It was the first, but not the best--or was it?

I wasn't popular.  I often got in trouble.  Things called pink slips, they were bad.  I had a large collection of them each year.  I got in some fights.  If I didn't lose, I would at least get in trouble.  Once again.  I had an attention problem.  An impulse problem that craved attention.  I couldn't sleep at friends houses without being picked up because I was homesick.  Then I'd get made fun of.  I would feel lonely.  I felt weird.  Out of place.  Out of touch.  But was I really?
I did have a best friend.  No two best friends.  I was very smart and top in my class.... I had a teacher give me an introduction to favorite author's of mine today.  Told me I could make something out of myself if I wished.  It was right.
Then.

Me & History

The television set in the downstairs living room is lit up with Barak Obama's face.  That's right, today's inauguration day.  Why president's need to be inaugurated for another term doesn't make much sense to me.  Then again, I don't know much about politics and government to begin with.  My attention problem shoots the thought in another direction.  It's Martin Luther King Day today.  Well isn't this just ironic.
It wasn't but less than four months back that I was making a tough decision that most my age thought didn't matter.  I wasn't about to pass up the opportunity to take part in something that made me feel like I mattered.  Like I have a say in something bigger that could help all of those around me.  I also might have voted due to my feelings on complaining.  If you don't vote, you can't complain.
Speaking of complaining, I never quite understood what the craze was with that Carly Rae Jepsen song, "Call Me Maybe."  More to the likes of annoying maybe.  To this day I change the radio station the second it comes on. It's become a reflex.
Another reflex I developed over the years is to look in the back seat of my car or cover up almost every inch of my body thanks to the horror movies of my teen years.  Those were the movies to see at the time.  When I look back I have no idea what I was thinking.  They're the most ridiculous things ever, and not even scary.
What was scary was an event that happened two days after my parents returned from New York, New York.  Exactly three months before my ninth birthday.  Seeing those towers burn petrified me more than the time I saw the earth blown up in Star Wars and for a whole week I was positive that it was really going to happen.
But how much did I really know.  I mean, I was under the impression I was going to marry Aaron Carter.  What did I know?

Looking in that photo album, I see--

I pick up my dark gray Lumix camera.  I turn it over in my hands and fumble with the lock button that opens up a compartment holding its battery and my memory card.  I see the battery, but the memory card slot stands vacant.

"Mom!" I yell. No answer. I yell again, "MOM!" Still no answer.  "MMMOOOOOOOOOMMM!!!!!"

She comes running down the hallway.  If not for my panic stricken mindset, I would have noticed that my request for her sounded like one of severe distress.  "What?" She says in a frantic voice while panting.

"Where's my memory card. It was here a couple days ago when I put my camera on my desk.  You asked me to see it and I told you I had to put it on my computer first." She looks at me for a moment. "Did you take it?" I accuse her.

I expect an offensive jab to be shot back at me, but instead I see her shoulders sulk. "I borrowed it to get photos to put in a frame for your dad."  She then changes the topic a little bit. "Want to come see them?"

I nod and walk down the hall to her room.  I assume that she must have the memory card handy with the prints. Once we get to her room, she goes directly to a plastic Walmart bag on her bed.  After she pulls out a paper case and hands it to me, she leaves the room. I'm unsure of where she sped off too, but my thoughts about the memory card are momently diverted to the pictures I'm flipping through in my hands.

My mom re-enters the room and I notice she's empty handed. 

"So mom, where's my memory card?" I ask somewhat sharply.

"I don't know.... I can't find it anywhere." 

She looks upset, but this doesn't stop me from going a little crazy. 

"Seriously mom. You should have asked me before you took it! I wanted to put them on my computer first before you took the pictures just in case something like this was to happen. I mean seriously.  Those pictures.. Those.. Tho.. There were pictures on there of New York, Boston, Canada, bungee jumping, and.. and.. and.. DEMI!! Mom Demi just friggen got eaten or something and is never coming back.  I have only like 5 pictures of her on my computer.  Oh my gosh. How could you do this?" I began to tear up when I started stuttering.  Then it was a full out cry when I remembered Demetri. I sped to my room.

Four months later:

I wish I had put those pictures on my computer.

The stuff I've collected over the years in my little box/bureau drawer/keepsake chest marks every step of my way.

My mom's mom, Memere as her grandchildren call her, is a faithfully devoted Catholic.  She's visited the early lands of our ancestors three individual times over the past decade and loves it more and more with each visit.  Upon the return one of her three visits, she gave me the gift of a small wooden case with a star and "BETHLEHEM" written upon it.  Inside this small hexagon-shaped box, trinkets of my most pleasurable pastime squish together to fit in their small living space.

What diversion is guilty of being my biggest distraction problem?  The cinema.

I need movies as much as the next person requires food to eat and water to drink.  They're my guilty pleasure.  My escape.  My safe haven.  There is not just one quality this form of entertainment posseses that attracts me, but many different attributes.

-The ride to the theater.  Whether it being occupied with the conversation of another (others), or it being a solo retreat with time to think. (Yeah, I'm not like most, I do go to movies alone.)
-The theater itself.  Each one never being of the same exact character.
-Occasionally the theater's snacks that cost more than the actual ticket itself.
-In Bangor: the man that greets passersby at the entrance with entertaining voices.
-The top row of the stadium fixed in the center. No one is behind me to kick my seat and I'm perfectly positioned to view the whole screen.
-The loud audio that is easily heard.
-People around you enjoying what you're enjoying. Or despising what you're despising.
-The art of the actual movie.  How much careful detail has been put in each scene to capture an audiences attention and gratitude.
-The ideas behind that movie made.  The secret foreshadowing that allows me to annoy only those closest to me of what I think is to come next, and the satisfaction when it happens.
-The escape from every-day living and events.  Other lands to be drawn to, other people to be surrounded by, a whole other life to live.

Going to the cinema affects me more positively than negatively.  But, life just isn't perfect and these ticket stubs bring back ALL memories.  Not just the amazing ones.  I am reminded of how much money I have spent over the past years on this one pastime alone and it makes me wonder if I had saved $8.00 or so a week, would I have made it to Europe by now?  Could I have gotten a better grade on that homework assignment by skipping the movie instead?  Would I feel better if I had never gone on that date with him?

Then we also get the movies that actually weren't worth watching in the first place.  A movie is a movie and I tend to always say yes to one, but in VERY rare occasions I wish I hadn't gone.  Some of these movies that I have stubs for are: The Devil Inside, Thereafter, Bad Teacher , and Date Night.

My favorite movies are those that make me feel like there is nothing around.  Ones in which I don't check my watch or clock on the phone.  Ones where I feel totally immersed in whatever captivating experience the actors/actresses are experiencing.  Such as: Across The Universe (went six times), To Save A Life, Silver Linings Playbook, Avatar, Brave, Immortals, Footloose, The Artist, Argo, This Means War, The Reader and so many more.

I wouldn't call movies just another pastime actually, for me I'd say they are act of daily living.

In Class: Photograph: Zac Has Seen a Ghost

The previous year, sometime before my brother's seventh birthday, is when I managed to capture one of the most interesting photographs of him.

The following paragraph is only what seeing the picture is capable of describing.

He sits cross-legged with one hand behind his right thigh.  His left hand's palm faces him while his thumb, awkwardly close to the size of mine, rests upon a light-blue Dinaco tractor trailer truck from the Disney movie Cars. He's wearing one of his tighter pair of pajamas that are split in half as a t-shirt and shorts.  The focus is on him.  The background is almost non-existent.  There only resides a small foam bat behind him, another Cars truck next to the Dinaco one, the cement floor of the basement, and an outlet in the middle of a blue wall.  The make-up of Zac's face is the key story teller in this picture.  He is looking into my phone camera as if it were a ghost, or as if someone has hypnotized him.

This photograph has meaning behind the tiny space it currently occupies in my phone.  It reminds me of what I felt when I saw his face stay frozen well after I had snapped the shot.

See, we have a small joke in my family about an "entity" named Toby based upon the one in Paranormal Activity.  It was my younger sister's ridiculous infatuation with the trilogy at the time that brought upon this little joke.  I could easily scare her, and accidentally my younger brother, by staring at something behind the wall or saying something if we were sitting in the basement.  I actually even managed to innovate Mozart's well-known "Twinkle Twinkle Little Star" to go something like this:
Twinkle twinkle little star,
Toby wonders where you are.
High up above your head,
Toby surely wants you dead.
Twinkle twinkle little star,
You wont get - very far!
Well this time the tables were turned.  Zac's face frozen made my mind jump to Toby and when I asked something about it, he didn't budge.  I, me the one scared of nothing, freaked and ran upstairs leaving him alone by himself.  It's a memory I'll be able to hold on to and laugh about for eternity.

Thank you Zachary. :)

In Class: Old Thing

         The essence of my high school years (and some college) rests beside me leaning upon the metal stand of this old classroom desk.  Like my life, it was a gift from my rents. Madre y padre is what I call them.   

Black encompasses this essence.  Not “emo” black, which was a common term passed around in middle school for those who had side bangs and wore dark clothes.  The essence is colored black more for the purpose of “black goes with everything” kind of black.  See I was, am, a smart girl and black tends to match most other colors and I didn’t want my bag to look awkward with anything that I wore.  Okay, it also might be possible that my OCD is guilty.  After all it’s anything but hidden by my said reasoning for the color.

I was proud of my essence when I got it.  It was smooth, full in color, and obviously brand new.  It even had my name sewn upon the front of it in lime green. “Lindsey.”  I brought it to the first day of my high school career as a freshie.  

I eventually got comfortable enough to leave it with a favorite teacher on my floor.  See, I was too lazy to deal with lockers.  My vice principle would walk around the school like he had nothing better to do and take all of our jams out once or twice a week.  It wasn’t worth my time.  Well this was a mistake.  

One day I got home from school and noticed the word “PENIS” residing on a silver strip under the L.L. Bean sign.  Yes, I had been walking around all afternoon with this vulgar word on my backpack.  I knew the culprits.  I believe they were getting me back for making a joke on their behalves a few days back.  Or they were just being typical seventeen year old boys. 

         I was livid because of the vandalization.  I guess one could say my mom fixed it by drawing little artistic doodles around it.  It will never be the same.  But, it’s been with me this long and I don’t regret a moment shared.

You Are A Writer

You began writing younger than most.  You've always had dreams of aspirations of becoming a writer. At different points of time you were interested in so many different types of writing styles.  Once you were going to write the next Harry Potter.  Then it was historical fiction.  Next it was a memoir of what you have experienced and how you could help others going through the same life struggles as you.  Now you're not so sure.

You do know it will not be poetry.  You're not a fan.  You don't understand it.  You'd much rather write a novel of sorts and put meaning in prose.

What will you write?

You will be a historian.  You will write of history.  You will try and not allow people to forget because after all,

"Those who forget the past are condemned to repeat it"   - George Satayana

She Is A Writer

She never lacked confidence as a young girl.  She loved her pieces of work.  She even has some saved in a shoebox on the top shelf of her bedroom closet.  Something changed that third year of high school. Teenage girls do go through weird shifts of moods and emotions.  Her writing wasn't good enough. Though it pleased others, she was never satisfied.  She would hate on her pieces.  Not for attention, but because of comparison.  Her work wasn't as good as his, it wasn't as good as hers.  She became afraid of reading aloud in class.  She would only share her pieces when forced.  She wasn't the same as she used to be.  She wasn't first to raise her hand in class to give her writing a voice anymore.  She would shake when she shares.  She would not make eye contact.  She deserved praise, but she wouldn't deem herself worthy.  She doesn't deem herself worthy.  Unfortunately when looking for satisfaction in her writing, she is not satisfied unless someone else compliments it.  Even then there is still something missing because she is striving for perfection.  She has lost the art of writing by trying to make hers, "perfect"

I Am A Writer

I have always had a love of reading.  My love for books and reading lead me to writing.  The earliest that I can remember devoting numerous periods of time writing was the third grade, the year the Twin Towers came crashing down.  I remember this because I believe I did a piece on it.  As much of a piece that an 8 year old could do.  My teacher, Mrs. Gallant, had the largest impact on me out of all my non secondary mentors.  I was introduced to Roald Dahl and my creativity only grows from there.  

Throughout my early middle school years, I was very interested in fantasy.  This is when I began actually keeping a journal every single day. Well, as close as I could.  

Moving into high school, I did not write as much but never stopped loving it.  It wasn't until my senior year of high school that I took a creative writing class and it was honestly the best experience of my life.  See, I was going through a difficult time and the teacher connected and helped me more than any other in the past.  Because of her, I now like to write as much as I can and take up writing classes when I get a chance.  

I write, because I love to.

Prompt 3

It all began with an attraction of some state I suppose.  Chemistry, not in the exact scientific sense.  After marriage and years later I'm sure biology had a little more to do with it.  Then life happened.  My life.  Three years alone with the two who I call mom and dad and then she came.  She being sister.

Then more years.  School, friends, drama, laughter, life, love, money, jealousy, time-outs, growth, knowledge, and then THE MOVE.  Did I want to start life at another school, no.

Then came new school, new friends, new drama, new laughter, new life, new love, new money, new jealousy, new time-outs (groundings), new growth, new knowledge.

More biology = new brother.

Then transitions needed to be made once again.  New rooms, new requirements, high school, different friends, new sports teams, new illnesses, new problems.

Psychology = new diagnosis.

More transitions need to be made. Hospital which then in turn lead to....
New school, new friends, new drama, new laughter, new life, new love, new or no money, new jealousy, new time-outs (punishments), new growth, new knowledge, new rooms, new requirements, new illnesses, new problems.

Graduation and college happened. Transitions continue once more and this is how I got here.

Prompt 2

An abstract map of the world painted by Jasper Johns stares at me while I sit upon an inflated air mattress.
A blank white ceiling with a lone ceiling fan based in its center stares at me while my shoulders and back rest on a large stuffed animal.
A cork board with miscellaneous memorabilia of my past stares at me while I tilt my head to one side staring at the computer screen held up by my legs in front of me.
Elvis and Marilyn Monroe stare at me from another land in a black frame while my fingers move across  my Macbook's keys.
Both of my large bookcases full of novels, magazines, and more stare at me while my chest moves up and down with each inhale and exhale of breath.
My mirror stares at me while I look at myself and all that surrounds.

SATURday

I'm at a loss of words.  Struggling with what to say, once again.  The words aren't coming as easily as previous days.  A day like today is a nice one.  It also is counterproductive.  Distractions.. Distractions then, and now.  As I try and write my father lightly snores on the couch beside me.  The television's blaring some police show, I believe SWATS.  My head's pounding.  I feel all over the place... Sort of like the day.  My mind is ping-ponging from thought to thought. And now it's stopped.  I have no more to give.

FRIday

Sometimes I forget how precious life is.  I'm not going to spew out cliche lists of what my family, friends, life, etc. mean to me.  Hopefully my reminiscing of an enjoyable car ride home reveals what I'm incapable of describing with adjectives.

The scene is set in a car driving back from a basketball game.  My dad sits quietly in the front drivers seat.  The front passenger seat is vacated because of my brother's need for a friend.  So, my brother of seven and I occupy the back.

I'm reading Gatsby and laughing aloud to myself as if I am alone.  My brother interrupts me and says, "Linds, I really like having you to talk to."

"Well, thanks Zac," I reply only noticing for the first time that he was actually speaking.  See, when Zac talks it's very hard to understand who he's talking to or if he's actually talking to anyone at all.  I'm sure it's a quirk of most younger children.

I put Gatsby away careful enough not to crease any pages, then divert my full attention to the blond hair blue eyed child to my right.

We lock eyes and he says, "horse."

"Okay Zac.  Giraffe."

"Elephant."

"Rainbow."

"Skyscraper."

"T-Rex."

"Chicago."

"Earth."

"All the outerspaces, and stars, and planets, and earth."

"You mean the universe?"

"Yeah, the universe."

"The sun."

"Skyscrapers."

"You already said that silly. No repeats."

"Fine... A REALLY BIG CAR."

This continues for another twenty minutes more or so.  We get really into sharks, then we get really into schools, then we ironically get into guns and I have to steer him clear of that because I look up and see dad's eyebrows raised in the rearview mirror.  Through the middle of this "game," I remember thinking that all good things must come to an end.  Honestly I could have just spattered out words back in forth with this little guy for hours and it would have felt like five seconds.  Five precious seconds.

Yeah, my day ended perfectly.

THURSday

I don't know where to begin.  I don't know what to begin with.  Not that today was full of excitement.  Not that there were too many moments in this day that stand out.  Maybe it's just the calmness of today that makes it difficult to come up with experiences, moments, or thoughts to write about.  No. I believe the reason I'm incapable of beginning today's writing from my experiences, particular moments, or thoughts is due to this current moment.  The heat of my face explained by a low-grade fever of 100.  The churning of my stomach not asking for food, but just the opposite.  My head aching, needing a soft pillow to rest on.  It's only twenty of eight and nowhere near my usual time of rest.  Tonight, I think I'll make an exception.

Prompt 1

I am encompassed by silence in the dark.  Even so, noises in my head are gradually increasing.  These noises, or thoughts, seem to have no volume limit.  These thoughts all have the same voice. Mine.
They fight with each other:
"I deserve to feel the way I do."
"It will get better."
"No, I'm going to feel this way forever."
"Why am I being so self-centered when there are so many people on Earth who have it worse than me?"
I'm always seeking time away.  Alone time.  Peace and quiet.  Yet... When I finally am alone and it is silent,  I'm overwhelmed by my thoughts. This completely defeats the purpose of my intentional alienation.

WED-NES-day

Wednesday...  In all honesty, anytime I spell this word it sounds something like this: Wed-nes-day.  The words come out separately in my head and sometimes, hopefully when I'm alone, they're sounded out aloud. This reminds me of another word I use a similar technique with; beautiful.  I'll have to give credit to Jim Carrey for this one.  His b-e-a-u-ti-ful will forever have me spelling it before I write it.

I'll let the paragraph above be an icebreaker for today.  Yesterday was somewhat of a test drive in what to write.  There are so many questions that go through my mind when starting a new piece. EVERY. SINGLE. TIME.
Is this long enough? Am I writing it the way that the reader wants it? What do I write about? Is this subject going to be easy to write about? Does this sound as stupid to them as it does to me?

I think I think to much. About everything.  I mean, my questions above are only the beginning.  Thinking too much leads to my form of perfectionism.  I can't say that I'm a perfectionist in everything and can be confirmed in an instant with a peak inside my room which is too embarrassing to speak about.

What really stood out to me today only happened minutes ago.  My little sister of sixteen years was lying at the foot of my bed while I was writing and I asked her what she was doing.  Her reply, "getting on Facebook. I haven't been on in a couple hours."  I chuckled.  Not because it was truly hilarious, but because of the truth behind it.  If the word fits, it was almost a chuckle of sympathy.

TUESday

Keeping a journal is nothing new to me.  Neither is the concept of making it a daily occurrence. Keyword being concept.  Each time I tell myself I'm going to write at least once a day no matter what, the outcome is something like this;
Day one through fourteen: at least a page each.
Day fifteen through eighteen: half a page or less.
Day nineteen: missed.
Day twenty (plus): no more writing.
Now I know this can not be, and will not, be the case this time. After all, I won't even reach a day fourteen.