Snowstorm

Trekking with camera in hand, I document the deaths of fallen trees. As though this might make it better. It doesn't seem real. It's creepily silent, hauntingly frozen. Thick cracks echo throughout, from trees straining under the weight. Power lines are snapped over and over again. Trunks block every road, piled up on our driveway. We'll be stuck powerless for days.  Nothings charged. No ones ready. The leaves are still on the trees

Opening Night

My heart pounded irregularly, in heavy, thunking beats. The queasy butterflies were familiar, but this time, they seemed to have no intention of settling. I sat on the apron of the stage in the closed house, knowing that all too soon, it'd be filled with people, and I remained shadowed in the depression and homesickness that had haunted me for days. Notes, instructions, props being set, sounds rattled from upstage and wings. It still felt uncomfortable. My head felt too light, but from dizzily low blood pressure or sheer nerves, I couldn't tell. I felt too hot, my hands clammy and gross. I rolled on my side to press my cheek on the cool, black floor and pulled my knees in feebly, to try to stop the nervous crampings.

There was a hum coming from the floor. Murmurs. Footsteps and laughter. Voices I could vaguely place. I sat back up, startled, and they disappeared. Pressing my ear to the floor, I realize it's the makeup room in the basement, sounds floating up through the floor from the rest of the cast. It suddenly strikes me that these sounds are familiar, my cast, and my friends. It's calming. I stay there, feeling at home. The voices rise, faster, panicked, crossing over each other until suddenly, it's silent. Confused, I listen more intently, but the sounds are gone, leaving just a hum of the theater.

Coming down the stairs, I hit people going up. They walk fast, purposefully. Fearfully.
"What's happening?"
"Someone's sick."

The room is frozen, some people kneeling around her, an officer calming asking routine questions. Is she nauseous, is she on medication, deep breaths. There's a murmur of "it's ok, it's all ok." Tech changes are made and quickly rehearsed, and she leaves for the health center, gone like nothing happened, leaving nothing but a shaken feeling and worry.

Ten minutes till curtain, and we stand in a circle, hands linked, heads bowed. There's a sort of religious intensity to it, as we pray, we beg some force for success, for her, for luck.  We pass a pulse through our hands and breathe together. Vital signs consist of four things. Blood pressure, temperature, pulse, and breathing. Things that keep us alive.

Mute

I'm losing my voice. Help me, please. I cannot talk the way I used to. I'm stuck in my own mannerisms, locked in my own head. Maybe it's the mood I'm clouded under. I'm losing my voice.

Four Year

They eye the four year senior steps with an anxious hope, stairs reserved only for seniors who spent all four years at the school. Next year, it'll be them. Not transfers. Not me.

I suddenly realize that I'm still the new kid, and I'll always be new. I'll never have time in between being new and senior, like all the fillings missing. Other girls have known each other for years, from their own beginnings. I'm still new. It's not my school. It's not my locker. It's still not my theater.

I feel homesick for a place that was never really my home.

Why I Do

There's a trick kids do, squeezing the fingers of one hand around the wrist of the other. Rubbing and squeezing until all the blood is gone. Your hand feels dull, grey, and cold, Suddenly, they let go, and the blood pours back in. It feels fizzy and dizzy and bubbling, like your hand is violently being flooded with life, fighting with energy and pulsing inside itself.

In rehearsal, I listen in the wings as a voice floods the stage. She hits a tender point, and her voice catches in a sob, emotion raking her throat. My heart freezes and that same tingling feeling races up my spine, making me shiver.

I don't know what it is, or why it happens. Maybe it's the thrill of performance, or raw emotion, or catharsis. That's why I do theater. For the rush of tingling dizziness that makes me feel alive.

Lost Thoughts

Whenever I have a thought, something I need to think through or work with or understand or remember, I write it down. Once it's solid, I can stop thinking about it. I keep my memory on paper. If I don't write it, I have to keep chewing on the idea in my mind, turning it over and over so I don't lose it.

My paper thoughts lie pressed on pages, caught in notebooks. Flipping through my binder in class, I find notes cramping the bottom margin of a page from last week. One is separated from the rest and underlined.

I can't read it. I must have been thinking too fast, pressing too hard, and it's just a scribble. The first word looks like "I". The second might be "hate" or "acre" or a drawing of something unrecognizable. I struggle blindly to remember what it was. Tracing it over and over again, it makes even less sense now than it did at first. Reluctantly, I give up. Whatever thought I had, whatever I was trying to tell myself to remember is locked in that scribble, and I can never have it back.

Maggie Goes on a Diet

Losing the weight was not only good for Maggie's health

Maggie was so much happier and was also very proud of herself.


Maggie Goes on a Diet, a new book aimed at young girls is a story about an overweight 14-year-old named Maggie who is teased for her weight and decides to start eating healthy and exercising. She becomes a "normal sized" soccer star, gaining popularity in the process. And yes, the entire book rhymes.

Unsurprisingly, a book encouraging dieting in girls as young as six has stirred up controversy. "Terrible reflection on our society, boycott the book. ... This is awful," cried a reader. It threatens to spark eating disorders, sending the dangerous message that happiness comes with being thin. Not to mention the risk of prepubescent girls cutting calories, which can stunt growth and height.

But unsurprisingly, I'm going to do what I always do. And argue something controversial. I support the idea of this book. This book reflects terribly on our society, but not because it's a push for weight loss in young children, because of how many children in our society struggle with obesity. Diet is too dangerous of a word, yes. Clearly, it's irresponsible to encourage a risky weight loss program for children, especially with the risk of eating disorders. Maggie's weight loss is extreme and unhealthy.

But what's wrong with the basic idea of the book? Maggie isn't starving herself, she's moving from eating foods like McDonald's to eating fruit. She starts playing a sport. Shouldn't we encourage healthy habits in children in a society so threatened with obesity? Happiness doesn't come with being thin, pretty, or popular, but setting achievable healthy goals and being happy with yourself is good, isn't it?

When young girls in a focus group were shown a picture of a group of girls their age, they immediately call out the fatter girl in the picture as being different. One, no more than 8 or 9, slides low in her chair, squirming in her white miniskirt and tie dyed shirt. She swings her feet out and rolls her eyes to the ceiling. "Chubby wubby," she singsongs, as she holds her skinny arms out like a pregnant belly. My heart shatters then. The problem lies in the fact that we believe happiness comes with a cinderella type prettiness, that we've taught, maybe by accident, to recognize and ostracize those with  different body types.

It's our fault as a society.
Maggie Goes on a Diet

Spark of Style

My dear readers, I hope you've noticed the lovely new sidebar link to Spark of Style! I even gave you a little preview of the site over here.

My wonderful friend keeps this teen fashion blog, it's well written and sweet. Makes me feel like I understand fashion. Go check it out.

Also, now she's pressured to keep it updated and current, because she's got my vote of confidence.

Lots of love,

Reagan

Having a Pulse

"Just having a pulse is different than living," they argue, "living is taking advantage of life to the fullest."

I don't have my ears pierced, and I've never sat all the way through a sporting event. I've never been to a high school dance or to a fair. I've never been on a roller coaster. I don't know popular music, I don't go to see movies in theaters. And aside from birthdays, I don't go to parties.

I think I'm alive, though I may not fit everyone's definition. Life excites me and I'm part of it, and I think that counts for something. I'm not sure what life is, or how to define it, but I don't think it's limited by standards or bucket lists. But maybe I'm wrong. All I know for sure is that I have a pulse.

Volleyball Game

"Oh, um, thanks," I mutter as I take the boastfully green pompom. This is new. I don't quite understand what's happening, or why, but I lean over the edge to see the volleyball court with the others around me. The numbers mean nothing to me.

I've never been to a real sporting event, but evidently, this one is important. Something happens, and the numbers change. There's cheering. I realize that we scored, but the hoots are quickly silenced and replaced by focus on the game before I can join in. I watch the ball, back and forth. Our point. This time I cheer.

The other team spikes, hard. Their point, and we clap politely. As the game goes on, I start to realize there's a beautiful pattern to it, an art of unspoken communication. Each team has a personality, strengths to fear and weaknesses to be exploited. There's carefully refined skill and tactic and a beautiful blood thirst. Clapping for the other team becomes somewhat nefarious as they become a real threat, and I'm screaming along with the rest, encouraging, yelling, cheering for our team with my silly pompom.