Friday, March 25, 2016

A Series of Fragmented Events

My brain is scattered. That happens to me occasionally (read: always). I love my little creative fragments like dear children. I just wish they loved me enough to stop playing hide-seek in my mind.  

A while back, I read word of a study that said that ranting is actually not good for you. I wish now that I had given that article more than a glance. It would help me justify to myself why I shouldn’t spew vitriol about some of my classes, or express it with thinly veiled sarcasm. Ugh. Moving on.  

I see a neighbor of mine every now and then. It’s the kind of thing where we sometimes do, sometimes don’t acknowledge each other, but where I am sure that if we were to be stuck in a crucial baggage situation at an airport, we would commiserate like old comrades. It is unfortunate that it sometimes takes some kind of crisis for relationships to really start, don’t you think? I mean, my neighbor is right here, right now. What stops me from reaching out? See my last post for insight into that…  

Said neighbor’s father is going to be another set of eyes reviewing our work in my fiction writing class. Since ranting is bad for the constitution, I will refrain from recording my true feelings on the matter here (and in the unlikely occasion that he finds and reads this blog, understand). Suffice it to say that I am nervous. 

I feel like he will expect more of me because his son will have said something about me (like how unfriendly I am for not having properly introduced myself by now). I am honestly afraid that that will color his opinion of my work. This art is subjective enough without personal vendettas or preconceptions or--  You know what? I feel like I am on Tumblr right now, creating pseudo-emotional musings to justify my self-ascribed title of “artist” (disclaimer: not all Tumblr content is that. It just happens to be where I encounter it most). 

I am going to join someone else’s world now. 

Today, writing isn’t helping me move away from my nerves. My brain still feels like shattered glass. Thank the stars for fiction. And fairies.

I need fairies.


Friday, March 18, 2016

Outside Inside

Hello reader! Are you enjoying the springtime as much as I am? 

It is glorious to be able to go outside and spin and sit and just be warm. There are some particularly well-placed benches in the park nearby for me to go and jot down the myriad ideas in my head or scribble my observations on my surroundings. I love people-watching! And I love the outdoors! 

But okay, honestly I don’t really want to go outside much. After that first day of actually having a choice to be inside or outside, I’m...content. Outside is nice. Inside is too. The sun doesn’t burn my legs or blind my eyes or make me sleepy. There are no bugs. There’s a better internet connection (for all the research I am doing for when I write. Facebook is indoor people-watching). 

I think I am more in love with the idea of being outside than actually going there. Ever since my first Shakespeare analysis (Twelfth Night) when my english teacher said Orsino was in love with the idea of being in love, it has made me wonder what ideas I thrill to more than act on. The outdoors is one. I would go outside more, be adventurous more. But I am very much entertained by my own mind. You might see my body sitting somewhere, but I would be gone.

I will go outside, though. It is a good thing to do. 

“It’s time, it’s time. I’ve made up my mind. But I’ve changed my mind that I’ve made up my mind.” - The Brightest Of The Head by Starflyer59 

Actually I think, for now, I will stay inside and listen to that song. It is a really catchy song. I will look outside the window while I do it. How about that? 


Monday, March 7, 2016

Blast From My Past

Last week was long and felt to have traveled no faster than a snail, however, the weekend passed by before I ever had a chance to grab it. Sadly this means I had no chance for writing this week (that is, writing that wasn't for college). But just because I was unable to write, should not mean you must be denied the joy of reading. Thus, I have gone on a quest to find something for you, dear reader, to enjoy. I'm pleased to say I have unearthed a Jewel from my past.

As some of you know, there was a time in my life that I was homeschooled (8th grade to be precise). This was a memorable time in my life, for a lot conspired that year. The biggest being my mother finally announced cancer free. However, another (less exciting) event that year was when I wrote the following silly story.

The boredom that traps an 8th-grade mind is surprisingly a wonderful track for one's imagination to run wild. Which is precisely what occurred when I gave birth to the character of a magical hobo bearing the unpronounceable name of "Mr. Canezzle".

And now, from the young 8th-grade mind of Lily, comes the first tale of this odd character's equally strange story.


Mr. Canezzle Is a Teacher
A Short Story By: A Younger Me

Change…what a good word… Hello! Do you like stories? I really like stories. So today I have a story for you that I wrote. Now I’m sure you have all heard one of those really good memorable stories that make you laugh, cry and have an all around good time. Well, I assure you this will… NOT be one of those stories. No, this story is about you…at school.  Dom, dom, dom (Insert organ here).

Okay, you’re sitting in your English class. It’s your last class for the day before you can go home and do all that homework your algebra teacher gave you…yeah. Well, as you sit there waiting for your teacher who is already 5 minutes late for class. You begin thinking about how you can break the news to algebra that you think he should stop looking for his "X" because you don’t think she will be coming back. Suddenly the classroom door flies open. In walks a well-dressed man…well you assume his clothes were nice at one point. It also seems this man has no fashion sense on the account that he is wearing striped suspenders, a plaid shirt…and a belt?…Hold on! This man that has just come into your classroom is wearing suspenders…and a belt…with a plaid shirt.

“Hello, class” the plaid shirt, suspenders-wearing man began, “I am Mr. Canezzle, I will be filling in for your normal teacher today on the account that he has won a radio show contest to take a one day trip to the top of Mount Everest.”

You find this quite strange because your teacher is strongly agents radio, has a great fear of snow and does not like the feeling you get from going outside. Mr. Canezzle interrupts your thoughts with his nasal voice.

“And now there is something that you must know about these three pens. This pen is for grading A’s, this pen is for grading F’s, and this last pen is for writing your parents a note…it’s almost empty…now I don’t know what your teacher had planned for you today, but I assure you that what I have planned will be much more dull and blander than anything your regular teacher has ever done." Mr. Canezzle said.

Yeah, you think. Just what I need, a long boring lecture. But before you can even yawn Mr. Canezzle quickly jots down a word of some sort onto the board.

“Plethora.” Mr. Canezzle says.

 You look intently at the word now on the board. You didn’t think you spell plethora with an "I"…or an “X” for that matter. You settle back in your chair this is going to be a long class.

Now in your best interest, I have chosen to skip Mr. Canezzle’s dull class and go to 5 seconds before the bell rings, where Mr. Canezzle is still talking about “plethora”.

“After that a plethora of things will start to happen, but just so you get the gist of it; you will never wake up again. So that is why you should never mix ammonia and bleach…” The bell ringing suddenly interrupts Mr. Canezzle.

“Don’t forget what John F. Abraham said. Speak bigly and carry a soft stick, Bye, Bye." Mr. Canezzle said.

You just keep walking, after the 46th time of him quoting that wrong, you have just given up on trying to correct him. You tell the bus driver you decided after what happened in your English class you should walk instead of taking the bus. You think it will help clear your head. Now you have made it about halfway home, when you look up and you see, the heavens open, a light shines down from the clouds laminating a neon green billboard that states “With a plethora of things to do there is a way for you to make a Change” You stand there looking at this word plethora, that now seems to be haunting you. As you stand there on the sidewalk, you start to think back to your English class and the mysterious Mr. Canezzle. Then you pause “hold on just a minute, ” you think, “I’m a homeschooler!”.



There you go. A wonderful blast from my past. Who knows, maybe one day I'll post some of the other stories that I wrote starring "Mr. Canezzle". Maybe...

Until next time,