I sort of forgot about blogging.

Everything's been crazy. But a good sort of crazy with just a few sad things.

I finally moved out of the worst house of my life and am living with Cammie, the way it was supposed to be. I have a beautiful room in a beautiful little apartment with a beautiful new bed of my own and a beautiful desk of my own and beautiful new sheets and...Well, I could really cry with happiness over how good things are here. I see my mom twice a week at least and can enjoy her company without the pain that sometimes comes from living with her. It's a good compromise. Cammie and I don't fight much and we get over it quickly. We know each other so well we know when it's okay to talk again.

I think I've come to terms with my loneliness at school. I've grown so accustomed to being alone that I get uncomfortable when I do have anyone with me. So it seems that being alone is natural for me now. Whenever I make friends, I never seem to be able to keep them. They move, they change schools, or I, in my infinite wisdom and superiority complex, realize how immature they are and avoid them until they hate me. And the best thing about not being noticed at all is that people rarely can think of a reason to make fun of you. They just don't see you, is all. This makes me feel less like there's a void and more like I'm satisfied with myself. Being alone can be a strong thing. I can be strong all on my own, yes I can.

Sometimes I see him and I see another girl with him every few weeks and I just wish someone would tell them. DON'T YOU GET IT?! He'll just change his mind once he realizes you want more than to just let him in your pants. Sometimes I laugh at the immaturity of it all, this flaming desire for adult things inside the body of a child. But other times I just feel anger in me. Not jealousy, but just regret that I was the first to find out, in my naivety, and not the last. So many girls who know nothing about love and everything about falling for cheap charm have followed me. But I guess we all have to learn sometimes.

I feel so free now that I'm rid of her. Since I moved out of my dad's, I have barely even spoken to my stepmother. Just thinking of her disgusts me and I will do everything in my power to never see her again. She, in all of her self-centered glory, has ruined everything that my father and I once had. Since I moved out, we've been out together once. Our relationship is gone and, no matter how many songs I try to write about it, my sadness cannot be expressed. The problem is that it's been this way for so long, even before her. He never knew how to make us feel important. The difference now is that he's not allowed to, is terrified to. So there's really no chance at all. Sometimes I'm so angry at him but, in the end, the only one I blame is her. He has always been weak and she is taking advantage of him.

Cammie just wants to hate him and doesn't want to talk to him or look at him. She's sort of disowned him, I guess. Sometimes, when I try to get him to recognize me, she says "Why do you care? Why should he even matter?" Because we had so much more once. I've always felt like we had a special relationship because we have so much more in common than he and my other sisters do. We used to have so much fun and we have so many memories. I'm so proud of who he is. I understand him better than anyone in the world only he doesn't even know it. But I do. I love him better than anyone could. Only he doesn't see it, doesn't know what he's losing.

No words can express my grief. I've lost one of my best friends and biggest heroes. But it's not the kind of grief where I sob and mourn and don't want anyone else. It's a subtle, creeping grief that engulfs me from time to time and reminds me that, in wanting something better, I've lost something awfully important. I hadn't meant to. I'd never even thought of it as being connected. It's a sneaky sort of grief, the kind that nibbles my toes and my tummy and eyes until I cry a little and sigh a little and try to write a song a little that sounds a little dreadful.

This blog sounds sad but I really am happy these days. Only I talk about the happy so much in everyday life that I've been putting the sad parts away because I want everyone to know how happy I am. Before, I wanted everyone to know how sad I was so they could hate my stepmother with me and tell my dad to LET ME OUT. But now I want everyone to know how happy I am so they'll know I was right.

But, no matter how happy I am, there will always be sad things. I guess that's part of being human.

a few lines on flying

oh, little bird
all caged in
a cage is no nest, is it?
oh, little bird
they lied to you, didn't they
only they didn't mean it to be a lie
though they sounded so right
when the cage seemed safe
and it is safe
it's very safe
from all of the danger and the hunger and the cold and the aching and the sore wings
but somehow the sadness lingers
and little bird
you gaze out of the window
into the cradling arms of yonder sturdy tree
at the little nest all laid out there
and you wonder what it would be like
to curl up inside
the crevices of that cozy little nest
with the protective wings
of that lovely bird that silently
chirps at you hopefully each morning
wrapped around you gently
and even though you are all caged in
you still fantasize about the days
when once you flew freely
little wings beating against the vacant sky
feeling as though you belonged
knowing you belonged
oh, little bird
you don't belong here
you don't belong in a cage
only someone has lost the key
and if they can admire you
all caged in
why should they be in such a hurry to find it
and let you fly?
oh, poor little bird
all caged in...

Stuck

You chose this
No, I didn’t
I never wanted to before
And then opportunity opened another door
And a light shone through
I walked towards it in hope
And now
Again
I’m stuck.
Every moment
I feel scrutinized
She’ll remember this later
When I’ve done it again
And there are so many things to get used to
This isn’t my life, this has never been my life!
Of course I hate it!
But I wouldn’t ask you to change it
Because this is your life
I’m the one intruding
And yet I feel like your eyes
That burn into me all the time like fiery embers
See me as ungrateful, as difficult
I don’t talk
I hate to talk
I will adjust and I will grow
But I won’t change who I am
And so
I’m stuck.
I feel like a visitor in a hotel
With all of the predestined art around me
Blankets already laid out for me
My few items spread about to make it feel like home
But it’s not
If you only you knew how homeless I feel
And I feel so homesick for something
I can never go back to
For a home
I don’t even have
I wouldn’t take back the fighting
I wouldn’t take back the neglect
I wouldn’t take back the heartache
But it feels as if all of that
Was just as bad as the way I feel now
Trapped and stuck
And the light is so far in the distance that
I sometimes wonder if it was just an illusion
To convince me to do what is right
Though what is right hurts just as much
As staying with what was wrong.
No one understands, really
No one can quite comprehend how it feels
To have to keep your identity inside yourself
Every moment
And so I feel just as if I were in a dream
And someone was chasing me and
I screamed and screamed and screamed
And no sound came out
No sound comes ever comes out
So I just cry and cry and cry
As silently as I can
So that my pain can be a part of the life
I live inside of me each day
And the rest of me can fit into the life
You lay out for me each day
And I feel like
Again
I’m stuck.

The train is like a mother.

The train is like a mother. She sweeps across the city and at every stop she opens her doors like loving arms to the pretty, the ugly, the hardworking, the smelly, the poor, the rumpled, the scared. With a beep her doors announce their coming and, from rain and wind, they pile into her warm clutches, settling against her bedraggled bosom. When I sit in a seat facing backwards and the train sails down a hillside, I sink into the seat as though I am settling into a loving embrace. The world rushes around me but I find the seat beneath my comfortingly stationary. Sometimes I hate the train. Sometimes she smells so bad, disgusting me as I wipe the proverbial dust from my index finger. Sometimes her people disgust me, all going places with no purpose, probably mostly having paid nothing for her embrace and yet she carries them along faithfully, like a good priest feeding a thief. Sometimes I hate her crudeness, her coarseness. And yet I have hated similar characteristics in my own mother, so I know I still love the train.

I am friends with some of her children, though not all of them know it. One man sits in the front car as I do every morning. His dress is somewhat formal, though his shoes are not very shiny and his shirt always rather rumpled. He has about him a very awkward, blundering air and he carries a faded, threadbare backpack with him to a very business-like place each morning. He listens to an mp3 player with awkward earphones on large, red ears and his enormous facial features are plain and yet kind. I wonder what he listens to. Once, I sat across from him and he let me rest my viola against his seat while I looked for my phone. Another day he sat in front of me. His player fell on the ground and I found it for him. I told him to have a nice day, but I’m not sure that he heard me. I know what stop he’ll get off at each morning. He’s my friend, but he doesn’t really know it.

A woman takes the light rail somewhere further than where I go every morning. She looks as though she is slightly older than her years and has a very slight, fragile frame. Her brown hair is always pulled into a bun or tail of some sort that is tight and bouncy enough to have attitude. She wears large, designer sunglasses on her head and she is always dressed as though she is going somewhere very professional. Her face is not lovely. It is very plain. Her cheekbones are heavily articulated, her cheeks sallow and slightly lined. She always has large bags under her eyes. Every morning when I get on the train, she has just taken out a large travel bag full of makeup. First, she puts on lipstick and lip liner and lip gloss in dark, elegant colors. She spends a great deal of time on her lips, painting over every faded spot carefully, like an artist. When she is through, they look more full and lively, but more like a painting than a human. She applies foundation, concealer, eyeshadow, mascara, eyeliner. I noticed one day a slightly pink, bumpy arc above her eyes where she has plucked her eyebrows clean off and simply draws them on with a light brown eyebrow pencil. A card in her makeup bag says that she works for the California Department of Insurance and sometimes she reads a book about selling insurance to people. I also see a picture in her bag of her with a man. Her hair is down and he makeup looks much lighter. She is wearing a casual pink sweater. They look happy. I wonder who the man is. When she finishes putting on the makeup, she looks like someone else. She then puts the sunglasses over her eyes, even though it is only seven in the morning and she does not need them. I don’t think we’re friends, really.

An old lady takes the light rail each morning as well. She always has one of those utility carts with her and the light rail drivers always know what her stop is and open the door before she has even stood up. They always cast a fond glance at her and she smiles at them with a wide smile that is still somehow slight. She has very dark, black skin and her hair is in a few braids that are tucked under a black baseball cap she wears backwards. She reads a book that always looks rather crude. Her high, rounded cheekbones give her face a knowing look, a distant gaze of wisdom. She never stares at anything, but seems to be gazing back over the things she has known. Her clothes are faded and worn, but always clean. She is always clean. I wonder what has happened to her to make her so wise.

The train is like a mother. She sweeps across the city and at every stop she opens her doors to the awkward, the faded, the aged, the hidden, the wise. Every day, they return out of necessity. But it is more than necessity that keeps the train driving onwards. The train is like a mother. Her children need her.

Strong

http://www.mediafire.com/?tyztjxynjly

I am strong.

Things I've done in the past few days:

-Auditioned for open mic at school
-Took the light rail to school (granted, my dad was with me, but it was still supa scary)
-Wrote a poem in German
-Explained my feelings about a really big decision. Honestly.
-Blended into a family I am constantly struggling with
-Auditioned for soprano choral scholar
-Sang a solo in choir
-Did a seating audition for Premiere orchestra
-Wrote German letter to a Swiss person. (and am really scared of him reading all of my mistakes!)
-Made a new friend
-Spent four hours on one homework project. Eep!
-Finished a book
-Sang for strangers at an awkward dinner party
-Wrote a new song that I have a strong emotional connection to the singing of, and finally felt like I'm a good songwriter
-Learned to play a bunch of Beatles songs
-Planned and seriously talked about college and the future
-Began a new chapter of my life.

No Ground Rules

Note: This blog may not be for everyone. Try it on for size anyway.

As I continue to experience the perpetual terror of paranoia involving accusations of debauchery any time I commit an act of physical affection towards my darling fellow, I have begun to realize how skewed and confusing the adult perception of modesty is. There don’t seem to be any ground rules. I mean, any fool can gather that the basic theme of all these rules is the standard: DON’T HAVE SEX. That’s quite obvious. But what about all of the in-between business? All of the things you can do that will not result in pregnancy? To many teenagers, these seem like freebies. But at what point do these little non-impregnating actions become offensive? And at what age do they become allowed? I still haven’t gathered a basic consensus, save for the main idea that I should never, under any circumstance, let an adult catch me in the act of committing one.

Even one adult can’t seem to give ground rules. They might say that they expect you’ll be curious about each other. They tell you that they’d certainly expect you to have been naked together, naturally, and that this is perfectly fine. But then they also mention that, if they should need to access you, they’d rather you didn’t need to hurriedly throw on your clothes at the last moment as they opened the door (which must, naturally, be left open so, in case you get more “curious” than is appropriate, it will be visible for all to see). Well, then I think that, with this openness to curiosity declared, I should feel less fear in admitting which non-impregnating but, in grandmotherly standards, generally inappropriate acts I have committed, so as to establish an understanding and not feel the daily guilt of having concealed a part of my life from an adult I respect, when I never do so in any other area and honestly feel that I really have done nothing compromising to my modesty, reputation, or womb. Except that, shortly after this relieving sense of security, a wave of reality washes over me as I realize that there is a fine line between curiosity and an actual desire to pleasure oneself, which seems terribly inappropriate but really seems silly to scoff at when ninety-nine percent of teenagers masturbate regularly anyhow.

I sincerely wish that all parents and adults who watch over their rabbit-like youngsters would be forced to sit down at an opportune moment in their lives and write a detailed manual declaring what is and is not allowed, what should and should not be confessed in the privacy of a teen’s own home, and which acts will be considered natural and which acts will result in the teenager being placed in solitary confinement after having her ovaries removed.

I quite understand the desire of a parent to ensure that their child is not involving themselves in acts compromising to their mental health or sense of morals. If a girl were engaging in these non-impregnating acts with every boy she went out with for a week, it would naturally be the parent’s duty to maintain some set of boundaries. But if two young people are very in love and respect each other and aren’t mating like rabbits on every street corner, certainly some level of trust deserves to exist. If two such people happened to engage in such non-impregnating acts, certainly a relationship with such depth would serve as a grand foundation for a young person to learn about physical passion and pleasure, and not prove to be a cause of later regret.

I think the whole affair of parents and their hormonal teenagers is quite an overblown and silly affair. Frankly, with all of the education teenagers receive on sex and pregnancy, if a girl with parents who care that much still manages to get herself knocked up, it’s her own damn fault and she can deal with the consequences. And yes, I know that everyone says you can get caught in the heat of the moment, but if it’s really that steamy, you’d think a blowjob would suffice if you stopped for one moment to consider the wreckage of one’s life as a result of having a baby at sixteen. Contrary to Hollywood’s portrayal, it’s not like you can even just dive into sex at the exact moment the decision is made. Zippers do not, unfortunately, dissolve into thin air and magically reappear within the afterglow. You have to get situated, find a good position, confirm your partner’s gender etc., which is certainly adequate time to realize that no, now would not be a good time to have a “baby on board” when my current main concern is the fact that I’m failing Geometry.

With that said, I think parents should encourage their children to engage in and become comfortable with non-impregnating acts such as oral sex, because when things get really steamy, remember: There are better things you can do! Most teenagers just don’t get that creative because that sort of education just isn’t appropriate.

I hope you’re not offended, because I feel much better. I think I’ll go have an utterly decent, modest, door-wide-open, fully-clothed make-out session with my dearest, darling teenaged partner now.

Ordinary

“Fate doesn't hang on a wrong or right choice
Fortune depends on the tone of your voice
So sing while you still can
While the sun hangs high up above
Wonderful songs of love.”
-Ben Folds

A few weeks ago, I saw the movie “Up” with my best friend. I was expecting it to be cute, heartwarming, nice…But it was much more than that. This film is a film that will ring most deeply with adults because there is so much meaning behind all of the things that seem only surface-deep to a young mind.

I could write forever about what I loved about this movie. I always appreciate the small things in life and this movie really stressed the importance of breaking from the ordinary and appreciating all of the beauties of this crazy life. Sure, it’s not too realistic that a bunch of balloons could carry a house to South America, but isn’t that what makes life so beautiful? We can dream things up and make anything happen, whether or not these things happen before our eyes. I was delighted by the unexpected rainbow bird, the battle between stiff-backed old men, the army of talking dogs, and the chubby, obnoxious, but determined young boy. The people in this movie are all people you know, only they’re going on adventures we’re all far too sensible to go on ourselves.

One part that really stuck with me, however, was when the boy, Russell, is talking about how he and his dad used to sit on the curb eating ice cream and pointing out all of the blue cars and the red cars. He says, “I know it might sound boring, but I kinda think it’s the boring stuff I remember most.” I really liked this. There are so many moments in our lives that seem completely ordinary and not that special, but, when things get too scary, the ordinary, mundane things are the safe home we long for most. And when other people tell us about their boring stuff, we can’t help but think, “Oh, that’s so nice!” even though it’s nothing more than another ordinary moment. It meant something to them. We read books about other people and their ordinary moments and we bury ourselves in them, even though we have enough of our own ordinary moments to fill a whole book. Because we see ourselves in these stories, where ice cream and curbs and maybe a storybook or a sit with a long-gone parent are the prime gifts of life. I love a book where I’m reading and I suddenly say, “I thought I was the only one who cared about that!” But it’s true that, whatever we outwardly express, it’s the seemingly unimportant things that end up being the most important.

What boring things am I madly in love with? Hmm…Pillows! What is more comforting than laying your head back on a nice, cushy pillow? Or two or three? And shaven legs. I love the feeling when my legs are just shaven and I’m sitting in my bed or at my desk chair and I pull my knees to my chest and my legs are all soft and smooth. What else? The rare occasion when my dad and I go get food after choir practice. I always feel privileged because I’m his buddy and we’re on an adventure together and, even though it’s not that important of an adventure, it’s still something I remember. I love the rare, special times my dad and I have together, whether they’re big or small, because he’s so cool. And I love a clean vagina! Go ahead and gasp, but this is my blog and I can say what I want, Madame Propriety-Pants. You know you feel just as good when your nether regions have been sweating and suffocating and leaking fluids and stinkin’ up inside your underwear all day and you finally clean it all out. I love it when I’ve just shaved my bikini line and I trim up and lotion up and the whole “situation” is squeaky clean. You know you agree. What else…Swingsets! I love swinging on the swings and listening to my iPod and singing and annoying everyone and scaring all the little children. Sprinklers! I LOVE RUNNING THROUGH SPRINKLERS. Especially big ones. Singing in the shower. Singing at all! My mother, unfortunately (for her), can attest to this. Making stuff. I love feeling like I’ve done something productive with my day! In fact, I believe I’ll work on one of my creative projects tonight. I also really love meeting a nice person on World of Warcraft. I know it’s just a silly game, but the nice thing about WoW is that there are no previous judgments over appearance, name, gender, or age. You can get into that stuff if you really connect with something, but, from the start, it’s just a conversation, empty of anything but friendliness.

I could go on for days about the little things I love in life. But I think my point is made.

I know this blog isn’t a whopper, but the message is simple:

• See “Up” as soon as you possibly can and take everyone you love with you.

• Think about what you love in life. Recognize it, appreciate it, and realize that you don’t have to fly your house to South America to realize that life is an adventure, whether or not it’s immediately apparent.