The soul of Achille-Claude Debussy bursts forth from the solarium, enveloping the walls and the floors of this home I’ve come to passionately love. The melodious sound ruptures, exploding into the casings so well, so completely, almost violently. The sweet notes dance as they quickly fill the living room, rocking back and forth in the torrent of harmony. How glorious the deluge! How frightening at first, how initially startling, this inundation of dark notes and switching volume. The sound drowns the house. The beautiful melody fills the room, reaching to the top, satiating all the inhabitants therein. Fluidly and gracefully does this liquid-like substance creep closer and closer, how loud the notes rumble now, roaring and bellowing madly like a quenchless beast, standing aggravated and ready to devour all. The sound beats upon me, until finally the overpowering cry dominates, and the house is submerged.
The room has changed. This composition has transformed the dwelling into something different, neither a slave nor a master, neither a father nor a son, but a beautiful plane built to hold such sound. The music, though still quite loud and pounding, is simply another fixture on the wall, another identifying characteristic of this house, as if the spirit of the home had materialized into this facet of the room. The sound gently washes over the wrought-iron and the oak flooring, brushing up against the Batchelder fireplace and dripping down the vaulted ceilings. The music encases the room and titles it.
How beautiful, if nothing more, it is to witness the sounds you love complete the places you adore. This is harmony, the one true definition.
Sunday, June 13, 2004
Yesterday I took the ACT. I think I did pretty well; I feel as if I flew by the first three sections and bombed the fourth (stupid science). I find out in 4-7 weeks, at which time I won't be living at the adress the scores will be sent to. I might never find out (oh my!) Meh.
We've now officially moved to the other house. I'm going to go over to that house now, so farewell!
We've now officially moved to the other house. I'm going to go over to that house now, so farewell!
Friday, June 11, 2004
Alas! Why must irony dominate and reign over my life? Ever since I began to listen to my MP3 player, I’ve been on the prowl for AAA batteries. We hardly ever use AAAs, so there were none to be found. I had to go buy some, which was no fun, no fun at all. Well, yesterday after taking pictures of the new house, I come home to post them to see that the battery died just barely before I emptied the pictures onto the computer. One half-full AA would allow me to post them, so I’ve been searching madly since last night. And what have I found?
13 AAA batteries, I kid you not. Of all different colors, shapes and sizes (well, I suppose they’re all the same shape and size, considering they’re AAA batteries). 13!!! I couldn’t find one last week to save my life, and now 13 pop out of nowhere just to mock me! Just to taunt me and say “we can’t help you!! Haahhahahha!” Look! They’re pointing their non-existent fingers at me and laughing mercilessly. Why, oh why?
So I can’t show post pictures of the house like I promised Daddy and Jane that I would. I simply can’t. The world hates me and is conspiring against me, see.
So I suppose I’ll ramble about something else for the time being. Why don’t we chat about the argument mum and I had today, i.e. the reason I’m at home surfing as opposed to working on the house. She won’t let me sleep in past eight, which is ridiculous because it’s the summer and half my acquaintances are now technically viewed as nocturnal creatures. All I’m asking for is 9 o clock. That’s all I want, and she won’t give it to me. Apparently that’s a “wrong” lifestyle. Not different, not unhealthy, just wrong. I had to fight this sordid injustice somehow, so I turned the drum sander off, placed it on the floor, and came home. While eating a generic brand rip off of cocoa puffs that tasted remarkably like dog food, I decided I must battle this. I’m not sure how, but I have many options, which go as follows:
1.) I could always just refuse to lift a finger until I achieve my goal and attain the 9 o’ clock right. I won’t sand, varnish, scrub, sweep, edge, sterilize, or speak audibly until those in the house I’m currently dwelling in respect my right to remain unconscious until 9 o’ clock
2.) Hunger strike- I’d lose a couple pounds (the exact number depending on mum’s intractability, of course) and I’m bound to get publicity. “GIRL REFUSES TO EAT UNTIL ALLOWED TO SLEEP IN”. Would you look at that headline? Classic, I tell you.
3.) There’s always the option of ignoring Gandhi’s way of doing things (nonviolent resistance my foot) and choose to follow Stalin or Hitler’s approach. “MILLIONS SLAUGHTERED DOWNTOWN WHILE MOTHER HOLDS STRONG”. Pretty intimidating, huh? A plethora of possible headlines face us, my friends, each more menacing than the next. “PARENTS OF MASSACRED CHILDREN BEG MOTHER TO CAVE” or better yet “TEENAGE GIRL RECRUITED BY ALCAIDA TO HEAD TORTURE DEPARTMENT AFTER FIGHT FOR SLEEP”. That’s bound to work.
4.) I could somehow push her to sleep in, too. If I wake her up every 45 minutes by belting “Nobody knows the trouble I’ve seen” into a megaphone that is situated approximately 3 ½ inches away from her left ear, she’ll have to sleep in, and therefore won’t be awake to rob me of my sleep. This wouldn’t get me any infamous publicity, but would be hilarious and I wouldn’t have to spend any money on WMDs.
5.) I could gather up the other sleep-deprived children of Utah and we could picket, and maybe even march down Main Street. How would one go about rounding up the sleep-deprived children of Utah? After viewing my friend’s sleeping habits I feel like I’m the only one…
I don’t know- I’ll figure something out. But in the meantime- Narcoleptics UNITE!! FIGHT FOR THE RIGHT!!! ( The 9:00 Right!!!!)
13 AAA batteries, I kid you not. Of all different colors, shapes and sizes (well, I suppose they’re all the same shape and size, considering they’re AAA batteries). 13!!! I couldn’t find one last week to save my life, and now 13 pop out of nowhere just to mock me! Just to taunt me and say “we can’t help you!! Haahhahahha!” Look! They’re pointing their non-existent fingers at me and laughing mercilessly. Why, oh why?
So I can’t show post pictures of the house like I promised Daddy and Jane that I would. I simply can’t. The world hates me and is conspiring against me, see.
So I suppose I’ll ramble about something else for the time being. Why don’t we chat about the argument mum and I had today, i.e. the reason I’m at home surfing as opposed to working on the house. She won’t let me sleep in past eight, which is ridiculous because it’s the summer and half my acquaintances are now technically viewed as nocturnal creatures. All I’m asking for is 9 o clock. That’s all I want, and she won’t give it to me. Apparently that’s a “wrong” lifestyle. Not different, not unhealthy, just wrong. I had to fight this sordid injustice somehow, so I turned the drum sander off, placed it on the floor, and came home. While eating a generic brand rip off of cocoa puffs that tasted remarkably like dog food, I decided I must battle this. I’m not sure how, but I have many options, which go as follows:
1.) I could always just refuse to lift a finger until I achieve my goal and attain the 9 o’ clock right. I won’t sand, varnish, scrub, sweep, edge, sterilize, or speak audibly until those in the house I’m currently dwelling in respect my right to remain unconscious until 9 o’ clock
2.) Hunger strike- I’d lose a couple pounds (the exact number depending on mum’s intractability, of course) and I’m bound to get publicity. “GIRL REFUSES TO EAT UNTIL ALLOWED TO SLEEP IN”. Would you look at that headline? Classic, I tell you.
3.) There’s always the option of ignoring Gandhi’s way of doing things (nonviolent resistance my foot) and choose to follow Stalin or Hitler’s approach. “MILLIONS SLAUGHTERED DOWNTOWN WHILE MOTHER HOLDS STRONG”. Pretty intimidating, huh? A plethora of possible headlines face us, my friends, each more menacing than the next. “PARENTS OF MASSACRED CHILDREN BEG MOTHER TO CAVE” or better yet “TEENAGE GIRL RECRUITED BY ALCAIDA TO HEAD TORTURE DEPARTMENT AFTER FIGHT FOR SLEEP”. That’s bound to work.
4.) I could somehow push her to sleep in, too. If I wake her up every 45 minutes by belting “Nobody knows the trouble I’ve seen” into a megaphone that is situated approximately 3 ½ inches away from her left ear, she’ll have to sleep in, and therefore won’t be awake to rob me of my sleep. This wouldn’t get me any infamous publicity, but would be hilarious and I wouldn’t have to spend any money on WMDs.
5.) I could gather up the other sleep-deprived children of Utah and we could picket, and maybe even march down Main Street. How would one go about rounding up the sleep-deprived children of Utah? After viewing my friend’s sleeping habits I feel like I’m the only one…
I don’t know- I’ll figure something out. But in the meantime- Narcoleptics UNITE!! FIGHT FOR THE RIGHT!!! ( The 9:00 Right!!!!)
Wednesday, June 09, 2004
I’ve pretty much accepted the fact that the owner of this rental won’t sell to us. It was such a morbid dump before, but after 1 ½ days of us working in it it’s beginning to gleam with the charm that originally inhabited the house. The gorgeous hardwood has been exposed, the walls patched and painted, the disgusting carpet removed. He’s going to make a ton of money off of this house.
So we’re doing this work to:
1) Make the house elegant and lovely so that the two months we’ll spend in it will be comfortable and exciting, not depressing. Plus, we’re paying $800 a month. After we exert ourselves for a week it will be worth $1400. We will be doing the labor, but we’ll be getting a great deal afterwards.
2) Gain the experience. The landlord is paying for everything. EVERYTHING. We finally get to fiddle about with the expensive options of remodeling that simply weren’t practical before (i.e. crown molding, expensive tile, the nicest paints, new, modern lighting, the works) In the end he receives the monetary bonus, we get the knowledge and experience. Hard work is always good for a person’s mentality and their waist line. How exciting.
Today we finished removing all the carpeting, and it turns out that there is hardwood in two of the three bedrooms. We’ve ripped out the edging and the staples in the living room, its now ready to be sanded and finished. The rest of today’s work will be composed of de-stapling and de-edging the two bedrooms, and sanding and finishing the floors. We’re putting new carpet in the third bedroom, we’ll go pick that out today. Oh my.
It’s nice to be tired, though, to feel worn and stretched after a hard days work. And we still have to do the sanding! Aaaah! I’m going to die!
Anyway, this is what I want to experiment with, after letting the landlord's pocket foot the bill:
So we’re doing this work to:
1) Make the house elegant and lovely so that the two months we’ll spend in it will be comfortable and exciting, not depressing. Plus, we’re paying $800 a month. After we exert ourselves for a week it will be worth $1400. We will be doing the labor, but we’ll be getting a great deal afterwards.
2) Gain the experience. The landlord is paying for everything. EVERYTHING. We finally get to fiddle about with the expensive options of remodeling that simply weren’t practical before (i.e. crown molding, expensive tile, the nicest paints, new, modern lighting, the works) In the end he receives the monetary bonus, we get the knowledge and experience. Hard work is always good for a person’s mentality and their waist line. How exciting.
Today we finished removing all the carpeting, and it turns out that there is hardwood in two of the three bedrooms. We’ve ripped out the edging and the staples in the living room, its now ready to be sanded and finished. The rest of today’s work will be composed of de-stapling and de-edging the two bedrooms, and sanding and finishing the floors. We’re putting new carpet in the third bedroom, we’ll go pick that out today. Oh my.
It’s nice to be tired, though, to feel worn and stretched after a hard days work. And we still have to do the sanding! Aaaah! I’m going to die!
Anyway, this is what I want to experiment with, after letting the landlord's pocket foot the bill:
I am so very tired. I went to work on the house at 11, went shopping for materials at 4, ate lunch, worked till 10. Needless to say we accomplished a phenomenal amount of work, and the shimmers of hope that once peeped through matted carpet and dirty walls are beginning to pour through the flawless hardwood flooring and fresh paint. I do hope we buy.
Today we:
• ripped up the gross, dirty, shag carpeting
• pulled out all the staples and sidebars and such
• swept, mopped, swept and then mopped the floors
• scrubbed the walls and the trim
• patched together the multitudinous holes with spackling (material of the GODS, how I love this stuff)
• painted two rooms, including detail work
Tomorrow we plan to:
• Sand and finish the floors (this will be the hardest part, even though we’re using a belt sander. I’m not sure how long this will take, but it will occupy most of the day)
• Apply the second coat of paint to the two rooms that we painted today.
• paint the trim.
• move on to the living room in which we will:
o rip up the gross, dirty, shag carpeting
o sweep, mop, sweep and then mop the floors
o scrub the walls and the trim
o patch together the multitudinous holes with spackling (It’s so handy! So very handy! Oh! Spackling, how I love thee!!!)
o paint the room, including the detail work.
And then of course, we just have to clean up the mess that the previous tenants made in the other rooms. I was extremely reluctant to move in this house because it was previously inhabited by college students. A part of me hesitates to say “students”, however, because that would imply that they were human, which, after fixing all that they have done to this house, I doubt quite a bit. They’re not humans per say, but large, hairless apes. Apes who once had hair, but, due to grimy and positively filthy living conditions, developed a disease similar to leprosy that caused them to lose all their hair. These people couldn’t have been human, there is simply no way. There is no way someone could live like this: dirty clothes strewn everywhere (This is the condition we entered it in; they didn’t bother to take the clothes they didn’t feel like washing, so we have a huge bin of clothes that we plan to ritualistically burn under a full moon), old Chinese food stuck in random crevices of the house, an incalculable mound of empty diet coke boxes, and dirty dishes with food STILL IN THEM scattered about. This is how they left their rental house, and the landlord, though a pleasant enough man who’s willing to work with us, didn’t do anything about it. I had to scrub the hearty man dinners off of their cheap china so that we can donate it to DI and still have souls. I kid you not. I had to pick up their morbid jeans and throw them in a pile to be disposed of (I’m quite set on the moonlit ritualistic burning, but mum’s somewhat hesitant. I’ll have to talk her into it). These people were slobs, wasters, and downright disgusting people/apes. It’s terrible.
We’re hoping the incredibly low state of affairs will push down the price if the owner with give in and sell, so it does have its advantages.
I hope we buy, I really really do. Well, I’m dead tired from today and have an even more extensive day ahead of me. Farewell.
Today we:
• ripped up the gross, dirty, shag carpeting
• pulled out all the staples and sidebars and such
• swept, mopped, swept and then mopped the floors
• scrubbed the walls and the trim
• patched together the multitudinous holes with spackling (material of the GODS, how I love this stuff)
• painted two rooms, including detail work
Tomorrow we plan to:
• Sand and finish the floors (this will be the hardest part, even though we’re using a belt sander. I’m not sure how long this will take, but it will occupy most of the day)
• Apply the second coat of paint to the two rooms that we painted today.
• paint the trim.
• move on to the living room in which we will:
o rip up the gross, dirty, shag carpeting
o sweep, mop, sweep and then mop the floors
o scrub the walls and the trim
o patch together the multitudinous holes with spackling (It’s so handy! So very handy! Oh! Spackling, how I love thee!!!)
o paint the room, including the detail work.
And then of course, we just have to clean up the mess that the previous tenants made in the other rooms. I was extremely reluctant to move in this house because it was previously inhabited by college students. A part of me hesitates to say “students”, however, because that would imply that they were human, which, after fixing all that they have done to this house, I doubt quite a bit. They’re not humans per say, but large, hairless apes. Apes who once had hair, but, due to grimy and positively filthy living conditions, developed a disease similar to leprosy that caused them to lose all their hair. These people couldn’t have been human, there is simply no way. There is no way someone could live like this: dirty clothes strewn everywhere (This is the condition we entered it in; they didn’t bother to take the clothes they didn’t feel like washing, so we have a huge bin of clothes that we plan to ritualistically burn under a full moon), old Chinese food stuck in random crevices of the house, an incalculable mound of empty diet coke boxes, and dirty dishes with food STILL IN THEM scattered about. This is how they left their rental house, and the landlord, though a pleasant enough man who’s willing to work with us, didn’t do anything about it. I had to scrub the hearty man dinners off of their cheap china so that we can donate it to DI and still have souls. I kid you not. I had to pick up their morbid jeans and throw them in a pile to be disposed of (I’m quite set on the moonlit ritualistic burning, but mum’s somewhat hesitant. I’ll have to talk her into it). These people were slobs, wasters, and downright disgusting people/apes. It’s terrible.
We’re hoping the incredibly low state of affairs will push down the price if the owner with give in and sell, so it does have its advantages.
I hope we buy, I really really do. Well, I’m dead tired from today and have an even more extensive day ahead of me. Farewell.
Tuesday, June 08, 2004
My family has finally decided where to go. We’ve always had the motivation, now we have the direction. We’ve decided to rent for a couple of months, and we found this darling college-student dump with loads of potential. If we can get the owner to sell, we’ll completely renovate it and re-sell. Right now we’re just making it livable: tearing out carpeting and exposing the beautiful hard wood underneath, cleaning the walls and painting them, laying new tile, etc. We’d be able to make a pretty penny if only we can push the owner down and buy it. I’m so excited.
That’s what I’ve been doing all day, mainly ripping up carpet and plucking out the staples (I despise this job and yet I’m always stuck with it, regardless the house or the other people present) I’ve gotten quite proficient at it, however, so it’s easy and rewarding to see a handsome wood floor beam back at you from the blanket of loose staples that now litter the floor. I love doing this. I absolutely adore working on houses, and I’ve missed it quite a bit. It keeps me happy, it keeps me skinny.
We’re home for a power nap and we’re to leave shortly to go paint. We sand and finish the floors tomorrow, and then we’ll be done with the entrance, living and dining. Oh, how I hope we’ll be able to buy; the apartment downstairs is just as spacious and as promising as the one above, though currently occupied by a smoky and rambunctious family. If we buy we’ll be able to do anything with this property and I’m estimating a $35,000 profit, depending, of course, upon the price for which we buy it. We’d be able to pay cash, and it’s such a dump as of late that it’s not pooling in much money for the owner, so I’m pretty sure we’ll be able to buy. At least I hope!
It would be extremely unwise for me to skip my powernap, so I leave you all now. Farewell, my lovelies, wish me well on the painting and stripping and sanding that I have ahead of me. How positively exciting!
That’s what I’ve been doing all day, mainly ripping up carpet and plucking out the staples (I despise this job and yet I’m always stuck with it, regardless the house or the other people present) I’ve gotten quite proficient at it, however, so it’s easy and rewarding to see a handsome wood floor beam back at you from the blanket of loose staples that now litter the floor. I love doing this. I absolutely adore working on houses, and I’ve missed it quite a bit. It keeps me happy, it keeps me skinny.
We’re home for a power nap and we’re to leave shortly to go paint. We sand and finish the floors tomorrow, and then we’ll be done with the entrance, living and dining. Oh, how I hope we’ll be able to buy; the apartment downstairs is just as spacious and as promising as the one above, though currently occupied by a smoky and rambunctious family. If we buy we’ll be able to do anything with this property and I’m estimating a $35,000 profit, depending, of course, upon the price for which we buy it. We’d be able to pay cash, and it’s such a dump as of late that it’s not pooling in much money for the owner, so I’m pretty sure we’ll be able to buy. At least I hope!
It would be extremely unwise for me to skip my powernap, so I leave you all now. Farewell, my lovelies, wish me well on the painting and stripping and sanding that I have ahead of me. How positively exciting!
Monday, June 07, 2004
The last entry I wrote told about some ideal person who bought tickets for Phantom months before the play came to town because they knew that some darling little girl named Rachael would absolutely love to go. Unrealistic, you say? Preposterous, you say? Why not at all, old chap, it just isn’t the person you think it would be. Upon vocalizing my dissatisfaction with the fact that Carter’s probably not going to take me to phantom, Elisse laughed at me and told me I was silly.
Me: “Why am I silly? I really want to go!”
Elisse: “Because I bought tickets for us a while ago, darling. I figured you would want to go…”
Kudos for Elisse! What a doll…
Me: “Why am I silly? I really want to go!”
Elisse: “Because I bought tickets for us a while ago, darling. I figured you would want to go…”
Kudos for Elisse! What a doll…
I’ve been surfing a while, and I’d feel absolutely dreadful if I retired to bed without writing. So here I am, tired though not sleep deprived, semi-awake though in no state to write. I suppose I’ll just haphazardly stumble through my latest vexations until something half consequential springs to mind.
And lo and behold, something half consequential just sprang to mind. Alright: imagine you are in a certain situation. It this situation you are a male, and you have a girlfriend. You’re pretty happy with the situation, all content and besotted like. Is the picture in your mind? Have you become the male? Alrighty, we shall proceed.
This girlfriend of yours adores the theatre, and is quite the aficionado. She hasn’t quite reached the level of connoisseur, but she likes to attend whenever possible and has said once or twice that she would love to share the theatre experience with you.
The Phantom of the opera comes to town. Interesting; you have a girlfriend that loves the stage, has voiced her desire to go with you, and has said many times that Phantom of the Opera is her all-time favorite. Hmmmm….there seems to be some type of connection here. The crux of the situation is as thus: naturally, you spot the correlation and possibilities for this opera, but you don’t know quite what to do about it. What do you do when your girlfriend, who happens to love the theatre and Andrew Lloyd Webber and has said that she wants to go with you, presents a hint such as this? What can a guy do?
Obviously she’s trying to say something, although you’re not quite sure what. Being a male and completely oblivious to any type of hint, be it subtle or mind-bogglingly blatant, you say “huh” and proceed to forget about it. This girlfriend of yours, however, realizes that you are indeed a male and therefore are completely oblivious to any type of hint, be it subtle or mind-bogglingly blatant. She decides to dispense with the insinuations and bestows upon you a suggestion so open and directed that it borders on a command. One day, when frolicking about aimlessly and simply spending time together she looks at you dead in the eye and says:
“You should take me to The Phantom of the Opera.”
Once again, she’s trying to say something. What could it be? The conundrum bewilders you for a moment until you elect to simply say “huh”, and forget all about it.
A month later, you have two options. You can:
(1) Read her blog, and upon unearthing her discontent with her chances of going to phantom (which, considering the tickets are almost sold out, are getting slimmer by the moment) rush out, buy tickets, and pretend that you’ve had this planned since the first time she dropped the most subtle hint. Approach her 2 days later about her blog, accuse her of being insensitive just because you wanted to surprise her, and totally guilt her into sympathy and other fun things (which would be semi-tragic on her part, but not really, because she’s so utterly ecstatic about attending the play)
or you can:
(2) Continue to forget all about it, and fail to notice the problem until she starts foaming at the mouth and doing mean things, such as: writing cruel entries about you that portray you as a, um, less-than-brilliant character and intentionally stepping on your toes.
You have many options, my friend. Now you simply have to decide and execute the pre-determined decision. You could base your verdict on many factors, mainly two: your girlfriend’s happiness and the turkey sandwich that you’re really craving at the moment.
You simply don’t know what to do; you don’t know what to do at all.
Let’s see……Heads says you buy the tickets and tails says you go buy that sandwich….
And lo and behold, something half consequential just sprang to mind. Alright: imagine you are in a certain situation. It this situation you are a male, and you have a girlfriend. You’re pretty happy with the situation, all content and besotted like. Is the picture in your mind? Have you become the male? Alrighty, we shall proceed.
This girlfriend of yours adores the theatre, and is quite the aficionado. She hasn’t quite reached the level of connoisseur, but she likes to attend whenever possible and has said once or twice that she would love to share the theatre experience with you.
The Phantom of the opera comes to town. Interesting; you have a girlfriend that loves the stage, has voiced her desire to go with you, and has said many times that Phantom of the Opera is her all-time favorite. Hmmmm….there seems to be some type of connection here. The crux of the situation is as thus: naturally, you spot the correlation and possibilities for this opera, but you don’t know quite what to do about it. What do you do when your girlfriend, who happens to love the theatre and Andrew Lloyd Webber and has said that she wants to go with you, presents a hint such as this? What can a guy do?
Obviously she’s trying to say something, although you’re not quite sure what. Being a male and completely oblivious to any type of hint, be it subtle or mind-bogglingly blatant, you say “huh” and proceed to forget about it. This girlfriend of yours, however, realizes that you are indeed a male and therefore are completely oblivious to any type of hint, be it subtle or mind-bogglingly blatant. She decides to dispense with the insinuations and bestows upon you a suggestion so open and directed that it borders on a command. One day, when frolicking about aimlessly and simply spending time together she looks at you dead in the eye and says:
“You should take me to The Phantom of the Opera.”
Once again, she’s trying to say something. What could it be? The conundrum bewilders you for a moment until you elect to simply say “huh”, and forget all about it.
A month later, you have two options. You can:
(1) Read her blog, and upon unearthing her discontent with her chances of going to phantom (which, considering the tickets are almost sold out, are getting slimmer by the moment) rush out, buy tickets, and pretend that you’ve had this planned since the first time she dropped the most subtle hint. Approach her 2 days later about her blog, accuse her of being insensitive just because you wanted to surprise her, and totally guilt her into sympathy and other fun things (which would be semi-tragic on her part, but not really, because she’s so utterly ecstatic about attending the play)
or you can:
(2) Continue to forget all about it, and fail to notice the problem until she starts foaming at the mouth and doing mean things, such as: writing cruel entries about you that portray you as a, um, less-than-brilliant character and intentionally stepping on your toes.
You have many options, my friend. Now you simply have to decide and execute the pre-determined decision. You could base your verdict on many factors, mainly two: your girlfriend’s happiness and the turkey sandwich that you’re really craving at the moment.
You simply don’t know what to do; you don’t know what to do at all.
Let’s see……Heads says you buy the tickets and tails says you go buy that sandwich….
Friday, June 04, 2004
Fret not, darlings, I didn't turn in that wonder of a poem that I posted about To Kill a Mockingbird. I can't stoop that low. I did, however, write some interestin slam in 10 minutes before the project was due:
White, and exultantly clean, ready to fly.
So pure, so undeserving of this serving, not wanting to die.
The crime you didn’t commit, sublime, and ready to hit
It haunts because you are different
And lacking of adornment
Before they see the core, they abhor you for I adore you
And because you threaten them,
Your reverence condemns all them,
Your numbers then panic them,
And threatens to deprive all them
Of this unrighteous power in an hour
Too dark to truly see through,
This vagueness washes through you,
Hitting and beating, scathing your life and your soul
As the shadows drip and slide out of control.
And you don’t see why you are not allotted
The time and right and the claim to be plotted
On this land in which you were born and raised,
Beaten and hazed,
Driven to craze,
But never then phased.
How could they blindly, wildly, snidely
engrave this anguish upon you
just because you long to
live and breathe and see, and perhaps ultimately
take wing to the sky, and finally fly.
Their unchecked power and force
Will lead to an end of all they endorse.
It is their ignorance, their pride,
For that is the locking word
Who could ever bear to survive,
they who kill a mockingbird.
White, and exultantly clean, ready to fly.
So pure, so undeserving of this serving, not wanting to die.
The crime you didn’t commit, sublime, and ready to hit
It haunts because you are different
And lacking of adornment
Before they see the core, they abhor you for I adore you
And because you threaten them,
Your reverence condemns all them,
Your numbers then panic them,
And threatens to deprive all them
Of this unrighteous power in an hour
Too dark to truly see through,
This vagueness washes through you,
Hitting and beating, scathing your life and your soul
As the shadows drip and slide out of control.
And you don’t see why you are not allotted
The time and right and the claim to be plotted
On this land in which you were born and raised,
Beaten and hazed,
Driven to craze,
But never then phased.
How could they blindly, wildly, snidely
engrave this anguish upon you
just because you long to
live and breathe and see, and perhaps ultimately
take wing to the sky, and finally fly.
Their unchecked power and force
Will lead to an end of all they endorse.
It is their ignorance, their pride,
For that is the locking word
Who could ever bear to survive,
they who kill a mockingbird.
It has finally come. The wretched heat of the desert has finally descended upon us and will soon swallow us whole! The blinding heat almost drains one automatically; the energy expels itself out of the being and surrenders to the intense warmth. AAaahh!!!! Run away!!
Yes. Summer in Utah is terrible. Truly it is a purgatory in every sense of the word and stereotypical belief. It is so incredibly hot and sticky and blazingly desolate outside that one barely dares to journey up to the upper level of the house, let alone outside in the middle of all the furiously hot commotion.
Why, Oh why? It came so quickly, yet it will last so long! AAaahah! How I long for a semi-moderate climate already!
Yes. Summer in Utah is terrible. Truly it is a purgatory in every sense of the word and stereotypical belief. It is so incredibly hot and sticky and blazingly desolate outside that one barely dares to journey up to the upper level of the house, let alone outside in the middle of all the furiously hot commotion.
Why, Oh why? It came so quickly, yet it will last so long! AAaahah! How I long for a semi-moderate climate already!
Thursday, June 03, 2004
It’s amazing: the high school I attend is quite possibly one of the most under-funded in the country, yet I find myself again and again in awe of the extraordinary teachers that have tutelage over me. It would take too long, and no eloquence of mine would do the reason behind this justice, but let it suffice to say that hundreds upon hundreds of difficult students have weeded out the weak and the counterfeit, and have left nothing but the creative minds who think to survive. I have plenty of incredibly inept teachers, yes, but those who make an impression on me do so because of nothing other than the sheer genius and pureness with which they teach.
Mr. Christiansen, my physics teacher, is an awesome guy. Is he eccentric to the nth degree and completely insane? Maybe. But he’s effective and hilarious. Today he laid aside his normally jovial and comical behavior and assigned us our last assignment, which is due August 21, 2017.
On August 21, 2017, there will be a solar eclipse that will be able to be seen from the northern hemisphere. Two hours prior to the solar eclipse, each student in the class is to meet the rest of the class at Kemmerer, Wyoming. The saints will meet at McDonalds, and the sinners will meet at the soggy log bar (aren’t you glad that he’s NOT making fun of the LDS?) We will all gather for an eclipse party. We are to accomplish three things before this day:
1. Find out who you are, don’t live someone else’s life/ serendipity
2. Find a best friend to share your life with
3. Discover what is real.
He is an exceptional man and an incomparable teacher, to say the very least.
Mr. Christiansen, my physics teacher, is an awesome guy. Is he eccentric to the nth degree and completely insane? Maybe. But he’s effective and hilarious. Today he laid aside his normally jovial and comical behavior and assigned us our last assignment, which is due August 21, 2017.
On August 21, 2017, there will be a solar eclipse that will be able to be seen from the northern hemisphere. Two hours prior to the solar eclipse, each student in the class is to meet the rest of the class at Kemmerer, Wyoming. The saints will meet at McDonalds, and the sinners will meet at the soggy log bar (aren’t you glad that he’s NOT making fun of the LDS?) We will all gather for an eclipse party. We are to accomplish three things before this day:
1. Find out who you are, don’t live someone else’s life/ serendipity
2. Find a best friend to share your life with
3. Discover what is real.
He is an exceptional man and an incomparable teacher, to say the very least.
Wednesday, June 02, 2004
For history I’m writing 10 poems about To Kill a Mockingbird (yes, history. I’m writing poetry on a classic novel for a project in history. I must go to a public school in Utah, or something silly like that). The book’s lovely, I absolutely adored it. I didn’t like how scout’s faith in human kind was restored in the end, however; she lives in the south, where cynicism and a semi-fatalistic mentality conquer all, baby! What’s this horrid sanguinity I sense? I’ve decided that I’d focus on 3 of the poems and turn in 7 cliché, redundant pieces. I brainstormed with Amy Jo today in trig, and, with Jo’s brilliant assistance, I managed to summon up this:
Roses are red,
Violets are blue,
In this book whites hate blacks,
And the blacks hate them too.
That's right, my dearest Miss Lee. Keep on rolling over in that grave of yours!
Roses are red,
Violets are blue,
In this book whites hate blacks,
And the blacks hate them too.
That's right, my dearest Miss Lee. Keep on rolling over in that grave of yours!
Tuesday, June 01, 2004
We found the perfect house! Well, two perfect houses that are both so perfect for us that we can’t decide. We could make a huge profit off one after fixing it up, but the other has a huge, beautiful .3 acre lot in the middle of the city, which is very rare. The fixer-upper (we’ll call this little doll of a house Glenmare, affectionately titled after the street it lies on) is big and has so much potential- and we’d be able to get it for a great price, and still have money for a new car and enough side cash so that we could fix it up beautifully and pop a hot tub in the back yard. The other house (we’ll call this one Hollywood for the same reason as previously stated) has a cute house with not as much potential, and a gorgeous back yard with large fruit trees, resembling the south. I don’t know! Which one? Which one?
Meh. I’m not too worried about it. We’ll pray and go wherever we’re impressed to go.
The end of school is approaching. In 6 days I will be graduated from high school. 6 days! Creepy, huh? I’m so very excited, and in all actuality, I don’t have that much more work to do. I have a history project and need to study for a final in trig, English, and physics, but after that I am finished Whoopee!
Speaking of English, a somewhat funny occurrence happened today. I shamefully turned in a scarlet letter essay a while back that was dreadful. This paper was absolutely appalling! Very appalling, like almost-didn’t-turn-it-in-and-receive-credit-so-that-I-might-save-my-dignity appalling. I procrastinated, okay! Leave me alone. Yes, I’ve killed myself in that past before, getting up at 3 and writing fantastic analytical pieces, but they don’t fool her at all. Not that my writing is fake, mind you, it’s simply beautiful, beautiful description that attempts to hide somewhat shaky foundations. The bottom of every essay has read the same thing since the beginning of the year: “you have talent, now harness it”, “this thought is too promising to be incomplete”, “true writing has no room for sloppiness”, “You have a way with words but first need to develop your stance on this” and so on and so forth. I’ve gotten no help. My work is still novice and deficient in some key places. She hasn’t directed me otherwise (granted, I haven’t gone in to see her about it, but shut up). So, I…er…didn’t do that with this particular essay. I broke; I was sick of putting forth so much and getting nothing in return. I simply pushed the time limit to hard this time. I got up at 2:30 the morning it was due and passed out on my keyboard after copying a particularly repulsive essay off of 123helpme.com. The thought still makes my head turn away, and a shamed yet amused smile fall upon my lips. For the final I went through and rewrote the basic thesis before reluctantly turning it in. When it was returned to me, I was surprised to see the comments that now graced the familiar font and paper before me: “What a rudimentary thesis”, “Not up to your usual standards”, “No flow at all”, “???”, “SEE ME”. The break in monotony is somewhat releasing, but this is disheartening all the same. I feel terrible about this, that I allowed Nathaniel Hawthorne, of all people, to rob me of my pride! I know this is not the case, I took my pride by the shirt collar and hurled it at Mr. Hawthorne.
I think I’m going to go talk to her about it, and plead insane indecisiveness. I had no choice but to procrastinate!
Meh. I’m not too worried about it. We’ll pray and go wherever we’re impressed to go.
The end of school is approaching. In 6 days I will be graduated from high school. 6 days! Creepy, huh? I’m so very excited, and in all actuality, I don’t have that much more work to do. I have a history project and need to study for a final in trig, English, and physics, but after that I am finished Whoopee!
Speaking of English, a somewhat funny occurrence happened today. I shamefully turned in a scarlet letter essay a while back that was dreadful. This paper was absolutely appalling! Very appalling, like almost-didn’t-turn-it-in-and-receive-credit-so-that-I-might-save-my-dignity appalling. I procrastinated, okay! Leave me alone. Yes, I’ve killed myself in that past before, getting up at 3 and writing fantastic analytical pieces, but they don’t fool her at all. Not that my writing is fake, mind you, it’s simply beautiful, beautiful description that attempts to hide somewhat shaky foundations. The bottom of every essay has read the same thing since the beginning of the year: “you have talent, now harness it”, “this thought is too promising to be incomplete”, “true writing has no room for sloppiness”, “You have a way with words but first need to develop your stance on this” and so on and so forth. I’ve gotten no help. My work is still novice and deficient in some key places. She hasn’t directed me otherwise (granted, I haven’t gone in to see her about it, but shut up). So, I…er…didn’t do that with this particular essay. I broke; I was sick of putting forth so much and getting nothing in return. I simply pushed the time limit to hard this time. I got up at 2:30 the morning it was due and passed out on my keyboard after copying a particularly repulsive essay off of 123helpme.com. The thought still makes my head turn away, and a shamed yet amused smile fall upon my lips. For the final I went through and rewrote the basic thesis before reluctantly turning it in. When it was returned to me, I was surprised to see the comments that now graced the familiar font and paper before me: “What a rudimentary thesis”, “Not up to your usual standards”, “No flow at all”, “???”, “SEE ME”. The break in monotony is somewhat releasing, but this is disheartening all the same. I feel terrible about this, that I allowed Nathaniel Hawthorne, of all people, to rob me of my pride! I know this is not the case, I took my pride by the shirt collar and hurled it at Mr. Hawthorne.
I think I’m going to go talk to her about it, and plead insane indecisiveness. I had no choice but to procrastinate!
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