Burnt

"You're being poopy," he tells me, "Go blog about it."
So, here I am. Poopy me. Blogging about it. Of course, I prefer the phrase "being in a funk" or "grumpy" to "being poopy." I guess I don't have the words to excuse or explain it. It isn't big things that upset me. On the contrary. It is the petty, meaningless, wear and tear of the everyday, the little bits of sadness that worm their way into your heart and crack it apart.

I didn't mean to forget. The timer shut itself off, so only the burning smells called for me. I ran to the oven and ripped it open. But I wasn't there in time. Tears welled up in my eyes, pulled forth by the bitter smoke and disappointment.
The oven is off now, and the smoking, blackened, clumps cling to the pan, like grumpy, stubborn trolls. Deep down, I think I can pull myself together, and walk away. I think. But I don't know, because the deep down in lost in the hundreds of other layers, layers that scream at me. As I scrape the pan, the screech of metal against metal seems to taunt me, and as the trashcan fills, I suddenly feel as if I've never loved anything more then I love these burnt cookies, and that I can't possibly be without them.
I choke down sobs, and finish throwing them out. The blackened pan is dropped into the sink, and the fan is flicked on. The kitchen feels empty.

I wish, Dear Reader, that I could show you a deeper meaning, a silver lining. I wish I could give you hope, or a lesson. But I cannot. It is just me and the smell of burnt sugar and failure. Just me. Being poopy.

Starlight

Sometimes, late at night, I find myself unable to sleep. I lay awake and let my mind wander where it wants. I'm drawn to the shadows strewn across the floor, cast by the gentle glow of the world outside. The moon is hidden or new, I don't know which, and I end up thinking about the stars that fill the sky by themselves. It's sad. After a journey of trillions of miles, though vast, empty, nothing, the starlight stops here. It dies here, so far from home, just so we can see some pretty dots. I walk to the window, intrigued by the silence of the witching hour. I feel small and helpless. Suddenly, I run, stumbling in the darkness. Gently, I lift my mirror off my closet door, and carry it to the window. I lean it on the floor, so the starlight reflects off it. The light does not die here.

Mail

The car screeches to a haphazard stop facing me as I walk down the driveway. The door opens, and the driver leaps out without any clear direction or purpose. She screams my name, which is nearly lost on her shallow, fast breathing. The freezing wind pulls her blond hair out of its loose knot, and she runs towards me, "THE MAIL!" she screams, "IS IT HERE?"
Shocked into speechlessness, I hold up the stack of envelopes in my hand. She grabs my other hand, and pulls me to the mailbox. I let go, and the dropped papers scatter behind me. Her nervous energy keeps her warm, while I shiver as another wind whips by. "What are we-" she cuts me off with her hand as she yanks open the tiny metal door. It's empty. She looks confused, and extremely disappointed. I point down the street, at the approaching mail truck. She plants her feet. "We're waiting." We've grown up together, she's easily my sister. So together we wait. Shivering together, with dedication to an unknown cause.
As the white van pulls up, she sticks her hand between the box and the man. He chuckles, and hands her the bundle. She tears a large envelope from the bottom, and throws the useless rest at me. Suddenly, I catch a glimpse of the insignia, and it makes sense. Our breath rises in white puffs, but I don't remember even being able to breathe in the endless eternity it took her to tear it open. She lets out a scream, and I join in, both of us melting into laughter, a shared joy, sisters, jumping and squealing in the freezing cold.

Day Two: Growth and Development

I guess I should have expected domestic abuse to be in the sex education unit, which is essentially the rug under which all embarrassing topics are swept. After a gruesome, graphic slide-show of scars, bruises, and bullet wounds, we are given worksheets, to evaluate our own relationships for "teen dating violence." Absentmindedly, I fill out the little check boxes, row upon row of healthy functioning friendships. In a sense of recklessness and boredom, I turn the page to a new checklist, and decide to evaluate the worst relationship I've had.

Suddenly, I freeze. Check one, "one puts the other down by calling names." I shake it off. One unhealthy check means nothing. But then, check two, "one treats the other like a child." Check three, "one frequently criticizes other's friends/interests." "one tells the other how to dress." "one has grabbed, pulled, pushed, or hurt the other." By the end of the list, I've checked every warning sign of an abusive relationship. Staring down at it, I immediately try to deny it, to excuse him, a small voice that's quickly crushed by an echo of the video, "many victims blame themselves, and deny any abuse."

Could the relationship have been bad to the point of abuse? The mindlessly "healthy" checks suddenly don't seem so petty, the strong friendships I realize I'm endlessly grateful for. Of course, I was never actually hurt. But nonetheless, I'm suddenly grateful for leaving him. A dear friend of mine is caught in a emotionally abusive relationship, one she refuses to leave. "Give me a week," she begs, "I'll leave him then. He'll be different." How is it that we are drawn to such pain? She blames herself.

I realize now, that as much courage and determination is takes to hold on to something, not just relationships, it takes just as much, maybe even more, to let go. One just needs to know what's worth holding onto.

In Costco

It's funny, the ability to see a complete stranger, to peer into their lives, to know nothing about them, and to learn something. I balance on the lowest rung of the cart and drift slowly through the endless rows of Costco, propelled periodically by the one foot I let trail on the ground.

I've memorized the rows, the layouts, the regular faces.* Yet today, there's a different sound. Beautiful, familiar, haunting. I weave in and out of the crowded isles to follow it. Moonlight Sonata. I nearly cry out at the joy of recognition. A grand piano is on display, in the dead center of the store. The grandiose, sleek, black, shapes juxtapose the small man with wispy white hair coaxing the sounds out of it. He sits hunched on the bench, shriveled with age, yet his hands are graceful, energetic, and carefree. I abandon my cart to wander closer. There's talent and passion in his music, and a curiosity of what string of events has brought him here, to play Beethoven on a piano on a Costco display, gnaws at me.

Drifting farther, I'm captured by an argument near the cookies at the bakery. Two arguments, to be precise. A young man is standing on his cart like I am, and his pout is matched exactly by a young boy across from him, the two oblivious to each other. Both are begging for cookies, the big kind, with chocolate chips. A mother and a girlfriend play the bad guy to the young boy and man respectively, and neither gets cookies.

A small boy, ruddy faced, smeared with free samples and freckles dashes in front of my cart, quickly followed by a disheveled mother calling after him. Michael. His name is Michael, this grimy, delighted boy, having the time of his life avoiding his mother and hiding under tables. I smile to myself.

The rows of personalized cakes awaiting pickup catches my fancy, and I wander towards them, standing on my tiptoes to peek into the frosty cellophane box lids. I can make out an American flag. Suddenly, I realize that I'm staring at a going away cake, for someone in the army. I feel ashamed, like I saw something I couldn't have, and back away. I wonder who it's for. Will they be missed? Will they be safe? Who ordered it? Will they be lonely?


It's late now, and I leave, again struck by the lives of the other shoppers. An allegory of us all of us. Small truths, in light. In the endless rows of Costco.



*Clean- http://organizedchaos-reagan.blogspot.com/2010/11/clean.html

Who?

Even from far away, I can tell his heart is broken. It doesn't take much for him to tell. "She's dating someone else," he says. It was a show-mance. "That's the problem with actors," he spits, almost disgustedly, "they get confused with what's their role, and what's real life." His mouth twitches up into a sad, half-smile. "No offense."

Terrifyingly, I suddenly see the same in myself. When I'm sad, I'm not me. I'm Eponine, self-pityingly lonesome. When I'm whiny, I'm Bloody Mary, grabby and demanding. More often then not, I'm Winifred, loud, insane, and obnoxious. I do not know if I give them bits of myself, bringing them to life, or if I learn from them. I have no idea who I am. I have no idea who anyone is. In theater, lines are blurred. We respond to our character names, and our real names fade, left behind in the corners of the dressing rooms. We steal quotes, lines from the stage for real life, as though we were always performing .

I pull him back for a hug, and selfishly, it's more for my comfort then his, and we mutually curse humanity as a whole. "People suck," He says.

Health: Growth and Development

She's delighted. There's only one student excused from the unit. The rest of the class seems mildly impressed as well by this statistic. I'm horrified. As sophomores, this is our last year of health, and parents are excusing their children? I cannot imagine what they possibly hope to accomplish by pretending sex still doesn't exist.

And of course, it begins so predictably, I can nearly mouth the words along with her, "Remember, knowledge is power. Learning about protection doesn't give you permission. Abstinence is the best choice. Abstinence will not give you an STD. Abstinence will not result in unwanted pregnancy. " Briefly, she introduces the unit, using terms like, "intimate contact" and "the inside plumbing of your private parts." The word "sex" is utterly avoided. And of course, we'll learn from videos.

The lights dim, the screen is pulled down, and the video begins to load. Briefly, she mutters about her amazement of the number of contraceptives it covers. Confused, a girl in the back pipes up, "Wait. You mean there's more then the pill?"
At this point, I lay my head on my desk, desperately trying to escape the horrific and dangerous ignorance. My friend leans over, snickering, as the awkward and hollow answer is given. "This is why I'm not going to have sex."

Why? Why not?
How terribly horribly awful would it be to stand up and scream that sex is fantastic, a wonderful, impassioned, marvelous sharing?

The video begins, monotonously under the awkward, stifled giggles. A shy boy raises his hand. The hand is ignored. He asks a question anyway. The question is not answered, instead sludged over vaguely, and no one is offended. The video continues. We are taught the "8 types of intimacy", and told that "many of us had already discovered what we want in a relationship". The video is paused, and the teacher corrects it, "Hopefully, you have not." The video resumes. We are taught not to insert our penises into foreign objects.

End of Day 1.

Repression

The door opens, and I swirl into the kitchen, pushed by the cold air at my heels, yellow skirt flying. Laughing, I fall against the door, pressing it closed behind me. My cheeks are pink, nipped at by the cold. Still giddy, I ask my mom why I ever avoided riding the bus.

Her eyebrows knit together, an immediate reaction, concerned, worried. There's a pause, I pause I should have been able to fill. My face remains blank. She struggles, "Don't you remember?"
Slowly, I shake my head. "They used to..." she drifts off.
I feel nervous. "They used to what?" I press. "They used to hurt you."
I wait for some sort of recognition, some understanding, but none comes. "Who were they?"
"They were on your bus. They used to hurt you."
A flash. I suddenly remember myself, much younger. Bruises. I remember. I remember crying.
"That's why you'd always sit in the front."
More comes. I remember hands, tearing, grabbing at me. I remember ducking my head, biting my lip. I remember fighting, pulling my hair, my jacket, my lunchbox, my backpack. I remember harsh laughter. I remember crying. I remember shouting for the driver's attention. I remember being ignored. The flashes are more vivid now, and my face grows pale.
"How'd it end?" Somehow, I know there must be an ending, a finale, a finish. Now, she cocks her head, a faint smile comes to her lips. "You remember that."
And I do.
A girl. She was older than me, she lived down the street. Only rarely was she on the bus. But the day she was, I needed her. I never asked her to help me. But she sat down next to me, right in the front of the bus. With her arms around me, they couldn't reach me, and the grabbing hands were subdued. With my head tucked in her shoulder, I was safe. And when she shouted for attention, she got it. And I don't remember any more crying.

The memories, the flashes, flit across my face, and are gone as quickly as they came. I am scared now, of what I couldn't remember, what I can't remember. What other secrets I've hidden inside. As though something has been freed, I feel suddenly empty. I let myself sink to the floor, and with my head between my knees, I cry.

How to Survive Gym Class

Ten Rules to Survive Gym Class as a Freak, Loner, or Outsider.

1. Playing with the minds of others is the only way to keep your own sanity. You must accept this, the sooner, the better.
2. Find a buddy. You won't get out alive by yourself. They'll help keep you sane.
3. Gym teachers have no passion nor mind-capacity for any creativity beyond pinny colors. Their methods are predictable and methodical. Learn this. Being split into teams generally consists of grouping shirt colors or counting off by threes.
4. Create hand signals. If, by chance, you and your buddy (refer to Rule 2) happen to end up separate teams, these can be essential. Keep these big and simple, so they can be understood from across the room. Remember the basics, for instance "Heads up!" "I'm proud of you!" "He's showing off again." and "I hate this sport!"
5. Chose one sport to be awkwardly competitive about.
6. Giant foam q-tips, while generally useless and unwieldy, are always good to have on hand to challenge duels with.
7. Learn to growl and hiss when others come near you.
8. Insanity is the most intimidating card you have to play. (Refer to Rule 1) Trying to distract an opponent? Cock your head to the side, laugh menacingly, and do NOT break eye contact.
9. Fake interest. If, by some chance, the ball/frisbee/shuttlecock/anything gets near you, don't panic. Instead, try saying something along the lines of, "Oh look! Here it comes, oh, oh dear. There it goes. Bummer. Missed it. Maybe next time."
10. Either downplay or overreact to EVERYTHING. Get hit? You have two options. Shrug it off, or fall screaming to the ground.

In the Mirror

The sweet pink of the tights swallows any shade of skin, painted on comically.
The pure black destroys any previous idea of shape,
creating for itself new curves and dynamics.
Locks of curly hair have been pulled back, tied tightly into a sleek knot, and plastered in sprays and glues.
A new face has been painted on, paler, with dangerous angles.
The pink slippers are tied, lacing their way up the legs like snakes,
twisting in their concentric circles.

I have no idea who this girl is,
or what business entreats her to stand inside the mirror.
But she cannot possibly be me.
She holds an air of grace I do not possess.
Reflections tempt with the dangerous option to pretend to be anything but who we are, yet she seems so familiar.
She cannot possibly be me. I am short, I am childish, I am clumsy.
She is graceful, powerful, and her eyes hold a dangerous fire.
She glares at me, and I lean closer to stare back. I can see her foot slip before I feel it.
Her form shatters, and she crashes to the ground. The pain shoots up from my legs, crumpled beneath me. Clumsy now, disheveled on the floor. And there I am.

To Those Who Give Second Chances

To those who give second chances,

Do you hate yourselves as much as I hate myself right now? Do you beat yourselves up and bite your lips to keep from crying? Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me. I write this in realization that I'm one of you. That I give second chances. That I'm moronic for doing so.
People do not change. They may promise to, and plead forgiveness, but they do not change. It is impossible to change who you are. Our essences, our beings, are unalterable. And some people hurt others, and will continue to do so, no matter how many chances they are given.

Perhaps it feels worse, to be hurt the second time, subjected to the preceding pain all over again, all whilst knowing that it's our own fault, for trusting someone so hurtful again. After all, insanity is said to be doing the same thing over and over and expecting different results.

But you, dear reader, you are not insane, nor stupid, nor to blame for giving second chances. No, dear reader. You are brave. You are marvelously brave. Trusting and being hurt is part of being human. We must accept those who deserve no chances at all, cherish the lessons they can teach you. Without trust, dear reader, you have nothing. It's the foundation for all interaction.
Thousands of people will go through life without trusting. Without loving. They haven't lived, they're scared to.
Trust, love, it's a marvelous and magical thing. You're lucky, reader, for being able to give second chances. Do not hate yourself. Do not regret. There may only be a handful of people you'll ever be able to trust completely who deserve it, love them for it, but there are many people who you owe your trust to for no reason other than to learn something.

Trust me.

Clean

Every week, she's there. In the Costco Foodcourt, she's lost in a flurry of people, pushing, shoving, grimy and methodical. Every week, it's the same routine, the same order. She's beautiful, short, heavy set. Yet, I've never heard her talk. She hides behind the register and employee vest, which boasts a cheerfullness she doesn't posess. Her eyes are heavily made up in blacks and blues, shying away from attention, but what drew mine were her lips. Perfectly colored in a deep maroon, which by the end of the day, worn and chewed on, faded to nothing more than an outline. There is a sadness lingering in her eyes that I could not place, both amplified and hidden by her careful eyeliner.

This week was different. This week, I couldn't find her, when I suddenly realized she was directly in front of me. With no make-up at all. Her face seemed rosier, her eyes, bigger and brighter, and her lips, so pale and naked, smiled. She spoke. Softly, in a gentle, unplacable accent. She was smiling, and her eyes, previously so full of sadness, seemed to be lit up.

I do not know what prompted her to wash off her sadness, but perhaps, I must do the same. I haven't blogged in a time, perhaps because I didn't want to think about the gathering darkness in the corners of my mind. But with this, I purge OrganizedChaos, and I smile too, gratefully welcoming back the light.

Talking

I talk to myself. I rant and rave and vent to the air around me. But once I talk, my words are lost. So I decided to use my microphone to dictate them here, to you, dear reader, in case you cared enough to read them. This is me. Word for word.

We underestimate the need for venting, for talking. It helps us to sort our thoughts, to let go of them. Say something. Outloud. Right now. Anything. Cast it into the air, and watch it fade away. It feels good, doesn't it?

Recently, I find myself more often than not, dropping everything to listen to someone. To try to comfort someone, to help them, to take as much as I can off their mind. And for awhile, I was jealous. Jealous that nobody asked to listen to me. But then I realized, I didn't need to talk. I needed to untangle my thoughts for myself, before I could put them into words.

I have words, dear reader. And here, I can talk, if you care to listen.
Talk, reader. I implore you, I beg you. Talk, vent, scream. As loudly as you can. Even if it's completely meaningless. Untangle your thoughts, weave them together, and let them go. Do not be encumbered or bothered by them.

Open your mouth, open your heart, dear reader.

New Website!

Hello there! Thanks for reading OrganizedChaos.
I have a new official website for theater, http://www.reaganhenke.com, feel free to visit it!
Any posts or updates related to theater will be linked there.
However, seeing as everything will still be able to be found on OrganizedChaos, it doesn't affect you much.
But hey, it's cool, right?

With love,
Reagan

Memory

Flipping through the flimsy pages, the comics suddenly catch my eye. Black and white, a simple cartoon of a man cracking walnuts, and I'm suddenly flooded with a memory I can't name. A memory, but not enough of a memory to have words, and a description. A feeling. Warm. Happy. Like I've been reminded of something, a story, a picture, I saw when I was much younger. But the more I focus on the picture, the quicker the feeling fades away, and I scramble to grab onto a scene, a word, anything. Closing my eyes, I allow the fleeting, half developed slips of thought to collect, like water in a puddle, and as gently as I can, trying not to spill, I pour it into words.

Checkers, anyone?

It doesn't matter how long I wait. He is never going to sign on.

We would Skype each other every day after school.
We'd challenge each other to hangman, sending secret messages in the hidden clues, we'd play tic-tac-toe, all star bowling, everything mini-games had to offer.
But my favorite was checkers. Checkers, we could play for hours.
Skype checkers forced you to jump one another, so we'd dash around the board, avoiding the other color. The checkers grew legs and eyes, and walked themselves wherever you clicked. I'd laugh out loud when my pieces smiled at me.

But the best part?
The best part. The best part was that he always let me win.

I wonder if he knows I sign on every day, hoping that maybe, we could play. But it doesn't matter how long I wait. He is never going to sign on, but I'm still waiting.
Checkers, anyone?

Peanut Butter

It's funny. We were never really friends. But I was there, just me, when the doorbell rang. And he was there, just him, on the step. I didn't think much about opening the door. I could smell the freshly baked bread from where I stood, the crinkly brown bag in his hand. A delivery between our parents. Nothing more. He was popular. I was me.

I took the bag, retreating back into the sugar dusted kitchen. I invited him in. Why? I still don't know. Why he followed is an even deeper mystery.
He sat across from me, on the tall stool, the one with the wobbly leg. I plunged my arms elbow deep into my confection, a glorious mix of peanut butter and powdered sugar and chocolate. He laughed as a plume of sugar burst into the air.
"What in the world are you making?" he asks, laughing.
I smile into the bowl as I whisper,
"Peanut butter bars."
They are, and will, and have always been my guilty pleasure.
"I love peanut butter," he tells me.
I don't know what happened next. But we finished the rest of that jar of peanut butter, with two spoons and a lot of bad jokes. It was late by the time he left.

I saw him in the cafeteria the next day. I couldn't bring myself to say hello. As he walked by, one of the girls with him started coughing. It's funny how many people's coughs sound like they're saying, "Loser." They laughed as they walked away.

It's funny. We were never really friends. But I was there, just me, when the doorbell rang. And he was there, just him, on the step. He passed me again that day, and as he did, he smiled, leaned in, and whispered, "peanut butter."

First Day

It's the same school. Same hallways. Most of the same people.
The English room is on the other side of the hallway.
It's a different window. A different view.
But I can't help but smile.
Outside is a world of bursting green, promising and full of life. And on the very edge? A tree that has just started turning for fall. A splat of a strong orange-red on the edge of the flawless green. Threatening, waiting.

About to set my world on fire.

To be Smart

It feels empty. Hollow. It hurts.
It hurts to lose. It hurts to say goodbye.
Why do we grow attached to people?
The only logical thing to do is withdraw.
To shy away. To reject friendships. To ignore people.
Because with nothing to lose, there's no way to get hurt.

Silently, we drive through the night. I chew on my lip, fighting back tears. I know that as soon as we reach my house, he'll leave. He'll go far, far away. Grown up. Real life. I don't quite know how to say goodbye. I'm not quite sure how I'll get by without him. He's been my hero, my role model, my brother. Given me the best and the worst advice I've ever had. Taught me more than anyone ever has. And he's leaving. But for now, it's just us.
He sighs, and still looking at the road, he warns, "You'd better not do anything stupid this year."
I laugh despite myself, "Define stupid."
He takes a second to glare at me. But he loves me. I know.

Suddenly, I realize something. Avoiding people, withdrawing. It's just about the stupidest thing I can do. We're drawn to others, we need others. I'm not sure who I'd be if I'd never met anyone I've had to say goodbye to. I wouldn't be anybody at all. We're not defined by the people around us, but we're changed by the company we keep, the things they teach us.

A few days later, I find him online, and I smile to myself. He'll never be completely gone. He'll always be there when I need him, he always has been. It hurts to say goodbye. But to have people you love in your life? It's worth it.

Lipstick

I lost my favorite lipstick. It's a deep reddish color, a rich dark shade. I hid behind it. I painted it on. I let the rest of my face get lost, washed out by the juxtaposition. I lost it. And I don't care. I'm nothing less without it.

Spare

Dear Reader,
Do you ever get that funny feeling? Where you're just so upset you're biting back tears? But it's almost like you're about to throw up? Or like you're starving? Or like you just want to sob or eat or throw up or something? And your tummy just feels all jumbled? But you just shove it all down and pretend it's not there at all? That's how I feel.
Do you ever feel like you're just a spare? Like, a spare tire? Shoved in the trunk? And you wish, oh how you wish you could ride shotgun, or at least, in a seat, like a normal person. Like somebody who's going somewhere, somebody who others want to be there. Not the extra, forgotten, last-minute-shoved-in-the-trunk.
Or maybe, the problem with being shoved in the trunk, is knowing that you're a last chance, last resort kinda thing? And nobody actually wants to talk to you? They'll just humour you for as long as you pester? Nobody actually wants to have a real conversation and listen, because nobody really remembers you're there at all?
Yeah. That's how I feel, too.

Museum

Bright. Colors. Screaming. Loud. Whoa... Echoes. Huge. Ceiling. Kids. Running. Museum. Exhibits. Learning. Discoveries. Experiments. Electricity. Light. Anatomy. Weather. History. Hallways. Stairs. Arrows.


A man. He's wearing the logo. Standing. Talking.
A group of people. Listening. Also talking.
Anatomy. Exhibit. New. Hamster wheel?
Human sized! Man. Inside. Running. Whoa...

The wheel whirls around him. Screens monitor his pulse. Breathing rate.
Magnificent display... Human endurance... Power of... The words fade out.

There's a girl. Staring. Something about her expression draws me.

I step closer. Then I realize why. Shes in a wheelchair. Her own legs are useless, shriveled, balancing on the footrests of the chair. She seems to have no intention of leaving, having planted herself directly behind the hamster wheel, instead of in front, with the rest of the crowd.
She stares at the running man with a harsh intensity. Her forehead furrows, in an angry, determined sort of way, but her eyes light up with something different. Hope.

Girl. Staring. Hope. Hopeful. Running. Entranced.
Hope.

Drowning

I watch her, fragile, small, young, pale, paler still in the icy reflection of the pond. I do not know her. I do not know where I am. All I know is an overwhelming sense of responsibility for this girl, that I'm supposed to protect her. But from what? She has skates, I realize. She is skating. It's a wonder to me she does not fall, her bony ankles wobble threateningly under her. The sky is cold and ashy, everything seems faded in the surrounding grey. I can hear something, just barely. A cracking. The ice is cracking. But by the time I step onto the ice, it's already too late.
Suddenly, I am the little girl. Flooded with panic and realization, I try to step back, falling over myself, flailing skinny limbs. The ice is cracking beneath me, and in the next instant, I'm falling backwards. The water pulls me under, icy and thick, pouring in my lungs. Looking upwards, I realize the shattered hole at the surface is an eerie blue, silhouetting my outstretched hand.
Yet, I'm not all her. I'm still the guardian, watching her. I can feel myself drowning and watch myself being pulled under at the same time. I watch her sinking, her face frozen in the mask of hollowed fear I put on. The cold sinks in for the first time, along with an empty sense of failure. Her fingertips stick out of the water, just barely. I vaguely realize I could pull her out, but I remain staring. Another though drifts over, that the ice will freeze like that, just her fingers stuck above the ice.

I sit up quickly, heart pounding. A dream. I exhale, and realize I'm freezing. I pull the blanket up from the foot of the bed, and I'm shivering, even in the humid summer night. I press my hand to my face, it comes away wet. I'm crying.

"To see someone drowning in your dream suggests that you are becoming too deeply involved in something that is beyond your control. Alternatively, it represents a sense of loss in your own identity. You are unable to differentiate who you are anymore."

Who am I? Am I the girl I watched drown, overwhelmed? Am I the failed guardian? What's out of my control? I settle myself, trying to lose myself again in sleep, when I suddenly realize something. I didn't struggle. As the girl, I let myself fall, more entranced by my fingers than panic at drowning. As the guardian, I didn't pull her out, instead staring at her hands. I didn't fight death.
I lay awake. Sleep does not come.

To the Beautiful Girl

In the morning, the bathroom is harshly lit, and I stare back at the painted face in the mirror. I do not recognize myself. Suddenly, out of frustration and anger, I turn on the sink, and splash the cold water on my face. Looking up again, the mirrored face is distorted, black eyes dripping down blotchy cheeks. Empowered, I splash more water, scrubbing off the face that matches everyone else. Gingerly lifting my face from the towel, I recognize my own smile in the mirror.


To the girl staring through racks of clothes. Do you think you're beautiful? You can't be older then 11 or 12. You haven't even hit puberty. Yet, your dark hair is bleached a platinum blond. Your nails are painted plasticy pink, and your gangly arms are plastered in bangles. Do you think that makes you beautiful? A tank-top. Torn shorts. An expensive-looking purse, plastered with designer labels. Do you think you're beautiful?
I can see you staring at me, judging me through the fabrics on hangers between us. An older, chubbier girl with frizzy curls, no makeup except for dark red lipstick, in overalls and an old tee-shirt. I can see the disapproval in your eyes, but your glossy lips stay shut. Would it shock you to know that I think I'm beautiful? Or would it surprise you more to know I'm staring back?
I see something in your eyes that you might not know is there. Even outlined in black liner, caked behind eyeliner and clumpy mascara, there's a childish uncertainty.
To the girl on the other side of the rack. Do you think you're beautiful?

This I Believe

I believe in stopping. Not just slowing down, or taking a break, I mean fully stopping. Every now and then, I think that everyone needs to take enough time for a full stop.


When we were little, my brother, sister, and I, we were loud. We were messy. We made noise. We moved fast. I might find my brother trekking muddy footprints across the house as he paraded around the dead bull-frog he had scraped off of the driveway. My sister would engage herself in her "masterpieces", flinging gallons of paint onto construction paper; ruining carpets and wallpaper in the process. Me, I was a mastermind of battle and works of construction, pulling apart whatever I can get my hands on in order to string up whatever fortress tickled my fancy. Whenever we all got out of control, my dad would march up to us with this big swinging gait that he had, like he owned the world. My father is a pretty big guy, and when he wanted our attention, he got it. So he'd march up to us, the whole room would shake, and usually, it'd pull us out of our own worlds enough to whip our heads in his direction. But every now and then, it wasn't enough and we'd go on parading, and painting, and creating a general ruckus. It was at times like these that my father would plant his feet on the ground, and bellow, "FULL STOP!"


And so, we stopped. And suddenly, my brother would realize that his prize was actually a crushed amphibian, and sister would realize that her hair was now painted green, and I'd realize that a colander didn't really function as a helmet. I learned this from my father; when you take just a moment, and fully stop, just freeze everything, you'll see everything around you in a whole new way.


Even now, far from construction paper and childhood, I can still hear my dad's voice in my head, telling me to "full stop" when I need a break. It might be during a fight, or when I'm sad, or simply acting loopy. I need to take a deep breath, and stop. Full Stop.


It's not always enough just to slow down enough to balance multitasking. It's about being able to freeze everything you're doing, and step back in order to look at the world. Whenever you bite into something really delicious, you know how you close your eyes to enjoy it more? That's your body's way of stopping everything else so you can focus better.


Everything today moves fast, people run blindly through their lives, but I believe in stopping. Fully stopping everything around us to really see what is around us. Take a deep breath. Full Stop.

On Relationships

"9, 10, 11, 12, 14... Wait, where's 13?"
The car bumbles along the uneven road, searching for a number that doesn't appear to exist. Suddenly, a glimpse of red catches my eye. As my mom and I drive closer, it seems to grow bigger, flourishing its own branches, electric among the somber green around it. We roll to a stop, staring up in breathless awe at the twelve foot masterpiece. Planted there is a trio of steel girders, painted flaming red. The massive metal curved around itself, seemingly alive, stretching out its arms like a tree above us. "I think we're here," she whispers. A few minutes later, we're inside, sitting across from a quirky redhead. Her hands move nearly as fast as her mouth, gesturing wildly about the room. We're surrounded by more metalwork, compliments of her husband. She's my new voice teacher. We discuss old teachers I've had and as I explain why the last one didn't work out, I realize that it's just like a relationship. We were together, it didn't work out, and we broke up. Everything in life is a relationship.

I suppose that even those of us who'd rather withdraw, tuck themselves away and avoid others, those who are scared of dating or romance, must end up in a relationship. Going to school, having friends, dating, having a job, driving a car, everything. Our entire lives are built upon other people, impossible without some form of commitment. To live requires commitment. We make choices.We take chances. We're human.

Jhai Jhai

You'd assume she was disconnected. Her own world fits into a bubble, bouncing and shimmering with her energy. Her big brown eyes pulse with excitement, her face framed with shimmering bits lining each ear. Each day poses a new adventure to her, but you'd never guess how much those beautiful eyes saw. She can sense anything off balance, no matter how small. Don't bother trying to pretend, she can read your mind. And why bother? She's brilliant with advice, and a great shoulder to cry on. For anyone who needs her, her twitching fingers calm down enough to hold them.

Two words. That's all it took. And she could tell.
"What's wrong?" she pressed.
"Nothing, I-"
"It's those boys isn't it?"
"Don't be ridicul-"
"You like him."
And with a sigh, I tell her everything. And she lets me. She picks me back up and sets me right side up.

Isn't it funny how she can hold so much pain, yet never show a scratch herself? But even if one could, nobody dare ever rain on her parade. So march on, my dearest. Smile, and march on. And thank you.

Missing Lewis

We study each other through the glass, his fins swirling the water around him. He blinks at me. Slowly, his mouth opens, and he blows a bubble. As it floats to the top, I can feel my heart grabbing in my chest. It pops. Wolfgang's a Betta, and trying to build a bubble nest, meant to house his offspring. Except, there will never be any offspring. He'll never even meet another Betta. I run my fingers over the surface of the bowl, and he follows them. When I pull away, he stays pressed up against the glass, watching me with his dark eyes.

The most painful part of an animal being sad, is that it's all they know. With people, we can pretend not to be, or blame others, or find a way to cope. But animals, they only know sad, an overwhelming depression that fills every part of them, and simply radiates pain to everything around them.

We just lost our duck, Lewis. His mate, Ping, couldn't be sadder. She won't leave the coop, she just stays tucked into her nest, wrenching heartbroken quacks into bedraggled feathers. Our dog, Jake, lays beside the fence door, waiting for a playmate who will never again come outside to play. Our chicken steps out, and he excitedly raises his head, clutching at the hope that this white feathered bird might be Lewis. I bite my lip as his head sinks back down.

Here's to you, Lewis. Your unmistakable squeak of a quack that always made me laugh. Your stunningly blue eyes. The way you dipped entirely underwater when you swam. The one curly feather that stuck out from your tail. The way you played with Jake and ruffled your feathers. The way you so lovingly protected Ping. Here's to you, Lewis. I love you, baby.

Heartbeat

My head lies curled up in my arms on my desk, so I can hear the tick of my watch, a gentle tug back into reality. It murmurs quietly, clicking metallicly. The bell sends me sweeping through the hallway, and I suddenly realize that I'm invisible. Without my telltale chaos of curls, I blend in, unrecognized. Later, they paint on someone else's skin, until I'm completely unrecognizable. The extra rolls of flesh aren't mine, and my own face is smooth beneath the painted wrinkles.

In the wings, I feel lost. I am not myself, where have I gone? Fear and sadness begin to well up inside of me, until I suddenly feel my heart, pounding against my chest. A gentle tug, back into reality, my heart. I am myself. And as it murmurs gently to me, I smile. I have found myself.

Wake-up Call

The hammock rocks back and forth, a searing orange in the earthen scene around it. My arms stretched over my head, my fingers and toes tangled in the strings. I can see the shafts of sunlight filtering through the trees, brushing over the soft dirt on the ground and lighting up parts of my skin. I'm surrounded by tree trunks, adorned with shuffling leaves and whistling birds. Rolling on my side, the hammock swings with a renewed vigor, and I shut my eyes, losing myself completely. Much later, I hear something moving in front of me. Opening my eyes, I find myself to be face to face with a white chicken. She cocks her head at me, ruffles her feathers, and continues to scratch at the ground. Laughing, I pull myself upright, finding the sun has already ran to the other side of the sky. Feeling strangely perfect, I return to reality, realizing that sometimes, all we need is a strange wake-up call.

Onstage

She watches me mouth the words to myself. Closing my eyes, I close myself in a different world, trying to remember what to say, but the words remain stuck on the page. With a sigh, I flip open the script in front of me, searching for them. Her voice interrupts.
"You know, you look crazy. Like you're talking to yourself."
I laugh, shaking my head. Out loud now, I read the words, gently coaxing them off paper. She's clearly not amused, glancing around to see if any one's staring. Two people are, as entranced with my mutterings as she had been. I hadn't noticed. Her own words jest, but her tone turns authoritative, a mix of begging and reprimand.
"We're not exactly 'onstage'..." she says gently, trying not to offend. I shake my head yet again.

"All the world's a stage," I whisper," and all the men and women merely players..."

12 Angry Jurors

"I love it here," I whisper to him, both of us glowing. His face is cartoon-ish, but worn, the eyeliner smudged around his face, the lipstick clinging only to the edges of his lips.
"I love our tech, I love our stage, I love our lights, I love our costumes, I love the smell of the dressing rooms right before a show..." I don't realize that by the end of this, I'm nearly crying. The broken lipstick breaks into a smile.
"You're using your monologue voice," he teases. I laugh away the welling tears.
"It's the only voice I have."

Every actor has a "monologue voice." It's louder. More supported. Projected. Slightly more dictated. For some, it may belong to a different person entirely, but some may be unnoticeable. I don't believe these are the voices of acting. These are the voices we use to tear out out innermost raw emotions, and everything else, is just acting.
Some people belong onstage. Like this boy in front of me, the brilliant star of a brilliant show. His voice can draw you into any world he likes, and within seconds, he's already holding onto your heart. Even standing in the back of the theater, I love the way his voice fills the room, curving into every crevice and mind, painting whatever he fancies. His character is nearly fluid, pour him into any form, and he'll fit perfectly, shrugging into it the way one may put on a jacket one's been wearing their whole life.

Even without being in the show, I belong there. I'm not used to the clunky weight of a tech flashlight against my belt loop, blending with the shadows in anonymity, but I'm recognized in the dressing room, quickly finding my perch on the edge of the counter, even after being missing for months. An extra hot iron is pushed into my hand, and I quickly become a part of the counter itself, belonging. The hairspray mixes with the anxious energy, filling the room with a comforting and familiar smell.

I worried that I was wrong about the theater, that coming back would be disappointing, at best. But I was wrong. How wonderful, how familiar, how incredible, to be back at home. I'm home.

Life in Bloom

"You must not lose faith in humanity. Humanity is an ocean; if a few drops of the ocean are dirty, the ocean does not become dirty." -Mahatma Gandhi

Gandhi begs us not to lose faith in humanity, describing humanity as an ocean that's not entirely dirty. However, I didn't understand what he meant, until I was surrounded by it.
Pressing close to the nose of the ship, the sky and water blend together in an endless expanse of blue. The wind runs its fingers through my hair and throws it against my face, aglow in the screaming sun. Waves crash around themselves as though they have no idea what they're meant to be.

I always thought he meant that we aren't a bad people just because some of us are bad, and I always disagreed. I thought that humanity was doomed, that our shared human nature was in itself, corrupt. I was wrong. Nobody is a bad person, because the drops are not individual people. The ocean is each of us as a whole, our humanity in one great swirling blue. We may have bad parts, but we're not bad people.

On the beach, I kneel in the warm sand, and scoop up water between my fingers. It sparkles in the light. Spreading my fingers, it trickles back, glittering like jewels, and is quickly lost in the ocean. I stand, and slowly take a step into the inviting waves. The warm water laps around my ankles. I walk farther, until all but my head is submerged. With a sharp breath, I let the water cover me, and I'm suspended in the brilliance of it, bobbing up and down with its current as it pleases.
People behave with the same acceptance, but only if you're willing to swim out far enough.

Back at home, I return once again to the English room on the top floor, and a glimmer from the window catches my fancy. I turn, and gasp as a realize all the trees have grown back their leaves. The decrepit branches have been replaced by those with a renewed promise of life. Each boasts its own colors, shaking gently in the light breeze. I never realized how beautiful life was in bloom.

To be Loved

"People- people who need people
are the luckiest people in the world.
We're children, needing other children,
and yet, letting our grown-up pride,
hide all the need inside.
Acting more like children,
Than children."
-Funny Girl

They tell me I'm childish and desperate for attention. A drama queen. Pathetic. I know. I agree. I'm addicted to the sound of applause. I'm well aware of the tizzies I go into when I'm ignored.
So when I ran into a friend at rehearsal whom I haven't seen in months, I tagged along behind him and others. He's the big brother I never had, the mentor I look up to, and the shoulder I cry on. The conversation danced around the colleges they're going to, the shows they're putting on, the groups they got into. Nothing I could relate to. So I followed, pretending my heart didn't hurt.
Suddenly, his arm was around me. I smiled and buried my head in his chest. Laughing, he kissed the top of my head. And I realized, that was all I needed. To know I was loved. It doesn't matter how much attention he gives me, because when he reaches out to me, even in that one small gesture, I know he loves me. To be loved, and to know we are loved, is all anyone asks for.
People need other people, maybe not for constant attention, but just to be loved.

Guilty Pleasure

In the airport, a wary woman sits alone, hunched over. She wears light winkles around her eyes and mouth, but her luggage is childish. She looks embarrassed, and as her blond hair falls back from her face, I catch a glimpse of a Ben and Jerry tub balanced on her knees. Startled, as though she knows I'm watching, she pulls a plastic spoon out of her mouth and tucks away her guilty pleasure. She swings the bag over her shoulder and brushes off her shirt, reclaiming her dignity, and she melts into the crowd at the other end of the terminal.

Library Instructions

To Find a Book:

• As you walk in, skip the stairs. The stairs carry you to a world where choice have already been made, where favorites are placed in front. Skip them. You must delve directly into the heart.
• The trick while wandering, dear reader, is to ignore the voices that everyone else hears. The trashy romance, the cliched mysteries, the naive slang of high school drama. Ignore it. Listen for a very different voice.
• Wander into the very depths of the shelves, the untouched. The books have their own delicious smell, and your mind begins to ache with a hunger. These books, reader, have been forgotten, and are simply aching to pull you into their world.
• If you close your eyes, and listen just right, you can hear them calling to you. Do not be afraid to run your fingers along their spines, to inhale, to sense them, to feel them.
• If you feel you find one, you must pick it up, flip through it, take a taste of the language. If it doesn't suit you, move on. The best books taste delicious from the very beginning.
• Most of all, remember this, dear reader. As you read it, you must take in every detail of it. Don't just read it.Enjoy it. Knowledge is the food of the mind.

Trigonometry

Today, we began trigonometry. Strangely, although not surprisingly, I fell in love with it. The perfect angles, the right triangles, the beautiful sides. Strangely, I understand.

It's so simple, so straightforward, so understandable. Every triangle holds only 180 degrees. A right triangle always follows the same laws. Every set of three sides can only form one triangle. No tricks.

Words, on the other hand, words are liars. Words are emotions. And emotions are painful. With every tear shed, theres never a right answer, never a perfect thing you can say to stop the hurting. But for every equation, theres always one perfect solution.

There Used to be Honeysuckle

there used to be honeysuckle,
growing up these branches,
setting the tree afire with their golden hues.
shimmying up the robust trunks,
we were fairies,
princesses,
magic.

as the summer sun kissed our faces,
we'd bask in the chivalrous limbs,
and suck the sweet nectar
from the dainty blossoms.

there's no honeysuckle now,
and the decrepit branches,
are beaten and empty.
I do not know,
what happened,
or where
the magic
went.

Glass Cases

"Certain things, they should stay the way they are. You ought to be able to stick them in one of those big glass cases and just leave them alone." -Catcher in the Rye


There are, of course, moments that should stay frozen. People who shouldn't leave. Things that shouldn't end. Caught in a perfect moment, one could hold on forever and be happy. But once one walks away, everything shatters.

My friends are leaving, off to college on their own. I've grown as well, and lost my stereotyped baby position. In fact, I've lost my position with them as a friend at all. Things change. People change.

There are certain moments that shouldn't ever end. Like at a final show, our last night all together. Happy. Smiling. Together. Forever in a glass case to hold for eternity.

subject: your emails

Your emails.
I read them.
They were clogging my inbox.
I feel guilty, as though I read something of someones that I shouldn't have.

How can it be that I was you, just years ago? You complained, you whined, as young girls often do, crying out for attention in the worst of ways. You're everything that annoys me. The words are not even mine. I don't remember them. And yet, I know them. They are the words of everyone else.

Cuz.
Lol.
Kewl.
Ur.
Like.

They're not even words. They were your attempts to fit in. To be, to sound, like everyone else. And for that, poor darling, I'll never know who you really were. Years later, I'm all I know of you. I cannot say who your real friends were. I cannot say how you dressed, what you liked, how you talked. You've left me with words. The words of everyone else.

I'm disappointed in you, poor darling. I wish I could say you were better than this. But you where just like everyone else, weren't you? Struggling to fit in. Don't bother, dear child, for I know you. It never happens. But you'll find yourself soon enough.

-You

breathing theatre

the air sits heavy, undisturbed, pregnant with a thick, sleeping energy
as the door pulls open, the air spills out, pouring and washing over the same
walking through the isles, i can feel it beginning to move around me, my fingers drifting in the ripples behind me
as i climb onstage, the air whispers to me secrets of the past, as though it still holds all the music and pain that has been thrown into it
it harbors secrets from the audience, the booth, the lights, the world above the catwalk
i breathe deeply, taking in the familiar essence in silence
the bell, the shocking shrillness pierces the surrounding deepness
running down the isles, i feel myself slipping from the drafty fingers
the door falls behind me, sealing off the world i know
and with another deep breath, i cast myself off into uncertainty

Thigh Fact

A recent Danish study shows that people with thighs less than 24 inches around face a higher risk of heart disease and premature death, even if their BMI is normal. Not only do model-skinny thighs mean less muscle mass (which means the body is less able to regulate insulin levels), but some scientists hypothesize that thigh fat acts as a "metabolic sink", flushing the blood of harmful triglycerides (which raise your risk of cardiovascular ills). -O Magazine

Obedience

"Obedience is as basic an element in the structure of social like as one can point to. Some system of authority is a requirement of all communal living, and it is only man dwelling in isolation who is forced to respond, through defiance or submission, to the commands of others. Obedience, as a determinant of behavior, is of particular relevance to our time." -Stanley Milgram, Obedience to Authority



And so begins Milgram's report on his experiments on our obedience to authority. Stanley Milgram, a psychology professor at Yale University, became deeply interested in the Holocaust, writing, "Gas chambers were built, death camps were guarded, daily quotas of corpses were produced with the same efficiency of the manufacture of appliances. these inhumane policies may have originated in the mind of a single person, but they could only have been carried out on a massive scale if a very large number of people obeyed orders" -Obedience to Authority. And so, in order to answer his own questions, he created a series of experiments, the first of which in July of 1961.
The experiment itself consisted of an experimenter (E), the test subject, who believed he was playing the teacher (T), an actor playing the role of the learner (L), and a generator with switches, starting at 15 volts, and increasing by 15 to 450 volts, accompanied by labels, warning from "slight shock" to "DANGER: severe shock". The "experimenter" was dressed in a white lab coat, representing the authority. The study claimed to be one on memory, and the "teacher" was instructed to read word choices to the "learner". If a wrong answer was given, a shock was administered, and for each wrong answer, the voltage increased by 15. The "learner" was in a different room, but could still be heard by the "teacher". Initially, the learner answers correctly, until he begins to give increasingly incorrect answers.
At around 75 volts, the teacher begins to hear whimpers and sounds from the learner. At 150 volts, the learner begins banging on the wall and screaming for the experiment to stop. Soon after follows pleads that he has a heart condition, that he's going to die. From 300 volts onward, the learner refused to answer anymore, and what is heard can only be described as an agonized scream. Throughout this, the experimenter continues to encourage the teacher. If the teacher refused, hes ordered to continue. If he continues to refuse, the experiment is halted.
Suddenly, at 345 volts, the screams stop. In fact, all sounds from the learner stop. The teacher is only told that silence counts as a wrong answer, and he must continue to electrocute the learner.
Thankfully, the learner being an actor, the screams were prerecorded, and there were no real shocks. The teacher, however, was unaware. Even so, Milgram found that nearly 70% of the teachers obeyed, administering up to 450 volts. In another version, Milgram has the learner in the same room as the teacher, and the learner is electrocuted through touching a shock plate. When he refuses the continue, the teacher is ordered to grab his hand and physically force him to touch the plate. Even more hauntingly, 30% of the teachers still administered the full voltage.

Why is it that they followed what they thought to be authority so blindly? Later interviews revealed that they had taken the blame off of themselves, placing in on the experimenter, claiming it was his fault, that they had been forced. But when it really comes down to it, whose hand flipped the switch?

Full Streaming Dead Dream

full streaming dead dream
drop black wild eye in weed garden
leave moon flower between concrete fish
wander off for leaf harvest
whispering light shivers on ice wall
watch skin sleep on still waters
melt winter dandelion blossom
autumn thunder above
hot mushroom roof
see the purple rust

Ninth Grade Meets Poetry

"Poetry is a deal of joy and pain and wonder, with a dash of the dictionary." -Kahlil Gibran

She sits at the front of the room, unbelieving. The class remains silent. With a sigh, she rubs her temples and repeats herself, "None of you actually read poetry?"
"I do!" I want to scream, "I do!" I want to tear the dog eared anthology from my backpack, with pencil thoughts in the margins, sticky notes pointing to the most intriguing words, and throw it on her desk. I want to gush about Emily Dickinson, to recite and analyze "I'm nobody, who are you?". I want to, but I do not. Instead, I bite down hard, forcing myself into acting out the same blase fatigue as the rest of the class.
Without a response, she sighs again and opens the book in front of her. Her voice fills the room.

The Lanyard by Billy Collins
http://www.billy-collins.com/2005/06/the_lanyard.html

I found myself lost in the beautiful language, in the paradox of "ricocheting slowly off the blue walls" and the comparison of the gift of life to the gift of the lanyard. We were asked to analyze it, to find a meaning. After a long pause, a girl in the back row offered an answer, "It means like, we can't ever pay back our parents, you know?" A silence ensued, and when nothing else was given, it was taken.
"We can't ever pay back our parents?" That's the only meaning she found in The Lanyard? Not only is that directly stated in the poem, its described as a "worn truth"! The meaning of The Lanyard, dear reader, is not directly stated in it. No, the meaning rests in the final lines, the confusion and guilt with which he admits that at the time, he was "as sure as a boy could be/ that this useless, worthless thing [he] wove/ out of boredom would be enough to make [he and his mother] even". In frustration, I resign to saying that the Ninth Graders know not, for whatever be the meaning, it remains locked inside the words, like Frost's snowy woods or Cumming's grasshopper.

Secrets

I can't hear her, and I can barely see her in the dim auditorium, but the fury in her eyes is clear to me even across the room. I'm almost glad I can't hear the words she's mouthing. I'm not sure I'd want to. It shouldn't be this way, but I guess I deserve it, in a twisted sort of way. I turn my head to face the ceiling, where the walls stretch out into a metal web of acoustic architecture. The tears well up in my eyes, until they spill over, caressing my cheeks, leaving gentle streaks across my face.

I told her secret.
No, I admitted the truth of her secret to those who already knew.
I told her secret.
I told her secret to protect her.
I told her secret.
I told her secret to her best friends.
I told her secret.
She should have been the one to tell.

Even since she decided to leave the high school, things changed. There were promises. Pinkie promises. We promised not to grow apart. We promised not to replace our friends.
We've been replaced. We are no longer.

Later in rehearsal, I stumble over to another. A friend. Without speaking, the tears start again and I lean my head on his shoulder. He steps away. He steps away and stares at me as I stumble and fall. He walks away. And I'm alone.

Blindness

The air is warm with laughter, and the floor littered with clothes and makeup. Sprawled throughout the room, we trade jokes, secrets, and stories, paying no mind to the threats of the clock and impending separation. The room is so clearly a reflection of its owner, the youngest of us, and certainly the one with the biggest heart. Her arms are always open, and her innocence creates for her an incorruptible hope. Freckles dot her face, and her beauty carries with it an infectious charm of happiness. If I know but one person who can light up a room, it's her. Knickknacks line the shelves, a bonsai tree sits on her nightstand, a remote control car under her bed. Colorful books in every corner, a closet brimming with eccentric socks. The wall is layered under posters, mainly animals, and a picture or two of her family or friends.

Perhaps the most interesting part of the room is the animals. At first, they seem to be almost part of the room, but closer, nearly everything is alive. A large tank on the right is filled with sand, currently empty, as its usual inhabitant, a bearded dragon, has fallen asleep on my shoulder. A similar tank contains the opposite, sand is replaced by water, and a rainbow of fish dance inside. Another fish tank, this one with a one-eyed fish, jauntily nicknamed "Bullseye" and another, filled with snails and other little aquatic creatures. Her dog, a sandy colored imp, lies with his head in the lap of another girl, proudly displaying his battle scars from a scuffle weeks before. The newest addition is a wire cage, filled with colorful toys, and a labyrinth of a second floor she's created by hand. A white rat splatted with caramel coloring is her pride and joy, and she giggles as it scampers up her arm. A second, pure white, is sleeping in a sweatshirt pocket of another girl.

From an entanglement of drawers that she alone can navigate, she produces a bag of M&Ms and tears them open, offering handfuls to the rest of us. My eyes go wide, and her name escapes my mouth in a shriek. She spins around, confused. Horrified, I stutter about the notorious and brutal animal testing of Mars Candy and the irony of eating M&Ms with rat on her shoulder. The rest of the girls struggle not to laugh, an outburst from me about animal cruelty and corruption is far from abnormal. To them, this is ridiculous, and why shouldn't it be? M&Ms, the colorful chocolate sensations of our childhood. Mars, creator of Snickers, Twix, Dove, Three Musketeers, Starburst, Skittles. A laptop is found, Mars is googled, and sure enough, I'm right. There's endless records of cruel testing on rats, mice, Guinea pigs, rabbits, monkeys, cats, all ending in death. They still laugh at me. The M&Ms are eaten.

Through the rest of the night I watch her struggle with her vegetarianism, her love of animals and their connection to food, a connection the majority of us fail to make. She hovers for an extra second over the peperoni pizza, inhaling deeply, trying to convince herself its enticing smell is resistible. Later still, while watching a movie, I turn and look at her, her profile lit by the glow of the screen. She's not watching the movie either, instead debating with herself and a handful of candy. She eats them.

Homesick

In my new show, I only find memories of the old. This cast is awkward, cold, aloof. It's a strange new world, without hugs, no twisted family trees, and no bumping noses. Please, take me home.

Take me back to the world of twisted rituals, where we knew everything about each other, from what color underwear to favorite ice cream flavor. To where we'd live for our own craziness. Lemon teas, meditation, relaxation, where the crew in black were my heroes, and my life depended only on a moment.

Take me back to where a smudge out of place was the end of my world, a missing prop, a loose wire. Where hearts were poured into energy circles and the warm ups made you laugh out loud.

Playing mother on the shows when I wasn't performing, armed with painkillers, water bottles, hairspray, and sheet music. Everything could be falling apart, and suddenly pushed back in place with a single bobby pin.

The backstage hallway was nothing less then the artery pumping directly to my heart. Even a trip from getting miked to getting dressed was slow, for one never just walked down that hallway. One bounced from person to person, with one's arms extended. Wrapped into uncountable hugs, whispering unintelligible inside jokes and good luck wishes into uncountable ears. Simply a smile and a nose bump were heaven. My home.

Where am I now? New show. New theater. New cast. No hugs. No warm ups. No nose bumps. Please. Take me home.

Hope

The new year finds me hopeful. Gandhi once said to not lose faith in humanity, for humanity is like an ocean. Just because a few drops are dirty doesn't mean the entire ocean is. With this new faith, I dive in, full of joy and hope.

Sometimes we forget just how good it can be. It's the little things that count. Seeking perfection in the everyday isn't impossible. Family, sledding, hot cocoa, and the Three Stooges. Perfection. Live for these moments.

One of the biggest mistakes we make is with relationships. Often we become entwined in the idea that we need someone else. What we're really looking for is to be loved, inside and out, even our flaws. Nobody ever said you couldn't be that person for yourself. Love yourself. Inside and out. Even your flaws.

We've got to accept that there won't always be someone holding our hand. That's not to say someone isn't a moment away, our friends are always there to catch us when we fall. I'm learning to stand on my own two feet. If I fall, I fall, but I'll be able to say that I tried. Always strive for the best. Let go of your fear and push yourself.

For the first time in such a long time, I know I'll be ok.