it went a little something like this...
Monday, June 28, 2010
Friday, June 25, 2010
Hurrah!
The internets! I have them in my house now! It's finicky and it doesn't want to stay connected, but at least I've got it. Now I can keep in touch with Mirror while he's away, and I can get back to all my other friends online.
The kids and Mirror are leaving today. Sad face. I'm happy for them, though, I hope they have tons of fun while they're on vaycay with their dad. I wish I could have gone with 'em...Almost. I actually kind of hate traveling lately. Might take some pictures before they go. Will post if I do.
The kids and Mirror are leaving today. Sad face. I'm happy for them, though, I hope they have tons of fun while they're on vaycay with their dad. I wish I could have gone with 'em...Almost. I actually kind of hate traveling lately. Might take some pictures before they go. Will post if I do.
Wednesday, June 23, 2010
Delayed
I've been trying to write this for a while now, but I didn't know what to say. To put it basically, I don't know my father's new phone number since he moved, and I don't have a long distance plan. Currently, I don't even have internet in my own home. So I just assumed my dad would call me on Father's Day. But it didn't happen like that, it never happens like that.
Father's are something I find people take for granted. Most father's are the hard asses in your life, the ones who lay down the law while your mommy kisses it better afterwords, but they do it in the attempt to shape you into a functional person. When you look at it, almost every psycho in history had some kind of daddy issues. Hitler and Charles Manson probably top my list for that. A lot of successful people, though, have nice, happy, normal dads. Or at least the kind that are good at pretending they are, and seem believable doing it. The point I'm trying to make, is that your dad is integral in pushing you through this life.
A lot of people never realize how much they've relied on that guiding hand until it's gone. See, I always fancied myself daddy's little girl, until my parents separated, my mother went crazy, and my dad dropped off the map. Suddenly, I was not his sole concern, as I assumed I had been. I thought when he went out trucking for weeks at a time, it was because he wanted to make money to feed me, and all the sudden, I was hungry and he wasn't there. For me, this is just another time when he's not around, and I guess I'm adjusted to it now.
But for some reason, I just wish my dad would call.
I did hear from my mom's ex-boyfriend recently though, and he's pretty much the closest thing I have to a dad. I love my adopted-geek-dad.
Father's are something I find people take for granted. Most father's are the hard asses in your life, the ones who lay down the law while your mommy kisses it better afterwords, but they do it in the attempt to shape you into a functional person. When you look at it, almost every psycho in history had some kind of daddy issues. Hitler and Charles Manson probably top my list for that. A lot of successful people, though, have nice, happy, normal dads. Or at least the kind that are good at pretending they are, and seem believable doing it. The point I'm trying to make, is that your dad is integral in pushing you through this life.
A lot of people never realize how much they've relied on that guiding hand until it's gone. See, I always fancied myself daddy's little girl, until my parents separated, my mother went crazy, and my dad dropped off the map. Suddenly, I was not his sole concern, as I assumed I had been. I thought when he went out trucking for weeks at a time, it was because he wanted to make money to feed me, and all the sudden, I was hungry and he wasn't there. For me, this is just another time when he's not around, and I guess I'm adjusted to it now.
But for some reason, I just wish my dad would call.
I did hear from my mom's ex-boyfriend recently though, and he's pretty much the closest thing I have to a dad. I love my adopted-geek-dad.
Wednesday, June 16, 2010
Tuesday, June 15, 2010
Hello From Math Class?
Next to me, is a very strange boy. His name is, for my purposes, Mappy. Mappy and I have the good fortune of being trapped in a year-long math course together. While I was browsing my own blog, checking comments, he demanded I make a post. I had to write something deep. I had to mention he was here.
And so he is. Dark hair haphazard across his forehead, falling onto the lenses of his glasses, flat blue eyes peering out in an amused fashion. He's got the tendency to fidget, it's really quite irritating, but I can deal with him. He's one of the only friends I find in this cold, unfeeling sea of faces...And he just left.
He's got a kind of lumbering step when he moves, a half shuffle as he makes his way back again. He's pedantic, he's brilliant, and he just stabbed himself with his own pen. Apparently, it hurts. Who would have thought?
There's something else that hurts. The realization that this is the last real class of my Math 10 experience, and more than likely is the fact that it's my last class with Mappy and the rest of the math class troupe, mainly Sailor, Fauntleroy and Stravinsky. (Sailor is a sea cadet, Fauntleroy is a rich brat, and Stravinsky has strong musical talent.)
Mappy says I need seventeen paragraphs. And a picture. And that I need to sketch him. But I don't think I'll do that. I think I'll leave this here, open ended and thoughtful, perusing the future of my high school career.
...I'm listening to Rite of Spring. Stravinsky. Woo.
Wednesday, June 9, 2010
Just Noticed...
That I actually had some comments. I should address those.
No, this isn't private, if it was private, I'd keep a diary under my mattress like the other girls. It's okay. You can read it. You can link to it. You can comment on it. You can love it or hate it. It's all good.
No, this isn't private, if it was private, I'd keep a diary under my mattress like the other girls. It's okay. You can read it. You can link to it. You can comment on it. You can love it or hate it. It's all good.
Bleeping Bleepy Bleep!!
So I'm doing a project on censorship in popular culture, and so far, I've learned nothing except how much I don't like it. What if I had an idea that could change the world? What if I was a revolutionary? A visionary? But what if the way I thought to do it, and the way I wrote it was obscene to somebody somewhere. What if, heaven forbid, I offended someone?
Well that would just be awful, eh?
Yeah.
You know what.
Screw you, censorship.
But that's up to you, I'm just one opinionated girl.
Sunday, June 6, 2010
This Is My Life
So, after an unwelcome surprise visit from my mother yesterday, and an hour or so of hiding in the attic bedroom, I came back to Mirror's place. We had a fun night, but today was unsettled in the house. Sister's been in a foul mood. So we cheered her up while everyone else was out and Baby was sleeping.
Never thought I'd see this!
Never thought I'd see this!
Mission accomplished.
She looks super grown up here...
She looks super grown up here...
Friday, June 4, 2010
Shoe Ninja vs. Bathtub Pirate
So, the Family has officially acquired their new dwelling, and I'm so excited. We went to see it tonight and my heart just raced! It's the kind of house I live for, so old fashioned and comfortable. The tub made me ecstatic, it's the massive claw-foot kind I left behind when I moved from my childhood home. This has been a good day.
Mirror's Room
Together with Mama and the kids, we're standing in what may be my favourite space, his new room. I'm thrilled about the view from here, but I wish he didn't look so nervous about the window. Sure, there's a little bit of space around the screen, but I'll kill all the bugs for him; I'd do anything for him.
The light in this room makes me ask myself how I could want to be anywhere else. It's the warm orange glow of a sun aching to set on a long spring day, and you can tell she's been fighting with the rain clouds too long. The aura of light catches the orange in his magnificent blue eyes. I can even see myself reflected in his pupils, and I'm smiling. We're going to make memories here.
Mirror's Room
Together with Mama and the kids, we're standing in what may be my favourite space, his new room. I'm thrilled about the view from here, but I wish he didn't look so nervous about the window. Sure, there's a little bit of space around the screen, but I'll kill all the bugs for him; I'd do anything for him.
The light in this room makes me ask myself how I could want to be anywhere else. It's the warm orange glow of a sun aching to set on a long spring day, and you can tell she's been fighting with the rain clouds too long. The aura of light catches the orange in his magnificent blue eyes. I can even see myself reflected in his pupils, and I'm smiling. We're going to make memories here.
Wednesday, June 2, 2010
Shoe Ninja
So, the reason I say I'm an orphan, is that my mother threw me out a while ago. And my parents are divorced. My dad never calls. I don't think I've spoken to him since February, and I go weeks without hearing from my mother.
But when I moved, I didn't get all my stuff. I had one pair of my shoes. One pair out of maybe twelve. And last night, it rained, hard, and walking to Mirror's from the bus, I got drenched. Fabric sneakers became completely unwearable, and this morning, they still hadn't dried.
So I called my sister, and had her leave the front door unlocked. Like a creeper I snuck into their garage, avoiding the kennels where the dogs barked and yelped at me, ducked across the floor in my sock feet, and grabbed the two pairs of shoes I could see. What I heard? A rustling. Panic, overwhelming panic. I didn't know if they were getting up, or if they were already on their way towards me. All I knew was that I did not want to be caught. Like lightning, I bolted out the door, and threw myself in the car, screaming at Grandma...."Drive! Drive!"
Yeah. I had to steal my own shoes.
But when I moved, I didn't get all my stuff. I had one pair of my shoes. One pair out of maybe twelve. And last night, it rained, hard, and walking to Mirror's from the bus, I got drenched. Fabric sneakers became completely unwearable, and this morning, they still hadn't dried.
So I called my sister, and had her leave the front door unlocked. Like a creeper I snuck into their garage, avoiding the kennels where the dogs barked and yelped at me, ducked across the floor in my sock feet, and grabbed the two pairs of shoes I could see. What I heard? A rustling. Panic, overwhelming panic. I didn't know if they were getting up, or if they were already on their way towards me. All I knew was that I did not want to be caught. Like lightning, I bolted out the door, and threw myself in the car, screaming at Grandma...."Drive! Drive!"
Yeah. I had to steal my own shoes.
Tuesday, June 1, 2010
Lalala~
Music Man
Have you ever met someone, who seemed very tall, but was actually rather short? Someone you knew was harmless, but seemed sort of terrifying? A person you couldn’t understand, but still respected? There, at the table, he looms. His wild hair makes me nervous, I think it must be that feature, because nothing else about him appears bold or unusual for this part of the world. His eye color does not stand out, I can‘t even remember what it is, his voice does not give me chills, if anything, it becomes a tad monotonous with time, and his height is remarkably unremarkable.
But that hair. Wired, crazy, curled. Wild is the best word for it, but there are so many others that could cover the appearance of this mass. He appears to be balding on the top, which makes the two lengths at the side even more shocking. Perhaps it’s the way he looks like a mad scientist, or an evil genius, that puts me in such a state of nervousness. Either way, I tense when I realize he’s noticed me looking at him, and quickly take my gaze away.
I can’t help but stare when he looks away again, I‘m just so fascinated. He’s tapping on the table that way, it’s such a beat, such a rhythm. He does it when he drives too, watching him create interesting percussion sounds off of the steering wheel is one of the most pleasant parts of my day. If he isn’t doing it, I’m worried that he’s angry, worried Mirror and I have done something wrong again. We’re always so good at being so darned bad.
I know he does musical things, I think he plays the guitar, but it’s never mattered to me. The music that matters is the improvised percussion, the way he sings snippets of songs as he works and walks and plays, a little hummed tune here and there. Looking past the hair, and looking past my fear, I know there’s a song in this man’s soul and it’s always aching to get out. Sometimes the music is too obnoxious, too raucous, and sometimes it leaves my ears ringing. Then I listen again, and it sings so soft and cool, like a stream, rushing around the ankles of children in summer.
I don’t understand the Music Man, but I can always feel his song in their house. As it runs together with the patter of little feet, the barking dog, the screeching baby, and Mama’s laughter, I smile and sink into the couch a little more.
This is what a home feels like.
Have you ever met someone, who seemed very tall, but was actually rather short? Someone you knew was harmless, but seemed sort of terrifying? A person you couldn’t understand, but still respected? There, at the table, he looms. His wild hair makes me nervous, I think it must be that feature, because nothing else about him appears bold or unusual for this part of the world. His eye color does not stand out, I can‘t even remember what it is, his voice does not give me chills, if anything, it becomes a tad monotonous with time, and his height is remarkably unremarkable.
But that hair. Wired, crazy, curled. Wild is the best word for it, but there are so many others that could cover the appearance of this mass. He appears to be balding on the top, which makes the two lengths at the side even more shocking. Perhaps it’s the way he looks like a mad scientist, or an evil genius, that puts me in such a state of nervousness. Either way, I tense when I realize he’s noticed me looking at him, and quickly take my gaze away.
I can’t help but stare when he looks away again, I‘m just so fascinated. He’s tapping on the table that way, it’s such a beat, such a rhythm. He does it when he drives too, watching him create interesting percussion sounds off of the steering wheel is one of the most pleasant parts of my day. If he isn’t doing it, I’m worried that he’s angry, worried Mirror and I have done something wrong again. We’re always so good at being so darned bad.
I know he does musical things, I think he plays the guitar, but it’s never mattered to me. The music that matters is the improvised percussion, the way he sings snippets of songs as he works and walks and plays, a little hummed tune here and there. Looking past the hair, and looking past my fear, I know there’s a song in this man’s soul and it’s always aching to get out. Sometimes the music is too obnoxious, too raucous, and sometimes it leaves my ears ringing. Then I listen again, and it sings so soft and cool, like a stream, rushing around the ankles of children in summer.
I don’t understand the Music Man, but I can always feel his song in their house. As it runs together with the patter of little feet, the barking dog, the screeching baby, and Mama’s laughter, I smile and sink into the couch a little more.
This is what a home feels like.
Blogs
Today, I read the last bit of Mama's blog that I'd missed. All I really know, is that it made me sad and happy at the same time. I know more about her, and the whole family. And I couldn't love them more.
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