A Note on Manga (which is totally within the scope of this blog.)

Alright. So.

I have recently become more and more interested in manga. Which is completely different from comic books/graphic novels. Let me show you.

First of all, manga and comics/graphic novels have entirely different styles of art. Comic books and graphic novels reflect Western standards of art; the people, though in a cartoon-y style, have that quality to their face and clothes. That quality I can't describe, because I don't have a degree in Art History (yet). But manga has a more angular quality to the face, with more expressive emphasis on the eyes. There are other differences, as well, in scenery and such like.

They also have different tropes. Comics, in my experience, often involve superheroes, or people with superhuman abilities who save the world (or city) from evil. I realize that is a gross simplification, and anyways, done right the superhero trope can have infinite fascinating variations, and the characterization can be quite good. I admit I am mostly familiar with Superman, Batman, and others (not through reading them, but through pop culture). Again, I am not an expert on comic books by any means, and I am sure there are plenty of exceptions to these guidelines I've set out. 

Graphic novels, from what I see, are often more typical novels in an image form; there's a graphic novel for Artemis Fowl, for some of James Patterson's works, and other such works. Again, I am not an expert on graphic novels. I don't read them as much. But I have come across original writing in graphic novel form (one such is Amulet by Kazu Kibuishi -- which is called a graphic novel in its Amazon review, and does not have that distinctive manga style to the artwork).

But manga is both original art/writing, and is not focused on black and white/good and evil. I've come across many on supernatural themes (Soul Eater, Black Butler, etc), but also on fantasy/sci-fi themes (Full Metal Alchemist, etc), and the characters are generally more... nuanced. There's a fascination on the shades of gray. In Black Butler, for example, Ciel Phantomhive saves Victorian London from evil... but he is cold-hearted himself, and of course his butler is a demon he summoned to help avenge the Phantomhive name. In Full Metal Alchemist, brothers Ed and Alphonse Elric travel the world looking for the sorcerer's stone... but not for idealist standards. They are looking to get their bodies back, after a horrifying and forbidden alchemical ritual to raise their mother from the dead went wrong.

(Let me state again: THESE ARE TROPES. AND I AM NOT AN EXPERT ON SAID TROPES. If you are fascinated by the intricate differences between comic books, graphic novels, and manga, then do some research yourself.)

All of that being said, I do believe manga novels are a legitimate form of media, not inferior to Western artwork, and most definitely can be a books-and-writing sort of topic. A fiction novel sort of topic. Because they are like regular novels, in the sense that they convey a story (in print) through the use of characters, dialogue, backstory, plot, and narrative. And in the same way, anime (the video form of manga novels) are definitely a sort of movie/cinematic form of media, as they do the same as books except in video, moving-picture form. The same as regular movies, only anime. 

Why am I going on about this topic, you may ask? Because I keep meeting people who think anime/manga are inferior/not as good as Western "literature"/find it lowbrow entertainment/ think it's for children. And I've been watching anime, reading manga novels, and I have to say, I don't find these arguments to be true at all.

First of all, why would you compare manga and Western literature? Western literature has survived the ages, yes, but they aren't some objective marker for what is good and pure in the writing world. Western literature has generally survived by fate, luck, what-have-you. For every literary work of literature, there's a hundred good literary works that didn't survive, due to a fluke of time. And manga/anime aren't even Western; why measure them against it? What does that prove? Nothing. They stand on their own feet, and there are just as many good stories in manga/anime as you'll find in any other form of media. 

Second of all, I hate the "lowbrow/inferior entertainment for the masses" argument. That is what sci-fi/fantasy is, as well -- "lowbrow." "Inferior." There are many, many good stories, with intricacies and nuances you miss because you think the work is a fluffy nothing. I hate that argument when I come across it in my favorite genre, fantasy; and I most certainly hate it in anime/manga. It's not even about you insulting my taste in bookish things. It's about your stubborn and worrying hatred of something so... random. They're books, stories -- they won't melt your brain if they aren't considered the Western-literature standard by society. Open your mind a little, and you might find something amazing waiting beneath your nose. 

And third of all -- children? Really? I realize they look a little like cartoons, and cartoons are usually associated with children. But anime/manga is enjoyed by all ages. As are cartoons, and children's books, and other things associated with children (like Froot Loops). And I don't really think anime/manga is geared towards children. Take a look at Attack on Titan, if you hold the opinion manga is for children. I guarantee you won't be thinking that afterwards. Also, that argument ties back in with the other two -- a work isn't childish because it doesn't "compare" with "Western" standards. Because it's mainly composed of pictures, and not even pictures based off of Western ideals of art. They are legitimate stories, and have adult themes in them as often as YA and Adult novels do.

So. Consider some anime/manga, will you? It's a cool section of the bookstore. There are many wonderful, nuanced stories to be found.  

A Small Switchover (Or rather, a Big One)

So, I'm a college student. Hooray and all that.

But what I want to discuss right now is non-fiction vs. fiction. Because I am about to read a slew of articles and textbooks, and quite frankly I'll have to stop this whole "I'm gonna read in bed all day. For fun." attitude. I simply cannot afford to spend all day reading books -- novels -- in bed all day, when I have so much to learn and stuff into my head for tests and just general knowledge in case I do need it later on.*

Today I had Early and Medieval Britain. In which we learned some very interesting things (Cheddar Man, anyone?) but more specifically, my professor gave us a list of books on Celtic and Early Britain, Ireland, and that general area, in case we need to write a paper later on. (Hint hint, nudge, wink.)

And some of the titles look interesting. Lots on ancient Ireland, on Celtic Mythology and just Celtic 101, that sort of thing. And of course, it's likely to be dry reading. Dry as the textbook we have for class. And maybe a little confusing, as names change and there's no written records from that time period and etc.

But maybe I want to try it. Inure myself to the dryness of the text and engage with it in an intellectual way. What does this time period really look like? Primary sources are one thing, but modern books? Our textbook declares that this period of Britain (the 1st millenium, which is to say about from the time the Roman invaded to the time of the Norman conquest) is shaped not just by the Anglo-Saxons -- which is a belief held by a lot of scholars -- but by the whole of Europe.

(Britain at this time is very insular -- they're islands. Separated from the mainland, and not just geographically, but culturally. Rome/Greece was where the "civilization" is -- the Celts, for all intents and purposes, are stuck in a sort of Stone Age, despite the fact that they are brilliant metalworkers. I mean, they're known for painting themselves blue and rushing naked but for their shield into battle, where they are likely to fight with all the might of a mythical Berserker.)

And I want to learn about it. Ireland fascinates me. Mythology fascinates me. And the idea that there are no written records -- that all we have to go on are archaeological finds, like spears and shields and cairns and the like -- excites me. Because, like in literature, there is some level of speculation in this. It's not that my textbook is dead right and I should memorize it -- it's that I am allowed to read it and rip it apart if I like, or I can praise it to the heavens. I can form my own educated opinions, because the text serves the dual purpose of informing/educating me, and letting me decide myself if I believe what I've been given.

This is a revolutionary idea for me. AP classes, sure, tried to teach me that, but for the first time it sinks in -- I am an adult, and now I get to inform myself. It's not just doing homework; I am paying a lot of money to learn, and that I had better do.

And all of this is a roundabout way of saying that, for the time being, perhaps I want to set aside my fiction. Just for a little bit. Maybe just the semester, or just the month. But I kind of want to try my hand at nonfiction, at the reference books I brought with me but didn't think I'd ever get around to reading. At the wealth of knowledge waiting at my fingertips in our library on campus.

And maybe I'll share some of the less-dry ones here with you. My book reviews may be dominated for a while with non-fiction. Or maybe they won't. Maybe my self-imposed sentence will fall apart on me. Maybe I'll spend my time balancing fiction and textbooks.

But a small part of me tells me I need to learn to toughen up. Discipline myself. And where better to start than in my reading style? Like I said, I am up to my ears in student debt. It'd be a shame if that fell apart because I can't sit through reading my textbook. Inure myself to the world of non-fiction. Because I am decently sure that it should be worth some of my attention, too.

I have textbooks in at least six of my seven classes. All of them want me to read and understand. So I'd best get started.

*This is not to say novels teach me nothing and are a waste of time. Novels are very informative. They have taught me, at some time or another, all that I know of myself and the basics of human nature. And, of course, plenty of authors do their research, so I may take some of the general information and know that, too. But what I mean here is that college needs specifics: for example, one of my classes, my Honors Inquiry class (which is worth 1 credit hour, not the usual 3) deals with the history of my college. It used to be a plantation, there's a slave burial ground, even. But I need to research deeply -- through the archaeological and written records, I need to examine the real individuals who worked here, who lived here, and who died here, and how it is all of these people and their influences on the college founder came to the decision to turn this college from a plantation into a college. I need letters from the founder's father, not a novel set in this time period at this college. Because I am dealing strictly with this reality, and therefore I need non-fiction.

I love fiction, but I have never given much attention to non-fiction. And I think it is time for me to try it on, and the best way for me to do so, I think, is to focus on it for awhile exclusively, to get myself into the habit of reading non-fiction. That's my way of doing things: instead of trying to get it to penetrate my daydreams and bring myself to earth, I often incorporate it into my dream world and there it sticks. The details I need.

And also, by the way, this is probably necessary background reading. To understand anything on the history of a place, I need the knowledge. I will still be sitting in bed all day, reading books. But now, I do not have the luxury of reading whatever I want or feel like reading. I just want to pick up the reading I have to do, but also am curious about and want to read, also. This very long aside is because, while I feel a tad guilty for setting it aside, fiction needs to take a backseat while I figure all of this out and make some coherent form of sense in my classes.

Guys. I'm Gonna Graduate.

Right now, I pretty much feel... restless. And as much as I don't really want to treat my blog like my diary, I feel like I can say this here. Because it's one of those Big Events in Your Life.

What spurred on the thought was the Senior Awards Assembly two days ago, where they hand out all the medals and cords and whatnot. It takes hours and it's boring. The same people win all the awards -- you know the type, who wear so many medals for music and student council and Honor Society and everything, that when they step up to the stage to receive the next award you can hear their medals jangling.

I was mentioned exactly three times. Two of those times were just being recognized for achievement in (*ahem* just for signing up for) AP classes, no medal or pin or even certificate necessary. The third time I received a gold cord, for "Honors Graduate," which is a fancy way of saying I took honors classes and got good grades like I was supposed to.

Still, it's one more award than others got. Some people didn't receive anything at all. (And one guy received a couple of awards for publishing a children's book and I'm trying not to be jealous right now, because my novel is still at a cringe-worthy stage.) I am not coming out of four years of an institution which did more to harm my understanding of the world than it did to help with nothing. It's a gold cord, sure; a few flimsy badges and a little pin for "participating" in gym in previous years. All will decorate my sash-thing. (Does anyone know what that part of a robe is called? You see it in graduation gowns and in choir robes, and you can never tell if the short end should be facing front or if it should be the longer end? Or am I confusing you?)

But the thought still surfaces: I am going to graduate. In less than two weeks, I am going to claim a piece of paper which will tell everyone I am sufficiently versed in English, Science, Math, and Social Studies to pursue a higher education. (Yes, it's necessary to capitalize those. If I believed anything school taught me, I would think they are the only important things in the entire world. They even had an entire section of the Awards Assembly dedicated to giving out awards for "excellence" and "achievement" in those four areas. And no, creative writing is apparently not considered an English elective, even though AP Statistics is considered a Math elective.) After four years of doubting myself, of mornings where I absolutely do not want to drag myself out of bed and do so anyways, of days where I feel as if I might vomit but head to school anyways, of endless rounds of homework and memorization in classes I do not care about, of every last little injustice I've felt, because I am too quiet to tell my lab partner to let me participate, too, or because of my apparent inability to operate in social surroundings...

After everything, I am finally leaving it. There is no guarantee I won't find it at college. In fact, I probably will. But that is months away. Right now I am leaving it. Maybe I'll encounter it in the workplace, if I have to work at the factory where my parents work, because I cannot, technically speaking, afford college. But I do not have a job yet. Right now, all of everything is finally laying to rest in the building in which it occurred.

And I don't want it to happen. I don't want to let go of the familiar maze of hallways, suppressing the tears when I do not get any awards even when I know it is technically my fault for being too quiet to join anything, the teachers who are nice and try to help us understand, even when I either already know it or do not care. I don't want to leave behind the awful boredom, the wandering thoughts which grasp the concept and then forget it next period, the exhaustion of having information of one subject rammed down my throat and then, in the space of seven minutes, get to another class to have information of another subject stuffed into my ears.

In a way, it's a sort of dilemma, a meeting of opposite forces in my heart: the desire to stay behind, to just remain in high school with the lunches with my friends, and the rare occasion I learn something I want to, and the way some of the teachers even try to encourage my own thinking and self-expression; and with letting go, leaving the good and bad behind, because I have been ready to do so for a long time now.

It's scary, to think I'll be graduating. I will have to go to college, where they'll actually let me study what I want to, but at a high cost and risk of debt; or I will have to join the workplace or the military, a mass of people even larger than the crowds at school, where even fewer people will know me or care. This world is full of possibility, of money and happiness and exploration and everything they never think to teach within the confines of a school building. A place where I am as unprepared and new at everything as a newborn, where I might as well be another seed on a dandelion head when someone makes a wish.

But it's exciting, in a nauseous mix at the pit of my stomach, to think that I will not be something to treated with condescension. Hopefully, no one will repeat the same thing in simplest terms for five minutes, just to make sure I get the point. There will be no homework besides working on a home. I have the chance to learn what I want to and hold a job I love to work on, even if it's a chance and not a guarantee. I will have a whole lifetime to spread a pair of wings I have been cobbling together, away from the eyes of kids smarter than me and more involved than me or less caring and less intelligent.

I am a smart girl. I received a recognition -- three of them -- for it, when others got nothing. I may not be dripping with medals and honors, with people praising my abilities and potential. I may be too quiet, too inclined to stare unprotesting when someone else does the work for me. But I can do many things I keep out of view of others, like hold whole worlds in my head and read over a hundred books a year, every year, and I can write essays about works of fiction that receive top marks. I get top marks on AP exams, which are college level before I am in college.

And now I can graduate, leave behind a place that has felt unhealthy to me for a long time. I am leaving behind friends, and good intentions, and the random everyday acts which sometimes helps me get through it. I am leaving behind bullies, and casting off the knowledge I never wanted to learn, not even if it is "good" for me, and all of those random everyday acts which grind me into dust and another face in the crowd.

Two weeks. Two weeks of nothing, of classes I am done caring about and final exams, three of which I don't have to and won't take. Graduation practice. And then the real thing, Saturday morning, June 7th. I'll be wearing the gold cord and my trivial little pins and badges, most all of them for being a good little girl and getting good grades in the "smart kid" classes. I'll be wearing a little black dress beneath my blue cap and gown, which isn't sexy or little, but knee-length and short-sleeved and still the most daring and the most formal outfit I have ever worn. And maybe, if they let me, I will be clutching a book as I climb the steps to the stage, trying to keep the one-size-too-large flats from falling off my feet while I accept a diploma.

My stomach has that nauseous mix again. I cannot tell you which force wins out, or which feeling will overwhelm the other. My heart pounds in its little cage -- or in its protective hiding spot -- and my hands shake, and I cannot stop my body from fidgeting or feeling sick when I so much as look at that cap and gown. But it won't be long until that is over, and a tether will have been cut -- the one that anchors me to an unhappy world. And maybe I carry that unhappy world inside of me, and maybe it won't feel better. But it's one less tie to such a place, to a place where I have no control over when I am allowed to go to the bathroom and what I learn.

And maybe, with letting go this anchor, I can stretch out a little, feel my nervous heartbeat and my shaking fingers, and I can tell myself that I have a chance now, a price to pay and a choice to make and maybe even a set of very good consequences for my future. That even while I am nervous and scared, there is something bigger, and better, and I'll be on my way to the version of me which I save for my daydreams.

I'll be on my way to a reality of my dreams, or a failure of them. But I have faith that I will allow the former to keep me happy, or to keep the latter from crushing me. Because I am a smart girl. I can get through four years of no control, over almost everything. So I can get through a lifetime with just a bit more freedom than I've ever been allowed.

Ugh, Really? Or, A Rant on Education

Alright, so if you've read this blog, you probably realize I live in America. More specifically, in the Southeast. Most specifically, I live in Virginia. (But I refuse to name my street address, full name, and full identification. This is a personal blog, after all, not some free-for-all for criminals.)

And I would like to inform you about education. The public educational system. Not precisely the one I'm in -- thank goodness -- but it happened in Richmond earlier this week.

Guess what? Richmond schools are protesting.

If you're unwilling to follow the link to the Richmond Times Dispatch, let me spell it out for you: 150 students protested Monday, because their schools are falling apart. One of the students in my class, who used to be in the Richmond public school system, claimed he once saw a rat there. On the news Monday, they interviewed a few students, and a couple say they're worried about ceiling tiles falling on their heads and injuring them.

The protest was going to peter out, of its own volition, without any news coverage at all. Until the mayor of Richmond showed up, and invited the students in to talk about it.

It sounds nice, doesn't it? The mayor shows up and for 30 minutes out of his busy schedule, sits down to talk with students about their concerns. Except, he doesn't really answer them. He wants to build a baseball stadium nearby -- yes, you heard me: a baseball stadium. And he keeps telling the students that building it will increase revenue, help the economy, and that then he'll have money for the schools. Oh, but he also claims that it's the schools' responsibility to deal with where the money goes, not City Council.

And I would have posted this earlier in the week -- say, the day it happened -- but thinking on it makes my blood boil.

First of all, really? The city has money to build a baseball stadium, but not enough to keep kids safe? And you want to build an expensive baseball stadium in order to bring money in, rather than simply using the money you have to first help the schools and then figure out a plan to raise revenue?

Second of all, it really angers me that someone would forego children's safety like that. When even one kid is in danger, parents rush in to save their child. But when it comes to sending them to school, it's alright to put them in danger? None of the people on City Council, or even the Superintendent of the schools, knows what it's like, to be in these schools.

I am so blessed to be in a school system where I won't (hopefully, ever) see a rat; I feel safe in the building. But I don't exactly have a choice to go. I never had a choice, to go to my high school; it's simply the default school I go to, since I didn't get into any specialty program elsewhere. It's the same with kids in Richmond. They don't have any choice over what school they get to go to. They simply have to go. And unfortunately, they have to go to a school system they don't feel safe in.

How did a system meant to be for the benefit of kids end up such a nightmare? How did it ever come to this, that kids have to protest to get proper maintenance for their schools? When did a system meant to enrich children's lives with learning end up a place where they are nervous to even walk in?

Everyone talks about bullying, and assaults, and gun violence. They talk about how college is way too expensive. But where is the attention for the public school system when it comes to something they have so little control over? No one talks about how maintenance can scare kids as much as bullies, so that they are afraid to come to school.

I once saw a cockroach in my school. My biology teacher killed a mouse eating her supply of lab "equipment" (dried beans, which she uses in a couple experiments at the beginning of the school year to teach evolution). My Spanish teacher was legitimately concerned that Spanish classes after the third year taking the language would get canceled; she asked several kids in my class to go around talking to the third-year Spanish students in order to encourage them to sign up.*

But this is nothing. It's nothing, that our textbooks are battered. Nothing, that the air conditioning rarely works, so that it is either freezing during the spring months -- so much so that I wear a jacket to school, even when it is over sixty degrees outside -- or too-boiling-hot. Two years ago, in Honors 10th grade English, there were so many students in my class that the temperature in there was always seventy degrees. I switched to an AP English class last year and this year, because there are fewer students.

That. Is. Nothing. At least I haven't seen bigger bugs; at least I don't worry about ceiling tiles falling on my head. At least I am lucky enough to be in a decent school, even though I had no control over where I would be going to. I didn't choose to go to my school because it was safe. And some students? They didn't choose to go to their schools in the city, because those schools are grim. Luck is all that separates me from those kids.

And you know what? I'm so sick of it. If we are required by law to go to school, then it had better be a good place to go. Because you can't just sacrifice quality when it comes to kids. To people my age and even younger. You can't take risks with safety. So why can't anybody pay attention and fix this mess -- or better yet, why didn't anyone pay attention enough to have stopped this from happening in the first place?

There are so many questions. And there are no answers. Not for me. But I am proud as anything that some kids had the fight in them to stand up and demand some sort of answer to these very questions.



*My school requires a student to take three years of one language or two years of two languages. After that, it's optional. I'm in Spanish 4.  

Shine by Lauren Myracle

A boy beaten, bound, and left for dead, words of hate scrawled across his chest...
A girl shrinking from life, enslaved by a shameful secret...
A tight-knit Southern community riddled by poverty, clannishness, drugs, and intolerance...
When Patrick is found near death, strung to the pump of the local gas station, sixteen-year-old Cat emerges from her self-imposed exile to avenge the horrors inflicted on her former best friend. The local sheriff is ready to pin the crime on gay-bashing out-of-towners, but Cat's suspicions lie elsewhere. Despite ominous warnings to leave it be, Cat finds the will -- fueled by fury born of an old injustice -- to expose the homegrown hatred that gave rise to Patrick's attack.
Bestselling author Myracle has crafted a hypnotic mystery, steeped in a sense of place, that is also a searing coming-of-age story: an exploration of loss, guilt, and fear fused inseparably with a tale of courage, resiliency, and love.

~Print copy, 350 pages
Published: 2011 by Amulet Books


As much as I wanted to love this... I can't quite get there. It's rather random, my bits and pieces of opinion, but this post is supposed to organize it into something coherent.

I liked that this is set in the South. Everything seems to be set in New York or London, or even another world. I come across few novels set in the good old American South.

Books about gays are also rare to cross my sightline. This copy I've read comes from my local library. I've seen it in Barnes and Noble, but my mother happens to be very Christian-like and... well, she's the one with the money. But even then, either nothing's being mentioned in the summary or they are not here, because most of it looks overwhelmingly heterosexual romance. (See my rant on not finding what I want here.)

What also caught my eye was the main character, Cat, took off from chapter one. Literally. It is within a chapter that she breaks out of that "self-imposed exile" and decides to chase her friend's assailant. In truth, this is somewhat shaky to me -- I would have liked to see her in exile, not just in flashbacks but during the story time. But still, she can be a hardy character, not some fluffy-headed princess who walks down that haunted corridor and opens that spooky door despite your irritated shouts at her to stop.

The mystery part, too, was actually pretty good. I won't spoil the ending, but the twist was pretty well-carried out -- I never saw that ending coming, and simultaneously I could see how it led there. And those types of endings pack quite the punch.

On the other hand, there were quite a few things that churned in my gut.

One of the major secondary characters, Jason. I don't know about you, but college boys hanging around 16-year-olds seems a bit... creepy. To be in college, I have to assume he's at least 18 or older. I turn 18 tomorrow. Even I can tell you that who I am now and who I was then are VASTLY different -- at 16, I was vulnerable, even more timid than I am now. I didn't see things like I do now, things like the whole picture -- not even a bigger picture, than my own little world. Two years is forever.

And that is the minimum age he could be -- he has two more years, maybe three or four or even five years, than she has in terms of experience, of that seeing the whole picture. I don't care if she likes him. I don't care that she is "mature" or "fearless" or anything else. I don't like the way this sort of relationship -- between two teenagers of vastly different ages -- was portrayed, set aside, made sort of... cute, in a way. My parents would not let my 16-year-old sister hang out with an 18-year-old -- and she has. And that sort of thing ends badly.

I also wasn't fond of how quickly things went. Like I said, Cat was raring to go from chapter one. She's well into character development within a couple more. Near the end, it began feeling kind of preachy, like there was a lesson being pushed on me. All that there's-good-in-everyone sort of lesson, where there's no real villain, because no one's a real villain.

And going off of that, I don't like how quickly her quietness was cast aside at a moment's notice. Now, I've never really been attacked myself, and I've never dealt with the consequences, when someone I love has been hurt or even overly sick. But still, Cat acted like being quiet and withdrawn was just a phase she never wanted to go back to. There was her talk of how much it hurt her friends, that she stood by; even counted herself among evil people, because she didn't say "yes" to the world and go after everything.

But being quiet and withdrawn takes over your life. I know. I barely speak more than the Pledge of Allegiance in the mornings and a paltry conversation during lunch on any given day. It deserves more than just paragraphs here and there vaguely describing how she didn't stand up for [insert friend here]. It's a lifestyle, and there's more than one type of "withdrawn" person. It can be everything, it affects everything in a worldview, and quite frankly, I've been trying to find a way even partially out of "self-imposed exile", and it doesn't go away with one decision. It doesn't go away with a chest full of fury -- I have been furious, and it gets you nowhere when you are used to a certain quiet lifestyle.

And I refuse to believe that it is entirely negative, because there is something healing and calm in not being around people, about not being so extroverted as to have lots of conversations with people every day. It's not quite evil at all, really. I do have friends, now, but I've been at the place where I am a ghost. And it's lonely. But it isn't negative, not some phase to cast off and see the error of my ways, like it seems from this novel. It's a place of mind where you can think, and see yourself.

And, while it seems kind of minor after my talks of my philosophy, this novel can become character soup at points. It's a small town, I know, and she knows everyone's name, but the ladies at the church? Aren't entirely deserving of a name. And the librarian. And the names of the parents, of the kids she keeps talking to. At times, I became somewhat confused, and this wasn't really annoying in and of itself -- but in conjunction with my questioning some of the way other things were being portrayed, it really did pick on my nerves.

All in all, I wasn't entirely fond of this novel. Not really. The bits I liked about this novel -- the setting, the fact that it is about homosexuality, rather than the homogeneous heterosexuality -- seem kind of small in comparison with the way I dislike some of the other aspects. I don't like the way being quiet, or relationships with older teenagers, were sort of made cute, set aside, in favor of the plot, or of flashbacks of her and Patrick. How being quiet looked like something she had to "get over", and how meeting with a guy at least two years older than her was made casual.

I don't really know if I'd recommend this to someone. If you take anything from this post, it's that I am not always entirely clear myself on how I feel about it. But it does grate against what I believe in places, and I'm not sure I would actively seek someone out and place this book in their hands. All I can really give in terms of whether or not someone else would want to read this is a lengthy post explaining my tangled reasoning and hoping for a discussion.

And, having said that, I give this novel a 2.5 stars, because while I am not entirely in agreement with it, I really do respect a good plot twist. (Rounded up to 3 stars.)

An Update on my Life.

Hello. I realize I haven't posted much this month. Life has slammed into me.

Let me start with the bad news. My grandfather died a few weeks ago. We had his funeral -- my mother organized the entire thing, because she's getting her master's degree in religious studies or Christianity or some other such thing in that general area of study, and she wanted to make it personal. My grandfather -- my mother's stepfather -- was married to my grandmother for 42 years. It's been a rather hard blow, to know the laughing, easygoing man I knew as Granddad Richard will now be gone from everywhere but our hearts and memories.

In better news, though, I've applied to 4 colleges and three of them have accepted me. (The fourth hasn't answered back.) All are in-state, all are offering me scholarships over $17,000, and two of them look like viable options for my future. (One is near where my other grandfather, my father's father, lives, while the other is offering a pretty substantial scholarship and entry into their honors program.)

I have been super-busy organizing things with the colleges: I've met with an admissions counselor from the latter (the one offering entry in their honors program), who promised to repeal our financial aid and see if she can't cover more, and asked me to look into scholarships outside of the college. I've scheduled an interview at the college near my grandfather's place, in order to determine if I qualify for a full-tuition scholarship. And I've been desperately researching scholarships online, to see if I can't cover some of the cost.

Good advice for this month, from my perspective.

And, while this sort of pales in comparison with the other two bits of news, and hasn't really affected my posting schedule (seeing as how it occurred only today), I have taken my first field trip since 8th grade. I'm a senior in high school now. I've been a bit anxious about it for the past week, which is why I mention it. The field trip was to Old Town Petersburg, which in case you don't know is actually old. We visited the Blandford Cemetery and the the old part of the city to take pictures, for photography class. I ended up with 4 rolls of black-and-white film (~70-80 pictures), and a curiosity for this city a half-hour's drive from my hometown.

Some cool things Petersburg has to offer:

1. In the Blandford Cemetery, the oldest gravestones dates back to the 1700s! I saw one headstone for a woman born in 1785 and died in the 1820s-1830s.
2. The Blandford Church contains fifteen or sixteen Tiffany Windows, one for each of the Confederate States. Each window depicts a saint and the state's name. The only Confederate state that didn't contribute a window was Kentucky, because it couldn't raise the funds after the Civil War. Tiffany also donated the Jeweled Cross window. I didn't get to see the windows from inside the church, to see the light shine through, but I saw the dull grayness of the windows from outside.
3. The Trapezium House was built either in the late 1700s or really early 1800s. The man who built it was an eccentric man who believed that evil spirits resided in right angles, so he built his house without any right angles whatsoever.
4.  I managed to get a shot of the Hiram Haines' Coffee and Alehouse, which has been around since pre-Civil War (early 1800s -- 1820s, I believe?), where several famous people gathered. Edgar Allen Poe had his honeymoon there, in 1839. It was reopened 2010, I believe, and is in business today. Sadly, grabbing lunch at this historic building was not on our itinerary.

What the Church looks like today (public domain photo)

I wish I had the pictures to show you, but we haven't developed the film yet. We'll be doing that next week. In the meantime, it's nice to let you know the Cockade City is still a historical treasure, one that withstood a siege during the War of 1812 and was nicknamed after its patriotism, so called by James Madison. (A cockade is like a pin they stuck in their hats, and so many people wore them and so many lost their lives during the War of 1812 that President James Madison stopped by to address them.)

So, this has been quite the eventful month. Good things tossed with the bad things, as life often likes to throw at us. For a quiet teenager who leaves her home only to go to school and the library (and occasionally Wal-Mart), the whole blasted thing is like something out of the Lord of the Rings, except my life has no obvious plot or point.

For now, I think I'll just have to take a pain-reliever for my headache, finish up a good book, and draw myself a nice hot bath. And then we'll see about April.

Have a blessed day, and hope you visit a few ancient sites yourself.

It's Wednesday.

This will be a short post. I have calculus homework. And spanish homework. And AP Lit homework. And AP Bio homework.

Here's a small rundown of my life at the moment:

1. As mentioned, I have a ton load of homework. It must be the upcoming month. Something about March makes teachers pile on the homework.
2. I have been questioning my existence, mortality, and what is important in this world, and have concluded it is nothing like what the world tells me is important to my mortality. I will likely not marry, have children, or try YOLO, which appears to mean doing drugs, partying, and/or having sex. I also will not try traveling, bungee jumping, most sports, or watching said sports. I don't think focusing on school will happen, either, at least not public high school. According to my own calculations, books, cats, music, and God feature very heavily in what is "worth living for."
3. I finished The Eyre Affair by Jasper Fforde and am halfway through The Dust of 100 Dogs by A.S. King. Both feature romance pretty heavily, and in the latter case, a rather detailed scene of a rape. I didn't feel like writing a book review. Needless to say, they will not be put on my greatest-favorite bookshelf.
4. Sudoku puzzles! I have loved them since middle school, but now I would much rather solve another few sudoku puzzles than do my homework. Which is a problem. Technically. As I mentioned, school does not make it to my List of Things Important to Living.

This is shorter than I realized. So, I'll leave you with a quote and just say, have a blessed day. :)

Happy February.

It's the pink month, guys. Valentine's Day and all of that jazz. It's one of my least favorite months of the year, but I console myself that at least this also happens to be Black History Month. Black History is a very good history to talk about, because there is so much tension and strife that it must be talked about.

(It's really only Valentine's Day that makes this my least favorite month. But in my defense, stores are bursting with hearts and pink and red and candy and those weird little paper valentines that only little kids get to buy with impunity. Walking into Wal-Mart makes me cringe, and this is not a good thing when I barely get out of the house anyways.)

So, instead of writing a very long post today -- it's already 9:30 pm, I've had a ridiculously exhausting school day and homework binge -- here's a nice, relaxing song for your pink-barraged brains. Well, as relaxing as my music gets.

Have a blessed day.

Escala -- Requiem for a Dream

Martin Luther King Jr. Day

Hello, people, and happy Martin Luther King Jr. Day. :)

To be honest, I know little about him, only as much as any average public school student might discern from your average history class: that he was a famous civil right's activist, he did this great speech in which, at some point, he says, "I have a dream!" Etc.

It makes me a little sad, that such a name, spoken with such awe and respect as it is, is barely known to me. Sometimes, I just want to look him up, study every inch of his life: why, what made this man stand up and say something, when so many others didn't or couldn't? What makes his name so famous, when others, just as great, blend into the background of history?

And other times, I think to myself, Why can't I remember him as I like to remember historical figures, as little things all mixed up together -- why can't I see the things like what he had for breakfast every morning, and how much or little he loved his kids, and what sort of job he had for a living, besides writing speeches and standing up against the white folks, since I can't imagine either of those pastimes making a lot of money.

This is my major problem with learning a limited amount of what-happens-in-the-real-world: I end up split two ways, between studying the emotionality of his public persona and the tiny details that make up every inch of his ordinary life. Why they can't teach such stuff in classrooms, I don't know; all I know is the limited amount of information I am given, the amount you would expect history classes named such vague terms as "world history" and "AP US history."

I suppose I have a dream, too, and that's to learn more about the people behind the historical figures. And I wish I could say I will start with Martin Luther King, Jr., as he seems like an interesting, bold sort of person to have known, and even after his death there must be accounts somewhere. But I grudgingly have an AP biology test on cellular respiration, an AP government test on the presidency, and other such non-specifically-person-oriented things to study for.

Happy remembrance, people. And have a blessedly free day.

Breadcrumbs by Anne Ursu

Once upon a time, Hazel and Jack were best friends. They had been best friends since they were six, spending hot Minneapolis summers and cold Minneapolis winters together, dreaming of Hogwarts and Oz, superheroes and baseball. Now that they were eleven, it was weird for a boy and a girl to be best friends. But they couldn't help it -- Hazel and Jack fit, in that way you only read about in books. And they didn't fit anywhere else.
And then, one day, Jack just stopped talking to Hazel. And while her mom tried to tell her that this sometimes happens to friends at this age, Hazel had read enough stories to know that it's never that simple. And it turns out she was right. Jack's heart had been frozen, and he had been taken into the woods by a woman dressed in white to live in a palace made of ice. Now it's up to Hazel to venture into the woods after him.
Anne Ursu, acclaimed author of the Cronus Chronicles, has written a stunningly original fairy tale of modern-day America. Inspired by the Hans Christian Anderson story "The Snow Queen," Breadcrumbs is in turn a remarkable middle-grade adventure, a dazzling ode to the power of fantasy, and a heartbreaking meditation on how growing up is as much a choice as it is something that happens to us.

~Print copy, 312 pages
Published: 2011 by Walden Pond Press

Well, darn. I should know better by now that I get restless over books about growing up.

I loved the writing of this book. Beautiful voice, kind of American-ish and reference-y. Hazel is a lovely character; very creative, and misunderstood, an outsider in fifth grade, but she never gave up being creative. She daydreams, reads stories, and thinks in story terms. Exactly how I was. And still am.

But she was always a little dependent on Jack. And while I have little experience in friendships, I didn't really see... why. They had adventures, she could always count on him to not judge her, but she seemed very focused on him. She looked into his classroom and made faces at him while his teacher's back was turned, she met him outside... at one point, she remembers how they were pretending to face down a dragon, and when she suggested that she rescued him, he refused.

Gender played a rather nuanced role in this, I think. It's not just growing up. Yes, she changes over the course of the story, as she sees things that are real, not fairy tales, that are horrible and somewhat depressing. She walks into a woods wanting to bring her friend back, and she finds that anyone who is looking for something goes in there, and not all of them remain sane. But some of the things dropped in there, it had a way of... I don't know. Looking at things nuanced.

Hazel was always there to comfort Jack, through his mother's fall into depression, but she's not enough. It's stated that he willingly goes with the white witch, over and over again. She's always trying to bring him up, she's always looking at his drawings and smiling at him and trying to remind him who he really is. And the only mention of Jack reciprocating this is when he gives her a baseball signed by a famous player, right after Hazel's dad leaves.

So there's that. And, while we're mentioning stuff like this, everyone around her keeps telling her it's weird that she and Jack are still friends, even her mother. That a boy and a girl can't be friends. And even I can see that in real life, and it makes me a little sick to my stomach to think about that. That things get separated in real life, and in books, and I know it's being realistic, but... along with what I mentioned above, it sort of curbed my taste for it. I think it is a thoughtful commentary on gender, except with perhaps a bit of bias towards the male side. (Not that I blame Miss Ursu. We all grew up in patriarchy, as much as it turns my stomach.)

But the setting was amazing, as well as plenty of the characters she meets in the lost woods. A forest, where people looking for something end up? And it does strange things to their minds? And they almost never find their way out, because they almost never find what they're looking for? Pretty cool. And like I said, written pretty well, too.

And, of course, I'm a sucker for fairy tale re-tellings. And the white witch, she wasn't some mustache-twirling evil villain, but neither was she some shades-of-gray villain, either. She's sort of... well, a cold-hearted woman, scientific, almost. It's said, in the book, she "lives in a palace of ice with a heart to match."

So, overall, I... don't even know what I would give this. I would recommend it to most people, I suppose, though only if asked. Mostly, these sorts of books I just keep in my head and ponder over, never specifically recommending or un-recommending to people. Kind of literary-ish and fantasy-ish at the same time, like a myth or a fable. And I am not entirely sure what I pull out of it.

I guess I give it a 3.25 stars. I did like it, but it doesn't rate as high as a 4 stars, an actual "I loved it."

    

Glimpse by Carol Lynch Williams

Just a year apart, the Chapman girls were as close as sisters could be. Hope could always count on Lizzie, and Lizzie could always count on Hope-- always.
But even sisters have secrets. Big secrets. And if Lizzie has her way, she'll take the biggest secret of all to her grave.
With Lizzie in lockdown, can Hope discover the truth and save her sister, or is it already too late?
Carol Lynch Williams's PEN Award-winning first novel in verse will captivate and haunt readers after the final page.

~Print copy, 484 pages
Published: 2010 by Simon and Schuster

Yes, the "novel in verse" part jumped out at me. Main reason I picked it up.

It's described as a thriller, I think, and the part of her sister trying to commit suicide is thrilling. But it's more... I don't know. Literary-ish? Contemporary-ish? I wouldn't really describe it as thriller.

The ending, of course, picks up and seems thriller-ish. But most of the novel is about Hope, told from her view, and how she's comparing the before and after, and trying to figure out after the fact why her sister would want to try and kill herself.

I suppose I expected something faster. Maybe a bit... lighter, perhaps even childish, since Hope is 12 years old. But it deals with some heavy stuff.

First of all, her father died -- her mother became a prostitute -- and she's mostly being raised by a neighbor. Her sister, her only true family, has now been locked in a mental hospital. She's clinging to her friend's innocence, her friend Mari, who's mostly concerned with boys and crushes on a celebrity, and trying to forget all but boys and crushes, as well, though it isn't really working.

And, while on the surface it does seem like that -- like a little girl, dealing with everything by going off with her friend -- it really seems more about the denial. She knows her sister kept a diary, that would explain why she tried to kill herself, why her mother's so desperate to find it. But it's only in the last 84 pages that she goes and actually reads it. Most of the almost-500 pages is memories, trips to the psychiatrist who's on Lizzie's case, and trips with Mari.

So, yea, it does seem kind of literary-ish. I saw the ending, how it'll fall out, from a mile away -- or, well, two hundred pages into the book -- after I got the whole prostitute-and-dead-father-and-practically-neglected thing. But I still don't... Well... I can't really say I regretted reading this book, even though it wasn't at all how I expected it to be. I've had a slight inclination to write off most MGs as childish, buying into the whole "mainstream fiction" thing, much as I've tried hard not to.

This opened my eyes to the fact that, yes, "literary" exists in every age group, and yes, while it isn't my favorite genre, I do recognize that it isn't all so... light-hearted and action-y.

And I have put more "-ish"s at the end of words in this post than I have since perhaps middle school. Or perhaps even before. But I don't have a definitive opinion on it. I give it a 3, sort of an okay, not because it is like everything else I usually read, but because I am sort of reserving my opinion. Which is to say, I don't know how I feel about it.

I would recommend it to anyone who actually likes literary, and knows this is literary.

Happy Dia de Los Muertos, and Happy Nanoing!

Hi! It's Friday, it's the First of November, and you know what that means. It's Nanowrimo. It's the Day of the Dead. And it happens to the start of what hopefully is a great month.

First off, Nanowrimo -- writing a novel in a month. Yes, I'm participating. (Q: What should I be doing write right now? A: Not writing blog posts!) My idea is weird, and involves rebellions, other worlds, and Mozart. It's titled "The Wolfgang" for right now. I might be referring to it obsessively over the next month, and shall usually abbreviate it to WG.

Now, yea, I haven't finished my other draft. I'm decently sure I can keep up 3k words a day -- 2,000 words for WG, and 1,000 for WR. ("Wretched Roads". Mages, healers, and curses, if you care to know.)

As for Dia de los Muertos... It's a Mexican holiday celebrated on November 1st and 2nd, honoring dead loved ones. I've written about it before, a couple weeks ago. So instead of a long rant on something that has little relevance, here's a list of Spanish words:

• Calaveras -- skulls. Also, there are calaveras de azucar (accent on the u), which are sugar skulls. 
• Calacas -- skeletons.  From what I know, these are very popular, like Halloween skeletons are popular: toy skeletons on the altars or for the children, cloth/plastic ones on poles that they parade through the street, etc.
• Altar -- well, an altar. Not too hard to figure out. The table on which they set offerings of food, flowers, and photographs to the dead loved one.
• Cempachusil (accent on u) -- marigolds. They put these "flor de los muertos" (flowers of the dead) on the graves or altars of loved ones. 
• El pan de los muertos -- bread of the dead. Literally, bread they leave on the altar for their loved ones.

 

November is a grand, brown-ish, most-definitely-autumn month. It generally means cold, lack of sleep, picking up the academic pace, and writing a novel for me. But it's also full of colorful leaves, and days off from school for Thanksgiving, and snuggling under five or six different blankets without feeling stifling-hot.

So, here's to dead people, writing too much too fast, and a brown month full of leaves and cold. Who says a little cold is bad for you, after all? It clears your lungs from all those words that scratch at your ribcage, ready to crawl out.

Have a blessed Friday and weekend!

Guess What? I'm Not Dead.

Sorry I haven't posted for, like, a week. Yay, look at this. I'm not dead.

Normally, I wouldn't post such an obvious sentence, but I stayed after school today for an early celebration of El Dia de Los Muertos. (I'm in the National Spanish Honor Society, by the way. I didn't just randomly decide to celebrate the dead with a group of friends.) Some quick facts:

• This is celebrated on November 1st and 2nd. (We had ours early because the end of our 9 weeks is then, and everybody but the teachers are just relaxing. The 9 weeks is about half the semester, if you don't know.)
• Yes, it literally stands for "The Day of the Dead." It's celebrated in Mexico.
• What do they do? They put on skeleton masks, they buy these orange-y marigold-type flowers, they eat candy skulls (calaveras) and coffins. They leave food and flowers for their dead loved ones and celebrate their good memories of the person.
• It's basically that. It's a celebration of the lives of the people who've passed on, and a sort of laugh in the face of death sort of thing.

Yea, so we painted glass jars and listened to music and ate popcorn and Pringles. It was pretty fun. Mine sucked, which is why I'm not taking pictures of it.

So, yea. You now know I do stuff in my spare time, extracurricular stuff so my college application won't read, "And... I do nothing but compose the occasional blog post and read books." That would look sort of pathetic, doing nothing but reading. Ahem. (Not like I did exactly that since pretty much sophomore year.)

Anyways, I've been thinking of future-y stuff ever since Saturday, when I attended an Open House at a local college. Now my guts are twisting as I think of traveling abroad before I go to college, or at least traveling up and down the East Coast, and think of what college to attend assuming they all accept me, and think of what sort of career I'll have besides writing. Big picture stuff I generally avoid, because it makes me anxious.

And will I travel to Mexico one day, and celebrate the Day of the Dead? Maybe one day. Maybe the day I stop getting over my fear of leaving my little county.

Have a blessed Wednesday.

Declaration of Personality

I didn't mention it Monday, in midst of my book review, but I am still quite happy from last weekend.

Why? Our library was having a book sale. You know, where they attempt to get rid of some of those discards, the obscure books, the ones no one wants to read. Imagine a room filled with books, books you've never read: hardcovers, paperbacks, nonfiction, fiction, YA, adult, cookbooks and magazines and classics, all laid out like desserts, on those rickety tables used by schools, libraries, and community events.

(Oh, yea. And did I mention the free Bibles outside the door, in a crate? My mother already owns like, 70 Bibles. And now she owns five more.)

My mother and I went there with $21. We bought around 60 books. THAT IS ABSOLUTELY AWESOME. One normal YA book costs between $7-10. The library was selling 10 YA discards for $1. The adult discards were 5 for $1. It took three boxes to carry them all home.

So, here's a list of some of the books we bought:

• The Qur'an -- the holy book of Islam. Not one of the discards -- my mother dug it out of one of the piles and bought it, because she's studying for a Master's degree in Religion. She needs it to connect between Islam and Christianity.*
• Midnight for Charlie Bone by Jenny Nimmo -- a book about a boy who is "endowed" with the ability to see photographs moving. It used to be one of my favorite series as a kid, but my copy had a few pages missing, so I bought this one.
• Culture and Value: A Study of the Humanities -- a culture-history textbook, complete with highlighted passages. For those who don't read this blog often, I LOVE history, especially the sort of cultural things they don't teach you in high school level classes.
• Arabian Nights/Aesop's Fables -- this was a 2-in-1 book of both. You probably can't tell, since I don't believe in using exclamation points! and ALL CAPS!! to show emotion, but I am really geeked out about this.
• Savvy by Ingrid Law -- a book about a girl who can hear your thoughts through any ink on your skin. I remember reading it a couple years ago. Pretty cool.
• *Insert 30 more books, most of them fantasy and/or about other cultures*

As I said, pretty amazing weekend. That Saturday book sale goes under my list of "Best Days Ever." Why am I telling you this? What is the point of this post -- is it to give me a sense of power, as I condescendingly smile at your meager attempts to save a lot of money for fewer books? Is it to give some subliminal message about how older books are better than new books? Am I rubbing my hands together while plotting to build my own library, where all of those conservatives who only read white men will be forced to read more diversely with my diverse selection of diversity?**

No. Well, maybe the last one. But that can wait a few decades, when I'm rich and famous and those conservatives are kissing my proverbial boots. (Ha. Ha. I can dream, can't I?) No, this post is simply because I think my blog is suffering from impersonal-itis.

Impersonal-itis: (n.) When a blog, facebook, twitter, or other personal platform becomes cluttered with posts that are not diary-style confession time on opinions of various topics. Or, you know, at least not as personal as the author would like.
Ex.: My blog's last two posts are book reviews. Which are semi-personal, but in a way, they're my way of skirting around the bushes. They're recommending you books, based on my subjective-yet-hopefully-qualified-as-valid assertions about technical aspects like characterization and plot.

So, I want to begin posting more events from my real life, chronicling the (not-so) exciting life of a suburbs girl in the Southeast United States. And perhaps write a few more short spiffs, which I haven't done in awhile.

It's seems odd, posting this on a Wednesday, this Declaration of Personality, to declare and so promise to uphold my duty as a blogger to blog about the life that literally means everything to me. (More on nature vs. nurture some other time.) I feel like this should be posted on a first day of a month, or the last day, or on some holiday or other some other such day that has some importance to it. A plain old Wednesday, middle-of-the-week day, doesn't seem to have any power behind it, but I think I want to stop giving so much importance to the day and more on actually holding to my promise.

So, here's a start: a good Saturday and three boxes of books.

Have a blessed day.


 *I had to edit one of my mother's papers once, because she's so exhausted from six kids and taking online courses that she can barely maintain grammar. And my mother is an over-achiever, so she had me fine-comb it for any tiny errors. We are officially never going over differences between Christianity and Islam on this blog. I've never read the Qur'an, or even really comprehensively read the Bible, so I am not going to write a post that looks quite like my mother's paper pointing out weaknesses in Islam and strengths in Christianity.

**These two links lead to vastly different places: the first leads to Gilmore's words, and the second to a challenge to his words. I think the average, mild reader will prefer the latter. 

Monday Music

Since I'm in the middle of reading my book, instead of having a book review ready for you -- I know, I'm awful at organization -- I decided to recommend a song that fits with the book I'm reading.

(And while I'm at it, hope you had a lovely September! It's the last day of a month, which is significant to me for some reason. Looking forward to October, though.)

I should have a review for you by Wednesday, which is why I'm not telling the title of the book. Suffice to say, it's a fairytale retelling. Not your typical Cinderella retelling, though. A fairytale I know because I'm a reader who loves these sorts of tales, but that I would assume the majority of America doesn't know, because America is obsessed with its own tales.

And so: Across the Burren, a piano piece by Michele McLaughlin. A very pretty piece.

So, Life.

Some of the things that have happened in my life this week --

• I finished reading The Queen of Water by Laura Resau and Maria Virginia Farinango. I don't want to put a review of it up, though. It's a sort-of memoir, about the indigenous Ecuadorian (and part-author of this tale) Virginia Farinango's childhood as an indentured servant to mestizos, the white people. A very, very interesting read, which is mainly fact with some imaginings and details on Resau's part. I don't want to review it because I feel uncomfortable reviewing something near nonfiction, because... well, it's real. fiction is easier to judge, if you will.
• My little sister Nicole, who has down syndrome, walked into some practically-stranger's backyard and started jumping on their trampoline. They weren't home, thankfully, but I've never met these people. I'm pretty sure they're like, the son of one of my neighbors. And it took almost fifteen nerve-wracking minutes to both find and convince Nicole to come back to our house.
• I found a baby snake in my house, brown scales, 8-9 inches long. Not something I see every day. Actually, I've only seen snakes in parks and the biology-lab-place in the Science Museum. And this one was in my house -- wriggling about on our floor -- and... and... *shudders* Snake.  
• Okay, I wasn't that freaked out about it. I found a sort of curiosity in my heart that let me peer at the snake and want to observe how it startled when I stomped my feet. Mom just wanted to trap it in something and put it outside, and then to check for any family members it might be hiding.

So, that's my Friday. How about you? Know what sort of snakes are indigenous to Virginia? Read the sort-of memoir about a girl named Virginia? Have you had strange encounters with animals?

Have a blessed Friday and weekend! 

Scottish Fairytales

I've spent the weekend bemoaning the loss of the internet and watching the first season of Once Upon a Time. (Our wifi was acting up for a few days. Meh.)

I also read a small book of Scottish fairy tales that I found among my mother's "library," so called because my mother as collected a LOT of novels over the years. So, here are a few summaries for you:

1. There's the one about the kelpie and the man who tried to capture it.
2. There's the one about the widower with a daughter and a son, and he married an evil stepmother to look after them. Then, the stepmother kills the little son, feeds it to the father, and his sister takes his bones and buries them in the garden, where he turns into a white bird, kills the stepmother, and flies off.
3. There's the one about the enchanted man whose only hope for getting out from the fairy queen's thrall is for a maiden who loves him to hold on when the queen turns him into a lion, a bear, (several other things) and a hot lead weight, and then to drop him down a well. 
4. There's the one about the prince who everyone thinks is sick, but really he's dancing in a fairy court every night -- until the stepdaughter of a neighboring king follows him quietly, steals a magic bird, and feeds it to the prince, taking away the spell.

I don't do well remembering things off the top of my head. And it's late for me, a school night, and I have a college essay to type up. (My AP Lit teacher wants a rough draft of the college essay we don't have to send to colleges until at least December. Yea, it sucks.)

Anyways, have a blessed Monday (if there is such a thing!)   

9/11 and Terrorism

It's the 11th of September... and in America, that means remembering tragedy.

I cannot remember the day this actually happened. It was 2001; I was five years old, a kindergartener whose only thoughts belonged to curiosity and books. But as I grew up, I heard the story, over and over, every year: the planes, the crash, the death and terror and mourning. Especially of the heroes, the firemen and police officers, and the civilians all doing the right thing when it was far from easy.

Sometimes, I am glad I am young enough that I do not remember that. That on such a terrible day, ignorance was bliss. I lost no one but fellow countrymen. Which, now that I'm old enough, I realize is bad enough. Can you imagine it? Just for a second? Being buried under rubble, your breath catching, smoke trying to cough its way out of your lungs? I am lucky not to have any relatives who died in the 9/11 attacks, but I am sorry and horrified by the deaths of strangers.

And that might sound strange, to be sorry for the deaths of strangers, when I can't even remember the attack. This is a desensitized culture, after all -- we aren't sorry when we hear of the Bubonic Plague, when 2/3 of Europe's population was wiped out. But we are also a culture that becomes outraged over the death of one boy; in the age of digital information and digital personal relations, we freak out over smaller disasters. And, of course, I am not immune to culture. It probably doesn't help that I have an over-reactive imagination and a writer's tendency to dwell on internal conflict.

So, yes -- on this day, of all days, I can feel both sad at the deaths of strangers over ten years ago, and very lucky that I do not remember it. It's a strange feeling, to be sure -- it's not distant, like hearing of the earthquake in Japan, but it's not as immediate as a death of a family member.

And what compounds such a feeling is the fact that another human being is behind this. I will not add my opinion about Osama Bin Laden and whether he's dead and whether that happened in the ethical way. I do wonder, though, how a human being -- a person who breathes, or breathed -- a person who knows or knew that we are also humans, that we are also sentient creatures, could knowingly cause such harm. It's hard to wrap my mind around. He's like a storybook villain, the way he's portrayed to Us Youngsters. But what is the psychology behind such a thing? What went on in that head while planes crashed and people died? It's morbidly fascinating question, one where you know the behavior is wrong but you still have to wonder why the person is doing it, what past experiences made this sort of behavior a viable option.

Which, while I'm sure the information is out there somewhere -- published in some book or science journal -- I'm not perfectly sure I want to know. It's enough just to feel, for one profound Moment of Silence after the Pledge of Allegiance is spoken, the full ramifications of actual human suffering. My cynical side tells me that there is no justification, and anyways, I am generally not one for searching out information. But my nicer side just wants to spend a moment remembering heroes, and a moment of humility remembering how easy I could be remembering more than a stranger's death on this day.

But now, I do not want to be profound and deep-dark-thoughtful. I want to live a life free and deep. The life I can live, because terrorism failed to terrify us for long. Because it just saddens us once a year, and because it can seem like a faraway event, a world away.

So, instead of continuing to pontificate upon personal feelings, I found a couple of my favorite songs. Old favorite songs, that I knew in childhood and occasionally still listen to, especially on the day they're written about.

 

Japan

It's late, and Friday. End of the first week of school and all. Reading a good book nd happily not attending the first football game at my high school.

(On a slightly irrelevant note, anybody care to tell me what people see in football? It's all anyone can ever talk about, teachers and students alike. Why can't we all get so hyped up about Divergent or Harry Potter? You know, have shout outs about it over the intercom during morning announcements and stuff.)

But that's not what I mean to post. Today, I simply mean to post a few notes I wrote about Ancient Japan while watching a documentary.

• Any deviation on a mirror will make the light bounce off it in a different angle; "magic mirror" is a world standard, created by (16th c. Japan). You have the white sunlight that reflects off it, and if it is completely white, it is free of deviations. In 16th c., a copper plate was made and fashioned to the backside of it, seemingly decorative, but was used to manipulate the deviation on the mirror's surface to reflect an image of, say Christ when you use the white-light trick. During the persecution*, a false back concealed a picture of Christ, to let secret Christians know they were Christian, too -- the mirror surface is scraped and polished, creating the deviations, and then coated with nickel to make it look like an ordinary mirror. But it will reflect the backside.
• Clocks --  They were searching for the underlying rule of nature. When an outsider (Westerner) brought a clock to Japan as a gift in the 17th c., they took it apart to see how it worked. Based on the clock, they began all sorts of "magical" clockwork, including clockwork robots. (A tea-carrying robot for the tea ceremony.)
• It takes real skill to unravel silk worm material. It's pulled and twisted into thread, with spit making it smooth. But the traditional silk is getting more precious today.
• Architecture --Built around a central support tree, with lots of horizontal beams. Pagodas -- earthquake resistance, the central tree is not connected to the walls; the walls sway, but do not fall, because the tree absorbs the movements. 
• Samurai sword is tested for balance and flexibility. Each sword maker has their own formula. Carbon is on outside of the steel during the forging stage, until folding and heat force it inside the blade, giving it its flexibility. 
• "Floor that sings like a nightingale" -- to prevent sneak attacks on the shogun, the floor amplified sound and made it "sing." (This is a building where the shogun, or leader, lived or worked?)

This is literally copy and pasted from my notes in workflowy. (Workflowy is a website where you can organize your thoughts into lists. I highly recommend it for writers, or anyone, really.) For reference, this is from a documentary called What the Ancients Knew: Japan. You can watch it on the history channel occasionally.

How about you? What do you know about The Ancients?

Have a blessed Friday and weekend!

*Yes, there was a time in Japanese history where Christians were persecuted. In fact, all Western stuff was persecuted -- this was centuries ago, during the "spheres of influence" thing in China, and they held onto their Buddhist culture tightly. And effectively, since they are islands who can restrict Western access to their ports.    

Photography

Second day of school. I'm left with a rather strange feeling: a content, almost blissful peace, not what you'd expect after eight hours of slouching in uncomfortable chairs until your neck hurts and your brain wishes to wash away the excess of words and instructions that you've semi-listened to all day.

Does that sentence make you think this is about a boy? Some nice guy who makes the slouching, invisible girl feel like the world? Well, it isn't. (And thank goodness for that. I'm such a fussy, perfectionist person that no one could live up to my standards. Sometimes I don't live up to them.)

No, what that sentence is about is photography, designing, literature, and creativity in general. Because, you see, last period on even days is Photo 1, or Photography for Beginners.

Photo 1, I figured out, sounds like the coolest class I could've signed up for. Because, this isn't digital-camera photography, where you can photoshop it; this is a class where I need an actual film camera. My teacher recommended one built in the '80s or '90s, because fun fact: cameras from that time were built of all metal components, making them more durable.

There is a dark room, with those big sinks and shallow containers for the chemicals to help develop the film, and where, when you're working, you keep all the lights off except for a single amber-colored light that barely illuminates. Even a special door, a cylinder with two openings -- one to go in, one to go out -- with an inner cylinder that allows you to switch between the two rooms without letting in any of the harmful flourescent light. (Flourescent light can ruin the film.)

Perhaps you might already know this "dark room." But I am a sheltered teenager, and this is an entirely new concept. The only thing I really know is the typical crowded classroom, my home and church and library; we rarely went on trips, back in elementary and middle schools, and I don't go out on my own. This dark room is an unexpected and curious break from my life.

Now, it's only the second day, of course. The teacher is going to have us begin at the beginning of photography -- making cameras out of oatmeal containers and tape -- and working up to the actual film camera, which we don't need to obtain until October. (This, by the way, is an AWESOME teaching technique, one that sadly is almost never used. To build the camera, to see how it works, BEFORE picking it up and applying it. If only they did that for say, math. Or government. To see where and how and why it works, and the history behind it? Providing context makes the concept pop.)

Educational rant aside, this class already seems epic. We even have field trips, come November. I haven't been on a field trip since... what, eighth grade? 2009-2010? Years of school where there are no break except for the occasional pep rally. *shudders* When I'm an adult, I should try and fix that. If I can. If I'm not some homeless, saddened, sick shell of a person.

I do apologize. I keep getting off topic. What I mean to say is, creativity comes in many forms, and I've discovered one today: photography. It's a lot more complicated than I thought it would be, but like writing, I find that I don't dread it; I look forward to learning and growing in the study.

Now, if only every other academic and creative study were posed in a way that makes me look forward to the next class.

Have a blessed day!