Halloween

Dear Halloween,

My field of vision is littered with candy wrappers.

I have chewed my way through the entirety of October 31st. 

I might just explode if I eat one more Reese's Peanut Butter Cup.

Please, send help.

Love and fullness,

Lily

P.S. The Butterfinger was delicious too. Wish I'd gotten more of those!

Indent

You don't need to ask me whether or not I'm tired- which sign tells you better?

I could say that I didn't get enough sleep. Or you could just look at the permanent mark in my cheek where my hand has been holding it up for the past two months. My exhaustion rests on an elbow.

In class, I listen to the words float by my ear like drifts of conversation picked up on a busy street.

I am tired
I am tire
I am tir
I am ti
I am t
I am
I a
I

Too Much Water

Liquids conform to any container, and by that definition, I am a liquid.
The Joy Luck Club describes my condition as "too much water."
Let me elaborate:

You want art? My doodles are good occasionally.
You want writing? I write a lot of poetry.
You want sports? I play lacrosse.
You want theater? I love to act.
You want music? I used to compose music, I know a little theory.
You want clubs? I'm in The Desk and Mah Jong.
You want intelligence? I'm in quizbowl.
You want dance? I used to be in ballroom club.

You want someone who has any idea what to do with themselves? Look elsewhere.

Suite

My life is a musical suite, each part chiming in when dictated in the large score that defines me. Instead of woodwinds, I have success, and instead of strings, I have failure.

I am the composer in the end, but the music takes me where it wants to go.

I don't know which section will play the melody next.

You Could Get Lost Out Here

When people talk about reading, they say that books can take you to a whole new world.

Music is different. Instead of changing your surroundings, it forces you to look at your existing surroundings in a way you didn't before. Art and literature and things change you from the outside, but music changes you from within.

I think the type of music a person listens to says a lot about them. I don't have a favorite song, or favorite band. I just listen to what speaks to me. 

"You Could Get Lost Out Here," is a song that I heard first when in a bad mindset. When a music teacher says that they're going to play a sample song for you, it's hard not to expect a droning classical symphony that stretches on for ten ice ages.

When the teacher played that song instead, it transported me to that strange place in my head that I go when listening to music that I can believe in. Because the truth is, you can get lost out here. 

I'm still trying to find my way back.

___________________________

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-mU99Hv77S8 (this was the song)

Ivy

The ivy is blushing red now, as we plunge headfirst into the depths of autumn.

I used to think think that the ivy was a nuisance, obscuring my view of the outside world by covering my window.

It's been a while since I've had the full view of what's outside. The ivy has divided my sight into little sections, a color-by-numbers. I don't know which view I'd choose now.

Me, You, and Them.

It's not that I don't love my friends- don't get me wrong, they're the most lovely people in the world.

But sometimes I think about the idea of aloneness, and how it's always felt embarrassing that I don't mind aloneness in the slightest. People always describe me as a social person- maybe not quite popular (I'm not part of that crew anyway, and I probably won't ever be)- but social, which is why I find it funny that I love my solitude.

At the beginning of this year, I experienced what it felt like to be completely alone. I guess I had friends, we just weren't as close as other times, and the space between us shoved itself into my mouth like a gag and forced me to say nothing about it.

But for about 3 weeks, I got along fine. I was finishing my homework in record time, I was getting good grades, and although I wasn't extremely happy, I wasn't depressed either.

If time stopped, would you stop too? Would you become a speck of color in the background, frozen forever in your picture frame?

Maybe I would be frozen too, and you'd walk through the statue landscape and tap me lightly on the shoulder. The warmth would spread throughout my body like when you swallow hot chocolate and suddenly, we'd be the only two people in the room, our eyes binding us to each other like invisible ropes.

Aloneness is a snowstorm. I am in the warm house, but I can't help seeing the snowflakes cling to the window like desperate survivors of their tumbling ordeal.

You are springtime, but I think I'll have to wait for you. It's only October.

Stages of Stages

AN IMPORTANT NOTE BEFORE YOU READ MORE:

I forgot to mention that this blog is inspired by my friend's fantastic one, Improbability in the City.
If you haven't read it yet, STOP RIGHT NOW and head on over to her blog, linked here.

________________________________

Auditioning for high school plays is synonymous with rejection. I enjoy the auditions- I do not enjoy the rejections. Out of the 5 plays I have auditioned for thus far, I have gotten 5 callbacks, but I've actually only gotten cast in one.

The audition. Everyone is welcome here. The audition is a place that I really like to be. If you're a veteran of the theater community, the director welcomes you. If you're not, they get to know you.

The callback. Ah, the callback. The word simply rings with the sound of getting-your-hopes-up before they might come crashing down again. The callback's perks: they get to see you act again! Isn't that just great? The callback's cons: YOU WERE THIS CLOSE TO GETTING A PART BUT YOU JUST HAAAAAD TO MAKE THAT NOTE A C# INSTEAD OF A C (aka, the pressure's on).

The list. The list is a thing of beauty on the wall outside of Room 318, fluttering with the mini-wind created by the Junior hurrying quickly to her Creative Writing Elective. You approach it eagerly, but with a sad smile, because you know what the outcome is. Nope. There goes another year.

The backstage. I, for one, am a huge supporter of props and run crew, although my main job in 7th grade was just making sure that I didn't mess up the Stage Manager's coffee order. This is the part where it gets lonely. You have your crew friends and you have your crew fun, but the actors all have their little inside jokes that make you feel bad that this is the show you would've been in. Although I love crew, you wonder what it would be like if you were the one onstage, belting that number.

When I look at that list tomorrow, I don't want one more disappointment. Especially because it's a 1950s style musical. I kind of live in the 50s (if you know me, you get the full extent of my nostalgia).

This is the last time I'm auditioning without a result. Seriously. Even if I'm in the ensemble, at least I'll be at Enrico Fermi High.

A Letter of Admiration to a Friend Worth Admiring.

Dear You-Know-Who-You-Are,

Not everyone can have a friend as wonderful as you. I was thinking of trying to phrase this in a cool way or something, but honesty is the best policy, so here goes.

I know you're sad. Or maybe you were sad. I don't really know the details of this. 

But if, by some sad occurrence, you'd forgotten how much you inspire me and everyone else in this brick prison every day, I wanted to be there to remind you.

You are the most beautiful person I have ever met. Not only are your looks stunning, but your personality, cheer, heart, kindness and soul is something so deep that I don't think anyone else can compare to you. I don't just mean this on a surface level. This letter is not a friendly banter. "You're so pretty! You're such a good actress! You're a fabulous writer!" Those are all gone. This is where I'm going to get serious.

I don't think you'll ever realize how jealous I am of you. When someone pays me a compliment, I always have a hard time accepting it. It's hard to admit that what the other person says is true, especially if it's something nice. 

But if you think this is a compliment, you're wrong. This is a solid fact. I'm not perfect, and neither are you, but on a grand scale, you're as close to perfect as a person can get. If I asked whoever's up there to find a more pure soul than you, I think they'd come back empty handed. You have to accept this.

I have never found someone who understands people and how to make them feel great about themselves as well as you. Your writing, speech, and actions are just so mature and poised and honestly, I think juggling all of your many amazing talents would be hard. You're a singer, dancer, actress, writer, friend, motherly figure, songwriter, artist, pianist, musician, and a plain good person. I have never met someone so good. Or so fantastic.

I find you so incredibly inspiring. Not only are you the reason I started this blog, you are the mastermind behind everything I ever write. I don't want to compete with you, especially because reading your blog and all of your poems and stories and amazingness makes me feel like a little dot in a big world.

You make people feel special in a way that I didn't know people could.

I'm so honored to be your friend.

Heck, I'm honored to be in your presence.

Dear friend, don't let anything get you down. You are the balloon that lifts us all up, and if you ever start to deflate, just remember-

Do. Not. Pop.

Find the person who will take the time to blow you back up again (this metaphor got kinda weird), but I think you already have that in your other lovely friends.

I'm sorry if I didn't give you credit. This was always you.

To quote e.e. cummings,

"and whatever is done

by only me is your doing,my darling"

Love always,

Lily

P.S. Tell me if you want me to delete this. Sorry for not asking you.

Speak

"You never know what you're gonna say until you say it,"

The English teacher surprises me sometimes with sprinkles of wisdom on top of a whole ice cream sundae full of homework. Today in English, I didn't speak at all.

Speech has always come easily to me. Dear reader, I will assume that you've read A Wrinkle in Time, because I'd like to draw a little comparison here. Charles Wallace, the younger brother of Meg, the protagonist, did not speak until he was four. When he did, he spoke in full sentences.

I am not saying that I am Charles Wallace. I am not a child genius, nor am I particularly shy, nor am I male.

I spoke first at the usual age, the broken "mama"s and "dada"s that were expected of me. When I was around 2, the speech evolved into sentences. My mother always jokes that even at that age, I wouldn't stop talking. The only sentence I knew was "Hi, howa you," so I repeated that about 100 times a day.

In second grade, I was sent to sit in another classroom when I blurted out the answer to a question given to another student. It should be obvious to everyone that if an Old Lady swallowed Fly Guy, he'd go to her stomach. I had no patience for the way she paused and stuttered.

In fifth grade, I delivered the Graduation Speech for my class. That was the first time that words were ever difficult for me, and I choked them out painfully as I tried to hold back the tears that stung like bees.

In seventh grade, I talked and I talked and I talked until I ran out of words.

My words are like fireflies in a summer field now. Sitting on top of the hill with my arms around my knees, I can see the light of thousands of them, words, buzzing off the paper and humming around me in an ethereal cloud.

Just when I reach out to hold one, it bumbles away again and leaves me alone with my thoughts.

I have been stuttering since seventh grade.

Concerning the Auditions for the School Musical

Walking down my street at half past twilight, one can observe a few phenomena. The excited squeals that erupt from the children who scale the scaffolds like ivy, harmonizing with the nervous mumblings of their parents, and the faint glow of the cigarette that coughs out smoke into the late October air are both little details (buttons, perhaps?) that make up the fabric of my small world.

One boy speeds down the hill leading to my stoop with tremendous speed, and I think a little about where he was going so fast, or if it was just for the rush of it. He stopped abruptly at what must've been his house, hitting the brakes so that his transition from motion to rest was as fluid as the Hudson River.

A pang of regret crossed over my heart for a second, like a loose cloud floating fast over the sun, and I stopped for a second before continuing my quick stride, clutching my many belongings awkwardly to my chest for warmth (I'd left my sweater in the music room in an act of classic character).

When I was younger, tricycles were choice cruisers.
When I was younger, second grade chorus was a choice singing lesson.

I went straight to the big leagues, and my bicycle has been a bit wobbly ever since.
I went straight to the big leagues, and my voice has been a bit shaky ever since.

I seem to have skipped the training wheels stage of both.

Beginning

This is my first blog post.

Not ever.

Before this, there were others, often discontinued snippets of inspiration, scrapbook cuttings of ideas I had and impulsively acted on when I was younger, and could afford to do so. I was lured in with siren songs of having my own online world and getting to spill my knowledge of anything (most likely some fourth grade dating advice) to what I thought was a great big audience, awaiting the next time I would plop down and decide to type something up for them to read with undisguised hunger.

Now that I've grown a little taller, changed my haircut too many times for my hair's own good, and gone through three identity crises, four puppy dog crushes, and six shoe sizes, I'm a little wiser.

If you're reading this, I'd like to think of you as more of a stage manager, watching me forget my lines onstage, and grimacing if I didn't use a word correctly.

The audience is in my mind. It's up to you to interpret whether or not they enjoyed the show.