the point (and thank you)

I'm going to be honest; I haven't quite decided what to blog about. There's simultaneously so much and nothing new for me to write. This'll be my twenty-eighth blog of the month. It's possible I've exhausted all topics. Possible but not probable.

At the moment, my mind is somewhat blank and my eyes are tired. I'm only half paying attention to this post, the other half of my lucid mind is watching Harry Potter 6, simply because I haven't in a while. Feet aching from my day of walking, standing and working, I'm remembering a couple of hours ago, on my way home, at the bus stop. The sun had disappeared behind the line of trees but it was still bright and the sky smelled like the space between rain and sun. Spring.

These days, I've been living pretty short term. A day or two at a time is not my usual style but I've still managed to feel a bit refreshed, despite apparent exhaustion. I'm ready for a new month, a new birthday, the same me. I've ready to abandon blogging every day, or at least that's my official statement.

The two days I missed blogging have catapulted me into this critical stage of examining BEDA and its point or maybe the other way around. The evolution of ideas is pretty fascinating to me and I can't stop contemplating how a viral plot of Maureen Johnson's could prompt me to take on this project a third time, two years later. What was mj's goal with this whole thing? Why did people attach themselves to the idea? How did such a vibrant community spring up and then dissipate? What about this idea is worth clinging to?

I can't pin it down. I guess I'm still searching for the community that I found and loved for that one month in 2009. I'm looking to recreate the friendships and connections. I'm in want of an excuse to challenge myself while also sharing my life, opinions and voice with the world. This is another outlet for telling my story.

I'm not sure if any future BEDAs will live up to my first one. I'm holding out hope that mj will rally the bloggers and be our dynamic leading force once more, holding us together for another month of community powered blogging. Some day. As for today, I'm happy to hit PUBLISH POST to nowhere. To you. To anyone. I'm not sure what the point is, per se, but I'm enjoying the journey and that's enough.

Thanks for sharing the month with me, dear reader. You are precious to me. But not in a creepy way.

more time speculation

A lot of the conversations I have with people that I feel like I want to continue get cut off by the car ride being over and me being dropped off. That thing I wanted to talk about that didn't get brought up until the very last minute because of the mundanities of polite conversation--it gets the short end of the trip. There's that choice of hovering awkwardly while the car idles at the curb or shutting the door and probably never having the chance at that same conversation again.

Today it was about my month. I've had this crazy April. I'm trying to trace my footsteps back, recall how I got to today but there are some blatantly empty spaces. What have I been doing for the past twenty seven days? Other than blogging, I mean.

The end of April also means my birthday is coming up. This only brings my crazy nostalgia issue into further magnification. I'm only sixteen and I'm clinging to my youth. I don't want these days to end. It's not fear about the future so much as a realization about the inevitability of my demise. I don't know if that's even it. On some levels, death is like, yeah, bring it on (only not immediately, of course). But, I'll just--*thinks*--miss this.

I'll miss being naive and cast off and stereotyped. I'll miss people saying I'm mature for my age (notice that no one says that about adults). I'll miss this moment of the future being this beautiful haze of possibility and mystery and the past being nothing but an unfocused jumble of mostly happy memories that I probably misremember due to the strangeness of my human mind.

In less than two weeks, I'll be the age that Edward is forever, the age at which Harry Potter defeated Voldemort (for good), the age that seems to be the final stretch of teenagerdom. These fictional happenings that I live my life by bring into sharp contrast how much or little I've done with these nearly seventeen orbits of the sun. What's my mark?

With the somewhat arbitrary symbol of a new year before me, it's time to straighten out some priorities. You know what that means? Every morning after breakfast, I will be working my novel out. And it will be fantastic.

a blog about not blogging

The fact that I didn't blog yesterday was decisive and I wanted you to know that. There's this switch in my house, a power bar that controls the wireless router, and about twenty four hours ago, I hovered over it with my finger poses to flick. I remembered that I hadn't blogged and so I took a few steps away, intending to grab my computer from my sister and write something quickly. Then I remembered this post I read of Kayley Hyde's about the downfalls of things like BEDA (and NaNoWrimo, etc.). Contemplating a potential 'this was my day'* post, I hesitated a few seconds longer--in the dark, I will add for a sense of realism--before flicking the power off.

Why? You may ask. You've done BEDA before, as well as NaNo and even ScriptFrenzy. Why break your twenty-four day streak? You could have done it. Well, part of my brain that speaks in italics, I can't say for sure. Maybe the quantity versus quality debate started getting to me. Maybe I was just really tired. Maybe, in the grand scheme of things, it wasn't worth it to me. (If this was a test, I would say it is safe to circle D - All of the above.)

As I was walking home from the library day--when I wasn't street reading my new Nietzche book, that is--I really pondered this whole project. What is the point of disciplined creativity? Is it effective? Is it misleading? Does it help people? I don't have answers but I think it's still good to think about these things, especially those of us who are committing a chunk of time every day to spend on these projects. Obviously, I find some merit in it because this is my third blogging every month endeavor. But, I don't know, why am I really doing this?

Strangely, I don't feel disappointed. It's not like I failed BEDA. I just extended the definition of 'every day.'

*if you're disappointed by the lack of post, here is a sample of what could have been: Today I got up before 8am for the third morning in a row and learned some First Aid. After the course, I got into a semi-argument with the instructor about how she was sexist and possibly a Luddite. Fun times. Sad you missed it? I thought so.

RE: Burqa Ban

I watched this Dan Brown video last week and though I had some wispy opinions on it, I held back from responding. I didn't feel like pretending I had enough information on the subject to make an informed comment. I also didn't (and still don't) want to be preachy or judgmental when it comes to anyone's religion. But now that he's posted his response, I feel like I can say something here. Again, my intelligence on this subject is limited but hopefully this doesn't contribute to perceived insolence.


France has had an open dialog about Islamic head coverings since, as far as I can tell, the 1990's. In 2003, they banned burqas and other head coverings from public schools, stating that it was a religious expression and inappropriate for the secular school forum (crosses and other religious symbols also being prohibited). Now in effect is France's ban on face coverings in public, specifically the burqa.


Last October, I went to a session at the Vancouver Readers and Writers Festival with Sharon E. McKay. She talked gave a presentation on her book, Thunder Over Kandahar, and the research she did for it--some of which involved the burqa. She even had one there if anyone wanted to see what it was like to wear one.


Her opinion on the burqa was pretty transparently negative and since this was my first experience with the garment, it might have shaded any future opinion on the subject. Burqas limit the sight and safety of their wearers. They restrict movement, identity and the wearer's voice. And isn't the fact that only women that traditionally wear them signify some inherent male control?


For me, the issue is not a question of personal, cultural or religious expression though it would be uninformed to ignore that side of things. If there are women out there who, of their own volition, want to wear head scarves, burqas, hijabs, high heels or earrings, that is fine with me. But I'm going to continue to doubt where that choice is coming from. Cultural pressure to conform is serious and can be damaging. I'm not just talking about Muslim culture, either.


So the French president has an idea that I can believe in. He thinks that in a country with the freedom and liberties of France, it's wrong to allow male dominant culture to dictate what women wear. In his words:

"In our country, we cannot accept that women be prisoners behind a screen, cut off from all social life, deprived of all identity..."

I feel like judging these admittedly extreme actions on a surface level is kind of ignorant. Yes, it is kind of ironic that his attempt to free women from oppression involves stripping away rights and liberties, but I think it's a worthy goal. Maybe it's a misguided approach but this definitely isn't a shallow issue. You can't just analyze one side and call it a day. There's so many layers and I'm still torn on whether I agree with France's legislation. 


That's about it.

contagion

I mostly find that good art (like voting?) is contagious. You listen to that song/read that book/stare at that photo for the millionth time and it makes you want to create something, anything. It's like creativity is running through your veins, this need to make your mark, express this feeling, signal your sense of being so alive that everything is magnified.

I love that feeling. I'll probably spend the rest of my life hunting it down with a stick. Is that inspiration? Vitality? Genius? I don't know but I can't wait to find it again, bottle it up, soak in its beautifying glow.*

Today was a fantastic day. I drew some lines on the sidewalk--possibly illegally--was told off by The Church, had a free tea at Starbucks and listened to some amazing music. I plotted my Oh Wells cover band (The Oh Dears) and drove around (which, if I do say so myself, I'm getting pretty good at).

Okay, so maybe the driving around on Earth Day isn't my proudest moment. But I hardly drive around on any other day so, in the grand scheme of things, that has to even out, right?

I thought about things spreading, not HIV, but ideas. All I wanted was to draw some attention to the fact that only 37% of 18-25 year old Canadians voted in the last election or more broadly that the overall voter turnout in 2008 was the lowest in Canadian history. So I wrote some things on the sidewalk, drew some lines to the advanced polling station and hoped that maybe someone would notice. Maybe someone would catch hold of this idea that I was flinging onto street corners and change their behaviors. Maybe I would inspire someone to ditch apathy and vote.

That's all I really want to do, I guess. I'll add it to my 'To Do with My Life' List. (1. Be happy (with people who contribute to aforementioned happiness). 2. Write stuff (books, blogs, songs, poetry). 3. Garden. 4. Learn (to garden, etc.). 5. Inspire). I want someone to hear a poem or song I've written and feel that bubbling creative contagion inside of them. I want to be a catalyst.

What do you want to do with your wild and precious life?


*Am I being a tad over the top?

tension

A while ago, she says vaguely, I realized my writing had a problem and that problem was tension, or lack thereof. Sure, I can do some banter but, mostly, my characters agree with each other. If you're not gasping in horror, perhaps you should be.

I've heard speaker after speaker at conference after conference* say that writing is about tension. People aren't interested in books where everything goes along smoothly and beautifully. We want to escape the mundane. We want conflict. Plot is conflict and conflict is tense. Well, I'm trying. But the problem with inserting tension is that it's hard. It's not a one time vaccine that's quick and easy. Done poorly, it feels contrived and unnecessary. Conflict for conflict's sake? That's not what books are about. I must be missing something.

So I've been trying to figure out conflict and I've come to this insanely simple conclusion that probably isn't worth mentioning because it's one of those anticlimactic truths that, after you say it, makes you feel like an imbecile for needing to speak the words out loud. Here it is anyway: times of conflict are when people grow.

Simple, right? At the time it was pretty groundbreaking. See, for me, novels aren't about conflict. Stories aren't about the battle for good and evil or impossible situations. They're about people and reactions and decisions and personal progress.

Which means that, yes, stories revolve around issues but only because that's when people change. Conflict for the sake of it is lame but reasonable adversity facilitates growth. Whoa, intelligent speak.

Yay for revelations. Now I just need to reinstate writing every morning and all will be grande.

The tension in my life right now is manifesting in my shoulders. Let me tell you something: back pain sucks. It doesn't help that I'm perpetuating the problem by trying to knit a hat by Friday. Ah well. On a side note, in less than four weeks, I will hopefully be licensed to drive without a supervisor in the car. How's that for progress? As for more progress, I'm posting this before dinner. And I'm fully awake. Fancy that.


*well, actually it's the same conference, different years.

shattering the illusion: the Mortal Instruments... add ons

On April 5th, YA author Cassandra Clare released the fourth book in her... trilogy? And though I went to the bookstore that day and finished it by the following, it took me a few days after that to realize that I was less than impressed. Before I start off on a rampage that I won't be able to control, I just want to say that I don't mean to come off as a book purist. On second thought, I don't actually care how I come across.

The Mortal Instruments, as originally conceived.

I enjoyed the Mortal Instruments. The trilogy really made me look twice at fantasy which up until that point, excluding Harry Potter, I'd been pretty quick to write off. The characters were compelling and witty, the plot moved along at a nice place and the tension seemed ideal. The ending to the three books was so great; I can't even describe it. Everything seemed to be tied off, most things neatly and it was just satisfying overall.

When she announced in August that she was going to be publishing three more books in the series, I was astonishingly disappointed. Really? I remember thinking. But everything ended so wonderfully.*


Well, my initial reaction still holds. I wish she had just left it how it was. As it is, more conflict has been dragged in front of the characters who, if you thought had developed or progressed in the previous books, you were wrong about. There were pages and pages in each chapter of pure infodumping and everything plot related happen in the last quarter of the book. Previous to the climax, everyone just stood around and talked, whined and angsted. It was just so contrived.

Before I met the author, the words 'money grab' would have rebounded in my head but Cassie Clare seemed too genuine and passionate about her characters. So I've changed my diagnosis. I think she's having trouble letting go. Which is fine. I love[d] the characters, too [until she came out with this new book that tainted every positive thought I've ever had towards them.]. She is perfectly entitled to cling to them endlessly, put them through the same conflict and simulate the exact same character development. I don't have to read the books. But I've learned something from this and for that I am thankful. Don't extend a series unless you have a really, really, really good reason for doing so. Hot make out scenes are not one such good reason, nor is separation anxiety.


I'm not sure at this point if I'm going to read the next two as they come out or try to forget their existence. I'll get to that when the time comes. *sigh* *head shaking* I have to go think about something else now.

*After reading the book, I feel like City of Bullshit would have been more appropriate. But now I'm starting to sound unduly mean.

author signings and disillusionment

This blog comes to you in two parts but never fear, they are related. You should, of course, fear, because I am keeping up with my 18 day trend and writing this blog post when I want to be sleeping. BEDA is officially being reclassified as a sleeping disorder. Ah well, sleeping is for the... people who can come up with ends to their own goshdamn sentences because they got enough sleep last night.


Part One - Author signings
The reason I am home and blogging so late is that I was at Holly Black and Cassie Clare's Vancouver book signing tonight. (If you do not know who those people are, they are YA fantasy writers. More on Cassandra Clare in Part Two.) And there was a lot of people there. I didn't see/hear most of the talking and reading part but it was still worth it. It took a long time to leave, too, largely because the authors were personalizing two books per person and signing everything place in front of them. Plus a lot of talking to readers. We didn't leave until 10:30pm and we weren't even close to the end of the line.

But that's not the point. The point is that meeting the people who's books you have read and loved is almost a little anticlimactic. When you see that they're not superhero gods with magical writing powers but just people whose names and pen names grace many covers, it's kind of a weirdly personal moment. On one hand, you're somewhat starstruck and on the other, you feel like it's not a huge deal because they're just people with ideas that you happened to have enjoyed.

This wasn't the first book signing I've been to and it probably won't be the last but the novelty is still there. I hope the next one involves John, of the Green variety. Every live show I watch of his reinstates that I need to meet him. And I will. Someday.

Part Two - Disillusionment 
I changed my mind. Part Two will come to you tomorrow, as your regular scheduled blog post. Sorry if this is reminiscent of the Breaking Dawn final battle but I literally cannot think anymore. I promise to write during the day tomorrow.

Harry Potter, chocolate hazelnut tea and 67 minute phone calls

I love goat cheese. Random statements aside, today has been a good day. It started with wine coolers and dancing with a television as audience and is about to end with Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows - part 1.

I've been thinking a lot about my somber blog tone in the past twenty four hours. I have to admit that it's getting to me. I think I'm officially overthinking this. Yeah. Is that called irony?

Whoa. My head kind of hurts. And cookies and tea are the best. And the quality of this post is seriously disintegrating. So goodbye.

BEDA feedback

I've asked two, reasonably trustworthy* people for comments on my blog since the start of April and I've come to some conclusions:

a) I have a palpable theme going on

b) that theme quite possibly involves depression,

c) no wait, maybe it's just depressing,

d) but if that's your writing style, then great.

So yeah, I'm depressed or depressing. I prefer the term thoughtful. And I do notice a theme, too. I've been somewhat sedate lately. I guess that equals apparent depression. My blogs aren't quite as funny any more, if they ever were.

Stop--don't tell me I'm actually progressing as a person... I have been feeling a bit angsty lately. Well, if you can be simultaneously happy-go-lucky and angst ridden. Is this maturity? Evolution? Self improvement? I don't believe it.

I'll just call it my emo phase.

***

A shout out goes to Caitlyn, my dear sister, who was been around the sun twenty-one times as of today. That's a lot of travelling. If you're reading this, I love you, most ardently. Happy birthday. If you're not reading this, I don't love you quite as much. But we can still be friends.

*you know what you did.

silver lining

Tonight, I was at the Philosopher's Cafe, even though I might have been needed elsewhere. And usually, the demographic is pretty heavily 55+ but today I wasn't the only young person in attendance.

So I met this guy. I can taste what you're thinking but shut up. It's not like that, unless 'that' is two philosophically interested people* talking about stuff. It was so great, though, and I still can't seem to be rid of the smile on my face. Doesn't it say a lot about a person that they have a degree in philosophy? It was just so lovely to chat with someone who I felt like I was on the same page as. I'm still radiating giddiness at having talked to another young person who seemed socially conscious and philosophically aware. It's a high, I will tell you.

I didn't realize it until I was standing on the sidewalk outside the library in the dark, shivering, with a boy of reasonable intellect asking me if I related to my peers, that I've been staving for this type of dialog. I don't mean to make everyone else in my life sound insufficient because my friends are great and I have incredible conversations with my parents about all kinds of stuff. But, I don't know, I've become a bit cynical about my generation's supposed apathy and it was so refreshing to talk to someone who personified, in a way, the hope I've been looking for.

Is that too much to put on one person? Probably. In unrelated news, I used a lot of commas in this post, didn't I? Ah well, at least I know what a comma is.

I'll catch you on the flip side.

*who happen to be of opposite sexes

productivity is up

Some days (i.e. yesterday) you get nothing on your to-do list done. Actually, your to-do list never enters existence. Sure, there are high ideals and grand schemes that play around the borders of your mind but when it comes down to it, you spend your time knitting, reading and watching Gilmore Girls episodes and YouTube videos (while knitting). You're a bit disappointed with yourself but also content and you go to sleep with dreams of a productive tomorrow.

Other days (i.e. today) you drag yourself out of bed and write down your daily goals. Then you do them. You still have time to read and eat but somehow it all happens. There's housework and schoolwork and driving practice and ukulele playing and even a chai tea latte with your mom. You get home from work and see that you've done every item on your list. You're amazed and triumphant and jubilant and a million other glorious things.

And that, as they say, is life.

I'm not sure why I slipped into second person for that but it's nearly midnight so I'll leave it. Must brush teeth. Must sleep. Must read Linger. Wrong order.

procrastination & politics

In between knitting on the bus and holding a sign in front of a host of news cameras and, oh yes, knitting while watching YouTube videos today, I procrastinated writing this blog. You see, I wanted to write about Elizabeth May being excluded from the televised debate tomorrow, how undemocratic and unfair that is. For some reason though, I couldn't figure out what I wanted to say.

Yes, the "media consortium"* is effectively censoring the flavour of the debate by barring May's visionary opinions.
Yes, she, along with the Green Party, represents nearly 1 million Canadian voters.
Yes, 81% of Canadians (according to a CBC poll) want to see her included in the debate.

I started writing this blog post that tried to describe what was going on, the rally I went to today and why Elizabeth May, the voice for democracy, deserves a place at that debate but it didn't come out right. In short, here's all I can say:

The media should not have the power to decide who is allowed to attend political debates, nor should party leaders. If they don't want to debate Elizabeth May for whatever reason, they don't have to attend. Political debates should be about the people. They should be informative and representative. Media executives, probably responding to party pressure, should not be entitled to silence the voice that represents a million Canadians.

This decision is undemocratic and unfair. Canadians want to see May in the debate. Not all of the above 81 percent are voting Green but they can agree that she has something to bring to the table. And that something is not anything that should be silenced by a group of powerful suits. Canadians want to hear Elizabeth May.

Whatever happened to democracy?

*who Elizabeth May compared to the Star Chamber.

this is not a blog

It kills me that I have next to nothing to say right now. Sure, I could talk about my weirdness some more, lament about how people are absurd and irrational or rant about one of many annoying facets of the state of the world today. I could talk about how it kind of kills my soul whenever I have to pack someone's groceries in plastic bags and how hard it is to keep myself from yelling, "Bring a cloth bag you insolent malefactor! I don't want to inherit your plastic wasteland!"  I could squee about Harry Potter and the DH pt. 1 coming out on DVD in less than a week or my seventeeth birthday which is to take place in 31 days or freak out a bit about my road test that's happening seven days after that. But honestly, I'm too tired.

What I will say, however, is that I'm almost finished reading Libba Bray's new book, Beauty Queens, and I'm really enjoying it.

After that my reading list looks like this:

1. The Forest of Hands and Teeth  by Carrie Ryan
2. Linger by Maggie Stiefvater
3. Fishtailing by Wendy Phillups
4. Incarceron by Catherine Fisher
5. The Piper's Son by Melina Marchetta

Plus, I'm really excited for John Green's book to come out in, like, a year.

p.s. If you weren't aware of why I forced myself to write this rather than, um, sleep, it's because I never mentioned I was doing BEDA. For you observant, in the know readers, I don't need to explain. For anyone else, I'm blogging every day in April. I'll be here five days a week and over at RP on Thursdays and Sundays.

not normal

I know I've expounded on the fact of my weirdness before, probably more than is necessary. At this point, am I further alienating you, the reader, or just depicting a more realistic, rounded, relatable* version of myself? Either way, I'm going for accuracy and also, my 11 o'clock-at-night-I-want-to-be-in-bed brain isn't up to anything more profound or creative.

Sometimes when I'm at events where the age differential between me and everyone else in the room is no less than thirty years, I am asked about a youth perspective on different topics. "Why do you think the majority of young people don't vote?" "How do you feel about this or that issue, seeing as how you're the one who is going to be living on this planet in forty years?" "What do the young people have to say?"

And what do the young people have to say? I think I'm the wrong person to answer that question. I am not normal. I don't go to school. I hang out at social justice film festivals and philosophers' cafes. My idea of a party is to invite friends over to watch Harry Potter movies. Two summers ago, I was part of a Jane Austen book club. I'm hardly the person whose opinion would match the "average young person.**"

You see, my Friday night--after an hour of selling Girl Guide cookies--was spent knitting and playing Scrabble. I use words like expounded and existential. I never go anywhere without my notebook and a pen. I shop at thrift stores and I forget to brush my hair. I hate plastic bags and SUVs and apathy. I am not average and normalcy is a foreign language to me.

The strangest bit, perhaps, is how okay I am with all of it. I mostly like who I am, or at least the idea of myself I keep stored in my mind. Maybe I can't explain my generation to anyone or give a general opinion from the perspective of today's youth, because I can't understand us myself***. But I have my own opinion. It comes from my own corner of existence and through my own slants and perspectives but I've thought about it and it's there, if you want to hear it. I can't speak for the teenagers of the world but I can speak for myself. And maybe that's enough.

*in different, niche ways.
**whatever the hell that is.
***maybe no one can.

pondering time

I'm so young to spend so much time thinking about the human invention of time but so be it. What I've actually been dwelling on lately is my use of it which I guess is somewhat reasonable. We should all be looking critically at the ways in which we spend our time, the amount of which is remarkably undetermined and indeterminable.

Right?

I was thinking about how I pass my days in relation to how I feel like I should pass my days. And I've been thinking about how I should stop resenting the different between those two things. Let's look at my today for a case study.

9:01am

• Woke up and started reading City of Fallen Angels by Cassandra Clare (henceforth referred to as CoFA).
• Got out of bed for the sole purpose of putting a bagel in the toaster and pouring a smoothie.
• Went back to bed with bagel, smoothie and book. Read for a few hours.

1:11pm

• Left bedroom to commune with family.
• Drank tea. Talked about future house mate possibilities.
• Went back to my room to finish my book.

2:00pm

• Got tired of CoFA. Played ukulele.
• Ate lunch (pizza pretzel and salad).
• Thought about the possibility of doing schoolwork.
• Did not do schoolwork.

3:30pm

• Finished CoFA. Updated Goodreads. 
• Sorted through emails.
• Started a blog post.
• Thought about working on my novel. 
• Did not work on my novel.

5:00pm

• Thought, What? It's 5 o'clock? Where did the afternoon go?
• Got ready for Guides. Ate dinner. Ran out the door.
• Had fifteen minutes of "quality time" with my dad on the way to Guides.

6:00-8:30pm

• Volunteered as junior leader at Girl Guide meeting (i.e. helped 9-12 year old girls needle felt purses and make headbands for our accessory show--proceeds going to a charity that is currently unannounced).

9:00pm

• Hit up the end of a campaign meeting. 
• Tried to think of a question that represented the entirety of Canada's youth to ask at an all-candidates meeting.

10:30pm

• Got home and set about to finishing a blog post.

According to the above, I spent most of my day reading which makes perfect sense. I love reading. I also volunteered and went to a political planning meeting. I practiced ukulele. More sense. These are things I'm passionate about. This is all good, right? *sigh*

But what about everything else? What about my English course which I'm interested in? What about Media Savvy (another course)? What about my novel which, I am sorry to say, I have not touched in two weeks?

Do we spend time on things that are important to us naturally or do we need to push forward what's most valuable? And how does one decide what's most valuable?

I hate thinking 'I'll do it tomorrow.' I hate feeling like there's not enough time in the day. I'm sixteen! I'm supposed to be living, not thinking about how I should be living.

I guess I'll try that out tomorrow. Or today.

sometimes, I pretend I am an idiot

My self esteem is fine. Really fine. I, of course, have self conscious moments and probably a lot of issues buried deep that I don't think about but, on surface level, I think I'm a pretty cool person. Sometimes though... sometimes I am very good at *acting* the part of an idiot. This is going to take a tiny bit of backstory.

I'm a Girl Guide. We sell cookies. One of our sales methods is to stand outside retail locations, sometimes in the rain, and ask shoppers if they would like to spend a measly four dollars on our endlessly worthy cookies. There are contracts with the stores that we sell in front of and the considerable task of matching up some 200 girls in my district with time slots. In short, that is my task.

I create spreadsheets using Google Docs that list the locations and one hour time increments, forward the spreadsheets our to Guiders who get the girls to sign up. There's meetings every night of the week where girls need the spreadsheets and so every afternoon I email out the latest updated sheet in .PDF format so the leaders can print them and get them to the meeting place. But apparently I don't do this on Tuesday.

You see, I work on Tuesdays. To top it off, today I was off practicing driving for a large chunk of time with my mother. I forgot. Everybody makes mistakes.* But the worst part is that I did the same thing last Tuesday. Hence the acting like an idiot. Who makes the same mistake two Tuesdays in a row? That would be me.

Why?!?!

Now, if you'll excuse me, I am going to brush my teeth and immerse myself in City of Fallen Angels. Only then, I'm sure, will I be able to escape the tragic fail that is currently haunting me.**

*Everybody has those days. Everybody knows what, what I'm talking 'bout. Everybody gets that way. Yeah!
**Did I go over the top just a little there?

slapdash poetry

As of late--and by late I mean in the past calendar year or so--I've been writing poems for fun. I'm not sure what clicked in my life and I can't nail down the exact moment that I decided to turn a journal entry from prose to poetry but it happened. And I have to say, it's kind of addicting.

Maybe it was after reading The Sky is Everywhere, Jandy Nelson's brilliant novel debut. Maybe I fell in love with the concept of scrawling half formed thoughts down on anything to scatter across my world, haphazard messages to the unknown receiver. Maybe I was feeling a bit pretentious or purely poetic.* Regardless, sometime in the last twelve months, I've taken to scribbling things down in verse and I like it.

But why is it that when I actually want to write a poem about something specific, when I need the words to be poignant and inspired and true, it just doesn't happen? How come I can doodle something beautiful and simple in the margins of my notebook when I should be paying attention to something else, yet when it really matters, I can't fit things together? Why can't I even force my thoughts into coherency?

So I'm trying to write this poem.

And it's important. It really means something. I'm trying to say something, do something, be something. But it won't fit. That's the thing about poetry, it's tricky. It's not just words slipped onto a page, casual and lazy. It's line after line massaged out of nothing and it kind of hurts sometimes. It's hard and it's work. But I'm not giving up.

--- because you stuck around until now, here is one such poem. just a meandering thought, no real editing or filter. enjoy. --

Some people expect apologies
like snow in the winter
But climate change should seriously
be messing with your expectations

How can words dragged
fighting off my lips
even faintly be something
you'd desire?
It's like tricking someone
into saying 'I love
you,'
then sighing and swooning
for those three little words

*Why do those words come together so often in my mind?

Saving Francesca (a book review)

Today: Awoke. Ate a bagel. Sold Girl Guide cookies at Sears for two/too hours/long. Dropped home on the way to work. Made an egg sandwich. Rushed to work while eating aforementioned sandwich. Packed groceries for two [long] hours (x3 = 6 hours). Got home. Poured smoothie. Sat on couch with computer, drinking aforementioned smoothie.

That was a beautiful smoothie. But onto my obsession with Melina Marchetta. *sigh*

I love Melina Marchetta's books. They are the food for my soul that I didn't know that I needed. And that is a bearable cliche because it's also the truth. Her books make me feel whole and broken at the same time, in the best ways. All I do is inhale and exhale the words and yet they make me want to be better. A better person. A better writer. A better daughter. A better sister. A better friend.

I don't know how she does that.

A summary
Francesca is starting her second term at a school that was just for boys until recently when they opened their doors to girls. She misses the consistency and complacency of her old school and her old friends and to add to the unease, her mother won't get out of bed.
The novel chronicles Francesca's struggles to slide, struggle free, through school and keep herself from falling apart. It's about love, romantic and otherwise, and friendship and being saved but mostly it's about saving yourself.

A couple comments
-- The voice of the book is so genuine and honest that you can barely set it down. Francesca's words have a cynical resilience that is remarkable and relatable, to me at least. Marchetta has such a way with sentences and paragraphs that I honestly feel as if I could survive on these beautiful words. Almost.
-- The characters are unique and plucky and whole. They're people you want to know, want to believe exist. The community and support and love and friendship are just something you want to experience. These are friends I'm jealous of.
-- I love Francesca. I love her and I feel like she's a piece of me, or I'm a piece of her. I don't know if I've ever really felt so similar to a character in so many ways. And sometimes so different. Francesca is like my dark side, I think.
-- Will Trombol.

-- The dialog. I am such a huge dialog fan that it's ridiculous and Melina Marchetta does not disappoint.

-- The story is just so believable. It's not like 'mother with depression' is a new concept for a book but it works here on so many levels. There's the gleam of romance. The trials and doubts and happinesses of friendship. The angst of teenagerdom. The reality is both unhappy and hopeful. Depicting not depression so much as the effect it has on the people it touches, the truth of this story is just so real. This story feels like something you could live in, even if you wouldn't want to all the time.

A recommendation
Read this book. I did, twice in one week. It's worth it, so ridiculously worth it.

Saving Francesca is officially on the favourites list. And it's getting to be a long list.

how to lose and cry trying (too much?)

I'm not sure exactly when BEDA hit my consciousness this year but it was realistically in the last 48 hours. BEDA? A voice in my head seemed to say. Right, that thing that sparked this huge part of my life avalanching off in its own uncontrollable direction. It's April tomorrow. I guess it's time to blog every day for thirty days.

And now here we are. I almost forgot you BEDA, after getting home from a raucous night of partying with the Social Justice Film Society members, eating tiramisu and playing checkers that ceased to resemble the game of checkers. Ah, nine-year-olds, you have taught me so much about losing.

You see, I was always a competitive child. I tried to hide it, stifle its shameful urges for gloating and a generally bad attitude. Coupled with my competitive nature was a sensitivity that has seen me leave many movie theaters with tear stained cheeks. I'm a middle child and an emotional one at that.

Which brings me to Monopoly*. I have played many games of Monopoly that have ended in tears from myself and every other game of Monopoly I played ended in me winning (at least, until recently when I did not win Monopoly and also didn't cry**. Personal progress for the win.). Thinking about it as deeply as I can bear to, it wasn't so much that I was sad not to be winning so much as despair at the general unfairness.

Like, I didn't ask to be the one to roll last and have to land on everyone else's property before being about to purchase one of my own and a railroad at that***. I didn't ask for my little sister to shove a hundred dollar bill at me in charity. That's pitiful. That's sad. Who wants to be a charity case?

But tonight, I was able to set it all aside. I was able to shove away my ego and play checkers with someone who had different rules than I did. I was able to lose gracefully (and sometimes purposefully) and though it wasn't the most thrilling time of my life, it was a good moment. I mean, yes, I was playing with a nine-year-old girl and yes, I didn't exactly fight to the death to win but I was able to see it for what it was. A game.

And life... goes on.

*Monopoly, in case you did not know, can be traced back to the original creator Elizabeth J. Magie Phillips who created a Monopoly like game called The Landlord's Game to demonstrate the pitfalls of capitalism.

**I almost cried of *happiness* when I finally landed on the one property that I really wanted. But those would have been tears of *happiness*.

***I have contempt for railroads. After you have them all, there is no building potential. Unless someone is already significantly downtrodden, you cannot win a game and bankrupt another person with a railroad. And all I think about is bankrupting my friends.