I could crave anything in the world. Food, drinks, caffeine... cigarettes, cigars, nicotine... alcohol, boyfriends, pretty things... friendships, love, dreams... the list goes on and on, it seems. But the one thing, the only thing, that burns in me is words and sound. The pulse of the beat and the rhymes circling round. The melody that makes my heart start to pound.

I've played clarinet in band - and done single stands. Played in harmony with bugling trumpets, so grand. Marched while I breathed the music to life. Sat and played the end to my strife. Listened to the notes cutting air like a knife.

Colors of the wind swirled around in my hands. Floated up and landed gently among the stands. And I heard the sweet response of percussion in clapping hands.

I melted under the press of piano keys. Felt the beats sink through and shake in my knees. An ocean of rhythm singing songs as I pleased. It weaved through the pluck of the strumming of strings. Kept time with the smash of the drums on its wings. And supported the tinkle of bells as they ring.

I sang and I rang - I played and I swayed.

And now that I listen, I find that I crave

The music to dance and sing rave.

And ride on the notes like I float in the waves.


 

3:45 - Activation
We look forward to seeing you.

These are the words upon the card you hold in your hand - the words portending your imminent appointment. A nasty, nervous horror pools wretchedly in your stomach as your hands unwillingly sign your name upon the contract. Nurses grin at you evily from their seats, and eyes twinkle above their sterilized breathing masks. Their shirts are floral prints - a joke, but no one's laughing. They quickly call your name and seat you in a brown armchair, as you gaze, eyes wide, upon the other victims: tweens, young boys and girls in the ugly throws of puberty, further subjected to the humiliation of headgear. A boy frantically cranes and stammers, "W-what does that big machine do?", as a masked apprentice approaches, reassuring smile etched on her face like ice, with a mysterious silver instrument in her hands. As she bears down upon the unsuspecting boy, the girl in the next chair over stares off into oblivion, breathing fast, too shocked by what has been done to her to do anything else. Yet another boy is sent to retrieve the very torture devices which are to be inflicted upon his person, taking up the dreaded pouch with trepidation, hesitating to return...

Before the boy has a chance to start screaming, one of the masked mauraders bears down on you in the violent swirl of her white doctor's cloak. As it settles about her figure, she leans over you and grins, flashing a glimpse of pointy teeth. Her innocent pony tail bobs on top of her head, and lashes out around her, trying to escape. A greeting falls from her lips, slippery and slick, as she examines you, picks up her pen and scratches erratic notes onto a folder... your folder. Having assessed you, her hand slithers to a drawer of sharp tools behind her back, as she smiles once more - and with a snake-like mien, whips the tool around to your face as the other blinds you with a light. Tears erupt under the constant, furious beam of light burning your retina. The woman, having incapacitated you sufficiently, slides a finger into your mouth and forces your jaws apart, fingernails digging into your gums through the sicking plastic taste of the latex glove. Next thing you know, a glint of silver enters your vision, and a sharp pain erupts from your tooth as the metal harshly inplanted there is tweaked out of alignment. The masked assailant grins again as she stabs you in the tongue, and uses her tweazers to grab hold of a rubber band. Slowly, she takes a firm hold and pulls - outward, further and further, forcing the sore tooth to it's limits, and sending waves of sharp pains to your brain, disarming you. As you moan in pain, she grasps her next tool and a long string of bands, and hooks them up. Then she stretches it, further and further, tightening it around each tooth, twisting and turning and manipulating, until your teeth throb. Through the haze of unpleasant senses, you hear another drawer open. This time, the serpent holds an ominous-looking hook in one hand, and shoves a mirror at you. "Here - take it." She purrs, snarling contentedly as she forces you to watch - a trembling hand grasps the handle, and your eyes lock onto the glass surface now filled with your horrid face. The hook descends. A rubberband is placed on one tooth, and, slowly, it is stretched up and down and up and down again, lacing its way across your mouth. By the time it is done, your eyes are tearing, and your teeth are, quite literally, stitched together.

"Why so serious?"

And with a grin, the ponytail disappears - the mask is removed - and there, in the too-bright light, is the terrible dark crimson red and chalky white of the Joker's painted face - smiling at the grin upon yours.

...

I just couldn't resist writing this after my visit to the orthodontist. The way those rubberbands looked on my teeth - I just couldn't help but be reminded of a scene in a recently viewed horror movie. Namely, Saw IV, where one guy has his mouth stitched shut. And yet another reminder, while we're on the topic of stitches, was the Joker's evil grin in The Dark Knight.

And so, the evil, jaw-stitching orthodontist was born.

-Katie


 

"This Is Your Life"
~Switchfoot~

yesterday is a wrinkle on your forehead
yesterday is a promise that you've broken
don't close your eyes, don't close your eyes
this is your life and today is all you've got now
yeah, and today is all you'll ever have
don't close your eyes
don't close your eyes

this is your life, are you who you want to be
this is your life, are you who you want to be
this is your life, is it everything you dreamed that it would be
when the world was younger and you had everything to lose

yesterday is a kid in the corner
yesterday is dead and over

this is your life, are you who you want to be
this is your life, are you who you want to be
this is your life, is it everything you dreamed that it would be
when the world was younger and you had everything to lose

don't close your eyes
don't close your eyes
don't close your eyes
don't close your eyes

this is your life are you who you want to be
this is your life are you who you want to be

this is your life, are you who you want to be
this is your life, are you who you want to be
this is your life, is it everything you dreamed it would be
when the world was younger and you had everything to lose

and you had everything to lose

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~



This is your life. Taste the moments as they come. Revel in them. Feel them.

Who you are now - it's everything. Let past events pass. Let the future remain a pleasant surprise. It's now - this moment, this time - that you're living.

Don't waste it.

~~~

It's 10:30 am when I receive the call. At first, I peer at the number drowsily and reject it as an unknown number, this area 831. Just as my eyes close to sleep once more, it rings again. Same number. I pick up this time and a scratchy "Hello?" leaves my throat. I clear it.

"Hello? Is this Kaitlin Lindros?"

"Yes."

"Hi, I'm with the Santa Cruz Dining Services, I was wondering if you were still interested in a job?"

I perk up. "Yes, I am."

"And you said you have experience working at In-N-Out on your application?"

"Yes, I do."

"But you have no experience with coffee?"

"No."

"Would you be willing to learn?"

"Yes."

"Okay. I'm going to give you some information then, if you have a pen ready..."

Her voice is now lost as I scramble for the UCSC pen and note-pad on the floor next to my bed, kept within reach in case of sudden inspiration, and now useful to me to jot down the dates and phone numbers required for a job. I am now fully awake, despite the crusty eyelids, as I feverishly copy down the information, trying not to miss anything. Early Move-in Day, Dinner, Training... it all gets recorded faithfully. Then, with a promise to email me, the call ends.

And I have a job.

I remember my last job - I loved the experience. Now, most people will tell you that the fast food industry is not a desirable career. I, however, found working at In-N-Out one of the most fast-paced and interesting jobs, and a most enjoyable time. Often, it was an inspiration to write things, and working gave me time to think. I got to see so many different kinds of people and watch them interact and do my best to join the fray and help people to enjoy their day. I liked the challenge of making sure the customers were happy. And I liked learning about people all the while. Certainly, I had things to talk about after working, from my scaly, over-sanitized hands to the naked guys who came through the drive one night. It was always interesting, never boring. If it got boring, they let me go home. But most of the time it was a fast-paced and exciting time. You were kept on your toes, never allowed to slack. It pushed you to be the best you could. And it payed well.

Because I was tired and over-schooled, I had my first experience quitting that job - and I found that it wasn't pleasant. Not only was the process awkward and blush-inducing, but afterwards I found that I missed working. I wanted to get another job. But because of upcoming vacations and the likely difficulty of finding a free job in the summertime, I didn't apply. Instead I waited.

So when the opportunity arose to get a new job via UCSC email, I applied straight away. I knew it would be difficult working while in school, having done it before, but the challenge was better than sitting at home. Sometimes you just need a change of scene from school, and working takes your mind off of it pretty well. It keeps your limbs busy and frees up some time to think. True, there is a place where work crosses the line and becomes stressful - I've experienced it myself - but after my first job, I now know when to say when, and can control my schedule better. I know, for instance, that I don't want to be working more than 3 or 4 days a week. I know that I don't want to work more than 6 hours in one shift. And I know to reserve the weekends for myself.

Under these limitations, I think working is great. No doubt, working a coffee stand is an under-appreciated job. Well, allow me to bring some appreciation to it. That's all it takes to make working fun - a little perspective.

And maybe some writing.


 

Do you want to know why friendships fall apart?

It's because people don't take the effort to call. They don't take the initiative. They don't pick up the phone and spend the few minutes talking that is required to keep a friendship going. They don't get on the line and beseech their friends to spend time with them. They don't dial the number that, with only a few minutes' time, could renew the thinning bonds.

What they do is, they sit at home and wait. They forget to call back. Maybe they think it would be too awkward - maybe they are unsure whether or not their call would be answered - maybe they just don't feel up to it. Because of this delay, a week goes by. Because of their forgetfulness, it now feels akward and embarrassing to call back and try to explain. So they wait it out in silence, trying to ignore the separation. They get engrossed in other things. More time passes... a week... two weeks... a month... maybe more. Pretty soon, they aren't a friend anymore: they're a stranger.

Understanding this inexplicable reluctance to pick up the phone and begin a conversation, I try to take the initiative myself: I call you. I ask you. I beseech you, again and again. If you don't pick up, I call you twice more to be sure you didn't just miss the phone. If you still don't answer, I leave a message. Then, an hour later, I call you back. And several times more until I am successful.

If this persistance seems annoying, think back on this: I have lost the thread of some very close friendships, simply because I didn't call. Since those close friends don't call me either, we no longer speak. By the time one of us re-discovers the phone number of the other and leaves a message, it's too late: the estrangement is complete.

I call you because I do not want to lose you.

Before you start thinking this theory far-fetched, I have other evidence to share with you. While not calling loses friends, the opposite is also true: friends who call are closer friends.

A call. A text message. A line dropped into your inbox. Simple things. But they have the power to instantly make your day brighter. And they bring your friendship that much closer. Even something stupid, a joke, an observation, meaningless chit-chat... it makes you feel better to talk to a friend, and strengthens your bond.

I have one friend who calls me weekly without me having to call her. At the moment, she is my closest friend. Why? Because she is the one in contact with me. Even if we don't see each other, just the act of talking makes us closer. If she didn't call me, I probably wouldn't know her very well at all. We might not even be friends anymore.

So let me tell you something now. The only way to maintain a friendship is to maintain contact. That means plucking up the courage to call someone and keep calling. It means not forgetting or making up excuses or letting embarrassment or time get in the way of you and making the call.

Because if you don't call, you may not get another chance.

Take the initiative.

Call.


 

Point A - Dad gives daughter a camera for graduation. Tells her to remember to send him some wild pictures from college.

Point B - Dad suggests that daughter gets HPV vaccination, which, it turns out, prevents the types of genital human papillomavirus (HPV) that causes most cases of cervical cancer and genital warts - contracted through "genital contact".

Point C - Dad joyfully expounds on what he'll do when I bring a boy home from college, happily telling everyone that he'll buy a bat.


My point?

My dad is engaging in a little too much wishful thinking. And I'm getting the brunt of it. Me, his antisocial, asexual daughter, who's shown absolutely no interest whatsoever in boys, dating, or sex.

Is it me, or is he trying to tell me something?


...


Flashback to yesterday morning: I am sitting at a table outside at a restaurant, celebrating my dad's 46th birthday. There are eight people at the table, including my step-mom, step-aunt, aunt, aunt's boyfriend, grandma, step-sister, dad, and me. My dad is joking around happily and wearing his stylish new shades: frames in the shape of birthday cakes, with candles as eyelashes. He's just opened his singing birthday cards, laughingly passing them around the table to spread the merriment of the moment. I smile at them.

Topics start to spiral out to other things as we wait the long hour for our over-priced food. Conversation shifts from politics to relatives to to memories. Somewhere in all this talk, the topic of me going to college comes up. Naturally, the whole table gets drawn in as I'm questioned about my apartment, roommates, and classes. I make the fatal mistake of mentioning that the apartment is co-ed.

A frenzy ensues.

Finally someone calms down enough to ask the question:

"Are any of them cute?"

Eyes shift in good-humored mirth, and sparkle with a mischievious glint. My cheeks turn a delicate shade of red. Adamantly, I respond with a firm, resounding,

"No."

Having broached the this most scintillating topic, this does not stiffle them. No, they have only just begun. The ball has been served, and now the next volley approaches:

"So, are you going to get a boyfriend in college?"

The torture begins. I drop my gaze and fiddle with the purse strap in my lap, as my aunt's boyfriend gazes at me in amusement. A strangled sound and a small head-shake is all I can manage, but before I have a chance to choke on my own words, or admit to something they won't like, I am saved by my dad:

"If you do, I'll be waiting. I'll have to give him The Talk. I'll be sure to bring a baseball bat."

He says this cheerfully, as any parent would, and I am able to recover. Latching on to the baseball bat line, I carefully construct a painful smile and respond with mock-humor:

"Actually, mom would probably get to him first with her machete. Or, if that fails, there's always ye' ol' rock-hammer."

Violence - the perfect distraction. And once again, it is sarcasm which saves my butt from embarrassment. I breathe a sigh of relief. The topic changes and the pressure lifts - I am free to enjoy my lunch once again.

...


Perhaps I should have told them, then and there, that I wasn't interested in a boyfriend. Perhaps I should have faced them and shown them my point of view - the single point of view. But I was held back - I didn't need their response. I already know what would've happened. It's happened before: they smile at each other in higher knowing, and then assure me, smiling all the while, that it'll happen someday. That I'll meet the right guy, that I won't be able to help it, yadda yadda yadda. They won't really believe it. They won't take me seriously. Everything's already set in stone for them: I'll have a boyfriend, I'll get married, I'll have kids... They're so sure.

But I don't need their reassurance. In fact, I'm rather sick of it. Can't I live my life without a boyfriend by my side? It seems to me that they're the only ones who want me to have a boyfriend - I myself have no desire for one. Nevertheless, they continue to bother me about it, asking, suggesting, imagining, telling me what he'll do for me, how he'll take me on dates and buy me things and get disciplined by my family. They keep talking about what will happen "when you get married" as if it's a definite in my future, as if there's no question about it. Don't I get a say? Don't I get my opinion?

It's annoying to have your family egging you on, telling you about all the wonderful things you'll have that you don't even have a desire to have. It's like my personal version of peer pressure, pressing in on all sides: "go on a date", "get a boyfriend", "get married", "when are you going to get one?", "come on, it'll happen someday"... I have no problem with saying no to alcohol or cigarrettes, or activities that people say I shouldn't be doing, but how do you say no to something that's so expected of you?

And guess what? When you snub those people and their questions, it doesn't stop them - no, then they start assuming: Does she have a boyfriend? What's she hiding? Why doesn't she want to answer? It's just so natural to want a relationship that when you deny it, they don't believe you - they think you're trying to keep secrets, or that you're embarrassed. They don't even consider that you might simply be annoyed - that you might not want a relationship at all, ever.

And even if they do believe you, how could you possibly be happy? No, you must be depressed, you must not have the confidence to have a boyfriend, you must be sad and lonely and deluded. After all, look at all those other girls who sigh over boys they think they can never have. It couldn't be that you don't want that - not at all!

Whenever I'm around people who suggest all of this, I can feel their thoughts - their worries. I imagine my dad, overly suggestive in his desperate attempt to get me interested in boys, starting to worry over my lack of interest in the opposite sex. I imagine my mom, worrying over my antisocial tendencies, concerned that I might be gay. I see my aunts and uncles and grandparents waiting for me to get on with life, to expand the family as expected, to bring home a boyfriend for them to talk about behind my back.

I hear all of these suggestions - boyfriends, romance, marriage - but not a single one of them says the right thing, the thing that would be the most valuable to me:

Be happy with who you are.

The next time someone asks me about my love life - the next time someone suggests I get a boyfriend - I'll tell them this:

"I'm happy as I am now."

And I'll walk away.




 

There are few moments in life that are perfect. Few moments protected and undiminished by the outside world. But music is one of them.

When engrossed in the right music, in the right mood, at the right time, the world stands still, and everything is as right as rain. There is a certain lifting feeling inside you, like a breath of fresh air. Your eyes sparkle, your mouth turns up - and your body surrenders to the music, moves to it and with it and in it. And nothing can touch you. Emotions of utter confidence and contentedness flood throughout you, and nothing else matters - no stress, no pressure, just you and the music, one and the same, drifting endlessly through waves of sound, feeling each vibration alive within you.

A breath that is breathless.

A motion that is motionless.

The motion in emotion.

Music.




.......



[Later, in an email]

Tonight, I became obsessed with music and got a kind of music "high". I turned my music up as loud as it could go, put on some dance tunes, and started dancing around my room, totally lost in the sound. It reminds me of the feeling I got at homecoming and prom, when I was on the dance floor, only this time there were no strobe lights, no DJ's, no gyrating, sweaty crowds of people... just me and a cruddy laptop speaker. And yet it was exactly the same, and I was having just as good a time as if I was at a party.

At that time I realized that I was really pleased with my life, and that I couldn't be happier. And that's the kind of mood that I live in, all the time - simply happy.

-Katie


 

Why is it that writing something calculated is so difficult? I've been sitting here for fifteen minutes staring at the computer screen, searching my mind for the words, the melody, the perfect rhyme to read you that won't sound cheesy. I've considered giving you something I already have, something heartfelt and generous. But it seems to me that this sort of gift is lacking in something - lacking in that same calculation, that level of deliberate creativity just-for-you that so eludes me now. I want to show you that I care, that though I can be a bit abstracted and vague at times, I do love you. Though my mind wanders, and my identity calls, my appreciation for what you've done for me is never less, but rather grows and grows inside me as I myself grow. Don't you understand that what you've given me is more precious than anything? I feel like you've gone out of your way to preserve something in me, some good quality, some innocence, which might otherwise have been lost. I look at other people's mothers and the way their daughters turned out, and think, I must have been the luckiest of them all to have such a wonderful, self-sacrificing, fun-loving mother like you. A mother to show me the fun in simple things, the value of natural beauty, the pleasure in music and books... I joined you in each new wave of hobbies and habits, from rock-hounding to establishing an exercise regime (a shaky one at best, lost from time to time to the overwhelming power of relaxation). Your entire life was and still is your children, and the more I think about the things you've done for us, for me and Craig, the more hopeless I feel to thank you - how could I ever equal in thanks what you have given me? These last years, I've grown confident and happy in who I am, and I can't help but consider your part in it, in this glorious life I have. I can't even begin to see what affect your care has had on me, it goes so deep. How can a daughter ever repay that kind of devotion?

I buy you a cake. But it just points out how old I am - to be able to go out and buy you a cake, with my own money, without you there with me. I have to admit, the one failing of independence is losing you. I am so excited to be on the verge of being on my own, to have my own work and my own my money and my own living. These wordly needs have always been dad's department - I went to him to learn how to drive, how to work, how to move out - but it's you who taught me the meaning in it. It's you who taught me to stop and consider and listen and laugh and try new things and take simple pleasures over complexity. You bought me my first book, and many after; caught my attention with your extensive music collection; got me interested in trips to beautiful, underestimated places to find beautiful, underestimated rocks; addicted me to necklace-making... the list goes on. Perhaps I brought something of my own to the table too - a little innate creativity, an interest in thinking and words - but without you to shape me, to influence me, I hesitate to think of what life would've been. Would I still have this astonishing happiness in everyday life? Would I still have half as much character, half as much fun?

I inherited things from you that have bettered me, in my eyes - things you wouldn't think were that special, but are to me - such as your antisocial tendencies and crazy, wavy hair. Your particular, carefree sense of humor. The fact that you aren't as typically feminine as most women. I've incorporated these things into my being, and made them part of me. They make me confident, or maybe I am just confident about them. And every time I flaunt these qualities, I think of you.

And here I am, sitting on my bed, as you have seen me do many times as you've poked your head around the door frame: laptop balanced precariously on my sunburnt thighs, fingers clacking across the keyboard in some unknown communication, headphones attached to my ears, as always, with books stacked next the bed, waiting to be read. I am writing you a birthday gift.

I couldn't muster the words to write a poem - though for you, I'd have conquered a sonnet - but I had only an hour. I must admit, I forgot it was your birthday. I don't even know how old you are. And perhaps you don't care. Time, after all, isn't the important thing: it's the way that time is used.

And that's what I'm here to tell you, that's why my fingers are clacking steadily across this already-worn keyboard, even as your voice echoes up the stairs:

Your time was well used.

And I couldn't be happier to be here, a living testament to your life, proof that the life you live is worth living, and so much more than words could ever express.

Happy Birthday Mom.
I love you.




 

Have you ever been in one of these strange moods where nothing is quite real - where you feel like doing something, but everything you do, you lose interest in, and you end up ambling around absent-minded, mind itching for thought but empty, stomach growling for food but no food being good enough, attention seeking, but not finding or even really wanting to find?

It's like you're numb - caught in a place between here and there, seeing everything you could be doing, but not quite into it, and not quite out of it either, but in a kind of fuzzy grey area in between.

I've used the comparison of a dull knife before for this kind of grey - this absent waiting, watching, wanting... but not feeling. A knife that you almost wish would cut you, just so you could feel something, rather than seeing it there threating you without really threatening you, and waiting for something to happen.

Watch these tears fall from the corners of my eyes - they don't mean anything. Just the vague salty tang of dreams crawling out and drying up on my cheek. Crusty trails of empty emotion, of a story untold, but cared for. Just another testament to my constant detachment - another ode to unused time.

Welcome to my world in limbo - where everything and nothing are one and the same.


 

The problem with this generation is that we have such wonderful technology - cell phones, internet, computers, little hand-held devices that can take pictures, send emails, and make a call all at once - and all these things are simply too good to resist. For instance, what sensible writer can resist all the things that programs such as Word have to offer? And that's not even considering resources on the internet - writing.com, dicitionary.com, blogs, forums - it's a wonder I get off the computer at all. And, of course, copy and paste is perhaps the most ingenious function to accompany all of that - I can quote and ponder without having to re-type a single word.

And then there's Google - yes, the search engine with which I find all those pesky lyrics that you find littering the bulletins, blog entries, and never-ending forum posts. Not to mention quote upon quote of heavenly goodness, endless aphorisms spinning ideas out in short, smart sentences. It's the source of everything, the place to find anything you could ever want and then some, in several different languages and points of view... In fact, the only trouble is trying to filter it all through the right keyword.

And with all these possibilities swirling through your head, how could you not utilize the "tabs" function of Internet Explorer, and have several pages of information to draw on, all organized into a neat line at the top of the page, ready to be called upon at your slightest wish? You can converse with friends on myspace while writing a blog for them to read, all the while listening to the playlist that you've called up on another page... you can open up the web and look up words that escape your tongue, search the thesaurus quickly and find them all - everything you were looking for - then put them into the online dicitonary and clarify any muddy meanings. You can read info and use it - copy and paste from one page to another without losing the original - create, read, write, talk... and if you get bored with that, why, you can open up "bored.com" and satisfy your time-wasting needs.

With all these wonders at your disposal, how could anyone ever want for anything else? Why do anything else, when it's all here...????

[zoom out to a vision of Katie sitting at the computer - eyes wide in the electric glow of the computer - headphones glued permanently to ears - belt-line of pants imprinted in an angry red line across the lower back - stomach beginning to flow out into the extra space that the waistband of the jeans doesn't provide - thighs squashed out like seal-blubber to embrace the chair - fingers forever tapping away at the sighs of life - enslaved by technology]

*sigh* I disgust even myself.

Time to go exercise.


 

Whatever happened to innocence? Well, okay, I'm still innocent - but my mind isn't. Whatever happened to the days of awkwardness? The days of being oblivious? A lot's changed for me to be able to swear without choking, to speak too much instead of too little, to take a side, to take part, to talk about things of a sexual nature... well, okay, of a sexual undertone. I'm not quite that crazy yet. Although my friends seem to think I'll go crazy in college... (thanks for the vote of confidence, by the way)... as well as, embarrassingly enough, my dad. Though, he's probably more hopeful than certain. I'm too mellow for him.

It kind of saddens me to see my innocence slipping away, although, at the same time, it's exciting to throw parts of it out the window, and a bit of a relief to watch the uncertainties disappear. What teenager doesn't relish the rebellion in freedom? And yet, there's a difference: whereas most others have already done such things as tried drugs and boys and broken curfews, my idea of rebellion is going to Starbucks in the middle of the night without my dad knowing. Whereas others smoke smuggled cigarrettes, I sit and relish the midnight air and full moon... I don't make a very good teenager. Or, I should say, I don't make a very bad teenager.

I've never felt like a typical teenager should - "young body, old soul", that's what people have said about me. Why? Because I'm not wild? Because I'd rather sit at home and think than go to a party? Aren't there teenagers like me, who don't care for those things? But look closely - there are. It may be hidden beneath some crazy, rebellious urges, but the possibilities are there, nonetheless. Hidden, latent talents, difficult at first to see, but there, like a seed waiting to grow: art, film, photography... social skills, people skills, a love of animals. Every single one, different and special in some way. And me among them, the writer observing all.

Is my vision clouded? Is my judgement fudged? Is my view of the world distorted by idealistic dreams? Perhaps. But what is real anyway? What exactly is the difference between innocent and... well... not innocent? I can be oblivious at times, but is it this oblivion that makes me so innocent? I've had people tell me before that I was living in a dream-world not fit for reality. And maybe it's true.

This year, I've opened my eyes just a tad wider - they get wider every year. Sometimes I wonder if, one of these years, they'll get so wide that I'll never be able to close them again - never be able to dream like I once did; never be able shut my eyes and see like a child again, with my heart. But every year, they widen, and every year I see more and more and I marvel: new things, old things, old things with a new perspective, old things that are new to me... there's so much to take in. I see the negative and the positive, and the positive sides to the negative, and the negative sides to my positive... I try to take in as many viewpoints as possible. I try to see as much as I can, and even some of the things that I can't. Because, by seeing, I can better understand - I can search for a reason for something to be wrong, I can think, I can wonder, I can imagine... and somehow, after all these things I've seen, not a single one have I seen that I could truly call "bad".

In this search for perspectives, I've found my own perspective - innocent by-stander. For though my innocence is no longer perfect, and I do a little more than stand by, I still perceive of innocence as contentedness - a result of negative connotations associated with the loss of innocence, I'm sure. And since I've always been content, a feeling of innocence follows. I've always found a way to look at the world that was satisfying, that made me perfectly happy to be just where I was. I've never had overly compelling ambitions, nor have I ever desired much for competition - I just glided through life, absorbed in it's dream-like qualities until they absorbed me.

And there I remain: a bubble of maturity looking out through a thin film of innocence. Disillusioned, perhaps. Blinded by the glare of dreams, maybe. But following the depth of thought gradually, casually, into the world.

With eyes wide open.


 

It's hot. I'm bored. So what so I do?

... I write a style imitation of Ralph Ellison's novel, Invisible Man.

'Cause that's not nerdy at all!



........................................................




I am alone.

No, I am not an old cat-lady haunting an empty house; nor am I in isolation. I am a woman of the world, of beauty and grace, mind and soul - I might even be said to possess a social life. I am alone, understand, simply because people refuse to see me as single. Like the half-dozen errant socks you sometimes find in the laundry, I am without a match. When they look at me, they see only the missing pair, the absent other, or a portion of a couple - indeed, anything and everything except me.

Nor is my loneliness exactly a matter of a missing partner. The loneliness to which I refer occurs because of a peculiar mis-conception on the part of those with whom I come in contact. A matter of the construction of the inner eyes, those with which they look through their physical eyes upon society. I am not complaining, nor protesting either. It is sometimes advantageous to be alone, although it is often rather wearing on the nerves. Then, too, you're constantly being cajoled by those who are matched to find a match. Or again, you doubt if you really aren't alone after all. You wonder whether you aren't simply a hemit and in denial. Say, a sad, ugly figure in the corner which the passing happy couple tries desperately to ignore. It's when you feel like this that, out of resentment, you begin to push back. And, I must confess, you feel that way much of the time. You ache with the need to convince yourself that you do exist in modern society, that you are a part of the ways of love and attraction, and you strike out with your words, you rhyme and you reason to make them recognize you. And, alas, it's seldom successful.

Most of the time (although I do not choose, as I once did, to pretend to be interested in attraction out of conformity) I am not so overly insistant. I remember that I am single and walk confidently among my peers so as not to attract questions. Sometimes it is best not to pique their interest - there are few things in the world as tedious as hopeful couples. I learned in time though that it is possible to carry on an argument with them without their realizing it. For instance, I have been carrying on an argument with my father for some time now. I disregard his comments about boyfriends and he doesn't even know it. All he knows is that I am mysteriously care-free. The joke, of course, is that I am not attracted to boys (or girls, for that matter), but to being single. Several months ago (before I discovered the advantages of being alone) I went through the routine process of examining boys and forcing an opinon of them. But no more. I gave up all that, along with my feeble efforts, and my old way of life: That way based upon the fallacious assumption that I, like other girls, was Attracted. Now, aware of my loneliness, I dwell easily in a world populated by couples, in a section of the internet that as hidden from me and forgotten among a sexual society, which I discovered when I was trying to escape in the night from Sexual Confusion. But that's getting too far ahead of my story, almost to the end, although the end is in the beginning and lies far ahead.

The point now is that I found a home - a hole in the web of attraction, if you will. Now don't jump to the conclusion that because I call the site a "hole" that it is unwelcome and cramped like a grave - there are bad holes and there are good holes. Mine is a good hole. I say this to assure you that it is incorrect to assume that, because I live in a hole, I am a freak. I am neither a freak nor a social anomaly. Call me estranged, for that is where I feel most welcome.

I am, first and foremost, alone. And I mean the state of being, not the emotion that a couple-based society places upon singles.

I am asexual.

.......................................................


NOTE: This entire thing is true of me. I just borrowed the style and format of writing from Ellison. The passage that this is modeled after can be read in the Prologue of his novel, Invisible Man, which is a pretty good read. I like his style very much.


 

I like to talk to myself.

That much I will admit. I type, I write, I think echoes aloud into the deep abyss of space... to no answer. Thoughts resound off the walls of my being, bounce from corner to corner between my eyes, shifting and twisting into new forms, never seen, never heard. Perhaps I have a small audience from time to time. A viewer, a spectator, a single pair of eyes to take notice? Perhaps not.

But I do know one thing: every day the conversation gets more interesting.

What is the point, if no one is watching? What is the reason behind these un-read words? I'll admit, I don't have one. I can say, it takes up extra time. It relieves the stress. It fills me with satisfaction. But who's to say whether or not I'm lying? Half the time, it does cause stress - I write so much into the night that my days are bleary and blurred, my work the work of exhausted eyes. Half of the time, I don't have extra time - only the time I make for myself, the time I sacrifice from life. And as for satisfaction - well, I don't really have any contradiction for that. All I can say is that I love writing, whether or not it is read.

And now, to the point:



The Oregon moon hung like a cobweb, silky and frail, a shimmering, patterned orb in the sky. Every delicate detail shown out on its face, its pock-marks and its pits, every flaw, every beauty spot, marring perfection and making it into something more. Anyone gazing upon it would lay in awe, face up-turned in stunned amazement at it's mesmerizing facade. Even more bewitching, it hung against a light, hazy purple sky, shot with streaks of pink, enlaced with patches of blue. Framed by the silloutte of the land, hugged by the tops of the trees, it had the effect of a dream, floating weightless, above all limitations. Bright with the setting sun, a secondary light-source in itself, its white rays reached down and genty caressed the features of Earth, touching each leaf, each stone, each man-made form and shape, not even neglecting the glassy surface of the river rivulets, writhing in the sunset's pleasure. Mid-way low on the horizon, the moon shown bright and brilliant, radiating white in a swirl of hazy color, rivaled only by setting sun itself, lighting up in oranges and pinks on the bottoms of the clouds, turning the silver lining gold. It's light bended and blended in, washing and bleeding outward in thick tendrills, brush-strokes on blue canvas. The forces of night and light - coming forever together in the never-ending circle of majesty - in nature's masterpiece, the sky.



Now look here - the moon's not even full, and I'm already raving.

-Katie

 

I just got back from a day on the river... I think it was the Santiam. We found the perfect swimming hole, and spent the day wading, slip-sliding on the rocks, and teasing the fish. We brought both of the dogs - my uncle's Cody, and our Dakota, two German Shepherds overly excited for the chance to go swimming. Dakota jumped straight into the water, and showed off her dog-paddling skills, while fat Cody sat on the shore and watched. Me and my brother found a ledge to jump off of into a small, green-blue pool, into ice-cold, crystal-clear water. Every time we jumped, Dakota would start whining, worried about her family's antics in the deeper water - she would swim out, circle you as if to say "Go no further", and turn around back to shore, waiting for you to follow her.

Before we found this prime swimming spot, we off-roaded, attempting to find a way to the river. What resulted was a rather steep hike on an over-grown, almost over-run trail that ended at a cliff which plunged straight down to the rocky river bottom. The view was beautiful - like something out of a fairy-tale. The entire area was covered in green, every inch from the blue sky teasing the tree tops to the brown earth, covered by ferns. Everything was lush and mossy. The green was un-ending until it cut off into the grey rocks of the cliff-side and the flat rocks that guided the clear, deep-blue water into a small waterfall, and cut off the current to end in a slowly swirling, deep pool, with streaks of foam to show for it. It was the most beautiful spot - unforunately, there was no way down from the trail, unless you had ropes to repel down.

Anyway, it was a nice hike, in a gorgeous setting, and it put you at ease and inspiration almost instantly. Why, if it hadn't been for the 3-inch-wide welt of a mosquito bite on my leg, the day would have been un-marred and completely perfect. In fact, it was perfect. After all, I can take a little itch in exchange for the beauty - I can take a little cold for the fun it gave me to swim in it. And that constrast - that trade - pain for fun - puts the final touch on an overly pleasant day. It makes everything sharper, more realistic, more clear. It puts it all in perspective.


 

So... after spending a week with them, I've realized just exactly HOW religious my mom's side of the family is, and it's a little unnerving. I mean, even now, I'm cowering over the keyboard, trying to make sure my grandma doesn't see me on my asexuality website - who knows how she would react? If she bad-mouths fiction as a reading preference, what do you think she'd say about a sexuality that isn't the traditional boy-girl thing?

People in my family:

         Read the Bible and nothing else.
         Scoff at people who read fiction (me).
         Beats up so-called "false" religions, including the belief that people can believe
                   what they want (me).
         Put down the idea of homosexuality, etc (me).
         AND my uncle is a racist (not me, but I have friends of all races).

It's enough to make you curl up in a ball and hope not to be noticed. I mean, whatever happened to open-minded-ness? Sheesh.

 

Have you ever thought that you were too confident in yourself?

Or is it just me who has so few problems with herself that she feels she has to create some? It seems to me that everyone else has healthy (or unhealthy) misgivings about who they are or what they are doing in this world. Maybe I've lived a too-protected life or something, but I just don't see anything wrong with anything, and to look around and see other people who are down, depressed, and feeling a little less than cheery with themselves? It makes me wonder why I've never felt that way before. I've never been too concerned about the way I look or the way I am, and I think, maybe I should be?

Is there such thing as someone's self-esteem being too high? All I've ever heard of is a low self-esteem, but somehow I've never really looked at myself that negatively.

Sometimes I think I'm saying too much - maybe some things shouldn't be said? Maybe I should reign myself in? I just get so excited, and I think, "What the heck, why not put it out there?"

And then I look at all the stuff I've posted, and think, "Wow, I am really full of myself." And then when I email people, I notice the structure of the conversation and think, "This is really one-sided." I hear myself say something to someone and think, "I sound like an attention-seeker."

One of the things I like about myself is my ability to say pretty much anything. Except that saying everything makes me sound conceited. Because of course, I can't say it from anyone's point of view but mine, and my point of view seems a little too positive for my own good. Shouldn't I be a little bit more depressed, being the moody, hormonal teenager that I am? Shouldn't I be a bit more self-conscious about the few extra pounds I've put on? Shouldn't I be a little more angsty, being single, without a hint of romance, in my happy-go-lucky life?

But no. I just continue on, oblivious, happy, contented... I just continue to live my pleasant existence, without a hitch, wondering all the time about this overwhelming self-confidence, this sickeningly positive outlook on life, this too-good-to-be-true happiness that I seem to be wrought with.

Secretly, I'm waiting for it to fly back into my stunned face. SPLAT!

Here's happiness for you my dear. Love it while you can.


 

Today, I spent the day with my friend Mary at the beach. It was a perfect day - a foggy morning that burned off just as we got there, sun warm, but air cool, the water just the perfect temperature to swim in, even if the waves were a little harsh. Me and Mary spent hours walking out and running back in, waves chasing our heels in violent swirls of foam. We would try to find a time between huge, crashing waves when it might be calm enough to swim out without getting pummeled and tossed into the rocky sand on shore.

At the end of it, both of us were head-to-toe covered in sand - and when I say "head-to-toe" I mean "head-to-toe" - we had sand pooling and sticking and grinding in the most awkward of places, including down the tops of our bathing suits, tangled in our hair, and stuck in our ears. Sand aside, there was also, to my great pleasure, tar. Which means that when I went to sit down on my towel, I found a nice surprise stuck onto the bottom of my foot - and big, sticky glob of tar, that wouldn't come off until after about fifteen minutes of scraping at it with the edge of a shell, some sunscreen (for the oil), and some sand.

There was a rather high tide line, where you could tell, there'd been a storm, or where the water had been when the full moon was out - debree was lined up along the beach far up onto the sand, where we could find plenty of small shells, smoothed over glass, and flat skipping stones, which we promptly collected and sent flying into the ocean.

After romping through the waves for a couple of hours, we were exhausted, and laid down in the sun to relax. Unfortunately, this wasn't a very good idea, since I can feel the sun's angry sting on my back as I write this. But I'm not as burnt as I could be, so it's okay. After about twenty minutes of attempting to brush all the sand off of various body parts and failing, my dad finally came down the mountain with his friend - they had taken the opportunity to go bike riding to the ocean, seeing as I was at the bottom to pick them up.

So, all four of us, smelling collectively of sea salt, dead fish, pollution, and sweat, went home, happily exhausted and ready to collapse.

...Or, at least for us, take another whack at ridding our bodies of sand.


....

[...LATER THAT DAY...]

Even though every inch of skin that was exposed today is now a nice, tender shade of pink, I have learned that sunburn WITH sunscreen is a whole lot nicer than sunburn WITHOUT sunscreen.

How do I know this, you ask?

Because pink is a lot less painful than the one glaringly red patch of burnt skin I have on my back where Mary didn't put any sunscreen at all.

It HURTS!!!

... Mary has failed me as a sunscreen slather-er. Next time I'll just keep my damned wet shirt on.

-Katie

 

Wow. Long time no write.

Well, here's a little something on labels:

Mainly, labels are a result of a communication barrier - people ask, "who are you?", and how do you answer except with a label? It's how we sort people out, how we get to know them... we just have to categorize everything. It's how our minds are laid out. It's how we identify things, how we describe them. If you wanted to pick me out of a crowd, I'd say, "Look for a white, sort of tall, antisocial, strawberry-blonde girl." Every one of those words is a label, but without them, you couldn't find me. It may be sexist, it may be racist, it may contain any number of biases in it, but it singles me out in a crowd.

It's when we stop being open to these labels - when we start thinking one is better than the other, or generalizing too much - that we have problems. You can't not label things. But you at least be open to all the possibilities. This open-ness, this acceptance, is what we are trying to promote in society today.

Now didn't you miss my overly-philosophical mind whilst I was whiling away in Tahoe and Mammoth?

Hey, at least I got something done over vacation - I read half of Shakespeare's Macbeth... that's my leisurely activity for the week.

Nice to know exactly how nerdy I am, isn't it?

 

July 19, 2008 - Written in the car on vacation.

......

A red flow of irritation seeps out and is soaked into the absorbant pad set to catch it. But as it fills, it leaks about the edges and streaks of murderous crimson spread. An ache, another gush of rage and pain. Angry red marks push to the surface and boil on the skin, pulsing like a vein ready to pop. A crapm, a sharp gasp of hot breath - our teeth clench. Every muscle tenses and waits, ready to lash out. But the dull, throbbing pain never resigns, building up inside you, clenching, grasping, ripping you inside, piling up and pressuring every molecule. From abdomen to stomach, the infection spreads, blowing up, pushing out, bloating every problem, disturbing every moment. Sweat beads in your every pore stays, clinging, stinking, soaking you in humid humiliation. Self-conscious self-awareness sweeps through your body with a disturbing clarity: soaked armpits, sweat-stained clothes, the unclean trail of stress dripping from your being. Embarrassment radiates in waves outward as your gut clenches even harder in pain and bleeds you from the inside out, torturously wrenching every ounce of comfort fom your being and sending spasms and barbs to dislodge the rest. Privacy is scraped from the lining of your innermost being and forced outward - pride is seized and publically hung. Stress and pressure stab you continuously until your head aches to endure it. Small sounds pound and echo sonorously in your mind and add to the strain. Pushing and pulling, in and out, clenching, cleaving, releasing, pounding, beating, aching, resounding loudly, amplifying and spreading, gushing out on the very flow of your life-blood in long, red, angry stains on the once-clean linen, burning, bleeding, bleating, bloody red flow of rage...

I'm female.
Don't. Mess. With. Me.