Odd Dreams

I honestly don't know what brings these things into my head at night, but sometimes I have these really psychotic dreams. Here's one from the other night, and I guess what the strangest thing was, was my reaction. I would have never laughed.

Picture: a house near a street with a lot of neighbors, and with enough room to have many trees as well as a workshop next to the house. The night that I was there, there was a party going on. We aren't talking about a teenage drinking party where the music is loud and the neighbors call the police within the first hour. No, the party that I was at included mostly adults, a few young children and a witch, a bit like a July barbecue. I just happened to be sitting next to the witch on the couch and she started telling me that she liked using rocket fireworks instead of the old fashioned brooms. She took one out of her jacket/cloak, and handed it to me, explaining that, in order to use it, you have to hit the pointy end on the ground, then flip it over and hit the other end on the ground as the rocket is expanding. So I took this firework outside and did what she said, and just as she promised, it worked. Immediately after the rocket was out of sight, the mother of the household let out the family puppy, something that looked kind of like a beagle, only it was black. The beagle and I were just sitting there on the porch, looking kind of pathetic, because I didn't know anyone and he was just a little puppy, waiting to be let inside. Neither of us was making any noise but the door to the shop behind me opened and this boy stood there, letting the dog in, and silently, inviting me in, too. So I pick myself up and go into the shop, noticing first the concrete floor, and second all the old fashioned knives that looked like they could have been from the late nineteenth, early twentieth centuries. I asked the boy, "What's with the knives?" He told me that he loves old things like that, and hates to see them die out, so he makes them and collects them. It was then that I noticed all the equipment and tools in the room.

Time warp: I'm in the same shop, sitting on the couch on the far end with the little black puppy. The witch had given me another rocket, which I held on my lap. The neighborhood is burning down; every house is on fire, including the one that I started in. The shop is the only fire-proof building nearby. The boy comes bursting through the door, and I calmly shut it behind him. He yells at me, "What are you doing?!? Now my family can't get in and they are all going to die in the fire!" And you know what I did? I laughed. I don't know why, and I didn't know the family or the boy. I had no clue who they were, and yet I laughed at the thought of their skins burning off.

I think that there is something incredibly wrong with me.

Letters From My Ideal Vacation Spot

No, it's not Mexico. It's not the Caribbean. My little vacation spot doesn't even show up in the guide books. It's a little town called Donzère, existing cozily next to the Rhône river, in the west region of France. It's the kind of town that my friend would call a sneeze town (sneeze and you miss it). It's a beautiful place, with many things to see if you look hard enough. Everybody knows everybody to the point that you could walk down the street and say "Bonjour!" to everyone. I love places like this. I came across this little nook in the world during a trip to France last summer. I stayed with a French family for a week and got to know them all quite well. Two of my host sisters spoke English, as did the mother. The one that I knew best did not, of course, and so whatever we did, she would always ask the English word for it. When we played games, she would say "Encore? Qu'est-ce que le mot en anglais? and I would reply, telling her that it was "again." After receiving a letter from her towards the end of last summer, I tried to reply, but I guess my letter didn't get to her. Or her reply didn't get to me. Whatever the case, I tried to write again, through her sister's email, and when she didn't respond, I wrote another letter. The last letter went out about two weeks ago, and today, as I was getting the mail, I pulled a red, blue, and white striped envelope from the 3" by 3" mailbox. In seeing the stamp and the PAR AVION air mail sticker in the margin, I knew right away who it was from. I got updates on F.D.'s family and she asked me to come visit her this summer. I don't think that I can raise enough money by the time August rolls around, but I can certainly try. Who knows, peut-être ça va avec mes parents.

Something I Want To Say, But Probably Will Never Say Aloud

Once upon a time, when he wasn't a inconsiderate jerk, C.R. told me that he would be the biggest mistake I would ever make, or the best lesson I ever learned. As much as I hate to admit this, he was right. He was the best lesson I ever learned. I think that what sparked this thought was when I was telling him off, telling him all the things that he did wrong, telling him at a near whisper that I wanted more respect, telling him all the things that I wanted to say, and yet feeling like he wasn't listening to anything I was saying.
Well, I never really thought about that first comment about the best lesson, or the worst mistake. It registered to me that is what he was saying, but I brushed it off as just something that he didn't mean. Now that I think about it though, I realize that he was right. His actions towards me have taught me never to compromise my romantic ideals, and the respect that I not only demand, but deserve, for anyone. I know that my current boyfriend will treat me with the utmost respect, because he does the same for his mom. This goes for my father as well. He never really has respected my boundaries and for that, I don't see him.
C.R. If you're reading this (and I don't think you are, as you don't like the internet and don't know the blog address), I just want to say thank you for the lesson, because I know that if you had treated me well, I would have never learned it.

P.S. Uncle Dan and Grandma, I wanted to apologize for the uncensored post from a couple weeks ago. I was having a horrible day and I never really apologized. I think that's why you stopped reading for a few weeks. Thanks for reading guys.

P.P.S. I don't want to talk about this one, B.L. I love you a ton, but I promise this is the last you'll hear about him.

Screenplay Writing, Directing, Acting, Filming, Editing, and Producing

Filming for my music video began today. The song is Nickelback's Photograph. About a week ago, I started thinking about what I could do for my video project in Mr. MC. class. This video isn't really even close to being school related, but he said I film it anyways. Well, when I began to think about this project, I had a few good ideas, but most of them were crap. Now, I have all my lyrics and all my scenes written down so that I know exactly what and when I'm filming. The filming started tonight and my only thought on the matter is that it is very difficult to make a movie when you are the only one doing everything for that particular scene. Man, I had to move all the furniture out of my room... well, into a corner, at least. I had to queue the music, film, and act, all at the same time! Difficult! But I'm almost done for tonight. I have one more scene to film, but I'm going to have T.L. help me do it, (or at least watch the camera). It's going to be an awesome video, and if I can figure out how to post it here, I'll do it.

Déja Vu

This evening, I witnessed a little girl, standing in her driveway, saying goodbye to her father. Daddy carried her down the sidewalk and set her on her feet in the driveway, promising that he'd see her later. "Maybe tomorrow," he said. He rolled down the window of the little black truck that he was driving and pulls out of the driveway. The young girl broke her position of standing back and waving to run up to the driver's side door. She held onto the window and jumped up and down so Dad would listen to her. "Well, I can come back later tonight if you want." Upon hearing these words, the girl became excited once again and went back to standing and waving in her driveway. He pulled away, glancing back at the little girl multiple times in his rear view mirror as he left. All the motion leaves the girl as she does the same, including the animated wave of her hand. As the pick-up rounds the corner, out of the little girl's sight, she waved one last feeble wave, then turned around to go back inside.
Whether these two characters knew it or not, they had just re-enacted a dream, a nightmare that consumed me as a child. In the dream, however, I was the little girl and instead of happily waving, I screamed and cried, begging him not to leave with my grandma, and he was a heartless father who never said anything, never returned. I look at myself today, and the irony of what I see compared to that dream fails to escape me.
The cynic in me knows that when this girl grows up, her father will fall from that pedestal that she has him on, letting her down hard like mine did. Their relationship shows a lot of similarities to that of mine with my father, especially when I was that age. I've come to expect a lot less of him than I did then. And yet there's another part of me that has hope for the two. I guess that is the small side of me that hopes that my father will someday change.
That black pick-up never returned this evening.

Mail Time!

For those of you who have kids who are of a young age, you might recognize the "Mail Time" song if someone was humming the tune. The majority of my friends have little brothers and sisters who watch Blues Clues, as do I. This song literally causes happiness in everyone at getting the mail, making us believe that, today, there might be something good for us. Why else would my little cousins K.Z. and J.Z. argue about who brings the mail into the house? As a teenager, I rarely get anything exciting in the mail. For the past three months, I have been receiving letters from a not-so-special someone that I freaked out about (in a good way of course). Now all I get is the occasional college solicitation and card from Grandpa and Grandma (not that they aren't special).
So you can imagine my surprise at finding the little note in our inbox today, stating that I had a package to pick up. Hmm... wonder who it's from. Seeing as it's close to Easter, I have a pretty good guess. Besides the fact, B.A. called the other day to get my new address so she could send it to me. Yes ma'am, that's right. It was from my father. The box contained all sorts of goodies as well as a card saying that they couldn't wait to see me, that they missed me, and other cliched phrases. Oh yeah, and they love me. As I sat on the bus reading this card, I thought to myself, Ha! If they loved me, heck, if they knew me, they would know that I couln't be bribed. Pretty close to repulsion, I set the card back in the box, and don't plan to read it again. I don't really even want the goodies. I mean, breath freshener? Are they trying to tell me something?
And you would think that if they plan to send me a package, they would send my Christmas gift, too. No such luck. They still hoard it at their house, holding it over my head, trying to make me jump to get it. Sorry guys. If you aren't willing to give it, then I don't want it.

Painting in Words

I have never possessed fantastic drawing abilities. When I was younger, my mother and I took drives with our pencils and notepads, looking for a good spot to draw. One day, we stopped at the river and she came back with an excellent piece of art, whereas I came back with a bunch of circular markings that held little resemblance to the sandbar that I was attempting to capture on paper.
The other day, I sat on the bus, not really paying attention to anything, when this man (about 20-30) got on. Nothing new, right? This young man plopped himself down on the seat and immediately removed some charcoal and a notebook, as well as various other papers. Shuffling his papers until he found the one he wanted, he flipped to an empty page and promptly started to draw the figure from the loose page he was studying. His drawings, although they were of cartoon characters, were of amazing quality; the man had skills. He continued this process of selecting a loose page and drawing for the remainder of the trip, which was about a half hour long. In that half hour, this guy managed to crank out five to ten drawings.
And as I was sitting there thinking that the man could become a cartoonist, or an animator, it hit me: this man shows the world what he sees through his drawings and cartoons. He illustrates his surroundings to show others his view from the looking glass and, like him, I do the same thing with my writing. Pictures may be worth a thousand words, but words can do the same as a picture. I try hard to vividly describe my world to the people who read my writing. Another thought that came to mind was the fact that, the possibilty and chance of this man becoming an artist (be it a graphic artist, a video game artist, a painter, or a cartoonist), I have the same potential to become a writer.

Sweet Revenge

I feel really good about myself. In a few simple words, my self-esteem was raised from a level zero, to a level ninety-five on a scale of one to one hundred.
When C.R. skipped out on a meeting for me to explain my anger with him, I was pissed. I decided not to give him another chance... ever. And, oh, how ironic, I saw him at the mall on the way home. Shocking! Oh, and guess who he was with? His prostitute of an ex-girlfriend! Disturbing!
So, my brain jumped to the fight or flight response that a person experiences when they're nervous and at first I thought I wanted to hide, so I ran into the nearest bookstore; someplace that his Neanderthal brain couldn't possibly handle. Then I think, Wait a minute... Why am I hiding from him? He should be hiding from me. That being thought, I turned around and walked right back out and through the double doors marking the exit to the mall. He followed, about a minute behind. I'm headed over to Target, and then another thought occurred to me: I still have his guitar pick, and I really don't want to keep anything of his. Again, I turned around and walked right back to him.
Taking the guitar pick from my hand, he asked, "Did you buy this, or is it from a long time ago?" I replied with my own version of the latter.
He further explained that he didn't know whether he was supposed to meet me or whether I was going to call him when I specifically told him that I needed to talk to him in person.
When I turned to walk away without any explanation, he called after me. "Are you going to talk to me or what?" Without a hitch, I whirled on him and replied, "Yeah, I'll talk to you... when I feel like it. And right now I just don't feel like it."
Since that conversation, I suspect that it was him who left two blank messages on my answering machine.

Breakfast at the Bakery

I knew it was going to go badly... I had a premonition that things weren't going to go smoothly from the moment I got to his house. Knock, knock, knock. Three hard taps and no answer. Knock, knock, knock. Gone again. Having aquired blisters on my feet from the shoes that I haven't broken in yet, I slipped them off and walked around downtown for about a half an hour, checking back chez lui to see if he'd returned yet. Finding the door open, I trudge up the front walk, shoes in hand. Seeing me, C.R. gets off the couch and meets me at the door with a hug. "Did you go to the wrong place?" he asked. I told him that I had been looking for him when I didn't find him at his house. So we take off to a little bakery down the street after he grabs his new phone, something that he's "supposed to have with him at all times" so the military can track where he is, whether the phone is on or off. He didn't turn it off for me though. No, instead it beeped all the way to the bakery and through breakfast. At one point, he got a text message that said, "We're going to Mount Baker. Wanna come? Too bad, you don't have a choice," followed by a time that the sender would pick him up. After we were through with breakfast, his damned phone rang again. This time, it was his buddy, Robert, calling to tell him that he was at his house, waiting to play video games. C.R. pays, and we take off once again, back to his house. After we arrived, C.R. plops down onto the couch, and doesn't acknowledge me again. C. and R. beat the game and C.R.'s family comes home. They play for about a half hour, and his slutty ex-girlfriend shows up. Turns out that she was the mystery person who had texted him at breakfast. Great.
Flashback: He'd been looking for his dogtags all morning.
Out of the blue, he asks her if she has them. Her reply? "Yes."
She waited there in the doorway for about fifteen minutes until he starts to get ready to go. The two of us were in the process of making plans to go to dinner with his brother and I tried to get his attention to have him call me with the verdict. No such luck. He thought that it was her talking and says, "Okay, we're going!" Everything just finally hit me, causing me to realize that I mean nothing to him. Needless to say, I opened the door, calmly. Walked out, calmly. Closed the door, calmly. Walked down the sidewalk, calmly. And once I was off his property, I calmly kicked off my shoes and ran. He never followed me.

9:45 - I grab my keys and walk out of my house, shutting the door gently behind me, as not to wake the sleeping bears again. I left a note on the refrigerator, stating where I was going and the approximate time of return. There's enough info there to keep Mom from freaking.
9:59 - I arrive at the predetermined destination, hoping to find him there. His sleeping habits were horrible before he left and I can only hope that he changed while he was away. Feeling my hands tremble, I mount the stairs and deliver a hard knock to the wooden door, saying a silent prayer that he would be there, opening it with a hug for a greeting. I haven't seen him for three months, so I'm allowed to be nervous.
10:00 - Both doors to the duplex slowly swing open, neither one revealing the face that my eyes are longing to see. K.N, from behind door B, waves good morning as I ask if C.R. is there. His friend, peering at me with bloodshot eyes from behind door A, glances behind him and turns back to me. "He's sleeping," he replies. Requesting that he tell C.R. that I stopped by, I turn my back and head back the way I came, looking back every so often to see if he's following me, like I so desperately want him to.
10:15 - I arrive back at my own home, unlock the door, and push it open to find my mother folding clothes at the table, seemingly waiting for me. She hold's the opinion that he's not good enough for me. But then, in her eyes, what guy is? "Well?" she asks. Nothing, I think, but I don't want to give her the satisfaction of being right. I was met with nothing last night when we stopped too. But I so intently want her to be wrong about him, so I act like everything's fine. When asked if he was there, I know she already knows the answer. I leave a message for him, inquiring whether we still have a date scheduled tonight (although I know he doesn't check his messages. Damn him.
1:00 - My shoes have been purchased and I take them to show Mom and her co-workers before catching the next bus home. These shoes are the ones I'll wear tonight, if he ever calls me back.
1:45 - SKAT drops me off a block away from his house. I approach slowly, feeling the wobbles start again in my hands and legs. Why am I so nervous? Six short knocks later, and nobody has answered. Closed eyes and a deep breath. Today is your last chance, C.R. You had better prove that you are worth my time.
2:00 - I arrive at my house again, only to check the messages and find none from him. On Sunday when he called me, we agreed that today would be the day that we go on our date. I won't wait for him after this.

Dearest Daddy Doesn't Desire Dinner

Today was a irritable day. I rolled out of bed this morning, taking my quilt with me, which really wasn't a bad way to start off the morning. I showered and dressed, hoping to catch the next city bus downtown but I was running a little late, and didn't make it. So, I'm stuck hoofing it through the rain, down to Woodfest to get some used books. For twenty-five cents apiece, who could resist? Luckily, just as I was turning the corner, SKAT was picking up passengers at the end of the next street, and heading my way. Not only that, but there was a bus stop less than fifty meters away. So I take off at a dead sprint, racing the bus like my life depended on it. I mean, I was drowning in the torrential rain as it was. The merciful bus driver pulled up along the curb, recognizing a poor teenage girl who looked like someone had thrown water at her.
So I returned my CD at Target and managed to get home at about 11:00 after buying my books and picking up the mail, containing nothing of interest except the carabiner key chain from come college.
Almost right after I got home, I get a call from S.A. telling me that he wasn't going to come up to dinner. No, instead they had already picked a restaurant out of the Tukwilla phone book. Ha ha, and get this... they probably picked it because of the name: The Rainforest Café. And the only thing that would have changed their minds about coming up here was if there was one near me. Just before he hung up, S.A. told me to check around the area to see where the closest one was. Let me tell you this: I have lived in this Valley for eight years and am as familiar with the places and sights as I am the scars on my knees. There is not a Rainforest Café anywhere near here. I guess it's a good thing that I'm going snowboarding tomorrow. I can ride hard and sweat all this crap out of my system.
For now, I can put them off, and not visit them in their little town, while making plans behind their backs to visit my friends and my sister over summer vacation. Oh yeah, and one more thing... Twenty-four hours later, I'm still waiting for the call back from C.R. who promised me that he would "call me later".