This is one of those moments when I wish I was omniscient. Do the gods like being gods? Who knows. But one thing they must not have is secrets. Unspoken words. Implications, feelings, things that don't make sense.

If only I had a penny for every time I felt like I was missing something. When someone gives you a look, and you are not sure if that look is how they normally look or if you did something wrong or said something that reminded them of something wrong.

And once you begin thinking and second guessing, it's all over.

As for justice

I know there is some. Sometimes. But other times, it's just not fair. Of course it is that way. But why is it that for little concerns things work out quite niftily, but on large-scale things everything goes awry? I'm being awfully vague here, I know.

But please, please. To the powers that be, for once let there be justice. I'm prepared to offer a good piece of my future fortune for this. Not my justice. Someone else's. Please?

I think I'm confusing my blog with that drawer in the kitchen where I put all the random items I find during the course of my life. More later.

Hey,

What is this life thing about, anyways?

Stress

Overall this year is really much better. There's no constant swamp that's gaining on me, threatening to suck me under. [Kind of like that mural at school...]

But this still isn't always easy. I can laugh at the homework load [sometimes], but the sometimes everything just overwhelms me. It's hard not to choke on the pressure, the grades, the meaninglessness of it all.

There's so much of humanity everywhere I look. So why is it so cold?

Censors...

on myself. I realized that the most difficult school projects that I come across are those that are more personal. 10 page research paper? Not much of a problem. Heartfelt paragraph discussing my goals for this year? Big, big problem.

I suppose this has always been happening, but I never really paid much attention to it. I would just compose a generic, superficial paragraph, take my points, and never look back. Perhaps it is because this year I am writing more - not just in my blog, but in other places: my "chronicles" [fancy name for a journal recounting the day's events in meticulous and rambling detail] loose leafy sheets where I rant, stories, stories, and stories.

I suppose I shall have to choose. Hide, which is always a safe [nothing wrong with safe] option. Or learn to speak out. [Which is not safe at all. But gratifying, because you know that you have an opinion, and everyone else knows so too. Which means there's proof and witness that you're not a turnip head. With no brains/substance/original thought.]

Eh? What was I doing again? Oh, right. Working on a website for Imaging class.

Instructions for "Artist Statement Page": Write a brief artist statement that explains your philosophy on your art. Discuss what kind of art you enjoy looking at, what art inspires you, and what kind of art you like to create. Discuss what elements of art and principles of design are the focus of your work. Possibly include what area of digital art you find to be your specialty

Even this is difficult. I know a lot of people will probably bs this. Should I? Because part of me wants to have fun with this, and hopefully dazzle everyone with my wit and thoughtful prose [yeah, right]. But another part of me knows that it would mean letting people know how I think [even if they don't care, I know, and I care, and I'm the one I have to live with.] and I'll probably get the same amount of points as the next bs-er.

Why do I like being so darn secretive? Maybe it's an attempt to create more layers to myself because everything else is a mess and not that deep.

Gr. Bottom line? I'm uncomfortable [and always was] with letting people "get to know me" and since I've gotten closer to writing, it's become more personal. And now I am hesitant to show my writing to anyone...
[Exceptions:
1) My English teacher, because it's a writing course and I want a good grade and you can't get those by faking.
2) Erin because she's in my English class and she's pretty much my closest friend.
3) Susan, because she's also a close friend and my writing buddy and being writing buddies would be difficult if one person refuses to show their writing...
4) My blog - here, of course - I can write whatever I feel like with little censoring except for the names, mostly because I feel pretty safe knowing that no one will read it {Except Gadi, my one reader, by default, the fourth person, who is a writer himself and has a blog where he writes...odd friendship, since he moved. Well, always an odd friendship, because he was somewhat scorned when he was here. Probably by me. But I don't remember. But then again, they say a bully never remembers his actions. So if I did, Gadi, I'm sorry.}

I think that's pretty much it. *shuffles awkwardly away*

Writing these blog posts is always very interesting, mostly because I never know what I'll end up writing about. And they make me feel better. They take an awful lot of time, though. Good thing I don't have much [any] homework tonight. Good thing I don't have much homework this year. Only had enough room for three aps. Well, four, but I didn't want to take an ap art.

I think it's time I stopped now.

Response to "Artist Statement Page" [Maybe.]: I believe that art takes many forms, transcends the field of logic and reason. I enjoy looking at digital art, because I spend ridiculous amounts of time on the computers, and sculptures and grafitti [on the few occasions when I make it outdoors]. I can never tell exactly what inspires me. My art is like dreams - I know they have come from my experiences in one way or another, but they are so conglomerated that they are indistinguishable from each other.

I just dropped an entire roll of toilet paper in the toilet.

Yes. It was brand new; never used. My hands slipped, and plunk. It fell. I stood there in shock for a moment, staring at the tree I had just killed.

At least it was before I used the toilet. Even so, there was no way I could use the toilet paper...that would defeat the purpose of toilet paper. I double shopping bagged - the roll was surprisingly heavy after taking about half of the toilet water with it.

No one was downstairs. I bagged the roll, tied it up, quietly set it in the trash, and answered nature's call.

Purchased 8 bundles of yarn yesterday, felt self-conscious; teens usually don't buy lots of yarn, or is it just me?

It rained. Today

But too late. Still, lucky three of us, escaped the worst of it

More later, if I remember. sleep time now

Favorite word[s]: staccato, twist.

I think it's safe to say

I'm on one of my "I wish I was younger and life was uncomplicated" phases. I like life now. It's just sometimes life squeezes me too hard and I get a headache.

I suppose it's all about choices now...

I like to think I make my own choices. I like to think that the thoughts in my head are mine, and only mine.

I like to think that I chose, and allowed things to happen as I thought they should. I chose to turn around. I chose to be curious. I chose to find out this "plan".

I also think I made a mistake. And I must fix it on tuesday.

But right now, I just want to curl up and sleep. I don't know why I feel this way. Other people would be thrilled. Or disgusted. Or at least be normal. I feel sad. And a little angry. As if someone had just slammed the door that I was facing.

You won't have any idea what I'm talking about.

Maybe I need more sleep.

Third time's the charm?

I'm going to write my process analysis essay. Second rewrite. First rewrite occured shortly after I posted my last post.

My mom wants me to stop wearing my brown windbreaker jacket every day to school. She says that it's getting old and ratty, and it's not fashionable. She says people will think that no one will buy me clothes. She does. Actually at some point she told me that she wouldn't buy me any more new clothes, because I never wear them. I just wear jeans, t-shirt, jacket. [It's very convenient. And easy to remember in the morning. Besides, I might as well be consistent.] Now she's complaining that I don't wear the clothes she buys. I said, "then stop buying me clothes." It seemed perfectly reasonable to me. If she doesn't buy me clothes, I don't feel as guilty when the cash register person rings up at Barnes and Nobles and the price is $125.79 [That's including the membership discount.]

Ha. Here I am, only a junior in high school, and I have an office, a laptop [that's connected to a color printer], an ipod, a camera, a cell phone, and a graphing calculator. There are lights and running water and flushing toilets [except in my room, but it'll get fixed...eventually] The pantry is full of food and the refrigerator ditto. Adults like to say that we take everything for granted, when 98% of the rest of the world doesn't have nearly as much. And I suppose we do. But is there really a way to be un-spoiled? To not take things for granted? Sheltered in an affluent neighborhood, surrounded by comforts, will I really care about the kid that's malnourished and infected with HIV in Africa? I hear, and I wish that I could help, but it's so inconcievable, so out in the distance, that it doesn't mean anything. It's not reality. Not to me.

I'm not trying to be cold and self absorbed. It's just so easy.

Why I miss freshman year...why I wake up so much later than I used to...grudges against romance...

I came later because no one was there. School starts at 7:45. I typically arrived at school between 7:10 and 7:15. There was a low wall that encircled a trio of weepy eucalyptus trees. The wall was too low to be a solid wind barrier; too high and too narrow to sit on comfortably. If I was lucky and prudent I brought a book and somone would arrive around 7:20. But that someone was usually Frodo* or Christopher*, who I never really knew or talked to, or Toby*, who I didn't really talk to back then, either. I really wasn't very talkative. I'm still not.

If I was unlucky someone would pop up five minutes before the bell, and by then I'd be stiff from standing and holding the book in my numb fingers (it was cold in the mornings, especially with the eucalyptus trees dribbling all over the place). It wasn't fun, but I was pretty faithful in arriving early, mostly from a habit carried over from middle school, or a perpetual fear of being caught late. And I always hoped that someone would come.

But that rarely happened. Mostly, the half an hour before school would go something like this:
1) I walk to the wall. Place backpack on the wall, dig inside for book. Consider wall. Should I try to sit on top?
2) Glance over my shoulder and realize that there are witnesses that could possibly catch sight of me struggling to balance while reading. A teacher sweeps past. Consider the line of ants. Sigh.
3) Drag backpack from top of the wall and allow it to fall four feet to land on the pavement. Settle down next to backpack, which I drape over my right knee as a sort of blanket. Wince slightly as buttocks begin to feel cold.
4) Open book and try to concentrate on interesting plot (if I brought a book I liked) or obscure iambic pentameter (if book is assigned by school). Supress a shiver. Wish group had agreed on meeting in the library. Or any place indoors.
5) Look up every few seconds as peoples' feet cross line of vision. Teacher. Counselor. Senior. Random administrator. Read a few lines of text.
6) "Aren't you cold?" Look up. A teacher (at least that is assumption) is looking down at you. Shrug nonchalantly, answer "no..." even though I am involuntarily spasming under my sweathshirt. Man shrugs and continues walking towards Administration building. Has no time for crazy freshmen.
7) Tries not to shudder as a dollop of dew drops onto my neck. Wait miserably for someone to arrive.
8) It's Christopher. Manage an awkward "hello." No sure to keep reading or not. Oh. Holden* At least I can read and be ignored.
9) Someone that I can hold a conversation with arrives. Tries to stand without falling over. Puts away book. Bell rings two minutes later.

That was how my mornings went most of freshman year, and a month or so into the sophmore one. Then that changed, too.

Day One: Have more confidence now. Stands next to wall, reading. Checks watch. Ten minutes to bell. Shrugs. Maybe they're running late. Reads. Checks watch. Five minutes to bell. Scans campus. Nothing. Reads. Two minutes to bell. Taps watch. Can't be right. Watches second hand tick past the one minute mark. Bell rings. Off to class, somewhat perplexed.

They are there at lunch. Toby* and Samantha* spend a lot of time together. Not much of my concern, I suppose. But lunch is awkward. People watch from the corners of their eyes. Caleb* watches. Tim* watches. Erin* watches.

Day Two: Apprehensive. Comes at 7:20. Wait at the wall. Bell rings. Wonders if they came and I missed them.

They no longer come to the wall. Not Toby*, not Samantha*, not Erin*. I learn that they gather inside the front building, now.

Day Three: I "run late." Get there at 7:30. Arrive at English classroom early. Wait outside. Two minutes later a friend comes along. We talk. It's fun. The bell rings.

Day Four: It's Spanish, so I get there at 7:35. As I walk across the quad (much more crowded than I'm used to) I glance at the wall. The adults file past occasionally. The eucalyptus trees drip wetly onto nothing. The wall is dead.

Day Five: I change my route. I walk up the stairs. Turn right, not left. I walk up more steps. To the building. It's 7:25; I couldn't wake up as early as I used to anymore. There's Toby*. There's Samantha*. There's Erin*. I walk up to them. I tell Erin I need help with my chem hw. I figure it's just today. I don't like this place. I don't like the warmth; too hot in my sweatshirt. I figure I'll go straight to English. And come late on Spanish days. I compare answers. The bell rings.

---Weekend---

I don't know why I wrote this. I just couldn't get it out of my head. Toby* and Samantha* aren't dating anymore. But we're still there. And I go there every day. I've gotten used to it.

I do miss the old days. But old days fade to grey as new ones shove forward. I'm probably destroying any meager bit of soberness I had above. I don't care. I guess I don't really appreciate change, or growing up, or things of that nature. Gotta grow up. But Erin* and Nathan* and Toby* and Bernice* and Samantha* and Roger* and Channel* and Neal*...

Maybe it's fun. Maybe it's nice. But there's responsibility and communication and effort and time.

I don't know when I last changed my two-week contact lenses.

I'd rather read. I'd rather write. I'd rather blog. Heck, I'd rather be frozen and dripped on by a eucalyptus tree.

*Names obviously altered. I have never met a "Frodo" in real life. It would be awesome, though.

I just realized that there is a random fish widget at the bottom of the page. Did I put that there?

Robotic laughter is not at all funny.

Humans are humans. I am a human. Other humans are like me. We understand each other, more or less. I know they have flaws. They have moments they want to relive or moments they wish never happened. Looking at a stranger, at least I know they have that much. Hopefully.

But a robot?

That's scary.

A human that's convinced that he's not human?

Scarier.

We are family. That looks idiotic on the screen. But I believe it's true. Human spirit, or whatever it is. We're like little atoms. Or neutrons, protons, electrons. Quarks? Anyways, we make up something bigger, and even if there seems to be an infinite space stretching between one particle and the next, at a larger scale it's just one, flawless entity.

~ I was feeling big -picture - y. Because I was too lazy to do my history project during break, and thus left off most of it until the night before, got three hours of sleep, dozed off during the math lecture on "Infinite Limits and Limits at Infinity" and now I'm completely lost.

I had a good idea for a blog post earlier. At least I think I did. I don't think it would have been as good on screen as in my head, though.

It's friday.

I suppose I shall feel all empty inside during the weekend. And when it's over I shall be sad.

That's not a good attitude.

Well, I'm tired.

That's no excuse for a lapse in

What?

...

Pandora isn't playing the song I want to hear. I don't know the name. I just heard it once when I was organizing papers.

...

I feel like pacing. Maybe it's the music. Maybe it's the beat of the t.v. in the other room. My sentences are boring. I want them to flow, to link hands with one another and glide through the story. They kind of skip-shuffle and crouch awkwardly on the page.

...

Blah.

I might as well make it an even 30 posts.

Lost and insecure...
You found me...
You found me...
Lying on the floor...
Surrounded, surrounded...

I can't think of much. I'm quoting song lyrics as if this were my facebook status. But it's not, because I don't want some of my "friends" to know what I'm feeling. It's not that I don't like them. It's just that they requested and I didn't want to reject it, even though we never speak in real life.

Anyways, that's not what I wanted to talk about. I wanted to talk about food with long shelf lives. See, food like that may not be appealing when compared with chocolate cake or ice cream, but they also don't spoil when you take them out of the refrigerator. They can sit on the shelf for years, patiently waiting for someone to notice them. And they usually don't take up too much space. Especially dehydrated fruit. I'm sure there was a grammar mistake somewhere.

I decided that The Fray is my choice of music when I feel alone. I guess I just like his voice. Especially in You Found Me.

This blogging thing is kinda fun, too. Since nobody reads it, it's like talking to my stuffed animals, or speaking to an empty room. And I'm not pausing every few seconds to make sure that there is no one listening. Or if my family isn't home, that there isn't some creeper that's lurking behind the door.

I don't think my writing is getting any better, though. And I don't think I'm developing much of a voice. I wish I could remember more big words. I have to look up words at least 5 times before they become vaguely familiar enough to constantly stick to my brain. Like esoteric. First I saw someone use that word in a facebook comment, and I looked it up. Then I forgot about it. Later, I remembered that there was this word that meant exclusive or something secret to a group or something like that, and I scoured the web with possible synonyms for this word until I found it. And forgot it again. Then I looked it up a few more times when I experienced that panicky feeling that meant I'd forgotten it again. But now I know: esoteric=intended or understood by only a particular group. According to the first definition on Yahoo! dictionaries.

My happiness depends on the amount of time that my friends take to eat dinner.

Well, sorta. That's all.

I couldn't wait to get home, back to my computer. I was composing this in my head in the car. Definetely not my best, but maybe I'll edit this later.

So you know when you’re doing something that you’ve done for a long time, something that seems routine, like doing homework or playing piano, and then you realize that next to everyone else, you just epically fail? Yeah. That’s me.

I out, and I was irritable and stressed, because break is almost over and so was the deadline for my homework. Then I looked up and saw the sky. It was…like baby’s skin, except the color of pink cotton candy that’s been in the sun too long. Except the baby’s skin was scarred and pitted, and the scars shimmered golden like twisted tissue.

So now I’m a horrible person because I envisioned a scarred, pink baby in the sky. But if you think about it figuratively, emotionlessly, then you can see that it kinda makes sense. This is a time of rebirth, a new beginning, according to a lot of people. Thus the baby. Maybe we carry the marks of our “past lives,” but the wounds have long since been healed. Maybe not skillfully, maybe not without the passage of time, or only because time has piled on so much that it is forced to heal, but it is healed. The scars will be forever with us. They will mark our skin and perhaps twinge before a rainstorm. But for now, we are babies, reborn, trusting, innocent. Who would hurt a baby?

So that’s it, then. I just wanted to tell you about the sunset. Maybe the same image is painted on the sky every day. But maybe you know, I rarely stray from the corner that is my office, and even more rarely leave my house. So for me, at least, the idea of the sun setting and the sky turning violet and pink and golden is a mind boggling, beautiful thing. Same to a baby. Happy New Year.

1-4 update:

Dad took a picture!