To Cure a Restless Mind

The dog next door has taken to barking nonstop at different points of the day. His name is Lucas. He's a tiny little thing, light brown curly fur, with so much of it his eyes are hidden most of the time I've seen him. He has a blue cast on one leg, and you can tell when he's outside because amongst the cute little pitter patter of his feet, there's the occasional thunk of plaster on wood. He's a sweetheart, and whenever I see him with his owner when I'm out and about, I stop to give him a scratch behind the ear.

Sometimes he whines, sometimes he barks. We can hear him from the other side of the kitchen wall. His owner has apologized profusely for the sound. I told her it's okay; dogs will be dogs.

We live on the second floor of our tiny complex. Our neighbors below us are Korean (I used to work with one of them), and I often hear him singing, mostly in the morning just after I step out of the shower  or in the afternoon right before dinner. He has a clear voice that's quite soothing to listen to.

There's a married couple on the ground level that like playing a downsized version of badminton in the tiny parking lot. I've seen them most often at dusk, as the atmosphere makes everything glow orange and red, and when things have calmed from the day. They stand about twelve feet apart, batting the birdie back and forth. The woman is beautiful. She has long black hair that she wears pulled back or in a long braid that reaches to the backs of her knees. Both she and her husband came over to meet Emma's dog once as we were chatting in the parking lot. They are very nice people. Everyone we've met here is.

We hear conversations in Chinese next door on the other side, late into the night. It's those times I wonder how much they can hear from our apartment.

I play music sometimes around midday when I'm making lunch or doing the dishes. My roommate has a laugh that could easily carry through walls. I tend to yell a bit when I get excited about something, as does my roommate. I watch a lot of movies on the DVD player, and I often wonder if the volume is too loud.

In those moments when I sit in our living room, thinking too much about all the things that are happening, the things that are worrying me, I notice these little things. I keep thinking about Harriet the Spy and how Ole Golly was always encouraging Harriet to write down everything she saw if she wanted to be a writer. And yes, Harriet was spying on people. But what she came to realize was that as a writer, she was less of a spy and more of an observer. It's the little things that you notice, how everyone has their own way of eating tacos, for instance, or the strange things people put into their shopping carts at the grocery store.* The way light comes through the window in the early morning, how people talk to one another in church as opposed to how they interact at a party or in intimate conversation. It's anything and everything about growing up and living in a new town or in your own hometown. The smell of your grandparents house, or the memories that float in the back of your mind without explanation. It's making sense of how crazy life seems at two in the morning or when your emotions are so overwrought and wrung out you're not sure where to go. As writers, as artists, as people, we are always noticing things. It's proof of the complexity of life, how things are continuously changing, and how it goes on.

We are observers of the world, of the unique life experiences we have. All we need to do is notice them. It's one reason we're compelled to create. We're always on the search for some kind of understanding.


*A few weeks ago, I saw a man pushing a cart entirely full of chicken. I think they might have been leg/thigh combinations.

Resolutions Revisited

So, as soon as I posted my resolutions the other day, I realize that I forgot a couple that I had wanted to add. Anyway, the addendum:

15. I want to cook more, and get more creative with it. Mostly my dinners consist of Kraft dinner or a serving of pasta topped with Alfredo sauce and mozzarella cheese. I need to allow more room for creativity and healthy eating.

16. I have a lot of books on my bookshelf that I haven't yet read. I need to have read--or at least attempt to read--every book I own by the end of the year. I need to allow myself the time to read as well, because I'm really bad about that.

17. Write more ideas down, regardless of whether they're drawing- or writing-related. I used to be really good with this, but somehow my little notebook wasn't always with me last year...and the few ideas that I was really excited about disappeared into the void.

I know I probably have forgotten a couple more. If and when they come back to me, I'll write them down. Anyhoo.

Also, I will post about Mockingjay in the next couple of days. I'm sorry it's taken me so long to post it; I needed time for it to sink in before I could really write about it. I'm thinking the thoughtbox will be a little different than the ones I've done before because I just have so many feelings about the book... But it will be up soon. I promise.

Resolutions for 2012

When I sit down to write out my resolutions, I tend to look over the previous year's to construct the new list, adding things here and there. Thus.

1. Control the amount of money I spend on music. Last year I resolved to not buy any more music until I had every Beatles album, and I failed miserably. I think it might be a good idea to stick to that same resolution again. No other music until I have completed my Beatles discography. 
2. By the end of 2012, I have to have gone through everything I own--both at home and in the Tiny Blue Room--and gotten rid of all that I don't need any more. Clothes should be taken to Goodwill or Habitat for Humanity, books should be taken to The Dusty Bookshelf, and music and movies should be taken to somewhere that will take them and sell them again. I've been too lax in the control of my hoarding, and I need to buckle down. A massive "spring cleaning" is needed. 
3. Better scheduling and following of deadlines. This is one of the things I have the most trouble with. 
4. Journal/freewrite/write everyday, even if it's only 15 minutes. 
5. Finish writing the novel I started for Nanowrimo 2011. 
6. Complete Nanowrimo 2012 in November.
7. Budget better so that I can start saving a little money. 
8. Try to cut down on the amount of pointless internet surfing that I do. 
9. Get applications for grad school sent out. Take the time to go through picking schools to apply to. 
10. Organize my music, books, and artwork.
11. Make more work, and try to work through any artistic block that may arise. 
12. Try not to get so angry with my roommates...because that was another huge problem for me last year.
13. Professionalize my wardrobe so that I'm ready for the upcoming changes that will accompany my upcoming graduation. 
14. As my sister pointed out to me, I need to allow myself more time to relax and de-stress. 

It Was a Tuesday

At least, I think it was a Tuesday. I was in eighth grade, and was sitting in second hour, Advanced English.

Mrs. Bower, the gifted teacher, was in the room preparing things for the days' lesson; she came every Tuesday in class to do different activities with us. Sometimes we did projects, sometimes stories with holes, sometimes different writing assignments aside from what Mrs. Anderson was having us do. I don't remember what she had planned for that day.

Shortly after class had started, Mr. Young, the American History teacher for in the high school (the junior high was connected to the high school) popped his head into the room.

"Some idiot just ran a plane into the World Trade Center," he told Mrs. Bower and Mrs. Anderson.

Channel One, a news program we watched every day at the beginning of second hour, didn't have any news that day about the WTC. I knew it was because it was taped before anything actually happened in New York City. It wasn't until the next day that we saw anything related to the tragedy.

We watched the news in almost every class for the rest of the day. Mr. Thexton, my Earth Science teacher, snapped at our class when some of us weren't paying attention to what we were seeing on screen. Some people in my classes joked a little about it. I remember being horrified when I saw images of people running away from a train of billowing smoke down the street. And it continued to get worse, and I wondered this real thing that was actually happening would never end. That kind of thing only happened in movies.

At lunch, the teachers had set up a television on a rolling cart in the cafeteria and had turned on the news.   I sat at a round table close to where the t.v. set was, watching and trying to process what was happening as I waited for the rest of the group I sat with to arrive. Tessa and Leanne came, talking.

Bethany, one girl who I used to call my best friend (and I seemed to go through a lot of them), was one of the last of us to sit down. She walked up to the table in a mild rage, her feet attached to some invisible engine propelling her forward. She slammed her tray down, and looked at us all before taking her seat.

"I can't believe it," she said, her tone serious and tinged with snark. "I was going to visit the World Trade Center some day and now I can't even go because someone knocked it down."

I sat there, shocked. Was she really going to make this all about her? Did she not realize what had happened? How many lives were lost, from the employees inside the building to the people on the planes and then those who tried to save them? How many families were affected, including, as I would find out later that day, a distant cousin on my mom's side and his two daughters, who were much to young to fully grasp what had happened, who had lost a wife and mother that morning?

This was much bigger than that. It affected all of us.