love, read, write

“Come on,” said David, like the little devil he was. As if he’d been working toward this moment his whole life. “You can’t do it.”

He was rocking back and forth, the river dancing around his waist. Momentarily, the clouds parted and the sunlight bore harshly into my eyesight. I frowned and heard Jenny giggling at the shore, asking us when we’d start playing Marco Polo.

“You can’t,” he said, ignoring Jenny. “You’re not even interesting enough to come up with a different game.”

“That’s not true.”

“Yeah?” he said. “Then come up with one. Come up with one right now.”

I could feel the kids’ eyes on my back. I was facing the river in which David stood, waist-deep into the water. Even in this moment of hatred I couldn’t deny how picturesque he looked, a lean and lightly tanned teen posing for a Target summer photoshoot. His most definitely evil grin could be interpreted as an overzealous smile of a sporty youth enjoying nature, and the his blond hair caught the sunlight in a natural halo. Above us, the sky was a clear blue. Around us, it smelled wonderfully of water and rocks and grass and soft dirt. I could hear the rush of the river. As I took all of this in, contemptuously, my mind went blank. I stared, defenseless.

“Yeah. You can’t. All you do is play videogames. It’s not like you have much of a life anyway.”

I couldn’t believe his audacity. His blinding arrogance; his controlling attitude. That he’d gotten away with so many things, that he was so beloved -- how could the adults not see him for the devil he was? How could they misconstrue tyranny for charisma, hubris for confidence, and deceit for charm? How could they leave me to the side like a forgotten hand-me-down while he flourished in the attention and sunlight? And it had all gotten to his head, had become the fibre of his being. These summers were always under his reign, under his self-appointed dictatorship misunderstood by everyone else as natural-born charisma.

“Maybe I do.” I took a step closer, trembling with clenched fists.

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We were drunk and half-high on a crumbling front porch, three hours into Saturday and talking about random, unexplained mysteries that had happened to us. Unexplained disappearances, anonymous gifts, unrevealed pranksters. Jenna, losing her glasses one morning, never to find them again; Steve, who’d one morning found a fresh blueberry pie in front of his dorm room with his name on it (which he shared with his roommate); Sora, whose life suddenly started presenting her with a small rubber duckies in random places every day for a month.

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Sometimes I forget about this: for three years I grew up homeschooled in a van.

It was second to fourth grade. Lessons were taught on the road, taught by my mother as she would snap Trident peppermint gum while explaining concepts.

“You have to understand that what I’m about to tell you is putting you light years ahead of your peers,” she’d say, adjusting her scratched sunglasses. “America is first and foremost a shitty-- shit. We’re running out of gas.”

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“Mary,” he says, “are you alright?”
She nods, but her hands are shaking and her voice hasn’t made a sound since a whispered “Good morning” six hours prior.
“Is there anything wrong? Do you need help?”
There’s something about her, he thinks, that makes him pity her. It’s not a certain family problem or an illness. But her general aura pleads for pity. Something about her keeps him worried all the time. He can’t quite put a finger on it.
She smiles nervously and shakes her head. “I need to go,” she says quietly. Her voice is shaking a little.
She almost trips on her high heels just as she leaves. She gets up and goes to the parking lot without looking back.
 
Her suitcase is sitting in the passenger seat. It is an old, tattered leather bag. She calls it a suitcase. Her parents carried suitcases. So does she.
She gets into the driver’s seat quietly and almost twists her ankle trying to get her feet into the car with her high heels. She doesn’t take them off. She doesn’t use the slippers given to her by him.
She drives precariously and carelessly, though her eyes are fixed on the road and she jumps a little at every green light, yellow light, red light. The suitcase is strapped onto the passenger seat with a seatbelt. There is nothing else in the car except for her suitcase and an air freshener vibrating from the hum of the car.
 
She drives into an abandoned neighborhood, an old one that nobody knows about. The dust is piling up on the streets from the lack of tires and footsteps. No wind lingers on the street. No soul haunts the houses. Some doors are ajar, a sentence of fear left unfinished.
Her throat is dry and her brows are damp with sweat. Her lipstick is thinned invisible from her incessant nervous licks. She parks in a garage on one of the houses on the street.
She leans over and unbuckles the seat belt of her suitcase beside her. Then she unbuckles hers. She picks up the suitcase and leaves the car. She closes it lightly. It doesn’t lock. She opens it again to slam it shut. It locks.
Her high heels are wobbling as she makes her way to the front of the house. The grass is uncut and the doorbell is broken. The door is closed.
She pulls out an old key from her breast pocket and inserts it into the door. It doesn’t fit. She flips it around and inserts it again. It fits. She turns it and it clicks. She turns the knob and pushes it open.
She holds in her cough as dust meets her face with a cold slap. She looks around at the disheveled items scattered on the floor, around the house. There is nobody home. There hasn’t been. Not for twenty years.
She doesn’t hesitate now. She enters the house and she goes left to the hallway and into the room. She doesn’t shake anymore. She doesn’t shiver. She doesn’t trip. She stands straight.
There are tears in her eyes. She speaks clearly for the first time that day.
“Oh, honey, honey, honey, I’m so sorry, honey. I know you’ve been waiting, honey. I know, I know. I said I would come, and I didn’t. I’m so sorry.”
Sitting in two seats aligned beside each other are two young children. One is a girl. She is about six years old, with a ponytail held up by a pink hair tie. It has butterflies. She is wearing a sweater—the sweater her mother had bought for her at the mall fifteen years ago. It is old. It is dusty. It is browned. Beside the girl is a boy, about seven and a half years old, with long, shaggy hair a dull brown in the shade of the house. He is freckled with blue eyes but the eyes have no spark, no spunk, no youth. His shirt is a dull brown with a brand logo. It, too, was bought fifteen years ago.
Mary sets her suitcase down onto the floor and rushes to her two children. They do not move, they do not smile, they do not greet. She envelops each of them with hugs and kisses and tears. She pets their hair. She pulls them out at arm’s length. My, how you’ve grown. My, my. My dearies. I’m sorry. I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry.
They are looking at her suitcase now, and she remembers.
“Ah! Honeys, I brought you some bread. I sneaked some away from the refreshment table today, just for you two. I’m so sorry I haven’t come in so long, honeys. I really am.” She snaps open her leather bag—her suitcase—and pulls out two small pieces of bread, squished together into nearly balls from all of the other paperwork and weight. There is a bit of eraser shavings on one of them.
The two young children rush up to her and grab for the bread before she can say anything more. They shove the food into their mouths hungrily. They do not look up. They do not think. They lick their fingers and brush the crumbs on their lips into their mouths.
“I’m so sorry, honeys,” she says. Warm tears are on her face. “I’m so sorry.”
She looks at her two children again, and they are looking at her intently. Their eyes have no emotion. They say nothing but speak loud.
She rushes to her children again and hugs them both. “I’m so sorry, honeys I really am. I’m so sorry I’m sorry.”
She looks at her daughter. Tears are outlining her eyes as she pets her daughter’s hair. “You sweet sweet dearie. I know you still love me. You love me, right? You still do? You forgive me?”
She looks into her eyes. She does not reply.
Her son does the same. “My, my, my young boy. You’ve grown so much, honey. I know you missed me. I know you love me. Right? Honey, I love you. Please forgive me.”
He looks into her eyes. He does not reply.
She touches his face, softly. She smooths her thumb over his freckles. She puts her hand back to her side and she can feel dust on her fingers but she ignores it.
“Honeys, honeys, I’m so sorry, dearies. My dearies. I love you, I do. I want to be a better mother, I do. I’m so sorry, honeys. I have to go. I really am. Forgive me, alright, dearies? You think about it. I’ll come back tomorrow. Maybe more bread. Or cookies.”
They are sitting exactly as they were when she entered. She looks back one more time and tears outline her eyes again. Then she leaves. She doesn’t look back.
She gets out of the house again. She is shaking. Her throat hurts and her fingers are black from something, something she doesn’t know. Her hands and coat and suitcase are covered in ash and dust. She ignores it, she ignores it all. She gets into her car. She drives away. She will come back the next day.

So I read this post the other day.
The link is here: http://goo.gl/pSrWMf
(Sorry for the profane comments after the story. Not me, though.)

It was a really thought provoking story, and it instigated me into thinking more about life and time and everything, and I began to visualize this 3-D grid where the x, y, and z axis (what's the plural? axes? axis?) were time, life, and space. So I wrote a story about that. Took me a few hours. The fastest I've written a story. =.=

So here it is. It's still naked (not edited), but I really have to sleep, and I haven't posted much here in a while. So why not?

It's inspired from the story at that link, so I'm sorry if I'm breaking any copyrights or something. :c Hopefully not.

[I took my story out because after reading it the next morning, I felt like gagging. SO yeah. Too bad. Naked stories are terrible.]

Once again I am sitting in a dark and dusty corner, reflecting my terrible deeds of these past weekends. Despite the notification set on my phone to vibrate and scream "BLOG POST BLOG POST BLOG POST" every Saturday at 4:00 PM, I have neglected my blogful duties and descended into the low levels of nothingness.

However, here I am, a new human, a new being, reborn from the filths of procrastination and ready to face the new life that is ahead of me. What gave me this life changing awakening, you ask?

Well for one, a friend who has asked me why I was not posting (which surprised me to think that someone actually checks my blog ^^), and also that pang of guilt when you see your blog in your bookmarks bar while you're searching up articles for your research paper due Tuesday.

Speaking of my friend, she made a blog! You guys should go to her blog, here. It's about reading and she posts every Friday about the books she read that week and opens the comments for discussion. Definitely check her blog out.


AND.
I am back to my blogginess.

Recently, I have come up with a fanstastical story idea that I will not reveal and only keep to myself. Because I need to develop it more. Plus it's not something that I'm ready to share yet. Heh.

Also recently, I came up with another fantastical story idea that I promptly forgot afterwards, putting me in this chronic state of stress that will most definitely linger through the week. I need to find another story idea !!

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Now, to move to the real bulk of this post. It

Barnes and Noble is my synonym to awesome. It is the place that pops up in mind when somebody says Heaven. It is the very essence of my being. It is the core of my heart. It is where I belong.

Yes, I may be over-exaggerating, but it has been and probably will always be the place that I love to go to, that I will probably go to most when I am old and have lots of free time and have a nice job with not too many work hours and a substantial pay and I have some time to spend happily. I have always dreamed of my future life (I'm sure everyone has), and every time I think of it again, I add new elements, new items to my list of "What-I'll-Do-When-I-Get-Old".
Here is my dream day:

It's been a long work day today, and I decide to go to a little cafe to buy a blueberry muffin and a coffee (or maybe tea, green tea). I sit down next to the window, looking out to the busy city and people briskly walking by, so immersed in their own lives and oblivious to the beating hearts all around them, pushing their way past to rush to their destination. I sip my coffee (or green tea) and finish my muffin. I sit, looking at the clock now, emptily looking at the little second-hand hesitantly ticking continuously and endlessly, remembering to pause a little at each second. 
I blink, and looking at the time, brush the crumbs off my lap and pick up my bag, swing it over my shoulder, and lift the warm coffee (or green tea) cup off the table. I throw the napkin away on the way out, letting the tiny bells jingle behind me as I push myself into the busy streets of bustling busy lives. 
At the next corner, I turn right and open the door to walk into a cool, air-conditioned building. I am met with a pang of silence, contrasting from the noise and hassle and beeping and honking echoing outside. I look back at the streets through the glass doors and windows of the building with the words "BARNES & NOBLE" inscribed backwards on the surface, so that the busy street-walkers outside can read the words appropriately. The noise from outside is muffled, and for a moment the bookstore is filled with the loud beeps and honks of the outside as another person walks inside. 
I turn back around as the door closes again, and I walk to a small circular table amongst other wooden tables set aside for the Starbucks' customers, set my coffee (or green tea) down, and place my bag on the table next to it. 
Pulling the chair back, I slowly seat myself and pick up the coffee (or green tea), now cooling from the time and temperature. I take a sip and close my eyes, listening to the soft music rippling from the speakers at the corner of the store. 
I pull out my laptop from my bag, place the bag on the floor leaning against my chair, and set the laptop on the table. My stories are still open from yesterday, and I continue it, typing away for another hour or so. 
Afterwards, I close my laptop, put it back in my back, sling it over my shoulder, and throw out my finished coffee (or green tea). Looking around, I walk towards the escalator situated in the middle of the store, sloping upwards to the second level where nonfiction and historical fiction are harbored.
Another hour passes while I skim through World War II, the Korean War, the Renaissance, and other events with capital letters and important people.
I leave the bookstore with a second bag now in my left hand in place for the coffee (or green tea) that had warmed my hand earlier, and I catch a subway to the nearest train station to the outskirts of town, where my tiny house is.
In the train, I sit at a window seat, with my two bags on my lap, and untangle my earphones to listen to some Chopin nocturnes or perhaps some Beethoven sonatas while I watch the scenery pass by my window. 
I walk home the last mile and unlock my way inside, putting my bags on the chair pulled back in a hurry from the morning, and put my keys on the hook hanging from the wall.
I walk to my office and emerge with a huge canvas and a paint kit, step out the back door and set my canvas down on the easel that has made indents in the ground from the months it has been blocking the grass from growing. 
I sit down in the chair and pull out the paints and begin painting happily until the sun sets, when I close my kit and walk back inside, letting the canvas dry on the table next to my window and putting away the canvas that was there from the day before.

This is sad. I am beginning to feel very cheesy and very 'eugh', if you know what I mean. Everything's so mushy and happy and it's actually making me feel appalled because of the extreme happy-rainbow feeling of it.

Anyhow, that was a small story that I wrote to accompany my idea of Barnes and Noble and the calm feeling it has (plus a few other cheesy accessories (paintingahemahem) that reek of the stink of blue cheese).

I quite often spend my time at Barnes and Noble, especially when my mother has lengthy meetings after Korean School. I'd ask her to drop me off at Barnes and Noble so that I could spend a good two hours wallowing knee-deep in the rich information and mind blowing stories that they nurture in their humongous sanctuary of novels and memoirs and pages and covers. First, I'd wander to the escalator because the first floor doesn't have too much books (New Releases, Top Selling Books, informational How-To books, New Nooks/eBooks, and Starbucks). From there I would basically wander without much purpose. I usually go to the nonfiction section first to look for some interesting books that I can read. Last time I went I found a particularly interesting book on Asperger's Syndrome, which I read about for an hour and a half, for example. There's not one specific section that I usually go to (though I do tend to always visit the Arts section at least once every visit), and I search through the shelves for interesting titles or topics or authors until I get about two or three that I can read for a few hours. I'd always sit right next to the window that stretches from ceiling to floor, facing the parking lot outside (I know, it's not such a great view, not like I'm looking at the Eiffel Tower standing majestically with my peripheral vision) and read the books with the sun as my reading light. My back would be to the Romance or Science fiction bookshelves (those are the bookshelves next to the windows). And there I'd sit for hours on end, jumping from nonfiction to fiction to How-To's to Biographies until I get the annoying Rrrrrrrrrrring! Rrrrring! ringtone that can only mean that it's time to recall where the books belong, put them back, and get ready to go home.

So yeah. Moral of the story is.
Barnes & Noble is awesome.


(You know, I should be getting money for this. I'm practically advertising the awesomeness of this store.)

(...)

(Naw, I'm just joking around. I don't need money for the awesomeness of Barnes&Noble. As long as it exists I'm fine.)







I hope you wallow in the cheesiness of these stories and also have somewhat of a good day.
(Somewhat. I emphasize the somewhat.)

Bye!

Not often do I write personal things on this blog anymore, other than an excuse of why I didn't post, but this I must share.
This whole month, starting from maybe the last week of last month, I had a piano competition/recital every weekend. I had only the least hope in doing well in any of them, because I rarely practiced piano--what with all of the homework to do, sleeping late and all--piano was becoming less and less a part of my daily routine. Before, I had been practicing nearly every day for at least, and at least meaning only on days when I was very tired or didn't have time--thirty minutes. Now, I had come even to the point of practicing once a week, maybe even never, until my piano lesson where I would put myself to shame as I practically sight read my piece in front of my teacher. (Okay, maybe it wasn't that bad, but you know what I mean.)
I would only practice half to death on the day before the competition (practicing-to-death on either a Friday or a Saturday, depending on whether the competition/recital was on a Saturday or a Sunday) and somehow manage to push through the piece at the audition without making a major mistake.
All of the other competitions that I have gone to until today were regionals--they weren't that difficult, because often times, I thought I had played horribly and the people gave me good results and good comments (which really surprised me actually o.o).
But today, it was a state-wide competition, which is a lot more difficult than the regionals, meaning you actually have to practice. (So I practiced a very long time yesterday heh.)
Also meaning, the people who also enter the competition are very high level-yness (excluding me, probably--I didn't even practice that much T.T).

So here is what happened at today's audition. In narrative form.

I stepped out of the car, and jumped onto the concrete of the parking lot ground. I jumped a few times, adjusting my feet, having just put on the uncomfortable dress shoes in response to my father's "We're almost there, guys! Get ready!" as he pulled the car into the vaguely familiar parking lot.
My brother stepped out beside me, adjusting his tie, uncomfortable, probably, just like my shoes.
I tugged at the bottom of my dress nervously. My father called out, "I'll be waiting in the car! You go in with your mother. Good luck, guys!"
So we nodded and waved and then turned around, me clutching my piano bag tightly and half hopping-hurriedly and half walking nervously to the entrance (which was, I tell you, very far from where we parked, more than we thought. I thought my legs were freezing).
We went inside of the very small and cramped entrance room that was filled with nervous students (I guess you can call them students, because they're not exactly pianists, you know? Or are they?) drumming their fingers on their piano pieces, younger siblings hopping around and wishing them good luck, parents anxiously waiting for their children to emerge from the audition room doors, and high school volunteers awkwardly calling out kids' names to escort them to the right audition room (which were dispersed about the building, from second floor to the basement--that place must have a lot of pianos).
We squeezed our way through the nervous students and the anxious parents and hyper siblings and managed to get to the end of the room, where the two adults with the attendance sheet were waiting for students to check in.
"Judge number?" One woman asked, obviously English not being her first language.
"Umm... He's judge 7," my mother said, pushing my brother (who was behind me) in front so that he could give them his Audition Sheet that said his name, what pieces he would play, which number judge he had, etc.
"Oh, she has judges 6 to 9," the woman said, gesturing towards the other woman, who seemed to be in her sixties, perhaps, and had a very wide smile on her face.
"Hello! And now, which judge do you have?"
"Judge 7," my brother muttered timidly.
"Let me see your paper," she smiled.
He dug the Audition Sheet from his piano book and gave it to her.
She murmured his name as she slowly checked it off.
"And you, honey?" she asked me with a smile.
"I have judge 8," I said, and she nodded.
She flipped the page and with a shaking hand (she was an old woman), she checked off my name after viewing my Audition Sheet as well.

My brother had been scheduled for 1:30 and I had been scheduled for 1:40, but apparently, things don't always go as exactly planned, and perhaps my judge's line of students had been going pretty quickly, because while my brother wondered why they didn't call him up yet at 1:29, a high schooler (in their black uniforms--perhaps that was the dress code for them) emerged from one of the back doors and called out, "[My name]!" in a half-hearted voice (what can you expect, they'd probably been guessing the pronunciation of names since this morning).
I, quite surprised at the earliness of my call, jumped up and pulled off my jacket hurriedly. I grabbed my piano books and squeezed back to the back of the room and he took me down some stairs, down a hallway, right into another hallway, into a small corner scattered with many doors on the walls. One of the doors had a piece of paper taped to it that read "Judge 9" and another "Judge 8."
He told me to sit down on the chair next to "Judge 8" and left me, probably to attempt to pronounce another kid's name.
I sat down, putting the books on my lap, drumming my fingers on the image of an abstract painting of a piano--the cover of my piano book. I waited, and from "Judge 8" suddenly came the sounds of someone playing the piano.
Of course. They wouldn't call me up exactly when it was my turn, I realized. They'd call me up when the person before me started playing. That would make the most sense.
So in my nervousness, I listened to the person play the piano.
And that person,
was very very good at it.
I could tell. They articulated the notes so clearly it made me shudder and--oh! It was indescribable.

Another high schooler suddenly appeared around the corner with a little girl about the age of perhaps 7 or 8, wearing a red bow clip and a white turtleneck shirt with black dress pants (or whatever the black pants are called). She was very cheerful and outgoing--I could tell, because instead of nervously dragging along behind the high schooler as most 7 or 8 year olds would do before an audition, she was jumping around and hopping behind him with her books in her tiny hand.
He told her to sit down and left.
The girl looked at me and smiled. I awkwardly smiled back.
"Hi!" she said.
I replied with the same.
She jumped up from the chair and bounced to the door of "Judge 8", where music was still flowing out of the crevices of that door, and she jumped up to try to see through the window of the door that was apparently too high for her to easily look through without some sort of elevation.
She jumped a few times to look through the window, then sighed.
She sat down on the chair, jumping so that she could move her back to touch the back-support of the chair and so that her feet were dangling from the edge.
"That's my sister, you know. She plays that piece so much. It gets annoying if you hear it ten times a day."
I laughed.
She rocked her feet back and forth, her feet far from the ground, her arms holding the edges of the chair and her books slowly sliding down her lap.
She caught the books before they slid onto the ground.
She jumped up again to look through the window, and then sat back down.
Then, Judge 9 appeared from behind the door and beckoned for the little girl to come in. She slid down onto the floor and hopped into the room.
I was alone again, and having been blessed by the presence of such a cheery girl, being alone with my desolately nervous self was a little nerve-wracking. I rubbed my hands together, feeling the sweat on my palms.
I returned to listening to the little girl's sister, who was still playing the same piece.
She was playing Chopin. I knew that. It was in a minor, so it had that darker feeling to it. I also knew that it was a Nocturne (are Nocturnes capitalized? Nocturne, nocturne?), because I had heard it before.
In fact, I had attempted to sight read that piece before, when I was bored and wanted to try to play another Chopin piece.
But never before had I realized how beautiful the piece was.
(Okay fine, maybe I did. But it didn't strike me that much. I liked other nocturnes better.)
But this person, the little girl's sister--she was playing the piece so clearly yet so nocturne-y, and so beautifully, I was swept away, touched by the beautiful music. (But after I played my piece and was going home, I realized that it would probably be bad if the person before me was so good at her nocturne--I had auditioned with a Chopin nocturne as well...)
Especially the ending-- the clear high notes that she articulated ever so--
AHHH
Well I went home, easily found the piece (I had attempted to sight read it, after all), looked it up on youtube, listened to it a few times, and tried playing it again.

And I envied that girl--I could still see her as she emerged from behind the door of "Judge 8", her short hair and grey business suit (I don't know what to call them, business suits, jacket thingies,,, !!!), slumping down the hallway, holding the books in her left hand, her eyes to the ground. She was an ordinary high school girl, just like me, just like all the other kids, but her music! !!! Hearing just her music, it was so beautiful and seamless and effortless and awesome that I just had to picture this amazing pianist with a natural glow like in the movies and---
but she was a high schooler. Yet she had the power to make a bunch of black dots and lines into this melancholy, slow and peaceful, almost slightly saddening nocturne.

It might seem creepy that I liked this girl so much, whom I do not know, whom I shall never see again (unless I magically get in and see her at the recital), who, with her music, made that piece my favorite Chopin piece.

I listened to it again at home, and it's such a great piece! I love the ending. I love the ending, and the trills in the beginning, and
!!!!
You should listen to it, too.
That piece of music that I wrote this whole post about--
you can hear it, too.
It's Chopin's Nocturne Op. 55 No. 1.
You can find it easily on youtube. I prefer Rubinstein, but you're entitled to your taste.

I am going to practice that piece. It is too awesome to be just listened-to.


So yeah.
Bye.

"Now, class, does anyone remember how long the Information Age was? When did it start, when did it end, and why?"
The class is silent for a second, until suddenly brains begin to click and you hear the tap-tap-tapping of the fingers on the desks. The room glows that familiar eerie blue of artificial screen light, and you can see the faces bent down towards their interfaces, glowing that same blue.
"Come on, guys! We went over this yesterday. None of you remember? Not a single thing?"
A shy light goes up. Of course, because they can't bear the silence and the fidgety teacher.
"Yes, finally. Tana?"
"Was it that thing, that uh.. That era where people went away from the thing called, uh, uh, reli--religor or something like that? Like, uh.. you know. When they stopped believing in fake things and they started to look more into science? I uh.. I think it started in the 2400s? I don't really remember..."
"Oh, are you talking about the Renaissance?"
"Oh, yeah! The Renaissance. Right. Whoops. Heh.."
"It's okay. And just me being a Cultural Evs teacher, all OCD, I'll correct you with some things. The Renaissance was in the 1400s, a thousand years before the 2400s, and yes, you were right. They started to depend less on religion. But they didn't completely go away from religion. This 'religion' stayed around for quite a while longer. The Scientific Renaissance--I'm sorry guys, I know the names are similar, you'll just have to get used to it--the Scientific Renaissance happened thousands of years after the first, original Renaissance. And guys, does anyone remember from Cultural Ev 4--what Renaissance means?"
The class looks up. Well, the people who weren't already. A few kids raise their hands. The few who paid attention in Human Ev 4 back in 4th grade. The few who have the courage to raise their lights. Green lights bob in the air above their desks.
"Hmm.. who didn't I pick on today... How about, you? Wyatt?"
He looks up from his little hacking game. The volume isn't muted, and you can hear the soft click, click, beep. "Uhhh. Sorry?"
"I see you've been indulging yourself in some hacking activities in our very inspirational Human Cultural Evolutions 9 class. Since you were so kind to pay attention in class, let me ask you another question. Do you know when hacking became a legally accepted job and which Amendment enforced this?"
"Isn't the amendments from like, third grade? The amendments--they're like, from the Second World Era. That was the whole bombing and war era, wasn't it? Amendments. Was that an army? I don't know. But yeah, Renaissance means rebirth."
Of course, Wyatt manages to startle the teacher again.
"Well I'd like to tell you that you are right about the amendments being from the SWE, but they also carried onto the TWE, Third World Era. And hacking was legalized in TWE, in the 230th amendment. As for the Renaissance, it does mean rebirth. It was the rebirth of mankind to think and begin innovating and creating in a completely new direction and meaning."
He looks up, remembering, his head lifting out of his clouds of passion in the subject--he remembers what he was initially intending to drive towards.
"Yes. So, class." Claps his hand in a clear-cutting sound that wakes up the attention of the class. "The Information Age. Anyone?"
Green lights bob up in the air.
"Now, that's more like it. Let's see... that light over there. You're so far back. Who--oh yes! Harper, let's see what you found."
"Well," the small voice echoes from the back of the room. "It says here that--" she swipes her screen onto the front of the classroom. "Can you see it?"
"Yes, thank you, Harper. Continue--Oh, I love this website! The Worldwide Human Cultures Website! They have so much here! I love it. Sorry. Continue?"
"Heh. Yeah, so anyway. The Information age--nobody's really sure when it started, but people say it started somewhere near the mid 1900s, and it ended actually a while afterwards--it's one of the longer eras of the Second World Era--it ended near the 2300s. That's like, four hundred years. Anyway. It started, Human Ev Pros say that it was because they just started to learn how to harness electronics, and molecular technology. A huge advance was nuclear technology and also in robotics. Oh, and also in science. Look here! It says that they had a huge advance in science in the 2080s. That's also when they started to wean off of religion, like what Tana said."
"That was perfect, Harper, thank you. Could you swipe your screen back down, please?--Thank you. Okay. That was a perfect summary. The Information Age. It's the advancement--are you guys Thinking this down? It's the advancement of science, math, and technology. It is, statistically, when you look at it cumulatively, the most improvement that we humans have gone through in a single era. Well, of course, it was a pretty long period of time--you can't ignore 400 years of development, but it was an astounding amount of information gained at that time. Some scientists near the end of the era, sincerely believed they were reaching the end of what they could reach and learn from as humans. Of course, we now know that is wrong. But at the time, it was a massive, monstrous amount of information for humans to digest in a mere--yes, I'm using the word mere for this--a mere four hundred years."
A green light.
"Yes, Danika?"
"Why did it start? Why did it end? Sorry, I didn't really get to Think it down."
"It's fine. And I will clarify--it's really important. Maybe I didn't mention this. The Info Age was started because there were many diseases--which is when your body does not function normally due to a hereditary mutation or an acquired mutation (if you guys remember from biology). Lots of doctors--the people who would fix these diseases--it's a lot of vocab words from a while ago, I know--lots of doctors wanted to improve or find a way to prevent these diseases. It was also the curiosity of many, and also the hardships of life and the willingness to improve the state of life.
Green light. But they don't wait. "Are there still diseases today?"
The teacher looks up. "Ah, no, Brice. There may be a few lingering around, but that is in the lower parts of the Earth, and they have immediate treatment, where they fix the disease. It's only minor ones, too. You guys know those yearly shots? They're to prevent you from many diseases that may still harm you."
The students murmur in their little thoughts of recalling their recent shots.
"And why the Info Age ended. Why did it end? Well, people began to notice that too much info would be worse than having too little info. It became more dangerous rather than helpful, and too revealing rather than quenching our thirst for knowledge. At a certain point, we went into Microinformatics--whose meaning has changed after quite a while, but our definition of microinformatics is finding out more about the subjects and material we already know--knowing in more detail and precision of the things that we already know."
The class is quiet, save for the tap-tap-tapping of students Thinking down their Thoughts.
"Fun fact. Did you know that the Information Age was the age with the most information discovered that contradicted each other? At one point in the time period, people found out about things that contradicted material found in some point in the time period before. People kept getting confused, and it made for lots of arguments between scientists."
The teacher sees that less and less kids are paying attention and more and more are going back to their paused hacking game (or whatever those kids play these days) that they had been playing in math class.
"Alright!" He jumps up, which quite naturally brings the attention of the students. Screens change color back to the usual blue glow instead of the orange glow from the game, and eyes avert from the screen back to the teacher, standing at the front and bouncing on his heels.
"I'm handing out a worksheet. It's a chart of the ideas at the beginning of the Info Age, or before. Then the next column is what the scientists found out and how they changed that theory. For example--the most common one that we all know it the heart and the brain. Before, we used to think that the heart was the main part of our body that held life. We now know that in humans, there is a mental and physical core--the brain and the heart. I know, you guys were probably thinking of that. But you're going to have to look another one up. It's too easy! Challenge yourselves.
"The back side is about contradictory theories made throughout the Info Age, and indicating which one is correct. Put a star next to it, circle it, highlight it, comment it, whatever.
"This shouldn't be too hard, since you have your library online. Work with partners--I'll be assigning them."
The teacher pulls out the randomizer. It is a little square 3" by 3" panel with four colors on it--blue, green, red, or yellow--each in a corner of the square. It's funny, he thinks, that they would put these four colors to make you feel like you're the one choosing your fate or choosing the randomization, when no matter what color you choose, it just initializes the randomizer and randomly pairs the class--not that each color has a different combination of pairs in it. It doesn't matter what color you pick, he thinks--you'll just get the same randomization.
But he stops thinking to himself and looks up at the class. "Which color should I pick--blue, green, red, or yellow?"
"Yellow!"
"Green!"
"Anything!"
"Blue!"
"The first one!"
"Yellow!"
A chorus of colors and replies spring into the air.
"Well, I guess I heard green the most."
Some kids groan.
The teacher taps on the green area of the randomizer.
Instantly, each student meets the hologram of their partner in their V-screen. Instantly, the teacher's views of the students is disturbed by the translucent, hovering screen that is in front of each student's face. The students put on their Earplug Earphones and the built-in microphones. Each student hears, now, only their partner and nothing else. Perhaps the beating of their own heart. But nothing else.

Thought I’d be the usual irresponsible person that I am and forget about posting?

Well..

HAH.

:D

I remembered!

Which is because I set a reminder on Saturdays to post on my blog, but yesterday I was all busy and stuff (not to mention I got home and just sat on the couch blankly for about five hours hurhur).

Then I remembered today about posting. Yay! Plus, today I have decided to do all of my homework and EVERYTHING possible so that tomorrow, which is President’s Day (a school holiday), I shall relax without anything bothering me (such as frantic thoughts about doing homework at 11:00 PM).

Which is actually what I plan every day before there is a school holiday. I usually end up procrastinating anyway. Oh, what’s the use. This is an era of procrastinating adolescents. What can I say.

Today’s writing is…

hmm.

Frustration.

(No, it’s about frustration. I’m not frustrated. Heh.)

“I’ll be back around four thirty!” I shout. Slam the door. Walk down the steps. Don’t even look back, no use waiting. And, of course..

The door swings open.

I don’t look back. Keep walking.

“No you won’t!”

Keep walking.

“You’re coming back on the first bus. You need to clean the house before the landlord comes!”

“You do it,” I say. Mainly to myself. Too loud. She heard.

A few curses, something hits my backpack. Slipper, probably.

Don’t even care about what the neighbors think anymore. Just keep walking.

“Have an important meeting at school! Be back around four thirty!”

I imagine a nice mother, smiling and waving, saying “Sure, honey! Have fun!” Or at least just wave and disappear behind the door.

Some curses. None that I haven’t heard.

Another hit. Other slipper, probably.

She has good aim. I chuckle. Could’ve gotten somewhere with that.

Actually, no. Not with that personality. Couldn’t have gotten anywhere, not with that personality.

. . . . . .

“Mom, I’m staying after today. I have a Green club meeting today.”

“Don’t you have the other meeting today, too? I thought you in Math club, too!” She says, in her broken English, strong accent. I’ve gotten used to that—you kind of have to. But sometimes, it’s scary. The only time she speaks in English is when it’s important. And usually, her value of importance is different from mine.

“Oh, yeah. I know.. But… The Green club meeting is more important.”

“No! No it’s not! The Green club is the small club you join for fun! Pick up trash at park for community service! Not the serious club! You need to be on math team!”

“No, but Mom—it’s really important today. We’re planning new ideas for the club! I want to be the President of the club next year!”

“Why you wanna be the president of the Green club? Why you not be the president of math team? Math team is better! You go farther!”

“Mom. There is no math team president. You just try out.”

She stares at me, indignantly.

I decide to tell her, then. “Besides! I didn’t even make it last week!”

Her eyes widen. “What!? You didn’t make it?”

“What, I’m not a math person!”

“Not the math person! Not the math person! Why you so stupit? You have to study, study hard. I came here for better life, for you, and what? You not study hard! I gave you the textbook to study! You have to work harder! What you want to do when you grow up? Be the hobo?”

“I want to be a vet!”

“You wanna help animal? Be the doctor and help human! Make more money!”

“Mom, I have to go. The bus is coming soon. And I’m just going to the Green club meeting.”

“No, go to math team! I write the letter to teacher for you. Let you try out one more time.”

I sigh, exasperated. “Mom!”

I open the door to leave, but she suddenly stops me, shoving a humongous lunch box in my face. “You forgot the lunch!”

I look at the huge bulk. “What is this?”

“It’s the good food! Help you grow stronger! Taller! Have to eat it all! Not one rice left!” And she pats me on the back while pushing me out the door.

“Have the goot day! Go to the math club!” She shows her teeth in an awkward smile, and waves half-heartedly.

I sigh.

. . . . . .

Cold outside. Sitting alone. First two seater right behind the doors. I put my head on the window to sleep, but the broom wedged between the seats and the window (probably for cleaning the bus) is poking into my arm.

Pull out the permission slip in my jacket pocket. All wrinkled. What am I gonna tell the teacher.

She won’t sign it because I have to wash the dishes for her.

She won’t sign it because she’s an insensitive human who won’t do anything herself.

She’s a parasitical idiot who I refuse to admit as my biological mother.

She won’t sign it.

She’s in the hospital?

Mind is blank. What should I say?

I really need to go this time. I really want to. Important for my career. I want to try this out.

Test if this is right for me. If this is where I’m meant to go.

. . . . . .

I’m sitting squished in between two random seniors, barely awake, when I remember. We’re getting our midterms back today! For math!

I sigh. I’m barely managing a ninety in that class. I didn’t understand two of the chapters so far, and right now, I feel really behind. A feeling of anxiety crawls up my back and bites me in the neck.

What if I get a low grade? Even an 85 will bring my grade down. What’ll Mom say?

Could I maybe ask for a retake?

But what if I do worse?

Maybe to ask for extra credit?

But he doesn’t do extra credit.

What am I going to do—I couldn’t even finish the whole test!

She’s not going to let me go to Green club anymore then.

What am I going to do?

. . . . . .

Best thing is, I have World History first period. Don’t even have time to think about any lies.

Looking through the window—door’s closed. Purple tie today, Mr. Ellis. My least favorite color.

An omen, perhaps?

Should I walk in? Then it’s more time to talk privately. More time to reveal that I can’t go.

But. Less time for excuses.

Walk in? Don’t walk in?

He sees me through the window. Dang it.

Opens the door. Smiling.

“Heeey, how’ya doing? I see you’re early today. Come in! What were you doing out there, standing awkwardly? Don’t want to be in World History more than the required time, eh?”

He laughs.

I smile. Awkwardly.

Expression changes. Probably means he remembers—

“Oh, right! So, did you think about going to the Politics Convention? You know, I think that trip is perfect for you! You’re very involved in the political area, you know. And I see that you have a lot of opinions and insight.”

I think. Think. Think think think.

Blank.

Hospital? She’s in the hopsital?

But he might call her.

Sick?

Tell him she changed her number?

Make him call my aunt?

“Are you okay?” Different expression. Worried.

“Mmm, yeah, I’m fine.”

“So what do you think? Did you get it signed? Can you go?”

Think think think. The truth?

Maybe that’s best.

The truth.

“Mr. Ellis?”

“Yes?”

“The truth is…” The truth, the truth. The truth!

“The truth is—” I can’t. No. I can’t tell. “I can’t go.”

“Oh, Amanda! Why not?”

Think think think. Why not. Why not? Why not why not why not?

Something I can’t help. Something, something…

A funeral?

“We have a funeral on that day. I’m sorry. I can’t go.”

“Oh, Amanda, I’m so sorry.”

“It’s okay.”

“Maybe next year, right?”

“Yeah…” Look down. “Maybe next year.”

“What does your mother think about it?”

“Oh, my mother?” Think think think. So he won’t have to call her. Something, something. To make him not want or need to contact her. “She thinks it’s a great opportunity for me. She likes it.”

“Glad to hear!”

“But she’s not sure if she can afford it…” I add. Ease the excuse into it.

“Oh! Well, always remember—we have financial aid, when you need it!”

“Oh. Well—”

A kid walks in. “Good morning, Mr. Ellis.” (With a nice, cordial reply, “Good morning, Eric, I like your shirt today! Abraham Lincoln. Haven’t seen him in a while, have we?)

“Well—”

Rrrrrrrrrrrrring!

Kids pour in.

“After class, okay?” Smiles.

Smile back. Awkwardly. Sit in seat.

And I walk straight out right after class.

. . . . . .

I have math fourth period. It’s excruciating. For three periods, I am frantically looking at the clock, wondering whether I want to see my grade soon, or I want to have it an unknown number for as long as possible.

The time passes by so slowly, I’m starting to think that the school might be doing this on purpose, making the clocks slower so that all math students can feel the extreme pain of the suspense dangling in front of our eyes.

First period.

Second period.

Third period…

Rrrrrrrrrrrrrrring!

I rush out the door, dash right up the stairs, nearly run into about three people, and burst into the math room.

The teacher looks up at me, surprised. The room is empty, it’s bright, the walls are white, and it’s kind of blinding me in comparison with my third period class, which is psychology, where there’s only one window and the room’s really dark. It’s quiet, except for the rustling of papers at Mr. Lindberg’s desk.

“Never seen someone so eager to get to math class early.” He chuckles.

He’s sitting at his desk, with a pile of packets. Is that our midterm? I wonder aloud.

“No, it’s your midterm preparation packets. I’m almost done grading them.”

“Are we getting them back today?” I ask.

“No, probably tomorrow, I still have a few classes left. He pats the pile that I had been looking at.

I stare, confusedly, but then I realize that he has misunderstood me.

“Are we getting the midterm test grades back today?” I word it carefully.

“Oh, the midterms? Yes. We’re going to go over the test today. You won’t get to keep it, though.”

Oh.

“How did I do?” I can’t help it. I’m dying to know.

He smiles. “Kids ask me that all the time. I have no idea, Jess. Everyone asks me that, but I always answer, ‘I don’t know, as the Grading Machine.’ It was multiple choice. I’ve only graded the open ended, and besides—I’ve graded practically 100 of them. I don’t really remember. But you’ll find out soon enough.”

I sit at my desk.

The bell rings. Kids pour into the classroom. And I’m drumming my fingers on the desk.

“Okay class,” he walks up to the front of the room as the class settles down and some announce that they “heard from so and so that we’re getting the midterms back today.”

“You’re right,” he smiles to the girl in the back. “We’re getting them back today.”

The class stirs in reaction to this.

“I’ll hand it out alphabetically.”

Great, I’m about the thirteenth person. I’m sitting, looking around, hearing people with their “Yess!”s and their “I’m so stupid!”s.

He passes by and puts the packet face down on my desk.

Face down.

What does that mean?

I lift a corner, slowly. I peek at the grade.

Eighty three.

I sigh.

I lean back and cover my eyes.

I’m screwed.

. . . . . .

My heart is only half of what it was last week. When Mr. Ellis told me about it.

I can’t go.

I can’t go this year. Not next year.

Stupid mom. Not even a mom. Doesn’t even care.

Sit down at lunch. Halfway through the day. School food. Ugh.

. . .

I’m holding my books for the classes after lunch, but for some reason, it feels heavier than ever. I’m dragging myself to lunch, and I see Manda’s sitting at the table, picking at the school food. Chicken nuggets with peas and corn. Who serves chicken nuggets with peas and corn? Ugh—I hate it.

Until I remember, I have my packed lunch. Probably has some sort of oriental medicine to drink. The ugly-tasting one, the one I hate.

I sit down.

“Hey,” I say.

She nods.

“Something wrong?” I ask.

“Nah.” She continues picking at her food. She looks a little mad. I don’t know.

I open my lunch box.

“I hate math.” I say. I hate it, I loathe it, it’s so despicably ugly.

It’s always in my way for so many things. I just can’t understand it.

. . .

“Why? Did you do bad on the midterm or something?” Still thinking about Ellis and Politics Convention, though. Could’ve changed my life—but stupid Mother had to rip it up. I’d taped it up anyway. No use, though.

I can’t go.

After all of that excitement.

Stupid mom. She doesn’t help me, she doesn’t encourage me. Just brings me down.

Doesn’t care. Doesn’t give a flying Frisbee about anything I do. As long as I’m her stupid servant.

Just keeps me from getting anywhere in life. Throws obstacles, that’s what she does.

Hates me, that’s what she does.

Just there to do the dishes and make the food.

Probably doesn’t want me here, anyway. A nuisance.

Why can’t I have a mother who cares about what I get on a test.

Or just not have a mother at all. She just brings me down.

. . .

“Ughh… I didn’t even do that bad. I got an 83. But it’s going to bring down my grade down to a B, and my mom’s going to KILL ME!”

I sigh. I can’t even imagine the look on her face. Why can’t she just encourage me for who I am? Just try to let me to in the direction that I want? Not everyone has to be a doctor!

I want some freedom, some independence to think and go in the direction that I want. I just want her to stop caring about my grades, for once. Just let me do my own thing in school. Find my own path.

. . .

“You always say that.” Kill her? Mine will. Not yours.

Already throwing slippers, throwing dishes. Making me clean them up.

Who’s the mother who’s gonna kill?

Wants me home to clean the house.

Pshh.

Clean it yourself, woman.

Making the mess yourself.

Probably won’t even let me leave the house after college.

. . .

“Yeah, because she’s such a nosy mother. Why can’t she let me be? I’m me, and she’s her! This is my life, why does she care? If I get an 83 in math, I get an 83. But I’ll just do good in biology and English and it’s all fine! I can be what I want. But she doesn’t really care about what I want, does she? She just wants me to be a freaking doctor!” I’m so overemotional right now. All of this anger towards my mom suddenly heightens. Why can’t she just let me be an independent high schooler, so I can make my own choices?

At least you can make your own choices. At least you get to go to clubs you want. At least your mom doesn’t look at every single homework grade.

. .

“At least she cares.”

What do you know about mothers who don’t care about what you want? What do you know? Have you ever been hit by a slipper? Have you ever had to skip school because you had to clean the house all day under the threatening of ripping your binders and notes?

I didn’t think so.

You have a mother who packs you lunch, who cares about your grades, who wants you to do better. And me? My mother?

“Shut up.”

. .

“Seriously? Shut up? I won’t even be able to make my own choices, because she’s just forcing me to do everything!”

Have you ever been spanked and scolded because you got a C on your test? Have you ever been grounded for leaving your homework at home? Have you ever gotten a degrading lecture about your stupidity and ignorance?

Do you know how it feels to have a mother who forces you to do things you don’t want?

. .

“Look, Jess. Your mom cares about you. She wants you to succeed. Be happy she cares.”

If only you knew.

. .

“She cares? She doesn’t care! She doesn’t care at all! She doesn’t acknowledge that I have these feelings that are depressed when she bashes on my ignorance, that I have dreams that are crushed when she forces me in other directions, that I have dreams to do and be things she won’t let me do, no, not in a thousand years!”

.

I can’t take it. Whiny Jess today.

Stand up. Go to the library.

Need some peace.

.

Fine, then. Someone’s a little moody. Leave me. Not that you’ll ever understand. You, what with pursuing your dream. Fine. Fine, then. Go.