Once upon a time there was a little girl And once upon a time she loved to read And she had a blanket that only covered her toes And left her giggling in the night The night that called out to her like a soaking wet fireman covered in yarn And the stars screamed at her to take lots of pictures and bite her tongue in delight But she didn't 'cause she was afraid of the night 'Cause she couldn't see what was inside.
Well, this girl, this girl who loved to read and ignored it when people told her to live her life She fell in love with this boy And this boy lived in the dark And feared the light And I swear on my life the only way they could meet was at dawn and dusk When it was neither light nor dark And the girl kicked pebbles And the boy picked leaves 'cause he had nothing better to do And they didn't talk much And the girl tried to share her blanket That only covered her toes But it was too little for the both of them So the boy turned it into a scarf Because he loved to read too And all the boy wore were pearls and sweaters 'cause that's all he could afford And when the night came he ran screaming through the dark And the girl was left to her books.
But then one day when the sun came and the boy scurried to his cave The girl thought I'm not doing this anymore And the girl filled a suitcase full of rags And she said goodbye to the silent coyote outside her window And kissed goodbye the quiet coyote under her bed And left a note for her dear mother who kept the time all day And she went to find her boy.
And then she found him in his cave and she told him I will live in the night with you And he smiled and his mouth was full of pearly whites And he still had all his baby teeth And he built her a cushion of bluejay feathers For her to sit on.
And then the night came And the stars burst screaming down And they carried away the girl who loved to read And taught her how to write poetry And left the boy alone.
And there he sits still His hair as red as a bicycle Sitting on a cushion of bluejay feathers And fearing the light.
So today we ate inside (well, everyone else ate inside, I "eat" when I get home) because it was cold and wet out. I have this friend-- well, at least *I* considered her a friend-- named Tabby. She's a sophomore, a year below me, and has been part of our group since she was a freshman. I hug her at least once a day because she's such a good hugger. I really did, and, well, I guess I still do, consider her a friend.
But today during lunch she and Aly were hugging and wanted me to join in. "Sammi! Come here!" She said, holding out her arm, then laughed and said, "Wow, that's the first time I've remembered your name."
I kind of stood there dumbstruck for a moment. What? Then we hugged. "It only took you two years," said Aly. "Well, more like a year and a half," said Tabby.
This really disturbed me. I honestly considered her a good friend and it never occurred to me that she might not know my name! How would you like it if you blended in with the walls so well that you'd have to hang out with someone for a year and a half in order for them to remember your name?
Something similar happened a few minutes later, only it was with someone I wasn't quite as close to and who had only just started hanging out with our group this year. What bothered me was that she asked the person next to her what my name was even though I was standing right in front of her and she could've asked me.
I never wanted to spend high school as that person who just kind of passes through and isn't remembered and doesn't get any fun out of anything, but it looks like that just might be who I'm turning out as.
So Keanna came 'round, of course. I knew she would. I had faith in that girl. I thought it would take a lil longer though, a few more days, which only proves how amazing she is. I knew she'd be able to do it.
I still have a few people to tell, though. Oh, well. I'm happy for now.
"Happy are you, Hester, that wear the scarlet letter openly upon your bosom! Mine burns in secret!"
It hurts either way.
I've told Paul, Keanna, and Sarah. I thought that it would hurt less once I got it all out in the open, but, if anything, it hurts even more; now I can't ignore my guilt.
Sarah reacted wonderfully. I couldn't have asked for a better friend.
Paul-- I'm not so sure. I think he feels more pain than he's letting on, but I can see it in his words. It hurts to think about him.
Keanna, well, she decided she didn't want to be my friend anymore, of course. Nothing less was expected of her, she's such a dramatic little thing.
I guess what bothers me most is that I don't have control of the situation in the sense that I can't be the one to comfort my friends, for obvious reasons, that I'm the bad guy in this situation. I've actually never truly, purely been the bad guy before.
I'm scared that I've hurt Paul really, really badly. I don't have much reason to think that I've hurt him any more than anyone else, but I've got a feeling. I can see it. I think there's a gaping wound somewhere that he's trying to hide. Right over his heart. We match.
I feel so weak with guilt. I could just curl up and never move. Paul and Sarah both said they forgive me, but I think the problem is that I'm not forgiving myself.
It was October 7th, 2009, and the forest behind PresumpscotElementary School is battered and trodden as ever. Usually gangs of trouble-causing middle schoolers roam the area, but on that day, things were quiet. The trees were standing grand and tall, ancient and wise, their knowledge communicated by silence. Bugs were crawling, leaves were stretching towards the sun, and I was sandwiched between two oak trees with a notebook in my lap. I met a delay in walking there. When I was within a few yards distance of the forest, I encountered two chipmunks and didn't want to move closer to them from fear of scaring them away. They were scurrying around on the ground and didn't seem to take notice of each other until one of them found an acorn. He put it down briefly to wash his face and the other one took it. They commenced to begin squabbling over the acorn. My first reaction would have been-- as I had been conditioned to since birth-- to categorize the chipmunk who originally had the acorn as "good" and the one who originally stole the acorn as "bad." But then I reminded myself-- as I have been trying to do-- that animals are not good or evil. They have not been blessed (cursed?) with a sense or what is right and wrong, they have been cursed (blessed) with a sense of live or die. They were not squabbling over an acorn because of justice or injustice, but because they needed to eat to live. Sitting on the feet of the oak tree was making my butt hurt and my back was beginning to ache within minutes. However much I may love it, I felt that, as a human, there was something that set me apart from nature- a protective (excluding) bubble that was and is sawing away at that connection of the souls between tree and girl- girl and girl- girl and other humans. A scarlet letter, perhaps?
We all have our secret sins. We crinkle our noses at the bad chipmunk for stealing what is not "rightfully" his but our sins are so deeply buried that not even WE realize how much we have in common with the unjust beast. Even nonconformists will say anything to be liked. If we truly did not care what others thought about us,-- and what we thought of ourselves-- we would always tell the truth. I honestly couldn’t tell the chipmunks apart, so I can't tell you who got the acorn, unfortunately. But what I can tell you is that the one that didn't get it went in search of another and they both went on with their lives. The leaves tell the truth. They bear their black spots without being ashamed because they realize that the other leaves have black spots, too. Black spots everywhere. They don't seem to mind. Leaves seem to have already learned that being hypocritical towards the other leaves would just be another spot to add to their already blackened visages.
“Maybe I’ll write something or something.
Something that makes people want to tell.”
“But aren’t there things you won’t tell your mom,
‘cause you’re scared of what she’ll think?”
…
“But, are you courageous enough to admit your sins first?
Because I know I’m not.”
“I guess I’m gonna have to. If I do end up writing something,
I can’t be a hypocrite about it.”
“No, that would just be another letter to add.”
It's thoughts like these that make me want to go up to everyone I know and ask what their scarlet letters are.
“And so we pretend like we don’t have any problems,
Because then we’d be just like them.
We wouldn’t be special.
That’s what I think, anyhow.”
“But I’m sure we’d all be so much happier
If we told the truth.”
“Probably. But by nature, we’re scarred creatures.”
“It makes me want to ask everyone I know what their scarlet letters are.”
“Well, darling, there are things you won’t tell people, aren’t there?”
I thought of my online friend Aaez. He lives in Pakistan and is an online pen pal of sorts to me. I love him dearly and wonder what his scarlet letters are. His religion has kept him so pure that I can think of but one thing that could possibly burn his chest-- he is bisexual. He is bisexual in a world where sodomites are sent to Hell and women are slaughtered in honor killings for cheating on their husbands. His father just died of cancer. I wonder how he must feel.
“I’m sure he has his secret sins, we all do.”
“Do you have any, Paul?”
“Yes.
They’re secrets, though.”
My dearest friend Paul doesn’t want to tell me about his scarlet letters. I guess I don’t blame him. We’re the best of friends and I don’t know about him but I’d absolutely die if he stopped being my friend, and sometimes it seems that I value our friendship more than his right to the truth. Putting me in nature leaves me alone with my thoughts and leaving me alone with my thoughts is a bad idea. I begin to question absolutely everything and everyone. It's a freedom that binds me. You can leave the forest and go back to normal life but the thoughts haunt you until you pay attention to them. We all have our scarlet letters. All of those thoughts started to depress me and my back was getting achy as ever so I decided to get up and walk around. Rocks were strewn everywhere, brush pressed back on its heels by the ever invading children curious of what secrets the forests may be keeping. The exploring children, still naive and young, have not yet begun to understand that all the secrets they are searching for are locked up tight in their own minds. Does that mean that having no secrets makes you inhuman? What about the people who don’t think they have any, does that mean they have so deeply buried their sins that they don’t even recognize they have them anymore?
[Goodness of humans paragraph]
“I don’t want to hurt my friends.
I already am, they just don’t know it,
But if they found out,
Who’s to say that they wouldn’t hate me with what I’ve done?”
“I doubt you’ve done anything too atrocious.
But, even if you have,
I think it would get them thinking about their OWN scarlet letters. And even if they didn’t make them public,
They’d at least not judge you for yours.”
“But what if you don’t know? I mean- that’s what you think.
What if the fact you think that just adds to my own?”
“Well, then I’m a shit judge of character.”
“Hah! Oh, Paul.
I love you. Know that, okay? No matter what I do?”
“I love you, too. And really, darling,
I’ve stopped judging people for the things they’ve done.
Anymore,
It’s all just about the way people love that I form my opinions on.”
For the past couple months or so, my mind has been plagued with the realization that all humans, at one point, will hurt one another; They will be in a situation where they are the "bad guy." I came to realize this while spending two weeks with my father in Massachusetts over the summer. All my life I had categorized one parent as good and one as bad depending on what I thought they'd done and what they said about each other. I realized while I was there that the both of them have done equally horrible things to each other in an attempt, even after all these years, to mollify their broken hearts; His broken because she broke it and hers broken because she was forced to break his. At this point they could have moved on with their lives and never seen each other again, save the occasional nostalgic thought, but this is not how it happened. They are bound to each other for the rest of their lives because they had children together. Every time they look at my sister and I, they will think of each other. They are not bad people, they are good people caught in a bad situation. Bad things happen to good people because good people do bad things. I was devastated when I realized that that I am no exception to this human trait. However... things seem to be taking on a lighter, albeit more angsty tone. Everyone lies. Everyone has their own scarlet letters. It's what makes us human.
I just wish it wasn't so wrong to admit that you're human.
“This whole conversation makes me want to tell you something,
Something really horrible I’ve done that I haven’t told anyone.
But I don’t think I’m quite ready for it yet.”
“Okay, if you’re not ready, don’t do it.
But, know this, that I won’t ever, ever judge you or stop loving you for anything you’ve done, mmkay?
‘Cause I’m flawed, too.”
Oh man, Does it hurt.
P.S., this picture was a huge hit on facebook, so I'ma post it here. I was makin' a kissy face just fer you.
I went to the dentist today. It was freakin' amazing. I love going to the dentist's office, which is funny, 'cause I have a mysteriously barefaced fear of the doctor's office. I guess it's just 'cause I love having things in my mouth. I have since I was little. Turn that into a sexual innuendo if you will, but it's true. (Hah. I guess my future boyfriend is lucky, right? I mean, if I ever get one. -_-) And, I mean, even if I DIDN'T have a weird mouth fetish, who DOESN'T like having a hot dentist's assistant's fingers all up in their mouth every once in a while, right?
Apparently I have TWO cavities, or, "areas of decay." Which doesn't make any sense, because I've been brushing my teeth twice as much since last time I went there, for no specific reason. There's also apparently something wrong with my jaw. Which is PROBABLY why it hurts all the time. Well, is tense all the time, I mean. It only hurts sometimes.
We went to The Salvation Army afterward, which is right next door, and I got the most freakin amazing jacket you will EVER SEE IN YOUR ENTIRE LIFE. It's SILVER. And GAUDY. And... AMAZINGLY OBNOXIOUS. <3
I'm gonna be the tin man for halloween. The other night I had a dream that I was in Oz and I was hangin' with the guy, and I was like, "OH MY GOSH! I'M GOING AS YOU FOR HALLOWEEN!" And he looked all forlorn, like. And he looked up at me and was like, "Oh, really? That's great!" With this kind of sad half-smile. And I was like, you seem kinda sad. And he just shrugged. And I was like, c'mon, you can tell me, it's okay, it's not like I know anyone to tell in this world or anything. And he was like, well, it's been bothering me for awhile. And I was like, what? And he was like, I really want to hug you, but I can't.
And then *I* got sad because we were in two separate universes or something even though we were standing right next to each other and it meant that we couldn't hug.
Soooo.... this is my first post ever. Whoooo! I'm really hungry T-T Anyway, I decided I wanted to make a blog because my dear friend Paul has one and it was worth envy. So, of course, I had to try and emulate him by creating my own. I decided to call my blog "How To Tell a True War Story" because I'm reading a book right now called "The Things They Carried" by Tim O'Brien and it has an interesting chapter on just that. Basically he's trying to get the point across that when someone tells you a war story, if it has some sort of moral or guideline, or fills you with pride, it's not true, even if it really happened.What makes a war story true is if, when you ask afterward, "Is it true?", the answer matters to you. "Absolute occurrence is irrelevant." Something could have happened word for word and be untrue and the most true story could have never happened. So that's kind of what I want my new blog to be like. Everything I write in here will be true, but whether or not it's actually happened is for you to decide.
