Liberate, AKA The Post Where I Randomly Talk About Snow Tigers

Written Dec. 17, 2013 

Today I did something I hadn't been able to do when I wrote my lemonade post: let go. 

When I wrote that post I was in a state of emotional angst, hurt pouring out of me in tidal waves that twisted themselves into a nasty whirlpool of feelings. Today I realized I'd been trying to escape the wrong way. For almost most a year I've been swimming against the currents of the whirlpool. To break free I needed to swim with the current in order to find a little channel to make my way out. 

I can't tell you what the initial problem was because I'm very embarrassed when it comes to my stupidity. What I can say is this: if you've ever closed a door on something or someone in your life and have kept the key to that door, it's time to lose that key. That key is holding you back. But it's just a key!!! you wail at me as I try to help you yank it off the chain. 

This is not just a key. This is an unhealthy little poison seeping into your skin as you twist the key in your hands and watch the light glint off of it (naturally, this precious normal key that is of no worth to you whatsoever you're probably holding on to that key for dear life as you mull over in your mind the possible reactions to cracking open the locked door to see that person/thing)...

You've probably even chanced a peek or two into that locked room. Or maybe you've gotten so close to that door and held on to that key so it can stop swinging from your neck in order for you to hear what's behind that door. Crying at the door won't make your problem disappear. Grab a hanky (more

like a huge box box of them, push that key into the lock and yank the door off it's hinges. Take a good long look at what you've been afraid of. Of course, this is a room in your head so there's no chance of actual harm. Step closer. Now even closer. Now jump into the room. No, not like that. With both feet. 

One of two things will then happen. 
A) You'll be overpowered by your fears.

B) You will realize that this is not as bad as you thought it was. The person/thing you've been skirting around is not such a big deal. They cannot control your life. 

And suddenly, your fears have shrunk to the size and appearance of a baby snow tiger: harmless at this stage. You don't need to envision the future snarling snow tiger leaping at your throat. That's already happened and here you are, alive and on your way to getting better. But what's to happen to this snow tiger?

To release into the wild, where it belongs, you'll need to close that door forever. Once there is no key tying you to that door or a sturdy wall up between you and the room, a portal will open up and transport the tiger into the wild where, in the years to come, you might catch a glimpse of on some random environmental channel. And the chance of it being your same snow tiger are quite small. 

So you and that snow tiger will part. The room will get sucked into the portal. And the key is hopefully in some deep sewer, never to be found. Maybe even incinerated and melted into something new. 

My dear readers, I hope you understood what it was I've been trying to tell you. Throw yourself full-tilt at this fear. Take a long hard look at whatever/whoever was bothering you and once you realize there's nothing to be done or that you're better off(which you are), then you'll know you are ready to move one.

Your faithful writer reached closure because she stopped fighting her feelings. Yes, I felt hurt. Yes, I felt sad and miserable and a plethora of other synonyms for GreatlyAngeredByMyStupidity. But only by letting myself go and acknowledging what was hurting me was I able to stop. 

The memory of the hurt hasn't faded. It probably never will and that's normal. My bad coping skills will probably continue after this episode of the show that is my life (viewer ratings: quite high because the things that happen to me are bizarre) but at least I've let go of something that's been bothering me. 

As I sit twitching in the pre-dawn cold, I feel an ache throb in my shoulders as I struggle to straighten a back that's been hunched by months of worry. The pain in the stretch is the most beautiful feeling I've felt in a long time. 

Ramblings of a Wanderer

That's what I am. A wanderer. I wander through life. I'm doing it right now. It's been a while since I last blogged-- I don't like my last blog posts's format but that's inconsequential because so few people read it. I'm hoping there are still people out there who want to read what I write. 

My blogging hiatus was a result of a sense of anxiety about what was to come. I feel that I'm responsible for the words people are taking the time to read so my thoughts spiral into something along the lines of:  "OMG WHAT SHOULD I WRITE ABOUT NOW, I HAVE SO MANY IDEAS I'LL DO ALL OF THEM AND I'M GOING TO SET A SCHEDULE AND WILL THEY LIKE THEM? BUT I HAVE TO WRITE WITH MY VOICE AND HOW CAN THEY LIKE MY VOICE WHEN THERE'S BETTER MAINSTREAM STUFF OUT THERE? LOL BUT WHO READS MAINSTREAM-- WE ALL DO THEN WE PRETEND WE'RE ABOVE IT AND SECRETLY LIKE IT AND..."

It's like this one creative writing prof once told me: when I think about writing, I suck. I have to just let it happen. (On a side note: I felt outraged when I first heard that and proceeded to take my usual passive-aggressive stance when I can't deal with someone's opinion.) 

I think that I've been doing the same thing with life. I've been trying to perfect everything and make plans in case of any and all shortcomings-- so much so that the time spent anticipating and planning for the first chip in what I'd like to be a stone wall of perfection that I end up just imagining that wall... the wall never gets built. 

Take the most recent example: I had an English term paper due that was worth 30% of my final mark. It was supposed to be about Jane Eyre, an analysis of some aspect or another of the novel. I kept putting it off until the day before it was due. I woke up early that day and decided yes. You will now use all of today for writing the best darned term paper the world has seen AND get to go to bed, AT THE LATEST, by 12 AM. No sooner did I sit down and take my novel out than did I realize that I needed a clean work area to write in.

I proceeded to clean my room (which is not where I chose to write my paper), the living room (which is near where I wanted to write), the guest dining table (located outside the kitchen perpendicular to the living room-- where my laptop was waiting for me), the kitchen (there were a lot of dirty dishes lying around), and the toy/office/laundry room (this is a moderately spacious room that contains a washer and dryer at the far end, my desk in the middle, and my sister's toys stored neatly near the doorway-- far from where I wanted to work).

 I'd wasted three hours and it was lunchtime so I thought I deserved something to eat. I made a huge lunch and cleaned everything up and that took an hour. Not one to be sidetracked, I finally slid into the seat before my computer mentally ready to write this essay. I stretched and caught a whiff of myself and decided I needed to shower so that I could match my surroundings. 
After showering, styling my hair (which I rarely do when I'm at home, opting for a much-coveted look of a pajama-ed bedhead), ridding my face of a budding mustache (Yes, I'm a female. I'm Arab, we have facial hair. Get over it.), and adding the tiniest hint of eyeliner, I was READY to finish start this essay! I sat down and proceeded to download my show for later because I knew I'd be finishing this essay early. 

It was just a matter of convincing myself that I should probably watch the episode first so I wouldn't be anticipating it and unable to concentrate writing my essay. Only I had to rewatch the episode from before because I'd delayed this recent episode and forgotten what happened. 2 hours later I was READY to write that essay! 

By now it was 3 PM, around the time when my siblings would be getting home from school. Three hours later I'd spent quality sister time yelling at my younger siblings and getting into fights. We'd also had dinner. I was READY to write this essay. 

But FIRST, I needed to check my favorite Arabic reality TV show and watch a jillion YouTube videos and help my little sister with her homework and pretend to write my essay while actually chatting with my friend who I hadn't been in touch with for a while and... Cut to 12 AM when I realized I should probably start my paper. My outline was so good that I decided I deserved a break. Fast forward to 2 AM. 

This is what my outline probably looked like.
I think I'd only done the capital 'T'.

From 2 AM to 4 AM I highlighted all the mentions of the moon in the novel and searched up some sources. From 4 AM to 7 AM I hashed out a few paragraphs and a great outline. From 7 AM to 9 AM I finished writing the essay. Time needed to complete the essay: ~ 5-7 hours. Time used: 26 hours.

As a wanderer, I feel it is my obligation to tell you that together we wandered from my original topic (woes of a wanderer who is coming back to tell you amazing things on her blog) to a recount of my adventures in writing an essay. You're welcome. 

And for those of you who were wondering: I got an A on that paper. 

Birthday Girl

I've been alive for 2 decades. 20 years. I feel overwhelmed (partially because I can't blame outbursts on being a teenager anymore -.-) mostly because I imagined myself to be at a different place when I hit my 20's. Because life is a learning experience and I've done a considerable amount of learning these 20 years, here's a list of things I've learned:

• I've learned that I need to set realistic goals. 
• I've learned that good things come to those who wait and do a fair amount of hard work. 
• I've learned that it's best to write about what you know. 
• I've learned that if you set forth your best foot you'll come to realize that it might not be your best foot. 
• I've learned that one can love too much and for the wrong reasons. 
• I've learned about family and what it means to put others before you. 
• I've learned that friends show their Meir in times of need. 
• I've learned that for the greater good some 'bad' things must be done. 
• I've learned that I love to dwell in the past because when you build on it you get the future. 
• I've learned that I might not be the most fun teacher but I am the most responsible. 
• I've learned to cut myself some slack because I'm my biggest critic. 
• I've learned that I won't stop learning anytime soon. 

As for the loot I received, I'm glad to say that it was all that I wanted, not completely what I expected, and the usual generosity my family demonstrates.

In other words, I got:

1. The Cuckoo's Calling.
2. A mug from my mom. 
3. A beautiful piece of bling (awesome ring). 
4. One of those shoe things you put rungs IN. 
5. Money from my dad. 
6. Hilarious cards from my siblings. 
7. A day without war from my brother -.- (although to be fair, he DID get me Khalid Hosseini's new book at Eid). 

I'd like to also thank my best friend (S.A.) for making me a great little video for my birthday. She tried to get me to send her some pictures of me to go in the video by making me think I had an overseas fan club and I wrecked that by being busy :/ It's a beautiful video and the gift I will treasure the most because even though she lives on a different continent, she did what people who live nearby didn't do. She took out lots of time from her daily life to make me something so beautiful and personal-- she made me feel special. 

Thank you. 

Sightless

I find myself hopelessly distracted from my classes and not for the usual reasons: lack of sleep, homework stress, running around campus all lost.

 No, the cause for my worry is a newfound fixation. I’ve noticed that we have a blind student on campus (although how blind he is I don’t know. He seems to look at people’s faces when talking to them but that could just be him turning his head to where the vicinity of the voice is). I first saw him in my English classroom. He’d had a class in there before me and was talking to the prof. I don’t know if it’s because I haven’t seen many blind people in my life or just my habit of watching people, but I watched him use his white cane to find the door and then trail his hand across the door trying to find the handle. He started on the upper right side of the door and worked his way to the middle of the left before he found it. It was the most painful thing I’ve seen.  I don’t usually pity people for having disabilities or diseases because I have a disease myself (diabetes) and I loathe the feeling of being pitied (I also don’t see disabilities as setbacks; just something different a person has to work with)— but this guy… he’s become an obsession.

Every time I see him around campus I trail far behind him making sure he doesn’t fall down. I just walked into the library building and held my breath as he went up the stairs and then stepped onto air thinking there was another step. The other day I was walking and I turned around to see him behind me so started treading loudly stomping in hopes that he could hear me walking and maybe follow me to wherever he was going.

This guy looks like he’s in his mid 20’s so he’s fared far better without me all his life but I can’t help it. 

I want to know where all his classes are so I can take him to them and I don’t know if I feel sorry for him or if it’s because I’m imagining myself in his place:  In a lightless world without words to read, sights to behold. In darkness, untouched by the pleasures of being able to see even the most mundane things like droplets on a windowpane.

An Open Letter Re: The Lady Who Thinks She Can Teach Me About My Diabetes

Dear Mother of Acquaintance,

This is a letter to tell you how annoying I find your endless chatter. Stop coming up to me and telling me how to deal with my diabetes. I'm almost 20 years old which means I've had type one diabetes for over 18 years now. Stop trying to find out why I've 'lost hope' as you put it. I haven't lost hope, you nitwit. I'm dealing with reality. No I will not try going to that sheikh who 'does wonders' with natural medicines. Of course I believe that this is a test from God and I know that I'm far better off than people a couple years ago who were dying from diabetes but I'm not going to sit down for the rest of my life praying for diabetes to go away. I live with it each day and I understand that it's a shock for you to deal with your perfectly healthy daughter getting type one diabetes at 15 years old but honestly, I offered you my help. I did not ask for it in return. So please, stop acting as if you're the worldly mother who knows what's best for me. Your daughter and I differ in so many ways. I've got a different body type, I've had diabetes for a much longer time and my doctor does, in fact, keep me updated on the latest diabetes technology and breakthroughs. I chose old school syringes over the pump, you ninny. You are not helping me one iota but I've been humouring you and that was a mistake. You will never measure up to my mother's knowledge on diabetes because she's been a pseudo-nurse ever since I got this disease-- since I was 18 months old.


So, please. Back off already. Stop giving me lectures on how to deal with my sickness. I don't see diabetes as a hindrance to a regular life. It's a normal part of my life that I do not question; like the need to breathe, eat, and sleep. Controlling my diabetes is just another part of my daily routine. You look at me with pity every time you see me and I honestly see no reason why. You never looked at me that way before your daughter got diabetes. I appreciate your concern but you have to stop nagging me.

Also, you're a fool to want your daughter to hide her diabetes. Diabetes is not something to be ashamed of. You made me swear not to tell anyone for fear of your daughter being bullied for having a disease or because otherwise no one will marry her. That's a very narrow view of the world and you made it seem as if this thing that is now a part of your daughter's daily life as much as it is part of mine is something detestable. I've never received any hate or judgement because of my diabetes. Grow up and know that the people around your daughter need to be informed in case anything happens to her in order for them to know what to do.

Get a grip and please leave me alone. You make me feel as if there's something wrong with me when I'm actually a regular human being just like everyone else.

Writing Under Pressure

We've all lost our minds. 

This sort of mind talk is bizarre.

 A bar of chocolate is good. 

Goodness lies in the beholder’s tummy.

Fat is the source of happiness. 

Being happy means being free. 

Freedom is a lie. 

I lie everyday. 

The days are going by faster. 

Speed means higher risk of accidents. 

There are no accidents. 

When a crash occurs, it is caused by a demand of the speeder’s subconscious. 

Dreams formulate from the worries of the subconscious. 

All dreams come true. 

Truth is but a fraction of the bigger story.

Elves tell part of the truth.

I am an elf. 

I am a mythical being. 

Mythology is an area I need to concentrate on. 

Juice is made from concentrate. 

Precision brings lockers full of lined up books.

Books have paragraphs.

Paragraphs contain sentences.

Sentences are made up of a string of words. 

Words are made of letters. 

Letters are curved strokes on paper.

Paper is made of wood. 

Wood comes from trees. 

Trees are cut down by humans. 

Humans are out to destroy the method of communication we all use—words. 

I feel philosophical for someone who just flooded the staff bathroom at the office. 

Succession

Churning the turquoise lake of memories
Each tear a star, a fallen story
From the seeing skies
Of weeping sorrows
The dark chasm of loneliness drops
The edge of the world looms
He waves, a whisper of air
I see him no more
I wear his shoes
And tread the grassy plains where I used to frolic with Imagination
Where we used to avoid the rocks that jut out
Rocks placed carefully by Mendacious Inspiration
Now I tread on them and tear his shoes to shreds
My feet bleed like broken promises
In the distance the sun sinks and the moon comes up to light the morning
Birds don't heed the humans' need for repeated chronological structure
Coming and going as they please
They add to the ruckus that are my insecurities
Hills roll like my shoulders as I try to straighten
Unable to align a back that has been overloaded with fears
Fears that attack from all sides and angles
For we are all donkeys carrying loads
Some loads are light as the leaf of the aspen tree
The one I sit under as I count my woes and lose track of them
In the rings of old stumps nearby
The other loads are the crushing pressure of being underwater for too long and I let go
My breath bubbles out in front of me
Tangible like the smoky tendrils on a cold day
Floating to the surface facedown I try to tread water but sink
For bodies that are 70% water this one only seems to be made of cookie dough
As I sink I watch the schools of fish
Separated into their different sects
Behaving as they have been pre-determined to
A shark carries me to the usual place
We pass lairs of those who have made their pact with Solitude
Loneliness awaits me at the start of the tribe of the Chief Current
I renew my application as Loneliness's heir and the Chief sends me rushing to the surface
Where I will sit and watch the turquoise sky
Where I will collect my tears in order to breath on them
So they can float to become stars
And fall once more

Solitude, or More Suitably Titled: I Hate Idiots

I've recently made the discovery that I'm a little old hermit stuck in the body of an almost-20-year-old. So I bid everyone to just get on with it call me Geezer Girl, AKA: The-Long-Awaited-Aged-Superhero. 

I already want to yell at everyone. Lord help the kids who come near my lawn when I'm 50.

I hate you. I hate the world.

Back in the good old days...

And you thought you had to deal with Grumpy Cat. I am the God of Grumpy Cat. 

I've come to hate all loud noises. Everything is suddenly a loud noise. People talking, people laughing (this especially annoys me), the sound of gossip making its way across telephone lines over the country...

I yearn for solitude yet when I have it, I wish for companionship. When I've got someone around me, I hate their every breath. Is this normal for a teenager-turning-adult? I don't think the problem is with me, however. It's with the stupid idiots surrounding me. All my friends are either:

A) not in the country

B) characters in books

C) memories of their past selves who now no-longer give a crap about our friendship

Yes, I am hating the world. 

It's not just that either. The people left here are the ones who don't appreciate the things I like. When I'm fangirling over something, I'd love to have someone who's read/seen the same thing. Online fandoms are lovely but I want someone who loves the things I do in real life. Who I can talk to. Hold on, you say. The world is a vast place full of different-minded people. Surely you can find at least ONE PERSON whose interests coincide with yours. 

My first answer: 

My second answer: no, you fool. No, I can't-- and not for lack of trying. I feel miserable here. I like no one. I'm a bonafide misfit. I'm not as sociable as I'm famed to be. I no longer tolerate idiocy and hypocrisy. Sometime ago I tweeted out, "To be a social creature you must reach a balance of intelligent speech and a certain tolerance level for idiocy". I can't reach that level of tolerance. As much as I try, I can't bring myself to smile at the mocking tones of people who still think I'm in the smaller university I've been attending for the past 2 years. The people who smirk as they wonder out loud why I'm fat. Those who advise me on healthy eating habits "to keep the bulk off, dear" as if I've been carrying around a bag of bulk that I don't want to relinquish. And especially the ones that make it their business to make sure I know that a teaching degree isn't as hard to attain as a degree in sciences. 

This isn't a question of caring about what other's think. It's a question of being able to deal with the sneaky curveballs people keep throwing while they talk to me. Once in a while it's entertaining to throw one out, I'm guilty of having pitched my fair amount of them. But dang it, if we're playing baseball the whole darn time then can we at least have some proper pitching?!?!?

Erm, where was I? 

I might not be an old grump but I am someone who can't tolerate this sort of stupidity anymore. Stupidity that contains  a myriad annoying undertones such as racism, scoffing, undue nosiness... I've become so confrontational that I had to stop myself from screaming at my shadow the other day to ask why the heck it was following me. 

I have no idea how this is related to the past paragraph. Work with me here...

Along with solitude, my old man senses hate light. I love the dark or just regular sunlight lighting up the rooms. I hate light bulbs with the passion of a thousand burning stars. 

Take that, light bulbs. 

I've developed a particular aversion to white light and I can only handle soft yellow light from weakened light bulbs. I'm either an old man or a vampire. I hate the heat, thrive in the cold, and love to wrap myself in my fluffy blanket and slippers.

This whole solitude thing stinks. I really hate people. Not all people, seeing as I jump at the chance to talk to the ones who have moved far away and my body threatens to go into cardiac arrest when I get a long-awaited email from the adrenaline rush... just idiots. I hate idiots. 

I used to be someone who tolerated the foolish such a people person. 
The good times are gone, sonny-boy. 

"Est-Ce Qu'elle Est Mignon?" and Other Important Questions

After volunteering all of last week (more on that later), I came back home to a bag of overdue library books. Being the oaf that I am, I'd taken out a book that had a week limit and kept it for more than 2 weeks. I rushed to the library and payed $16 of my $25 fines... However, what was significant was the trip to the library. More importantly, the elevator trip to the second floor of the building that the library is in.

I would've preferred this to the awkwardness that will ensue...

I walked into the library and dashed into the elevator feeling like a boss for catching it before the door closed because that meant I'd reduced 5 minutes of time waiting for the elevator because I refuse to take the stairs and burn calories. Of course, that feeling of success was shortlived. There was a cute Asian kid standing next to his very pregnant mother and they were speaking French. I know that shouldn't be surprising seeing as I live in Canada and all that but I found him surprisingly more endearing because he was a kid WHO ACTUALLY SPOKE French (and yes, it's my all-time favorite language after British, Irish, and Australian english accents. I know they're not languages, begone fiend!). I smiled at him and he whispered something garbled to his mother who responded with a question. She asked him est-ce qu'elle est mignon? which roughly translates into is she nice? Of course, the little snot finally found his voice as he yelled at her with much conviction: NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOON and proceeded to laugh as if she'd said the funniest thing since idioms.

 This is exactly how I wished to reply to that little piece of poo angel.

 Instead I yelled out, WHAT? I'M NOT? and gave him one of those jokingly-stern looks. Of course, the mother peered at me strangely and I realized that they hadn't understood that I was addressing his response to her question about me. I meekly mumbled something incoherent about him being adorable and was that FRENCH he was speaking? Needless to say, it was one of those moments when I felt that I could do some damaging physical harm to someone had I not been afraid of the damage to my reputation. I was angry because I couldn't help but wonder what it was about me that wasn't nice. Kids are usually such great judges of character and I found myself mulling over the fact that someone who was supposed to be able to see the potential goodness in people hadn't seen it in me and for the next couple of days I kept stressing out over that moment. My faith in humanity has subsided a bit and I'm not so sure if mean people are born or nurtured. 

One good thing that came out of this is that I've regained confidence in my French skills and I also take the stairs wherever I go to avoid being stuck with annoying kids and their mothers. 

Mother's Day

Mother's Day this year has come across as a bit anti-climactic... What used to be a day for showing my mom how much we love her now just feels like any other day. We've been so busy that I forgot to buy my mom a present and I think she knew that when she opened the box with a watch in it. I've bought her some of these watches before so she knows they're at a two for $10 deal. It's not that the price of the gift matters to her but I know that I always splurge on gifts ESPECIALLY on Mother's day and that knowledge made me less enthusiastic in giving her the gift.

This should be a metaphor for me and my gifting failure... I'll let you know when I work out if I'm the rabbit being thrown in the snow or the snow being flattened by a rabbit. 

This feeling of guilt is growing because my mother actually thanked me for the gift A LOT. I want her to like it and be happy but I'm not convinced that it was enough and honestly, I'd bought that watch for myself. It was on a day that we were going to a park and I persuaded my mom to let me go to the mall to exchange a bracelet that had a missing gem and even though she said I was JUST to do the exchange, I'd went and bought 2 watches and a ring. I know, I'm a shopaholic and a liar. 

In other news, I'm making myself feel more miserable about putting off learning new French vocab and not cleaning my messy pile of clothes and about a jillion other things. 

Yep, today's going to be as joyous as smashing your toe into the computer hard drive while singing along to the overdue Winnie the Pooh CD from the library when you were 7. No, that did not happen to me nor did my whole toenail peel off that day to reveal a purple bruise that engulfed my pinkie toe. 

Happy Mother's Day. 

It's All Over...

When I finish reading a group of related books (any type of grouping- series, trilogy, etc) I feel like I want to curl up into the fetal position and cry for a bit. Finishing off the last book, you know there isn't going to be a continuation to your protagonist's story. You know that you won't be seeing the characters go on new adventures, you won't be able to laugh or cry with the them... YOU FEEL ALL THE FEELS AND YOU CAN'T FEEL THEM WITH THE CHARACTERS ANYMORE BECAUSE IT'S ALL OVER

Probably the best representation of life after reading a great book...

Or maybe this one is more accurate...

Sigh, the reason I'm all angst-y is because I've finished reading Tamora Pierce (aka: thegreatauthorwhoisallawesomesaucenessandpowerofthemillionsofdivinerealms)'s Beka Cooper books.

Get up, go borrow these and READ them. Do not stop for anything... except bathroom breaks. Those are sorta important.

I'm already jealous of anyone who is going to pick these books up and read them for the first time. They were the greatest books ever and I just love the Tortall universe that Pierce has created. I used to think that Keladry of Mindelan was my favorite Tortallan girl but now I'm not so sure anymore. I've set a new goal for myself to read all things Tortall and Pierce.

Le person discovering Beka Cooper for the first time

I haven't said much about what the story is about.. I fear that if I say anything then I'll just turn into a lifeless zombie.

However, what I CAN give you is the summary of the first book (from goodreads.com, otherwise I'd give away all the plot twists and sigh there are some I can't forget or avoid talking about):

Beka Cooper is a rookie with the law-enforcing Provost's Guard, commonly known as "the Provost's Dogs," in Corus, the capital city of Tortall. To the surprise of both the veteran "Dogs" and her fellow "puppies," Beka requests duty in the Lower City. The Lower City is a tough beat. But it's also where Beka was born, and she's comfortable there.

Beka gets her wish. She's assigned to work with Mattes and Clary, famed veterans among the Provost's Dogs. They're tough, they're capable, and they're none too happy about the indignity of being saddled with a puppy for the first time in years. What they don't know is that Beka has something unique to offer. Never much of a talker, Beka is a good listener. So good, in fact, that she hears things that Mattes and Clary never could - information that is passed in murmurs when flocks of pigeons gather ... murmurs that are the words of the dead.

In this way, Beka learns of someone in the Lower City who has overturned the power structure of the underworld and is terrorizing its citizens into submission and silence. Beka's magical listening talent is the only way for the Provost's Dogs to find out the identity of this brutal new underlord, for the dead are beyond fear. And the ranks of the dead will be growing if the Dogs can't stop a crime wave the likes of which has never been seen. Luckily for the people of the Lower City, the new puppy is a true terrier!

Are you actually still sitting there? GO GET THE DARNED BOOKS.

A Venture Back To Childhood

Today was an important day for a quite a few reasons. Partly because I woke up in the AM and went to my job (okay, it's volunteer work but it's something I DO and I enjoy doing so let me call it a job, OKAY?). Partly because my outfit came together beautifully. But mainly because I'm the coolest thing to happen to a bunch of first graders since play-doh.

Hard to believe but don't doubt me yet! Allow me to explain:

My volunteer organizer/boss/guy-who-is-in-charge-of-an-organization-I'm-volunteering-for DUDE has another job as a general supervisor at my old elementary school. He works in an office within the office of what used to be the high school but the main secretary's desk is unoccupied. Which is where I come in. The secretary's desk is my temporary work space to do random PR stuff like advertising for upcoming events and calling local business to ask for sponsors, revamping brochures, etc. etc.

 However, all that was pointless when it was lunch time. I could hear the resounding thump of the soccer ball against the wall and I KNEW that I had to go out there. I ran outside and because I'm too "weird" for my middle sister (she's a tween, it's a phase she's going to be in for the next couple of years. I pardon all the wrongs she does to me in this horrible time of her puny and temporarily-miserable life) I scampered off to the younger kids' playground to find my youngest sister. These first graders looked like a bunch of old ladies sitting around a picnic table except they'd forgotten their knitting needles and yarn and were making do with play-doh instead. I rudely interrupted their game (it's not like they remembered afterwards... I love kids) and asked for their names and yelled at them that I'd be forgetting everyone's name in a minute. That set them into hysterics as if I'd told the funniest fart joke of all time... 

One kid I knew asked me to pick her up so she could pretend she was flying. That set them all off and soon it was no longer a flying a game but a game of Lets Break This Funny Lady's Back And Guilt Trip Her By Begging To Please Let Us Fly One Last Time. I'm a sucker for kids actually using their imagination so by the time it was everyone's third time flying, I'd started making whoops of pain which I called "the cries of a wild bird". Soon all the kids were whooping and by the fifth round of flying, my back pain was so searing that I let out an unearthly bellow and masked it by yelling "WHO'S A WILD BIRDY?!?!?!" They were all jumping in front of me yelling Me ME ME ME ME MEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE so I hollered at them, "THEN WHAT ARE YOU WAITING FOR?!?!?! LET'S FLY BABY BIRDS!"

I probably looked and sounded like some banshee set loose and the kids loved it. We cawed and whooped and hollered and jumped and ran like there was no tomorrow. A part of me was detached and yelling at my brain to save this memory somewhere because it was one of the most innocent and fun things that I'll probably experience in a long time. And for those few minutes when we were going crazy, those kids looked like they were all having fun, that they all felt included, that we were playing for the sake of playing. And that's what the essence of childhood is-- or at least in my view that's what it should be. Fun for the sake of fun. 

Too soon though, it was time to leave. The bell rang and we huddled into a huge group hug before I left. These kids are so transparent that I didn't feel judged, I didn't feel that I had to pretend to be someone I wasn't. I was my crazy old self and that was enough for them. I'm radiating happiness because for the first time in a long while I feel that I have something to strive for-- to look forward to. I am motivated to graduate and get a degree and good marks and all that but seeing those kids made me realize how much I yearned to be an educator, someone who can take a kid and put a smile on their face at least for a part of their day. It gave me a picture to frame in my mind and to recall whenever I feel like the long nights and hard work aren't paying off. They've given me hope. 

Sigh, I'm going to be a great kid  teacher some day. 

Face To Face With A Word Sorceress

BE JEALOUS, WORLD!

Now that I've met the famed word sorceress (a.k.a.: Rachel Hartman) I can die happy.
Not that I particularly want to die now.

GAH! I (possibly) know the name of her next novel BUT I shan't reveal it *wiggly eyebrows* OH YES, I'm a sneaky secret-keeper-reformed-blabber-mouth when I want to be. I didn't think Dracomachia was that much of a mouthful but the new one, GOOD GOLLY it's good!

As was expected, I was late to the reading. I think this is the last time I will depend on a ride from anyone. I've been talking about this event ever since a MONTH ago but, as usual, my parents (who I have to run everything by) forgot. I would've arranged to go alone but when I mentioned it at the beginning of the month, it was agreed that I would get a ride there.

To make a long story short: arguing ensued. Tears were shed. And I was dropped off late. Running like a penguin in heels, I launched myself through the door to the library... or what I thought was the library. It was the nearby old folks' community center. After leaving that place, I relaunched myself through the door to the library and proceeded to enter the den of awesomeness. The supermegaawesomeauthor read the first chapter of the book and later on she read some of chapter four (Seraphina's introduction of her visions). There was music. Glorious music. Aldous Huxley had the right idea: "After silence, that which comes nearest to expressing the inexpressible is music."

I had a whole speech planned out, I even made cue cards yesterday but left them at home. I remember writing the beginning of it: "Your word-sorceress-ship-ness" and just dissolving into gibberish. Thankfully they didn't accept credit cards because I had to run a block to the nearest gas-station with an ATM to get money to buy the newest edition of Seraphina and a COMIC BOOK *dies*. I forgot my speech on the way back.. not because I wasn't muttering it to myself like a crazy lady but because my right leg seized up and I must have looked like quite the sight, doing a weird version of a limp-run to the library.

          
~My collection of everything Rachel Hartman.~

Rachel Hartman knew who I was. SHE KNEW I WAS GOING TO UBC. She was... I don't even know if I can describe her. I think I said 'awesome' 5 times too many... I honestly couldn't think of any adjectives but bless her magical-soroceress-heart, she said that the perfect excuse in not being able to express myself properly is because I am a writer and not a talker. Dear Rachel Hartman, if you are reading this then know that my brain probably combusted a few times. I probably spoke a lot BUT that's because I was truly in awe.

YOU GUYS, she was the humblest of all the humble magiciennes des mots. I almost took my glasses out of their case to tell her that we were twins because my lenses were also rectangular... I know, I've turned into a basket case. I gave her one of the George Eliot bookmarks I got and now I'm beginning to worry because I can't find mine anywhere. It's chaos I tell you.

I think I really enjoyed her talk because here was someone who had this way of dealing with the people in her head. She gave definitions to what I was interested in, 'a geography of the mind' and having a place in your mind which deals with symbols and as ineffective as the process may be, that place allows explanations to bubble up by themselves. That's the best way to articulate the random stuff in my head.

Hopefully my sore calves heal before this author-high wears off because if I allow myself a chance to concentrate on the pain in my legs I can feel a searing bolt of shiny pain traveling to my lower back. Yes, pain is now shiny shinier than a vampire in the sunlight. Until my next post, darlings!

A Prologue: In Which You (possibly) Give Me Feedback

If there's something I've learned during my blogging hiatus is that:

A) I can now use the word hiatus without it sounding too weird... no? *slinks back to chair and mopes*
B) I need to write if I want to stay sane.

It's all fun and games but a summer with no studying is just that... a summer with no studying. My family isn't the kind that travels off to some exotic place in the summer. Heck, we don't even take a plane to a neighboring country. We're the kind of family where us over-achieving kids take summer courses to excel our learning in order to graduate with a surplus of credits. Don't ask.

So here I am, stuck at home with a pseudo-job (which I shall blog about further) and nothing to do but clean old binders and admire my old highschool projects write. Therefore, without out further delay, I give you the prologue to my current writing project.
***

PROLOGUE:
Imora scanned the map Myra was holding. She had no idea where they were. She didn't even know where they were going. All she knew was that they had to get somewhere safe-- and fast. She glanced up at the motley crew who had put all their hopes on her and groaned inwardly. This, she thought, is what I get for helping my grandma and her senile friends escape from their nursing home. Sirens sounded in the distance. Feigning confidence, Imora nodded at the group and started trudging in what she hoped was the right direction. 
***

I'm hesitant to open up the comments section but I want to know if people actually want to read a story like this. If there's a generally positive response then I may start posting parts of the story as I continue writing it. 

Turning Lemonade Into Lemons

There are times when something awesome is going on. You let it go on for a long time and you ignore all the little concerns niggling at the back of your head. You go against your better judgement and do things you've never done before. There are times when you shrug off the doubts, thinking it's better than what you had before. Then you stop. Then you realize.

It dawns on you that you haven't been true to the most important person in your life. Not your parents, who see you in a positive light. Not your friends, who have no idea how weird your life is getting. Not even the general public, who have been conned with a great facade. The most important person you've lied to, the one you haven't been honest with is yourself.

You are the most important person whose values and dreams you need to live up to. You are the one you need to impress by sticking to your standards. Not the public, who will never actually get a taste of your uncensored personality. Not your friends, who will see parts of you but who you keep out of that secluded spot of your soul. Not your family members, who need you to be there for them and might not always understand what you cherish. 

There are times like this when I find myself taking what is seemingly perfect, taking what looks to be something flawless and reverting it back to its original form-- a form that is a hybrid of flaws and disappointment. It's in moments such as this one when I realize I've been looking for myself in all the wrong places, around all the wrong people. 

Even though everything is seemingly perfect, we’ve got to stop and assess what the blazes is actually going on. There are things best left undefined but in order to have a functioning life, you need the labels on its different aspects: personal, social, spiritual, etc. It’s like having a messy workspace. Organized chaos is understandable, even moreso when it's tangible. Chaos of the mind, where you actually have to sift through piles and piles of ideas to find a coherent point to string on the line of a thought flying off somewhere—it doesn't work and it's downright inconvenient. 

Some labels are deceiving. You need to sample the contents. So when you taste the lemonade you've made and you tell yourself that it’s sweet because the label says so, take a moment and sample the drink. Close your eyes, sniff, swirl in your mouth and decide for yourself if it’s lemonade and what type it is. Is it sour? Is it sweet? Is it bitter? Oftentimes it’s best to leave the product in its initial form-- take the lemonade and go back to lemons because they are what they’re called. There is no mistake in the labelling. 

Today I jolted myself out of certain fantasies in order to grasp something realistic. I find that if life gives me lemons, I don’t always have to go and make lemonade. I can use the lemons for something else. Sometimes you’re not in the mood for lemons. Oranges, tangerines, mandarins, grapefruits… all such a wide array of citruses to choose from.

Better yet, when life gives you lemons make cranberry juice and leave people wondering how you did it.