Music is too loud

for my screaming head, so I put on some soothing cellos. Which I know still qualifies as music, except it is on a completely different, higher level than the rest of it.

I bought our flowers!
With no help from you, by the way. They aren't too exciting, except for the giant sunflowers that will be arranged in such a manner that will be like a secret garden, as Sara said would be fun. I really am quite excited for this. So is my father, who says it will be good for such a "city girl" as you.

I don't feel like years were stolen from me. I think that the years I spent as a kid without caring about time were probably the most eventful, and the most productive, and probably the overall best years of my life. Later, I will probably think that years were stolen from me. It fascinates me how a year can seem so long when we live it and so important, when really, we all are probably going to live until we are eighty, and a year spent in hiding, or a year where we do nothing, or a year in which we do everything, well, it really won't be that important in the end. And yet, it also fascinates me that one single year, this one-eightieth of my life, can change the rest of it entirely, even though it is such a small fraction.

Time does kind of scare me, just because nobody knows anything about it. Do we understand the concept of time when we grow old?

I don't know.

I have so, so much to do. And I haven't really started at all. I haven't cleaned my room. I haven't run AT ALL. I'm not very far into Crime and Punishment (which I almost called War and Peace, proving to you just how much I don't care about it). We still have to work on Physics. Yet, I don't really care all that much. Well, kind of.

We do have a lot to do. The list is long--do you have the new one, or do I? Actually, I'll probably see you before you write back, or call you at least, so, really, it won't make much of a difference, me asking you.

Good-night.

P.S. Sara, I know you told Abby to post on the blog if she got the job at the IMA, and I see that she has not. She is now an intern. We are all very, very proud of our little worker.

"All alone in the world,

and you came and followed.
But you gave me lots of reasons and you gave me things to swallow."

I like things too, I'm sure.
I like the night
and warm feet
and watching movies
and getting nothing done.
I like the weather getting warmer
and lacrosse
and letters
and books
and time.
Most of all, I like time.
I like knowing (as much as you can know) I have (should, atleast) quite a bit of it left, too. But also, at the same time, it doesn't feel like enough.
I feel like some years were stolen from me. Does everyone feel like that?
Like when you are a kid, you don't know how important that time is. You just don't know. And if it screws up, well, there's no going back. I wonder why that's such a hard concept for me to grasp. Things are better now although. "And getting better all the time."

I'll come back. As soon as possible, I'll come back. I wish I could have stayed for spaghetti. There is so much to get done though, that of course, I haven't started. I will though. I need to get occupied.

It's kind of funny how things fall into place, really. How people know things, how people don't know things. I don't know it just kind of makes me laugh. Life is being pretty good. I'm excited for break. True story.

We have a bunch to do over break, I will pass the list onto you tomorrow, ma'am.

Four words? Hm, well, here goes.
1. Although - I use it a lot and I like how it sounds.
2. Forward
3. Retrospect
4. Kinetic

Those are the four right off the top of my head, atleast.

Time to clean!

A Pretty Sound

I like things.
I think.
I like rain
and warm weather
and happy piano
and sad cello
and bagel bites
and warm water
with bubbles
and flowers
and miniature blue calculators.

This is my version of "Raindrops on Roses" because I think I need it. I believe your absence is depressing me, and I don't like it. Come back, dear.

I think I'll listen to upbeat music.

I think that writing should be a way of being honest. Even if a story is fiction, the author is still giving insight into his or her mind, which is the deepest and most potentially secret-hiding part of humans there is. So, really, even if an author or artist tries to keep something hidden, art and writing are expressions of the person creating it, and things are going to be revealed. No matter what.

We really must finish Close Encounters of the Third Kind. I need to know how it ends. Not that you haven't basically told me everything.

We need a new list. What are your four favorite words...in any language, I guess, but I don't think it will make much sense if you put random German on your list. However, if you would like, it will be acceptable.

And we kind of watched Incredibles...does that count as knocking it off of the list?

Ah, I'm glad Memaw still loves me. Her approval of me has become more important to me than I thought it would.

I'm glad you like my house.
I like it too.
I will be living there when I'm thirty, probably.
And we'll go and fly more kites than you could ever imagine. On the mound, too. And we'll look at my favorite firefly place and have crazy adventures. And cloud hunting, which we STILL HAVE TO DO.
NO exceptions.

We do have time.

"We know we had the good things,

but those never seem to last. Oh, please just last."

I really liked that excerpt from Raise High The Roof Beam, Carpenters, (well, I'm assuming it was from that.) I think I'm going to read that after I am done with The Great Gatsby. Really, underlying themes are so, well, I just don't understand. When I write atleast, it's just a way to be completely honest. To put it all out there. Maybe that's the problem though. The themes the authors are getting across they don't want their names attatched to them. Possibility. I could see that.

I called you and talked for two minutes and called you back later because I'm in a talkative mood and I'm staying home tonight. Okay, just got off the phone with you and I told you about all that so there that goes.

You didn't force me, no worries Auds. I promised you I would call. I call you every night regardless. Well, or you call me. So it's all good, aye?

We've had this blog for four months. Cuh-razey how things turn out. Really. I'm very happy with it all, though.

Memaw still loves you, no worries at all there. Really, I don't understand what happened, but she asks about you still and compliments you and blah, blah, blah. She was mad at me for not making us finish Close Encounters of the Third Kind. Obviously, it's my fault? Aha, it's all okay. We have to finish it this weekend. And watch The Incredibles.

Music is very good, si.

"So what have you got to do today?" the Ticketmaster inquired, optimistic about the rest of the day. Just as she asked, the Ragpicker's phone started ringing it's oriental jingle and the Ragpicker looked down at the caller ID and sighed. "Well, let's get going," she said rather reluctantly. The Ticketmaster didn't understand the hint of sadness, but decided against asking again. "Well, alright, let's be on."

I miss the warm weather already. It was so good. I can't wait for it to be like that all the time. I loved flying a kite. Really, it was really fun. We'll have to make it a point to do it more often. We have to try it off of the mound too! Oh, it'll be glorious, really. Tell your family not to worry, really, and that I love them very much. Did I just want to get home? Funny joke. I love your house. It's a lot more home-y.

You just might expand? What does that mean? I hope you call again tonight, I need help with math. I need to clean my room. I need to practice lacrosse and run. I need to do schoolwork. Oh, golly. Well, I've got seminar first period tomorrow. Ah! I can't write you a note tomorrow because you can't be there. That's so unfortunate, that's my favorite part. Well, this is just messing up everything. Aha, just kidding, you have fun on your skip day, really. Tomorrow is Tuesday! Yeah! That's one day closer to the weekend! We also have finish Close Encounters and watch Indiana Jones! So much to do. It's alright though, we've got time.

Talk to you later!

"I have scars on my hands

from touching certain people. Once, in the park, when Franny was still in the carriage, I put my hand on the downy pate of her head and left it there too long. Another time, at Loew's Seventy-second Street, with Zooey during a spooky movie. He was about six or seven, and he went under the seat to avoid watching a scary scene. I put my hand on his head. Certain heads, certain colors and textures of human hair leave permanent marks on me. Other things, too. Charlotte once ran away from me, outside the studio, and I grabbed her dress to stop her, to keep her near me. A yellow cotton dress I loved because it was too long for her. I still have a lemon-yellow mark on the palm of my right hand. Oh, God, if I'm anything by a clinical name, I'm kind of a paranoiac in reverse. I suspect people of plotting to make me happy."

I'm sorry if you have tried to call; I have no idea where my phone is. I'm hoping to find it soon, though. More like I'm hoping it will spontaneously pop up, but it won't, sadly. I feel quite guily for not having it, as I forced you into agreeing to call me.

Happy four-month Blog Anniversary!

I have to buy a bouncy ball for Ceramics class. And I really, really, really need to earn a fifty on this sketchbook to bring up my grade.

Oh, life, and money, and raising it. It saddens me that for everything has to revolve around money. We can help each other out in various ways. It doesn't have to be money.

Music can make me so sad.

My grandmother made spaghetti tonight, but it was not as good as Stephanie's, which was a shame. She still doesn't remember what grade I am in, nor does the rest of my family, and she seems more obsessed with a certain lame cousin's show choir than with any of the Brinkers girls combined. It's aiight, however.

With the end of the movie, the Ragpicker realized that she did, as previously mentioned, have tasks to complete that day, and with dread in her heart, she mentioned to the Ticketmaster that they must be on their way. Naturally, the Ticketmaster was to come along, for as they had been reunited, they were not likely to ever voluntarily part, but she knew that the following actions would, indeed, hurt the Ticketmaster, and it killed her inside that they must leave the calm sanctuary that was the stuffy dollar theatre.

It was so beautiful today, and I realized just how much I prefer the warm weather and what a difference in my mood it makes. I made my family listen to what I considered to be "Spring Music" all day long. They kind of wanted to kill me. They are worried about you, by the way, and keep asking if I have talked to you. I have to remind them that I CANNOT FIND MY PHONE, at which they shake their heads. My mom kept asking, "Did she want to leave? Was she sick of us? Why didn't she stay until tomorrow? You know I would have driven her to school! Did she just want to get home?"

Kim is here.
I am studying for Physics.
I don't want to make this blog entry long because I want you to respond tonight.
But, if you don't, I just might expand.


La. La. La.