A Matter of Perspective

Perspective.

Sometimes, on particularly reminiscient days, I remember my childhood.


I remember the endless hours spent sitting on the hard wooden floor, frosty cold next to the window, with my dolls spread out in a circle around me. I put enormous thought into the stories behind each doll, spending hours creating scenerios in my head. I never actually played with the dolls. I simply thought out their stories in my head. I must have looked ridiculous, seated on the bare floor with a circle of blonde, disporportionate figures staring back at me.


But sometimes, I wonder: do we even exist? Or is someone playing out our lives in their heads, deciding our fates, our choices? When I stare out into the darkness, is someone staring back at me?


Our universe, an unknown being's dollhouse. That is the easier answer.



Perspective.

"Gandhi said that whatever you do in life will be insignificant. But it's very important that you do it. I tend to agree with the first part."
 ---Remember Me (2010)

I was so small and insignificant compared to the world.

(And still am.)
I wonder what I was thinking. How could I possibly fathom a world so much larger than I? I still struggle with the concept.

I can only hope to make my mark on this world while I have the chance.

Two Hundred and Four Mondays

In four years I managed to go on an infinite number of excursions which most would only dream of accomplishing in a lifetime. And I don't even remember most of them.
But there is one thing I do remember: Mondays. Two hundred and four of them, to be exact.
Could you handle moving two hundred and four times? Do you even understand what that means?
That means, you pack two hundred and four times. Say goodbye to the places and new friends you make, two hundred and four times. That you take a car, or a bus, dragging all of your luggage to the airport, two hundred and four times. That you go through that dreaded security and eat that mediocre airport food court cuisine, two hundred and four times. It means you let your ears pop, breathe recycled air, and eat free peanuts more times than you ever want to, two hundred and four times, to be exact. It means you end up in a new city, with new people, and a new average hotel which you will call "home" for only one week, before moving again...two hundred and four times.
It's no wonder I have no memories of familiar things, like where I learned to ride a bike, or what park I'd always play in; I never went to daycare, or had a favorite babysitter. Nothing in my life was constant, almost nothing was ever stable. It's no wonder I'm cold-hearted and bitter about change, I'm deathly afraid of intimacy, and even more afraid of being utterly alone. Of course I'm afraid to trust people, because no one was there for me to trust, when it mattered most.
The remains of my parents sacrifice will forever be an imprint on my identity.
And yet, through all of this instability and uncertainty, it was one of my parents, my mother, who was always there. It was my mother who played games with me and entertained me, my mother who made me laugh and would keep me happy, my mother who I trusted and loved.
My mother was my hero, my lifeline, my friend.
And it brings a lump to my throat, the sting to the back of my eyes, that pained feeling in my chest when I think of this, because I wish so badly that it could have remained that way. I find the pieces of this past in the photos my mother cherishes most; the ones which she keeps in the kitchen of the two of us. In every picture we're smiling ear to ear, a genuine, jubilant smile. Not one of the pictures am I older than two, judging by the blondness of my hair, and the length of my mother's. Both things which no longer exist. It makes the pictures appear to be from another life, far from the one I have now come accustom to.
A life where Mondays mean nothing more than the start of a new week, and I haven't moved for almost ten years. A life where I can have favorite places and memories, and even friends that don't disappear. But my mother isn't one of them."I can't be your friend, I'm your mother. I'm the boss," she tells me.
This life is different than my old one. We're different. And I don't just mean our hairstyles.
I'm not two anymore, and I don't always agree with my mother blindly. I am an independent girl with my own dreams and desires. I am no longer alone; I don't need the same attention and affection as I did when I was isolated. Now I am being unintentionally suffocated.
My mother has changed as well. Her smile is broken and her will to better herself tainted by an extreme lack of self-confidence. Her affection and attention no longer help me, but protect herself, like a shield, hiding her inner inability to let me in. My two year old self connected to a part of her which no longer exists, which is so damaged by the loss of her mother that it can never be repaired. I will never understand her without that missing piece, and we can never again be friends.
Instead, I will always be jealous of a younger version of myself, of another life that I don't exist in. A life where Monday is more than one beginning, and my relationship with my mother is something I'm proud of, not something I live with.

Tomorrow is Monday. I am traveling with my mother. She wants to "revisit her past" or something of that mid-life crisis nature. As I sit here typing these words, I can't help but wonder if this could be a chance for both of us to do just that. Even if the pasts were trying to reach are different. All I can do for now is hope, as the two hundred and fifth Monday approaches.

The "Freshman"

9/25/09

"WAIT, you're a FRESHMAN? he said in disbelief. It was a sentence all too familar. And yet, it always surprised me. Every year I chose to have wishful thinking, to believe that maybe, just maybe this year I'd look my age.

What a silly child I was.

"Yeah..." I said slowly, feeling awkward. I stared at my feet, playing with my toes inside my shoes unconsciously.
"You look like you're a junior, but I've never seen you before, so I thought maybe you were a sophomore or something..." he told me, seemingly impressed. Was this supposed back handed compliment? Is this really a good thing?
"Trust me, that's a good thing," my friend said, as if answering my thoughts. "You look older, like you know what you're doing." she continued.
That's interesting, I thought. People often called me "mature for my age" but I liked this description better. I liked to appear as if I knew what was going on...especially since I rarely ever actually did.
"Plus, you're tall," she finished, ruining it. So much for good reasons. I'm in a school full of people way older and taller than me, and I'm still considered freakishly tall. Great, I thought. That's just great.

6/23/10

Freshman, the word is said with such distaste. Each time I say it, it's as if the level of respect drops dramatically; I can see it in their eyes. It's as if by being a freshman, suddenly everything is different. You no longer are your own person.

Being a freshman is suddenly your identity.

It defines who you are and how you're viewed by everyone else. It doesn't matter if you work harder, or longer, or are just plain better. It doesn't matter if you hang out with the seniors, or if they call you an "honorary junior" or even if your done with school that year, and technically you're a rising sophomore.

You're still that freshman.

And it feels like you'll always be that freshman. It feels as if you'll never just be a sophomore or a junior even if you always look like one. Because even if you get there, you'll still look older and the distaste will still be in their voice because as much as you look it, as much as you want to be it, you aren't it.

You're never it.



I'm never it.

Mutiny

As she lit up in flames
My heart turned to ash
My world no longer filtered
The unsaid proved at last
Words caught in exhaled smoke
Stuck to my clothes
Hair
The back of my throat
Unable to breathe, unable to stop
Staring through the haze
Between her fingers
Caressing her mouth
Panic, her oxygen, removed and replaced
She sighs with relief
Blackened bits burn to the ground
She no longer my captain
I no longer her sailor
A stranger is left
Normal as the butt of a cigarette
The fumes have diffused
And the truth is left to simmer
It's up to me to choose:
Jump overboard
Or drop anchor

Sex. Violence. Drama.

"You know what I love: Sex, Violence, and Drama!" -English 2010

To say the least, my English teacher is a character. And a bit of a drama queen.
Some days, I can't stand him.
Then I remember that I need to get out of P.E. next year, and he's my ticket out of the class.
Kissing up, Fighting Hard, and Talking Shit When You Lose. (Sex, Violence, and Drama).

I love those things too, dammit.

Such is life.

Everything about his absence makes it easier...but the weight of his absence makes it harder.
Life. Goes. On.

Candle.

Another poem reflecting reccent events...

The flame burns bright,
Reflects in your eyes
A shinny, glossy stare
The mind meanders momentarily
Memory to memory,
Like skipping stones,
It only scrapes across the surface,
The surface of your mind
Until the thought becomes too heavy,
And it plunges into the depths of the darkness,
Your shadow
It's drowning you, but you smile anyway
Rethought,
Rephrased,
Refreshed
Like a sunset, the sameness settles in
The voices die,
Melting wax,
Could this be it?
One big breath,
The year?
Darkness

J.D. Salinger

On Wednesday, author J.D. Salinger died at 91 years old.

He left behind a smattering of works, including the famous Catcher in the Rye.

Catcher, a controversial, critically acclaimed, "life changing" story, only reached my skeptical hands a mere month ago.

My father, who reminisced frequently upon his teenhood, did not hesitate in recalling his experiences with book. Catcher was his bible. He carried it around in his back pocket for years, it never left his side. He read from it so often the pages were worn, ripped and torn. That book held meaning in his life when he was young.

I can't say that the book left the same lasting impression upon me. Of course, I'm not a teenage boy, so that could have something to do with it. That's not to say that the book didn't affect me, because it certainly did. Just not in the "OMG my life's about to change forever," kind of way.

Quite frankly, when I read the book, I was slightly disappointed. All this hype surrounding a book which I found to be missing some the most basic elements in writing fiction. This was a story with no plot, no climax, no end. I felt like the whole book was just J.D. Salinger complaining, and when he ran out of things to say, he just...stopped.

That being said, the book does have a certain charm to it. It sneaks into your heart the same way every teenager in your life does. Through wit, humor, and just a tad of smart ass. The sarcasm and negativity of the narrator, Holden Caulfield, somehow manages to do just the opposite of what he intends. Instead of pushing everyone away, it pulls everyone in. The risque content of the piece for its time adds to the overall interest in the book.

But none of this captured my attention while reading Catcher. In fact, it wasn't until the last four pages of the novel that I was interested in the novel at all. I won't give away the ending in case anyone out there hasn't read the book, but I will say that the significance of the golden ring really got to me. It stuck with me, and taught me something.

And for that, J.D. Salinger (or your ghost rather) I'd like to thank you.
Thank you for teaching me to always have that childhood determination never to give up.
I may not keep you in the back pocket of my jeans, or even on my book shelf, but your lesson will always be in my mind, and in my heart.

Peter Pan

They tell me I'm one year older.
I say I'm Peter Pan.
They ask me why I think that.
I say read Catcher In the Rye.
They tell me to stop being so pessimistic.
I say I'm the irrational realist.
They ask me if that's a contradiction.
I say I'm the queen of double standards.
They tell me I'm only human.
I say I wish I were Vulcan.
They ask me what that is.
I say its from Star Trek.
They tell me I'm a dork.
I say thank you, because that means their wrong.
I can't be one year older, if nothings changed.

Time is nothing but a state of mind.

He's gone.

My Hips Were Covered In Water...

Yes, the theater is in my blood.

It was only natural that I would gravitate there eventually. I had revolved around it for many years, placing a toe in the water now and then before quickly stepping back; it was much too cold for me still.

And yet, I kept on returning, the waves hitting me higher and higher up against my body. I knew once they hit my waist I'd be in and there'd be no going back. The water would start to warm, my body becoming accustom to the temperature. The sea air would engulf me, cleanse me. My mind would be clear, my soul would be free. Theater would be my obsession, my control, but it would also be my freedom, my escape.

As much as I knew this, I wondered if I'd ever reach it. For so long it had remained no more than a job, a connection, an opportunity, nothing more.

High school, like a gigantic wave climbing the shore, drowned the sandcastle of uncertainty, pulling it away, scattering the sand back into the vast sea of my life, and leaving no trace of what had been there before.

My hips were covered in water. I was in love.

Before anything else, it was the room itself which I had fallen in love with. And that was a good thing, because I spent more time in there than anywhere else, even my own room.

The room itself had at first appeared to be a vast space of nothingness, a black hole (the room was, indeed, all black in color), a bottomless pit, but the more time I spent in there, the more I realized how much the room actually had to offer. Contrary to my initial belief, it was a cluttered, crowded space (which continuously got smaller), that breathed nothing but life and produced nothing but talent from the people within it.
I loved that room, the community which resided within it, and now, the organization I belonged to. Theater was my life now.

Finally, I had a new sense of determination, a fuller heart of desire. It sounded insane. I had never thought I would say it, I never thought of myself as family business kind of girl. But there I was, wanting to follow in my father's footsteps, my new goal clear as day.

I will become the Production Stage Manager of the school show, and maybe someday, Broadway too.

If my Dad could do it, why couldn't I?