December 18th (and the preceding adventure)

The first official day of vacation has arrived.

At least, it has for me. I would have posted this yesterday, the first day without having to worry about finals/homework/school, but a certain person (whose first and last name begin with the same letter) who shall remain nameless would have posted a comment saying something to the effect of "I hate you. Beezy!"

Anyways.

So it's vacation-- hooray! I went to Borders yesterday and bought two books, which I will be perfectly content to spend all day reading while eating chocolate covered raisins as if they were bon-bons. Somewhere in between there will be parties and presents, not to mention the party of the year: Christmas Eve at the Casa Cubana.

At Borders, two things happened that made me realize something. The first is that, given free rein to wander the bookshelves on my own, I went straight for the mystery section. No premeditation, no plan of attack, I saw the sign and that was the end of it.I bought two mysteries, one of which is not really a mystery but a how-Sherlock-solved-the-mysteries type thing. So it's not exactly literature, but I couldn't help it-- it was sitting right there on the display because of the movie, and the cover was so pretty and old fashioned, and...

The second is that, even though I had already made up my mind as to which books I would take home, I stopped and looked at the Agatha Christies anyways. On the back cover of one of them, a critic wrote something about how she was the greatest female mystery author ever, how she blazed trails for future writers, et cetera, and I suddenly thought, "I wonder if I could do that. Is it possible to write anything better? Wouldn't it be fun to try?"

Preposterous? Yes. Blasphemy? Most likely. And yet I could see it all, the little blurbs on the backs of books declaring that not since the great Agatha Christie has anyone mastered the craft of mysteries so fully, or something strange like that. In reality, I know full well that Agatha Christie is untouchable. No matter-- that momentary delight and fleeting image convinced me that if I really am going to make a living writing books, creating and solving mysteries will be the way I do it. I've thought of before, but this sealed the deal. When I was little I thought I was going to write about princesses and knights in shining armor. By the time high school started, I was doing the contemporary fiction/teen thing. And now, I think I've finally figured it out. Mysteries it is! (Not to say that I can't/won't write other things. I can. But you get the picture, right?)

Funny that my favorite things are detectives and spies, who have to pay extreme attention to detail to survive, when I can't even tell you the name of the street behind my own.

Current Occupation: Unemployed.

Yes, unemployed. It turns out that pretending to have a part time job as a "real writer" while going to school and studying for finals is not that easy. I was doing ok for a while too, writing in my journal if I wasn't posting, but then things fell apart and it's been days since I've written anything. In the grand scheme of things, this is not a tragedy. In fact, it's probably a good thing that I've been studying instead of writing, hard as it is for me to admit it.

And you know what the funny thing is? Much as I love writing stories and poems and creative stuff, I haven't put any of it on this blog. So far it's all been somewhat creatively phrased nonfiction-- thoughts, streams of consciousness, and other random happenings. The only thing I've gotten published was nonfiction too (kind of). Is there a trend here? Am I doomed to write biographies for the rest of my life and end up being hated by high school sophomores everywhere for it? (Rosa Parks bio-- enough said). I honestly hope not. I do admit that it's kind of fun to write about what's happening to me, but it would be more fun to translate that into fiction and write about what's going on but not really. Does that make sense? Like fictionalizing real events.

Today I went through all of my old stories on my computer and realized that I have comatized way more stories that I had previously thought/admitted. Undercover Part 2 has three separate files of three separate attempts, and none of them have made it past the twenty page mark.

Then again, maybe time is just not on my side. Come December 18th my computer and creative thoughts and I will all be on the same page-- literally. We will be on the page that will be honored with the first lines of a brand new story/poem/other creative endeavor that is hopefully not going to be something nonfiction-y.

Ha.

Blueberry Pie is the Meaning of Life

Tonight I decided that finals and rehearsals and endless craziness could wait for a nice long time while I had some pie. Not just any pie, either, but the double cream blueberry pie that always stares at me from the Marie Callendar's menu. Yesterday we went out to lunch at I got myself a slice, which was deliciously satisfying. Especially because I was watching this show on the History Channel about a pawn shop in Vegas that gets all kinds of crazy stuff, like 15th century treasure chests and autographed quilts. Seriously, it's my new favorite show.

In class today I'd had enough of all the busywork and wrote a little essay about why the Kindle digital reading thing (which my mother insists on calling Kendall, making me think of a paper eating robot girl) is going to ruin literary society as we know it, and it strikes me that if my predictions actually come true, some pawn shop in the way distant future will be making money off of "primitive reading devices" or whatever they call books. Here is a small excerpt of my little rant:

"I want to read a real book with real substance to it, like The Elegance of the Hedgehog. In print, mind you, not this electronic Kendallbot nonsense. That's not a book. It's a bunch of flat black letters on a glaring white screen with little buttons that click at you when you try to turn the page. A real, paper-and-ink-in-your-hands book talks. It whispers when you turn the page, or better yet snaps at you like thunder if you yank it because you can't wait to read what comes next. Kendallbots can't talk like that. They just click emotionlessly."

So yes, my little rant is kind of funny now that I read it again. And it's been brought to my attention that the lit up screen is good for airplanes with bad lighting and old people with bad eyes, in which case the Kindle is a rather good thing. In my case, though, it could mean the end of paper, and then where would we be??? Haha. We'd still have words, which is all that matters. And blueberry pie to eat while we read them.

The best decision I've made all week:

spending an entire hour filling up two and a half jounal pages, front and back, with every thought that's been bothering me lately. After draining all of the battery power left in my iPod and a good amount of ink, everything got straightened out a little. I mean, none of it is perfect yet, but at least I've figured out that I'm not falling apart and losing parts. If anything, I've just been hiding.

Turn No. 34

So we (by we I mean most of us) got our class rings today. Hip hip hurray- right?

I think so. Right. Yes, this is something to celebrate. When you think about this class, or any class at all, it's made up of a bunch of "groups". Not cliques, because cliques tend to be Gossip Girly and evil, but groups. And while everybody can be nice and talk to everybody else, there is still a one or two foot wall between one group and the other-- easy to step over, but still there. So what's the point of a ring that symbolizes unity if half the people in class don't talk to each other and half picked out a ring totally unrelated to the school anyways? Is it an attempt to bring us together?

Not really. Nothing will ever make all of us BFFs, but I think that in a million years when we're all old and standing in line at the Vons on the corner, with a cart full of food for kids that are way too expensive and increasingly more demanding and ungrateful, we might see one of those people from The Other Group. And I'll bet that if and when we happen to re-find someone from The Other Group, we won't walk away. Unless the person was just antisocial and unfriendly and mean in high school, in which case we'll instead go home and tell our kids horror stories about the person. But if they were nice, or at least tolerable, we will say hello and "Oh my God, weren't you in my class in high school?"

Wishful thinking? I hope not.

It's tradition to have someone turn your ring, and I'm hoping to get as many of my 111 turns as possible from people in my class. Of course, family and other non-school friends get a turn and wish too. In fact, the 34th turn went to my great-grandma. I explained the whole wish/turn concept, and she was only too happy to do so after inspecting my ring from every angle in every kind of lighting-- I'm surprised she didn't pull out the flashlight she keeps under her nightstand for additional visibility.

"Ok, so I turn it like this..." she says in Spanish "and now a wish for you that you never ever change the way you are right now, and when you choose, choose well." Cuando escoges, escoge bien. I'm pretty sure she was talking about choosing boys, but the advice works for anything.

When you make a choice, make the best one. Make the one that will let you do anything and everything you want to, not the one that will get you sidetracked or worse, blown totally off course. Choose the things that you can look back on and say, "Wow. I did something great that day."

And now I will end this little opinion editorial/philosophical thing, fun as it is to write. There's a lot to be done tomorrow and not a lot of sleep to be had. Hopefully tonight I remember to set my alarm clock.

So

So here I sit, blasting my swing CD and eating popcorn, wishing I had more bubble gum instead and wondering what in the world I'm going to do for the next big art project. It's supposed to be a collage, which is in turn supposed to send some kind of message.

What I've noticed lately is that I have nothing to say.

Ok, so maybe I do. I mean, I'm writing right now, aren't I? But I can't really translate this into pictures. This is just me typing and wishing for bubblegum. So what is it that I have to say? What do I need to tell people that hasn't already been oversaid?

Do I even need to say anything? The homework last night was to make a bunch of "practice" collages, and I ended up with one that was just a torn newspaper picture of the new L.A. Philharmonic conductor, only it just showed the top half, so I drew in the rest. Didn't have a message or meaning to it, but people loved it. And someone even looked at it really closely and said, "Gustavo!" with a smile that made me think I had done something people would want to pay attention to.

So we'll see.

I was flipping through newspapers for these collage things and started reading the comics, since I decided to distract myself by looking for stuff in the Calendar section, and I started thinking about how these cartoonists have to make an entirely new piece of art every single day. Especially the ones that are just one frame-- they have to come up with a brand new concept every day. I wonder how long it takes them to think of what they're going to say and how many tries it takes for them to get it perfect. That's their full time job: draw pictures that say something to people.

I almost want to say that if someone can come up with a publishable creative piece every day, then so can I. But that's really hard! The only reason I'm even writing now is because I've decided to instead of doing other things that may be more important, so how am I supposed to actually write one publication worthy thing a day? I'm not. I'm supposed to write one thing a day, print ready-or-not. It'll be a part time job.

Let's see how long it takes me to fire myself.

So much

There is still so much homework to do and so much to think about, but when you do start thinking about it you realize that there isn't really a lot to say. Not many details, not a lot to talk about-- and that's the hardest part, really, is thinking and wondering if I did something wrong or if I messed things up with that last message that ended the conversation for today. 

And I know I need to say more, but what? What will I say? What will I write about? 

I promise to do better tomorrow.   

At 4 am on Friday

Sane people are sleeping right now. Then again, sane people are missing out on some hilarious shopping experiences.

Cupcakes will destroy society

And my face, apparently. Apparently, operating an oven is extremely dangerous and I should not put my face anywhere near one. Because apparently, I was totally going to do that. Just ask my mother.

 

Would you believe that I have never worked an oven on my own before? Seriously-- I decided to make cupcakes for Thanksgiving tomorrow (the oven just started bleating to let me know that Batch #2 is done) and did it all by myself. I and all twelve of my little orange and brown sprinkled cupcakes are fully intact. 

So here's the schedule: tomorrow is Thanksgiving at The Zoo, featuring monkey cousins and poisonous old frogs. I'm serious-- some of these Cubans are like perfectly innocent looking frogs, just sitting there on their lily pads and making nice conversation until they start prying and probing for the one thing  they want: gossip. 

And I will happily deny them of anything good. 

Then it's Friday, Black Friday, which means that my mother and I will probably drag my dad out of his comfortable sleep at 4:30 a.m. to carry bags for us while we literally shop till we drop. I will walk out of the house carrying hot chocolate/coffee in a little Starbucks travel mug thing and demand more when I run out. I feel bad for any baristas who will be at work early in the morning-- they'll have to deal with a lot of annoyingly haggard people who just HAVE to get their shopping done at FIVE IN THE MORNING, even though most of the sales will be around ALL DAY. 

And then Saturday, or Sunday, or possibly even Friday night, I'm going on a date. You have no idea how weird it is to actually be typing that, so I'll leave the subject alone for now. 

Somewhere in between are APUSH terms and essay writing and hair curling goop and cleaning the entire house in a crazy effort to make the thing spotless and as immaculate as Mary herself. 

Honestly though, this is going to be fun. Stressful, crazy, but fun. I mean, how many times a year do you do crazy things like run around the house with munchkin cousins on a pumpkin pie and cupcake induced high, go to sleep for a few hours, and shop at five a.m.? 

Current Events

Flute notes echoed off the walls in the hallway, two silvery things producing less than silvery notes-- notes that slid and slipped down the scale. Sharp. Flat. Very flat. And laughter. High pitched and roaring all at once, the crazy laughter that fits right in between the measures and sits right where it should. It's more perfect than the silver.

A discovery occured in period 4: I have more friends than I think. There are more people who want the exact same things I do and will do the exact same things to get there than I expected. Boston, here we come! BC and Quincy have been given fair warning.

And then there was a phone call. After the flutes but before the pumpkin pie, a pink cell phone rang.One anxious voice answered, another repied, and by the end of it things were still a little ambiguous. But with a promise to call back later both cell phones snapped shut and two faces started smiling, and it's very likely that I was not the only one jumping up and down/dancing/feeling AMAZINGLY HAPPY.

Somewhere in between all of the good stuff there were tests and talkings and post-its and pencils, but none of that matters really. Today is comprised of three different events, each seperate and still whole.

Puddle Jumping 101

By now you see that nothing here makes sense.

But that's just how jumping into a puddle is, whether it's made of water or words. I look at a puddle and I wonder, "Should I really do it? I mean, I'll make a mess and get all wet, but wouldn't it be fun? To jump with abandon into something murky and undefined, the consequences uncertain." It's just a puddle-- just a little puddle sitting calmly on the sidewalk until someone like me decides to start a revolution. I don't know what'll happen, but I know some of the possibilities. I know that I want to jump right in and see. It's the only way to do things properly,as far as I'm concerned.

And so the Savage sits in his room in the Brave New World and reads Shakespeare, not sure of why people act the way they do or what's going to happen to him now that he's jumped but willing to find out all the same.

I make no sense. I try to explain things and I muddle them up, but that's ok. It's the first time in a while that I've enjoyed the sound of keys clicking and words appearing without any regard to being verbs and proper paragraph form. I just talk without thinking.