What is this? I don't care.

You took one like this. Don't say you didn't.

Happy birthday! I can listen to the album
I used to listen to with my ex
(the other one, the one that broke up
with me more than a year ago)
without feeling sick to my stomach.

Today, I swam in the sea.

It was freezing. I went alone. Best day I've had in months.

The Umbrella Man

"What it means is, if you have any fact, which you think is really sinister, is really obviously a fact which can only point to some sinister underpinnings- hey, forget it, man. Because you can never, on your own, think up all the non-sinister, perfectly valid explanations for that fact."

Watch it here.

Descalzo

3/19/2009

Because the road has ended

I will stand barefoot on the burning black asphalt
Watching the heat distort the sky and distant mountains
Feeling the sun on my skin
Turning coral with the beams
I will stand with shoeless feet in the stagnant air
And think about fossilizing
Turning to a silent stone
Losing all feeling
But, as I begin to set
As my poured cement body moves less and less
I will begin to feel myself burn
And, by feeling,
Remember my mortality
And the transience of life
Knowing that I cannot petrify
But only rot in the sweltering heat
My feet will lift themselves from the oily asphalt
And,
Digging their toes into the hot white sand
Make new tracks

Eighth

When I was fourteen I ran away from home,

because my mom and I had an argument in the living room,

in front of the rest of my family.

When I ran out the front door and slammed it behind me,

Hurrying from the porch I used to sweep in first grade,

Running down the driveway where I learned to ride a bike,

Traipsing on the street I wandered day and night,

Taking distorted pictures of street lamps on school nights,

I turned the corners I sometimes rode my bike around on the way to the library,

Stopping to stand in the grass on the corner, next to the stop sign,

Crying, shouting, barefoot and mad,

Dragging my heels through the leaves and grass,

My fingers grazing the ivy of the wall.

I turned the corner again onto the highway,

and coming down the road on the sidewalk,

a police car pulled over, red lights blaring,

and I pretended not to notice,

but the policeman talked to me,

asked me where I was going and where I lived,

and I answered, terrified, until he stopped.

I continued on the sidewalk, cut grass, deciduous trees, 

bougainvillea running along the high wall

of the oldest country club in the Coachella Valley.

When it happens I am surrounded by trees, and the ground is dark.

I see the sidewalk in my memory, pockmarked and pale,

and lying there is the four of diamonds,

one scale from some lost deck of cards.

I look down at the card,

its sharp parallelograms and mirrored 4s dark in the night,

and having recently come home from China,

remember that the number means death there.

It's silly, but at fourteen, that was why I turned around.

At home, Dad had said, "Should we go after her?"

And my only little brother, a lump in his throat, wailed,

"Well, do you want her?"

By the time I turned around,

they were cruising slowly through our neighborhood,

our huge white Suburban moving like a mythical whale in the dark.

After some college boys harassed me about the police harassing me,

After I was walking back, playing card in hand,

My dad rolled the window down and said something funny,

something about coming home.

Six years later, I went for a walk here in London,

maybe just to feel the comfort of being warm when it's cold,

of wearing a coat and breathing out clouds.

I intended to walk down just one street, and at the end of it, to turn around.

I intended to stop when the line of trees stopped, and then to follow them home again.

But I continued into Kensington, and past Hyde Park, and through Hyde Park, and on,

And you're not going to believe me,

But after I passed a bus stop I looked down at the pavement,

Lit by yellow street lamps and crowded by trees and high buildings,

and I saw one card, an eight of clubs, lying alone on the sidewalk,

and again, I don't care what that card means to technical numerology or to the occult, 

but eight is my favorite number, 

and 8 is an infinity symbol turned on its side,

and eight is the number of steps to Nirvana,

and eight is a perfect cube,

and eight is a perfect octave.

I didn't stop and gape at the card on the ground; I picked it up and kept walking,

Carrying the omen with me,

Realizing that my life was, and had been, metaphors and foreshadowing,

building off of each other,

And that I need to start believing the whispers I hear in my mind,

things like "This will be finite, so end it,"

and "you'll be friends with this person,"

and the worst, after days of a strange fever:

"if you get close to him,

he has the power to remove you from what you love."

And because this needs a denouement, my dad is coming to England,

to carry me home, on a silver plane, like a bright fish in the sky,

And home isn't an escape, but a destination.

Home is a refuge and a celebration,

home is a place to hug three sisters and two brothers,

parents and grandparents, aunts and uncles and cousins.

Home is a place to make fresh orange juice on Christmas,

a place to play ping-pong with my sister

in the backyard in rolled jeans and sunglasses.

Home isn't a living room or a dark street.

Home isn't someone's sternum and clavicle,

or the touch of his hair on my forehead.

Home is my mom trying to say "I love you," more,

Home is my dad driving me back from the airport in our white suburban,

through the thousand windmills at the base of the San Jacinto mountains.

Home is arriving to the fourteen arms

of the seven people who love me most,

and it is knowing that my brother will always want me back

to be the fifteenth and the sixteenth, 

and the eighth.

How My Life Works:

If it makes me feel like I'm going to throw up, I don't do it.
If I start crying, I keep walking.
If I don't understand something, I go through it again.
If I'm not making sense, I stop talking.
If I walk for too long, I start limping.
If my family can't talk, I'll leave the house for anything.
If I'm waiting for a letter, I send another letter.
If I can't finish one poem, I work on a different poem.
If my fingernails are short, I cut them shorter and they bleed.
If that foot does the thing it's doing and I am therefore limping, I keep walking.
If I cut my hair, I want to cut my hair more.
If I feel sad, I try to sleep.
If I wake up afraid, I lie on my back and breathe.
If I can't breathe, I go outside where the air is thinner.
If I trip over Spanish words, I pay attention to what I'm saying.
If I'm smiling, I try not to remember why I shouldn't be.
If someone makes me a cup of tea, I drink it.
If I hold still, I can like people.
If people are too friendly, I remember that they want to be loved.
If I read a poem out loud, I try not to cry.
If other people are crying, I do not cry.
If there is singing in the hall, I sit on the landing and harmonize.
If the first snow happens, I cloud up the glass on the bus.
If I am in the city, I am like a city, humming, glittering, alive.
If I am leaving the city, I am not you.
If I am not you, then I know who I am.

Maren, Holding On

I watched my sister take one step over Skype the other day.

I've been talking to my mother obsessively,

and she sits in front of the screen,

glowing in the bright Californian sun and holding the baby.

I'm somewhere in London, where it's dark at four and cloudy all day,

And I'm in my pajamas until something pulls me out of the house.

So I call her and sit alone in the hall, wearing boxers and a T-shirt,

and she asks me whether I've eaten yet that day.

My sister is ten months old, a smiling miracle.

No, really.

She sits in my mom's lap, mostly wriggling around,

and if I say her name in a high pitch and smile,

She remembers me, (maybe only as the girl in the computer)

And she hits the keys with that one arm she's always waving around,

And she smiles as big as I'm smiling,

Our Scandinavian eyes winking with joy.

She can't smile big enough, so she opens her mouth and laughs.

My mom sometimes walks around the room as she talks to me.

She's warming oatmeal and mixing in applesauce,

coaxing my sister into every biteful of solid food.

She was sitting in a chair a few meters away when my sister took a step.

I think my dad was talking with me at the time,

and he cranked the camera toward my sister.

"She took a step!" said my mom, and I looked at her again.

She was holding my sister under her tiny arms,

where she had just fallen into my mothers' hands and knees.

Maren is afraid of falling.

When my mom walks her around,

(her fists wrapped around my mother's index fingers)

she's started carrying herself on her own,

but when my mom lets go of her, she stops, afraid of falling.

She doesn't know she can do it alone.

She doesn't realize that walking is an act of continuous falling,

That each step is a forward fall being caught by the next foot, and the next,

alternating fall after fall, catch after catch.

What she doesn't realize is that life is a great fall,

a great fall, and a catch,

And every moment after she learns to walk will be about falling and hitting the ground,

hopefully always on her feet.

And this poem wasn't actually going to be about me specifically,

but I fell on my face the other day,

After this boy I was in love with proved he wasn't what I thought he was,

and broke me,

Me who was finally, really in love, for the first time,

Finally there, my face pressed to the concrete, dry heaving on the ground,

Finally realizing why it is that some people are so wary of falling in love,

because falling in love,

is, 

most certainly,

falling.

And having hit, 

like Maren topples on the kitchen tile sometimes,

I'm terrified and shocked.

I don't want to get up again.

Wouldn't I rather reach, wailing and tearful,

For my mother's arms, safe from everything and anyone?

Wouldn't I rather stay here in bed, down, asleep,

Rocked slowly by the temporal turning of the world?

But what Maren doesn't realize is that life is a fall and a catch,

and what I hadn't realized is that much of what I catch, I eventually get over.

And what my mother knew is that the trick is to let us fall first,

until we learn to stop before head-over-heels hitting ground,

until we learn to catch ourselves with our feet.

A Grain of Salt

Disclaimer: I wrote this for my English class and edited it a bit for blogging purposes. Also, the transitions are choppy and/or nonexistent.

The Provo Tabernacle burned down last month- but only on the inside. Since the outer facade was made of brick, both it and the turrets of the building were preserved. On the morning it burned down, friends of mine posted pictures, taken at some ungodly hour, on facebook and blogs. The tabernacle was in flames in the tell-tale pinkish grey of early morning. It looked and seemed surreal at first. There were people at the time who said that the destruction of the Tabernacle was a blow to their testimonies. Others noted the preservation of a painting of Christ and thought that was a sign from Heavenly Father. It’s easy to make metaphors out of life events, and to take the connections one makes in a few seconds seriously.

“I’d have taken it as a sign from the man upstairs,” said Scott, “if it didn’t have swears in it.” He saw a train scarred with graffiti last week and the first legible line he noticed was, “F--- fake hos,” followed by the name of his most recent ex-girlfriend. Would God cuss at us to get a message across? What if it worked? Would he burn down a beloved, albeit old, building?

Or would he send us revelation via fortune cookie? “Change is in your future.” “You will soon happen upon a great deal of money.” Book on Tape Worm went out for Chinese last weekend and we got four fortune cookies each, opening all of them together. Our eyes widened and squinted as we read and pretended to believe each pseudo-sage message. We saved them in our wallets. Maybe we'll refer back to them someday, connecting their prophecies to then-past events.

I smashed my finger in the door in late September, and then Skyler asked me out. For the brief time we dated, my middle right finger was purple and swollen. When we broke up, my fingernail fell off. I pretended it was a sign. I also pretended that the jack-o-lantern I threw away in November was his head. I pretended that when the glass jar and candle I hung outside fell down and shattered, it was a metaphor for letting him go.

I’ve lost the bracelet he gave me. That might actually mean something.

My dad came to visit me back in December and he and I drove down University Avenue, just past Center Street, and parked next to the City Hall. He snapped some pictures of the Tabernacle, flanked with firetrucks. We walked to the top of the parking garage next door to get a better view, talking about philosophy because that’s how my dad is. I realized later that even the Tabernacle could be a metaphor- but for clearing out old things and building new ones. I used that metaphor to build me. I thought, “Sometimes we have to be burned down inside in order to be remodeled into something better. Everything will be okay in the end.” The Tabernacle is being remodeled, from the looks of my last drive-by.

Most people’s astrological signs changed a week or two ago, right? Consulting the newest star charts, I discovered that I was no longer a Gemini, but a Taurus. I felt vague disappointment, even a loss of identity. Then the astrologers told us this change only applied to those born after 1999 or some arbitrary date. We breathed a sigh of relief- as if our futures would be any different if we kept the same star signs.

How much clout can a sign hold? What makes something a sign to which people? Even though I hope God sometimes sends signs to people, I think it’s important to use discernment in naming a heavenly message. If I create a sign that saves or ruins me, grant God the credit for letting me make the connection, or give me the blame for taking it too far.

I like pretending that I live in a book and that some author (like Emma Thompson in Stranger than Fiction, although hopefully less morbid) is making allusions and writing beautiful imagery into my life, but I think I know better than to take her too seriously. I am the only narrator I know of, and my awareness of the metaphors around me may even be irrelevant. I believe that regardless of the author, I am the text. I’ll take my metaphors with a grain of salt.

Live Through This and You Won't Look Back.

(Image: David Daniels Photography)

(Image: Star Tales)

I learned something new today, about friends (which, yes, I am still blogging about) and about myself. I was writing a letter to my friend Mike, who is currently serving a mission in London. I've been in a weird kind of funk lately; I woke up this morning super stressed with absolutely no reason to be, and I feel dissatisfied with most things most of the time. I was writing about this and I asked him for advice when I guess I answered my own question. Looking for more interesting news to write, I told him about how the Provo Tabernacle burned down inside last month.

Next, realized the following:

a. I wouldn't be writing about ideas if I weren't writing to Mike. Sometimes the best friends are the ones who provoke thought. I have always been able to have deep conversations with Mike, gospel-related and otherwise, and I'm grateful that for a friend who I feel comfortable having those conversations with.

b. I don't know how else to say the second part without just using my letter. I'm just going to quote.

In some other news, the inside of the Provo Tabernacle burned down a few weeks ago, which was really sad. The good thing, though, is that the outside (which is brick, if you recall) is preserved, and it provides an opportunity for a great remodel and update of the Tabernacle now. I’m not sure how soon that will happen, but from the looks of what I saw driving by yesterday, they probably will remodel.
You can even see that as a metaphor! It’s like getting rid of old habits or things you don’t like about yourself, I guess. Sometimes you have to get all burnt up inside in order to make a clean start, and in order to progress from there. The inside doesn't even necessarily have to be negative. The Provo Tabernacle was a great building, and it served perfectly well for hundreds of years. But maybe it wasn't as great as it could be. It’s like exchanging something okay for something awesome. That’s hard, of course, because you don’t know whether the “okay” will even be replaced with awesome. I guess that’s where faith comes in. We have to trust that the Lord lets us go through trials and get a little damaged in order to make us and our lives greater than we ever could have been before. Maybe on our own, we can be decent, and even good. But when we submit our will to the Fathers’, and rely on him in the face of trial, he can make us great. I’m grateful for that.

Anyway, it's good to be learning things. I'm the worst at conclusions, so this is all I'll write.

A Growth Chart

So far:

I came home to Provo and reunited with friends.

I moved into a fantastic ward.

I played piano at my friend's wedding.
I wrote letters and songs and poems.

I went to lunch in Maddison's studio.

I made clouds and rain and hung them around Velour.

I met a boy who liked my music.
He told me his name and then kissed me.

He said he loved me and met my family.

He doesn't see us getting married.

I listened to Pasty Cline for three weeks after.

I talked with Pearl and met her kittens.
I saw the Head and the Heart when they came to Provo.
I watched a beautiful sunset over Utah Valley from the hill at the edge of campus.
I don't see us getting married either.
Sam sent me a letter, and it was good.
I went to BKDG at Laura's house.

I went to Arizona for Thanksgiving and played with my sister.
I came back and kept taking pictures of a tree by the Maeser.
I went on a train ride in Colorado with some dear friends.
I took some tests and wrote some papers.
I learned some Christmas songs and played "Pie Jesu" at the Christmas special.
I came to the desert for Christmas.

Paper Folding

I had a dream the other day

That you and I climbed the stairs to the top of the tallest building we know

And looking out, we folded a thousand paper airplanes

And sent them, gliding, white and crisp

Fluttering, careening

Down the cool breeze

To the four corners of this town

That being said-

Or that being done-

You turned to me

And with a false embrace

And with a kiss on the forehead

Knifed my chest with half a scissor

Pulled out my still-beating heart (so careful, so sincere)

And said

You can live without this, right?

And Newton-like you dropped my heart with precision from the top floor

Watching it fall (resolutely) and saying you were sorry

And then kneeling by me as I lay dumbstruck in a growing puddle of blood

(Blooming around me like the border of an empire, conquering strongholds and villages and little homes)

Saying you were sorry

Saying you were sorry and hoping we could still be friends

When you had gone to sleep, a dead woman arose from the redness around her

And staggering down the stairs, sang you a lullaby you never heard

Outside she found her gray heart on the cement

A circle of blood around it

A circle of truth inside it

In vain she tried to put it back inside her chest

And thinking better of it, she took her heart and all its inside countries

And rolled them out on the ground

Spread it crisp and bright and smooth

Ironing the chambers and cleaning out the arteries

When it was flat and dry she folded it into a bird

She folded it into a bird

And she sent it flying up to meet you

And to say good night

And then goodbye

And then on

Today I saw a Russian film about Mexico. In the beginning, there was a long discourse about the earliest Mexicans' worship and fear of death. And in the end, the film showcased their eventual mockery of death through celebration and merrymaking on the Dia de los Muertos.

I am beginning to realize something old and long-realized: sometimes the most painful and fear-driven forces in our lives can turn out to be our reasons for celebration, laughter and ultimately, joy.

Things are low for now. They are going to get better. That's essentially everything I know.

“After a while you learn the subtle difference between holding a hand and chaining a soul, and you learn that love doesn’t mean leaning and company doesn’t mean security, and you begin to learn that kisses aren’t contracts and presents aren’t promises, and you begin to accept your defeats with your head up and your eyes open, with the grace of an adult, not the grief of a child, and you learn to build all your roads on today because tomorrow’s ground is too uncertain for plans. After a while you learn that even sunshine burns if you get too much. So plant your own garden and decorate your own soul, instead of waiting for someone to bring you flowers. And you learn that you really can endure… that you really are strong, and you really do have worth.”

-Veronica A. Shoffstall

Overdue Tree Lamps.

This one is my favorite:

Greta spent a really long time drawing a tree lamp. She then tore the page out, started over, and eventually handed my book back and told me not to look at her drawing until I got home. The next day, I remembered it and read this note:

Tree Lamps

I am addicted to Moleskines, and yesterday I bought this little red book:

--with the intention of learning to draw, and to draw something new every day in it. I love doodling, and I've always been interested in art, but I'm not a particularly good artist. So, since I'm terribly bored most days this Spring, I decided to pick this up.

At Open-Mic, I drew a tree on the list while I waited for my turn. Later, sitting in the back, I opened my little red book and started drawing a lamp, which turned into this:

I like drawing trees. Also flowers. I like drawing inanimate, manufactured things like lamps and boxes and lightbulbs. The tree lamp was bound to happen. And it turned out cooler than I thought it would. Anyway, this is tree lamp the second:

Cody drew one, too:

And so did Scott:

Note the moths around the tree lamp. And the little bulbs. :)

P.S. We concluded yesterday that Scott is incapable of writing a bad song, and would therefore own us all were we to hold an improv open-mic night.

"Ulterior"

Emily Brown

Mrs. Blank

AP English Literature, Period 6

12 May 2009

Assignment

Please write five sentences using the following vocabulary word:

ulterior • \ul-TEER-ee-er\  • adjective

1 a : further, future

 

* b : more distant : remoter

 

c : situated on the farther side : thither

2 : going beyond what is openly said or shown and especially what is proper

(Ulterior, ulterior, ulterior, thinks Miss Brown. There are only so many ways I can go with this. Then again, what are the chances I can use this word properly without saying "motives?"

They are not great.)

(Well, am going to Paris soon)

• She couldn't tell if he had an ulterior meaning when he told her he was also going to Paris in the summer.
• Then again, boys that nice just don't have ulterior motives.

(Could make classical Literature reference. Have been reading Pride and Prejudice and Cloud Atlas of late and old words seeping into speech. Merriam Webster says it was used thus:)

• Jane Eyre roomed in an ulterior end of Thornfield.
• She went to an ulterior area of England when she found out Mr. Rochester was married to that madwoman, Bertha.

(What else? What else? Aha! Other reference to play:)

• Algernon, in The Importance of Being Earnest, nearly always had an ulterior meaning, which contributed invaluably to the satire of the play.

(Bam. That's done.)

Hooray!

The AP English test went really well! I may have even got a five! The multiple choice was definitely the easiest, but I felt really good about my essays, too! We'll see about it! :)
Leslie, you need to come over!

Welll...

Tomorrow is the AP English Literature test and I feel very prepared for it. Today I went to my friend Christina's house and we reviewed Hamlet together because it's one of those plays we can never remember. :) After the test, my entire class is going to Chipotle, which should be fun!
What else? Lately I have been rereading Pride and Prejudice, which only gets better every time. Mr. Darcy is probably every woman's default boyfriend. Har har har. I am working on writing new music, which is fun, but going slightly slow.
Also, subconsciously and sometimes with definite thought, I am thinking and planning for prom! :)

My Audition

I know the suspense has been killing you, reader, so here is what transpired at my Open Call audition last night.

Mom drove me to the McCallum around 8:30, since the email I got from them said to be there fifteen minutes early. My audition was at nine. I was wearing a white scoopneck blouse, a navy pencil skirt, and these new heels I got a few weeks ago. (I'm just saying... I put thought into this. I had to look like a gorgeous prodigy composer, whether I really am or not.)

When we arrived, I went in the back door of the theatre, signed in, and went to the green room. (Luckily, I had a performance there in December with my choir, so I was already familiar) The Varsity Dance Team from my high school was there, and had just tried out, and so I said hi to the girls I knew. Also, the kid who won last year (who's about a year younger than me, I think) and his two sisters were all there. 

I felt kind of embarrassed that I didn' t know anyone really well. Plus, all these people had at least some experience with Open Call, so I was a bit inept in comparison. The audition before mine was the guy and his sisters; they played a very cool trio all together on the piano, even though I only heard a little of it when someone opened the door. I stayed in the green room and talked to one of the girls from the dance team and pretty soon, I was alone in the Green Room. I was the last one to audition.

When a lady came in and told me I was next, I walked through the stage door and out to center stage, trying to keep good posture and look confident, and said,

"Good evening; my name is Emily Brown. I am seventeen years old; I'm from Rancho Mirage, and I will be performing a piece I composed called, 'June Impression.'"

Then I walked over to the piano, sat down and took a deep breath, placing my fingers on the keys.

Then I took another breath, and began to play.

The first thought I had was how beautiful the tone of the piano was. It was a Steinway, and while the keys appeared somewhat worn, the piano was spectacularly in tune, with a clear, smooth tone unlike any piano I have ever played before. I kept my shoulders back and concentrated on dynamics, remembering to keep certain bits stacatto.

Somewhere near the middle, and slowest part of the piece I felt somewhat nervous and started shaking a little. The muscles of my calf were spastically quivering while I held down the sustain pedal. I plunged myself in the music, and finished the piece with some small mistakes.

When I was done, I lifted my fingers from the keys gently, (which my piano teachers have been trying to teach me to do as long as I can remember) and stood up. The judges applauded politely. I said, "Thank you," though maybe not audibly enough, bowed, and began to walk off stage.

"Emily," said one of twenty or thirty judges. This one was a guy, about fifty, to my right.

I stopped.

"Are you classically trained?"

"Yes, I am," I replied.

"Who are some of your favorite composers?"

"Mmm...Chopin, Debussy...I have a favorite piece by Grieg," I trailed.

"Yes," he said. "That piece reminded me so much of Debussy."

I smiled again, said "Thank you," bowed, while they applauded again, and walked off stage.

On the way out, the guy in charge of sound said goodbye to me; so did some other people. I went back to the Green Room and got my bag. Another guy said goodbye and asked if I got my tape and then laughed when he realized I obviously didn't have a tape. Coming to the back door, I said goodbye to the guy at the front desk, and then pushed my way into the cold air outside.

And then- it was as if there was not enough air in the world. I literally started gasping for breath, shaking all over and crying. All I could think about was how much I wanted this, to get in to the show and perform my piece for everyone who would listen. I kept this up, until I got to the car. Then I took another breath, smiled, and got in to tell Mom how it went.

Hopefully I made it, guys. Everyone cross your fingers!!!!!!! PLEASE!!!!!!!!

By the way, I want a piano just like this one:

It's got an interesting story behind it, too. Click on the picture for a link! :)

Rhymes with Coeppen (a rare surname in the U.S.) Thrall

Unscramble the letters to figure out this phrase!

celp anlo

Can you decode this clever anagram?

CLAP NOEL

27. Of the following responses, choose the best answer:

What is the name of the Coachella Valley wide talent show, hosted by the McCallum Theatre?

a. Free For All, a title which makes clear the fact that all amateur performers are invited to participate.

b. Big and Small, which means people of all sizes are free to join in the show.

c. Open Call, a name which basically sucks but reflects the idea nonetheless.

If you chose answer "A," you are for human rights! Congratulations! You should be a Libertarian, since Libertarians are awesome and they wish the government would leave everyone's rights alone.

If you chose answer "B," you are probably short or tall and wish more talent shows would accomodate your size.

If you chose answer "C," you have something in common with the staff of the McCallum Theatre, since they chose that name over the vastly superior "Free for All." (Plus, also, wouldn't it be cool if the show was at the Civic Center Park and it was actually free?)

Yes, reader. The correct answer to all three questions and the title is...

Open Call.

This year, it is vaguely important to me that I get into Open Call. I've never tried out before, and since I'm off to college next year, this is sort of my last chance. I sent in an audio recording of "June Impression," one of my compositions, and as of Thursday night, I have made it to the next level: Live Auditions. So now I've been practicing my song over and over, trying to act like I have some level of stage presence. I just want them to know that this is really important. This is my composition. My baby! If they don't pick me, it's like a diss to my life's work!

Which brings me to the fact that when I finally grow up, I want to write scores for movies. To practice, I am going to buy movies, strip the sound from them, and then write new soundtracks. I think that will be really fun. :)

In entirely unrelated news, I have basically memorized Dylan Thomas's "Fern Hill," my new favorite poem, with less than seventeen mess-up points. Thus:

"Now as I was young and easy under the apple boughs,

About the lilting house and happy as the grass was green...

Umm. As the grass was green...

Argh."

I actually do know the next line. That's just a scenario of what it's like at different points in the poem. Very scary.

Anyway, everyone please cross your fingers that I make it into Open Call!