Theatre Night

For a long time, I went to bed early. I was so eager to fall asleep and see them again. They were my favorite dreams. But not after long, I began to think they were somehow real. Or maybe I believed in them too much.

There’s one who is tall and so pretty. The other is old and wrinkled, but her smile and squinting eyes lift her face into an aged beauty. They look like they could be related with their dark waves and sharp eyes. My dark waves and eyes. They call me Little Sister.

“You’ve made it!” the older one says. She holds her arms wide over an ornately decorated box that sits just beyond her lap.

The pretty one inclines her head and smiles at me. “Come and look.”

I scoot forward on my knees, at bit embarrassed at my inelegance, wondering what’s in the box. Both women seem nice enough, but even at my innocent age of nine I knew appearances were not always to be trusted. But the gilded box with its carved trimmings just seemed so inviting. I bend over it to the relic’s detail. I’m taken aback when it opens up, wide like the woman’s arms. Two front panels swing to the sides to reveal a little stage. I feel its golden light touch my face. A beautifully painted scene plays backdrop on the caramel wood stage. Two limp puppets lay on wooden furniture. That of which occupies the family room.

I awake and sleep fitfully for years, never reaching any farther than that point of the dream. I start to think of them as my older sister and my grandmother. I’ve never met any sisters or grandmothers before, but I’ve seen them. Shopping, picking kids up from school, at the library. I wonder what that’s like. I soon forget the dreams as I grow up and become busy with other things. One night I went to bed early. A well deserved rest after finally getting caught up. I’m 19 now, and surely I will be busy tomorrow.

I’m there with the old woman. The puppet stage is open in front of me, and the two puppets still lay inside. She asks me, “Who are they?”

I have no idea. I pick them up, one in each hand. Even though I know they are made of wood, it feels unholy to hold them with their limbs spilling between my fingers. Their necks fall back impossibly far, their heads swiveling back and forth.

A little girl is there, too. “Big sister,” she calls. “Come and play.”

Every night I act out a new scene for them. There are new puppets with new names. I know it’s just a dream, but I want to keep the little sister happy. She and the old woman watch me with smiling faces.

Those dreams stop as suddenly as they started. I miss them sometimes, and am reminded of them every day. Little things I hear in coffee shops and stores. People say things the puppets have said in the dreams. Things I have said in the dreams. Little girls and old women with dark hair and eyes. We hold gaze for a little longer than friendly strangers should.

Time flies and flies. I had a career, a husband, children, grandchildren, and now a great-grandchild on the way. One day I awoke with my skin wrinkled and hands frail. I’m 90 now, and I only have one more dream.

I sit in front of an ornate box, arms wide to welcome Little Sister. Big Sister gingerly picks up the puppets and examines them, thinking of a new scene. She puts on a grand show and Little Sister smiles. I am Grandmother. When it is over I say to the girls, “Come, let us shut up the box and the puppets, for our play is played out.”

Classmate's Blogs 2

I read pieces on Beatrice, Keishay, and Rachael's blogs.

I liked Beatrice's Writers As Readers post. I related to a lot of the things she wrote, especially about the sci-fi genre.

My favorite piece of Keishay's that I read was the If I Ruled The World Poem. I can tell that she is a really caring person, the way she wants there to be an end to poverty and homelessness.

I really enjoyed Rachael's newspaper story about the penguins. At first, I thought Richard would get really depressed about being a penguin. But the illegal penguin sledding is something he seems to live for.

Chipot-gay

I never asked for this crap. All I wanted was my stupid burrito. My simple after practice ritual. But it's hard to enjoy when he’s just sitting there with his dumb face and hair and ugh! Why is he always here now? I keep catching myself sneaking peeks at his table. How could he sit so comfortably by himself like that? Not doing a single thing. Doesn’t help that his phone keeps buzzing. Probably a date he stood up; he’s not paying it any attention. His phone is always going off like that; disrupting everyone in the Chipotle. That butt-wipe. At least have the decency to tell her you’re not showing up. Or put your dumb phone on silent. Oh my god, what a loser. I want to get up and tell him off myself, but he starts to pick up his bag to leave.
Yeah you better run. I bet he can just feel all the side eye everyone’s giving him. Good riddance, pretty boy. Frick! No! I mean--!
“Can I sit here?” he asks from across the table. In hindsight, I should have sat in a plush chair. Ugh, smiling like that won’t get you anything, dipstick. What happened to leaving? My brain is so full of all his dumb that I say, “S-Fine. What?”
Then he laughs. Shaddup and go donate your brain. Ugh. He continues, “A…group was coming in, they need the space.”
I nod and bite my burrito. Oh god, I wish I had brought work to do or something. I wish he had work to do or something. There better be a laptop in that bag. Oh god, what if he wants to talk?
“So my name’s Cliff…” Uuuggggghhhh! Why! Why is he trying to talk, no! This is the exact opposite of what I need right now. But I can’t be rude, he’s already sat down.
“Toby. Er—Tobias. Don’t call me Toby,” I manage to say through the burrito. Cliff’s phone is sitting on the table, and it startles me when it goes off. I can’t yell at him now, he’s already acknowledged my existence.
He tilts his head to feign interest, and a piece of his shaggy hair falls in front of his eyes. I want to brush it away, but ball my fist and decide I want to punch him instead. "Why not call you Toby? I think it sounds better than Tobias.” Then his phone goes off again and I want to snatch it from the table.
“You know you can just tell her you’re not showing up,” I say with what I hope is a glare. My cheeks are hot but my burrito is spicy. He should know that by the wrapper.
“What do you mean?” Sure. Play dumb.
“Your date! That’s who must be texting you all the time. It’s real annoying. Turn it off or something.”
“My…? Oh! No, no, that’s not…” He doesn’t finish because he’s laughing. But it sounds forced and nervous.
“What is it then?” Now it’s my turn to tilt my head and be super cute. “Your mommy wants to make sure you’re okay by yourself?” A toothy smile and about 15 text alerts. “You’ve gotta be kidding.” I reach for the phone to see just what’s going on with him.
“Wait a minute!” Cliff grabs his phone and holds it defensively in both hands. “Let me explain!” He fumbles with the phone and it ends up skitting towards me. I quickly snatch it off the table and open the text messages. My God there’s a ton.
“It’s my sisters, they don’t know how to mind their own business,” he sputters.
As I scroll through the seemingly endless messages I laugh and say, “Who? Precipice and Edge?” It’s a group chat filled with all caps and little emojis. I believe him about the sisters. I get to the top and the texts say, Just go over there! Lol, he won’t bite. Say someone else needed the table. Introduce yourself don’t forget to smile! Do the puppy face. Ew get your hair out of your eyes.
“Oh my God, what is this?” I ask, a little embarrassed for him, and a little flattered. I could’ve sworn I heard girlish laughter from somewhere in the restaurant.
“It’s nothing!” he pouts as he tries to take it back. I almost hand it over when it buzzes in my hand. It new text says, Hey cutie, what do you think of bro’s booty? I drop my jaw and close it fast. I delete it and I hear more of the laughter as I toss his phone back. Whipping around behind me, I see two girl giggling behind menus. They peek out behind their disguises and wave their painted fingers at me.
I turn back to face Cliff and he’s as red as I feel. There’s a long silence as we listen to the phone buzz and buzz. Oh my God why. This is out of hand. I want to bail but I want to stay. I want to throttle his neck but I want feel his hand in mine. I want this to stop but I want to know how it would go. Oh God, maybe if I just pray the gay away.
“How… How about I buy you a drink and we bail,” he says to the ground. I answer too fast to come off as cool.
“Yes! I mean—” So much for that. There’s that laughter again. I stand up fast and head toward the door. “You know what, forget the drink. Let’s get out of here.”
He smiles and follows me out. He’s taller than I’d thought. As we walk, I feel the regret of scarfing down that double bean burrito.

*inspired by a burrito photo and a very homophobic opinion article

Famous First and Last Lines

First Line:

"For a long time, I went to bed early."

Marcel Proust was born July 10th, 1871 in Auteuil, France. He wrote In Search of Lost Time in 1913. Proust died in  1922 at aged 51 from pneumonia and a pulmonary abscess. He was born into the French upper class. His father wrote medical and hygiene articles while his mother was well-read and had a command of the English language. Proust started writing for Symbolist magazines with an audience of Parisian aristocracy.  After an unsuccessful novel, he wrote French translation and annotations for the English art historian John Ruskin.

 In Search of Lost Time follows the Narrator's train of thought as he remembers his childhood. It has a heavy emphasis on memory and how it can be manipulated. It is most famous for a piece of madeleine cake that takes him back to a previously unknown memory. In Search of Lost Time is a series of seven books, with the last three published in drafts, being that he died before they were finished.

I think I might like Proust's series. I read that he writes his narrative with a poetic feel with emphasis on the beauty of nature.

Last Line:

"Come, children, let us shut up the box and the puppets, for our play is played out."

William Makepeace Thackeray was born July 18th, 1811 in Calcutta, British India. He wrote Vanity Fair in  1847-48. Thackeray died at age 52 on December 24th, 1863 from a stroke. He wrote as a columnist for several satirical magazines, including Punch. The very people he jabbed in his satires thought of him as the next Charles Dickens. In 1840, Thackeray's wife became depressed after the birth of their third daughter. Her condition was unstable and she finally went into a detached state. Soon after, Thackeray became gluttonous and alcoholic, causing the stroke that killed him.

Vanity Fair is about the struggle to attach oneself in society. The narration doesn't go into the thoughts of the characters, but only watches what they do and pushes the reader to judge them. In the town of Vanity Fair, all of the characters blindly bow to those who have wealth and material. It focuses on human nature and its conflicts.

I'm not really sure if I would like Vanity Fair or not. The narrative doesn't go into the characters' thought processes, but I like the theme of human nature.

    

Memorable Passage

“It often happens that the real tragedies of life occur in such
 an inartistic manner that they hurt us by their crude violence, their

absolute incoherence, their absurd want of meaning, their entire lack

of style. They affect us just as vulgarity affects us. They give us

an impression of sheer brute force, and we revolt against that.
Sometimes, however, a tragedy that possesses artistic elements of

beauty crosses our lives. If these elements of beauty are real, the

whole thing simply appeals to our sense of dramatic effect. Suddenly

we find that we are no longer the actors, but the spectators of the

play. Or rather we are both. We watch ourselves, and the mere wonder

of the spectacle enthralls us.”

When I first read this in Oscar Wilde's The Picture of Dorian Gray, it made so much sense to me. I think that it was the quote that really got me reeled in to Oscar's life. The reason I admire Oscar is for his quotes like this. I really like his views on life and beauty; that anything and everything can have an artistic aspect to it.
I've always thought that life tries to be as poetic as it can, and that it often goes unnoticed. Sadness and disappointment are just other aspects of life that also have the potential to be beautiful, just as much as the happy things. And when they happen in such a way that wouldn't belong in an ideal story, that wouldn't be considered poetic, those are the events that just so ugly to us.
With being both the actors and spectators of the "play," our own lives, at first it sounds like watching your life pass by. But what I think it means is that when things "appeal to our sense of dramatic effect," we go along with it and become conscious of what actions and reaction would create the best scene for the audience, ourselves.

Quotes

Writers as Readers

Environment

I like to be a comfortable as I can while I read. If I’m distracted by itchy socks or whatever it’s hard for me to get full immersed in the story. I clean my room, get everything off my to do list, make a snack, and fluff my pillows for my “nest,” as I call it, before I start to read. I even do this with writing, too.Environment

I like to be a comfortable as I can while I read. If I’m distracted by itchy socks or whatever it’s hard for me to get full immersed in the story. I clean my room, get everything off my to do list, make a snack, and fluff my pillows for my “nest,” as I call it, before I start to read. I even do this with writing, too.

Style

When I write fiction or journals, I try my best to make it sound like something fabulous and special. (Like Oscar Wilde). From the first sentence I read of his, I knew that his style was everything I hoped to ever achieve. I try to be like him, (in the writing sense; Oscar’s a very dramatic and over-enthused person) but maybe not as sappy. What I try to avoid in writing is cliché relationships. For example, Bella and Edward’s relationship in Twilight is exactly that of Emma and Galen’s in Of Poseidon. If it’s been done, I don’t want to do it again unless I know I can bring something new to the table.

First book

The first book I remember reading on my own was Felicity. There was one girl who I saw at recess who I wanted to be friends with so bad and I tried to find what I could do to make sure we had something to talk about. Turns out she loved the American Girl books, and our class had a big collection of them. She told me I could read them in any order, I just needed to pick one American Girl to start with. I pulled out all of the books and studied the covers for a girl I could relate to. And lo and behold there was Felicity. I had never seen anyone else with red hair before, besides my sister. I scooped it up and read and read and read and read…

Reader

I do try to envision a reader while I write. No specific type of person, I just think, “Does this make sense to someone besides me? What emotion do I want to pull from the dark reaches of the reader’s soul?” I think that’s one of the reasons I want to write. Books that are able to make people feel things and give them drive, I think, have such power. When writing for yourself, you can be more vague and mysterious. You can make allusions without having to explain them. If it makes sense to you, it’s good to go. And even if it doesn't, maybe it will later.

About the Author

I hope that I’d be able to write a book one day. Maybe something that is just a tiny thought right now buries itself into my brain and grows into an all-consuming need to write. I dunno. On the About the Author page, I wouldn't want it to be a whole biography like some books, just what’s related to the story. And probably in first person. The bios that are in third person just seem so impersonal and like an advertisement.

Caged Bird Sings

We think birds are free

their beating wings

the vast, blue skies

the things they see

But they are caged by their own

their thrashing heart

the commanding wind

the way old branches groan

Birds are not free
Not anymore than us

Maya Angelou Questions

 Language

I think everyone should try to learn at least one other language, especially here in America. Learning a new language forces you to think and see things in a new way. When you lapse on a word and try to explain yourself in words you do know doesn’t mean your memorization is bad, it means you have the control of the language needed to accurately express yourself.

I am comfortable using Japanese, but still want to become fluent in it. But because so many other countries mandatorily teach English in schools, Americans sometimes feel above others because they think their English is perfect. I hate it when people carry the American stereotypes of arrogance and such. People in other countries get so excited when you at least attempt to speak in their native language. I saw this a lot in Japan, and they wanted to try their English.

Writing

I agree that writing is hardest when you want to make it flow from one sentence to the next to make it “easy reading.” I think the hardest thing about writing is varying sentences while still making them sound like they’re coming from the same person, especially when writing from a different point of view. The easiest, at least for me, is deciding the overall tone and tense of something.

Small Mind

I think when you distract yourself in a positive way, you can leave your mind to figure out bigger problems on its own. I usually straighten up and do laundry. As long as I’m moving around it’s a positive distraction. But what distracts me the most when I need to get something done is pinterest, tumblr, and tv. Sitting down and veg’ing out is just so easy to do. And then when I also have a bowl of Doritos and ice cream, I know nothing is going to get done.

Dreams

Maya Angelou and others suggest that dreams “tell the truth” about us. I think that sometimes dreams can help you dig deeper into your emotions and reasoning. But I don’t think they always tell the truth or reveal our “true selves” all of the time. People are able to lie to themselves and fully believe it, why shouldn’t dreams be able to do that? Even when you’re not sleeping, we have thoughts that surprise us and we think, “that’s not me at all!” I think dreams can get like that too. It’s how we react to those thoughts and dreams that “tell the truth” about us.