Mis Amigos.

Jennifer is sitting next to me. She's is awesome, a blessing. Janelle is on my other side. She knows me better than just about anyone, and frequents this blog. (Hey there, Landelle!!). MacKenzie is next to Janelle. She's my emotional rock, my encourager, an inspiration.


These are my people. These are my encouragers. They help me grow and learn, encourage me to write and love God.
And we are talking about dead animals, our cats killing things, and Kenzie's hermit crab.

Yup.
We're mature.

Crashed.

Yesterday, tragedy struck.
My hard drive in my faithful laptop,  Evans Jr., crashed.
BUT
I backed him up the day before. So I'm hoping that a majority of my work was saved. I still have to reinstall everything, recover all of my files, including homework assignments, all my pictures, thousands of songs, and tens of thousands of words worth of writing.
I'm pretty bummed, to say the least. It'll take like, three days for them to replace my hard drive, but I'm just glad that I can get everything back, and that Evans was under warranty so I didn't have to pay a cent. *gratefulness*
So I'm typing this out on my mother's laptop, and listening to the Dave Brubeck quartet.
Jazz :)
Smooth and epic. It's hard to go wrong with jazz. I love it. I play it. I listen to it. It is the foundation of good music. It is epic. It's just so rich. There are no rules in jazz other than the key signature. As long as you are hitting the right notes, you're fine. You'll be amazing. Trust me.
It's loose, toe-tapping, energizing music that fills you with pure amazingness. My personal favourite is Take Five. Such a great song, challenging to play, fun to improv, great to listen to. It's just amazing. The feel of jazz is different too. While classical is smooth, silky, like velvet, jazz, though in it's own way feels smooth, is sharp. Pointed. It orders you to get up and dance, and you won't mind.
Every time my dad plays jazz in our house, he always pulls me or my mom aside and starts dancing with us, swaying us, spinning us in our kitchen or living room and we laugh and no one can complain.

Jazz is the night sky. Smooth, bright, dark, silent, all at once.
Jazz is a roaring fire. Loud, warm, energizing, beautiful.
Jazz is music.

Things.

A newly released movie.
The smell of fresh ink on paper.
A new book.
An unopened adventure.
A pair of shoes that fits perfectly.
Getting an A on a test.
A bike ride on a cold day.
Going down the highway really fast.
Having no homework.
Giving the perfect gift.
Finishing something.
Selling something.
Doing something worthwhile.
Seeing someone's proud of you.
Getting compliments when you feel ugly.
Someone telling you you're worth something.
Realising you are single.
Knowing that you are free.
Knowing that what you did doesn't matter.
Satisfaction.
That song that defines your life.
Getting a letter.
Writing a letter.
Being missed.
Having someone concerned for you.
This is pleasure.
These are things that bring me happiness.

Purpose

Me, walking into my teacher's aide job today.
I walked up to him and asked him if I had anything he wanted me to do today. Usually he doesn't, so I sit and watch A Very Potter Musical or Holy Musical B@man all period. Or be useful and do homework.
But today he said, "I have some copying for you to do."
And I pumped my fists up in the air and walked across the room saying, "I HAVE A PURPOSE!!"
Needless to say, all the eighth graders stared at me weird. But still, it felt good doing something, even if it was waiting around for one hundred and thirty five copies of vocabulary tests to copy.
Le sigh.

It's nice having a purpose. Knowing you're helping someone. That what you're doing will benefit the greater good someday.
It's like.
I don't know.
I don't have a metaphor for it.
*rips out hair*
*curls up and cries in corner*

So have a good night everyone.
I'll die not being able to think of a good metaphor.
O_O

KIDDING!
I won't die anytime soon. Not planning on it. I'll just go with God's flow. Cuz that's best.

OUT peeps.

Opinionzz

So I wrote two versions of one story. And I need you to tell me which one I should end up using for the assignment.
Like I said, same story. They have the same ending too.
It's called: Finale.

So here we go.
OPTION 1: Narrative.

“Babs, did you ever dream of houses?”

“Nope.”

“Neither did I.”

“C’mon, Dot, let’s go.”

“Alright.”

Lights dim. I carry my cake down the stairs, through the audience as clapping fills the air. Reaching the table at the end, I set my cake down.

Getting ready to walk back down the aisle between the seas of chairs and seas of faces.

Rolling on the waves of applause. 

I look at Katie. 

She smiles at me and we share a laugh, and hug each other as if to strangle each other.

“I can’t believe we’re done!”

“I can’t either!”

 Straightening my “Mrs. Los Angeles” sash and arranging the silky red shawl about my shoulders, I pat my curled hair, hairsprayed until cemented. It’ll be a pain to wash out tonight. 

I look down at myself. High heels are invisible beneath the black silk skirts around my legs, pickups in three layers. The strapless bodice fits like it was made for me.

The onstage lights flare back on again. 

Michael comes out, his own bow. Then Abby and Janelle, radiant in purple and bright pink, respectively. They bow, Janelle’s curls barely moving. A whole can of hairspray was used to keep them in place. Next is Marnie. She gets a loud round of applause, as she’s the winner. She is Mrs. California. Noah is next, bowing in his pinstriped three piece suit and goofy horn-rimmed glasses. Katie and I look at each other again.

“Let’s go!”

We run down the aisle, Katie tripping and catching herself, me trying not to fall over my skirt hems as I run up the stairs to the stage. We bow to the loudest wave of applause yet, as we are the lead roles, and then we back up. I grasp hands with Noah on my right and Katie on my left. Lifting up our hands, we bow in tandem, then straighten. We point to the technicians in the back. Then God up above. And clap ourselves. I look up at Noah and Katie. And we laugh. And we’re happy and we’re sad because our play is over. And we laugh because we are relieved. 

And it is our finale.

It is our finale as a cast of seven freshman. 

It is our finale as a cast of Mrs. California.

It is our finale as a cast directed by Kristie Murphy.

It is our finale as a cast.

It is our finale.

Finale.

OPTION 2: Metaphorical.

Riding the waves of applause. 

Knowing our way down the steps, down the aisle. 

Holding the tray with the cake, stale now from three days of plays. 

Looking at Katie. 

Laughing. 

Finding the table at the end, setting our stuff down. 

Turning to each other. Laughing. “I can’t believe we’re done!” Hugging each other so we can’t breathe. 

Composing myself. Deep breaths. In and out. 

I’m done. I’m done.

Straightening my skirts, black silk and tulle. The blue sash reading, “Mrs. Los Angeles”. The red scarf around my bare shoulders. I brush invisible crumbs off of the strapless bodice, down the dark skirt with the pickups, teetering in t-strap heels. Touching my curled hair, hairspray crunching. 

Lights flaring on. 

Bows. 

Michael first, in shirtsleeves and suspenders. 

Janelle and Abby, radiant in vibrant pink and purple, respectively. 

Marnie, Mrs. Modesto, Mrs. California. All sparkles and va-va-voom in her fitted, bright red dress. 

Then Noah, in his grey, three piece pinstriped suit and goofy horn-rimmed glasses, coming down centre stage. 

It’s our turn now. Looking at Katie, I smile. “This is it!” She straightens out her clothes. Only one in jeans and a stripy sweater. 

Ride the growing surge of applause forward, like a boat at sea. We each do our own bows, straightening, backing up. Grabbing each other’s hands. Noah on my right. Katie on my left. We raise clasped hands triumphantly to the sky, then down to the ground, bowing. We straighten. 

Point to Craig in the back. 

Techies. 

Up to God in heaven above. 

Provider. 

Then clap.

I look up at Noah. Glance at Katie. And laugh. We all laugh. Because we are done.

And we keep laughing. And we’re happy and we’re sad because our play is over. And we laugh because we are relieved. And we are sad because we are done.

And it is our finale.

It is our finale as a cast of seven freshman. 

It is our finale as a cast of Mrs. California.

It is our finale as a cast directed by Kristie Murphy.

It is our finale as a cast.

It is our finale.

Finale.

Sighs.

Apologies for the rants before.
I'm pretty mad. And really frustrated. So I'm sorry for the rants.

Because sometimes there's that sickly sweet, sticky feeling.
And it's just resting there.
On the back of your tongue.
Bitter.
Giving goosebumps.


The metaphorical bricks are teetering.
And the wall is crumbling.
And words are the only way to get these emotions out.

So I'm sorry.
I apologise.
*bowing*

Ghosts, or otherwise known as more emotional barf.

Just some stuff.

The ghost in the corner.

That one.

The damp eyes, glassy marbles.

Blotchy skin. Red and swollen with crying. 

“Salt makes everything better. Sweat, tears, and the sea.”

It’s true.

Sometimes.

Soul empty. 

Almost peace.

Almost turmoil.

She’s walking the fine line between, metaphorical bricks crumbling under her weightless feet. Mortar rotting and giving way as she tightrope-walks the frail wall of life.

Between peace and turmoil.

That awesome, empty, aching feeling that hurts so good. That feeling where she’s spilled out everything and she’s all gone and spent mixed with the bittersweet taste of confidentiality, hoping that it stays and hoping that mere friendship can preserve what she’s just imparted, and that heavy, weightless feeling settling on her lungs so that each breath just hurts.

Hurts so good

She’s made peace. She likes it. Peace feels good. Turmoil doesn’t. It’s still writhing underneath her skin, but she’s letting it go. She’ll work it out eventually.  But for now, she’s going to enjoy the temporary silence. The roaring silence, screaming, ripping at the seams. But it’s not breaking.

Hasn’t broken.

Yet.