Spring Cleaning

I was hoping to find something happy to post about...unfortunately, I didn't. Maybe next time.

My Nanny is moving to a nursing home tomorrow. No one has told her. But she doesn't have the mental capacity to take care of herself. She tried to eat hand lotion...three times. Directly after my mother reminded her it was lotion. She can't be left alone.

I have a music audition this Saturday. I am not ready. I already knew that, but I just played my pieces for my Great Aunt Rita, who happens to be visiting. I was lucky to finish the second piece. It was absolutely awful. You would think after 10 months with the same two pages I'd have more of a handle on it than I do. I don't know my minor scales. My goal is to not burst into tears during the audition. It's only 15 minutes. I can make it, right? And it'll be good experience. Totally worth the terror and humiliation. Right?

I cleaned my room this weekend (my mom made me). We had company coming (great aunt and uncle). People have been in and out of my house the past two weeks, and I feel like I've gotten nothing done. I haven't practiced piano nearly as much as I meant to. I didn't touch it at all yesterday. I was sick last weekend. I'm behind in my art history class (horribly behind...). And on top of all my spring cleaning, I've been doing a little last minute emotional and mental cleaning. And here is the result of that:

I have to amend my statements from an earlier post. (see Extended Metaphor (kinda))

So what? So what if you want to use me or manipulate me or play with me? So what if you bait me and toy with me and lie to me? What else am I here for? I don't understand why you would treat me that way, but I don't always treat my friends well either. So whatever. Have at it. I'm not going to change. I'm not going to stand in your way.

Because I cannot function if I can't believe that the people I love and care about have good intentions. I cannot comprehend that. And I can't find a middle ground. If there are people who aren't sincere and kind, then nobody is sincere and kind. I so desperately need to believe that people are good. I tried to see the middle ground, and I lost my balance. I broke down completely, an emotional vertigo. The world was full of strangers. I didn't even recognize myself.

So do what you want. I do not care. I'll probably forgive you again, and again, and again. It will be my gift, my sacrifice. This is what I offer the world: my persistently high opinion, just to spite reality. You cannot break me. I don't play the way you do, with twisted words and hidden agendas. You think you're getting away with it. You think you've won this game, and you might have, but it's not the one that matters. You think I'm a fool, and I wouldn't disagree with you. But here's a secret for you to mull over while you fill the gas tank of your get-away car:

I win.

Golly Moses

Well, a lot has happened since my last post.

My great-grandmother is in a rehabilitation center. I think by now I've mentioned it to most of you loyal readers (all five of you!) But Nanny had a stroke last week. My grandad found her unable to talk, unable to write, to communicate at all.

We've been visiting her a lot. She's improved. She can murmur "I love you. God bless..." and she can repeat almost anything you say. My mommy made a scrapbook for her with pictures of all our family. She can read the names, but when she comes to words like 'on' or 'at' or 'the' she gets stuck. She keeps randomly counting. "One, two, three, four, five..." My grandma bought her a teddy bear and a donut on Valentine's Day.

I know strokes are serious, and it's sad to see her so helpless, but honestly, I think I might be glad this happened. It sounds horrible. But if nothing had changed, she would have lived the rest of her life alone and bitter in her cold and empty house. Now, she is surrounded by people who love her.

We've always loved her. Of course we have. But she never received it well. My mother quit buying her real presents because she would always find something wrong with it and return it. It was a chore to visit her, but it was our duty. We would stay for a half hour, no more, and listen to her pessimism.

Her doctor said the stroke took the meanness out of her.

She kept stroking the purple pajamas my grandma bought for her and muttering 'whoowee!" She keeps giving everyone hugs, over and over and over, and telling us she loves us. She smiled when my grandma caught her sneaking dessert before she'd eaten her beans. I've never seen her smile like that before. She's like a child in so many ways. She poured over the scrapbook my mama gave her, read it twice. She was waiting for me by the front door when I came yesterday. Some days I hardly recognize her, she's so pleasant.

I don't know how much she will recover. I don't know if she'll be able to live on her own. I don't know if she will turn bitter again. I hope that part is never recovered. But if it is, at least she was able to show my grandma for once that she appreciates all she does. At least my mom will have given her one gift she truly loved. At least we will have legitimately enjoyed her company for a little while. At least we will have these memories of her.

It's not ideal. But I'm thankful God let us meet this side of her.

A Rough Translation

"Hi, it's nice to meet you."
So you're the one she's been talking about.

"I'm Big Sister."
You answer to me.

"Yeah, so I just wanted to come say hey."
I've got my eye on you, boy.

"Anyway, you guys have fun!"
Treat her right.

"Drive safely!"
Behave.

--------

"He seems like a nice guy."
If he hurts her, he's dead.

Linger Longer

So, Mateo requested that I hurry up and post something happy cos every time he checked my blog, he'd run into the last post, and shudder. (I'm not that scary in person, I promise.)

I think I'm going to get on my soapbox again today. I don't have any recent fun stories to tell, so I'm going to harp back on one of my favorite topics of discussion: dreams. I have some of the craziest, detailed dreams. It's not necessarily a happy topic, but it's fun! So I'm going to recap a few of my favorites. :)

I once had a dream that Bill Nye the Science Guy was filming a show in my kitchen. He asked for a volunteer from the live audience crowded around my living room (which had conveniently sunk so the kitchen was more of a stage). I was so enthusiastic that I immediately caught his eye and he picked me as his volunteer. I was told to stand on a stool and gaze down the sink. Suddenly, and to my immense dismay, he flicked the disposal on and shoved my head toward it. I scrambled off the stool, ducked out from under his hold, and stomped on his foot. Being 8 or so, I was just big enough to knock him off balance. He fell down the sink and swirled away in the water, screaming "NOOO!!!" I dove off the stage into the safety of my mother's arms. (It was all very dramatic).

When I was younger, I used to have recurring dreams that one of my teeth would suddenly be loose. I would wiggle it around and play with it and all my teeth would fall out and start pouring into my hands. Not a pleasant sensation. Until a couple years ago, I believed everyone always had this dream. Apparently, I was wrong. It's not nearly as common as I thought. I also used to have recurring dreams that I would be stuck in a moving car without an adult and have to steer it all on my own. And multiple times I dreamed that a giant tidal wave would sweep over our backyard while my sister and I were playing in it.

I had a dream once that my youth group and I met this famous runner named Marshall (completely fictional guy, by the way). He was one of the fastest track runners in history, but he couldn't run straight. So we all ran with him in the middle of the desert, as awkward and uncoordinated as we could be.

Any time I ever dreamed about flying, I would be stuck inside, typically in my living room, flapping my arms as hard as I could. I had to keep flapping them or I would fall, but I couldn't go any higher because the ceiling was in the way.

I attempted to keep a dream log once. Rather than type out all of them, I made some notes and assumed they'd trigger memories and I could journal about them later. Well, they didn't trigger memories. But here are some of the notes for your enjoyment:

Evil Oops, German movies, Ms. Holman’s room, Kevin and cookies. House on fire, evil witch, dead goldfish. Mom cheats with Kenny Chesney. Blind sand surfers. Italian family, plot to kill grandkids, sister injured, my deformed toe, Gregory cutting up shower curtains. Musical hippies, Lola. Hell-swamp, four kids. Daddy Czar.

If you can make sense of any of that...then you're one step ahead of me.

Extended Metaphor (kinda)

Disclaimer: the following is a rant. It may be somewhat forceful and heated. Please take into account that once I have ranted, all extreme emotions expressed will have been expended and no longer apply.


I am not a toy. Do not play with me.

I am not a puppet. You cannot manipulate me, or put words in my mouth.

I am not a renewable resource, so don't expect to use me twice. You won't get that chance.

I am not mass-produced, born of an assembly line. I am not an interchangeable part, meant to be replaced over time. I am not disposable. I can't be bought or sold. Don't try to stamp your name on me, as if I am yours. Don't try to label me, as if I'm that simple. Don't try to control me, as if I am a pawn in your game. And don't you dare put a price on me.

I am a person, not a product.



That said, you readers may disregard this post. It most likely wasn't written for you. But heed my warning...

Is it just me...?

There are certain things that just bother me a little, unnerve me. I do not like gore, or crudeness. It's just not funny to me.

We recently killed the Romanov's in my history class. Right before that, we killed Rasputin. And there was a day in history class last year that I don't think I will ever forget: we killed William Jennings Bryan. It's not like I was particularly attached to any of these people. I knew very little about them until they showed up in our lectures.

Rasputin's death was just brutal. Cyanide, guns, and an icy river. We saw a picture of his body, after he had thawed out. It cycled the classroom as if it were a comic strip, trivial and entertaining.

The Romanov family was next. Our teacher had done her research. She knew that Alexandra had time to cross herself before the shooting began, and Nicholas died trying to protect his son. Moaning, piled bodies, acid and fire to eat away their bullet-riddled skin. Prior to their death, while they were being held captives, their hemophiliac son Alexi attempted to commit suicide. "What, did he trip himself?"

And poor William Jennings Bryan. He campaigned again and again for presidency, always losing, always on the same platform: free silver. We learned about the "Monkey Trial", his self-proclaimed expertise on the Bible, and how he was completely humiliated in court. And then he died a week after the trial. Our class cheered.

I know we're far removed from all these happenings, safe in our little classroom. But I don't understand. That was somebody's life. And our class cheered because he wouldn't show up on another test? Our class laughed because a fourteen-year-old boy tried to commit suicide?

And yes, it was absolutely ridiculous how long it took to actually kill Rasputin. Yes, we were tired of hearing about free silver. And yes, it all seems fantastic, like a story rather than someone's reality. But it was. It was someone's reality. And we find it so entertaining, so amusing. It just seems so sick to me. Our modern day Colosseum: history class.

And there are so many atrocities being committed in our world right now. People missing, kidnapped, brutally murdered. People tortured, abused, raped. I don't understand why there is such an industry for horror movies when there is so much real horror. It scares me that we can remove ourselves so far from it that it's funny. It scares me that we're that calloused.

Tutti

There is something magical about singing with a choir.

Last week, Santa Maria and I traveled to Tampa for All-State choir. It was amazing. We sang in different choirs, so we were each able to see the other's concert.

I love the symbolism of it. Each individual is significant and valuable. They are responsible for knowing their own part. They must be able to stand on their own two feet. And yet...singing in a choir is so different from solo singing. There should never be any ego in a choir. You must listen and blend. Each voice part supports the others. Sopranos, Altos, Tenors, and Basses. You need all four parts or there is something hollow about the song, something empty and barren.

A week ago, I stood on the stage at Tampa Performing Arts Center and stared at a sound-proof wall that hid us. As it rose, the cheers of the crowd seeped under it to reach the ears of the other 314 vocalists who made up this choir. We saw the empty orchestra first, then the first rows of the audience that were filled with FVA members. A forest of faces on the floor. A balcony that hovered above them. Then another. And another. It was dizzying. The lights that focused on the stage created a haze then, and it seemed as if the ceiling disappeared into the clouds. Brick and red and faces and light. And music.

Life is like singing in a choir. Each person is vital. You have your notes, your entrances and exits. You have phrases that rise and fall. You play your role. You influence others, and they influence you. You have no control over anyone but yourself, and so you must let go of them. Watch the director. Watch the music. Breathe.

But you are only a part of something much greater, something that is absolutely beautiful.

While we were there, I asked for permission to doodle on the piano we were rehearsing with. It was a Steinway piano. If I ever have enough money to own a grand piano, it must be well-polished and as dark as night. My Black Beauty.