Showing posts with label nostalgia. Show all posts
Showing posts with label nostalgia. Show all posts
Wednesday, January 1, 2014 | By: Brianna

The New Year

Today, I stumbled upon my prompt box.  The one with the pretty strips of paper all folded up and full of interesting prompts upon which to write.  Well.  Things to think about writing about.  Because you know what, I'm going to end that sentence with a preposition...and everyone's going to like it.  So there.  Anyway, I pulled a prompt:

"Turn to an entry in your journal or diary from a year or more ago.  What has changed and what has stayed the same since then?"

Naturally, that brought me to look at this beauty from a little more than a year ago.  As far as attitudes go, I'm pretty much in the same place.  I relish the idea of growing old versus growing up because it makes my brain hurt in a not quite unpleasant way.  And I wholeheartedly agree with Past Brianna that I would much rather grow old.  There will be no growing up here.

As far as life goes, this time last year, I was living in Florida.  I was packing my bags to get ready to come back to Illinois.  I had no job prospects, and no idea what I was going to do with my life past move into my childhood bedroom in my parents' house.  I was newly single, I was irrationally bitter, and I knew that I was going to miss the support and friendship I found in my flatmates.  I had also just finished off a tiring week of work, and was excited to get to a more normal work schedule for my last week.  I was also writing angsty and/or conflicted poetry, some of which turned out well.

This year, I still (unfortunately) have no idea what I'm going to do with my life.  But today I'm at home in Illinois temporarily because come Saturday, I will be driving back out to Nebraska where work has taken me.  I have a job, I have my own place to live (rent-free), and I have excellent co-workers who I'm looking forward to getting to know even better during the next couple months of 2014.  I'm staying in touch with the majority of my flatmates, as well as classmates from college and high school.  I'm just finishing up a relaxing week of rejuvenating "at home time" and there's a part of me that's itching to get back to Nebraska.  Today I find myself irrationally optimistic when I'm not choked with terror, and making Shrinky Dinks, because that's what a 23 year old does with her free time in her childhood home before she gets back to her "big kid job."  Though I can't classify under a specific heading or genre...I'm still writing poetry that echoes way too much of my current life experiences.

My one conflict with my past "journal entry" is that though I agree with it and want to put it into practice, I'm currently in a job that requires me to act a mite bit older than my true age...because I manage college students.  And I'm no longer a college student, so I can't buddy-buddy with them.  So I find it more difficult to not grow up, or to do justice to my desire to never grow up.  I wouldn't say that I think my soul has died and I'm now an adult, but I will say that I can't run around coloring on walls with crayons or rolling around in the snow in front of my Nebraska home.  Frustrating, yes.  But I'm sure the universe has its reasons for putting me through this.  (Oh gosh, that sounded a lot...I don't know, but I'm leaving it because I'm too lazy to find a way to re-phrase.)

Onward to create more Shrinky Dinks!

Happy 2014, let's make this one a great one!

"When you grow up, your heart dies."
Thursday, July 18, 2013 | By: Brianna

Painkillers

"I haven't seen one of those in forever," she said, smiling and pointing at the neon orange and cream bead gecko I had attached to my car keys.

I stopped fumbling in my purse for my wallet and the correct change for my Tylenol and looked up to smile back.  I explained that I just found the gecko buried in a closet, but I loved it, which was true.

"I used to make those all the time," she continued, taking the ten dollar bill, the only thing I had in my wallet under twenty and above one.  She was quick about ringing up the change and handing it over, not even glancing at my penguin boxer shorts or the pink and white socks I had chosen to wear with my black clicky flats.  "Have a good night!"

I pushed the door open and left the building, shaking my head.  At 1:30 in the morning, this woman was not only awake, but smiling as she worked the front counter of a gas station and served nacho creations to the night owls in town who made comments about how a "pog would really make my day right about now."  As I turned the key in the ignition of my beat up mini van, I shook my head, still awestruck that I hadn't been judged for my strange apparel, my appearance in a gas station well after daylight hours purchasing only painkillers, or the fact that I was quite clearly not from around here.  Pulling up to the parking spot labelled specifically for me, I thanked whatever guardian angel had chosen to watch over me on this not-so-great night, sending me someone cheerful, positive, and even a little nostalgic.  Because just as much as the Tylenol, that was something I needed.
Tuesday, June 25, 2013 | By: Brianna

What Can I Do?!

Today I'm trying to clean my room and bring the rest of my things down into the dungeon, and I found this list folded up in one of my desk drawers.  This is the exact order of this list, and I haven't changed anything past the title.  I may have been on to something here...

What can I do?!
- actor
- writer
- librarian
- stage manager
- set designer (scale...)
- lighting designer (possibly science...)
- director (stage/screen)
- historical consultant
- dramaturg (I don't know what this is...)
- mime
- French translator
- teacher (eh?)
- playwright/screenplay writer
- pirate/sailor
- something GS related
- Creative Writing Teacher
- professor
- speech writer
- waitress
- book shop owner
- Disney worker (imagineer?)
- worker at the Renaissance Fair
- governess
- nanny (like Mary Poppins!)
- professional turtle tosser/letter writer/ (galactic) hitchhiker
- journalist (or not...)
- zoo keeper
Friday, May 3, 2013 | By: Brianna

Easy Street...

This morning, I watched an episode of Glee because I was behind.  I'm all caught up, except for the episode that I missed...last night.  Because of reasons unknown.  So the last episode I saw was Lights Out.

Not only did I cry when Santana rediscovered her inner child and admit that she's trying to figure out what she wants (because heck, I can relate), but I also marveled at Coach Sue singing "Little Girls" from Annie.

I was in Annie once.  Back in elementary school.  Sixth grade, to be exact.  I played Lily St. Regis.  Don't remember who that is?  Take a look at this clip.  Kristin Chenoweth, the blonde in the pink silk?  Yeah.  That was me.  In sixth grade.


For those of you unfamiliar with Annie, the basic premise is that there's this orphan, see?  She gets adopted by this fat cat from 5th Avenue.  But Miss Hannigan and her swindling brother, Rooster (along with his new gal, Lily St. Regis), figure they can make Annie's life miserable and also get some money out of the fat cat in the process.

Lily's one of the villains.  As a rule, it's always more fun to play a villain than it is to play the hero.  Because villains are significantly more interesting.  The hero has to be all pure and stuff, but the villain, well, they get to laugh maniacally and torture small animals.

I don't know if you noticed, but Lily's also a total hooker.  I knew this in sixth grade.  I'm not sure how I knew this, but I did.  I ended up wearing a boa that shed feathers EVERYWHERE onstage and off, these killer black boots with pointy toes, and a drawn on beauty mark.  Over my real beauty mark.  It was definitely the best thing ever.  I also attempted an accent and tried to sound like Kristin Chenoweth.  I don't know how well I did, but I do remember improvising a line that pissed off Miss Hannigan because well, you never learned Lily's name, and I thought that that was a major oversight of the script writers of Annie Jr.

Speaking of Miss Hannigan...the girl who played her was in my class.  She had a killer voice, but she also got stage fright.  For some reason, at that time, I didn't really have that problem.  I'm not proud of it, but there was a point maybe a month away from the show when I tried to convince her to hand over her part and I could play Miss Hannigan.  Because even as a little girl, I was a conniving spotlight-wanter.  Because of all that, I should probably add that classmate to the list of people who probably hated me at the time because I was implying that I could play her part better than she was playing it even though sixth grade Brianna just thought she was being nice and doing a favor for a friend by letting her off easy and taking on the burden of a larger role myself.  I honestly don't know what in my little sixth grade brain told me that that was okay to do.  Given the chance, I would love to apologize for being a jerk, though I probably wouldn't have the guts to do it.

On the bright side, I've grown up, and though I would still kill to play Miss Hannigan, I'm not too fond of the musical she comes from.  Maybe it's because I spent WAY too many months listening to the soundtrack on loop or going through my lines in sixth grade.  Or maybe it's because if I ever got back into theatre and landed a part in Annie, I would have to reconcile the fact that I'd probably be upstaged and outshone by a little girl and a dog.  Yup.  Because that's how that musical works.

Happy Friday!  [this is when Brianna realizes that it's Friday and she could have read a poem.  Oh well...]

"Leapin' lizards!"
- Annie
Monday, April 29, 2013 | By: Brianna

Stars and Fishing

I remember a time when I wrote all my poems on time.  That was a good time.  When did I become such a slacker?

Yesterday I went to a poetry slam put on by my friend's library.  I say it's her library because she works there, not because it's her local library.  Just to be clear.  I read a couple poems that I had planned on reading, and then all of a sudden no one wanted to read after me.  I felt bad, but at the same time, I also felt kinda awesome because I killed my performance on those two poems.  Luckily, my friend whipped out her memorized Shakespearean sonnet.  And then I ended up reading again because PEER PRESSURE!  But I had a ton of fun!  It helped that there were a handful of people who complimented my poems and my reading of them, so that just made me feel all around awesome.  [this is when Brianna realizes she should purchase a thesaurus]

The poem snippets for yesterday that I wrote today came from a quote which turned up in a conversation with a friend last night (I'll bet you can figure out what was said...).  He might punch me for stealing it...but you know what...too bad.  And then the poem for today was because there were so many fish poems at the slam yesterday and I realized that I haven't written a fish poem.  And this poem also led me to learn that when I start stories about my childhood, I may start talking about "me" or "I," but then I eventually shift into "we" and "us" because I did just about everything with my little brother.  Interesting...

April 28, 2013

You said that
if all the stars aligned
and circumstances changed,
we could talk about it.
But you're forcing the stars
into this position
and pulling celestial legs
overhead
when all you need to say is:
"I want to."


You're forcing the stars
into this position
on your pantry shelf
because you already
hung the moon
on your doorknob.
I'm not saying
you can't tack the sun
to your corkboard,
but leave some warmth
for the rest of us.


You're forcing the stars
into this position
and Tom Cruise
is not a fan.


April 29, 2013

When I was little,
my grandpa took me fishing.
We stood on the pier,
and Grandpa held out
a styrofoam container
full of grubs.
I cringed
when the little white things
squirmed in the sawdust.
Grandpa speared the grub
and curled it around my hook.
I closed my eyes.
My favorite part was casting,
flicking the hook
out into the water
and listening for the plop.
Then reel it back in
before the bite.
Cast and reel.

"Writers fish for the right words like fisherman fish for, um, whatever those aquatic creatures with fins and gills are called."
- Jarod Kintz
Saturday, April 6, 2013 | By: Brianna

I'm on Fire!

My very first poetry professor said that if you're ever stuck and you can't think of something to write, consult your "materials."  Typically, this is your childhood.  I was thinking about that earlier today because on my way home from a spectacular amateur comedy show, I was talking to my friend about how I used to hang out in a fire house when I was little.  My grandpa was a fireman, and my dad used to take me and my brother over there to visit with him while he was on duty.  It was pretty neat, and weird because I hadn't remembered that that was a thing until last night when I said, "Oh right, I did that..."  It's strange to me that you can forget that you remember things and then you re-remember them.  Anyway, so that's where today's poem came from.  It's more of a collection of some of the memories that I was thinking of, but it could be refined and used.

And I didn't even talk about Barney or Striker, the dogs in the fire house!  I don't think I knew Barney, but I swear Striker was pretty old when I met him.  Or maybe he was just a really laid back dog.  He was not, however, a Dalmatian.  Fun fact.

Also random note, I woke up and have random lyrics stuck in my head.  Not a whole song, just the same lines over and over: "There'll be times you might leap before you look, there'll be times you like the cover and that's precisely why you'll love the book."  Thank you, Ben Folds Five, for "Do It Anyway."

April 6, 2013

I sat on the lap
of a firefighter I didn't know
in the front seat
of Engine 124,
my 8-year old hand curled
around the cord
for the air horn.
Once tugged, the red monster
released a mighty bellow.

I remember eating popsicles
while I learned to play Solitaire
on the only computer
in the fire house.
Sometimes the popsicles were good,
other times the dye
tasted like chemicals
but I ate it anyway.

Dad never let us slide
down the fire pole
from the hole in the ceiling,
instead, he lifted us
over his head
and let us drop from his height.
So he could catch us
if we lost our grip.

"The funny thing about firemen is, night and day, they are always firemen."
- Gregory Widen, "Backdraft"
Tuesday, March 26, 2013 | By: Brianna

Advice

Q:  Hey, so what's up?

A:  Not much, just hanging out with people who are younger than me.

Q:  Oh yeah?  Can't find too many friends your own age, eh?

A:  You have no idea how severely unfunny that is.  In fact, these teenagers are actually pretty cool.  I've known them for a while.

Q:  So what's up with the title?

A:  I'm getting there!  Sheesh!

Last night I was giving advice to a friend.  Specifically, I was giving advice to a teenaged friend about boys.  Via text message.  While I was sitting in Baker's Square with a friend who I've known since high school.  Because I'm incredibly rude.  (I'd say you probably wouldn't believe how often I text other people when I'm out with real people...but like I said, you probably wouldn't believe it.)  Anyway, I'm not saying I know a lot, but I have good instincts, and I care about people.  So that's where all my texting was coming from.

My friend who I was eating pie with made the observation that I've been doing this for a long time.  I almost wish that I could have asked him dubiously what he was talking about, but I already knew what he was saying.  I've been collecting friends and surrounding myself with people who could benefit from my advice.  In high school, I "adopted" freshmen, and in college, I was adamant about wanting to work in a first year hall as an RA.  And now that I'm out of school, I'm helping out with my local Girl Scout troop.  My friend made the comment that I can be the "cool and hip" adult person in old TV shows that picks up the main character from the police station, gives them a lecture in the car about responsibility, and then the credits roll.  I immediately thought of Full House.  But I'm not really sure I can be Uncle Jesse.

This realization isn't really something that should come as a surprise to me.  It's just something that I do, kinda like breathing.  And obsessively checking Facebook even though I know that nothing interesting could have happened in the span of five minutes.

So I find myself thinking that this is something I'd like to do with my life.  In The Future, maybe.  I want to be able to give people advice, or help them when they're struggling with something.  And I think that's what draws me to residential life at universities, because I had such a great mentor while I was at school, and I'd like to serve as the same type of person for another student.  When I say I want to "help people," this is the capacity in which I want to help them.  I want to get on their level or be able to say, "I've been there," or "I care about you" and mean it.

And this is when I realize that this tendency toward "mentoring" the young is exactly why people think I would make a good teacher.  Not just because of the formal teaching aspect that would come as a function of my own knowledge and studies, but because I could also be that teacher that the students could confide in.

I'm not really sure where this takes me, but I do know that self-reflection is a big part of the job search.  At least, that's what What Color Is Your Parachute? tells me.  Because I'm a nerd.  Not the point.  Anyway, I'm sitting here thinking about it, and residential life just seems to make more and more sense.  It just feels like it could be a natural extension of the person I already am.  Hm.

"I always pass on good advice.  It is the only thing to do with it.  It is never of any use to oneself."
- Oscar Wilde
Tuesday, March 19, 2013 | By: Unknown

Something Old: Eden's Diner


AMIE
An entire book in one week.  That’s unbelievable!

CLANCY
(mumbling under AMIE’s comments)
It’s impossible.  Insanity.  It can’t be done.

AMIE
Any idea what you’re going to do?

CLANCY
No. (sits)  I have nothing.  It’s impossible.  A WHOLE book in a single week?  (Rests forehead on the table)  Nothing’s coming to me.

AMIE
That’s called writer’s block.  Nothing ever comes to you.  You always need to find a “muse.”  But you’re just stressed out.  And you can’t write about nothing.  Why don’t you write about…a writer with writer’s block?

CLANCY
 (rests chin on the table, after a pause)
That sounds oddly familiar…But you know I can’t leave my protagonist alive at the end.

AMIE
He could kill himself.

CLANCY
No.
(forehead on the table)

AMIE
Alright.  Then why don’t you write about that murder that happened recently?

CLANCY
What murder?

AMIE
Didn’t you hear?

(REPORTER enters, and CLANCY isn’t really paying attention.)

REPORTER
This just in.  (mouths words) of (mouths)  Publishing Company has just been found in his office with several bizarre stab wounds in his back.  No word yet on possible suspects or the weapon used in this murder, OR when it could have occurred, but we will keep you updated.
In other news, theatre students from Loyola Academy---

AMIE
(cutting off REPORTER.  REPORTER exits.) 
It’s either that one or the one involving the cat.

CLANCY
 (chin on the table)
 I wouldn’t know which one to pick.

AMIE
You should definitely go with the backstabber.  (Gestures vaguely.) There seems to be a lot of explanation needed for that one.

CLANCY
(Pause)
And the cat murder is self-explanatory?

AMIE
(shrugs)
It’d make a good story.  Use your imagination.

CLANCY
You sound like a kindergarten teacher.  It’s impossible.  I could never pull it off with so little time.

Pause

Well, what are you going to do?

AMIE
I’ve got a couple ideas I’ve been tossing around.  I’m just worried about where you’re going to find inspiration.  For the sake of competition, of course.  I mean, I hate to beat you without you even trying.

CLANCY
 (Sarcastic)
 Of course.  I’ll think of something.  Possibly.  Maybe I’ll find something under “inspiration” in the yellow pages.
Saturday, March 16, 2013 | By: Brianna

A Saucy Tale (well, sort of)

When I was in Florida, there was a time when I was scheduled to work for hours long enough that would require me to eat two meals in the break room.  Usually lunch and dinner.  Being the optimistic sort that I was, I decided that packing a lunch would be beneficial because there wouldn't be enough time to go to the cafeteria and I really didn't want to eat out of the vending machine for meals, that sounded like a spiral of sadness that would just never end.

So that meant peanut butter and jelly sandwiches.

Because I'm not really a fan of putting together cold cut sandwiches, far too much effort.

If I was going to pack multiple PB&J sandwiches, I would want some variety, right?  At least, that's what I figured.  I don't eat grape jelly.  It's weird.  And I'm not a fan.  Strawberry jelly all the way!  But that left the question of how could I possibly bring variety to a peanut butter and jelly sandwich?  The answer was clear: raspberry jelly.

Fast forwarding to my departure from Florida, I had a nearly full jar of raspberry jelly.  Somehow it found its way into the hamper with my sweaters and my hats.  And that was how a jar of raspberry jelly traveled unrefrigerated from Florida to Illinois.  By car.

I'm sure it was a really thrilling ride for the jelly because I spent the majority of it either singing along with the radio or crying uncontrollably, and I know how sensitive jelly can be.  Its hearing, of course.  Pretty sure I missed a couple notes in my singing those days.  But being stuffed in with sweaters and hats and random plush animals, the raspberry jelly must have had a grand old ride home to Illinois.

And when we got home, the jelly was abandoned in that hamper for a good week before I remembered that it existed.  And that was how a jar of raspberry jelly sat in the front room of my parents' house, unrefrigerated, until I remembered that these things are supposed to be refrigerated.

So now there's a jar of raspberry jelly, nearly full, in the refrigerator at my parents' house.  I suspect that either my family members know that I forgot about it, or they don't eat raspberry jelly for the same reason I don't eat grape jelly.  Because they think it's gross.  So I can't help but pity the poor jelly that didn't do anything wrong, and is just sitting there in the refrigerator door, waiting to be put to some use.  I smeared some across a slice of soda bread the other day, and I haven't died yet, so I'm thinking the time of unrefrigeration didn't actually cause any damage to the jelly.  That or jelly is so full of preservatives and fake things, it doesn't really matter in the first place whether you keep it in the refrigerator or not.  OR that the house is so cold that it was close enough to a fridge in and of itself.

If this jelly is really one of the most dramatic things that I brought with me from Florida, maybe that's why I've been disinclined to twist open the cap and eat some.  Because what if I have flashes of memories of peanut butter and raspberry jelly sandwiches in the break room and get hit with a sadness of missing that time?  I hardly think that this is even remotely possible, but it distracts me from feeling writer intimidation which isn't even close to being related to what I was saying at the beginning of this sentence, but you know, sometimes the sentences need to be let off the leash to run away from you.

And let's not talk about how there's no strawberry jelly in the house.

"When the tide of misfortune moves over you, even jelly will break your teeth."
- Persian Proverb
Saturday, December 22, 2012 | By: Brianna

Half

Today is my half birthday.  Considering I'm over the age at which we answer the question of "And how old are you?" with "I'm seven and a half," you'd think that I wouldn't really care or even remember that it's my half birthday.  In fact, the sheer fact that my real live birthday will be in six months should be terrifying because I'm getting old.

But the fact is that right now I don't really mind getting old.  Right now I'm more worried about growing up.  And I know I've written about this multiple times because it's a constant concern, but I'm going to write about it again because I feel like it.  And the number of people who read this blog will be thrilled that I'm writing and everyone else won't be effected, so blah.
Recently I got a Christmas present with the theme of "growing up versus growing old."  And I've decided that I'm significantly more okay with growing old.  Mostly because it's only a matter of time before I can say, "In my day, we didn't have all those new-fangled gadgets and gizmos..."  Because that's really one of my main desires in life.  So this gift had little things that remind me what it's like to be a kid and actually play because there are these boredom buster cards and these story dice.  You know, I could probably post a picture...

Look at this really awful picture!  Yay!
Alright.  So we've got the deck of boredom buster cards which are brightly colored and beautiful.  The story cubes which are going to be a ton of fun to play with.  The picture frame to illustrate our friendship, and Barbie: Island Princess to remind me of good times had while watching cheesy Barbie movies.  All packed into a box that reminds anyone who's remotely familiar with Harry Potter of the letter from Molly Weasley to the Dursleys.  Basically this package made my day and filled me with happiness.

Because let's face it.  As life goes on, I'm going to be writing my very own story.  Whether it be the story of my life, or the fictional accounts that I write on this blog, or poetry.  And sometimes I'm going to need some inspiration.  And even then "adult life" could still get boring, so I'm going to need some way of combating that boredom.  Through it all I'm always going to have the friends that mean the most to me and who stick with me.  And sometimes I'll just need to laugh and remember what it's like to be a true kid instead of just a kid in an adult's body.

What it all boils down to is this: I may be growing older, but I sure as hell am not growing up.

“All children, except one, grow up. They soon know that they will grow up, and the way Wendy knew was this. One day when she was two years old she was playing in a garden, and she plucked another flower and ran with it to her mother. I suppose she must have looked rather delightful, for Mrs Darling put her hand to her heart and cried, ‘Oh, why can’t you remain like this for ever!’ This was all that passed between them on the subject, but henceforth Wendy knew that she must grow up. You always know after you are two. Two is the beginning of the end.” 
- J.M. Barrie in Peter Pan
Thursday, June 14, 2012 | By: Brianna

Is This Ironic?

I don't know how many times I've gone through the story of my writing history, but I do know that I know it like the back of my hand.

All through grammar school, we were required to do something that was called Young Authors.  It's where you write a story and have your mom type it (because what 6-year old can type?), and you illustrate your own story.  You have to figure out how you want to set up each of the pages and you create a cover page and all that, and sometimes you even write an "author's biography" if you're feeling extra creative.  Needless to say, I always loved this project.  In 3rd grade we started having an outside teacher come in and take us from our regular class to teach us creative writing.  3rd through 6th grade creative writing was spent in a circle in the lunchroom where we read stories aloud, "recalled" what we had read the previous week, and doing writing exercises that resulted in story beginnings or full stories.  I don't remember if we ever had to re-write any of our stories, but I do remember that we had to finish a couple and turn them in.  Well, we turned a lot of them in, but--never mind.  At the end of 6th grade we had individual conferences with our creative writing teacher.  I still remember my conference because my teacher told me that I had a huge vocabulary for my age and that it was probably from all the reading that I did.  Oh how I wish that was the case now.  She also told me, "All things in the world have already been written.  Bad writers borrow.  Good writers steal."  Which I still use as my mantra.

In 7th and 8th grade, I was at a different school.  There was one English class that had us write stories for our vocabulary words, and needless to say, I always managed to write really creative stuff.  Considering it was a generally loathed assignment.  At least, by other people.  Put a lot of my creativity into my class projects, and that's about it.  Oh.  But I almost forgot.  In 7th grade, during our speech class, the head of our little middle school decided it would be a good idea to bring in this creepy poet man to teach us poetry.  I immediately hated writing poetry.  Mostly because this poet man was super creepy and overdramatic, and I wrote horrible, awful, terrible poetry that the head of our middle school actually thought was good, how wrong she was.

In high school, I did a lot of theatre.  So I wrote scenes and one act plays.  Generally considered myself a fiction writer because of my loathing for poetry.  I kept a notebook in my backpack at all times and used it to jot down ideas and words and the like.

Senior year of high school, I took a creative writing class because I had room in my schedule.  When you take creative writing, you usually have to write poetry at some point.  I hated it, but I took pride in my ability to write poetry from the perspective of a backpack or weird things like that.  That's when I wrote a love sonnet to a book and my teacher liked it so she suggested I submit it to our arts magazine.  It got published.  I didn't think it was a big deal, I hated poetry and I wrote fiction.

College, and I entered undecided as far as major but spent the majority of my first year finding things that allowed me to say, "This is why I should be an English major."  So I declared an English major and took a creative writing class.  Guess what?  Had to write poetry.  Really didn't like it, though I wrote a couple poems that my professor really liked.  No idea why.
Sophomore year, I took a fiction class in the first semester and wrote a really awful story about a juggler and pickles, but the rest of my stories were pretty decent and well received.  Thought I would take a creative non-fiction class in the spring and couldn't get into the class, so ended up in Writing Poetry.  After class registration I spent the rest of the semester complaining and moping that I would be forced to write poetry and how much I would hate it.  Then I liked the professor and she actually got me thinking about poetry.  Took myself WAY too seriously at the beginning and wrote an awful poem about a photograph, but then loosened up and wrote about lawn flamingos.  Left the class liking poetry significantly more than before.
Junior year, I took Stand Up Poetry and the Lyric Essay, both more poetic than traditional fiction.  Loved Stand Up, iffy on Lyric Essay, did really well and wrote some awesome things.  (Yes, I'm modest, whatever.)  Spring semester, I took a short story cycle class with the same professor I had written the juggling pickles story for.  He told me to "Let the Real Brianna write."  No idea what that meant, still no idea now, had a major identity crisis, produced a lot of shit fiction.
Senior year, I started the Poem-A-Day Project to keep me writing and took a re-do of Writing Fiction so I could write more fiction.  I'd like to think that I wrote better fiction in that class than I did in the short story cycle class...but who knows.

Point being, somehow after loathing poetry for about four years, I established myself as a poet on campus.  I got poetry published in our literary magazine, I performed poetry at open mic events, and with the Poem-A-Day Project I got people who knew me talking about my poetic pursuits.  After considering myself a fiction writer for approximately forever, I've become known as a poet, and I don't know what to call myself.

I'm flattered by the idea that I can call myself a poet and that other people do.  And generally "poet" is significantly more romantic than "fiction writer."

My biggest problem has now become the question: am I a one trick pony?  I've talked to my friends who are writers, and the general opinion is that you're usually good at one or the other: fiction or poetry.  After years of believing that I was good at fiction, I'm not really ready to admit that I might not be anymore.  Can you really just lose an ability to write decent fiction?  Or is it that I'm surrounding myself by people who will forever be able to compare my fiction to my poetry?  But would it really be fair if I asked someone to judge my fiction without reading my poetry?  I don't like thinking that I have to choose.  I don't do decisions, and I don't like being boxed.  I don't want to have to say, "Oh, I write only poetry in free verse that involves lots of similes and sometimes smatterings of concrete imagery."  Do you know how small that box is?  I can't even turn around in this box.  Just thinking of this box makes me want to scream and cry and tear carpet squares into tiny bits of fluff confetti.

What I'm saying is: Now what?  How can I convince people that I'm equally good at both?  Or how can I reconcile the fact that I'll never be as good at fiction as I am with poetry?  Do I have to?  Or can I delude myself into believing that I'm the Grand Master of Awesome as far as writing goes in any form?

"Poetry is prose, bent out of shape." - J. Patrick Lewis
Saturday, September 3, 2011 | By: Brianna

Use the Force

A:  I went through at least three prompts today before I could decide on something that I wanted to write about.

Q:  That's because you're indecisive.

A:  Yes.  But quiet, you.  Did you really want to hear about my first job?  Or "something you've always been good at"?  I didn't think so.

Q:  Actually---

A:  No.  So let's talk about Star Wars.

Thank you, Google!

Q:  That trilogy that you're a geek over?

A:  Well first.  Let's clarify.  Trilogy yes.  Geek no.  We discovered only fairly recently that a "geek" is a circus performer who bites the heads off of live chickens.  Though I occasionally do so in my spare time, that's hardly something I want to advertise to the populous.

Q:  Fine.  Nerd.

A:  That's better.  Anyway.

I first saw Star Wars (the original trilogy) at my grandparents' lake house.  My uncle was really super excited to show us these movies, and we sat down and watched them.  I remember sitting on the floor with my brother, staring up at the TV, but I don't remember any of my reactions or anything.  I do remember that the carpet was sulfur yellow.  If I'm not mistaken.  I was little, but I know my brother was around.  I want to say I was about eight-ish.  We'll go with that.

It was always a big deal going to the lake house, but for the sake of watching Star Wars, it was an even bigger deal.  It became part of our tradition.  We would go to the Memorial Day flea market type deal in this pine tree forest, buy kettle corn, swim in the lake with our life jackets, go on the boat with Grandpa, and watch Star Wars.

My grandpa on the other side of the family had the box set of Star Wars too, if I'm not mistaken, as well as Indiana Jones.  So my brother and I borrowed those from him ALL the time.  When the lake house was getting sold, or once our uncle got the DVD box set of Star Wars, we were allowed to take the VHS set from the lake house for our own.  And now we actually owned Star Wars and could watch it all the time at home instead of waiting until the summer when we went to the lake house.

With the Blu-ray version of Star Wars coming out soon, I'm seeing a lot of information about things that are being changed especially for that version.  I only just learned about the "Greedo shoots first" thing last year while I was writing my series of nerd poems, and I thought that was dumb.  Han clearly shot first because Greedo never shot.  I understand the reasoning behind trying to make Han a victim and his killing of Greedo a self defense mechanism, but honestly?  Part of what makes Han such a great character is that you can't tell if he's a good guy or a bad guy.  And he is a criminal at the beginning, so he would shoot a bounty hunter to save his own skin.  Makes sense.  Stupid DVD changes.  io9 explains some of the changes that are being made for the Blu-ray version.  My favorite being "No...NOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!"  Which is so ridiculously unnecessary, I don't even know what to do with it.

One of my RAs and I geeked out (we're still using that term despite the chicken thing because there's no better way to say it) about Star Wars yesterday, and it was just about one of the most exciting things ever.  Although we mourned the changes to the Blu-ray version of the original trilogy.  Which also include adding blinking Ewok eyes?  Why is that necessary?!?!  I don't understand these additions because they add absolutely nothing to the film.  I understand.  Make it HD, make it pretty, but don't change the 70s effects and don't change the Muppets, that's what distinguishes the originals from the over computerized new trilogy.  Which we're not going to talk about.

And then my friend Katie and I were having a conversation via text as she continues to compel me to "join the Dark Side" aka Twitter.  An entire text conversation featuring Star Wars references.  My life is complete.

"Luke, you do not yet realize your importance. You have only begun to discover your power. Join me, and I will complete your training. With our combined strength, we can end this destructive conflict and bring order to the galaxy."
- Darth Vader
Thursday, September 1, 2011 | By: Brianna

CRAYONS!

Brianna: I have no idea what I should write about.
Courtney: Crayooooooonnnnssss!
Brianna: O_O  Really?
Courtney: Yes.

Well okay.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

I was going to make this a free writing bit of prose, but I'm not really feeling the prose right now.  And I could write poetically, but my brain has decided to blaaaaaah.  Melt inside my skull and ooze out my nose.  Which is totally fine, since I really don't have to speak intelligently again until tomorrow.  And even that is debatable.

I really enjoy crayons.  A lot.  Before I went off to school for my freshman year, my mother bought me a gigantic box of crayons.  120 crayons, to be precise.  At least, I think that's when I got them.  Coloring has got to be the best stress reliever that I can ever think of.  For Christmas that same year of college, my friend got me a set of High School Musical crayons.  Now you would think that these crayons would have something special about them.  Like they would sing while you colored with them or yelled about "Wildcats" when you open the box.  But no.  The boxes have characters from High School Musical on them, and that's about it.  Less than stellar coloring ability as well.

I'm very picky when it comes to crayons.  But maybe it's not so much "picky" as the fact that I have standards when it comes to crayons.  None of those Rose Art crayons, give me Crayola, and that's it.

A couple years ago, I asked for a "crayon tower" for Christmas, and I got it.  BEST Christmas present EVER.  It has these glitter crayons and metallic crayons in addition to the classic colored crayons.  I'm a little upset that I got multiple white crayons and only one black crayon, because it's a fact that black is the crayon that's used up the quickest, and white...well, not so much.  So that's just silly.

Crayon Tower FTW!  :^D
Basic gist of this post?  I love crayons.  A lot.  I also may or may not have stolen a coloring book from the closet of an organization I'm no longer the president of.  I figured I deserved something to remind me of that wonderful, wonderful year.  It's a Magical Creatures coloring AND activity book!  I could hardly resist.

I've been coloring for a really long time.  My most vivid memories about coloring all take place at my grandmother's lake house.  Well, my grandparents'.  They used to have this house hours about 4 hours away from my home, and it was always a big deal when we went there because we had to stay for a long time to make it worth the drive.  The reason for having the house was so we had a vacation place, and then my grandpa really likes to fish, so he would go out on the pier and fish.  On bad days, little Brianna would color on the dining room table.  It was always SO cool because sometimes I could get my mom or my grandma to color with me.  They were REALLY good at coloring, I remember.  Grandma would always shade with weird combinations of colors, and Mom always gave the Disney princesses weird colored hair.  If I'm not mistaken, she put Belle in black and purple and gave her gray hair.  SO good.  We also played a game where you had to close your eyes and pick a color and then you had to use that color in your picture.  We always ended up with really weird looking pictures, but it was so much fun!

I still color now.  I may be a senior in college, but you know...I need a stress reliever if I can ever force myself to take time for it!  My coloring books and crayons are just within reach of my desk, so I should get on that...

A picture from November 2010.  Because I date my colorings.  :^P
"We could learn a lot from crayons; some are sharp, some are pretty, some are dull, while others bright, some have weird names, but they all have learned to live in the same box."
- Unknown
Thursday, August 25, 2011 | By: Brianna

Oh What a Night

Q:  Whatcha doing tonight?

A:  Homework.

Q:  Really?

A:  No.  Not really.

Tonight I'm going to a meeting for Lyrical Graffiti, the poetry organization on campus.  They organize poetry slams and open mics and they get poets to come and do shows on campus.  All around it's a pretty exciting group.  Though I've never technically gone to a meeting before.

My sophomore year, I went to nearly all of the open mics that Lyrical Graffiti sponsored, and nearly every time, one of the senior members of the group would ask if I would read something.  Shy Brianna said "No, I don't have anything to read," every time.  But at open mics for Lyrical Graffiti, they send around a notebook and everyone contributes a line to the community poem.  One night that same senior called me up to read the community poem.  Which was fabulous.  I don't remember what it was about, I just remember being terrified by the prospect of getting up and standing behind that microphone.  It wasn't until May Term, or maybe it was the very end of spring semester that I finally (willingly) got up to read a poem.  That senior introduced me as the girl who came to every open mic and who FINALLY had something to read.  That was one of the most spectacular experiences ever.

I've read my poetry aloud a bit more often, but I'm still a little shy about a couple of my poems.  And when I mean a couple, I mean one.  It's titled "Nerds Do It By the Book" and it's about (you guessed it) nerd sex.  So when I was writing it for my Stand Up Poetry class last year, I wouldn't read it aloud until the show we were required to do, and even then...I was still absolutely petrified.  And then at the writing conference at the end of the year I read it again.  So it's only been read aloud by me twice.  I've heard rumors that it's been read by other people aloud...but I haven't been there so I can give no credence to those rumors.

In short, I have a history with this organization.  Even though I've never actually been to a meeting.  We'll see how that goes.

AND I also have a brainstorming meeting for International Clue Night.  If you've ever played CLUE the board game, it's kind of like that mixed with CLUE the movie, and all in real life.  In it's simplest form, it's a murder mystery party.  This year I'm helping to write the script for the second year in a row.  I'm really excited because I had so much fun writing last year, and I'm hoping that this year I'll be able to act.  All I really have to do is write a part that's perfect for me, right?

Q:  Thanks for telling me your life's schedule.

A:  You're welcome, you asked for it.

Q:  Isn't this blog supposed to be for creative writing?  That wasn't even creative.

A:  Sure, yes, it is.  I don't have anything to say to that, really.

Q:  So I win.

A:  For now.

--------------------------Edit-----------------------------

So I fail.  I was so excited about Lyrical Graffiti that I didn't read the e-mail correctly.  It's not until next week.

"Poetry is to prose as dancing is to walking."
- John Wain
Wednesday, July 27, 2011 | By: Brianna

Rule Breakers

Q:  Have you ever broken a rule or a law?  Did you get caught or did you get away with it?

A:  The simple answer?  Yes.

In my high school, we have the student handbook as part of our planners.  Of course, being the person I am, I found it amusing to read the student handbook on certain days when I was really bored.  I found out that "shoes must be worn at all times while in the building."  Now I really like socks.  I kid you not, my favorite article of clothing is socks.  (Is?  Are socks...?  Hm.)  Anyway, I decided then and there that that rule would have to be broken at some point in my high school career.  I talked about running down the hallway in rainbow toe socks throughout my high school career, but I never got around to it until my senior year of high school.

It was May of 2008.  I think.  And two of my friends and I ran down the hall in our socks.  Take that, Loyola!  We are rebels.  What can I say?

That's me in the middle.  Tie dye and rainbow toe socks.  Classy, eh?
And then there were my pennants.  Pink and orange pennants that I shouldn't write a blog post about.  Because the authorities are probably still looking for me about those...

"Any fool can make a rule, and any fool will mind it."
- Henry David Thoreau
Saturday, June 25, 2011 | By: Brianna

Uniformity

Q:  Have you ever had to wear a uniform to school?  (Thank you, 100 Random Questions!)

A:  Yes.  For seventh and eighth grade I went to this "Academic Center" for smart people.  When we tested in, they told us we were gifted.  I still don't believe it, especially based on the caliber of the students that were in some of my classes.  Let's not talk about it.  This Academic Center was part of a larger high school which wasn't the best high school in the area.  In fact, it's safe to say that the high school has a bad reputation.  So the entire school had a uniform, including the Academic Center.  We had to wear white collared shirts (either polos or just plain button downs) and dark bottoms.  We could wear dark dress pants or jeans.  And we could also wear skirts if they came to the knee or lower.  But we couldn't wear capris, which I found weird.

Oppressive uniform to keep us in line.
Thanks, Google!
This high school also had metal detectors at the entrance to the school, including those fancy little conveyor belts that the airport has where you had to put your backpack every morning.  It was a real pain.  We also had to wear our IDs around our necks, and if we got caught without our ID on...well, then we got to go to detention.  I never had to worry about that.

Then I got to high school.  I swore I would never wear a white collared shirt again, but this high school had what was called a "dress code."  Not necessarily a uniform, but a "dress code."  Which I still maintain is the same thing.  We had to wear THE polo from our school which came in a variety of colors.  There was also the difference between the old logo and the new logo, both of which featured a cross of sorts because we were a Catholic school.  Kind of.  We could only wear pants.  Dress pants with no patch pockets.  My freshman year that meant that you could wear all sorts of wild colored pants as long as they didn't have patch pockets.  The rule evolved, and we were only allowed to wear: black, khaki, stone or blue pants.  What's stone?  I would guess gray.

That's me on the right from senior year.  Though my hair's covering the logo on my polo.
You have no idea how difficult it was to get this stinking picture.
So yes.  Uniform for a long time.  Six whole years.  At my high school, you could also wear hoodies and jackets if they had to the school logo on them.  Otherwise, you'd get asked by the Dean to put your sweater away.  Even if it was really cold.  Yeah.  You could also wear t-shirts if they were from school sponsored events, but you had to wear a polo underneath.  Which got a little warm...but you dealt with it if it meant you could wear a better shirt!
Wednesday, June 22, 2011 | By: Brianna

Birthdays and Dreams

Q:  I have no questions for you today.

A:  What?  Really?

Q:  Well.  Go ahead and write something.

A:  Fine.  Well.  Last night, I had a really strange dream.  I was walking up and down the hallway of my building at school, the floor that I was in charge of during last school year.  But something was wrong because there were papers strewn about everywhere.  I remember thinking that I needed to check the floor lounge while I was on my round, but there isn't a floor lounge in that building.  Somehow in my dream I knew that there was and I didn't question it.  When I opened the door to the floor lounge, I was smacked in the face by this absolutely horrible smell.  It smelled just like vomit, and I looked around to find a bunch of papers all over, and trash...and when I looked down I found a puddle of vomit that I had just avoided stepping in.  It was just over the threshold.  And then I woke up.  Thank goodness.

Today is my birthday!  I've decided that that's going to be my answer to every question today.
1:  What did you do today, Brianna?
2:  It's my birthday!
1:  So what did you eat for dinner?
2:  It's my birthday!
1:  What do you think about world hunger?
2:  it's my birthday!
I woke up to the traditional door decorations that my mother put up at I have no idea what hour of the night.  There's a poster that says it's Brianna's 21st and "She's a shotglass of sunshine!"  Mom and I made up that saying I'm not even sure when or about what.  We may have been thinking of random band names, and that was the best we came up with.  We liked it so much that we never forgot it.  

My mommy got me this ring:
Thank you, as usual, Google!
It was in a box with a balloon attached to it and when I saw it I smiled.  I still can't stop smiling!

My dad took me to Charles Schwab to do something with money and stocks and retirement.  I didn't really understand it, but the lady at the counter just kept saying "God forbid something happens to you..." or variations of the same phrase.  I've never heard "God forbid" so many times in one twenty minute period.  It was awful.  Then we went to the DMV to see if we could get me a new license, but because of the power outages in the area, they were closed.  Luckily, Dad took me out to lunch where this attractive young man with tattoos and piercings put together a gigantic corned beef sandwich for me as well as one for Dad.  We decided that we probably should have ordered just one sandwich to share, but we hadn't thought of it.  Ah well.

And then I picked up sticks.  Because it's my birthday!

We're having French toast because it's my favorite, and I'm helping to make it because I know how it's supposed to be done.

And I have come to the realization that though I have gotten quite a few birthday wishes via Facebook and other means of communication, my own brother who lives in the same house with me has not wished me a happy birthday.  The real realization is how much I care about it and how much it hurts my feelings.  Who knew that two words repeated practically to meaninglessness could be so important depending on who they come from?  Go figure.
Sunday, June 19, 2011 | By: Brianna

A Post about Dad

Q:  Memories about you dad?

A:  Is that really a question?

Q:  Not really...can you answer it anyway?

A:  Well alright, as long as you admit it.  Sure, I'll answer your non-question.  (Anyone who's creeped out or disturbed by my talking to myself raise your hand now...)

My dad's a heating and air conditioning service man, so I remember going on "service calls" with him.  Dad would drive his fire engine red truck to the house where he needed to repair things or talk to the people who live there, and he would always have cashews or corn nuts in little cans between the two front seats of the work truck.  So of course I would snack on those while we were driving.  I also remember playing with magnets that Dad kept on his glove box.

We would also visit Dad's friend in the suburbs.  I would sit on the floor and try to coax any number of the eighty bajillion cats in the house to come and let me pet them or play with them, but because all cats seem to be afraid of small children, I never had much luck.  I remember Dad's friend having a poster from "CATS" on the wall, and one time when we were over there, they were watching "CATS" on PBS.  It was really a perfectly complete picture.

Usually when we were on our way home from a service call, sometimes just me and Dad or with my brother too, we would stop at 7-11 and Dad would get us Slurpees.  It was tradition.  We knew that if we went on a service call with Dad, we would get a Slurpee.  It was an absolute certainty, and may or may not have been a big part of why we went on service calls.  I remember mixing the Coca-cola flavor with the cherry, and sometimes getting whatever new and strange flavor that was there.

Once when Mom was out in California visiting her bestest best friend, Dad took us to Build-a-Bear.  Now, I'm pretty sure we were a little old for Build-a-Bear, seeing as I might have been 15 at the time, making my brother 12, but we had an absolute blast.  I made a wizard teddy bear and 15-year old Brianna was convinced that it would be a good idea to put one of those "noise boxes" in my teddy bear's leg, so every time I cuddle with my teddy bear and I roll over in just the right (or wrong) way...my bear will make magic noises. Depending on who's in the room, it can be either a wonderful conversation starter or really embarrassing.

Though I don't have a picture of "Magic," this bear's too cute to miss!
Thank you, Google!


And though I'm pretty sure that Dad and I don't have too much in common, I still love the guy because he has my best interests in mind.  My junior year of high school, for Spring Break, Dad took me to Arizona.  Just me.  We hung out, Dad did work at the property that he owned down there, and we went to the zoo and a couple of other fun places.  We also took a tour of Arizona State University, which I dragged my heels through the entire time, because I "wasn't interested in going there."  We got a little lost when we were on our way to see ASU's production of "A Comedy of Errors," but it was a fantastic show, so it made up for it.  Dad and Shakespeare apparently made a truce that night and Dad laughed along with me at all the best parts.  I think that was my favorite outing with my dad.  One can only hope there'll be more!

"It is a wise father that knows his own child."
- William Shakespeare
Wednesday, June 8, 2011 | By: Brianna

Teachers

First off, before I answer any questions, I'd like to make the observation that summer has successfully helped me forget what day of the week it is, the date, and what I have to do on any given day.  Luckily, I don't have anything too pressing to worry about, but all the same.

Q:  Who was your favorite teacher in elementary school?

A:  I had three.  In first grade, I had Mrs. R (names have been changed to protect the innocent and everyone's privacy).  She was the sweetest lady.  I just remember loving her class.  She encouraged me to write, and when I told her that I wanted to write a story, or become an author, she was the first person to say "Hey, you can do it!  Just practice!"

For third and fourth grade, I had Mrs. V, because I was in a "split class" which meant that half the time she would teach one grade something, and the other half she would teach the other half.  If that makes any sense. And then there must have been certain projects and assignments that we all did, because I remember it working fairly well.  Well Mrs. V was also super sweet.  She was this little older lady, and once I hit sixth grade, I'm pretty sure I was taller than her.  I remember those two years being really difficult with my friends  because we were always fighting.  I'm not even sure about what, but people were always fighting, and we always had to go out in the hall with Mrs. V and figure things out.  It was weird that I was out there so much because I always thought I was more quiet than the girls that were really fighting fighting, but I was involved in some way because I remember going out there.  After I left her class, I don't know for how long, but I remember journaling back and forth with her.  I would write her letters in this notebook and leave it in her mailbox in the office, and she would reply and do the same.  She just always made me feel special!

For fifth and sixth grade (split class again), I had Miss F.  Now Miss F had a reputation for being a tough teacher.  Everyone in the school knew who she was because she was tall, and she had this curly red hair that she always pulled back into a low ponytail.  Her class was supposed to do a ton of projects, and rumor had it that she wasn't very good at teaching math.  Those two years I remember vividly, well, kind of vividly because I did all sorts of projects from a presentation on Egyptian food to the Medieval Banquet (for which Miss F was famous because everyone looked forward to doing it) to burning a paper goat as a sacrifice to the Greek gods, to two years worth of the wax museum in the lunch room (one year as Sara Knight and one year as Augustus Caesar).  We did SO much when it came to history and I loved it.  I loved coming up with interesting ways of presenting the material, and I loved showing up everyone when mine was super creative.  Those years were also the first two years of the school play.  In fifth grade, we did Wizard of Oz and in sixth grade we did Annie Jr.  I was told by some gossipy older girls that Miss F (because she was the director) favored the students that she had had in class with regards to the casting, which might have been why I got to play Lily St. Regis in Annie Jr.  Didn't bother me, mostly because I benefited.  Which might be wrong...but hey.

It might be because it was so long ago, but elementary school just seems like a blur to me.  I don't remember much, but those things that I do remember are mostly silly things.  I remember being on the "crossing guard," which meant that I got to wear this orange belt with a badge on it and help stop cars so people could cross the street safely on their way to school.  I had the morning shift, so I didn't have to cross an excessive amount of people.  During the winter, we could go to the gym to get hot chocolate from the gym teacher who was in charge of the crossing guards.  Sometimes we brought our hot chocolate to our classes, and all the other kids in our classes were jealous.  Some of us got to be on the color guard for assemblies, so that was a big deal.  I got to be a guard for one of the flags, but I had to help the girl who carried the American flag because it was super heavy.

I remember playing silly games, mostly playing pretend (creating a band or being a group of witches, or playing Harry Potter characters) or four square or sometimes jumping rope.  Or tag, I loved tag.

On the rainy days we had to stay in the auditorium, and sometimes they would play a movie, but I don't remember anyone actually watching the movie because they never played anything good.  We usually turned around in our seats and talked to each other or passed notes.  Oh passing notes...

I remember in fourth grade I developed my first crush on a guy who was two years older than me.  Which I kept mostly a secret.  Okay, I told my friends, but that was about it.  I remember sending him a candy-gram or whatever the elementary school equivalent was, anonymously in sixth grade because I really had nothing to lose at that point.  And when you're little, you really don't know what to do with your liking of someone.  I remember I got to go to the rehearsal for eighth grade graduation that year, and I'm not sure why.  It might have been because I was on color guard.  But I cried so much because I had a bunch of friends who were graduating that year, and it just felt like the end of the world.  Eleven years old, and I was convinced that the world was ending at that very second.  I remember walking through the empty hallways to get back to my class, and one of the boy crossing guards who was also an eighth grader but not the guy that I liked stopped me and asked me what was wrong.  I explained rather quickly because I had to get back to class, but then he asked if I wanted a hug.  Me being the not very touchy-feely person that I was in sixth grade nodded pathetically even though it was out of character, because I needed a little comfort.  And that is still one of the best hugs I've ever gotten.

Our old librarian retired at some point during the time when I was at school there, and her replacement was evil.  I was sure of it.  But even though I absolutely hated her (because she was evil), I sucked up to her, and through some strange miracle, she liked me.  At least, I think she did.  It was pretty much amazing.

I remember the ladies in the front office knowing who I was, and I remember being in the front office quite a bit, though I was never there to see the principal.  So I'm not exactly sure why I was always there.  I just remember sitting on that bench that was set into the wall and staring over the counter at where these ladies worked.

I remember the younger kids lining up to come into school on the side of the building, and the older kids lined up in the back.  I remember they used metal detecting wands on our backpacks a couple times during sixth grade, but I was never really sure what they were looking for.

I remember saying that I would miss all my friends from elementary school while I went on the middle school at a different school and they stayed there for seventh and eighth grade, but I remember losing touch.  It was just one of those things that we realized that we didn't really have much in common any more.  And now that I think about it, I think about the way our lives have diverged so much that it's weird that we were together for those short years.  That we grew up partially together.  And just look how different we are.

"I've been making a list of the things they don't teach you at school.  They don't teach you how to love somebody.  They don't teach you how to be famous.  They don't teach you how to be rich or how to be poor.  They don't teach you how to walk away from someone you don't love any longer.  They don't teach you how to know what's going on in someone else's mind.  They don't teach you what to say to someone who's dying.  They don't teach you anything worth knowing."
- Neil Gaiman
Saturday, May 21, 2011 | By: Brianna

Pirates or Ninjas?

Q:  So.  Pirates or ninjas?

A:  Okay, so.  Back in the day when Pirates of the Caribbean first came out, I couldn't care less about pirates.  I knew about the whole skull and crossed bones thing, the raid, pillage and plunder thing, the wooden leg, eyepatch and parrot thing, but that was about it.  I had been on the Pirates of the Caribbean ride at Disney Land a couple times, and that's still about it.

I didn't even want to see the movie because I thought that it would be super creepy.  I'm not really a fan of scary movies, and when I saw the trailer while at the theatre for another movie, the whole "not really dead" skeleton thing was a little much.  I was pretty much convinced that I would have nightmares if I saw the movie.  Somehow, that must have passed, because I went to see the movie in theatres.  And I pretty much fell in love with it.  When I met one of my best friends from high school, I learned that falling in love wasn't nearly as crazy as you could get when it came to Pirates.  She had dressed up as Jack Sparrow for Halloween, owned multiple t-shirts sporting skulls, wore hoop earrings every now and again, and planned on getting an Aztec gold coin someday if her brother could swing the cost to purchase a replica.

Being around her made me a lot more excited about pirates in general.  So I picked up books that were about pirates or had pirates in them.  I'm pretty sure I read about half a dozen books about pirates during that phase of my life.  All fictional, of course.  But I also Google searched so I could learn about the Jolly Roger and other pirate flags.  (Did you know that each pirate captain had his own signature flag?  But they didn't fly their colors unless they were about to take a ship.)  I took quizzes which told me what my pirate name would be.  And I anxiously awaited the second movie after it was announced.  I did not, however, go to see The Pirate Queen when it came to town, I drew the line there.  Even though it looked like a decent show, I was iffy about it, but I digress.

In short, all through high school, I would answer your question with "pirate."  Actually, up until this year, I would unabashedly answer with "pirate."  This year, however, one of my residents is training me to be a ninja. I suspect that she hopes to convert me from piracy, but pirate is in my blood, mate, and she'll have to square with that some day.  Perhaps on the day when I advance to full ninja level, my true pirate nature will reveal itself.  Or hopefully not.  Because if it doesn't, I can use those ninja secrets so I might become a pinja.  Or a nirate.

The short answer is "pirate."  Because I know even less about ninjas.  I haven't read anything about ninjas, and yes, they're pretty amazing, but I'm not impressed.  Ninjas are assassins, if I'm understanding this correctly, but pirates are the rebels of their time.  Sure, a good deal of them died out from scurvy or were run through with a rusty cutlass, but they dedicated their lives to the sea.  Sometimes the sea took their lives, but it just sounds so romantic.  Yes, dirty, icky, bearded men sailing around the open sea is romantic, get used to it.  I just don't see the romance in ninjas.

Thank you, Google, for helping me find this.
Fun fact, this is actually the flag of John Rackham or Calico Jack.

P.S. I apologize for neglecting Poetry Friday, yesterday was a really hectic day what with class and my friend coming in to visit, and a staff meeting, etc.  So I might make it up this weekend, elsewise there just won't be a poem read this week.

"Pirates could happen to anyone."
- Tom Stoppard