A Glimpse Into My Childhood

One lazy afternoon, my mom took me out to run errands, just like we did every week. I sat snugly in the back, strapped into my car-seat gazing out the window, watching the cars and houses as we zipped past them. We were listening to KFOG as mom rambled on about things I didn't understand, like taxes and dad's job. Still, though, she was lighthearted, and it was comforting to listen to her voice. We stopped at a stop sign somewhere in Pleasant Hill, and mom directed my attention out the other window.

"You see that building over there?" she pointed giddily. "That's where you're going to preschool!"

I froze. Oh, God, no... I had seen school on TV, and it looked awful. I just figured that since I had already gone 5 years without it, I would never have to go. But no. I was wrong.

We continued to drive, still listening to corny pop music, like we always did. I pretended I was fine, but on the inside, I was panicking. I would have evil teachers. I would have the frightening potential of getting F's. I would have to actually be by myself for the first time in my life. Of course, in retrospect, it was just preschool, and it wasn't nearly as bad as I had imagined it to be. But I did leave the golden era of being a toddler. I could no longer hang around the house all day eating popsicles, getting intentionally dizzy in the entrance way (there was always plenty of space for that), watching pointless TV, or teasing my cat. Suddenly, I had responsibilities to attend to. I had places I needed to be, and I would for the rest of my life.

Preschool, contrary to prior belief, was actually quite fun. We were separated into groups- yellow, red, blue, and green. I was in the green group, however, I remember wanting so badly to be in the yellow group. I'm not sure what it was, but it seemed established that the yellow group was the cool group. Anyone who was anyone was in the yellow group. But no. I was in boring old green. I think this dawned a series of events that would define me as not ever being in the "cool" group. I used to be really upset about it, but I've grown comfortable in my "green group". That's where my home is. I was never "yellow" material, anyway.

There was nothing particularly special that defined what group you were in. They all just had different rooms and had things to do at different times. My favorite room was the singing room, which is strange, because I don't have any special talent for singing now. In fact, I'm certifiably terrible. But I remember loving how it felt to make music together. It was the only room that every group went to at the same time, so no matter how cool you were, you sat side by side on the parallel strips of tape on the carpet. We would sit down, antsy like children, while one of the teachers played the piano, and we'd sing public domain songs. Every little voice in the room burst out into song, totally vulnerable, and equal to their preschool brethren. I just found it empowering somehow. It's funny how little we change as we get older. You know? We may change in some things, like how we look, and what we want, but in the end, when you look deep inside yourself, you haven't changed at all. You're still affected by your innocent memories. And back then, there in that music room, I was beginning to discover my deep passion for making music, being apart of something, and being creative. Those things would never change. I'm still that little girl.

I also learned about the concepts I hated. When we were done singing, our group would go into this game room with all these puzzles and little science experiments displayed on tables; mind-trick kind of things. Sure, it was fun playing with some of the things they had out, but I remember losing interest quickly. I would look out the window and watch the swaying trees outside. I have the distinct memory of observing a girl with a pony-tail tied straight up, vertical to her head, sprouting outward like a fountain. I found her hair more fascinating than the experiments. I think it was there that I realized that logic was not my strong suit, nor did it grasp my interest. It's not that I was stupid or naive to the mechanics of how physical things worked, (although you can't ask much from a 5 year old) it's just that I preferred the arts. I never liked things having  just one right answer. I liked how when you were singing, you weren't commended for being right, but you were commended for participating. For being yourself. That idea always appealed to me.

When we weren't in a room "learning", we were outside having recess. They had a little playground with things to climb on and whatnot, and they would take out various toys to play with. Although I loved to run around and be outside just like any other kid, my absolute favorite pass-time during recess was to play My Little Pony. I had two friends in preschool; Olivia, and another girl who I can't for the life of me remember the name of. I always felt terrible about that, but I believe it started with a C, and in my defense, it wasn't a typical name like Olivia, it was a name with a lot of syllables and consonants. But regardless of their names, we would take the plastic ponies into the singing room (it just had such a friendly air to it- the sun streaming through the windows and onto the carpet, smiley faces on the walls) and we would pour them all out to play with. We'd give them all ridiculous and frankly unoriginal names, like "Pinky" and "Yellowy", but we made up for it by giving them interesting personalities and families. That was what I loved so much about playing with them; I loved the stories. I loved making up the details of their lives. I loved making one in love with another. They weren't just ponies, they were people. It was the thing I looked forward to doing every day.

Not a day passes that I don't linger on my childhood for a moment. I'm constantly reminded of it whenever I pass by that building, the one that mom told me so excitedly I would be going to school at. And now I'm almost finished with high school. I may have gotten taller, less cute, and more cynical, but I truly am still in that green group, longing for the next song to sing.

Ode to Courtney

She stands an inch and a half taller than me, and always has. She has thick, dark brown hair that curtains beyond her shoulders. She has icy blue eyes that stab you like knives, and she frames them with hipstery 60's librarian glasses she gets complimented on often. She has very pale skin that burns very easily, but it almost gives her a pure look to her, like a statue. She's partial to retro clothing, which works well for her because she does a majority of her shopping in thrift stores. She has modelesque teeth because of the crap-load of work that was done to them when she was younger. She has trouble understanding emotions, but is shockingly a stickler for giving advice. She has a sarcastic, offbeat sense of humor that meshes quite well with mine, which is yet another reason we're best friends. Like me, she's constantly contemplating the deep, unasked questions of life, and we can therefore go on for hours philosophizing about the world. She's my best friend because we're two estranged souls in a sea of normal, and the light of our worlds will eternally shine off-center.

20 Years From Now

Imagine yourself 20 years from now. You're sitting on someone's back patio at a BBQ, a dinner party, whatever it may be. Maybe you're married, maybe you're not. The sun's streaming through the branches in the trees, and the wind's blowing gently and warmly, passing by your skin. Wherever your family may be, you sit alone, amongst women and men of various ages. This would've terrified you years before, without the aid of a close one. But not this time. You've grown to love chit-chatting with people to just catch up with them. And you sit there satisfied, casually bringing up a basis for conversation.

"Can you believe how much we've all grown?" a woman in her 50's laughs. "Well, I mean, how much we've all matured and grown up. How much time has gone by. Can you believe that?" some people nod, some make the mm-hmm of agreement they often would use after a religious comment.

"I know, it's crazy..." someone responds. You don't dive in too deep about it, for the deed has been done, but the silence implies you've gotten everyone thinking. Life goes by much faster than it feels in the moment. When you look back and think of how much time you sped through, you feel a sense of accomplishment somehow.

You giggle to yourself, and watch the kids contently as they play in the grass.

My Quest For Authenticity

The other day in my blue spiral notebook, I began to write about the person I truly wanted to be. And what I've found is that essentially, I want to be me, only not so kept to myself. I wish I was more expressive. I said that I wanted to be a painter. I wanted to like being messy. I don't necessarily want want to be considered "scatter-brained" as artists tend to be known as, but I want it to be obvious to people who I am. I don't really want it to be a secret anymore. I would love everyone to know from the moment they meet me that I'm eccentric, artsy, and charismatic. I wish I was confident.

You know, I totally don't give a solitary crap about what I wear. But there are times that I kind of wish I did. I don't want to care a lot- the LAST thing I want to be is a flippin' fashionista, I just wish I could be one of those people who just got highlights and a mow-hawk (maybe not that far, but you get the point). I wish I could wear really retro clothing- like a 60's dress, or 70's hippie garb. Because in all honestly, I'm in love with that stuff. But no. Because I'm a timid wimp, even the way I dress makes me look boring.

Let me tell you what I'm talking about: you know Iona from Pretty in Pink? How she was always oozing with confidence, and it was made blatantly obvious that she was interesting by the way she dressed? She went all over the grid for outfits, and she honestly rocked every one of them. Her confidence, her artsiness, her interestingness... they're all qualities I've been working to possess.

But, as I've come to realize, there's a fine line between "good weird" and "bad weird". Sometimes I embrace the eccentric to such a degree that I scare myself. It's almost as if I've gone one estranged song overboard on the normalcy scale, and I feel like I need to run back to the most common thing I can think of for safety. But why? Really, what is normal? Whenever I ponder over the most normal things typical teenagers embrace nowadays, I think of these:

-lives in the suburbs

-isn't religious at all, perhaps even atheist (or loose Christian)

-gets decent grades

-has strict, annoying parents

-has Instagram, Snapchat, Vine, etc. and is on constantly

-has a dog

-likes bacon, or says they do to be clever, I guess

-has a boyfriend/girlfriend, and has had several in the past

-has a Facebook, but rarely uses it anymore

-has their permit, maybe their license, and some kind of job

-has gone to teen parties

-has gotten drunk for fun

-needs Starbucks every morning

-uses startling swears in regular conversation

-is democratic or not political

-has AP whatever it is because "it looks good on college applications"

-is in some kind of sport

-has clothing from Hollister, Forever 21, etc.

-speaks in memes and internet references

-loves horror movies

-has an iPhone

...I made this list a while back based on casual observations I've made on the stereotypical teenager these days. And it occurred to me that this arbitrary list of requirements is my personal concept of what society believes is "normal." So why on Earth would I want to run there?! Perhaps because I don't relate with any of these concepts on the list, and that means that I'm almost too weird. Ya get my drift?

My taste, I've realized, goes off the grid. I had no idea until recently that my sense of style was so bizarre. I find myself drawn to unnaturally colored hair and ratty worn rags for clothing. I didn't know I liked that sort of thing. To be honest, I always saw myself as more of a basic jeans and a tee shirt kind of girl. And outwardly, I am. But apparently, if I had no social boundaries, I would dress like a complete hippie. And, sometimes, like a 90's grunge lover. And occasionally like a suburban mother from the 50's. And everything in between.

I think my newly found desire to dye my hair the colors of the rainbow came from movies like Scott Pilgrim Vs. The World and Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind. The heroines dye their hair regularly, and interestingly enough, in both movies, their love interests describe them as "impulsive" because of it. Why does that idea inspire me? Maybe because I'm not impulsive at all, and I wish I was, because that would make me interesting. I already wrote about my desire to be "me, but louder". I find myself wanting to save being anything until I'm old enough to be "an individual". Maybe when I'm moved out and I get paid, I can actually buy clothing I like. Wow, and it doesn't even have to be clothes! Furniture, movies, CD's, posters...FOOD... I'd have my own weird little sanctuary! Wow, I'd make a really strange adult... I can just imagine inviting people into my rabbit hole... It would be flooded by old culture and deteriorating couches... I would love it, of course, but would it ever make me want to run? Would it, perhaps, be too eccentric?

This is my problem. Finding a satisfying balance between "normal", who I really am, and who I'd rather be. But maybe normal doesn't matter. Whatever normal really is, it should have no affect on the person you really are. I've never been one who duplicated what was cool. I do, however, have a definite style that I've come up with all on my own, and there's something kind of wonderful about that. Just becoming your own individual, even though it's scary. Sometimes, finding yourself is just fascinating.

Journal Entry #2: Bizarre Indie Rock

Friday, 12/6/13

What the author of that book said reminded me of last night when I clicked on "Your Ex-Lover is Dead" by Stars, and I looked up and just watched the radio.

"When there's nothing left to burn, you have to set yourself on fire."  the voice said, sternly and authoritatively. I stopped and just listened. The trumpets introduce us to the music as the bass goes up, the strings snapping as the fingers shift positions. And the trumpets continue their verse by easing down the scale.
I watched the stereo resting on the table so bluntly, so frankly, and all the rest of my surroundings vanished. None of them mattered. I almost took out my camera to record the simple beauty, but instead, I told myself to just live in the moment and just let it sink in.

I listened to "Love Your Abuser" by Lymbyc Systym about 6 times in a row, because for some reason, I just wanted to hear pleasant musical noises. That song sounds like some brain scientist studied which sounds are naturally pleasant to the human ear, and what releases endorphins, and got a group of musicians together and told them to perform with feeling. There's not even a tempo or a melody until the last minute of the song. A majority of it is just beautiful sounds. I guess that's what music is. They just make it less complicated.

 There's just something so incredibly beautiful about the song. It's a great song to let wash over you when you're in a calm, vulnerable space. When you're just lying on your bed, pondering over every intricate detail of your life, or even simply lying there with blank thoughts, the song just cradles your inner world and creates a miniature reality for you. It's not even a song, it's an experience in itself.

I showed it to Courtney one sleepover, as I was showing her all of the eccentric music I stumbled upon over the past few months, and within the first few seconds, she expressed her approval with her entire being: "I LOVE this song!!" It was her first time hearing it, and it already won her over that fast. I'm not exactly sure where this song came from, or how I discovered it, but I'm sure glad I did.

Journal Entry #1: Writing in Public

Wednesday, 10/23/13

 Now I'm in this class, and we're put in table groups again. I always dread having to sit in these groups. I can't just write without feeling like I'm being watched, or without feeling uneasy the whole time my hand's in motion, anticipating being forced to share it with the group. I'm so awkward. I don't want to tell everyone around me the raw thoughts I was just having. It's like pouring my mind and heart onto a page, believing it'll be locked away and kept a secret from everyone but you forever, until someone evil takes it and hangs it bluntly on the wall. People pass by and glance at the mess; the raw emotion that was once locked away inside me. They look, they process the information, and just like that, hell silently breaks loose. People judge. They laugh. They're insulted. They think it sucks. And once your dignity has been crumbled into a fine, lifeless powder, you're work is taken off the wall and given back to you. "See, that wasn't so bad, was it?" they'll say with a gleam in their eye. You are now a slave to that one thing you wrote, whether it be about the way the sun looks coming through the window, your thoughts on religion, or just about how good you think guacamole is. No one will ever see you in the same light they once did when they thought you were just an innocent, thoughtless human being. You are simply the words on the page before you.

Sorry, I got on a rampage there.

Excerpts From Various Notebooks

I say I want to go home all day, and once I'm there, I say it again. I'm just never satisfied. I don't think it's home I really want to be- I think it's just anywhere other than where I am. I just would rather be in someone else's shoes. Always.

I hate it when during soft songs, the singer's voice is 3 times louder than the music in the background. The singer just thinks they're super important. That kind of attitude just makes me want to shut them up and just listen to the background. They're important, too, ya know.

I woke up this morning with a strange desire to wack everything with a hammer. When I opened my eyes, I looked over at the bookshelf across from my bed, and I began to mull over the failed interactions of last night, and suddenly, I had a weapon in my hands, and the bookshelf was in pieces, the mirror was shattered, the TV was destroyed, and my guitar lay on the floor, strings curling upward. Then I awakened from my fantasy, and everything was back in its place. Simply nothing goes my way.

I am wise beyond my years with the imagination of a young child, trapped in the obnoxiously hormonal position of a teenage girl.

I don't know what it is about my obsession with how I'm gonna look when I'm an old lady. The more I think about it, the more I can see it- I'd still have long hair, it would just be gray and stringy. I can picture being tall and slouchy, probably still generally skinny, and I'd be wrinkly. I'd strive to be one of those sweet old ladies that look like just nice people that are respectable and easy to talk to. That's what I want to be when I grow up. But in all honesty, I think I'm too odd to be one of those. Maybe I should strive to be insane instead.

I can picture myself as a mom really easily, too. I can see myself wanting girls but getting boys (at least for my first one) and then turning into a tougher, less spineless human being because of my dealings with them. Maybe I'd have a girl or two to talk to, and she won't be anything at all that I'd want her to be. She'd probably be really stubborn or mainstream or popular or feminine or social or something that I can't relate to at all. Maybe she'd be a tomboy and she's hate barbies and crush my soul, and she'd only have guy friends and she'd judge all the things I hold near and dear, like writing and music. Yeah. Maybe boys are better.

It's just so weird that I'm completely oblivious to the people in my life in just a few years. All I can do right now is daydream about them. I mean, I could be responsible for a whole new life, thus creating a whole new family unit. It would be so wonderful... That's what I want to do with my life one day. If I can't be good at anything else, this is one thing I would want to master.

I don't really often let myself loose and just be sad about things. I'll just lie to myself and say everything's fine, and I'll remain naive and neutral about my daily routine. I don't really often cry, and I do it even less often around people.

I do that a lot, huh? I find something new and revolutionize it, like "Yes. This is the pen I'll be using from now on." I do that for everything, every concept. I never think realistically that I'll only be using it for now. It's because I never live in the now. I make too much a fuss over everything. I get my hopes too high.

Everyone my age thinks that they're older than they actually are.

Once the bell rang, I bounced from my chair, grabbing my backpack. I was reentering the chaos of the hallways, preparing myself for all the obnoxious crowd adrenaline that comes with it. There's something kind of bitterly beautiful about stepping into a crowd like that. When you remain quiet and you slip through the obstacles, trying not to get in anyone's way. You watch people talk, take note of the couples kissing and holding hands. They're all paired off quite nicely. There's a beautiful melancholy I've gotten used to after seeing it so many times.

Everyone I know doesn't know me.

Ever since I was little, I was deep in thought. I was constantly imagining things, daydreaming and romanticizing concepts that have never really been a reality for me yet.

I'm the kind of pretty that you see in pictures of someone's great grandmother when they were young. They're not perfectly stunning, but they look kind of feminine and better in comparison to their old and unsightly selves, so you feel compelled to comment on it by saying, "Oh, she's so pretty!" but you know that if you placed them next to another average looking girl, they wouldn't look that great. It's all perspective. When I'm next to really grotesque looking people, I'm kind of a pleasant surprise. But that's really all I am.

I have my grandma's smile. I don't remember much about her, but I remember her smile, and I'm always reminded of it whenever I look at the mirror. It's just when I smile with my mouth closed, though- that's when we smile the same. It's the thin, meek lips. I always preferred smiling that way, and it makes me look at myself and see all the people that made Amelia possible.