calumnies and lies

I've always been told that lying is a bad thing. For a while, I adopted the saying, "it's not lying; it's acting" as my own, which didn't please my mother very much. Both points relate to my current state of mind. I feel guilty right now. I don't feel guilty because I lied necessarily, but mostly because I got caught. Sure, that makes me sound like an awful person, and I promise you, I'm really not that bad. However, in my mind, I had a completely legitimate reason and I don't resent or regret my decision whatsoever.
In school, we're doing a musical. No big deal, right? I love musicals and singing and fake dancing and lights and make up and costumes: all of it. There were so many to decide from: Godspell, Guys and Dolls, etc. (You're a Good Man, Charlie Brown was my first choice because I wanted to be Snoopy to sing 'Suppertime' with all of my heart.) Instead, we wrote a musical. I wasn't a fan from the beginning; it was too reminiscent of a certain insufferable student written play that we did my sophomore year. We eventually changed it up and I became a little more keen on it...until practices started. After a grueling audition due to the crap way that I sing, I ended up getting the part I wanted. It's not a huge part, but I get/got to sing Streisand, which is all that matters. Anyway, practices started and we blocked the whole show in 2 weeks. Good timing. Then we started music rehearsals. Solos were fabulous. Chorus numbers were horrid. We've spent the last few Saturdays working on the very first song in the musical. All day long. For hours. Over and over again. To say the least, it feels like we're getting nothing done. Yesterday, practice started at 9. I got a wake up call from my best friend, Angela, at 9:33 asking where I was. Awesome. I get there at 10. They've already started working on Bohemian Rhapsody (the first song) again.
"Is this the real life? Is this just fantasy?
Caught in a landslide. No escape from reality..."
was all we sang for 2 hours. Over and Over. By ourselves. With accompaniment. With choreography. With the girl chorus (which I'm not a part of. Awesome.). Without the girl chorus. Freddie Mercury would have even said that enough was enough.
We had an hour long lunch break.
We sang it some more. Not once did we get through the whole song.
All I could think about all day was the fact that my friends Claire and Daniel were in town on break from college and I had to see them. Claire's birthday was recent and she was having lunch. They had already rescheduled so I could go, but this rehearsal was ruining every plan we had tried to come up with. There was no way I was going to be able to go if I didn't make something up.
I left at 1:45, telling the director that I had to go to work.
This would have worked perfectly if there weren't Facebook statuses about our plans. This would have worked even better if the director wasn't friends with a few of us. But the statuses exist and she's Chan's friend, so she commented. Awesome.

What I'm trying to communicate is that I know it's wrong to lie. I know that I should have just stayed at rehearsal. I know I should have stayed to sing Queen a couple more times, get a little more irritated at the show's author and at the male chorus, and to learn choreography for a song I'm not even in. But I didn't. And I'm okay with that. I'm okay with it because I miss Daniel's sense of humor. I miss Claire's wisdom; we're so much alike. I miss being with Chan and the two of them together. I miss last year. I miss all of them. Therefore, it doesn't matter to me that I missed an hour of musical practice. And if I get kicked out of the play, if I don't get to sing Streisand (which would ultimately work because my part is double-casted), I don't think it would upset me in the long run.

That is all.

Later Days
Peace
H

College Prep

The college prep atmosphere in which I've been so thoroughly immersed for such a long time makes me forget what the rest of the world is like. College college college; degrees degrees degrees. My inevitable future education has been squished into my brain, almost like being conditioned as a newborn embryo in Aldous Huxley's A Brave New World. North Hills requires that every student be accepted into at least a 2-year college in order to graduate. It takes a while to adjust into the public school idea of just graduating, of obtaining enough self-control and/or determination to keep from quitting.
I work at a Sonic in Arkansas. I work with people that are 19 and married, not because the women are pregnant, but because they love each other enough. They dated throughout high school. They had time to go on dates, hang out several nights a week, go cruising around town. I do the math and figure that they graduated in 2009, a little more than a year ago. This makes me even more incredulous. They were seniors in high school when I was a sophomore. I've been in plays, gone to dances, gone on dates with people that graduated that same year. But all those kids are in college now, probably (and hopefully) not even thinking about marriage. By the time those kids do get married, the ones that I work with here in Arkansas will have an overlooked advantage on them. Sure, the kids that graduated from North Hills will have esteemed degrees, but they've never truly had to live on their own. They've never had to pay for everything without the help of Mommy&Daddy back home. Sure, these North Hills kids are smart, but these others are wise.
The question is, then, does a rigid curriculum in high school prepare you for living life? It prepares you for a job, a paycheck, for one man's definition of "success". But does it prepare you for balancing a checkbook, for being a mother, for unexpected layoffs from steady jobs? We're being taught an optimistic approach, which can be delightful, but we sometimes forget that there's also a realistic point of view that more of us will come into contact than not.

Later Days
Peace
H

Miracles

I have a younger cousin named Miles who was born a month or more early. The gray matter in his brain wasn't (and still isn't) completely developed. As you may know, brain cells cannot be regrown after the child has left the mother's womb. They told us that he'd never walk or talk. They spouted off names of scary disorders and diseases: cerebral palsy, dystrophy, severe mental retardation. 

I love his name. At first, I loved it because I started calling him Smiles, which was a nickname that no one else had thought of before I had mentioned it. Then I began to realize how much of a walking miracle that child really is. Now I love his name because it's almost a pun. He's come miles and miles further than they ever thought imaginable. There's a sign hanging up in my aunt's kitchen that says "Expect Miracles". Collectively, as a family, we've learned how to.

Recently, my paternal grandparents have been having health problems. From hips to hearts and other things that just can't be helped, they aren't doing too fabulously. My grandfather, especially. But lately, Miles has been 'stuck' on my Papa. Miles is a repeater. He'll say a name over and over until he gets that respective person's attention or whatever it is that he wants. From the moment he gets up, between asking for juice or to watch Mickey Mouse, he drones on: "Pa-pa! Pa-pa! Pa-pa! Pa-pa! Pa-pa! Pa-pa! Pa-pa! Pa-pa!" for most of the day.

As I lay in bed last night, beside my cousin Ena who had slept over, I couldn't sleep. I texted people until they all fell asleep (or until I lost service). I thought about college, about the future. I thought about my job. I calculated the number of hours and minutes until my next shift starts. I even thought about yearbook and senior year. Nothing was helping and I really didn't want to sleep too late the next morning. So I started praying. I prayed for everything and everyone I could think of. I prayed for Papa; I prayed for Baba. I prayed for my parents, my brother, my best friends. When I got around to praying for Miles, I thanked God for his life. I thanked God that he had taught my family to 'expect miracles'. I prayed that God would use Miles' sweet, innocent nature to cheer up my grandparents through this time. Then I remembered what my Aunt Christine, Miles' mother, had said earlier that evening when she had eaten dinner with us. She spoke about Miles talking about Papa all day, then coming straight in to see him. Papa had piped up then, saying, "He came and sat in my lap for, oh, seventeen seconds." But to Miles, seventeen seconds is a long time. That was Miles' way of showing Papa that he cares, that he's thinking of him. 

Our little miracle is drawn to my Papa, someone who just might need a miracles a few months down the road. Sure, it may just be a phase. Kids go through those; they want one specific person for some specific reason. But what if Miles trying to tell us something? He may not me hinting that another miracle in on the way, per se. He might just be trying to remind us that there's hope in Papa's situation too. Miracles aren't just for the young. We relied so heavily on God when Miles was born and we had never met the child. (His mother's state of health was dwindling too, but still.) Why wouldn't we still rely on Him when there are 67 years of living behind someone else?

Later Days

Peace

H

Happy 4th

The Fourth of July. It's supposed to be about fireworks, hot dogs, watermelon. But what makes a GOOD Independence Day? Is it eating until you can't move? Laughing at the people racing to see who can scarf down a slice of watermelon quickest?
Or is it about celebrating the freedom we have to do such things? Relishing the fact that we live in a land of immense opportunity?
In that case, it shouldn't how many hot dogs we can eat. It shouldn't matter how awful or fabulous the fireworks are.
In noticing this, it's arguable that this Fourth of July was one of the best. I had to work for four hours. Then I watched several episodes of NCIS with my aunt. We ordered pizza and were about to sit down to eat it when we heard a big boom. We went outside to find that the neighbors were setting off fireworks. From then on, the evening was full of neighbors and close-range colorful explosives. Isn't that the way it should be? Relaxing and thoughtful?

Sonic

No nail polish.
Only wedding bands.
Black shorts or pants.
Tennis shoes.
Hair up.
Visor on.
Shirt tucked.
Welcome to Sonic.

2 X CLA
   X+ Li
1 S COKE
3 K SPR
"CHEESE STICKS!"
"THANK YOU!"
1 L GRP SLSH
1    OREO BLST
CONE
"CHEESE STICKS!"
"THANK YOU!"

Sticky shoes.
10 Unread text messages.
4+ hours.
Sore feet.
Messy hair.
Faint smell of limes on your hands.
Odd crease across your head from the visor.
Sleepy eyes.

Here's to summer jobs.

Last Night

Sitting in the armchair with a glass of 

ice-less, watered-down lemonade.

Mom mumbles, "Turn it down..."

so Rachel yells

at Ross

quieter.

A blind fluff-ball rolls off another piece 

of furniture, heads for the door.

Screen door is opened for

the old dog who

won't know

where he 

is.

The inane cat tumbles and rolls, trying

to initiate a game with 

a dreaded roach that slimes

his way across

the floor

again.

The younger of the two brothers is

seated comfortably in a

blue folding chair. He plays

a song once or

twice with

his nose.

An overly large quilted comforter

folded backwards over the end

of the bed. "The Bear" snores;

hibernation's 

a bit

too hot.

A disheveled room, newly painted. There's

a faint orange glow as the light 

goes on, exposing a

cat, so loyal

and old,

who naps.

A long, blonde-ish ponytail. Pictures

to edit, blogs to write until

two thirty in the A.

M., since sleep is

out of

question.

Men are like government bonds: they take too long to mature.