"It's a long way for an answer" replays in my head a lot these days.
As you may know, I am agnostic. I don't believe there is enough evidence to prove whether there is a god or not. Christians will argue this point, as other religions will, but truth is, there is not enough evidence. Personal encounters may have lead you to believe there is a god (which may actually be right) but there are not enough universal facts to completely ensure the truth of the existence of a god. Yes, there may be a surpassingly substantial amount of evidence for Christianity, but just as scientific laws, there must be 100% evidence and the conclusion must be indisputable. Similar to gravity. Every object on Earth that elevates through the air will fall back down at some point. Without doubt. But sadly, we do not have enough knowledge of a god to say that. Thus we continue in a foolish fight over an answer only time will reveal, not unkind words and sharp swords.
Now that I have moved past the basics of where I stand and why, I'll move onto something that matters. (PLEASE LISTEN TO THE SONG IN THE LINK.) Despite the many song meanings I looked up, I have decided that this song is somewhat religiously/emotionally speaking. As I was listening to a playlist of mine on Pandora, this song came on. In the beginning, I found nothing spectacular. Upon hearing the chorus, I identified easily with the singers. My life in words would be exceedingly similar to the chorus of this song (minus the "I'm home" line).
Throughout this week, I cannot tell you how many times I have turned this song on. Especially in my numerous nights of insomnia. My mind would not rest. Grades to family, family to friends, friends to sports, sports to grades. Then grades again. I was lying awake last night around 11:40 and developed a headache from doing too much math in my head. Not just random "let's fall asleep counting degrees of this function and determing the end behavior! FUN!" math, but semi-significant and relevant math. I was figuring out my grades based on my midterm grades then the total grade and what I will have to make in each class to acquire my desirable set of As and Bs: A in LatinII (easy), A in health/P.E. (super easy), A in Algebra II (challenging), B in Biology (challenging once more). After long calculations, I began to freak out because I did not know that at the beginning of a new quarter, you start from nothing. I thought that you kept your remaining average and had to start with that. I worried that my first quarter grades would hurt my second quarter, lowering my GPA, my class rank and as well my chance of obtaining admittance to Yale. Stop laughing, I seriously want to attend Yale, whether you think it is possible or not. And if I am not accepted, at least I will have known that I tried.
After this long fight with myself and stressing way too much, I went downstairs to ask my dad if students started from 0 in a new quarter or not. He was asleep on the couch. Great. I came back upstairs and dialed my brother's number. Thankfully, he picked up and slowly but surely helped me through my dilemma. He did not know the answer to my initial question but instead knew the answer to what I was searching for. I felt vulnerable as I confessed to him all that I had harbored so well. How I hate being a disappointment, a failure, how I hate being called stupid, how I may not be naturally scholarly, but capable and how I found that a positive, a blessing, but everyone looks upon me demoralizingly because I have to work hard, and few things come naturally. I felt even more pitiful to be divulging all the things that I had so tightly wound to an outsider, someone who could never understand. I felt merciless towards everything, enraged because I was a victim in a cruel game, as I waited in silence for my brother's response.
Eventually he drew words out, elucidating each syllable, a gross change from my hasty, shaky, dialogue that was split by sobs. Then and there, my brother expounded on how God's grace is what I need. How I need to stop for a second and plead for it, because I could not lose anything from doing so. I asked him what to say, and echoed the words. Terror struck through my body like a Grandfather clock hitting midnight. I cannot be one of the people who have persecuted me in times of need, who have judged me when they are equally as human. I cannot conform to the most ignorant, judgmental, liars. I continued to be stirred up with negative feelings, with unsettledness. I prayed for grace again and again. Because I need it more than anything right now. I need to be helped and relieved of the burdens a teenage girl should not carry. I need to have those brutal events and memories erased from my memory, I need a rescue boat, I need a Savior.
Now I sit here in a confused state of being, unsure of where I want to be. I remember once having told someone so deeply much about my life and they responded saying this: "I see you knowing where you are, knowing where you've been, and knowing you're destination, but unsure if that is really where you want to be." I am a mirror image of that, so sure of what I've been and ready to go somewhere, but not sure if that is really where I desire to go.
Yesterday I was broken. Today I am searching for one to put me back together. I am moving in some direction. Which way, I am unsure. I am sickly and looking for a cure. "I need your grace to remind me to find my own" (Snow Patrol). I'm searching for grace, even though I may always remain a disgrace. I am searching for it an answer, but it's a long way. I'm searching, not for something to grasp as my ineptitude bears down on my shoulders. Instead I'm searching for something just to steady me as I stand up from my fall.
Thursday, March 31, 2011
Monday, March 28, 2011
Being hit does something to a person, whether it hurts or not.
I choke back tears,
doing an exceptional job at concealing my fears.
I scrub a little harder,
increase the temperature of the water.
These scars don't always go away,
at least not today.
If you say I love you one more time, I swear,
lies are the last thing I want to hear.
But I'll heal,
forgetting these unpleasant ordeals.
Don't expect an apology, when you're the one who committed the felony.
I may be battered, but in the end it's you who is hurting yourself.
doing an exceptional job at concealing my fears.
I scrub a little harder,
increase the temperature of the water.
These scars don't always go away,
at least not today.
If you say I love you one more time, I swear,
lies are the last thing I want to hear.
But I'll heal,
forgetting these unpleasant ordeals.
Don't expect an apology, when you're the one who committed the felony.
I may be battered, but in the end it's you who is hurting yourself.
Friday, March 25, 2011
A candle that's lost its flame is still a candle http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OT10h5vqmZs
Through the thorns, I can see the sky. I forget the stings.
We'll fight what we have to, just because what's waiting for me is you.
Words just fall away sometimes, and all that's left are the feelings.
Cause the intricacy of nature confuses me and I'm aghast in it's beauty, it's splendor. I feel bliss in the breeze.
Every color has many shades. Every person has many sides and can't be defined by one.
Cause I'm moving forward and looking back, but keeping on track.
Take my hand and my sweater, we'll keep moving through this cold weather.
Wednesday, March 23, 2011
The Summit. Of his cancer.
This Sunday, my parents and I attended the 11 o'clock service at the Summit church, which happens to be exactly in the middle of wanna-be-somewhere-but-instead-nowhere-ville. I fell into step with my parents as we entered the warehouse-resembling sanctuary. I placed my belongings on the chair my parents had assigned me to and stared into space, absently allowing each lyric that the singer uttered to drift through one ear and out the other. Suddenly, I saw some kids traipsing in, on the heels of (who I assumed was their) mother. As the children settled in, one seat open between their mother and the two children, a second boy maneuvered between his brother and sister and the chairs of the row in front of him. Gracefully, he shifted into his spot and rolled back his shoulders and raised a hand to his face. Beneath his palm was a white air mask. Inches above it resided a pair of eyes, observing and grasping everything around his slender being, gaping at the austere sights around him. Those eyes were solemn and rigid, sour and calloused. They were just eyes, no eyebrows or eyelashes. Only eyelids and eyeballs. A dark purple, a passionate purple, a searching purple-colored pupil.
I glance away, not wanting this young boy to feel ashamed of what he cannot control. I feel ashamed as he probably felt my stare, as he probably receives many, for having cancer at such a young age. I flip open to Pride and Prejudice as the pastor's presentation begins (I normally would at least listen, despite my agnosticism, but he is talking too fast for me to process). I read about one page every six minutes. I can't help but peering out of the corners of my eyes to catch sight of this young boy in a blue shirt. Thoughts and questions are flying quickly through my head, like a ball in an intense tennis match. I wonder if the boy can play dodgeball, or eat a thickburger. I wonder if he can skid into home base when he hits a home run or if he can have a hot dog eating race. I had to put away my book for a moment to gather myself. I had to shake out the thoughts and questions of what he will be able to do, because I knew that none of those things probably mattered, just the fact that he was alive.
I whispered to my dad that the kid had cancer, that his life was in danger. I had to divulge to someone this secret that was slowly eating me away. The whole rest of the sermon, my concentration was fleeting. As the service dragged on and communion began, I was a spectator of the little boy's every move, silently desiring that my concern would be his cure. I sat in absolute reticence, all thoughts filtering through my brain and then dissolving into dust. I continued to look in the boy's direction, but all I saw was a shiny scalp, and a line of white circling an ear. I choked back tears, on the brink of breaking down in a bible-beating building. I looked down at my crossed legs and tried to focus on a bruise on my leg. I tried to focus on anything that pushed the boy out of my mind's eye. The glistening head under the fluorescent lights blinded me, I couldn't even see his face because he was so small, so young, so innocent and undeserving. And there, that church, was the last place I'd want to be if I were so juvenile and already cursed with cancer. Finally crowds became swarming my direction, toward the direction of the doors. I stood up, shaky and basically having to turn on my cognitive functions, forcing myself to think and return to where I was.
I followed my parents to the car and once again brought up the young boy in the blue shirt. An angry peace came in the middle of us. Silence had never enraged me more. I bit my tongue and clasped my hands to prevent myself from exhibiting my upset attitude. Unsettledness ran from my head to my toe as I had just witnessed my parent's indifference towards a boy who probably cannot even think about living to be 50 years old, at this point in his life. He cannot even think of naturally balding as my father is, for chemotherapy has already taken his hair in exchange for a cancer-free life, something it may not even be able to return to him. He doesn't have to worry about graying as my mother is, because there is no hair to gray. He won't receive mono, like my sister has, because he cannot even remove the air mask to share a drink or kiss someone. No, instead gifts that any seven-year-old would not even think twice about, have already been robbed from him. I looked down at my phone and pressed the home button: 12:34 read on my screen. It's my favorite two minutes of every 24 hours, but I normally don't see it but once every couple months. Whenever I see it, I always make a wish on it, because it is such a lucky number, and my favorite number. I glanced at the time again. It was stubborn and tantalizing, as I fought my selfish desires. Before I could consider my own wish anymore, I made one for the blue shirt boy. Too many things have already been taken from him, I knew. That wish wasn't mine to make anyhow, it was his.
I glance away, not wanting this young boy to feel ashamed of what he cannot control. I feel ashamed as he probably felt my stare, as he probably receives many, for having cancer at such a young age. I flip open to Pride and Prejudice as the pastor's presentation begins (I normally would at least listen, despite my agnosticism, but he is talking too fast for me to process). I read about one page every six minutes. I can't help but peering out of the corners of my eyes to catch sight of this young boy in a blue shirt. Thoughts and questions are flying quickly through my head, like a ball in an intense tennis match. I wonder if the boy can play dodgeball, or eat a thickburger. I wonder if he can skid into home base when he hits a home run or if he can have a hot dog eating race. I had to put away my book for a moment to gather myself. I had to shake out the thoughts and questions of what he will be able to do, because I knew that none of those things probably mattered, just the fact that he was alive.
I whispered to my dad that the kid had cancer, that his life was in danger. I had to divulge to someone this secret that was slowly eating me away. The whole rest of the sermon, my concentration was fleeting. As the service dragged on and communion began, I was a spectator of the little boy's every move, silently desiring that my concern would be his cure. I sat in absolute reticence, all thoughts filtering through my brain and then dissolving into dust. I continued to look in the boy's direction, but all I saw was a shiny scalp, and a line of white circling an ear. I choked back tears, on the brink of breaking down in a bible-beating building. I looked down at my crossed legs and tried to focus on a bruise on my leg. I tried to focus on anything that pushed the boy out of my mind's eye. The glistening head under the fluorescent lights blinded me, I couldn't even see his face because he was so small, so young, so innocent and undeserving. And there, that church, was the last place I'd want to be if I were so juvenile and already cursed with cancer. Finally crowds became swarming my direction, toward the direction of the doors. I stood up, shaky and basically having to turn on my cognitive functions, forcing myself to think and return to where I was.
I followed my parents to the car and once again brought up the young boy in the blue shirt. An angry peace came in the middle of us. Silence had never enraged me more. I bit my tongue and clasped my hands to prevent myself from exhibiting my upset attitude. Unsettledness ran from my head to my toe as I had just witnessed my parent's indifference towards a boy who probably cannot even think about living to be 50 years old, at this point in his life. He cannot even think of naturally balding as my father is, for chemotherapy has already taken his hair in exchange for a cancer-free life, something it may not even be able to return to him. He doesn't have to worry about graying as my mother is, because there is no hair to gray. He won't receive mono, like my sister has, because he cannot even remove the air mask to share a drink or kiss someone. No, instead gifts that any seven-year-old would not even think twice about, have already been robbed from him. I looked down at my phone and pressed the home button: 12:34 read on my screen. It's my favorite two minutes of every 24 hours, but I normally don't see it but once every couple months. Whenever I see it, I always make a wish on it, because it is such a lucky number, and my favorite number. I glanced at the time again. It was stubborn and tantalizing, as I fought my selfish desires. Before I could consider my own wish anymore, I made one for the blue shirt boy. Too many things have already been taken from him, I knew. That wish wasn't mine to make anyhow, it was his.
baaaaaaa! wiy786cy6r2397xsjkjhskd
Seriously, the "Title:" bar mocks me! I can't come up with even semi-decent titles, shouldn't there be an option for no title!? Blogger should definitely update their technology to include that, for those of us who have much to say but are inept in creating titles!
Anyhow, I just really need to write. These past coupledays weeks have been exhausting, draining and only slightly rewarding. YAY - 94 on AlgII project and 93 on test, but boo for the 79 on Biology. I am extremely bad at time management. So I have some food for the thought. Mechanic efficiency in physics = work output / work input x 100. Now, if humans were 100% efficient (machines) would we only be able to complete what is told/expected/commanded of us or would we be efficient at everything including at being lazy? Like we are now...? I know that is such an absurd thing to say, much less think, but it has been eating up my brain the past few weeks, as I have been pondering about how bad I am at time management (which is ironic because I am bad at time management because I was ruminating over my ineptitude at time management...).
I am sure you are thoroughly confused and about to tell yourself you should've had a V8 (because if you had one, which of course contains mystical powers, you would have known this post was actually quite stupefying and futile). I really have nothing profound or recondite to say. Instead I am sitting here typing aimlessly about really nothing. Actually, I do have something to say. But it can't blend with the horrid awfulness of this post so I'll make a new one. Keep reading!!
Sorry I just wasted your time...
Anyhow, I just really need to write. These past couple
I am sure you are thoroughly confused and about to tell yourself you should've had a V8 (because if you had one, which of course contains mystical powers, you would have known this post was actually quite stupefying and futile). I really have nothing profound or recondite to say. Instead I am sitting here typing aimlessly about really nothing. Actually, I do have something to say. But it can't blend with the horrid awfulness of this post so I'll make a new one. Keep reading!!
Sorry I just wasted your time...
Maybe I've been going back too much lately, when time stood still and I had you http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5EY2eYfXgLE
I must say it is a smidgen disappointing to check my stats and have none for this entire week, but not enough to restrain me from writing. I wrote this on the way to soccer practice the other day, as I sat in the back seat, watching shiny vehicles drive by and constantly trying to revert my attention back to my biology di-hybrid crosses (no luck), so I scribbled this down:
When I was young,
I praised the words he sung.
Thinking he knew it all,
was my greatest fall.
He knows nothing,
He should hop down from his high horse, he is no king,
I now hear myself thinking.
But now I know: his smarts are low,
for he does not know all he owns.
His hand stumbles through his hair, he groans,
never remembering that all his blessings are just loans.
When I was young,
I praised the words he sung.
Thinking he knew it all,
was my greatest fall.
He knows nothing,
He should hop down from his high horse, he is no king,
I now hear myself thinking.
But now I know: his smarts are low,
for he does not know all he owns.
His hand stumbles through his hair, he groans,
never remembering that all his blessings are just loans.
Tuesday, March 22, 2011
One-sided tag.
Keep blaming,
my heart is where you're aiming.
I'll continue walking,
into the distance, my ears filled with your ceaseless mocking.
Your arrows stab then fall.
I've built a brick wall.
I won't tarry,
You're last arrow, you carry.
Go ahead, shoot. You'll only find a soul, nothing pecuniary.
my heart is where you're aiming.
I'll continue walking,
into the distance, my ears filled with your ceaseless mocking.
Your arrows stab then fall.
I've built a brick wall.
I won't tarry,
You're last arrow, you carry.
Go ahead, shoot. You'll only find a soul, nothing pecuniary.
Monday, March 14, 2011
There's nothing better than a sunburn... during the Winter.
I have strange genetics. They're rather nonsensical. WHO BECOMES SUNBURNED AFTER A FEW HOURS OF HARMLESS SUNLIGHT? I spend maybe 6 hours outside this weekend because of my soccer games. BUT, it is like 62 degrees out there and the sun warmed me about about as much as standing near a microwave would. So last night as I washed my face and began to apply my acne meds (Benzyl Peroxide, aka burning fire in an abyss is only about two inches tall... it really doesn't make sense), there was a stinging sensation that began the second the cold, seemingly harmless, pearly poison made contact with my face. Today was filled with comment "your face is really red." Can you at least be a little more creative? Like "hey, did you walk into a tree or something?" That would at least show some thought behind the observation of my blotchy, cherry complexion. But nope. Just dumb people reminding me that my face is as crimson-colored as a can of Coke.
Anyhow, I have more to write on this weekend and today. I just can really consolidate all those thoughts into one post. More is to come, but I needed to burn some steam on the fact that my face is redder than Rudolph's nose. And isn't the next stage to sunburn peeling? One ticket to Timbuktu, please.
Saturday, March 12, 2011
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AcXBASNAhHc&feature=BF&list=PL061486AF96B61AE3&index=3
Old arguments drift through my door,
all I can think is that your voice must be sore.
Staying here is your chore,
But I don't need to be waited for.
Just leave, the way you want to.
We'll go our separate ways, forsaking our petty issues.
I'll go back to the start, everything anew.
And though you never apologized, I'll forgive you.
all I can think is that your voice must be sore.
Staying here is your chore,
But I don't need to be waited for.
Just leave, the way you want to.
We'll go our separate ways, forsaking our petty issues.
I'll go back to the start, everything anew.
And though you never apologized, I'll forgive you.
Wednesday, March 09, 2011
Bad Day? There's an ice cream flavor for that.. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ERl96rtCw10&feature=related
Over the past three days, I have had .92lbs of ice cream (Skinny Dip) plus a (gallon?) huge tub of cookie dough ice cream from Harris Teeter. Can you say Jenny likes to eat her feelings? But, beyond bad days, nothing makes me eat more than some anxious nerves, and the wheels turning in my head.
Anyhow, I hate government. We should just be self-governing criminals because human nature is rotten. I wholeheartedly agree with Thomas Hobbes, life without government are men at war. But, then again, life with government is as well. Today, as I sat in the library after school, yearning to leave school without any written homework to do, teachers began filing in. Apparently, there was a small meeting planned to discuss midterm schedule and whatnot. I tuned most of it out, determined to finish my quadratics before exiting Jesse O. Sanderson High School. About twenty minutes after the meeting convened, I came to a different set of problems, and sought the help of my trust notes packet. As I stared at the page, slowly, just like increasing the volume on a radio, the meeting became more and more audible. For whatever reason, some man on staff felt passionately towards exams (of all things to feel passion towards, you pick midterms?!) and finished his spout by rattling off a couple swear words, the exact same words students spend an entire afternoon in Detention for using. How ironic. Seconds later, my mind reverted back to making sense of the example I had scribbled into my notes. After maybe ten seconds of pure concentration, this teacher walked up to me and sat down. She asked if I were her for quiet study, in which I held my tongue from saying clearly not, because her whole clan of cussing co-workers were crushing any ability for it to even been a remotely quiet study time. I responded saying yes, to which her face was a blatant expression of stress, as if my presence of trying to complete my homework was killing her. She said she would HATE for me to have to hear this "boring" meeting, and be "distracted" by it, so would I mind being relocated? Now what is wrong with this picture? First off, for the other almost half hour I have been placed in this chair, you have not cared in the slightest that I was distracted. Secondly, if this meeting is so excruciatingly unamusing, how would I be distracted? You should have thought of some better reasons for kicking me out of the library, maybe like the fact that you want to conceal that our "over-equipped" teachers cuss so comfortably outside of the classroom confines. Maybe that our own government (of schooling) does exactly what they instruct us not to do?
Men are by nature murderers, robbers and thieves, liars and lazybums, molesters, and selfish ambition-ers. From day one, we are consumed by #1. There is no denial of this, so then why are we governed? Our government are just a handful of criminals who know how to camouflage their crimes. Everything we amount to be is everything we amount to be. We can never amount to being perfect, or good-natured. We are evil and egocentric, narcissistic and greedy. And by saying we aren't, we're even greater liars.
Anyhow, I hate government. We should just be self-governing criminals because human nature is rotten. I wholeheartedly agree with Thomas Hobbes, life without government are men at war. But, then again, life with government is as well. Today, as I sat in the library after school, yearning to leave school without any written homework to do, teachers began filing in. Apparently, there was a small meeting planned to discuss midterm schedule and whatnot. I tuned most of it out, determined to finish my quadratics before exiting Jesse O. Sanderson High School. About twenty minutes after the meeting convened, I came to a different set of problems, and sought the help of my trust notes packet. As I stared at the page, slowly, just like increasing the volume on a radio, the meeting became more and more audible. For whatever reason, some man on staff felt passionately towards exams (of all things to feel passion towards, you pick midterms?!) and finished his spout by rattling off a couple swear words, the exact same words students spend an entire afternoon in Detention for using. How ironic. Seconds later, my mind reverted back to making sense of the example I had scribbled into my notes. After maybe ten seconds of pure concentration, this teacher walked up to me and sat down. She asked if I were her for quiet study, in which I held my tongue from saying clearly not, because her whole clan of cussing co-workers were crushing any ability for it to even been a remotely quiet study time. I responded saying yes, to which her face was a blatant expression of stress, as if my presence of trying to complete my homework was killing her. She said she would HATE for me to have to hear this "boring" meeting, and be "distracted" by it, so would I mind being relocated? Now what is wrong with this picture? First off, for the other almost half hour I have been placed in this chair, you have not cared in the slightest that I was distracted. Secondly, if this meeting is so excruciatingly unamusing, how would I be distracted? You should have thought of some better reasons for kicking me out of the library, maybe like the fact that you want to conceal that our "over-equipped" teachers cuss so comfortably outside of the classroom confines. Maybe that our own government (of schooling) does exactly what they instruct us not to do?
Men are by nature murderers, robbers and thieves, liars and lazybums, molesters, and selfish ambition-ers. From day one, we are consumed by #1. There is no denial of this, so then why are we governed? Our government are just a handful of criminals who know how to camouflage their crimes. Everything we amount to be is everything we amount to be. We can never amount to being perfect, or good-natured. We are evil and egocentric, narcissistic and greedy. And by saying we aren't, we're even greater liars.
Tuesday, March 08, 2011
Precious Lord, declare Your heart to me http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=t7F-B2DLvAQ&NR=1
Nights similar to tonight are the occasions that leave me most perplexed, yet most persuaded and assured.
First off, I am not a people person. I am a nature person, a Creation-appreciator. I love rocks and trees, flowers and leaves, not clothes and shoes. Everyday, I crave time alone in the majestic mystery called Mother Nature. As I rushed through my Biology study guide, I gathered a fleece and some slippers for my expedition to the outdoors (aka my backyard). Living in Raleigh, NC is not ideal for someone who prefers a day of hiking to a sleepover, but I make due.
So, this evening, I gathered nothing but apparel for warmth, and headed to hide behind my favorite tree. If only because it initially obscures me from any of the windows on the back side of my house. I become sedentary within a crook in the tree's trunk and sometimes just talk through some things that have been pestering me or instead digest the intricacy of everything around me - from the trees to each blade of grass. Then and only then am I affirmed that there is something beyond me, a Creator to fit the confounding and overwhelming Creation. For the moments of tranquility, nothing consumes me more than the possibility of a Potter, a Fabricator of the forests. I'll close my eyes for a sheer second and just cling to the chance of that Creator, as I sense His presence in the wonders encircling, the woods and the wind, all encompassing me. In those moments, logic and rationality fade to gray, while the Creator's colors become beyond vivid. It requires more faith to defy Him than to follow Him while I sit under the provision of that tree, the tree He made for me.
First off, I am not a people person. I am a nature person, a Creation-appreciator. I love rocks and trees, flowers and leaves, not clothes and shoes. Everyday, I crave time alone in the majestic mystery called Mother Nature. As I rushed through my Biology study guide, I gathered a fleece and some slippers for my expedition to the outdoors (aka my backyard). Living in Raleigh, NC is not ideal for someone who prefers a day of hiking to a sleepover, but I make due.
So, this evening, I gathered nothing but apparel for warmth, and headed to hide behind my favorite tree. If only because it initially obscures me from any of the windows on the back side of my house. I become sedentary within a crook in the tree's trunk and sometimes just talk through some things that have been pestering me or instead digest the intricacy of everything around me - from the trees to each blade of grass. Then and only then am I affirmed that there is something beyond me, a Creator to fit the confounding and overwhelming Creation. For the moments of tranquility, nothing consumes me more than the possibility of a Potter, a Fabricator of the forests. I'll close my eyes for a sheer second and just cling to the chance of that Creator, as I sense His presence in the wonders encircling, the woods and the wind, all encompassing me. In those moments, logic and rationality fade to gray, while the Creator's colors become beyond vivid. It requires more faith to defy Him than to follow Him while I sit under the provision of that tree, the tree He made for me.
Monday, March 07, 2011
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=690Fa5ERNxM
Because the world is topsy-turvy, crooked and impaired, so I keep my eyes fixed on the one thing that will never move.
Because there is beauty in the ordinary, one that comes alive as the fleeting appearances fade.
Because storms produce new beginnings. And new beginnings are anything you want them to be.
Because surprises are the greatest. Because change is always embraced. Because a change in scenery is the most astonishing surprise, paralyzing everything in me.
Sunday, March 06, 2011
This Ship Is Sinking, I Gotta Swim for It http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ERdtgGkwwxU
I cherish the glorious, soft din of the patter of my laptop keys harmonizing with the unrelenting winds and rain beckoning beyond my shelter. Few things fill me with deeper contempt than a world always in motion, never ceasing, never breaking, never bowing, pressing me into the mold, to be like the Energizer bunny, a product of its haste. The rain appeases me in a lifestyle that is just that. The rain is a melody of madness, a cold oxymoron that expresses enmity yet soothes. As I was sitting in solitude, absorbing and meditating on the divine drumming of the storm, a siren split through the sounds of the sky. I immediately entered a frustrated state. Seeing that I live so close to the city, I hear sirens about six times a day. And a day with terenchal winds and waves of rain was no exception, though that makes little sense to me. If, with music on full blast, I can still take in the resonance of rain (more like gallons of rain) pounding against the shingles keeping my head dry, is there really enough dryness in the air for a fire to ignite? Even if water and electricity produces fire, how can a fire thrive in this thrashing gale?
Either way, fires still happen during storms, even though it seems quite illogical. But today isn't a day for logic, it's a day for listening to the inclement lullaby just outside these walls. Oh, how I adore the aggravated atmosphere, the smashing, soaking sky's tears! And not for the reason every other teenage girl loves it, no. Honestly, romance shromance. Kissing in the rain, shmissing in the rain. All the same and I couldn't care less. Rain is merely the most perfect, breath-taking, intricately sloppy, stunning arrangement of ideas strewn into a violently gorgeous portrayal. It is the culmination of a crisis, a horribly awful event that produces buckets of hope. It is reaching the last hundred yards of hiking a steep mountain - so close, almost tangible, yet so far, so promising and rewarding yet so stripping and paining. It is the last straw, finally, it is the end of the brutal drought. The worst is yet to come, but I forget it about all the strife, all the soreness when I just so much as hear the beating, bruising, beautiful beads from above.
Either way, fires still happen during storms, even though it seems quite illogical. But today isn't a day for logic, it's a day for listening to the inclement lullaby just outside these walls. Oh, how I adore the aggravated atmosphere, the smashing, soaking sky's tears! And not for the reason every other teenage girl loves it, no. Honestly, romance shromance. Kissing in the rain, shmissing in the rain. All the same and I couldn't care less. Rain is merely the most perfect, breath-taking, intricately sloppy, stunning arrangement of ideas strewn into a violently gorgeous portrayal. It is the culmination of a crisis, a horribly awful event that produces buckets of hope. It is reaching the last hundred yards of hiking a steep mountain - so close, almost tangible, yet so far, so promising and rewarding yet so stripping and paining. It is the last straw, finally, it is the end of the brutal drought. The worst is yet to come, but I forget it about all the strife, all the soreness when I just so much as hear the beating, bruising, beautiful beads from above.
Friday, March 04, 2011
Time is of the essence...or, Time is important only to those who haven't learned their lessons.
Dear Reader, what is important to you? Please don't let it be an occupation or a job, and in the case that it is, please tell me you do not want children. Hi, my name is Jenny, and I am the daughter of a job-addict. I experience symptoms like over-independence because at times, I am nearly parent-less, then a squashed because I am "not yet 18."
Today, after school, I mustered all my courage with the intention of noting to my math teacher how there were two grades that needed updating in SPAN, but then asked some lame question because I couldn't bare to tell one of my favorite teachers how she screwed up. Instead, I asked something about grading and she answered quite concisely. After that, she asked if I had retrieved a "green sheet" from the stool during class today. Upon responding that I had not, she thrust three pages of material into my empty hands. I thanked her for her time and wished her a well weekend. Dashing down the stairs, I looked at the pages that I was grasping. AP STATISTICS was confidently pasted on the page, followed by two more that detailed what I suppose is everything anyone would ever need to know about AP Stat without taking one day of the class.
I carefully weaved through the words, collecting an impression of this mathematics course that I will be taking starting August 25, 2011, unless any circumstance forbids it. Moments later, a friend from before Sanderson bumped into me and needed help finding something. As I dragged my feet through the halls (literally, for whatever reason it feels much better to slide in the boots I was wearing than pick up my feet), I passed a teacher I had last semester. He once said he believed As should be earned, therefore they should be 96s and higher. I came out of that honors class (which he used as excuse to manipulate us for whatever reason on multiple occassions, such as refilling his water bottle or doing a 36 page note packet the day before the final exam....) with a 96.7. Looks like I did pass even your way too high standards, you slimy, disorganized teacher. While I politely acknowledged him, which I would not have done if there were more people in the hall so I could pretend to be distracted, I realized how well I did do in his class. Though I received a 77 on an essay on The Cause of World War 3, because I am too "hypothetical" and it "sounded like a novel," I worked extremely hard to achieve the grade I did.
I continued drudging through the halls, listening to my friend chatter, and more than happily obliging to the mindless searching of a small trinket. Eventually, we parted, as she intended on going to sing in the choir room, and I am less musically gifted than a pillow. I went outside to the carpool line and stood with some friends, being questioned by one friend about this guy who has a crush on me ("So... yall are really cute and should totes go out"), numbly responding. As I then saw my parent in the line that strings around like a laptop cable, in the most unconventional strand, I peered around for the MOST ANNOYING boy that I, JOYOUSLY, carpool with....nope, not there....uh-uh, nor near the benches. Then I dashed out of that trap, forcing me to say something about this guy and then have it manipulated so it appears that I really do like him. I scoured everywhere I could think of in two minutes for my LOVELY, WONDERFUL, PERFECT creation of a carpool who SITS BEHIND ME AND TALKS LOUDLY IN MY EAR EVEN THOUGH I INCLUDED "please" IN MY REQUEST FOR SILENCE. DID YOU HEAR ME SAY I HAVE A HEADACHE?! or were you deafened by your own obnoxious voice? Makes two of us. After a pretty lame attempt (it's effort that counts!) to find my carpool (PEACE, LOVE AND HAPPINESS :) :) :)), I just darted down the stairs, eager at a shot at riding home in silence. Loading into the car, with my heart shouting "GO! GO! GO!" the way people do at swim meets, I reported to my dad my results on searching for the such-a-fabulous-communicator and responsible carpool I have. He walks home sometime anyhow, was the obvious thought in my dad's mind, clearly expressed by his indecisive facial expression. Next thing I knew, the car is accelerating and I can feel wind blowing through the driver's side window. Bye-bye old friend, scratch that. Old enemy.
I held my AP Stat papers tightly enough that they would have been totally pulverized had they been crackers. The drive home flew, and my dad sped into the space off to the side of the carport, his parking spot. I hopped out of the car and upstairs to my room, surfing the Web for a few minutes, and forgetting totally how I was still gripping my Precious Papers. They had become an extension of me, a part of my phalanges.
Deciding I needed to do something with them, I remembered how my teacher had said that parents must sign some paper allowing a student's placement in AP, and therefore needed to be aware of the expectations (discussed in part of the Bible of Statistics Without Taking Statistics that was sitting on my palm, expectant of my next move). Arriving at my dad's desk (No-No number one), I handed him the sheets that were matted together from my hand sweating (go ahead, ewwww). He examined them and I scurried away to the kitchen to eat a carrot cupcake...isn't that the stupidest food ever invented? If you want to taste carrots, go eat a carrot! Basically two bites and I was sold.........sold on never eating carrot cake again in my life. Then, as I came to my senses and out of the faze of feeling disgusting that the carrot cupcake placed on me, I called out (No-No number two) to my dad and asked if he'd read the papers, afraid already of the reply.
"You're taking it next year right?"
"Right."
"Then I don't have time to read something that doesn't even matter now."
And there it was. I don't have time, for you, my daughter. I don't have time to even complicate my life with the things you are so proud of, my youngest. I don't have a split second to even think about anything that spins outside my egocentric atmosphere. I don't have an ounce of time to even comprehend that my daughter is taking a higher-level math class than I ever took. And why? Maybe because she just wants your attention. Maybe because she wants to actually be told, for once, that I'm proud of her. But wait, that takes a total of ten seconds to contemplate, and remember, she only can have the square root of a tenth of a second. She can only occupy my brain as much as a grain of sand would.
She can sit here, over-achieving and spending more time in math extra-help than with me. She can slowly but surely grow and become a stronger student, she can prepare herself for the world so she'll never come back.
Remember, she's as close to obtaining an actual job as you are to retiring. Memento, one day, you'll be old and frail, retired and alone, and children will be all you have. But one of them won't even really know you anymore, she won't have an ounce of time for you even, because you taught her well.
I'll sit here and study, I'll sit here and take notes from the best on how to not even have a penny worth of care for another individual, not to mention my own offspring. One day, I'll fly away without looking twice. I'll supply myself in every way I can, and become more self-sufficient day by day. I'll be old with kids of my own one day, and they'll ask about my daddy. I'll say I didn't know him well, I'll say that he was too consumed by his own interests.
Then I'll return to dust one day, stomping ground for the next generation. All that will be left of me will be my descendants, because even my achievements will become a shade of murky gray. I'll just be part of a Family Tree Project, my name and birth-date all that is prevalent after the years. My name will follow my father's, our names connected by a thin line, a branch in the family tree. And little will they know, that will have been all that connected us, a thin line, a crevice, a crack, one that cannot be mended, one that will be overlooked and forgotten, one that completely defined our relationship.
Today, after school, I mustered all my courage with the intention of noting to my math teacher how there were two grades that needed updating in SPAN, but then asked some lame question because I couldn't bare to tell one of my favorite teachers how she screwed up. Instead, I asked something about grading and she answered quite concisely. After that, she asked if I had retrieved a "green sheet" from the stool during class today. Upon responding that I had not, she thrust three pages of material into my empty hands. I thanked her for her time and wished her a well weekend. Dashing down the stairs, I looked at the pages that I was grasping. AP STATISTICS was confidently pasted on the page, followed by two more that detailed what I suppose is everything anyone would ever need to know about AP Stat without taking one day of the class.
I carefully weaved through the words, collecting an impression of this mathematics course that I will be taking starting August 25, 2011, unless any circumstance forbids it. Moments later, a friend from before Sanderson bumped into me and needed help finding something. As I dragged my feet through the halls (literally, for whatever reason it feels much better to slide in the boots I was wearing than pick up my feet), I passed a teacher I had last semester. He once said he believed As should be earned, therefore they should be 96s and higher. I came out of that honors class (which he used as excuse to manipulate us for whatever reason on multiple occassions, such as refilling his water bottle or doing a 36 page note packet the day before the final exam....) with a 96.7. Looks like I did pass even your way too high standards, you slimy, disorganized teacher. While I politely acknowledged him, which I would not have done if there were more people in the hall so I could pretend to be distracted, I realized how well I did do in his class. Though I received a 77 on an essay on The Cause of World War 3, because I am too "hypothetical" and it "sounded like a novel," I worked extremely hard to achieve the grade I did.
I continued drudging through the halls, listening to my friend chatter, and more than happily obliging to the mindless searching of a small trinket. Eventually, we parted, as she intended on going to sing in the choir room, and I am less musically gifted than a pillow. I went outside to the carpool line and stood with some friends, being questioned by one friend about this guy who has a crush on me ("So... yall are really cute and should totes go out"), numbly responding. As I then saw my parent in the line that strings around like a laptop cable, in the most unconventional strand, I peered around for the MOST ANNOYING boy that I, JOYOUSLY, carpool with....nope, not there....uh-uh, nor near the benches. Then I dashed out of that trap, forcing me to say something about this guy and then have it manipulated so it appears that I really do like him. I scoured everywhere I could think of in two minutes for my LOVELY, WONDERFUL, PERFECT creation of a carpool who SITS BEHIND ME AND TALKS LOUDLY IN MY EAR EVEN THOUGH I INCLUDED "please" IN MY REQUEST FOR SILENCE. DID YOU HEAR ME SAY I HAVE A HEADACHE?! or were you deafened by your own obnoxious voice? Makes two of us. After a pretty lame attempt (it's effort that counts!) to find my carpool (PEACE, LOVE AND HAPPINESS :) :) :)), I just darted down the stairs, eager at a shot at riding home in silence. Loading into the car, with my heart shouting "GO! GO! GO!" the way people do at swim meets, I reported to my dad my results on searching for the such-a-fabulous-communicator and responsible carpool I have. He walks home sometime anyhow, was the obvious thought in my dad's mind, clearly expressed by his indecisive facial expression. Next thing I knew, the car is accelerating and I can feel wind blowing through the driver's side window. Bye-bye old friend, scratch that. Old enemy.
I held my AP Stat papers tightly enough that they would have been totally pulverized had they been crackers. The drive home flew, and my dad sped into the space off to the side of the carport, his parking spot. I hopped out of the car and upstairs to my room, surfing the Web for a few minutes, and forgetting totally how I was still gripping my Precious Papers. They had become an extension of me, a part of my phalanges.
Deciding I needed to do something with them, I remembered how my teacher had said that parents must sign some paper allowing a student's placement in AP, and therefore needed to be aware of the expectations (discussed in part of the Bible of Statistics Without Taking Statistics that was sitting on my palm, expectant of my next move). Arriving at my dad's desk (No-No number one), I handed him the sheets that were matted together from my hand sweating (go ahead, ewwww). He examined them and I scurried away to the kitchen to eat a carrot cupcake...isn't that the stupidest food ever invented? If you want to taste carrots, go eat a carrot! Basically two bites and I was sold.........sold on never eating carrot cake again in my life. Then, as I came to my senses and out of the faze of feeling disgusting that the carrot cupcake placed on me, I called out (No-No number two) to my dad and asked if he'd read the papers, afraid already of the reply.
"You're taking it next year right?"
"Right."
"Then I don't have time to read something that doesn't even matter now."
And there it was. I don't have time, for you, my daughter. I don't have time to even complicate my life with the things you are so proud of, my youngest. I don't have a split second to even think about anything that spins outside my egocentric atmosphere. I don't have an ounce of time to even comprehend that my daughter is taking a higher-level math class than I ever took. And why? Maybe because she just wants your attention. Maybe because she wants to actually be told, for once, that I'm proud of her. But wait, that takes a total of ten seconds to contemplate, and remember, she only can have the square root of a tenth of a second. She can only occupy my brain as much as a grain of sand would.
She can sit here, over-achieving and spending more time in math extra-help than with me. She can slowly but surely grow and become a stronger student, she can prepare herself for the world so she'll never come back.
Remember, she's as close to obtaining an actual job as you are to retiring. Memento, one day, you'll be old and frail, retired and alone, and children will be all you have. But one of them won't even really know you anymore, she won't have an ounce of time for you even, because you taught her well.
I'll sit here and study, I'll sit here and take notes from the best on how to not even have a penny worth of care for another individual, not to mention my own offspring. One day, I'll fly away without looking twice. I'll supply myself in every way I can, and become more self-sufficient day by day. I'll be old with kids of my own one day, and they'll ask about my daddy. I'll say I didn't know him well, I'll say that he was too consumed by his own interests.
Then I'll return to dust one day, stomping ground for the next generation. All that will be left of me will be my descendants, because even my achievements will become a shade of murky gray. I'll just be part of a Family Tree Project, my name and birth-date all that is prevalent after the years. My name will follow my father's, our names connected by a thin line, a branch in the family tree. And little will they know, that will have been all that connected us, a thin line, a crevice, a crack, one that cannot be mended, one that will be overlooked and forgotten, one that completely defined our relationship.
Wednesday, March 02, 2011
Cave Canem........long story.
Don't come groveling, knocking at my door
with your apologizes to pour.
See, if you did it right the first time,
none of this would happen, I wouldn't have to hear your shaking whines.
But seeing as you have to screw-up before doing anything right,
I'm heading out of sight, 'cause unlike you, I don't feel satisfied by instigating fights.
with your apologizes to pour.
See, if you did it right the first time,
none of this would happen, I wouldn't have to hear your shaking whines.
But seeing as you have to screw-up before doing anything right,
I'm heading out of sight, 'cause unlike you, I don't feel satisfied by instigating fights.
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