Flat Back Lookin' Up

I found Narnia last night!

Just kidding. Still haven't found it, though the wardrobe seems to be shrinking in size, rather than getting bigger. Also, just kidding, though there is less space now that my package - parcel, excuse me - has arrived from home. Which means that I have more clothes and more outfits to add to my rotation. I was getting pretty crafty in switching things up, though, mathematically, there's only so much rearranging of a set number of outfits that you can do in a week.

Anyway. These past couple of weeks of being all day in a school have really dredged up some, well, interesting (if nothing else) memories from my own days of high school. I'm in a primary school, so you'd think I'd be remembering elementary, yes? Well, not so much. Nothing overly exciting happened back then, really. I mean, there was kindergarten graduation (that same spring, while I graduated kindergarten, my sister graduated high school), I started playing soccer, and I generally formed the impression that I'm not really head over heels about math.

Fourteen years later I still don't like math. But, since I've done my required two semesters for my major - as well as my required two semesters of physics, which I'm on the fence about most days - it doesn't really bug me anymore.

What's sort of eating away at my brain are the memories that are dredging themselves up from high school. Most notably from junior and senior year when you more or less figure out quite a few things. Or try to, at least. I figured out junior year that I'm not a big fan of pre-calculus, but that I did miss having Spanish in my schedule. Also figured out that while I do enjoy American history, having to take band independently was not as fun as it sounds (and you should have heard the concerts - one lost first/second clarinet comin' up) and physics was at times the bane of my existence.

Which I just realized I repeated my experience last year in college.

What I figured out senior year is that it is possible to make yourself go more or less batshit crazy within the first month of school; that half-assed taking independent Spanish isn't what you think it is (and procrastinating on Immersion again is still not a good idea); and both calculus and economics suck while taking the last regents (literally) of the year - and your high school career - and thinking you are going to scrape by with a 67 (but really get a 98 and wonder which body orifice you pulled that out of) is just ballistic.

I could probably do a series titled What I Learned in High School and not all of it would be academic. Because, seriously, who really learns anything about economics when you're trying to do calculus at the same time? It's like an overload for your brain.

And for the record, though I took AP/ACE calculus, I did not take the AP test. I wasn't sure I was going to do well on it, and therefore didn't want to pay $86 to get a 2. And wound up taking it again in college for my major. Funny how those things work.

I think back to senior year - which is what I really remember best in terms of, well, almost everything - and remember the multiple days of wanting nothing more than to whack my head against the desk, running on five hours of sleep, taking a science class with the sophomores, and the ever-loving Spanish phrase, Como se dice.... which means, How do you say.... and then you insert one long English sentence in there and call it good. Oh, and actually attending band practice was a plus.

Why am I going through a backlog of memories? Might have something to do with the notice I got from the CGE staff about registration. Yes, you might be abroad and yes, you might be traveling that week, but do remember that you need to register with the rest of your classmates during your day even when you're on the other side of the Atlantic.

Which means email conversations with both my advisers (my teaching certificate professor will let me know what's going on when I get back to campus in January, because that's how we roll as a program) because my copy of my major declaration sheet is currently in the box of stuff that crawled out of my desk at the end of last year that resides under my bed. Great place for it. The upside to all of this is that my adviser has a copy and it was crafted around the idea that I was going abroad this term (the one we're currently in). 'Tis wonderful.

I'm probably going to be the only junior in an intro geoscience class. Ah, well, when you think about it, been there, done that.

From the Archives IV

[I had quite honestly forgotten that I had written this - it was actually on my MySpace, of all things - which means that this was written back before I became fairly serious (in some respects) about blogging, since MySpace had a sort of blogging function, and it worked at the time.

Anyway, this was...This was a project, as mentioned below, for a friend/teammate of mine and her battle with leukemia. And there are things in here that are worth saying, especially about fulfillment and what matters to you as a person, in your life and around you. And it's quite evident that you see my voice, but it's not as....refined, as I've more or less become since then. There's good things in there. You just...might have to unpack a little.]


June 17, 2008

I feel like there's so much running through my head right now. I'm going to graduate from high school in a matter of days (I'm not bothering with weeks anymore) and that itself is a large step. My head is filled with those thoughts and everything that has been my life for the past 12 years. Trust me, it's a lot. There's so much and while some of it isn't very good or whatever, there's still a lot. It's almost like, after you walk across that stage, it's a permanent part of your past - something that's there and you remember, but can't go revisit. It's over and done with. It's a page in a book that's been laminated; viewable but unable to be edited. It's weird.

My friend, also my hero, Marika, she's home from being in the hospital battling leukemia. Her teammates, her WAZA sisters, we're making her a book with each page dedicated to the words that define WAZA. That define us.

W - Wisdom

A - Awareness

Z - Zen

A - Application

F - Fulfillment

L - Liberation

O - Oneness

I was given the page of fulfillment. You might think it's easy; look up the definition, find something that fits that, fits what you do with soccer and WAZA, and something that fits Marika's journey through cancer. It's not as easy as it sounds. I had to look for what fulfillment actually is, how I see it and feel it. Three hours and many steps of the gorge later, I have an idea of what fulfillment means to me. It's being happy; doing the things that you enjoy, being with the people who bring out the best in you, and just being who you are, even if it's a little crazy and all the actual tourists look at you funny. It's looking at the beauty in nature and seeing certain reflections in yourself. It's listening to piano music that makes you want to cry because you can just imagine what it would be like, listening to the music and hearing the speeches at graduation about how everybody is remembering the past but moving on to bigger and better things. It's listening to music from RENT because it speaks to you and fits perfectly the fact that you're balancing on ancient stone ledges in a natural gorge with swiftly running water at the bottom. It's connecting yourself to your world, the one inside your head and body and soul and the one that Mother Earth has created. And it's realizing just how you are, just who you are. The lens of the camera that you use on that journey is the one of truth. The pictures that will follow are who we are how it was today trying to find fulfillment in so many ways.

It's about listening to music, taking pictures, and realizing that there's more to life than what you're taught in school and see everyday. There is something to be said for saying "screw it" and doing what you want to do, simply because it makes you happy. That's fulfillment.

Fulfillment = Happiness = Spontaneuity = Being Yourself = Love = Life

From The Archives III

[I honestly don't know why I do something like this. I think it's because I can see the progress that I made through the years, in terms of my writing, and, not to mention, before the Big Honking Project (aka the Novel) started, I did a lot of other little writings and such.

This, however, comes not from creative writing or anything. This, my friends, is my college application essay. The one where they say, "Tell us about yourself in so many words or fewer." This was actually one of those papers that we worked on in AP English, too, which meant writing a draft, giving it to LaM and letting her have at it with her red pen, which is decidedly creepy at points. (But she was a good teacher who taught me quite a bit about academic writing, and I actually learned things and my AP credit from that year is the only thing that transferred, so Thank You.) So, here's the application essay that got me accepted to Nazareth, HWS, Mansfield, SUNY Potsdam, and wait-listed at the University of Rochester. I'm still trying to figure out that last one.

It's dated December 12, 2007.]



The more money you have, the better stationary you can afford to send out.

That's the way it seems in the publishing industry, a truly tough nut to crack when you're on the outside looking in. As a seventeen-year-old writer who is trying to get my manuscript published, I have a pile of rejection letters sitting on my dresser next to my lava lamps, ranging from plain printer paper to expensive, heavy stationary. I follow the same routine as others do: write a query, send it out, wait anxiously for over a week, and then open the self-addressed stamped envelope with my own address written on the front in my own handwriting and read the usual bad news. "We're not accepting manuscripts at the moment" or "I'm sorry, this isn't the right company for your type of book" or any one of the other fifty standard messages that publishers send out to first time authors trying to make it big. Unlike them, I'm not out for the glory of it, the money or the publicity. I'm simply trying to fulfill a dream and prove that no matter where you come from in life, you can do anything.

I started writing at an early age. I was about six when my family got our first computer. It had a basic word function and I would happily spend an hour pecking out the letters on the keyboard. My punctuation was horrible, my spelling was atrocious, but the idea, the storyline, was good. But those stories never got off the ground and ended up crumpled in the trashcan. Years later, when I was fourteen, I started another one that I was determined to finish and publish. It was about fifty pages, a record for me at the time, and I was proud of it. I'd stuck with it, but that one, too, fell by the wayside.

The summer before my freshman year of high school changed everything. I made a horrible decision that put not only myself at risk, but my teammates and my family. While it didn't scare me at the time, I was naively conversing with a stranger through the Internet. A mean nearly two hundred miles away knew nearly everything about me, including where I lived. The realization of what could have happened was more than stunning. To deal with the turbulent emotions that resulted from my stupidity and the personal hell created by my guilt, I found it easier to write than to talk. To keep myself in one piece, I wrote daily, starting yet another story. Yet this one was different; this was born of forceful human emotion and more a form of therapy in the beginning than anything else. Later, as I healed and became more comfortable with what had happened and learned how to deal with that situation and life at the moment, what I was writing grew into something large and unexpected. One composition book turned to two, which turned to three, and so on and so forth until it now stretches through eight and a half. Somewhere around four or five it stopped being a tool for me to calm my feelings internally, and became something of its own entity, a story that was started and now begging to be finished.

Sadly, with a hectic and full senior schedule, I'm finding it more difficult to make time to write than previously. My priorities have been shuffled and reshuffled until writing has put on the back burner, schoolwork on the front, and the task of getting published lying somewhere in the middle, a filler for when I have pockets of time to change the addressee on the query letter, write out envelopes, and walk to the mailbox. I have no doubt that my rejection letter pile while continue to get deeper and the wait for news is agony. But there's something satisfying about sending out a piece of mail, and it's almost like playing the lottery. Instead of a dollar and a dream, it's gritty determination and a letter of a story from a small town girl looking to make an imprint.

From the Archives II

[Yes, this is another "From the Archives" (when Louise was in High School) that I've dug up from my closet and transposed with some editing onto my blog. Hopefully I can find a home for it somewhere where it can be published and others could read it. I've also realized that this is yet another one that doesn't have a title. Actually, most of the work I did in my creative writing class isn't titled, and yes, this another one of those could-be-positively-nawful prompt pieces. This time, it was a photo, and when I return to school and have use of my printer/scanner, I will upload the photo for you to see. (Or maybe my sister has a similar photo.) The photo that this is based off of is of the two apple trees closest to the backyard at my old house (where my sister lives now), at the very beginning of October. There are little, minute splashes of color in the green of the trees, which are the apples, and it was a very nice, very calming, glade-like photo. And it was the inspiration for the following. And if anybody can think of a decent title for this damn thing, send me an email or a comment, or an IM or a text or something. So...here it be. Another one from the Archives.]


The glade hadn't changed much in two years, except for the inevitable passing of the seasons. Now, deep in the heart of summer, the apple trees were in full bloom; large, red fruit hanging heavily from the branches, leaves casting gently moving shadows on the cool grass below. A line of pine trees, solid and unwavering, stood like soldiers to the west of the glade, a shadowed barrier. Though it was the height of the afternoon, the space between the pines and the other, smaller trees and brush was awash with darkness, hiding away from the sunlight in the depths of shadow.

Vincent knew all about the darkness, and its many myriad forms as he stood beneath the apple tree, staring at the pines. The day the sunlight had stopped shining so brightly stood clear in his mind. The day he had lost his older brother, the oldest of the four of them, to what the papers had called a freak accident. A tragedy. A drunken driver. The epitome of a car license at sixteen - don't drink and drive. Carter hadn't. Someone else had.

It had been two years ago, in the hospital, that he'd perfected his first coin trick. He'd made one of his father's silver dollars dance between his knuckles while waiting in a clean, sterile white chair for news of his brother. There was a nagging voice in his head, and an accompanying ache in his chest that said Carter wasn't coming back from the darkness that always threatened. It had been too long; too hard a struggle for him. Francis sat next to him, rosary dangling between his fingers, praying feverishly. Francis had been the devout one, the one to follow blindly, the who believed the most in a God that Vincent had lost faith in. Vincent had lost faith in Carter's ability to bounce back, to wake up from the sleep that had him as the seconds dragged on.

Vincent knew it was over the moment the white-coated doctor appeared from the room. He knew, before anything was said, that Carter was gone from them. Gone to a better place, Francis would say tearfully, and maybe Lance, the youngest, would agree for a little while. Vincent never would. Carter's place had been with his brothers. He remembered, in that moment, while the doctor was dreadfully informing his mother that she had lost her eldest son, of the pact they had made together when Lance had ridden his bicycle into the ditch out back of their house. It had been a hospital room much like the one Carter was in, and they had made a pact that they would always stay together, always stay strong for each other. They were the Westchester brothers, and nothing could tear them apart. Quintuplets from birth, quintuplets till death, was what they had promised.

The promise lay broken. Carter was gone.

Vince wandered into the shade of the apple tree, peering up through its branches. The birdhouses that his father had made his mother still hung there, full of twigs and branches. Maybe baby birds. There was life in those branches, life in the house behind him, yet there remained little in him. He'd been Carter's best friend, and he'd lost part of himself when Carter had slipped away from them. Away from Vince. Francis and Lance had lost something, too, but Vincent hurt the most, the deepest. It was Vincent who returned to the glade every day, even in winter, because that was where he best remembered Carter.

It was Vincent who found Kimmie and the Nevren.

He'd had the shock of his life, second to losing his brother, when he entered the glade and found the little girl there. She had been idly playing with a few butterflies as they flitted around her long, sun-touched blonde hair. She had only looked at him when he was but a few feet away, white irises surrounded by cloudless blue. There was an ethereal beauty to her; her almond eyes and flawless white skin. She was little, only seven or eight.

Vince, still raw from having lost Carter, sat in front of her, walking a coin across his knuckles without much thought. He asked her what she was doing. She replied that she was merely sitting there, listening to the earth and the butterflies. The butterflies were telling her stories she had never heard, and she'd heard him coming a long way off. There was a sadness in him, she said, something that darkened him. When he told her of Carter, she sighed.

"Nobody loses things in Nevren," she had said. She pointed to her left, to the shadowy pines. "Everything is always there."

"Carter's dead, Kimmie," Vince had pointed out flatly. He hoped to forget that maybe, just maybe, Carter lived on in some forgotten place. It went against everything rational and true, and still Vince had gone with it. He went to Nevren, under the guise of helping Kimmie return home. There, in that place of darkness upon darkness, he heard the voice he'd thought he'd never hear again. Carter. Alive. Well. Vincent had stayed, crying onto his brother's shoulder. He stayed as long as Carter would have him, before he was told he had to go back out of the shadows and into the real world. Once there, Vincent delved deeply into the art of illusions, because he was convinced that somehow, Carter in those pines was simply that. An illusion. His living brothers worried for him, his parents worried, and at times, Vincent worried for himself, as well. Still, Nevren was the only way to see Carter, to stay with his brother, even as it took him from the rest of his living, breathing family.

He struggled for two years with the notion to disappear forever into the world of darkness or remaining with the loss and emptiness Carter's death had wrought. Deeper and deeper into the world of illusions he delved, until he hit the wall - a stunt gone wrong that nearly killed him.

In a hospital bed, Francis's rosary around his bedpost and his brothers beside him, he realized how far down he had fallen. He had life, while Carter would be forever eighteen. Vincent had passed his twentieth birthday, older now than his big brother by two years. Two years that he'd spent in darkness and shadows, sifting through what was real and what wasn't, and not knowing the line between the two. Two years he'd spent with the Nevren, hoping to freeze the clock and stay forever with Carter. It was then, in the hospital bed, identical to the one that Carter had taken his last, struggling breath in, that he realized Carter wouldn't want him to live forever in the past.

After some rehabilitation, and with the strength of his brothers, Vincent stopped retreating to the glade. Instead, he found his illusions again, the simple art that he had once perfected. He made silver dollars dance for his own enjoyment, and for that of children at the local elementary school. Now, as he stood in the glade, facing the pines, he found that, with the right angle, he could see the trunks. There was no Carter there, no Kimmie. No Nevren. Carter lay at peace in his heart, like a brother should. Vincent lived firmly in reality, the Nevren nothing more than an illusion of the past. Perhaps that was what it had been all along.