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. 

An Ode to Soccer

 I play soccer football football-which-is-what-Europeans-call-soccer. Saying I'm good is an understatement. Saying I'm awesome enough to kick butt is a better way to put it. 

When I play soccer, the world quiets down and everything narrows down to that second where I make contact with the ball. The field is the only place where I feel confident-- and it doesn't matter how many people are watching, the noise they're making, their screams. All I feel is my feet thudding against the ground in sync with my heartbeat as I dash to get the ball. I've never missed a shot. The minute my foot swings back to hit the ball, the opposite shoulder drops down and as my foot connects to the leather of the ball, everything feels right. My ankle snaps my foot forward  the ball briefly touches my instep and my shoulder rises into place as I hear the ball whoosh into the net. There is a poetic 'rightness' (for lack of a better word) on the field. The wind whips my hair, it cuts against my flesh but all that is nothing next to the feeling of pure adrenaline as my head joins the ball in midair. There is no jarring or shuddering in my vision when I run. Everything glides.

 People ask me what I like to do; I can't put it in words. There is only that indescribable feeling of intense power when my foot meets the ball, that little hitch in my throat even when I know for certain it's made its way into the goal, the feeling of unadulterated happiness washing over me in the form of sweat as my team runs a victory lap around the field. 

That is what I love doing.

I also love pranking people when they lease expect it-- say on the second of April rather than the first. Keeps things exciting. They call me a good storyteller. April Fool's, lovelies.

I'll be posting an interview with a friend who is passionate about the sport soon ;).  

Old Letters and Forgotten Friendships

When sifting through your Memory Box (yes, I call it a Memory Box. Problem?), you must brace yourself for some a lot of pain. During the dig, I found so many notes and letters. Letters from ex-friends, old acquaintances, distant relatives. Thank you notes for things I don't remember anymore, congratulations on a myriad events and milestones in my life that I'd forgotten I accomplished. Had some archaeologist chosen to research my life through interactions with others based on letters I'd received, he/she might have come to a number of interesting and deceiving conclusions about my life:

1. That I have a lot of friends: This is false because most of the letters from "friends" in my Memory Box are from people who I've grown to hate exceedingly dislike. 
2. That I've spent a lot of my life in the hospital/being sick: Actually this one isn't that far from the truth. Being a diabetic isn't all fun and games and great excuses, you know?
3. That I have accomplished a great many important things in my life: I've honestly accomplished little. I feel like John Milton in the poem "When I Consider How My Light Is Spent." In a few months I'll have lived a quarter of my life and I don't see myself as having done anything worthy of a quarter of my worldly experience.
4. That I have a deep connection with my distant relatives: Frankly, most of the time I wish I knew none of my relatives. 

Not everything is dark and dismal when sifting through piles of memories. Take this wonderful surprise as an example:

This is THE best find to have made it's way into my unsuspecting fingers in a long time. Honestly, who would've known that $50 could cure all the misery I felt at reading old letters? 

Of course, the only way to truly forget how innocent we used to be as kids and to try to forget the good times with people I've been hurt by, is to eat cupcakes. Which is exactly what I did after tidying up the Ol' Memory Box. 

Bon Appetit!