The Best Day?

How can one judge when it's the best day ever? Can I be happy when others are not? Surely, there are days like yesterday where others felt it was a great day, and I was just not feeling it. It wasn't bad, but it wasn't great. Shouldn't the absence of bad things constitute for good? It certainly doesn't work that way, but I don't know if it should. Some days are just bound for apathy.

"Bound." How much depends on the events that take place, and how much really depends on our attitudes? I used to say attitude was everything, but what about those positive people who crumple and cry after the most taxing day or the depressing people who smile and skip on the most beautiful of days? I'm not a terribly positive person as I once was, but I was happy today, when my more recent self would've probably been indifferent.

I made Isaac's birthday present. I listened to music and wrote in the drum major journal during Latin. I addressed the principal about a crappy and outdated pamphlet, and it didn't turn out disastrous. I played a board game with Logan, Gage, Marty, Drew, and Jace in financial lit. I sat in Taylie's yard and talked with her and Tony for an hour. I wore an outfit that matched in every detail and aspect. I am full of anticipation for St. George. I am about to read my psychology textbook and make shirts for my room. I am happy.

It certainly seems I was only blessed with a sunny sky and a pile of grass to pull up or hands stained with paint or a principal who humors me. I don't feel like I woke up this morning with the decision to be happy and then reaped the benefits of doing so.

I just had a good day, and I am grateful.

959.67

What a great show. What a great competition. What a great principal and fan band we have. What a great feeling it was to give that speech. What great drum majors I get to work and be with. What a great night.

I got to say the drum major prayer. I got to call the band to attention. I got to accept the first place trophy. I got to help revive the clarinets' singing. I got to hug him. I got to hug and congratulate a lot of people. I got to be a part of this band.

That was honestly the best part. I don't get to march or spin or play, the scores have nothing to do with me, and I would never be devestated if we got second. But to see these beautiful people's faces light up, to be able to go up and shake their hand and say their name and call them a 959 babe, that's what I live for. I dream of making these kids be happy and helping them out in any way I can.

I keep hoping its not too late for me to make a difference, that there's still time for me to love them and for me to feel their love for band each other (and perhaps me.) St. George is next week though, and I'm scared. I'm scared for it to end. I'm scared to not slave away in the heat and get high cuz I have to paint the field over and over and to jam out in the shed with my DMs and to have those run throughs that just make me feel okay. I've gained so much from band, and I feel like I'm going to lose it all once we drive home in a week.

Though really, I don't think I could ever forget tonight. Mitch's pride and Natalie's questions and Cameron's love and Dave's speech and Camille's candy and Caitlin's generosity and and Sabrina's comments and Logan's humor and Tony's excitement and Bradan's hilarity and Brayden's acceptance and my brother's anticipation and Eli's presence and Abby's shout out and Janelle's return, they are the reason I adore being a human being. These are the people who waltz through my life and leave me the better for it.

This is the best beginning of the end I could've asked for.

Not Everyday Miracles

What a miracle it is to be a drum major of one of the most amazing bands I've probably ever come in contact with. To be given the opportunity to stand in front of them tonight, facing the back corner and craning my neck to look back at Logan, and to be bombarded by this wall of cultivated sound that grew and grew til my heart stopped and raced on simultaneously, not knowing if they truly needed me but relishing the fact that I was there jumping and gasping and shaking and smiling for them, since I am lucky enough to be in this band at all, that is something I will never forget and will obviously take excruciatingly long run on sentences to explain.

What a miracle it is to associate with the great Joseph Baldwin, the newest member of the All-American Army Band. He smiled and bowed with the utmost humility and almost made me forget that I was currently having an asthma attack brought upon, literally, by conducting the band inside. As he gave his speech, reminiscent of an Oscar acceptance, he thanked all the people who made a difference in his musical and personal lives. He called my name, slipped in right at the end of his four years' worth of drum majors. I would have never imagined being in the acceptance speech of someone so noble for such an honorable award. Cameron began to ask less and less frantically what he could do to help me breathe as his eyes began to well up. I was perfectly fine with that; heaven knows I cried enough later. He talked about both the team and the individual and the effects we can have on the people around us, and I decided we need to have him come to our last drum major sectional to talk to the bright future of the band again. He got a well-deserved standing ovation, and i couldn't help but smile. What a good kid.

What a miracle it is to dance in the snow you had hated so much this morning. To dance around in a tshirt and short shorts and barely feel the cold was impressive in itself, but the real beauty came in the palaces of ice, falling under a golden light, as if to make sure us humans have something to be happy about.

What a miracle it is to come home, paint a shirt for my Phineas costume, watch The Colbert Report, and find out that one of your best friends of the past has finally published it.

I love being a human.

(I hate how late I've allowed myself to stay up.)

An Ode to Zach

Or Zack.
I'm not really sure.

I'm sorry I thought poorly of you.
For some reason, I thought you rather disliked, ever since English last year.
I'm pretty sure I misjudged you.

I thought I wasn't the only one skipping class.
(It was just seminary, and I couldn't take it.)
Turns out you don't have a class to skip.
We watched the video in silence, all alone in the big empty hall.
You were displeased, and I had to agree.
We had a moment there, talking without reservation,
I voicing my frustration and you your resignation.
It seemed like you were getting choked up as you got caught up.
Maybe I imagined it.

A smile, one of the first.

This morning, I found a pair of strange cards in the bathroom.
This afternoon, as I skipped yet again, you held the card in your hand.
The blue envelope brought us together again.
We laughed at the absurdity of the invitation and the situation.
We stumbled over awkwardly mangled statements and then parted ways.
That is, after you quietly watched me spin for a minute.

You are a stranger to me.
And yet, our relations have doubled in in number and positivity.
The past two days have been wonderful examples that two people can connect.
I didn't know you, and yet, we still could talk.
Even if only fairly negaive.
And a tad bit accusatory.

But it's fine.
Like seriously.
I just wanted to say thanks for smiling and talking to me like I matter.

Thanks.

Nice People

It's a miracle, the little things people say that can touch your heart or make you feel strong and happy like none other. These simple thoughts they receive through paying attention to minute details or being considerate and then voice aloud, they are just a wonder, a proof that you don't need to plan or rehearse or fret over what you're going to say to impress someone or lift their spirit. Rather, through Occam's razor, we find that the words that come easiest are often the kindest and most powerful of truths.

I have been impacted by so many of these simple statements, especially tonight (hence the post.) Namely, three individuals turned my night around, further cementing a place in my heart for them. I'd like to honor them here, in case I never get the courage to thank/rethank them.

Logan led off the night, forcing convincing me to do something I was scared to. As I did it, he continually helped and encouraged me, being my humble assistant. When I finished, still terrified but feeling a lot more confident, he told me I did a fantastic job. He made me do what I needed to do and told me what I have been needing to hear in order to make me feel a little closer to my healthy self-image.

The next two were much shorter and simpler, but equally as edifying. After the friend song, Alex hugged me and said that he had seen me earlier and just thought I was gorgeous. It was so honest and kind and sweet, and I nearly about started crying. Then Natalie thanked me for running. I wasn't sure what she was talking about til she reminded me that I had run while setting up yard markers for practice. She said she knew I didn't run so as not to die from asthma, but was amazed and grateful for the fact that I ran for the band. Simple act, simple statement.

Could we do that? Could us normal people be more open and honest, sharing and finding as much meaning in the modern day world where I do the same routine over and over? Or more importantly, in someone else's life, schedule, everything.

I Despise Homework

I chatted with four of my dearest Austinites on Facebook tonight, and they each were so different in their characterization, their archetypes of a friend. The subject matter, voice, the use of punctuation; it was all so indicative of their personalities and my own.

Preethi: the convo started out with a set of apologies, of course: I for writing a bitter letter last night, her for accidentally typing "LOL" in response due to her multiple conversations. We discussed our future presidential campaign and discovered the identity of Helen Hunt. After I became the morose Romantic and she the absentminded neutrally supportive friend, she had to leave in order to keep up her reputation of never going to bed after midnight on a school night. We said we loved each other in a dorky way.

Maddie: she immediately came out and said she had to tell me and only something or she would burst. After she revealed her secret to me, I awwwwwed and smiled and promised not to share it or to judge, which I have, of course, kept up. We marveled at our similarities in situations though we were clearly not as identical as we believed and said I love you a million times. She tried to juggle comforting me and my life while expounding on the trouble with her life. She too, had to sleep, and she, naturally, said "I love you" before I got picked up.

Gina: what a glorious ginger. I had actually debated against talking to her, what with I being far too awkward and shy right as she said hello first. We discovered that we both weren't doing homework like we were supposed to, no surprise there with us two. We went through the small talk and both apologized for being atrocious conversationalists. We then expounded on our lives and decided that it seemed like neither had really changed in the way we were, fundamentally. She disappeared without a trace. I wouldn't be surprised if the service was wonky at her house; that always seemed to be our case during our late night talks.

Kristian: I just love him to death. We talked about men. We talked about memories. We talked about the origins of our friendship and he guessed what faces I was making during our convo guessing correctly, down to the details. He was mostly right, and I was mostly impressed by his accuracy and love for me. All he had to say to properly end the convo was to quote the lyrics of "I Wanna Hold Your Hand."

I'm so lucky to have such a varied set of friends. Thank you for respecting me and my friendships. I am just so grateful for this wonderful menagerie of people I love. Good night.

Fear #2: Aging

[Note: this was actually published October 13th. Stupid Blogger.]

I'm sitting here at one in the morning, eating a cup of noodles and drinking a cup of blueberry tea, thinking of loves won and lost and never to be gained and taken by others and attracted to their own sex, wishing that I were Mitchell and that I could find my lovely Cam because maybe things would be easier that way, and I'm realizing I'm terrified by the fact that I won't be able to do exactly this soon. I'll have a job. I'll be in college. I'll be more mature and won't take as much pleasure in tumblr and tv and staying for the sake of staying up. I'll be a grown up.

I don't feel ready to be an adult. I haven't read enough books, kissed enough boys, tried to rock climb or ride a book enough. My mandolin will sit in the corner and continue to gather dust as my poster lay unpinned, giving way to family photos and color-coded wall calenders.

I see Sam with her purple hair and her legs on Spencer, his own outrageous hair bouncing as they discuss 20th century poets next to Will and Arianna playing MarioKart and slumped so far down on the couch, it's a miracle they can see. I see us gathered together for what seemed like the sole purpose of watching cats. I see a carful of girls screaming as the freeway becomes dominated by traffic cones before they resume their neverending heartbroken rants, each girl bemoaning their own boy, some eyes filling with anger and some with exasperation and some with sadly undying hope. Surely, adults don't do that. They don't have the beautiful side effects of youth, that reckless abandon and sexual attraction and love for internet fandoms. They're not me.

I'm not ready to lose what seems like my entirety. In the same way that Amy and Rory's hints of leaving could never have prepared me for their deaths, financial lit has not prepared me for a life where I have to make my own money in order to survive. How will I be able to wear the clothes I want or eat the food I like or live between some walls at all? How will I be able to read or write or go to school or fall in love if the majority of my life is spent trying to sustain my life?

I'll be expected to be in a stable relationship, preferrably a marriage. Boys don't like me. I know they don't. I'm too sarcastic, too crazy, too pretentious and emotional and needy and nerdy. I'm quiet and shy and anxious. I'm not skinny and I'm not sweet and I'm not pretty enough to make up for any of that. If I can't get any silly teenaged boys to like me, how in hell am I supposed to find an eternal companion? (not with language like that, I can tell you) It seems the older I get, the less appealing I become. I swear, Micaiah was an anomaly. I was lucky enough to garner the attention of an older man who liked band and the idea of raising children and making out. Who am I to think that one single relationship that shouldn't have happened in any real universe qualifies me to be romantically happy at all?

I don't want to feel like this, scared and lonely and low. That's no way to finish out high school. But with all of my friends here going on missions straightaway and all of my friends in Texas sending off their college applications, I feel that I am going nowhere. I have no plan, and that brings me down. I have no present, and that brings me down. I can't write a sonnet or play "The A Team" or anything from Southern Air, and that brings me down. Things are supposed to get better as you get older. High school is supposed to be better than middle school. Senior year is supposed to be great. College is supposed to be better. My path seems to turn out as a negative graph, and through extrapolation, I can just see myself hating life as the future goes on.

I guess I'm not afraid of adulthood. It seems I'm actually afraid of myself.

Senior Night

Last night was the last home football game. Here, that meant the end of the terrifying reign of kind of evil pep band. But at Westwood, that would've meant Senior Night. They'd take a picture of all the seniors wearing their letter jackets up in the stands and then we'd all go home and the seniors would stand in a long line and the whole band would go down and hug every single senior.

Freshman year wasn't overly extraordinary. I hugged the baritones Melissa and Daniel. I was afraid to hug my drum corps section leader Pipkins until he irritably told me I was his favorite freshman so I better damn hug him. I hugged Aubrey and she said she remembered me from the day she had brought 3-D chalk. I hugged my first drum majors, Suraj and Elsie and Nick, who all smiled and knew my name and thanked me for being a good little euphonium. I hugged Peren who picked me up and swung me around, making me feel like I was important and loved and an integral part of his life even though I was just friends with a member of his section. It was my first truly emotional band experience.

Sophomore year, I was a wreck. A good wreck, but a wreck nonetheless. After the game, I had waited for Micaiah to finish taking pictures. As we walked back to the busses, nervous to hold hands in public, he went on and on about how excited he was to graduate while I got increasingly uncomfortable with the idea of all my seniors leaving. We got back to the school, and as I promised myself I wouldn't cry, sweet little Marisa played and sang her original composition. It was so beautiful to see this freshman sing about how much she appreciated the seniors... And then she started crying, sobbing so quietly and intensely that she had to stop singing altogether. I knew it was over for me.

But I stayed strong. I didn't cry as I hugged my old section leader (and Stupid Jessica's brother), John, and my former section mate Leyla. I didn't cry when I sadly remembered that Ashley should've been there. I didn't cry when I hugged my captains and dear friends Krista and Lisa. I almost started crying at the sight of Micaiah, but he cried out that he wouldn't hug me if I cried. I smiled and he hugged me, pulling me closer and tighter, as if he wanted to absorb me like an amoeba, before choking up and passing me along to Alex, who rolled his eyes but hugged me anyway and passed me to Lipinski who was much more welcoming with his hug. I hugged my drum majors Ryan and James and freaked out because the third, Jonathan wasn't there. They laughed and told me he was a junior, and I jumped for joy while trying to wrap my brain around the idea of a junior being drum major.

I walked out of the procession to the waiting Stupid Jessica, said "wow, I almost cried but I didn't. I am proud of myself," and then burst into tears. She cried and Susan cried and I couldn't stop crying. I waited for Micaiah, and as we walked back to the band hall, holding hands under the cover of night, he simply asked if he could call me when we both got home. I said yes and then we hugged, my tears wetting his cheek and his heart beating so fast I could feel it. When he called me, he told me all about his life since he joined band and orchestra in middle school and guard in high school. I remember, his favorite performance up to that point was a finals during his sophomore year, just like me now. He told me of all the people he'd met and places he'd been and things he'd learned, and then, as I was getting a lump in my throat, he stopped and said, very clearly, emphatically, and unconsolably, "Emma, I will miss you so much." He cried for the next five minutes straight and I cried for most of that time and we dried our tears and sat in silence for a few minutes more before continuing our conversation for another hour.

Last year, we did the senior at the last concert, which I thought was kind of dumb. Probably because I had very few friends and just hugged Melissa before running after Taylor so I could inform him that he hadn't hugged me and then awkwardly proceed to do so.

This year, I've felt that I'm not a senior. I don't feel as if I'm acting on people's lives like seniors should. I haven't been the benevolent fairy godmother figure with psychedelic chalk. I've been neither overly gruff and loud nor overly kind and huggy. I haven't threatened to punch anyone's boyfriend or cheered for a colorguard girl cuz she plays euphonium. It feels like other people are still acting on me instead of I on them.

But maybe that's how all people feel. We admire and adore and fall in love with people who make a difference in our lives. Even all these seemingly perfect and fantastical people have their own group of people who mean something in their lives. We just always know what we feel and often never know how others feel. I never told my old drum majors that I worshipped the ground they walked on. It took four months after our break up to tell Micaiah how much those tears of his meant to me. I still feel like I never properly thanked Taylor for being to welcoming and inspiring to me.

And as I, a student leader of the band, ate a cold treat and hung out near a swing set with a sophomore colorguard girl who wasn't sold on the idea of being a captain, I thought back to when Krista and I ate slushies in the park near the swings as we talked, former captain to incumbent captain, graduated senior to accomplished sophomore, friend to friend. It doesn't matter how many people's lives I change as long as I affect one single life for good.

Progress Report

How blessed I am that he is such a good sport. How blessed I am that he is kind and welcoming and grateful. How blessed I am that he exists at all in my life.

I am moving on. I am progressing.

As I hugged him, my face buried in his chest and our arms around each other, each slight movement or adjustment being noted like a lovesick cat, I had no thoughts of my past or the other boys who I have loved and lost. There was no comparison, no memories. Just me and him and a big puddle of happy friendshipness.

Selection from "Missing Pieces"

This is a small part of my recent autobiographical paper I wrote on the day I first realized I truly loved my fellow drum majors. I wish I could've finished this earlier for a number of reasons and that I could've posted the whole thing (it's seven pages long) so that I could get some feedback before turning in it in less than nine hours. Oh well, I hope you like it. I certainly kind of enjoyed writing it. I was going to write a real post, but screw it. Posting my homework is close enough.

 

***

 

Cameron was the closest to me, proximity wise. I barely knew him. We spent little time with each other exclusively or talked about anything extraneous, save two days before at our drum major camp when he disclosed particles of his love life to me. I had worked tirelessly to befriend him, tried desperately to be smooth and cool and interesting. Despite the fact that I had offered up my shoulder as a pillow to him, I hardly felt at place with him. He accepted, his eyes blearily grateful, and I pretended to be a normal girl with her normal guy friend falling asleep on her. A few minutes later and I was reluctantly placing my cheek on the top of his head, irrationally fearing he might have a double standard of personal space.
 

Almost immediately, I received a text from Caitlin, who was sitting far behind us, clinging to an electrical outlet she had snagged to charge her iPod. My phone read "you guys look so cute! :)," and I couldn't keep a slight grin from peeking out. After all, he was pretty attractive, and such a gesture was a monumental event in our newly formed platonic relationship, and . . . he was pretty attractive.
 

In an attempt to distract myself, I looked up at Logan and had to agree with the girls at camp. I remembered their bright eyes and love drunk voices telling Caitlin and I that we had a fine looking pair of drum majors; you could practically hear their hearts fluttering. I shut my eyes tightly as I processed what their words meant. Fearing I was blushing, I carefully reopened them to see that he was not even looking in my direction. He was slumped up against the hard back of his seat, entranced in what was probably our show music. The intense look of concentration on his face meant he was probably trying to memorize it a month in advance.
 

Logan was the serious one, I knew that. We'd spent more time together than his darker haired counterpart and, as a result, quickly learned that we did not have the same tolerance for awkward situations. Our conversations would roll smoothly along until some socially unacceptable line would slide past my lips and he'd pull his head slightly back, the faintest of grimaces crossing his face. It was like he was a turtle and an unintentional double chin his shell.
 

I retreated back into the world of my non-smart phone until a kind lady came over the speaker to announce that the 5:30 PM flight was now boarding. I nudged Cameron awake, and we all made our way to the gate. Logan and Cameron faced Caitlin and I, heavy bags in their hands and under their eyes, and waited a few eternal seconds before hugging us. It was nice, but short and laden with obligation, indicative of our friendship thus far. We stepped back and watched the boys, "our" boys, make their way up the line and out the doors. After delaying our flight for twelve hours, the airline spitefully split us up, separating us by gender and sentencing us to different planes at different times in different places. Caitlin and I stood together, keeping our eyes on the spot where we had last seen the boys until we almost apathetically accepted the fact that we were alone.

Under the Upper Hand

And they say she's in the class A team
Stuck in her daydream
Been this way since eighteen
But lately her face seems
Slowly sinking wasting
Crumbling like pastries
And they scream
The worst things in life come free to us

Who's on the A Team? The girl who has worked so hard and is so beautifully determined just to feel confused and sad? The boy who's made it to the top only to feel disappointed in himself? The me who tries so desperately to show love for all who thank me sincerely and then never invite me to their homes or inside their souls? What about the people who we view to be so perfect, so pretty, so pleasant and pious and appealing? Surely, they are just as afflicted as the rest of us. Surely, no one is free from heartache or financial issues or the mental prisons of depression and anxiety and self-hatred. Surely, I'm not the only one who is so saddened by this.

I'd hardly ever given thought to serving a mission. For girls, it seemed like Plan B, a second try at being useful if you ended up being a homely, undesirable single woman. But now, it seems like a noble cause that is almost as required as the men. Overnight, the connotation went from a negative worldly one to an overly positive one. I can see the future being overridden people sniping at girls who choose to go to college or travel or even get married instead of going on a mission.

The nonconformist in me says to not contribute to this seemingly inevitable downward spiral. Fortunately, that's a smallish part of me, and the rest of me thinks that maybe I could do this. It would be the opportunity of a lifetime to go somewhere new, meet and discuss with and teach all manner of different people, and to, most importantly, gain and nourish a healthy testimony. I must think and pray more on this.

I've got far too much to do in the next few days and am far too tired already. It's solely my fault (she typed as the clock ticked and tocked closer and closer to midnight.)

I fell asleep before I could post this

What a good day today was.

We had a competition today. I got to ride with the flutes and they are officially my favorite bus. I got to see Eli and Abby and the Lehi drum majors. We got first. Caitlin got hit on by a random Davis snare. Rode with the flutes again and enjoyed their continued shenanigans. We sang the friend song (any day is automatically a good day when we sing it). Went to sam's house and discovered where the picture of me from the band room mysteriously disappeared to and her parents graciously fed me McDonald's as if they had known I would be there and since they're always so nice to me, most especially in the food area. Went with Sam to Walmart to get more purple hair dye. Went to arianna's house and kind of helped to dye sam's hair and drank an unhealthy amount of milk. Watched the funniest movie ever and became the only person to cry because of it but not from laughing from actual sadness. I like these people.

I just really want to sleep and never wake up so that I won't have to practice all day tomorrow when it's not conference or homework time.

50 Shades of Pink

A slip of the tongue. That's all it was. And yet, what a devastating mistake it was. As if writing an essay and scribbling down some overheard random words, the wrong name fell out, replacing my dear friend and revealing my secret. His face froze and I gasped as the realization crossed over my accidental audience's faces. They laughed and he started talking faster and faster as I spiraled into a panicked and embarrassed state of hyperventilation. One said I was blushing so badly, and I knew there was no way I could deny it this time.

They gave me their promises of secrecy, but I am scared, regardless. This is getting bigger than I would've liked, and that makes it feel all the more legitimate and fake. I want to give up, but all these people are giving me coy smiles and jumpy squeals of joy and assurances of false hope. I feel like any disappointments that may come about are now not only mine, but theirs as well.

However, I am glad to have these people in my life. How grateful I am that these few who witnessed my great mistake are people I can trust, albeit with the price of their laughter and teasing remarks. It really was hilarious, something straight out of a tv show or a psychiatric session with Freud.

I have blushed twice as much in the past two days than in all the years before. Maybe this is okay. Maybe I need some more color in my life. Maybe I should welcome the reds and pinks and greens. Maybe I should go out on a limb and accept the possibility of some blacks and blues.

Maybe I should stop pretending my life is something cheesy like a canvas or a romcom and just man up.

Maybe I just like him.

A Centennial Sort of Magic

I am filled with a certain sort of magic today. A magic that only comes with loving an English class with a transparent and overly enthusiastic teacher and a prospective photo essay and where I "kicked everyone's trash" during our game to find quotes from the eloquent and fascinating The Motorcycle Diaries.

That comes with a new confidante in Breanne, one of the few that might more fully understand me and my past.

That comes with the giddy uncertainty of tacking your heart to an individual, watching as they unknowingly take you on a journey more loud and crazy and determined and nerdy than ever before, leaving you breathless and full of butterflies and optimistically hoping that something good will come of it.

That magic that comes with the telling and receiving of secrets and sitting in a parking lot with a dear friend and being reunited with your rifle. It's wedged in peanut butter sandwiches and the pages of the Latin textbook, found in texts of relief and a sense of accomplishment, captured in ever constant handshakes and staring contests with a boy you shall forever adore.

I am morally obligated to say that this magic is found in the Once Upon A Time season premiere I watched tonight.

•••

This is my 100th post. It seems unreal. How could I have so many thoughts to endorse, feelings to convey, stories to tell in nine short months? It's like I got pregnant, and now I'm giving birth to a new chapter in my life, where I'm not as whiny and homesick and gimmicky as I was in all my older posts. Okay, I need to stop talking now.