Saturday, September 28, 2013

Overcoming Jealousy: Wizards, Smiths, and Therapuetic Cursive

Over the course of the past summer and the school year as of yet, I've written variations of "The Eighth Grade Wizard" only to post one random version of it a little while ago. Truth is, I consider myself to be a blacksmith in the town which the wizard resides in. I know a useful and profitable craft that people tend to enjoy, yet the things that gain more appreciation - Say, enchanted robes, for example - go straight to the wizard. As a smith, I could easily have the will of the city in my hands, but for some reason, no matter how hard I work, I don't. I love the wizard, for she helps me if I get too hurt or if I have too heavy a load. As powers in the city, we both work together often, though the wizard knows that she could handle it on her own. As I realized this myself, I started to dwindle from my craft. What was the point?

At this moment in time, I'm currently balancing an unwritten short story for English due in a week and the idea of a research paper for National History Day. I know that my writing skills in some areas surpass that of Wizard's, but she ends up getting all the credit because she is more apt to exploit her work. I tend to be on the humble side, only sharing my expertise with those who can truly appreciate it or give me extra credit. People still constantly compare me to Wizard, and I'll admit that I haven't written a word of fiction in weeks that I appreciated.

Shocking, isn't it? I can write blog posts just fine, but I do so with a pang of anger and resent, as Wizard doesn't have a blog and all "posts" that she writes are just links to Youtube videos. Still, whenever it comes to fiction, I know that my tongs are hot and ready to go whenever I need them, but my calloused hands are fumbling with them whenever I feel the Wizard's aura effect me. I can't appreciate my writing anymore, and I do it out of habit rather than out of joy and inspiration. Writing has become more of a chore than walking the dog on rainy days.

I'm scared. I love (loved?) writing so much and it is truly the root of my existence. Without writing, I wouldn't be anything that I am today, from how I dress to how I speak. I fear that Wizard will take over my life, and she is. Everyone just relays that fact to me over and over again, instilling more of a fact than something to make me angry enough to change. That's why there have been fewer interesting posts here, too, as I feel too guilty to blog, as much of my fiction time was converted into blogging time as I hated my writing more and more. It's nothing like the wizard's, I tell myself day after day, You're simply too far behind. Her mother wins writing contests, and your mother quit. Why should you continue? If the wizard follows her mother's footsteps, then you will, too. 

I knew I had to do something, so I tried to find what separated Wizard and I, writing-wise. I was much more professional and could effectively write in several different styles, whereas many of her stories were about lion-like sword-wielders whose main characters always died in the end from magical overdose. She wrote after Kingdon Hearts and anime, whereas I wrote after the smell of tea and people-watching (and eventual people-obsessing-over). But there was something startlingly different about how we presented ourselves. As my writing grew in popularity, I started to hide it more as to avoid peer pressure. Wizard gave her writing to her favorite teachers and grew to be the teachers' pets in all of her classes. I didn't want to put myself up to that par, so I avoided it, only shrouding myself in more guilt. Now, when we're in the same classes or situations, I avoid writing and speaking as a whole. I let her win every time, assuring myself that one day I'll strike a blow that makes me better, once and for all.

In the meantime, as I sulk on the weekends, I desperately try to enjoy writing again. I started writing about a girl who lived immortally by literally "dis-/re-placing" objects and people to feed off of experiences. I intend her to suffer a strong internal conflict once one of her interesting "catches" dies in a car crash due to a foul re-placing. I reduced myself to older techniques in order to both console myself and make it harder to share:

Writing in cursive is a technique that I learned in the second grade only to actually apply in the seventh. I was the victim of people reading over my shoulder as I wrote my stories, so I decided to write in a way that few could decipher. Those few happened to genuinely appreciate my writing. I feel like knowing how to read and write in cursive is a skill that only those literally dedicated can really take on. Since then, I write in cursive normally for my notes and papers. (My manuscript isn't so bad, but it's messy and ends up turning into cursive.)

If you've gotten this far, well, I wish I had something nice to give you. I'll be working on that. Have a good day!


Tuesday, September 24, 2013

Tidbit of a Speech

I may not kick a soccer ball or catch a curved Frisbee like the next budding athlete,

I may not don high-heels and a scarf like a rising fashionista.

I may not look, speak, think, or at all be you, but (my school name), hear me out. There is one thing that remains true, one thing that will always be constant.

My name is Red, and I will never, ever be taken advantage of again.

Friday, September 20, 2013

The P.E. Pain-Taker

And there goes Sarah Lee*, sprinting down the line. Doesn't look like she's going to let the soccer ball - Oh! - and there's Red, running straight in. I don't think she even plays soccer...isn't she a tennis player? Tennis? Yes, a tennis player. One can definitely tell, too, so long as they've played; Look at that magnificent footwork! Red had better watch out, though, cos there's Noah* darting past the rest of his clustered team. I wonder how much more obvious he can get to Sarah Lee with all that arm-waving. Red isn't phased, though...she takes a step forward, and - Ooh! - she's down on the ground. Didn't really look like she needed to take that fall, but she got a tough hit to the jaw and wrist, by the looks of things...and she's back up! I can't believe it, Red is still chasing that ball! 

Sideline comments from this morning
*names have been changed

Even though the commentary above was devised and written entirely by me, it does tell a true story from yesterday. So goes the story of me playing Ultimate Frisbee and almost everything else. Today, I was playing Capture the Football with my entire gym class. I got into a three-boy collision that involved similar spots being hurt as in the fake commentary. I found that because the collision points stung so much, I'd be better falling over to distract myself than dwelling on the pain. I fell, let the wind catch in my lungs, and popped back up, almost snatching the person's flags back down. (I also had my secret agent moment also during Cap the Ball, when one of my feet slid to the side. I got to land in a crouch and sort of leap up to the person running. Didn't end well, though.) 

For all of my years, I've been known for rapid recoveries. I can easily run off a stinging jaw by letting it dangle or a short scare by falling back and getting distracted. No matter how awkwardly I've fallen, I can get back up and get my job done. Of course, that comes with its consequences, especially if I fall over again. (At that point, it's a rush of the combined pain that does cause me to sit out) I'm also generally vulnerable to pulsating headaches from many things, so a knock to the head or a tough fall will set me off. 

Ultimately, though, I do wonder if my style of holding the pain off in favor of other things is played out socially and mentally in realer life. Someone with confidence, for example, may be able to hold off mental blows for some time while they work on their greater ambitions or try to be decent. I believe that we all do that. However, it leads to the saying preventing people from "bottling it up", as just with my P.E. bumps, I see bruises in the morning that hurt just as much as if I'd let them hurt when they got hit. I find it fascinating how my actions are dangerously similar both physically and mentally. I bottle things up until I'm in a better situation to feel it. Is this true for any others? 

Well, I should sleep. Jaw's sore. 


Thursday, September 19, 2013

Unfortunate Stalkerisms

Hey, guys. Just as I did when I had my little adventure over at Bellevue College, I am going to start more of my peoplewatching-based posts as school gets to be more and more interesting. My general problem is that my school is very concentrated to only two cookie-cutter types of people by looks, and I haven't found all that much difference in personality. Fortunately, most people who strike me as "different" in the school happen to sit at my lunch table and be my friend. For that reason, I'll note how interesting they really are.
Believe it or not, I'm actually open to suggestions for this post series; It'll help me make more friends, to say the least. All names of people will be fake, though - obviously fake - and I won't be posting pictures, says the student handbook.

I can't wait to share with you a slice of my...lunch table...and how awesome my friends can be. Ciao!

Sunday, September 15, 2013

Donkeys vs. Dollars - My Thoughts on Chance

A friend of mine told me last night at La Isla (where you should totally try the Pez Gato), "You know, I read somewhere that the probability of getting kicked to death by donkeys while getting stung to death by bees is higher than winning the lottery".


Following this, he then said, "Then again, I'd pay a buck to feel like I actually had a chance."

In my opinion, it's very interesting as to what someone would do for a chance at something. Especially here, where people have money to spend, it seems like nothing is ever guaranteed when something is obtained. Will a buck or two buy happiness? People tell me that it shouldn't.  Then again, is this happiness at all? Is a lottery ticket and its emotional value truly happiness, or is it reformed anxiety and doubt? To me, it's like a drug. You do it for the feeling though you have the aching feeling that it won't do much more good than that in the long run. Many people buy lottery tickets even though they are running low on money - they can't stop or they think it's just a buck - and the feeling is just too good, isn't it?

This leads me to think, is society trying to put a price label on happiness? Not only does this apply to lottery tickets, but things like feedback surveys for store coupons or even those dreaded people who will trip you, help you up, and ask you to then assist children. (Time and a place, folks. Just not in front of my Starbucks.) They're all saying that so-and-something or this-and-that will make you happy, but what does it make you? Anxious. Anxious in the way that makes you feel like a good person.

Then what do you need? Yeah, a few million dollars. My lucky number's 21, what's yours?

Tuesday, September 10, 2013

Wizard of the Wedgies: An 8th Grader's Sarcasm

There is a wizard in the school -
I'm sure you know -
But as wizards wear robes
She wears makeup, though
I'm sure you know.
Like a wizard, ours is an excellent scribe
and musician
and mathematician
and thinker
and artist
for wizards do that kind of stuff as they please
And I'm sure you know
as she should have said. 

Vanderveen says, too
you know, 
That the wizard stuns him every time
With her spells and clever understanding. 
And a trader like me
with a sword and my wits
Have as much as I have sparkle

Saturday, September 7, 2013

Imogen Heap's "Little Bird" and the Story of Me

Cameron, this post is dedicated to you. --Red

Little bird, little bird, little bird 
What do you see? 
A picture perfect scene 
Two toned lawns are manicured 
The garden's wearing a haute couture

It's hiding something 
It's trying too hard 
Hiding something 
It's trying too hard

"This is not how it ends." 
The quote has been with me forever. Whether it was when I argued with a friend or when I would write something, the promise of a better end has fueled me for as long as I can remember. Yet, I've skittered in every which-way in the process, flying to great heights in short bursts of energy. Thus, I've always been the little aerial ace, like a chickadee or a sparrow. Thus came the nickname Little Bird. I had found Immi's song somewhere around twelve years later, and I'm thirteen now. I have found so much relevance in this song to my life that it's not even funny anymore. 

Little bird, little bird, little bird
Where are they now?
One more question 
I'll let it rest 
I swear I'll let it rest 

I'm not sure, Immi. It was according to the lyrics that I have lost so many friends. First, I had to leave my uncle after he had broken his hip while suffering the afereffects of a stroke. Then, my friend was torn from me once a family upset in his life separated him from his dad. I haven't seen him in the longest time. Then, my lifelong friend moved very far away over this past summer. I wanted to ask him what his address was but could never reach him. Then, a very close online friend and I got in a small squabble resulting in contact being cut for a  month. We had talked daily for two years and suddenly having no friend there to talk to was tough. (Luckily, we've started talking again, even if it's much less than usual.)

But what of I, this Little Bird? I'm always asked what I see (since I think differently than my peers) and sometimes I just don't know. I'm flying away from my problems, only to have my maps and compasses fall and break along the way. People say that I've grown more introverted, shy, and breakable over the past year, and it's maybe because of everything breaking around me. 

Little bird, little bird, little bird
Where have you gone?

Friday, September 6, 2013

Getting Used to School (again)

It's been an interesting few days. My back hurts and my brain is absolutely fried. However, I do have a few observations to make on 8th graders:

Girls - The girls are wearing things that gross me out, for starters. Second, they bleach their hair and put on ridiculous makeup that makes them look weird. I don't understand. They wear short skirts that practically scream, "Want to see my panties? Go ahead!". Their usernames are "BooBoo Kitty F*ck" and "C*nty Wh*re" and are turning into "bad girls". It disgusts me!

Boys - The boys...have grown. They wish to be called "men". Chest hair has sprouted and voices have deepened. Some of the pompous boys have taken to flirting and wearing "bro tanks" from which anybody can see said chest hair when unlucky enough to get a side profile. In the words of my gym teacher, nobody wants to see that. You won't be getting hugs, either.

The Scene - When I say this, I mean the boyfriend/girlfriend scene. People have, people steal, people make out before they're faked out and/or replaced. I understand relationships to a point, and I know that the feelings for others are real. However, that gives nobody any reason to do it all on their first try. (Someone labeled me as "hopless" then told me to label my own romantic self. I said, "Frank Sinatra".)

My morning was interesting. It always is. This time, I sped into school and started by printing documents. I had walked with a friend of mine to the library. I printed documents then my friend (a "he who needs a shower but is real nice to be around" friend) challenged me to a game of chess over books and morning sleepiness. We ended in stalemate and walked as far as we could to our different first period classes together until we parted. Hanging out with that friend in the morning is a really good part of my day, as I feel happy in first period.

The rest of the day is composed of getting through classes. They aren't very hard for me and I'm making tons of new friends to go with the old. I break for lunch just after P.E. and I am able to mooch enough food off of my friends to feed myself, sometimes. This isn't exactly like my days at the college, but I could expect as much. Ah, well.

I've got to go, now. See you!

Sunday, September 1, 2013

Portland's Runaways

Charlie on 12th

Charlie, please stop smoking
You can't be older than I
and Portland is very warm today. 
I see you sitting on 12th and Couch
Your mother's coinpurse
and a faulty lighter
By your feet. 
Charlie, I don't know your name
and your hair is a mess
Are you a boy? 
Charlie, why didn't you say a word? 
I asked you to stand 
so we wouldn't back into you
and you did. 
You smiled, flashed your pearly whites
Oh, I did love your teeth
and your expression when I said hello. 
Charlie, please stop smoking.
Charlie, please go home. 

Peyton on Burnside

Shoes worn through
khakis torn
Hair growing out
Hopping over Starbucks cups
Peyton, I see you. 
Peyton, where's your mama?
Peyton, you're thin. 
Pale, pink cheeks
Pimples just beginning life
Has to be fourteen
In trouble
In trouble
Peyton, I see you.