Are you there?

The room is big, and beautifully lit. I sit awkwardly in the corner, anxiously pulling the hem of my skirt down over my crossed knees, painfully out of place, no matter how I try to hide behind the table. I silently curse the group guilty with abandoning me here. Loud voices bounce around the room, and I try to keep on a shaky smile. After a short while, the crowd thins out, filtering into the big room behind me. The room I'm in is suddenly empty, only a hollow beauty. My heels click against the floor if I shift my legs, loud, sharp echos.

Behind, a thick wooden door keeps me out. If I get up and walk around, I can peer in through the opening, down a long aisle, to an alter in golden and white light. A glimpse of what I'm not a part of. I sit at my little table again, my back to the closed doors.

I can hear the Lord's Prayer, and I can join in, mouthing the words to the chanting I learned mindlessly when I was young. Suddenly, a bell, ringing of a brassy dark death and eternal damnation rings out rhythmically, ticking down time to a fate I cannot place. It rings. I do not belong here.

Delete Comment

To Anonymous on Venting, of 5/6/11.

Yours is the first comment I'm refusing to post, due to the staggering amount of obscenity you chose to use. Sorry. You might want to take your own advice though, on getting a life and stopping complaining. This isn't your blog, and this isn't your problem. Didn't your mother teach you that if you don't have anything nice to say, don't say anything at all?

And no, not everyone hates me. Anyway, being genuinely loved by just one person is worth more than being hated by many. I'm going to continue writing, thank you. It's better to make waves than to go with the flow. That's how I live my life, and a part of me I cannot change. Confidence, my friend, confidence. You have my pity. I'm open to criticisms, so long as they can be constructive. Comments like yours will be deleted. 

Best of luck to you.

Oh, and since you can't seem to get it right, my name is Reagan. Thanks.

Graveyard

The world is quiet here.

I needed to slip away, and the world has given me peace, at least for an hour or two. I feel dizzyingly small as I set out, accustomed to the two dimensional world I live in, on papers, on whiteboards, on screens. Suddenly, bracing myself in 3D is exhausting. I brought my camera to help me explain that. There's a haunting calm, and I pull onto a path I haven't taken before, and from the looks of it, neither has anyone else in quite awhile. Every now and then, a bottle, or plastic, or paper, sprouts from the ground, growing among the leaves, all but forgotten, caught in a balance of death and life.

There is something in a tree ahead, just higher than I could reach. I slide to a stop, and try to land gracefully as I jump off the bike too high for me. I walk closer, until it and I are, literally, face to face. It doesn't process at first, the toothy sharp white grin. When it does, I fall backwards, and I feel my stomach clench, threatening nausea. I trip, over and over, and my mind whirls back to Lord of the Flies. The Lord of the Flies, the pig's skull, the devil, the devil. For some reason, no other studied symbolism or meaning comes to mind, just the repeated scream, the devil is staring back at me. Someone has hung the skull of a dead animal, maybe a deer, on this tree. The branch of the tree has been broken off, leaving a sharp point, onto which the skull has been impaled. Flies buzz around it, apparently oblivious, or maybe just not deterred by the lack of flesh.

The silence feels different now, the silence a graveyard, and I feel small and insignificant.

There is scattered trash, old alliances, rotting wood, stripped metal torn from old cars. A metal bathtub sits at the top of a hill, collecting algae and rainwater, and a cabinet rots at the bottom. Each comes with a story. We live in the graveyard of the memories before us.

In the pond, the geese flee the mockings of the shore. From my side of the pond, I hear the running water, the familiar honks of geese, and today, a smaller, insecure chorus of peeping. There are babies today.

The trail itself is a grave, built over the railroad that once ran there. Off the path, there are the past control switches, tall poles wrapped with wire. The numbers nailed to the bottom of the pole are of thin metal, and crumble and bend at my touch. The dead tree stands as a relic against the living.

Self-Centered Hypocrisy

"wow...i didn't know you were that self-centered and hypocritical. i feel bad for the person you wrote this about" -Anonymous, on Venting

You know the deal, I'll let anyone comment, and I get to respond to anything I don't like. 

Being self-centered refers to someone who only cares about themselves. Your comment would be applicable only if I refused to acknowledge that she had any other plans, or may have been busy, or only talked about myself. This is my blog, my post, and specifically, a post called "venting". I openly acknowledged "I get it. Everyone is pressed for time, everyone is stressed..." and "Nobody loves change. Nobody loves having new people invading such a big part of their lives. I know." I understand her point of view, and I was just trying to explain mine. 

Hypocritical refers to someone who criticizes someone, while secretly doing the same questionable action. Again, your point is invalid. I've reached out to her multiple times, I've texted, called, messaged, and she's busy. This doesn't make me a hypocrite. I'm not a hypocrite because I try to be there for my friends as often as they need me, and I'm sure there are people who can vouch for that. 

I am not self centered, and I am not a hypocrite. I'm sorry you feel I was harsh enough for her to deserve your pity. I am a girl. I have a blog. I am scared. And I feel alone. Come back when you have a valid criticism.

A Puffy Post

A post by Sara Ball

I have a confession to make. If someone had walked up to me in the beginning of ninth grade and told me that one day Reagan Henke would be my best friend, I would have laughed. She was definitely not the type of person that I thought I would be friends with. Reagan was always free to be herself, not caring what others thought, and I mean, she has an afro and wears overalls. I had never seen anyone wear overalls before. But it is because of Reagan that I am who I am today. Reagan introduced me to theater, first of all, and is the one who really inspired me. She has amazing talent. Reagan Henke will be the next Kristin Chenoweth; funny, gorgeous, successful, and loved by everyone. I have never seen anyone with so much talent. Reagan also taught me to not care what other people think and to just be you. I take that back. She didn’t really “teach” me. I guess it is more that part of her rubbed off on me. I am a better person because of her. I am not saying that Reagan is perfect. Nobody is perfect. And the great thing about Reagan is she knows that, and it makes her even more loveable. She knows her faults, but she also knows her strengths. She is confident, but not selfish. She is a beautiful person, inside and out.

It is hard to imagine my life without Reagan. She is about as good as a friend gets. On one of the hardest nights of my life, she was there for me. It was a night I will never forget, because I had Reagan, and I will be forever grateful for her. When I was in desperate need of a friend, my puff called off her dinner plans, went back home, and took care of me. We ate Chinese food, basked in the glory of Sam Nagle, and managed to keep my mind off of the crisis in my life. I’ll never forget staying up late watching school debate shows and laughing at the stupidity of it all. She is like my other half. We often say that our minds are one, because we think so alike. It actually can be kind of scary…

I wish I could go on and on about all of the memories I have with Reagan. Each one is just filled with laughter. I am looking forward to so many more.

Happy Birthday, Puff. You made it through 16 years of your life, and you turned out just fine. I love you so much.

Venting

My dear friend,
Here's the deal. I'm terrified.
I cancelled my plans to see you. We haven't caught up in forever, and I figured you could help me work through some things that you've got a ton of experience in. That's what friends do, you know?
You cancelled. Without telling me. Which isn't the first time, so it doesn't come as a surprise. You made other plans. It was great of you to invite me along, really, I appreciated it, but when the point was to be able to talk, being with your friends, strangers to me,  in a dark loud movie theater ruins that.
And hey, getting coffee together earlier instead would've been absolutely fantastic. I called you to confirm, half an hour before. But you were busy, and it "wasn't worth it." Don't you see it's worth it to me? Do you see that I'm scared?
I get it. Everyone is pressed for time, everyone is stressed. Yet you find time to bake brownies with my ex-boyfriend over the weekend. That's impressive. Don't you see that it bothers me how close you are to him? Don't you realize he hurt me? But really, I'm glad you're there for him, because that's what friends are for. Right?
Nobody loves change. Nobody loves having new people invading such a big part of their lives. I know.
But don't you see how unwanted I feel? I feel alone. I feel scared. Can't you see I need you?

Debating Religion over Ice Cream

"Do you believe in God?"

The three of us sit, somewhat disheveled, around a small circle table in the middle of the store, our fluorescent oasis from the rainy darkness outside. Mist has formed dewy droplets in our hair from dashing across the road, and a monotonous buzz from the lighting fills the otherwise sleepy space. The passing glow of headlights from the intersection outside the window and an occasional noise from the back room is all that exists to suggest we're not completely alone. Rain dribbles down the glass with gentle spatterings, and we eat our ice cream slowly. The sprinkles on mine are large and pastel, and taste like childhood and nostalgia.

"Of course" and "I guess so" sound back at the same time. There is a pause for ice cream before we continue, a contemplation and savoring of both flavors and ideas.

As for me, I guess I used to, I have a vivid memory of coming home from Sunday School when I was very young, after a lesson on how God is always watching you, and will always be there. I made a pile of pillows in the middle of the floor and buried myself under them all until I was sure I'd disappeared from reality entirely. I remember giggling from my hiding place, knowing that even if nobody else in the whole world knew where I was, God was watching, God was there. I'm not sure when I stopped thinking that.

I'm not sure if that makes me an Atheist. No, I do believe I'm a Christian, though I'm not quite sure of anything, really. I sit in silence, and take another spoonful of ice cream. This time, it tastes like childhood nostalgia and sadness.

Wishing on 11:11

You cannot make just one wish as you glimpse at 11:11 and be done with it, for then conflict arises if you happen to glance back before the next minute. To wish properly, you must wish as long and hard as you can. Stare at the clock, the corner of your screen,  your phone, iPod, wherever you find the time, and wish. Sixty seconds is not a long time. So spend it all as heavily as you can, take the excuse of the numbers to wish, just for sixty seconds. Channel every nagging wish, every longing, everything you want into those sixty seconds. Whisper it out loud, if only just to yourself. Let yourself get crazy near the end, let simple wishes bloom out of proportion. And of course, the 1's look like candles. Blow them out.

Hum.

Hum, he tells us. Close your eyes. And we do, a room full of 230 or so singers, humming with heads down and eyes closed. Hum.
There is a note believed to resonate with the universe. Something about leftover vibrations, or black holes. The universe is supposed to hum, though much lower that we can hear. Its a sound that's supposed to connect us, a harmony that brings together all of life and reality.
A university in California, he says, played this across campus for a week, day and night. They wanted to make a difference, see if it made anyone nicer, reduced crimes, made anything better. The choir keeps humming as he talks. The hum of the universe. Hum.


But crime rates were not lower. People were not nicer. Maybe a sense of unity was the only thing changed. If we could all stop trying to be so different, so contrary and pugnacious, and just connect, maybe just once, in our basic humanity, to realize that we're not so different, maybe then things could change. We are all human. Resonating with the universe.

This time, he says, when you run out of breath, let it go.

Samoas

How to start a blog post? "It was a dark and stormy night..." suggests my partner in crime, author of My Own Kind of Blue. With nowhere to go, and nothing to do, and an insatiable craving for girl scout cookies. So, we attempted. In the end, I deemed it enough of a success to share here with you, though the fact that I share my failures as well is slightly less than promising. We figured it consists of a shortbread cookie, carmel, coconut, and chocolate.

1 cup sugar, 1 cup butter, 2 1/2 cups flour. Simple enough. Cream butter and sugar. Add flour. Oh, do remember that a cup of butter is worth two sticks. That was mistake number one.

Bake for 45 minutes at 275 degrees. Not 375, which was mistake number two. Our first batch burned horribly.

We made the recipe again, which was, evidently, poorly written, because we included an extra half-cup of flour meant for dusting the table. Mistake number three. Cross multiplication came in handy, we adjusted the other amounts, and finally got a decent batch. Roll out the dough, cut into pretty shapes (we used a cookie cutter and a melon baller to get a neat little design). After baking, bump up the oven to 375, and spread shredded coconut on a baking sheet, just until it starts to brown. We managed this on our first try, so it can't be too difficult.

We unwrapped a bagful of carmel and melted them in the microwave. This part we don't have down yet, because it ends up too chewy. Which I guess is mistake four, but we didn't bother to fix it.

I figure it should be tried with heavy cream mixed in, so if anyone finds a way that works, let us know. Cover the cookies with carmel, coat with the coconut, and drizzle with melted chocolate to your liking. They come out halfway decent.