Afraid Of The Dark

Believe it or not, I slept with my light on last night. I'm not sure how i come across... as a shivering small-voiced lassie who's afraid of the dark, or a brave gal who looks up at the night sky with admiration... or maybe a little bit of both.

Pun, Yan, and I watched 28 days later last night and during the movie i wasn't too wigged out, just a little grossed out at points. I didn't mind the gore since I was surrounded by warmth and blankets... which really helps a lot when there are red-eyed, heavy mouth breathers that vomit blood all over their victims for no apparent reason.

It was later that night that it got to me. The night seemed just a little bit louder than normal, and the shadows just a little bit deeper, and myself a little less eager to walk by them. I noticed when I had to walk into a dark room, I would hold my breath as I searched for the light switch with too much eagerness.

I even left the light on in my room, the brightest one. I tried all the lights until I found the one that brought out the most calm in me. The little red one wasn't bright enough.

I had no bad dreams though, and no bad thoughts haunted my sleepy mind before I slept. I just had to go through the motions to ensure lighting, locked doors, and the removal of any coats that might appear threatening. It's funny because if anything from that movie really did make an appearance, lack of coats and a locked window would be rather useless, wouldn't they? And yet, i felt much better after going through the after-dark-motions and precautions.

It's been a while since I've enjoyed some good old horror.

Dream

Part 1:

I knew now that I was following him.

My bare feet padded across the hot cement, as waves of heat rose up in front of me, distorting the figure I pursued. I let the crowd of people surrounding me, swallow me up. It was the most I could have hoped for, a mass of commuters acting as an invisibility cloak walking briskly in my direction. The school bell still rung in my ears as I paced along, squinting in the unnaturally bright light. The man I crept behind was Mr. Curt Douglas, my old creative writing teacher. As soon as school had ended he headed straight on his way home, only pausing to mumble an almost inaudible complaint about misplacing his car. I was the only one that heard him. His voice made no sound, only his lips moved halfheartedly.

At first I had stepped in line behind him with the intent of heading home myself, but somehow I couldn’t break away, my eyes cautiously fixed on his back. I managed to duck out of sight every time his suspicions led him to twist back and snatch a look behind him.

I stayed well away from Mr. Douglas, giving him as much space as possible while still keeping him in sight. He walked fast, stepping wide. Blocks and blocks stretched out behind us, and a painful glare from the sun threw the shadows far in front of me. I never once took my eyes from the familiar form, and yet I knew everything that was going on. I was buzzingly aware of everything around me, the faces that casually glanced at a wrist watch, the eerie willow trees that lined the broad walkway, blowing in the breeze that didn’t find it’s way to me, the complete lack of sound, the way the light from the sun seemed to pulsate, easing back and forth between an intense, brilliant light that washed out everything, to a more subdued glow that exaggerated every detail of Mr. Douglas’s starched button-up shirt.

Suddenly, three things happened in quick succession. First, no longer was it soundless. The drone of cicadas and the pounding of footsteps almost knocked me off balance as the quiet transformed itself into a deafening disharmony. Second, my eyes flashed to something I hadn’t noticed before. Something under Mr. Douglas’s arm fervently began to glint as if it wished to betray its whereabouts. At every angle it sparkled unceasingly, refracting the throbbing rays of the sun. And third, I realized Mr. Douglas knew I was there. As I had stared, captivated by Mr. Douglas’s poorly concealed object, I didn’t notice that he had turned to look behind him. When I next looked up, his gaze caught my eye.

Part 2:

I froze. The sea of people parted around me, unfazed, continuing on their way. But Mr. Douglas wasn’t upset. He just gave me a sheepish grin, one corner of his mouth tugging up, as though he had been the one that was found out. Mr. Douglas turned around and kept walking. I followed.

We arrived at an out of place flat building, surrounded by high, chain linked fence that enclosed a cement courtyard. It was all by itself, looking very lonely and broken with no one and nothing around it. At this point, the crowd left us, shooting off in every direction, except where we were. We were left alone. Mr. Douglas gave me one last look and slipped between gates that led to the courtyard.

I paused in the shade of a large oak tree, not daring to follow here. This was a prison. Thought there were no other prisoners, except Mr. Douglas it seemed. I saw him pacing behind the fence, taking out his flashy object. I could see it now, and it appeared to be a journal made entirely of mirrors. Mr. Douglas began to write in it, still pacing. I could hear his thoughts inside my head, though I could hardly make sense of them because they were so jumbled.

It sounded as if he had been chosen to live here, a prisoner until he finished his cause. He called himself a dreamer, which is why he had been chosen for this task. He was supposed to be evaluating the current nature of dreams. As things are now, dreams are snippets taken from life, and put back together later in sleep, mixed in with unconscious thoughts and desires, seemingly random aspects of the world. But Mr. Douglas was debating with himself whether he should change this order. His ideas were to make the dream world a trial period, completely lucid, with every person able to control the story playing in their heads. It would be a dream replica of the real world, only as you slept. In this way people could try out actions in the dream world so that they could see what would happen. Then, depending on what they found, they could make better choices in life. But Mr. Douglas was conflicted. He was worried that people would over use this ability, and that life might lose its finality and importance. He could barely function in life and at work because these questions plagued him at all hours of the day. He just couldn’t decide. Life might be so much better if we could practice it, but maybe life isn’t supposed to be tested.

That Birthday Of Mine

I forgot to blog about my birthday again! It was May 8th.

This keeps happening to me, I guess the actual day just isn’t a big deal anymore. As a little kid it’s the day that brightens your face, filling your mind with hungry thoughts of cake and presents. Now it’s just a day –A day where I gain a year, and hopefully become wiser, smarter, cleverer, or something. I’m 18 this time, an adult and all that. This year I have gained to right to go to big-girl prison, and on the bright side I can sign myself out of school.

And I did too. Yan and I slipped out on Friday after the important classes were finished, with the help of an expert. As we milled around on Shattuck joyous thoughts brought me to my exuberant levels of enjoyment. We were free. We had this strength, this super power that gave us the right to make something of the day. Everyone else younger just hadn’t been able to develop this power, but in time it would come to them too.

The truth of it was, our age wasn’t what gave us the strength to step beyond the gates. It was the illusion of a purpose. I could have done it long before, on a light work day, and give the day some real life. I could have gone to the beach, the movies, the park, on a road trip, or even just home to sleep some more. I just had to strut through the gates, looking as if I had some important reason.

But anyway, for my birthday, the things that light me up are different than they used to be. It used to be presents and cake; now it’s being with friends and doing the spontaneous. The best part of my life is the people in it. So that’s why I’m happy about being 18. It’s years I got to spend with my friends and family (the people I love), doing things that spark my passions. 18 lovely years :)

Bring It On

There’s no use being so jittery about these AP tests, right?

Even so, put me and a test in a room together and one of us in bound to get wigged out. Me and tests… well, we just don’t mix well… you know, like strawberry seed in a smoothie. No mater how much you blend, chop, slice, and puree, there just doesn’t seem to be any smoothness. Still lots of lumpishness.

Give me a normal test for a class, and hey, it’s fine. But it’s those big mother-of-a-test tests that get me. Sure I know they don’t matter. In the long run, I’m not going to wake up 10 years from now, look in my bathroom mirror and curse the name of the girl who did badly on her AP Lit test. It doesn’t matter. What’s a few hours of my Thursday anyway? And I get to not go to school. That’s on the up side, for sure.

And yet… It seems like there is still this pressure. It’s not like I can just go into the testing room dressed in fuzzy PJs, singing, “la-di-da,” with hot coco, laughing with friends, pushing desks away to set up a little testing nest on the floor, and going in and out of the room during the test for some fresh air…

It’s all formal, sharp, and scary. In English Mr. Silva talks about the AP graders as if they were a single unit of evil alien beings who’s soul purpose is to destroy our lives using the red-alien-pen-of-doom!

It’s hard to take anything lightly when our whole class is based on preparing for this moment, May 10th. (Fun fact… Same date as Mr. Silva’s Birthday… He’ll be 28)

Yes, I know I stress myself out too much sometimes. That’s why I get migraines, I think. It’s the way body tells me I need to chill out. So, hopefully I can get the message before I “get the message,” avoiding splitting headaches and a strange comfort in dark, soundless places.

Right. It doesn’t matter. Last AP test, Last AP class… ever. Think of the test as a ticket. A ticket for the end of stress. As soon as the test is done, there is nothing else. We get to watch the 1984 movie in English. And the best part is… we get to stop writing those ridiculous synopsis notes!

Hey, I feel better now. Maybe this won’t be so bad after all.

Youngen (Actual Post)

When I was a little girl, I had an obsession with righteousness. I used to play in the bathtub, surrounded by bubbles and little rubber cat toys that my neighbors passed down to me after their kids grew up. I always used to be the tabby with the apron, pretending that she was wise and motherly. I’d always hand the one in overalls to my mother after she finished washing my hair.

I’d say, “Play with me mom.” I’d always make her be the evil one. The cat that would try to steal the freshly cooked dinner, or mumble profanities at my cat, moodily. My cat would always triumph over the other cat’s bad energy in the end. I would come up with some 4 year-old comeback that seemed witty at the time.

I would always play Beauty and the Beast with my father in the back client room. Guess who was who. I used to have this book that I would pretend to read. I was too young to actually read so I would just stare at the pages, flitting my eyes over them as if I could actually understand the lettering. I loved that book because it looked the one in the movie. My dad and I would reenact the scene where Gaston takes the book after Belle’s big musical number… and throws it in the mud. Belle then storms off and in Disney movie translation, essential tells him to go screw his arrogant self.

I remember once my mom objected to this bath time ritual. “Why do I always have to be the bad one? I’m tired of being the bad one.” But she was always the bad one. For one reason I didn’t like being the bad one myself, and for another, I didn’t think I knew how to pretend to be evil. It’s funny how my young mind worked.

Traveling To Ponder

Do you know what I really want to do? I want to take a train, or a boat, or something that brings me along on an idyllic, romantic, journey. Something that might even take days to get where I want to go. Not a plane though. They are too controlled and monitored. It should be some kind of transportation that hits on all you senses. You know, like on a boat, all I can smell is the sea salt, feeling the wind plastering hair against my face. And a train clicks and clangs along the tracks, all the landscapes rushing along faster than I can take them in. But I want to bring noting with me. No books to read. No schoolwork to finish. I just want to sit there, maybe walking along the length of the boat/train, and follow all thoughts that come to mind. Every day I can feel them, but most of the time I am too busy to let them play inside me, so I send them away. I want my entire trip to be just thinking, pondering, musing, joking, questioning, testing, remembering, imagining, noticing…
This trip would be an excuse to let nothing else get in the way, and just be ruled by my mental distractions, following every random thought and letting it posses me. A trip that is less about getting from one place to another, but purely for me to daydream.

Almost Like Ourselves

Even though I was the only one on the bus, you were there with me that day, as it bumped along compliantly, the windows streaked with green.

This way, miles away, can seem closer than our late nights in Old Orchard Beach. Pushing off ruffled covers, we were separate.

I could hear the ice clicking in your drink as your fingers taped out a story I could never understand. I sat on the windowsill looking out, blowing smoke into the fog.

Nothing reminds me of you more than that image in the dark.
The cold dock quietly beckoning for some company. Both of us the same.

The last night we saw each other, you found me pressed against the glass. You said to me, “I’ll race you there.”

These moments lend me flashes of you as I pick our flowers on nights when I can’t sleep. They leave me feeling filled, remembering a time when we were almost like ourselves.