A Morning in the Finch Household

You may or may not be familiar with my dear Finch family. Whatever your case, I highly recommend brushing up on your knowledge of them before reading on: http://jblog08.blogspot.com/2009/03/finch-family.html


I shall begin this next segment with the second-to-last paragraph of the first segment. So, don't be confused.

The Finch family lived in a modest home right in the very middle of Fanghorn Avenue. The downstairs consisted of a parlor, kitchen, dining room, powder room, and a small cupboard for the placement of articles of warmth from the cold in the winter, which was located in the passage. Upstairs (the steps leading to and from which were located next-door to the aforementioned cupboard), were four bedrooms. One for Mr. and Mrs. Finch, one for Greta and Evelyn, one for Edward and Victor, and one for guests when guests came, but otherwise for collection overflow on behalf of Mr. Finch, Mrs. Finch, Greta, and Evelyn (all of whom would have rather kept all of each collection in his or her room, but ran out). Edward and Victor, wanting to share in the equal subdivision of the spare room, collected odds and ends precisely for the purpose of storing when no guests were around. Edward heartlessly collected many ounces of dust lying around the house (causing Mrs. Finch to keep her sanity in check in the most mundane respects of furniture dusting), and Victor had the clever idea of cutting out encyclopedia articles which he thought he might read in the future when he got around to it, (of course, Mr. Finch was not of the knowledge of this defacement) and putting them in spare jars which Evelyn discarded when any particular culture grew too big for it. This resulted in Victor not wanting to actually read the articles because to pull them back out again would render the entire time reading a time spent smelling nothing short of the most awful stench in the world, which was impossible to wash out of the jars. There was also a bathroom up stairs which everyone shared, though everyone complained considerably of everyone else taking much too long in the bathroom doing various and sundry preparations and primpings which were necessary to the party concerned with doing preparations and primpings, but were absolutely ridiculous to all who were affected by not being able to use the bathroom at the time they wished to.

It was on one such a morning that Greta was taking an especially lengthy time in the bathroom, because she felt she must brush her hair out as long as possible in order for it to be as long and silky as possible. The day before, her friend at school had let her borrow a very expensive hairbrush, telling her that the only way for her hair to be perfect was to brush it consistently for at least an hour. The three other siblings were outside the door as well. Edward was wrestling with Evelyn, asking her why and for what absurd reason she should think that girls need to be first.

“Why, they take longer to get ready, of course! Boys can do it in five minutes flat,” she reasoned, stamping her foot in front of her to hold her place in line. She pulled the rest of herself up in front of Edward.

Edward glared. “But that is the whole point! Why can’t we just get ready first, since we take such a short amount of time, and then you girls can take your sweet time afterwards, minus the banging and nagging.”

“Because,” Evelyn stuck her nose in the air, “when you go first, you DON’T take five minutes...you take hours!!”

Victor piped up, “Why, Evelyn, we are only showing you what it feels like to wait. If you didn’t take so long, this demonstration would certainly not be necessary.”

Evelyn was shoved back by Edward, and then shoved back farther still by Victor, so that she was at the back of the line. She scoffed. “You boys are just wasting time in there??”

Victor shrugged. “I usually read; quite often one of my Guinness Book of World Records or something of the sort.”

Edward added, “One time I opened the window, climbed down the side of the house, went for a relaxing swim, played in the mud, and then I climbed back up and took a real, well-deserved, lengthy bath because this time I was really messy. I should do that more often...”

Evelyn’s jaw dropped. “You...!” she squeaked presently. “I’m telling mum on you!”

“I had to clean the floor, of course, too,” Edward continued. “That was a bit of a downer; anti-climactic and whatnot. But other than that, it was quite fun. And when I came out, you and Greta had fallen asleep in front of the door with your towels as pillows!”

Evelyn’s eyes widened at the memory, and she quickly dropped to the floor, crawling between her brothers’ legs to get to the front of the line. Victor cried, “No!!” and crawled likewise to the front. Edward, appalled at being pushed to the back so quickly, tried to repeat the action. Though he ended up toppling his brother and sister over, rather than making a clean sweep of things, he resumed his spot as first in line.

“I don’t want to be after you if you are going swimming again!” Victor pouted.

“Well, I don’t want to be after YOU if you are going to read a giant book full of nonsense!” Edward shot back. “I mean, you do it anyway, but it is an unacceptable bathroom behavior.”

“My hair takes longer to dry than either of yours!” Evelyn continued to protest from the back of the line. “I simply must go first, or I shan’t survive the day.”

Edward rolled his eyes. “What has hair-drying go to do with anything?”

“A lot.”

“What, then?”

Evelyn wasn’t sure, but it was certainly a lot.

Edward and Victor were laughing so hard at Evelyn’s failure to come up with a good argument that they did not hear or see Mrs. Finch ascending the staircase. She only wore her hats in company or out in public, and without them she actually resembled a normal human being. She glided over to stand, looking down upon her children (except for Edward, who was a little taller than she was).

Mrs. Finch did not demand to know what the trouble was. Instead, she said: “Your distant cousin Robby Arbuckle is coming to see us, and stay in the spare room.”

Upon hearing this, the three children froze, and even Greta (who always listened in with great ears for doing so, but never acted like she heard anything) poked her half-brushed head out of the restroom. “What??” The four demanded in unison.

Temple

Note: An entry on the books in more detail is coming soon. Until then, enjoy some flash fiction.

The lights were out and we could see only because our eyes had adjusted and the full moon beamed sleepily through the thin curtains. My eyes stung but my heart’s angry palpitations were slowly soothed by Temple’s soft humming as she ran her fingers through my hair. I felt sorry my tears had fallen down beside my head on her lap, but she didn’t seem to mind. Temple’s other hand held mine, stroking my palm with her thumb as I lay it on my shallowly breathing abdomen.

I took in a deep breath and it came in shakily. It felt good. Temple said nothing and I loved her all the better for it. For a moment I wanted to be silent as well, but in my mind thoughts screamed and scratched for release.

“Is it possible to be sure of myself?” I asked in a cracking tremor. “Am I destined to go through life, never quite certain of what I believe?” Temple’s humming had stopped, but I dared not look into her lovely melancholy face. I had yet to know what lay beyond. I was afraid to know, and perhaps she guessed it. Another tear escaped as I blinked. I yawned, breathing deeply again and feeling the emotional exhaustion pressing down on my heart. “Temple, who am I?”

When Temple finally answered, I could not detect emotion. “You are who you are on the outside, and who you are on the inside.” I almost asked her what she meant, except that after a moment’s pause she began again in her calm and calculated manner. “You are what you do – every little thing. And that is all influenced by what you think. You can think all you need to, but who you are is defined by what you end up doing. An ultimatum is an ultimatum. Once met and dealt with... there you are.”

I could not feel myself tremble any more, and finally dared to look up at Temple. I was met with a small smile that changed her whole face. She squeezed my hand and I squeezed back. I felt more tears coming as in the glassy blue of her eyes I knew I had finally found a sister.

Oh, Snap!

Since I don't exactly have a lot of time to sit down and write really long, drawn-out blog posts while I am here (or anywhere, for that matter), I am probably just going to blog as often as I can in little blurbs about life so far. This came about because my first official blurb was actually going to be a status on Facebook...but it was too long.

So, ladies and gentlemen:

OH SNAP

by Jessica

about Jessica

written in third person for the sake of dramatic emphasis...or whatever feeling you get from reading this piece

Jessica was walking along the shore, absorbing the presence of the ocean and feeling at one with the wind when suddenly she was hit with 3 waves, leaving her in water that was waist deep. In a struggle to walk out of the water before she got more wet, the grasping fingers of the ocean ripped her flip-flop off her foot. She grabbed for it, successful in this retrieval, until the process caused her other flip-flop to wiggle off and elope with the receding sea. In a vain, tragic effort, Jessica scoured the ocean in the twilight. Alas, her flip flop was gone for eternity and she was soaked to the bone with only a future as an ice sculpture to give her hope in life. Oh, and dinner. =)

This Isn't Going Anywhere...

I guess what the dialogue does is introduce you to the characters, but, like for the one about the two people on the lake, the beginning few pages do little more than that. They have nothing to do with the story I had in mind. Perhaps, I have to think to myself, I was/am just doing some "prewriting." I had already created these characters in my mind, and created the situation they were eventually going to end up in. But now that I really think about it, I'm getting to understand how they interact and live in normal life before the story enters into the main part where real things happen. If I use any bit of this in the real book, it will be much shorter.

Anyways, in that case, and keeping what I just said in mind, comment whatever you feel like, but if you have something to say about character development, that would be most appreciated. It's very hard to explain, but basically with me, I sit down to write about these two or more people, with this plot in mind, but then I start to write an introductory interaction, and all of a sudden I see the two talking in front of me, and they sort of carry on their own conversation without my direction/guidance...something saying, "okay, it's time to stop chatting and time to start introducing other elements of the plot." It's also much harder to dictate what happens in story ideas that come from dreams. If it's normal every-day stuff, it just flows into what I'm writing, which usually happens to be normal and every day.......do you get what I mean? It's like...if you are playing piano kind of randomly, and just sort of picking here and picking there. You have a specific direction you'd like the song to go in your mind, but then your fingers are doing something else. It may be good, it may sound not as good as you had hoped. All you know is that the music is just playing itself now, and it's no use trying to control anything till the music is done being in charge.

Yeah...weird...

Okay, here it is:

The sun had decided to rise on that day. A day like any other day, seemingly. It may have occurred to some readers that, in fact, the sun rises everyday, we just don’t see it some times. And those same readers may agree with me when I say that those some times happen to be the times when life seems at the peak of gloom; the kind of days when one would much rather simply stay inside and sleep away the day.

Fortunately or unfortunately (depending on whether the reader is an optimist or a pessimist), on the day on or in which this story begins, the sun shone in the bright blue sky with such radiance, that every resident that resided on the long, thin strip of land that was Seahawk Island, North Carolina, USA, couldn’t help but rise from their beds with a sense of hope and joy, and an unexplainable energy that everyone felt simply must be channeled into doing a million productive things at once, and preferably out of doors.

This is the kind of attitude that possessed 17-year-old Amber Barton, a certain dweller on the said island, to throw off her covers, bound down from the top bunk in the room she shared with her 10-year-old sister Catherine, and dance towards the kitchen gleefully. Perhaps it had occurred to her that she was in no need of caffeine, perhaps not. Nonetheless, she quickly brewed some double-strength coffee, poured it over ice, added sugar, chocolate syrup and topped it off with whipped cream. The reader must understand at this point that Amber Barton was certainly, if anyone, liable to do and over-do most tasks she set her heart to. So this Amber did in the case of her coffee making that fine morning.

After preparing such a treat, she ran to retrieve White Fang by Jack London from atop her dresser before heading outside with these two finely paired items to execute the undertakings usually associated with coffee and a good book. Her boxer, the most loyal companion whose name was Wiley, was at her heels as Amber went out the front door. He lay down beside her contentedly as she sat with her back against the large oak tree which predominated the front yard of the Barton home. Occasionally Wiley would glance up at his owner, as if he was wondering if Amber was going to feed him yet. Otherwise he would relax; he was most likely sure that Amber would feed him once she was done with her present occupation.

Wiley became distracted for a moment as a figure appeared in the doorway of a house slightly further down than the Barton’s house on the opposite side of the street. He raised his head and his ears perked up. Amber’s head never changed position, but her eyes followed where Wiley was looking. She spotted the figure, and made a point to make sure he didn’t see that she had seen him. “No Wiley,” Amber commanded as the boxer inched forward excitedly. “Stay here.”
Wiley obeyed reluctantly, laying his head down but still watching the figure as the latter walked through his own yard, down the street and into Amber’s yard. Wiley let out a little whine.
“Alright,” Amber consented. Wiley eagerly got up and traipsed over to the visitor. Amber looked up from her book as Wiley led a tall blonde boy of eighteen towards her.

The boy smiled at her. “I see the sun woke you up early, too.”

“Yes it did, Omar. What are you up to this morning?” Amber smiled casually back.

“I was about to go on a run, actually.” Omar patted Wiley as he said this. “Would you like to come along?”

“I don’t think so,” Amber declined, shaking her head and looking away from the burning green eyes of her visitor.

“You don’t like running, do you?” Omar teased, squatting down on the ground.

“Not really. I function better in the water.” Amber expressed. The conversation was going nowhere. They were always like this. As much as she liked him, for some reason the conversations between them were monotonously about shallow, meaningless things. Amber and Omar had developed a good relationship based on small talk, but Amber wondered why it never got any deeper. If Omar really wanted to get to know her, he would make attempts at different topics of conversation, such as, “what view do you take regarding women in the corporate world?” or “what is it about dogs that you find so fascinating?”

Somehow, conversation starters such as these were a rarity.

“Well, just tell me if you ever change your opinion on running. It’d sure be nice to have a running partner,” Omar mused, glancing down the road, as if scoping out his destination, mentally preparing for the trip ahead.

“I’ll be sure to,” rejoined Amber, once again looking up into the green eyes. Her heart was, for a moment, filled to the top with admiration for the green eyes, though she was not sure why such a thing would stir up a great bout of emotion in anyone. With the fear that she might melt away in the presence of the eyes, which to her were quite the equivalent of a sweet, mourning Celtic melody, she averted her own quickly.

“You know,” Omar piped up, staring at Amber, unaware of the effect his staring implements were having on the person whom they were staring at, “you really should broaden your horizons.”

“They are quite broad enough, thank you,” Amber responded icily, avoiding the eyes. What if she looked at them and was so mesmerized that she forgot herself and did his every bidding? Though, perhaps when she was doing the talking she could spare a glance. This she did as she added, “Perhaps you need to find something else you like to do besides run all day, and make noise when you’re not running.”

“I don’t make noise, I’m practicing my music and expanding my repertoire of instruments I can master!” Omar protested defensively.

“Well, over here, it sounds like noise.” Amber stated, beginning to hope Omar would just go on and leave so she could stop being miserable about all of this shallow conversation.

“The sound probably just doesn’t carry right.” Omar concluded.

Finally, Amber could not stand it any longer. “Look, Omar, if you want to sit there and talk to me a while, at least we could talk about something deeper than the same old things we always talk and argue about, you know?” She scolded herself for being so cold, and immediately felt bad. Amber was not used to speaking so much of her mind.

Omar, to Amber’s surprised, was rendered speechless. On a couple of occasions, he opened his mouth to say something. At the end of the second attempt to speak, he clamped his mouth shut and simply glared at Amber.

Amber chuckled. “I suppose you haven’t the slightest idea what deep conversation is, Omar Pollard.”

In a most mature fashion, Omar stuck out his tongue at Amber, and promptly resumed his standing position, saying, “I’m going to run a mile—just one mile—and I’ll think about it.” He turned towards the road, breaking into a jog and yelling, “I’ll be back in a few minutes, don’t go anywhere!”

Amber, in the rebellious manner with which she was most comfortable, did go many places while Omar was away. She went into the kitchen to put a bagel into the toaster, finished White Fang, read three pages in the next book she intended to read, Under the Tuscan Sun, put honey on her bagel, prepared some superfood in some orange juice, talked to her just awakened Dad about putting a hammock in the front yard, and rolled out a picnic blanket.

Upon his return, Omar found Amber, on her stomach, relaxing upon this very blanket, eating her bagel, reading her new book, drinking her strange green drink and occasionally glaring at Wiley, who looked quite attracted to the bagel.

“Alright, I have it!” Omar grinned as he wiped the single bead of sweat as it formed and wound its way down his forehead. “As a matter of fact,” Omar continued, sitting down in the grass Indian-style, in front of Amber, who barely glanced up, and didn’t say anything, because her mouth was full, “I have quite a few questions to ask of you, but never have because…well, I don’t know. Since you seem to invite them, I guess I might as well ask them.”

“Proceed,” Amber said after swallowing. Wiley assumed this meant him, and made a lunge towards the bagel. With a snap of her fingers and a strict utterance of “no,” Amber sent Wiley back into his lay-down position. She took another bite of her bagel, and looked up at Omar expectantly.

Omar piped up, “Why are you always reading or writing? What do you write about? What do you read about? Do you like other things? Why does that dog follow you around? Does anything you like have to do with the fact that you constantly are exposed to chlorine and have water in your ears and a swim cap and goggles squeezing your head?” He huffed, throwing his hands on the ground. “That’s enough for now…” he muttered.

Amber slowly chewed her bite of bagel, looking up into the sky and contemplating her answers. She finally swallowed and took a drink. “First of all, it’s nice to know that you know how to start a conversation. Questions are always good. Not questions like, ‘do you want to go on a run with me this morning?’, but questions like you just asked. Congratulations.”

“Thank you. Now, can you answer them?” demanded Omar.

“Yes.”

“Then answer them and stop drinking that weird spinach drink!”

Amber cleared her throat as she set the glass down. “I am always reading and writing because I find them fascinating enterprises. I usually read about things like animals or foreign countries or anything else with exceptionally good writing or intriguing plots. I write about anything that comes to mind, sometimes utopian cultures or teenage girls or something else—either something I know everything about or something I can totally make up. This dog follows me around because I am his female. He adores me, and respects me. Wiley does not love me because I smell like chlorine”—

-“I never said you smelled like chlorine,” protested Omar.

“I said I smell like chlorine,” declared Amber. “Anyway, in that case, Wiley probably does know that my main smell is chlorine. And I am not in any way mentally incapacitated by chlorine exposure, having water in my ears, or by having my head squeezed by a cap and goggles. Ask anyone.”

Lilia

The meadow was green, full of beautiful weeds, wildflowers, wisteria and unkempt shrubbery. A miniscule waterfall poured delicately off a brown stone ridge. Moss lay in patches around the flat rocks by the shore of the stream, the sun shined as it was meant to. It showed off the radiance of all things green which were in the meadow; it shimmered on the stream, darted and danced between the waves of the waterfall.

A small girl sat on the water’s edge, feet in the water, pen in hand and a book of blank paper on her lap. Her long, wispy dark brown hair rippled as a gentle breeze whistled through the leaves of the brush. She wrote fast, intensely, and powerfully. A whippoorwill called from the top of the stone from which the waterfall descended, but this was a quiet she craved.

Honest truth: does this sound ridiculous?

The wind beat hard on the windows. In the distance, a confused beagle bow-wowed as the fierce breeze whipped and whirled through the trees. That night, the bluster was nearly continuous, as if a giant were inhaling and exhaling, attempting to blow out all his birthday candles.

Caleb Larson scowled out his attic window. He knew she was out there. The strange girl across the lake. He could not see her now, for it was dark and rain droplets were beginning to be thrashed across his windowpane. He had seen her many times before, though, doing many strange things. Caleb knew she was on the edge of her dock, standing there. He imagined her smiling and sighing as the current of air rippled through her skirts and long, wavy, light brown hair. It bothered him. He did not know why. He only knew it was bothersome.

Perhaps it was because he did not know why she was this way. He had thought many times of how awkward and stupid it would be for him to canoe across the lake to say, “Hi, what’s your name? Mine’s Caleb. I was just wondering why you always stand outside on clear nights and why you enjoy absorbing the wind and why you sometimes lay outside reading and soaking up the sunlight for hours and sometimes like to dance in the rain?”

It wasn’t more than 60 yards across the lake, but Caleb had never met the girl who lived across there in his whole two years of living in the big cabin with his mom, younger sister and younger brother. His dad had passed away a year before the move, and left the remaining Larsons a significant amount of money. Emma Larson had always wanted a lake house, and so, after recovering from their loss, Emma and her children, Caleb, Lynn, and Josiah had packed up and left the suburbs of Cary for the calm, peaceful lake house life in Creedmoor.

Caleb was homeschooled, as were his siblings. Lynn was 17, and in her junior year in highschool. Josiah was six, and just beginning kindergarten. Caleb was 18, and about to graduate. Caleb looked down from the window to a paper on his desk. The acceptance letter from the University of South Carolina Upstate grinned back up at him, for Lynn had drawn a gigantic smiley-face in the blank area underneath the signature of the dean. This was it! April, May, then summer, and in August he was off to study History for pre-law. It did not matter that perhaps it was not what he wanted to do. It was something to do, and a career path approved by his mother, as well as his late father.

Caleb wondered about the strange girl. What would she think of him going to law school? He would not be here anymore to see her strange behavior. How depressing. Perhaps she was graduating too. She would also probably be leaving for college in August. Maybe she had also gotten accepted to USCU. She might possibly be in some of his classes. They could be study buddies. He was sure she would make an interesting study buddy. She would have many strange opinions.

She was also homeschooled, he knew, because she was often outside gardening or reading during school hours. Why had Lynn never gone over there to introduce herself? They were both probably around the same age. It would not hurt. But Lynn was too introverted. Lynn kept to herself, as the strange girl did, but she preferred the indoors.

Was the girl really out there? Caleb had to know.

With that determination set, Caleb picked up his shoes in his left hand and crept down the attic stairs slowly, dodging all the creaks. His mom was in her room reading, Josiah was asleep, as was Lynn. Lynn always went to bed early.

Caleb softly padded down the hallway on a long, thin green shag rug that ran along the wood-paneled and wood-flooring corridor. He descended the next stairs less carefully, as the master bedroom was now the furthest away. He found himself facing the living room, and immediately repented into the kitchen. He walked around the kitchen table to the back door, where he put on his shoes. He had to know if she was out there, and, further, he had to know why she was. What was it she felt in the wind?

Once outside, Caleb scrambled to the end of the Larson’s own dock. He peered over the lake as the wind wildly pulled and yanked on his hair and clothes. There she was, doing precisely what he imagined her doing. Maybe he had known because he had seen her unconsciously in a split second through a raindrop. It could happen. Anything could. Caleb was about to make one of those anythings.

Without thinking he walked back off the dock, kicked over the canoe, secured the oars, pushed the boat into the water, climbed in and furiously rowed across the lake. Fortunately the wind was in his favor; it almost caused him not to have to row at all at some points, for the water would carry him. As he got closer, he saw her standing there on the dock with her eyes closed. She was stunningly beautiful. Her hair was longer than it looked from the Larson property. She was wearing a single white tee shirt, a long, baby blue flowing skirt, and had no shoes on. Her muscular arms hung at her sides, palms facing the lake and fingers spread out, as if to take it all in with all her senses. Caleb was sure he would startle her, and attempted not to get too close, in hope that she would see him from a distance first, and perhaps beckon for him to come closer. But the wind blew him too hard. He was probably five feet from the dock when she must have heard his oars slide through the water (in vain of going backwards a bit), and opened her eyes. They were the most beautiful, radiant green eyes, and they stared right back at him in a slightly shocked manner. The eyes softened almost immediately, and the girl smiled.

“Have you come to join me in taking in this sensual weather?” She asked, to his surprise. “I don’t mean to be provocative in saying it’s sensual, but that is really the only proper way to describe it.”

Caleb was rendered speechless, and to his dismay the girl laughed.

“You are the boy from across the lake who is always fixing things,” the girl went on softly and pleasantly. “Why have you come here?”

“I wanted to know who you are,” Caleb finally said, realizing a moment afterwards that this sounded stupid.

“I am the person who is standing before you. My name, if it makes any difference, is Aimee, and I would like to know why you have come over here at ten in the night to ask me who I am?”

“You fascinate me,” Caleb confessed, “and I want to know everything about why you do what you do.” He thought a moment. The wind was dying down. He patted the seat in front of him in the canoe. “If you want, you can get in and I can row around our little area while you tell me about yourself.”

Aimee looked hesitant, but Caleb must have let off a very acute air of sincerity that convinced her, for she carefully climbed into the boat and sat facing him. The moon was two days from being full, and shone bright over the lake. A breeze blew which was of a much more forgiving nature than any preceding it; the giant must have been running out of breath.


Please...I need your honest opinion. I tried to start this certain story, and this is the way it came out, unintended. I couldn't help it. If you don't understand you'll just have to believe me. Anyways, I just want to know if this is good for anything...I'm not being as serious as I sound, but I do want the truth, because I am certainly not sure myself. :)

~Jessica

Mindlessness

There are certain things I love doing, that I just cannot bring myself to put on my “interests” or “hobbies” list. I’m not embarrassed. That’s ridiculous. But…there is some reason or another. Things like: clipping my nails, blow drying my hair, driving, dancing outside in the middle of the night, and being alone in complete quiet.

Ultimately I suppose it comes down to mindlessness. I really appreciate it. That sounds bad…shouldn’t I really like stretching my cognitive abilities? Well, I do. There’s no doubt about that. I enjoy feeling like the gears in my brain are really chugging away (if gears do that…you know what I mean…perhaps I am getting my imagery mixed up, but whatever). But I feel like my brain is like that all the time. It’s as if I’m running endlessly, never taking a break to just sit down and catch my breath, to let my muscles rest. Sure, if I sit down for a long enough time, I get antsy again, and get up and run. But rests are wonderful things.

Clipping my nails, filing my nails…it’s the epitome of mindlessness, in my opinion. I just do it. I’m doing something physical, working on something, and thinking about nothing. I wish I had more nails, or just more activities that were like clipping nails. Watching TV or playing video games just don’t do it for me. I get really wrapped up in television or movies, and when I play video games, I constantly am feeling like I should be doing something else. Clipping my nails is of such benefit to me and others…makes it easier to play guitar and piano, preventing myself from bending the nails back when they’re wet, makes them nicer-looking, and puts a stop to any lethal scratching I may inflict during water polo (you can thank me in the comments section).

I also like things like showering and shaving my legs. Sorry if that’s TMI for some people, but you must understand that I just like that mindless time. Because doing stuff that takes no brain leaves my brain to be opened. I come up with my best ideas for songs, stories, businesses, et cetera, while lathering my hair, getting soap in my eyes, or making funny shapes with my shaving cream (I am really a pro at making many different sculptures as I squirt the shaving cream out…I entertain myself very well). The problem with coming up with such a huge wave of ideas is that you can’t really document any of them in the bathtub. I suppose I could take all my hair that falls out and twist them into a musical staff and music notes, and write down ideas with my shaving cream on the walls…but that would take a lot longer than it would if I just finished the shower, wouldn’t it? Yeah. *sigh* Plus not being able to really read music, as well as my hair having a tendency to just curl up after a while, present problems. Shaving cream likes to melt.

Whatever.

I like dancing, that’s a given. I don’t think I’ve met a girl who doesn’t. I really like it when guys like dancing, too. It was pretty awesome to see all the guys who showed up at the cotillion-style dance class at the homeschool conference. It was even more awesome to see the very few guys who were AMAZING. It let me hope for my generation. Perhaps I will marry a guy who will go dancing with me!

As for dancing outside in the middle of the night, I’d say it is the epitome of freedom…so I don’t know why I just told the whole world I do it. Might as well, it’s nothing to be ashamed of. But I do it because the night is stimulating; the air is clear, crisp, and electrifying. No human is watching. The moonlight shines down like a single spotlight…the stars are my audience, the cool grass is my stage, the crickets and the frogs are my music. I dance without a care in the world. I get warm and breathless, my muscles begin to feel strained, and the beads of sweat begin to surface on my brow. The soft breeze cools me, and I want nothing else but to stay out there forever…

Death is just the easy way to escape. The weather recently has reminded me about this story about a boy and a girl. Simple enough, I suppose. They grow older and fall in love. The boy is poor, the girl is rich. While she goes away to school for her later teen years, the boy, a couple years older, determines to spend the time when they are separated in hard labor, working to make enough to support her. Of course, he knows what she’s used to and is willing to do whatever he can to get as close to matching it as possible. When she comes back from school, three or four years later, he is proud of himself. They meet, and she seems preoccupied. He plans to come over to her house later and propose. He does, but he finds her in the parlor talking with another man—a rich one—who has his arm around the girl. The girl announces, slightly embarrassed and grimly, that she and the rich man are engaged. The boy falls into devastation, and that’s a very understate-ish understatement. He had worked all these years, FOR HER. And now what? She rejects him. Unintentionally, but he can never have her now. He never even tries again. He just crawls into a hole, gives up. However, he’s developed a habit of working hard. In ten years, he’s pretty well off. He’s been keeping track of the girl now. She married the other man and they moved to a house on the lake. One night, the husband leaves for a business meeting. The girl is at home alone. She goes out to enjoy the moonlit night, and comes back into her dark living room. Something in the shadows moves—it is the boy, now fully a man, dressed nicely. His eyebrows are turned down. In his hands is a pistol. The girl is shocked. Her voice trembles as they talk. His is calm and confident. He thinks he wants her love…but in that conversation, he realizes that all he wants is for her to know what he did for her, what he always wanted, and how she carelessly and heartlessly ripped his chest opened, pulled his heart out, and threw it out the window where it was driven to the bottom of the river. The husband comes back home. The man confronts the husband and shoots him soon after. The girl screams, asking what the man wants from her. Now the man comes to his senses…he’s only hurt her more. She hurt him, but he swore long ago he would never hurt her. He’s gone back on the promise. His life is turmoil, and the moment is happening so fast around him, he feels dizzy. With quaking hands he turns the gun on himself. It would make things better for the girl if he was gone as well. He shoots himself in the head. What he doesn’t know is that he’s hurt the girl even more than he could ever imagine. The girl is confused, bewildered…this was not what was supposed to happen this evening! All she can see, though, is what is right in front of her, and that’s any meaning in her life now has surely vanished, and vanished tragically. Impulsively, she grabs the pistol from the man, lets out one last sob…and shoots herself.

It’s not supposed to be that easy. That is not bliss; that is not escape. It’s just tragedy. Naivety, short-sightedness. People commit suicide every day, feeling surely that once their souls have escaped the world, everything will be okay…

I don't mean to leave you on such a negative note. No, I'm not feeling suicidal. Far from it! I was just illustrating something with my little story. Now I shall go and love my life some more!

The Table of Contents

1. Commencement of the Great American Novel
2. Novel Begins to Fall Out of Sorts
3. Novel Makes a Will for Itself
4. Novel Dies
5. Requiem for the Dead Novel
6. Post-Requiem
7. Counter-Requiem
8. Authoress of Dead Novel Fires Over-the-Top-and-Full-of-it Composer
9. Composer Plans to Get Revenge on Authoress
10. There is a Great Federal Dispute
11. That Had Nothing to Do with Composers and Authoresses
12. The Composer Says He was Going to Resign Anyways
13. The Authoress says “Yeah, right!”
14. The Composer Takes His Piano and Promptly Walks Out With His Nose in the Air
15. The Authoress Doesn’t Know What to Do Now
16. The Composer Becomes Really Famous
17. The Authoress Regrets Hastiness
18. The Authoress Contacts the Composer and Repents
19. The Composer, Sensing the Authoress Really Means it and is not Saying Sorry Just Because The Composer Made it Big Without the Assistance of the Authoress, Says “Let’s Meet at the Park to Talk.”
20. They Meet in the Park
21. The Composer Asks the Authoress to Marry Him

Epilogue:

The Composer and the Authoress live happily ever after with many songwriter children running about their humble abode.

The Ocean-Side Holiday, Part Two

Deja vu...

As we walked up the deck, back towards our condo, we stopped and looked at the
condo next door to ours on the left. It was quiet, but that shouldn’t have been
deceiving. The night before at about two o’clock, we were rudely awakened by the
booming of music, fireworks and various screams and throwing-against-the-wallses.
It was a house full of night owl party animals, right next door to us.
We weren’t even sure why they were staying there. It was our third full day on the beach and we hadn’t really seen them out on the beach at all. We had only seen them on their porch, and every morning they would come out on the deck overlooking the beach while we played football.
Otherwise, hardly a word came from their station, except at night (much to
everyone’s dismay).
Mike and I had gotten rather tired of the partying, and concluded that, if it were to persist tonight, we would wake up early and do our best to be equally as noisy during the day, which was when our neighbors apparently were sleeping.
We walked on and had just reached the safety of our own deck, when two guys came out of our adjoining condo. Neither of them looked much older than Mike. They were scrawny and hairy and both took to walking on the rail of the deck that stretched out from all the condos and overlooked the beach.
A preppy blonde stuck her head out of the house. “Omigod, get down you guys!”
She shrieked, giggling.
“We’re fine!” Responded the hairier one.
“Yeah! Look!” The other one took off his shirt (Mike and I cringed at the abundance of hair and lack of muscles which he proceeded to try to flex) and he threw it at
the girl.
“If you fall I’m SO going to kill you!” The girl chortled, catching the shirt and going back in the house.
The guys ignored us as they jumped off the railing, walked over to some boogie boards leaning against their condo, grabbed them, and ran down to the beach.

That was from that story I'm writing...you see, I've been writing it for about two years now. I started it just before our beach trip two years ago, so this is my third beach trip working on it. It doesn't have a title, so I'll just call it "That Story." Anyways...that was based off of what we were plagued with 2 years ago when we stayed in this same condo. Last year we were fine, and thankful for it. Then...guess what? A big bunch of college students arrived late Friday afternoon in the condo next to ours. I was having serious deja vu, especially when they turned on the music very loud (I recognized almost all the songs mostly by their resounding, sub woofer-afied bass lines), drank, smoked, and partied like there was nobody else around trying to sleep at midnight, or at least concentrate on reading a book.

We were coming back from eating at Jordan's Seafood when some of the people arrived. There were two guys and a girl. One of the guys, once he got in, immediately came out on the beach. It was dusk, and Marck and I were out appreciating our beautiful surroundings. He kind of ruined everything as he whipped out his cellphone, plunked himself down in the sand, and said to his friend, "Hey, man! Guess what I'm doing...having a beer on the beach!"

There was an absence for most of yesterday of nice, clear, salty air as we went from our deck to the beach...all I could smell was tobacco smoke. It was awful.

Last night we concluded they went clubbing or something, because it was actually quiet at their home, till they all came in about 12 or 1 AM, making a bit of a racket. We haven't heard them this morning. Yesterday afternoon they were all down at the beach, set up probably 30 yards from us. Marck and I kept accidentally drifting down to where they were set up. All the girls were in bikinis, and sometimes they would get in the water a little bit, and scream at every wave that came by. It was very funny...Marck and I just had to make fun of them...I think they were too self-absorbed to notice. After all, when Grammy asked them Friday night at 11:45 to please "keep it down to a roar", they barely turned down the music, and certainly didn't turn themselves down. Yeah...pretty self-absorbed. Another reason I'm glad I was homeschooled...I was around my parents enough to learn to be conscientious.

Anyways, despite all there is to complain about, I'm having a great time. I'm about two thirds of the way through Twilight...I'm still liking it! I am a little curious as to what she's going to add to the plot(s) to put in the other three books. I'm just hoping it's not something that wasn't meant to be a series, like Pirates of the Caribbean, that she just adds-on to later, resulting in poorer plots....you see what I mean? I just don't see how this could get to be something that extends beyond the first book, but perhaps it does...

Anyways, I'm off to go play out in the sunshine...

BUBBA -- The Italian Mob Trucker

By Jessica, Lizzie, Nathan, Sarah, and Marck

Once upon a time, there was a little boy named Bubba, who was born in Italy, moved to New York for a few years, and then down to Alabama for the rest of his teens. This story begins with the beginning of Bubba’s…um…life change. He was walking along the Mississippi one day and a tree unceremoniously fell upon his head. Ever since, Bubba has done some strange and occasionally amusing things.

After getting hit in the head, Bubba had a sudden subconscious urge to turn his footsteps towards the nearest diner. While walking to the diner, a big trucker came by, offering Bubba a ride. Bubba, being foot sore, readily agreed. It was during that ride to the diner that Bubba learned his life’s calling.

He dropped out of Kindergarten, got himself a totally-awesome camo hat, and started driving! As he drove, he would stop at every store he saw, and try on all the sunglasses on display. Because of this, he never got a lot of work done, but Bubba really didn’t seem to mind. His first assignment was from Alabama to New Jersey. It was never officially finished, because somehow he ended up at a campsite at Jordan lake in North Carolina, where some members of TCC Seahawks were camping out for a few days.

At first, when the swimmers saw him, the swimmers just stopped their Mafia game and stared at Bubba, mouths hanging open in a very uncivilized fashion (after all, they WERE homeschoolers). Bubba grinned and struck a pose. “Yo!” he coolly exclaimed in salutations.

Nathan blinked, a beat went by, Sarah snapped a picture of the posing Bubba, and the click knocked Nathan somewhat back into his senses. “What…is…that?!?!?” He asked no one in particular.

Bubba said proudly in his unique Italian/Yankee/Southern accent, “It’s a trucker who loves sunglasses!”

Then Bubba invited himself to play Mafia. Before the 15-18s had a chance to confer (since otherwise they never had a say in anything those days…especially in coffee matters), Chandler started the game again. “Everyone go to sleep,” he declared.

The participants all closed their eyes and lay down their heads, only to all jerk a moment later when a large snore came from the chair where Bubba had situated himself. Chandler proceeded narrating the game over Bubba’s snoring.

Alec was the Mafia, and when he awoke, he pointed to the snoring Bubba without even being asked who he wanted to kill…

And that’s as far as it got before we all left!

A Lovely Little Rant

Irony is a delicious thing…I think. You see, I have been having another one of my recurring episodes with my Least Favorite Appliance/Machinery Thing, and I was thinking about finally taking out my frustration on my blog. BUT I simply had to click over to Lizzie and Sarah’s blog (where Sarah finally posted but you can’t tell because Lizzie immediately posted two posts on top of Sarah’s. Yes…ho-hum, we can tell who’s the oldest child now, can’t we? Nothing against eldest children. I happen to be one), where I just read of Lizzie’s frustrations with her vacuum cleaner. Thank goodness Enil happened to post a bit of a tribute about how hard women work in the house, including vacuuming, but I believe that was merely a coincidence as well.

Anyways, now I feel as if relaying the long, terrible tale of my godforsaken weed eater is unintentional copy-cat-ing, but I will try to complain as ingeniously as possible, all the while making Lizzie feel better about her own predicament. And yes, Sarah, I did read your lazy blogging. Very non-boredom provoking.

Okay, so as long as I can remember, I’ve had this weed eater problem. I’m really not sure why I have the job in the first place. “It’s not very lady-like” doesn’t seem like a reason that would get me out of doing it. Now, we had this one weed eater before. It was a very nice weed eater. It gave me a little trouble at first, but that was back when I was a young laddie…um…lassie, and I had just started doing the weed eating. The problem is, everything I name George ends up dying. Our sweet little duck named George, the literal “black sheep”, was *gulp* “gotten” by our dog, Nancy. That was very sad. But this weed eater, whose name was George, had a very absentminded caretaker (me, fyi), who had absolutely no clue that putting normal gasoline in a weed eater instead of the gasoline/oil premix stuff, was VERY BAD. So…*cough* *sputter* *screech* and that was the end of poor George, along with the beginning of a long bit of lectures from the rest of my family, who OF COURSE knew that you can’t put gasoline in a weed eater without killing it!!! So I forked over what cash I could and my dad went and bought a new one. This one was NOT NICE and VERY IGNORANT. I named him Abner, but as much as I hated that name, that was Lewis C.’s name in Th’ Un’spected Gift, and Cute little blonde boys are quite far from stupid weed eaters, so I settled on Seth. There are good Seths in this world, but I don’t like the name.

From the moment I first saw Seth I knew he was trouble, and I was right. We’ve hated each other ever since he came to live with us. I didn’t really like weed eating that much before, considering being out in the hot weather, holding heavy equipment that vibrates your hands so much that you get calluses, but this was worse. An excerpt from a book I’ve been writing for about two years…

I looked at it. I thought ogling at it might make it decide to work.
The weed eater sat there insolently.
“Come ON!!” I pleaded.
If it could huff, it would have.
I pushed the clear gas-pumper-bubble-thingy ten more times, mumbling, “‘Easy Start’ indeed.” Then I got up and pulled the crank.
I pulled it exactly fifteen times.
This number would have been satisfactory, aside from the part where it’s supposed to start within one to three yanks of the pully-thingy. I had been doing the same thing for the past half-hour without even the least grunt from the motor, and it was driving me up the wall.
Incensed, I sat down. Mom had said that if I didn’t finish trimming the yard, I couldn’t go to the beach. So I was frenziedly trying to finish, in hopes that I wouldn’t be stuck here at home. But I always had problems when I did the weed eating. If it wasn’t one thing, it was another.
So, I decided to ask my dad for help.
He yanked the cursed thing about ten times, and it started.
Either the dang weed eater only responds to the “dad” authority position (similar to my dog) or I’ve got a weak arm. Or maybe I just needed to give it a few more yanks. I could have just as easily started the weed eater, I resolved. It just needed ten more extra yanks.
I tried to thank my dad over the roaring of the engine, and then I went on my way. I was making good progress until I noticed I wasn’t able to get much grass cut down as I made my sweeps. So I hit the string release thing against the ground several times. But nothing string-related was dispensed.
With this lovely new development, I impatiently slammed my hand against the switched that stopped the weed eater, unscrewed the knob, pulled out the string, put everything back together, and then went back to my weed eating.
After about ten minutes, I had the same problem. Only this time, it was a bigger dilemma. Not only would the string not come out, but the screw wouldn’t come un-screwed either.
I was also screwed.
I tried numerous different strategies but all of them made quite a conscious verdict to FAIL.
So I walked inside to take a break, act pitiful and eat cereal.
We were out of milk. Foiled again.
My mom walked in and I explained my current predicament to her. “You’re always coming up with excuses not to do that job.” She smarted.
“But something is always keeping me from not doing ‘that’ job!” I protested. “It’s the weed eater. It sucks. Something is always wrong…”
“Well, we couldn’t afford a nicer one, I’m sorry.” Then she added, “If you hadn’t broken our LAST one…”
“I didn’t mean to!” I objected. “I told you I didn’t know that the gas was supposed to be mixed with oil.”
“I know, dear but still, it’s broken and this is the only one we have and you’re going to have to learn how to use it.”
I have been developing a hypothesis. The whole world is against me.
“Get out there right now. I don’t care what you do, just weed eat.” She looked like she was going to pull her hair out.

Yeah…the sad thing is that some form of the same thing happens every single time I weed eat. Today, guess what? The string wouldn’t come out, so I spent about seven minutes with the monkey wrench trying to take the string out to loosen it, only to not be able to put the thing you wrap the string on back into the bottom of the weed eater, and not be able to screw the screw-thing into place because it’s like the top of a jar that gets crooked, and then I realized it wasn’t going to bounce right, so I had to take the turning-wire-track-thing out, but it was stuck. I spent another ten minutes or so trying to un-stuck the stuck, abusing the machine a couple times with my little friend the monkey wrench (I’ve come terribly close to naming it Sunshine Bob). Finally I decided that I would try to think rationally. I was going to tap the track-turning-wire-thing to perhaps loosen it up, but instead the tapping pushed it in right, I was able to get on the screwy-thingy, and I poured in gas/oil without spilling it all over the place (which I’ve done the past two times…yuck). By this time, it was nearly dark, so I only did a quick sweep of the front yard, around the air conditioner big-loud-doohickey, and the outside of our fence before I couldn’t really see if I was getting much or not. And I think that by then the wire was getting stuck again. You know, you’d think I’d have this all figured out after some two and a half years. No. I can’t wait till Robert can do it, and then I’ll also be very over-thankful to my husband whenever he weed eats. I’ll cook a great big standing rib roast with garlic mashed potatoes, steamed asparagus, honey wheat rolls, and a great big salad. Then I’ll give him a nice massage and we’ll go watch a shoot ‘em up movie or whatever HE wants to watch. However, if we only have four square feet of yard to our name, there will be only ham sandwiches and chick flicks, because I would really like a little more land than that…..of course, whatever we can afford……and that’s far in the future. But aren’t you hungry now?

I never want to be a…

-Weed eater technology assistance person
-Weed eater repair woman
-Lawn maintenance worker
-Manufacturer of weed eaters

However, if I had the brains for it, I would love to invent a more efficient weed eater, that does what it really says it’s supposed to on the box. Or maybe I’ll invent the hover-weed-eater that just senses where things need to be edged and does it by itself while you go do fun things.

Anyways, enough ranting. I’m sleepy…and I have to get up and do the back yard…*seriously considers converting to pessimism*

WAIT!!! Very good news. Some of our new, and very good, friends joined Candler for the rest of the summer…we’re so excited!!! They came today and we jumped around a lot in the diving pool. It‘s just his first day, and one of the guys already went off the top platform (10 meters)! Then we just treaded water in the diving pool, passing around our volley ball/pretend water polo ball, trying to throw well, giving up, and then trying to hit each other in the face with it.

ANYHOO, like I said, I’ve got to go to bed now. Ta-ta!

--Jessica

One of "Those" Entries...

I have just been informed by a certain “Allison”-type-person that I need to update my blog. Thus, this entry...

Many of you are probably wondering how my life has been since my last entry. Well…it’s been just fine, thanks for allowing me to ask for you. The family reunion was kind of a bummer in the area of my own generation, but the two above mine were fine people, resulting in many fine relationships with older people. This generation is just not RIGHT sometimes, you know? However, we homeschoolers and ex-homeschoolers are just fine, am I right, or am I right? Ha ha…sorry for the generalization about non-homeschoolers. Y’all are pretty much okay, I guess…especially since my parents are included in that category.

Anyways, I had an itchy spot and I scratched it and I believe I feel slightly sun burnt. Allow me a moment to check. Okay…only on that small line right before my tan line, where I seemed to have missed putting sunscreen. It’s on both sides. Fancy that. At least I am consistent and symmetrical in my inconsistent unsymmetrical ways.

So the Totally Amazingly B’gorious Seahawks stole another win, leaving us completely UNDEFEATED!!! It is very amazing, considering that at the beginning of last season we were at the bottom of the last division. That’s a bit of a comeback, I’d say. So I believe we get a trophy, and get to move up at least one division, which will make me happy. The thing is that I won’t be able to swim in the fall because of time, won’t be able to compete in the fall because of graduating, and will only have one summer left (next summer…) before having to completely move on forever. However, I am making plans to continue to play water polo (I almost typed “water polka”, which is something a little similar to “water disco” which Matt and I are currently working on perfecting) on the day that Coach has that, which I hope is Wednesday (or Monday)…although I just realized that with the school schedule I have now (not much) I would be able to make it on Tuesday or Thursday. Anyhooness, I really like water polo. Have I ever said that? And I scored a goal on Matt yesterday. Yes, that’s an accomplishment. I think…better go check before bragging more…

Today was nice. I had planned to wake up at six, work out some, take a shower, get ready and go with Elizabeth B. to Wake Tech to clear up some advising stuff. Well, I don’t remember staying up too late last night, though I don’t remember what time I went to sleep, either. And what was I doing…? I seem to recall some faint vision of playing the guitar or something, but then I think that was the night before…well, I don’t know what I was up to. It’s not really important anyway. The point is that I woke up at ten after seven and Elizabeth was supposed to pick me up at eight. I looked in the mirror and…my hair was even on both sides, even though I slept in it! I was amazed. I had to straighten out my bangs a bit, wash my face, put on a little makeup and drink some coffee, and I was ready to go.

We stopped by MacDonald’s for breakfast, and don’t you all just go assuming I didn’t drink more coffee there or anything…that would be ridiculous. We when to Tech, got our advising, I bought my books, and then we went up to Target and Best Buy to look for birthday presents for Michelle. I was about to say what I got for Michelle, but then I remembered she reads my blog sometimes. Um…I also got a new purse finally, because one of the straps on my beloved light brown leather back pack broke, and for some reason the amount of things I keep in my purse has grown since last time I used either of my other purses, so I needed a new one. Thus, a very nice dark brown “leather” purse from Target. I was about to go into a purse crisis, you see. Too small, too big, too shiny and sparkly, too beach bag-ish. But this one is perfect. You know, I should start naming my purses. Hmmm…

I went to the Bradburn’s for lunch where Michelle had prepared some very yummy chicken-thing, with a side of some squash-thing (sorry to totally butcher the names of the dishes, but I can’t remember them…it was great anyways). While she was cooking that, Elizabeth and I looked at some clips on YouTube from “Across the Universe” which is a new movie using Beatles songs for the musical numbers.

I think it would be neat to take the work of some singer or band and make that into a musical. Like they did with Abba in “Mamma Mia.” So today I started thinking about, if I did that, how I would do it, and who I would use. But the thing is that a moment later I realized that I would want to use my own music to go with whatever story I needed the music for. Still, I guess it’s a cool kind of challenge to write a story around existing music, at least for me, anyways. And…that got me thinking that what if I took my own songs and wrote something around them? So I am opening my little binder where I keep most of my finished songs, and the first song, “Understand” is…too wordy and complicated. I don’t know what you think, but songs for musicals shouldn’t be that way. They should be concise and straightforward. Or maybe that’s redundant, but you know what I mean. Second song, “Here” (Rachel J.’s favorite song), is…reflective…you know? I change tenses in this song. No I don’t. There’s just a flashback-thingy. Never mind. Third song, “Residing”, is…longish, but that’s not bad. Actually might work. And actually-actually…it might work better for this thingy I was writing and thinking about turning into a musical that I started writing lyrics for…I don’t know. I like this song though. Fourth song… “Elijah”. Ah, yes…straightforward and concise, no doubt about that. Though not very musical-ish. The fifth song, “Away”, has too much imagery to be in a musical. “Hating One, Loving One, Expecting One”, the sixth song, might work. A monologue kind of thing…yeah. So that’s two so far. The seventh…it really, really, really depends on the context…and that’s a bit more of a personal song anyway. And there’s the part where she’s explaining and the part where she’s talking to the one she’s explaining about. That could be broken up into two songs…oh! To expand “Rockwell”…that would be really cool! I could devise the whole plot around “Rockwell”! Now I’m getting excited. It’s nice to have this blog-thing to brainstorm on. Okay. Three down…or three and a half. “The Freedom In-Between” seems like it could be a good musical song, and it may fit well. Very straightforward. “Time” is even more so…and would work well as well. Five and a half already! Well…now I was just thinking “Sounds of the Morning” and “Questions” were very imagery-laden and wordy songs, but looking at them…they’d make good heartfelt solos. They are kind of alike. Though I guess the only reason I think so is because I wrote them at about the same time. “A Confession” isn’t finished, but it would do for something. This is fun, but now we’re getting into my older depressing stuff. “Forever Winter”…hm…aside from being perfect for a Narnia musical (though no Miss Denmans requested to use it [gee, I wonder why…marketing usually helps]). “Your Own” may be of some good use after all…and “December”. Wow, that’s an interesting song. Not so sure about that. “Leave it at That” is a good musical-type song…if it can be incorporated. I hate “You and Me.” I know it’s Joanna’s favorite song I’ve ever written, but it’s just a musical cliché and I really hate those. But if musical clichés sell, then…whatever. I’ll have to deny myself the pride of writing something ingenious and go for the cash, I guess. So that’s all in that folder. There are a few others I’m working on which may work…well, whatever. Just some stuff to put in my thinker.

After lunch, Elizabeth dropped me off at the pool, where I finally got to spend some time with Elayna. Then…surprise! One of my friends and her mom came to the pool! Marck was a little disappointed because the two brothers in that family couldn’t come. They had come straight from shopping or something, so my friend had to swim in some clothes which dragged a whole lot, but it was all okay. We went diving down to the bottom of the diving pool, and I helped her on her dive and her butterfly. She says my butterfly is as pretty as ballet, and I’m like a graceful serpent moving through the water…*sniffle* *sniffle* *tear*…how…nice…*sniff*. She actually said “snake”, but “serpent” sounds much more romantic, don’t you think?

After Elayna left, my aunt stopped by the pool, and came over to our house afterwards. Haylea shared some brownies with me, and Charlie informed me that he was going to college in Tennessee. EVERYBODY IS GOING TO TENNESSEE. Jeffrey, Micah, and now Charlie. Wonderful. Well, it is nice there. I’d go live there, out in the country somewhere. And I remember there was this really cool science museum in Chattanooga. That’s such a weird name. Weirder than Kalamazoo. I think Raleigh, Cary, Apex, Durham, Knightdale, Zebulon, Wake Forest, and Chapel Hill are very elegant names.

The song in my head right now is “Annie Waits” by Ben Folds. I like that song, FYI.

So, it’s sad. The last thing for summer swim team is this Tuesday. Water polo playoffs, the fun meet, and the awards banquet. Then it’s done. Finished. I’m going to start crying (again)…I hope…oh, yeah. I already talked about this, didn’t I? Well, gee. Maybe I should stop thinking about the end of swim team so much. FOCUS, Jessica. There’s things to be done around here, like…like…AHHHHHHH!!! I am about to GO CRAZY!!! Do you understand what I mean? When you just get a sudden inspiration to get SOMETHING done RIGHT NOW…when you literally get all twitchy and feel like if you don’t do something, for heaven’s sake, you’ll just go absolutely insane and start running around the back yard in a panicked manner, pulling your hair out and stamping it into the ground? That last sentence was actually taken from a dialogue in a book I’m writing…but taken from real life experience originally, anyways. So there. Don’t you ever feel like that? I feel like that approximately every two weeks or so. It is kind of annoying, because it causes me to stay up late even when I need to wake up early the next morning.

I am wondering right now why I am not feeling a giant pang of jealousy, having been informed about a certain person doing something else with a certain other person which this certain person would have rather been doing with one of those said certain people but not the other certain person around. Whichever certain person is excluded except for this certain person, this certain person certainly doesn’t care and hopes those certain persons certainly don’t take this personally. Another certain person may know what this certain person is talking about…but should certainly keep his or her mouth shut, because this certain person should stop talking about this, even though she feels like keeping on. This certain person can sigh all she wants to, and wonder all she wants to, but it’s not going to solve anything, and this certain person says that perhaps the other two certain people simply were certainly not doing anything pertaining to anything which this certain person would rather…oh, never mind. UGH-ness-icity. This certain person is having an attitude and denying everything.

I am not!!!

Hm.

So to end on a more flavorful note, I was thinking about something I cannot remember. Hey, you want another clip from my book? Let me go find something really quickly. Okay, here goes. Try to see if you can guess the inspiration for the following passage:

Jacob and I followed, stopping in the den. While the walls still had dark wood paneling, the shag carpet had obviously been pulled up and replaced with nice, fluffy cream colored carpet. I glanced around, feeling a bit out of place, especially when my eyes fell upon a person who could only have been who Mrs. Madison had indicated was talking to two girls—Jack Madison.

I was instantly enthralled. There was something about his face. It was so average, but stood out somehow. Maybe it was that it was so averaged, and therefore quite perfect. What made it even more perfect was the thick, smooth chin-length light brown hair which framed the perfectly average face. As he sat talking, he moved in a very animated sort of way, and as he did, his hair moved very animatedly with him. I could only seem to think in my head for that moment when
I first laid eyes on him, “Wow, look at his hair…it goes, swish-swish…”

A moment later he looked up, very intently with his animated, yet fixated and stern-like gray eyes, and as he greeted Jacob excitedly I began to feel very shallow for allowing such meaningless thoughts as ones about the movement of a guy’s hair. “Hey, Jake, what’s been happening?”

So, that’s it for now! Sorry to keep you all in suspense about what happens between…well, never mind. You all certainly will not ever know “what’s been happening” with Jacob, now, will you?

Later!
--Jessica

Mine Eyes...or Whatever

Before moving on to the liberating matters, would anyone mind telling me what the fourth chord in the intro of "Love Song" by Sarah Bareilles-whateverhernameis? I don't think my piano has all the keys hers does-everything else sounds right but that.

And I really like comments, whether you read this entry or not. Especially if you rudely vote on my poll and left. It makes me angry.

Now, lets continue...

I love eyes. I have an obsession with them, I believe. I like drawing them and describing them and looking at them. I was smiling with great googoly-mougally giddiness as I was reading The Sea-Wolf by Jack London and came across this whole paragraph:

The eyes—and it was my destiny to know them well—were large and handsome, wide apart as the true artist’s are wide, sheltering under a heavy brow and arched over by thick black eyebrows. The eyes themselves were of that baffling protean gray which is never twice the same; which runs through many shades and colorings like intershot silk in sunshine; which is gray, dark and light, and greenish-gray, and sometimes of the clear azure of the deep sea. They were eyes that masked the soul with a thousand guises and that sometimes opened, at rare moments, and allowed it to rush up as though it were about to fare forth nakedly into the world on some wonderful adventure—eyes that could brood with the hopeless somberness of leaden skies, that could snap and crackle points of fire like those which sparkle from a whirling sword, that could grow chill as an arctic landscape, and yet again, that could warm and soften and be all a-dance with lovelights, intense and masculine, luring and compelling, which as the same time fascinated and dominate women till they surrender in a gladness of joy and relief and sacrifice.

I really love that paragraph (though I never wish to surrender to eyes in sacrifice or anything, thank you very much). I love eyes (have I mentioned?). One particular person I know has these beautiful, stunning, radiant green eyes. I describe these green eyes in a book I am writing, I didn’t base the character off of the person I know, just the eyes. Here’s how I describe them:

Her heart was, for a moment, filled to the top with admiration for the green eyes, though she was not sure why such a thing would stir up a great bout of emotion in anyone. With the fear that she might melt away in the presence of the eyes, which to her were quite the equivalent of a sweet, mourning Celtic melody, she averted her own quickly.

Not as beautifully detailed as Jack London, but there you have it. I also like to draw eyes… I have a couple in my sketchbook. I’m not very visually artistic though, so they’re not too phenomenal or anything. I’m not visual ANYTHING, gosh darn it. I’m (according to my psychology teacher) kinesthetic-auditory. I learn and remember things by doing and listening, preferably at the same time. It’s so very nice to know that…

Anyway, I must run to class…I suppose we’ll watch Act II of A Midsummer Night’s Dream. That should be fun. Hm…watching movies in Literature class…

~Jessica

My Hero!

It's another lovely early morning in Music 110 at Wake Tech. The sleepy students all moan and groan in their uncomfortable seating as the florescent light in the far right corner in the back of the room flickers occasionally, disturbing any hope of Jessica paying attention to what is being said. Thankfully, role call has just ended. Jessica wonders why her next-door-neighbor Scotty, who left before her, hasn't arrived yet. The air conditioner buzzes on, and Professor Honeycutt rumages madly around in his special Cabinet for the Holding of Various Items.

"Oh, no," Professor Honeycutt grunts. "I do believe someone has stolen our whiteboard markers!"

"Oh my, whatever shall we do?" some students cry out in panic.

Before they had finished their exclaimations of despair and complete loss of hope, Professor Honeycutt rips off his blouse and slacks. There stands the most glorious Super Honeycutt in front of the class; Jessica's eyes well up with emotion, her heart full of gratitude and admiration. Super Honecutt, in his dark brown spandex uniform and light brown cape, starts valiantly for the door.
"I'll be back!" he calls out to his students as they look on in awe. "Away, away!" After pausing for dramatic emphasis, Super Honeycutt dashes out the door, jingling his keys to his office in his hands. Super Honeycutt has gone to save the day again!

Can he recover the missing whiteboard markers? A few moments later he returns--with a single black marker. The students wait in anticipation--will the marker work? There's a high probability it may be dried out. Oh, how horrible that would be! Surely no one--especially Jessica--will ever understand musical notation without the use of visual aid!

With a soft squeak, Super Honeycutt tests the marker on the white board. It works!

The class applauds whole-heartedly, despite their grogginess, Scotty comes in late, thinking the applause is for him, and Jessica writes down in her notebook: "Super Honeycutt has averted a world crisis once again!"