a boysenberry. On the outside, they look quaint, docile, and ripe. One bite, and you'll stop eating. Unless someone dies first. So I'm sorry to all those people who will eat the boysenberries of hatred and abuse because I couldn't keep from saying, "Sorry."

Words Fail

People say a picture is worth a thousand words. If so, a word is worth a thousand more, in and of itself. A picture can show you the colors (as the lens portrays), the people, the backdrop. But a picture can't show you what your cousin said right afterwards, or the wave that splashed your sister's feet. A word carries more than an image because an image lays out everything, and a word is different for every person. The faucets keep on flowing until all our memories are piled up like bricks and then we start to build our world.

Computer.

For my dad, it is a way to beat my mom at Scrabble.
For my best friend, it is a tool for posting her artwork.
For my cat, it is a bed, as much as we yell at him and try to get him off.
For me, it is my journal, the one place I can feel like I'm talking to myself and still let everyone hear me.

You, you person I've been writing about recently. Hear me.

For Naught

Things are starting to seem to matter again. Slowly, the feeling is coming back into my fingers, flopping around without rhyme. Even though this worry - for naught - this outfit I'd been saving - for naught - confessions to the world, and to myself, and to fate - for naught - I remain intolerably here. You just can't get rid of me.

Try everything, I beg. Poison my water or blood. Stab me straight through and leave me screaming. Indent your bullet in my thigh. Blow up my world, my street, my city. I plead with you to starve me of sufficiency. To leave me as cold as winter's showers, or as hot as the fires of that burning afterthought that some call hell. It's my Groundhog Day, and I'll always come back. Don't count me out. I'm not leaving in so many words.

Boston

I had a breakdown in the middle of art class. And I had reasons.

As you know, Janet passed away on March 27, the first person close to me ever to die.
I have so many secrets it hurts.
The science fair due date is in a week.
I just got a bite plate and now I am lisping. And my teeth hurt.
I lost my script for a play that's in two weeks.
I just learned how Al Qaeda was started.
I hate my art teacher; he insults us and our art, tells us things that aren't true, and yells at us every class, for no apparent reason. He gave us a test today, and one of the questions directly contradicted what he had taught. His reasoning? We would learn the "exception to the rule" later that class. (This was what sparked the meltdown.)

And you, Boston, I cannot fathom what has happened on your now painted red streets. Not patriotically, not in favor of those wretched Red Sox. With the blood of the steadfast and strong. We'll never know if they were brave. They took no risks. This has happened to you with sudden speed. We are in uproar. I have family there, my favorite teacher. Nothing compared to the family of the gone, and the family of the city. The safest city to run your course in has been contradicted.

Even if I have a Boston reader, there is most certainly too much on their mind to respond now. To read. But I love you. I'm sorry I had a meltdown. It was in spite.

Invincible Apple?

I think S was genuinely devastated when E smashed her "aerodynamic apple" to the courtyard tile with foolish ferocity, although it is always hard to guess what she is thinking. It had been enjoyable to watch her pelt the fruit at people, yelling, "THINK FAST!" before letting go, unless I was the target of her toss. As I watched E half-sheepishly slink away, I was a bit disappointed, but the circumstances were clear: S had distinctly said she could have the apple after it dropped into a pile of muck. Perhaps it was a joke; as I say, you can never tell.

Go ahead, I'll smash the way I feel. Or not - no, I really don't want to. It's awfully fun to through it around inside my head, although rather pointless. A pile of muck will not deter. It's okay to love yourself, as long as you don't love yourself more than everyone - at least someone - else.

Oh No

I think I am going to cry. For the first time ever, I have missed a day of blogging. Life has been crazy, sure, like the Queens tornado a few years ago, whipping through the streets and capturing small objects, and my computer is broken so typing takes me twice as long as usual, but that is no excuse. No excuse in the slightest for neglecting the audience I have collected. People in Germany read - many, many of them. A few in Mexico, England, and quite a few in Russia. Not to mention the American thousand. Is this not what I want, to be noticed by the masses and accepted onto their stages?

Spring is coming, and flowers are in bloom. Would that I were.

Lisp

Let'th athume I am writing thith the way I thpeak right now; with a lithp. I cringe to think of how the company will rethpond to thith new development. And tho, I cringe ath well to think of how others will rethpond. Or maybe I thould be thaying other. Thingular.

I dithgust mythelf. Alath.

Fit!

That moment when two puzzle pieces fit together quite obviously, you reach for the one and a small child snatches it from your hand, forces another into its rightful place. With squeezing, the fit is forced at best, haphazard at worst, and the other will not bond with another piece. Its spot has been swallowed up by the fist of a toddler.

So did this actually happen? No, it did not. It's a metaphor. I am trying as hard as I can to make it to where I know I am supposed to be, and yet a stubborn, sweaty grip is pushing back into former place. I do not want to see its matchmaking abilities anymore; I would be glad to simply sink into the satisfying cardboard slot, or take the next best option and force my own fit. Lying on the table, discarded, is a candy wrapper's game. Once so sweet, and now unnecessary, wasting space that could be used for the puzzle.

Jam. Jam it in tight.

Mystery Flowers

When I walked into the lobby, I of course immediately noticed the humungous - in comparison to the tiny space - flower arrangement, wrapped in yellow and sitting on the radiator. Assuming it sat in wait of some elderly woman on the third floor, I continued up the stairs, until our doorman stopped me: "Um, Chloe, these are for your dad." Utterly surprised, I reached for the bouquet. It was, after all, Daddy's birthday, but flowers had never before appeared. "There's a first time for everything," K told me. When I got upstairs, I set them down on the table and examined the card; From my grandmother!

Why did it matter who they were from? Was it because I've never gotten flowers either? My dad always used to tell me he was unpopular until high school. It was something we could relate about. Now, here I am! High school! Did something forget to tell tech to flip the switch? The reality is I don't need flowers. They smell nice, but eventually my cat will find a way to eat them anyway. So I don't need that - I mean them - no, I mean that.

Guilty

I am guilty of the crime of watching the worst TV show in the world almost everyday: Big Brother Canada. If you thought regular Big Brother was awful, the Canadian counterpart is even more ridiculous. I mean, get OOT of here! But then why do I watch it? Because I don't have to think when I watch it. Since starting at my new school, my mind has been on all the time during the day; I come home feeling drained, waning like a moon. And, so I must admit, I enjoy feeling stupid - once in a while. Don't try it. Trust me. It will make you hate yourself.

Long Day

Up at six, with crusted dreams in the corners of my eyes. Out at seven, without a coat and not at all cold, ignoring the hooded, insulated figures around me. Seated at eight, a notebook in my chilled hand, and a now lost pen behind my ear behind my hair. Scribbling at nine to keep up with the frantic and rather patriotic lecture; I have no time to "discuss with a neighbor." British at ten, in a melodrama in which I feel lost and/or insignificant, trying to make my small sidekick role stand out. Caught in a brainstorm at eleven, for a sitcom I have written, though the words are being righteously snatched away from me. Sneaking at twelve, with my math homework open and done while the substitute talks on and on. Transported at one, Shakespeare in my heart and mind like a dream or aspiration; oh, that I would be like the bard in all amazed glory! Hurrying at two, to get to chorus, spill the beans, make the day. Waiting at three for a rehearsal in which I will walk and wait some more. Leaning at four from two bars, posts, backstage while I am supposed to be following along - someone has stolen my pen. Rushing at five to board the train and go to the next rehearsal, the next stage line, the next chance to experiment. Exhausted at six, having just arrived and being awfully relieved at my prompt arrival, warmy and coze. Glamorous at seven, being filmed by some journalist for a feature during the few seconds I grasped of a scene. Fluttery at eight: to the car, to the car, to home. And now, nine, I write, anxious for the long night to come.

Memories

Elaine's memorial was not the meeting of the minds I so desperately need; while I yearned for shared experience and stories, I received inside jokes and cross-references that I din't understand. In the dances her colleagues put on display, in the speeches her "best friends" gave (although each of the ten or so speakers thought that they were the closest to her, and she, in her privated ways, had never confirmed any suspicions): I felt a disconnect. People were mentioned; I didn't know who they were. Everyone laughed; I couldn't figure out why. I was forced to learn, over blue cheese and cranberries, in a suite that Brad Pitt and others had stayed before us, that I didn't know Elaine at all. Since her death, people have been saying how no one but her late partner truly understood her, because she was so very secretive and independent, but this felt different; it was like I had been dragged to celebrate the life of someone my family knew a long time ago, that I had no recollection of and little right to remember.


To elaborate on the point of one of the speakers, Elaine was a once-in-a-lifetime person, and will be remembered by the world, documented, celebrated for centuries. I'll join the masses, and rejoice in her accomplishments as an onlooker, never a friend.

Threads

When I put on the dress I had been saving for months this morning, an indulgent shade of teal and covered in multi-sized sequins, I discovered, unfortunately, that several plastic threads had sprung off the fabric and were curling up into the air. Horrified at the disarray of my self-masterpiece, I hastily grabbed a pair of blue-handled scissors and snipped the unwanted bits into the trash. "Careful," my mom said, "They could be holding all of the other threads on."

That reminded me of the ancient Chinese myth that when you are born, you are connected to a red thread. At the other end is, supposedly, your future spouse and love. Over time, the thread grows shorter and you are drawn closer together until, at last, you collide and become one. Snipping the thread would break the chance of love for you.

Similarly, snipping off unwanted bits in your life for your image or reputation can send everything crumbling... letting go of a friend could spark a chain reaction in your direction, could deter your fate from finding you. I should have let the threads be, and maybe no one would have noticed anyway. So what if they did, anyway? Anyway... anyway.

Explanation

I was tired. I was fed up with the Fates. I thought writing a blog post would be a waste of energy, a boring baring of my deepests to the world. But I felt so guilty after leaving you readers with merely a glimpse of a post that I started to consider why I started this blog. Well, originally, I was feeling depressed that I lost Scholastic and I heard L's interesting story about her elusive yellow dress... It all fit. And then, after thinking more, I realized that I would never say any of this to anyone in person. I think, thinking about it, that telling all of you all of this helps me understand just what I'm thinking in the first place.

Sorry for that lame post. It won't happen again.

Go(ing) Down

It is extraordinarily embarrassing to get up on stage in front of two hundred wearing a misshapen black t-shirt and sing, ultra-operatically, "Go Down Moses." People in the front row: Don't think I didn't see you laughing. Yeah. Enough said.
I'm bored.
Bye.

P.S. I know it's a short post today. Sorry.

Negative

Too many teachers want to know how my break has been on the surface but wouldn't even listen if I felt any impulse to respond. I know my boundaries; another foolishly commented on their less-than-excellent break and Mrs. Teacher promptly exclaimed, "You didn't have a good break? What's wrong with you!" I could no longer contain myself and heard myself shouting (thankfully covered by the din of after-lunch gossip), "Nothing! Nothing's wrong with me! What's wrong with you?"

Have I been sad for too long? Scared? I've been sad for too long. Despite the heaps of homework I face, this is my missed break before the next wave of tears. I'll bid farewell to Tammy - the fourth of four in so short a time. Who's next? And will it ever end? Doubtful. Like Janet, who always sorrowed at the memory of four generations of friends, gone and long buried, I will continue to observe the falling soldiers until no other targets remain, and all the bullets fly my way.

Knots

We went to Rizzo's for the fabled garlic knots at my day's halftime; in the minutes after lab and before rehearsal, K2, S, and I escaped, and they kept boasting the taste: "These are the best garlic knots ever!" "You know you love them!" But after I sat down at the small, greasy table in the hole-in-the-wall pizza shop that I had overlooked at least twenty times, I was finally forever convinced that my friends adored these little bread wonders when, for only me and her, K2 walked up to the counter and asked for sixteen. Sure she took some home to her brother; sure they were small to begin with; sure she should have gotten more. The piping knots burnt my tongue, and I hoped the scar would stay forever.

Ten weeks until the end of school. Only ten. Then I'll be with a new eighth grade class - I'll turn thirteen - I'll rarely see my treasured pals. It's the little things that will last me forever, and when I am low, I won't remember the school dances or the picnics. I'll remember the way that K2 sucked the garlic sauce off her fingers, laughing all the way.

Snap

Instagram is an obsession about 12 hours old in my head, tapping away at the sides of my skull; Did someone else like my picture? Did they comment? A friend request? But no, as a new member, few follow me to date, despite my rapid flow of posts of everything from flowers to cats to friends to eighty-year-old wedding photos. Why did I take a blurry picture of the eighty-year-old wedding photos? Because I hoped that someone else would catch a glimpse of the beauty she held in her face, and finally grasp what has become of this world.

But I've been talking too much about Janet. Let's talk about Instagram.

Earlier yesterday, when a good friend took a picture of me sitting on a bench and posted it online, I worried, because most of her friends (the ones viewing the photo) don't really, um, how to say this politely? Like me. Or so I thought. Maybe I was just anxious and made some assumptions, because within minutes, people liked the photo! Her friends! The photo! Of me! And that's why I registered, because there's nothing like a notification that you're looking good. It's like getting a daily email that says, "You're awesome." I wonder if you actually can get an email like that. I bet so. This idea is so intrinsic to human nature that I can't be the first of think of it.

And Totto, Too

We waited an hour and a half with three bags, leaned up against a car, waiting to get into 9th Avenue and 52nd Street's Totto Ramen, which has a small counter and three tables inside. When our name was only the 27th on the wait list, we cheered. Luckily, that left me with ample time to talk to my cousins. Not so luckily, when we did finally get into the restaurant, I was full before I was halfway through my my bowl. It was piled high with salted kelp, lettuce, avocado, cucumber, peppers, noodles, and the most incredible broth... what it would taste like if trees cried at a wedding. The food came quickly, as did the conversation, as did the questions, as did the inevitable tears of my own.

I'm still getting over it.

High Heels

I bought high heels to wear to the funeral, much to the dismay of my mother, who detailed to me all the disadvantages: "Your hamstrings will get shorter!" "Your feet will hurt!" "Your toes will get jammed!" It didn't sway me, and for my first pair of heels, I wanted to go all out, so I got ones completely covered in mirrors ad rhinestones. (Thank you, DSW!) I embarked on the day with optimism about the footwear, taking care to stretch my hamstrings in the car and rub my feet when no one was looking.

My grandma was the first to show ambivalence. She was also the first one we saw. "I don't know why women have to teeter around on little points," she told my mom. "It is the form of torture in clothing." Only slightly offended, I looked out the window a little more and tried to forget the comment. We sat through the eulogy, bid farewell to the guests, and rode to the cemetery in a limo, but when we arrived at the burial, I discovered a problem: I could not walk up to the grave to put the ritual few shovelfuls of dirt over Janet because my heels sunk into the fresh earth.

I guess my new shoes are going to get dirty, I thought.

Rest

I've never been to a funeral before, nor a burial... I suppose it will be something like a memorial? I've been to one of those, in California, but it wasn't as close to home, in more ways than one. People are still going to talk about memories but it will be more religious, taking place in a synagogue. I've never seen a coffin before, imagine that. Heard my aunt talking about it, and she picked the second simplest one, stained wood but still just a box. We are all supposed to take a shovel of dirt, but the problem is, that's supposed to symbolize letting go.

Black/White

I once took an art class in which we had to grab a piece of black paper and a white pencil and color in/out everything that would not be colored if we were working in gray or silver pencil. The lines we created would be made up of negative space, and they were supposed to form the reality. Unfortunately, my painting came out distorted; I couldn't bring myself to leave the extra alone, because I know how hard it is to miss something you can't get back.

Mandee

I had to go into a store that I have never considered shopping in before, shiny blue tiled and teenager filled, because the lines at Target were about thirty people long and I already had the sparkly high heels. I just needed the black dress. As has come with the custom stereotype of the little black dress, Mandee carried many of these; we picked up three and headed for the dressing room, which had to be unlocked by an executive. Two of the dresses were beautiful. It didn't really matter. I just needed one. I wasn't going to wear it any time I'd care what I looked like.

Dreamland

I woke up from what seemed like reality, because it wasn't good and it wasn't bad. It was all twisted up in such a knot that I got my wish, but it my promises were broken in all the untangling. There was the sweet nectar of the flowers and the bees stinging my mouth before the petals touched my lips. Never have a had such a nuanced - can I call this a dream? More like an experience which i'll put in my drawer, and ponder along with the rest of them.

Orange, Etc.

Some time ago, an important religious leader in the jewish faith famously remarked, "A woman as a rabbi is as out of place as an orange on a seder plate." Beside the shank bone, beside the bitter herbs on our hand-painted plate sits every year an orange. Janet was the most Orthodox in our little family, although even she was reform, so the orange was a deal-or-no-deal thing for us when first introduced. She embraced it. An orange is, after all, Kosher. But yes, a whale feels out of place in a river, but what if the whole river is now above sea level and no longer wet? What is the entire painting dries up and the paint curdles? What is the Seder if it is not the seder I have always lived by? What is an Italian dinner near the hospital? It is acceptance from them, and confusion from me.

None Of It

It os that kind of day. When I wake up on spring's doorstep and no birds are home to greet me, to get me onto my feet and sing to me again, it is that kind of day. When at ten in the morning I show no sign of movement and remain, eyes squinted, in a makeshift bed, it is that kind of day. When all of my clothes, books, and toiletries sit piled onto a chair in the corner of the room, with little regard to their cleanliness and organization, it is that kind of day.

When someone dies, everyone has to walk a long road. They themselves, a road to on. We, the lowly, a road to moving on. The close, a road to acceptance. And I, a road to belief and hope.

Trout

There is a dog named Trout a few feet away from me. In between us are two walls and two doors. If Trout had any idea I was here right now, I would no longer be able to hear my typing fingers for all the barking. According to my cousins, E and R, any place that Trout has been for more than a few minutes with them is her new home, and she protects it from intruders, especially men. She doesn't like her feet to be touched, so her claws grow out a few centimeters from her paws like pencil lead. We are ambivalent about letting her snuggle up on their air mattress. She wants to, though; however protective, once you are friends, Trout is the sweetest dog, like a big reverse black hole, despite her color.

The good news is that when you come into the house, you can hear her coming and make a getaway. She's a lot better than life, but hits you just as hard.

ETA

ETA = estimated time of arrival.
ETA when I left = 3:50.

The train broke down at Brooklyn Bridge, the brakes screeching to a halt; "There is a sick passenger at Fulton Street. This train is out of service." I asked a cop how to get to Fulton Street; cross the street, go down the avenue, and jump onto a downtown train.

ETA when I left the train = 4:05.

I called my mom, and she told me very plainly that I should walk over the bridge. The river is only about five blocks long, so I figured I'd be in Brooklyn and ready to come home in just a few minutes: over the boardwalk, down the street, through the stairwell and across the park.

ETA = 4:15.
ETA = 4:30. I got home. Legs so tired. Keyboard too bright to look at.
Tired of blogging. ETA postponed again.

Playing With Fire

The science experiment was perfectly set, after months of planning, a few scares with lit matches that we lost our grip on, and a small debacle with the gardens we ordered from when it took them five reminders and three weeks to send an order with two-day shipping. The only problem was that no matter how long we let the match burn against the dried grasses, they wouldn't burn. They became charred, and hot, but wouldn't burn. They were too strong, and proud. Like some people, I guess, they can go right up to the edge on a whim but have the wherewithal to stay on the ledge without falling.

What Happened Here

She played bridge with her friends more than once a week, and they all scrambled to be on her team. Did it matter that she was almost 105 and they were all in their eighties? No, it did not. She won yesterday, and went home to enjoy some crackers after her victory. She couldn't spread the jam correctly, and then she couldn't move.

Today, just four days after Elaine's death, Janet's cards sit next to her on the hospital table. She can't reach them, but at least she might be able to one day.

Twist

Twists of fate are so cliché that I don't bother with them, content to let my destiny meander and graze, not wandering too far, at any pace it chooses. I thought that was the way it worked, until today. Sometimes destiny doesn't want to stay walking in the same direction along the meadow. Sometimes it wants to jump off a cliff and break into a million unrepairable, irreversible pieces, like the glass of a tear. Sometimes it wants to shoot itself with its own bullets, use the materials of my life against itself until it lies, inanimate, and too far away to lead me in the right direction. Sometimes it wants to jump in front of a train, and be smooshed into the ground, ground into the soil, soiled beyond cleansing.

Other times, like today, it wants to simply board the train and race off at a million miles an hour towards your destination. Enter X, the initial I'll be using for the person waiting for me on the platform so far away. The one I'll get to faster than I thought.

Each Hour, Until I Breathed

6:00 - I have been up for twenty minutes: brushed my long, knotted hair into its best state of disarray and thrown on a pair of black flare jeans and a black tee with a dog's face on it. Subtle mourning, I call it, because no one could notice that I was wearing all black. It's something you might have worn on a normal Monday, for school, homework, dinner, and class.

7:00 - The printer broke and I am racing to catch the train and speed towards the day ahead, despite my static inertia begging me to stay at home. My nose and throat are crinkly-clogged and my ears are making the sound muffled, like I am underwater, but that is not an excuse for missing what very well might be the day we learn a crucial point, or harsh reality. (Check that off.)

8:00 - The day about to begin, I have arrived early to class to see my friend S, who has been sick for so long some people wondered if she was dead. She wasn't wearing her glasses, so I can't imagine she could even tell what kind of dog face was on my shirt. Maybe she just saw the color black. Hmm... I guess sometimes seeing less can make you understand more.

9:00 - I am frantically searching my backpack for my Social Studies homework, with help from faithful K5. She rustles through piles of papers while I sort the ones she's gone through. A twisted system, but she is more thorough than I, and I cannot bear to face another death today (that of my grade). Finally, I dig it out from under a random plastic bag in the bottom of the compartment. One saved, at least.

10:00 - I have told K5. "Subtle mourning." She knows. She should know after she watched me throw a desk onto the floor on Friday. A silent hug and her shoulder as a blotter and the few tears left to vanquish fade away.

Mourning; morning.

Layers

My mom wants to learn paper cutting, so she bought a book. It has a few projects in it: some place cards for Thanksgiving, a picture frame, a dessert stencil. They are made by layering sheets of paper and cutting away at each a little less than before until each is visible. The individual shapes form vegetables, and flowers, and cars. We decided to make our own pattern for pumpkins... but then I had to go to bed.

Doesn't it remind you a little bit of a family? Of my family, anyway. Each of us has holes, but when we come together, overlapping, fading into one another, different shades of the same world, there's a picture, which we can then hang on the wall.

Charlotte

Apparently, when I was a baby, i looked just like my baby cousin Charlotte. According to one of my grandmothers, that is. She took one look at my scrapbook and exclaimed, "Who is that picture of?" I told her that it was me, back in the depths of 2002, huddled into a carseat and grinning like a snowman. "Really? It looks so much like Charlotte! Doesn't she look like Charlotte?"

My aunt leaned over her lap and inspected the page. It happened to be one of my favorites, featuring four carseat shots, a multicolored ribbon, and paper baby block cut-outs that read "Let's Get Going." The ribbon, from my mother; the pictures, from my father; the work on the page, from me. It blossomed. "Wow," remarked my aunt. "It sure does."

Now, Charlotte and I only share one blood ancestor, my grandfather. It's rather peculiar that we would look alike. Just like peculiarities in the way that even if situations only have one thing in common, you can draw from them and find strength. My current school and my previous school both have teachers. I can deal with them now. The day I got stuck in a subway and the day I thought I lost my parents were both cloudy. Now when the sun isn't out, I take extra precautions to make sure I am okay, which is always good in my family's book. When she died and when my friend's grandfather died. Someone died. Tears. Different tears.

Must Go

No time to blog, must go greet the guests, ringing the doorbell, bringing news that I don't want to hear, but I can't hide from them, they are invading on my home, covering my coats with theirs, leaving no time to blog, no time to stay in the moment, must go greet the weight on their shoulders and except it as necessary exercise, to stay in shape for upcoming marathons to run.

Run-on sentence. Fragment.

Kindle(ing a Flame)

Today at rehearsal, a very good singer and actress named S was just walking into the wing for the top of the number when our music director caught her by surprise from the orchestra pit. "S!" she called. "How is your mom?" What is it with middle-aged women and fatal illness this week? I can count three on my hand, and it's only Thursday. Two can be cured. One can't. My ears perked up.

"I don't know," replied S nonchalantly, subtly pushing her tight crop top up.

The director was amazed. "You don't know?"

"She took my Kindle, so I stopped responding to her emails."

Tears sprung up in my eyes like they were jumping off a trampoline and being rocketed up onto my face. I couldn't believe that in front of me, in the body I so respected, was a  - dun dun dun - stereotypical teenager. She was taking it for granted, all of it, losing track of the consequences in a storm of angst. She had what I didn't. I wanted to be her, and change the mood. I hated her.

"S!" exclaimed the director. "You need to be a better daughter!" She turned to me. "Would you act like that, Chloe?"

I couldn't tell S I hated her, because I didn't. It would be a lie. I couldn't disagree with the director, because I didn't. It would be a lie. "I've been thinking about this a lot, actually," is what I said. I had been. It was not a lie.

Under The Same Name

Googling yourself can be addicting, but annoying, especially if there is someone famous with your name - or, in my case, several famous people: a girl in Canada who had a blood transplant with her fifteen minutes of fame and an actress with blonde hair and way too much lipstick. Look my name up. You'll see. If your name is a Google fail, you can always Google a friend. Top hit for LG: Some photography business. Top hit for JD: A response to a question on WikiAnswers about the Revolutionary War. Top hit for Ms. N: A British historian with a Rachel Maddow haircut. Here is the problem: They think you are a stalker for looking them up, not a bored pre-teen with a new computer who is sick of looking at pictures of Canadian toddlers.

Sometimes when you want to get to know someone, they get suspicious. That's what makes it so hard to make a move and ask someone about themselves. They might not want to let you in. If only everyone could Google in peace, happy that they have someone who cares enough to ask if they have any siblings, their favorite color, or if they are experts on the Revolutionary War.

Microscopic

It's interesting to hear what people say about amoebas when they are magnified 100 times through the oculars of a microscope. Some people call them little people and talk about their lives as frozen, dead cells encased in glass. Some people admire them for their stain color, purple or pink, and ooh and ah over their cytoplasm. Some people equate them to other things: clocks, cars, a weird character named "Cat-Dog" and more. They aren't. They are stuck, and we are the ones who should be living.

Not That

At an assembly today, there was a discussion on the topic of affirmative action, and I... spoke my mind. Later revised my opinion, but at the time, spoke my mind. I thought that in a strictly racial context, putting that much emphasis on race was a form of racism in and of itself, so though it wasn't fair that wealthy Caucasians get an easy ride to good education, it also was wrong to tell children in minorities that they cannot succeed by themselves but others can. (New opinion: Affirmative action should be available for those who want it.) Anyway, I said that, the first to speak, and then two more agreed. The third to respond, however, was an African-American teacher whose first words were not "I agree with Chloe." I was hoping she would be able to discuss both sides, but.... As soon as she got the microphone, she stared straight at me.

"I think this conversation is hypocritical." Glaring at me, at me alone. "It's cute." My opinions were valid, and I was not a toddler, and why was she doing this to me? "What people aren't mentioning is that so many of our students get into college because Daddy knows someone." My father supported teachers in court, so who was she to accuse him? "They're not taking something away from you." I didn't say they were. "I think you just want somebody to blame." The next comic in the presentation flashed onto the screen, a snobby white kid who hadn't been accepted to a school yelling at the minority member in the school instead of the others, labeled things like "daughter of alum" and "wealthy donor." "That's all I wanted to say!" Good for you, but I'm not racist.

The Road Trip

Music holds a certain power over me when played at breakneck volume on the stereo of a car rolling at breakneck speeds down a highway. It started with Owl City's "Fireflies" so many years ago, on the way to north Carolina through the sunset-lit mountains, and that drive made me fall in love with the song. It's happened again, with B.o.B's "Both of Us" featuring Taylor Swift. The refrain is, "I wish I was strong enough to lift not one but both of us." Something in Taylor's mournful, dulcet voice struck me, and I began to cry right there in the backseat, old memories spilling out onto my shirt in the form of tears. So many dark forces have tried to invade my life that I've made myself forget most of them, but the music brought them bubbling to the top of me, fizzing back down, and rising, wobbling again and again. There are images and places I've tried to shove down into "oh, you know" and "some stuff happened." My deepest. I find exhilaration to be the perfect cure for humdrum, in either direction on the happy/sad spectrum. Breakneck volume, breakneck speed, and breakneck weight fell upon me, like low C chords sounding from a distant piano.

The Candy Wrapper

I think almost every aspiring actor has imagined, at least once, that magical feeling of stepping out onto a wide, glossy stage, being handed a gold man by your favorite star, and saying into a microphone in tears, "I'd like to thank the Academy." That dream came true - kind of - yesterday, at the 2013 Spring Red Carpet Dance, bedecked in curled eyelashes that I'd created by borrowing/stealing the strangest little mechanism, and a spritz of my friend A's perfume that stung my eyes when it caught me by surprise; I'd never used it before. I donned a floor-length red ballgown exactly the color of a red rose and a semi-precious stone necklace from my grandmother. As I walked in down the wipe-your-shoes mat that had been moved downstairs due to its maroon color (it had become a red carpet), the folds of the dress swished at my feet. My toes screamed for air in the size five shoes I had borrowed from K, me being a size eight and a half, but that hardly mattered.

After about an hour of gallivanting around with my friends in a too loud gymnasium, the contest began for costume/outfit. There were a bunch of categories: most daring, best tux, best hair and makeup, best Old Hollywood, and the coveted best dressed. There was, however, a catch: Once you won a contest, you were out of the running for the others. For me, it was between best gown and best dressed, but I decided to go for best gown because I was the only girl in floor-length. When the category was called, third to last, I stood up proudly and walked across the front of the room first, about fifteen behind me. First was second place; it went to a girl in a short, turquoise, flowered dress - P. Hmm... I worried. Maybe any dress counts as a gown... and my dress sure isn't the best... "And the Oscar goes to," said Ms. M, the grade advisor. Suddenly, I noticed her finger. It was pointed at me. K2 shrieked and literally jumped up and hugged me. K3, a member of the "Academy," handed me a cardboard Oscar (held up with candy wrappers), a bag of sour jellybeans, two chocolates, and a five dollar gift card to Dunkin' Donuts (which I gave to my friend, J4). As we all walked back into the crowd, someone told me to make a speech. I stepped out onto the wide, glossy stage. I already had by gold-painted man. There was no microphone, but at the top of my lungs, I shouted, "YAY!"

Goodbye

There's a picture of Elaine and I with our heads together in the backseat of the car, sleeping. I was three-ish; she was "I won't tell you but I've been around a good while"-ish, also known as around seventy. My bangs fall gently over my eyes. Her hand is over mine. We sleep.

Goodnight, Elaine. Sleep tight. I'll miss you.

Late Night

In Spanish, we have to write a rap song about our daily routine and perform it. For me, that means screeching on about taking the subway and carrying my backpack in front of a room of rowdy eighth graders. Needless to say, the project gives the bad kind of shivers, like spiders and cobwebs falling over you in bursts. I don't feel the need to be creative, or swagalicious. I just feel the need to say a few words and sit down. It is a question not of what the rap will be but how soon it will over.

I am SO far from anything hip and swag and sick and illin' and whatever. I am more like artsy, dramatic, emo, and anything that else that comes to mind when you think of a ballad-singer. This is going to be a stretch to start with, so making me reveal my actual daily routine... that's just going too far. But I'm not good at lying either, so maybe I should just mumble, but I would get a bad grade, and i would die, and lots of other horrible stuff. Whatever. I'll just say, "Me despierto por la mañana como P Diddy," and be good to go.

Eavesdropper

So are you saying that a tubeworm is as significant to the economy as Barack Obama?
-Yeah, I guess so.

When you fry someone named J4, the juice will flow out of them.
-Om nom.

Eavesdropping can get you some interesting information, a laugh, even insight into someone's soul, but aside from the fact that it is wrong, it can also get you scarred for life. There's a tempt, like a string pulling us towards those keyholes of locked doors and heating vents into our neighbors' apartment. On the other side of that door, you never know what you are going to find. Maybe you'll hear that secret you've been aching to hear, but maybe there's a murderer just a few feet away, stabbing your friend to death. Maybe, maybe, maybe you'll hear someone opening their mouth and spitting out sadness. It's a toss up, like gambling, and neither ends well.

Deepest

Deepest darkest secrets are not to be thrown around like footballs in the schoolyard, nor tossed behind a head like paper airplanes in class. They are not to be given away, even in rooms with doors locked, like cards, even to someone close to you. The only proper way to reveal a deepest darkest secret is in the middle of everything, so no one's eyes are on you but the recipient. If that works, then a weight lifts off halfway off your chest and begins to rest on four shoulders instead of two.

You know who you are; thank you. If it's not you, you still know who you are. You've heard one. Hold it close, and listen to it whisper.

Someone Like You

There is a trend occurring. It's happened at both auditions I attended last week. It's daring, exciting, and very, very risky for an auditioner, but more than anything it is surprising they would do it in the first place. Here it is: Guys have been singing Adele without changing gender-specific words. Frankly, I'm proud. Tolerance and acceptance are growing, I can feel it, and they are taking advantage of the opportunity. That doesn't keep from cringing when they begin the song, though. It's a song built for a female range, and you can transpose it all you want but you just can't get the same tone quality. Did they do it for bonus points because of standing out? It's likely, and I sincerely hope it pays off for them.

Then again, that is in strict counter-balance with the camp my parents and I met the director of last night. They have a Sadie Hawkins *activity* in which, for a few minutes, BOYS put socks in their back pocket and the GIRLS have to chase them and try to grab a sock. Then the two have to "get married" at a "wedding booth." Cough. Cough. And the director didn't even realize that this was unusual. As my mom said, it was old-fashioned when she was my age, in the early 70s. We asked what gay kids would do, just to stump him. Stump him we did. He told us that they didn't have to participate. Oh come on, really? You've never thought about how awkward this is before? No? Well then, I guess it's good we have both white and black, and good and bad, and Adele and socks in the world.

Scrapbooking

Since the summer, I have gotten into scrapbooking. I filled 50 pages in a tear-out sketchbook, and when they started to fall like leaves, I treated myself to a real scrapbooking album and some 12 by 12 paper. The theme of the new book? Coming of age. Everything from September 2012 to June 2018. I have filled five pages. One shows me and my dad, one shows the entire class, two show me and my friends, and one just shows me. I realized late last night, as I slid the "Rainbow Pancakes" page into place, that the pages and not only slides in an album; they represent the different sides of me. I haven't been mapping out my life at all. I have been mapping out myself.

Me and my dad. I have always been family-oriented. How could I not be, with 13 cousins, 15 aunts and uncles, 4 grandmothers, and no siblings to scare me away? But recently, the touch between our fingers seems cold and dated, like something that hasn't moved in a while. That doesn't mean that we don't email, though; in fact, in the past 48 hours I've gotten about 15 emails from different sides of the family. Moving, yes. Lifelike, no.

The entire class. I still feel a little like the new kid. I don't have a new best-friend-at-my-new-school, a place to sit each day in English class. To say that the whole class likes me would be going too far, I think. I'm not a floater. I don't drift like an abandoned boat from harbor to harbor. Or do I? Now that I think of it, where do I sit in English? It varies. I certainly have felt abandoned for a few years, ever since... Never mind, that's for a later blog.

Me and my friends. With friends, there's always a kind of comfort, the kind where you can burp at the top of your lungs or spill a soda on yourself and you all laugh together. However, with new friends, there's also a line in the sand; you can laugh at the soda-spiller, but not always with them. That hasn't changed my mind. I've heard so many stories about people at my school forming forever-friendships, and I see the potential for that. Still, right now, this one might be a bit of stretch. Or maybe I'm making that up. I've never had so many friends before.

Just me. I like to be alone and scrapbook and watch Project Runway and read about whatever recent crisis is abuzz online. I like to be with my friends and sing and act and laugh. I like to be with family and play games and talk and eat. I like to be with the entire class and learn and write and bond. Those all feed into my soul, so that I carry them into my alone time. I am, by definition, more than one person. They all have the same name.

A Tiled Floor

Usually when I write a song, my parents are the first to hear it. They are around, and they have good ears, and I know they will support me. Most of my songs discuss general issues, or some experience they already knew about. I have rarely written one that expresses personal feelings about a specific situation. But when I do, I get scared. So when I screamed, "Don't read my notebook!" last night and my dad immediately starting guessing topics, I was more worried than ever. I begged and pleaded with him to not even take a peek; he said he wouldn't but his guesses and teasing were relentless. I think my parents like the idea of me feeling awkward as I grow up. I love them dearly, and they often know exactly what to do.... In fact, I can't even say what I'd've preferred.

Parents are like water overflowing from a bathtub, and I'm the floor. Water tries to seep into every crack and nook and cranny and crevice, and it's hard to get it out once it's in. Over time, the grout between bathroom tiles can wear down. Then, you've got two problems. It's not that the water don't clean the dirt off the floor, it's just that it has trouble leaving some of it dry.

Close, But No Cigar

A room full of extroverted eight-graders chatters away over the teacher's warnings; they know that she is well out of her element. Teachers should not want to be cool, because they won't be able to reprimand the kids without being embarrassed. That's not to say that they should be strict and weird, but everything is a balance. The kids in this room outweigh her. Until, that is, she says, "Okay, you blew it. And you know who you are. We aren't going to the show." (They had been supposed to go to the Jewish Cultural Show on Wednesday, a welcome break from school itself.)

Among the sea of crazy adolescents are two seventh-graders, one lying docile and one screaming for attention - both completely out of their element, just like the teacher. C and me are two different people who are expected to be the same. When he arrives late to class, the eights ask me where he is. They tell me that we would be perfect for each other simply because we are both sevens - um, no. (C, if you are reading this, don't even think for a second that I suggested that. It was all A.) We are forced into the same mold by those who so recently were in our shoes, but that doesn't mean we don't take our own paths. He is loud and provocative. I am quirky and shy. Still, in this moment, I want to right his wrong and get both of us to the show, because we have to support each other. Even though we are distinct human beings, we share a label that we have to overcome.

So I raise my hand. "No, Chloe," said the teacher. "You can't apologize for the class again."