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, well...you 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.

.Lily

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? 

.Lily

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!”.

THE END

~

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,

.Lily

Magic*

Dear reader,

I am glad for this place where I can come and get away from the routine of life for a little while. I have had a week as busy as I am sure yours has been, but this poem got me through. Louisa May Alcott’s name inspires fond feelings in me. Stumbling across this poem, I was reminded why. Read it and see if you feel too:

---  Fairy Song  ---

Louisa May Alcott     

The moonlight fades from flower and tree,     

And the stars dim one by one;     

The tale is told, the song is sung,     

And the Fairy feast is done.     

The night-wind rocks the sleeping flowers,     

And sings to them, soft and low.     

The early birds erelong will wake:     

'T is time for the Elves to go.      

O'er the sleeping earth we silently pass,     

Unseen by mortal eye,     

And send sweet dreams, as we lightly float     

Through the quiet moonlit sky;--     

For the stars' soft eyes alone may see,     

And the flowers alone may know,     

The feasts we hold, the tales we tell:     

So 't is time for the Elves to go.      

From bird, and blossom, and bee,     

We learn the lessons they teach;     

And seek, by kindly deeds, to win     

A loving friend in each.     

And though unseen on earth we dwell,     

Sweet voices whisper low,     

And gentle hearts most joyously greet     

The Elves where'er they go.      

When next we meet in the Fairy dell,     

May the silver moon's soft light     

Shine then on faces gay as now,     

And Elfin hearts as light.     

Now spread each wing, for the eastern sky     

With sunlight soon will glow.     

The morning star shall light us home:     

Farewell! for the Elves must go.  

http://www.public-domain-poetry.com/louisa-may-alcott/fairy-song-12603  

---  What did you think? Are you not glad for magic and the night?

.Lily

Refraction Update

Have you ever looked at yourself (or anything) in the water?

You were not quite the same as how you see yourself in a photo or a mirror, were you? In the mirror, your image didn't bend and wave and change nearly as much is it could in the water.

"Refraction" has me thinking about the way I see things, especially in the story. When I look up the word, the scientific definitions boil down to one thing: change. There is change in the way something looks because of the change in what it passes through, even though its essence is still the same.

That is "Refraction" at the moment. James, my protagonist, is forming...but also changing. He has a semblance of his original self, but the tiniest event in my day alters his shape. And that is good. Because a mirrored view is really very one-dimensional to me. But a watery image, though refracted, is deeply true to life.

That is what I am hoping for as I write this story.

.Lily 

Ordinary

Once upon a time, I had a long week. It was this week. Tuesday was a celebration of the ordinary and was the best day of my week. But it feels like a whole week ago, rather than just three days ago. I could just tell you that I woke up, ate my bowl of cereal, brushed my teeth while thinking about writing “Refraction”, forgot about my first class, arrived late for last two, did the first of several workouts that a friend and I have planned, then collapsed in exhaustion before 9pm. And I realize I did just tell you all of that. Ordinary, right.

But I have heard it said that the extraordinary can’t happen without ordinary and that you have to find that “extra” in the ordinary. That is what I am trying to do for “Refraction” right now. The way I look at it, it doesn’t hurt to find the “extra” in my Tuesday either. It is probably harder to see it in a made up story if I am not able to see it in my own real one, right?  

So, Tuesday. Hmm. Well, that workout? I felt muscles and fibers of my body that I don’t think I have ever been aware of. I still feel them. It is as if when I close my eyes, I can see joints and ligaments bend and twist and flex so that I can move and accomplish almost any physical task I please. It looks like white hot pain right now, but it makes me think of what an amazing machine the human body is. Whether you think a god did it, or primates and time, it is quite...extraordinary.

Now, “Refraction”.  

.Lily  

P.S. Oh, you thought I would tell you the extraordinary in “Refraction”? Not yet, my reader. You will experience it when the story is complete.

Sterling Opportunities

Do you know what it is like when life or providence or the universe sees fit to bless you with just the right thing, at just the right time? I do. 

Yesterday, I had the chance to listen to Sterling Anderson, a seasoned Hollywood screenwriter, break down everything from his experience, process and beginnings, to the practical exercise of actually writing a screenplay for movies and television, including things like how an interesting scene is written and proper notations. It is quite fascinating, even for a novelist. 

As I listened, I couldn't help but notice how experience tempers ego. It was clear to me that this man knew what he was talking about, but he did not have an odor of pride. He understood what it feels like when you tell people that you are a writer and their lips smile while their eyes Say "Poor sap." Or the need for a companion who will let you have your six hours in your writing den without questioning your marital fidelity. 

Most of all, though, he reminded me of the dedication I need to have in order to finish a story. Sterling doesn't go back on a draft, correcting or contemplating. He just gets it out. The permission to do that honestly feels like a relief, although I don't really know who was stopping me to begin with. He also really does spend six hours a day in his writing space, whether he writes anything or not. I won't lie and say I am anywhere near that consistent. I don't even think I stick to fifteen minutes a day very well.

But better late than never. And better now than later. 

All of this has come at a really good time, considering I have my own short story to write. Refraction, like all of my life, will be a training ground for the next and the greater. 

Hopefully it will be entertaining to you too, dear reader. 

.Lily