Updates, Updates (Boring Part 1)

Good and bad news.

I've been really homesick. REALLY homesick. Like bawling my eyes out everyday. It really sucks. Nearly all of my friends got to go home this weekend, or get to see some sort of family member or friend who comes to visit them or takes them away. I've been stuck here and I will continue to be stuck here until Germain's wedding, and even then it's only a day. I guess I should stop complaining. Some people don't even really have homes to go home to, so, really, I'm lucky. I just miss it so so so so so so much and it really sucks not being able to see Pancho and Aaron and everyone. I miss Moma too, and it's going to be even longer until I see her! As soon as I get a car, though, it will be so much easier to go Home. I know I won't be able to go Home every weekend, but it will become so much easier.

Chanel and I are looking into housing this week! We're going on an apartments tour this week so we can hopefully pick out one that will be suitable for both of us and then we'll submit an application and we'll be roomies. Chanel is super duper awesome! You would all really like her, I think. I hope that everyone has the chance to meet her eventually (Mom and Budda, mostly, though, and all you homies that read this-- Anna, Jessica, Jessica, Zach?).

I didn't do so well on my midterms. I got a D on my Physics (which was the class average) and a 75% on my Psych (which was higher than the class average). Both of these classes are going to be curved, now, but it still really sucks because I studied and I actually thought I was going to do alright. So, now, because I didn't do well, I'm dropping out of SJA, which really disappoints me, but I have to do what I have to do. I'm here for academics, and that's what I have to focus on. I've been making sure to do my homework everyday and get help from friends if I don't understand something. Creative Writing and Islam are both going pretty well, but I need to get AT LEAST B's in Physics and Psych, and hopefully I'll be able to bring them up to A's. I've never NOT been an A student, really... I even got all A's last quarter, so this is going to be really hard if I get B's in two of my classes. I can't let that happen. I really can't. So, I really am quitting SJA (I was deliberating, but I think actually writing it and saying it out loud rather than questioning it out loud solidifies the decision). Also, they are cancelling all English 1C classes for freshmen and sophomores, but we can replace the requirement by taking Intro to Western Religions or Religious Myths and Rituals, which could be interesting but I was really looking forward to taking English.

Now, I'm looking into taking these classes: Spanish 4, Islam Cultures, Math for Humanities Majors, and another class that I haven't figured out yet. I'm trying to compile my tentative schedules (another reason I had to drop out of SJA was because our big March 4th protest conflicts with my Creative Writing and Islam classes AND my registration period for classes, which can't happen. I HAVE TO REGISTER AT THE TIME ALLOTTED TO ME OR ELSE I WILL MISS OUT!!!). Ugh. This really sucks. I don't want to have to quit because I made a commitment and I feel like such a jerk for quitting, but I have to do what I have to do to make sure my grades stay up and I get the classes that I need next quarter.

I just realized that this is really boring, but it's nearly 3 in the morning and I'm tired and grrrr arrrgh, so I guess I will close with (until tomorrow when I write one that's in greater detail and more upbeat)

I want to get a hamster for next year, but I don't know if it's really a good idea. I guess I can go into more detail tomorrow. I guess all this really does is serve as a reminder to write about getting a hamster. Alrighty. Until tomorrow.

My Name is Frickin' Awesome

It's raining.

This morning, I sat down in my Creative Writing class. I was fashionably early today, although I am usually early for that class. I wasn't paying attention to the clock today, though, and the previous class was let out early, so I sidled into the lecture hall and took my normal seat (front row, third from the right in the middle section). As I listened to the heavily-accented biology professor scold one his students for not completing the reading assignments, a neighbor two seats away from me turns and says, "Grey screen animation never really caught on." (This is the same guy who turned to me the first day of Psychology class when the lights went out and said, "Dark places for dark business.")

I turned to him? "What?"

"Grey screen animation never really caught on." Again, I repeated, "What?..." However, this time I meant, "What?" as in, "What are you trying to say?" "Grey screen animation never really caught on." "What are you saying?" "Grey screen animation never really caught on." "What ar..." "Grey screen..."

"Stop! I know what you're saying. I don't know WHAT you're saying," I interrupted, "You've said that five times, now tell me WHAT you're trying to say."

"Nothing, it was a bad joke." I shrugged and looked back toward the line of the students and the professor, wondering what they all wanted to talk to him about. I thought for a moment and turned back toward my neighbor.

"Your name is Jason right?" I had convinced myself the previous lecture that his name was Dan or Mark or something like that.

"Yes. Your name was?..." I answered, "Heaven." Pretty straightforward, although I usually have to repeat it once until people believe me. He looked at me inquisitively. "What?"

"Heaven." Once again, I said my name. His face didn't change however. "My name is Heaven." This time, as I am accustomed to doing, I pointed the chewed cap of my pen toward the ceiling. He looked at me stupidly, his face scrunching up a little bit, eyebrows going up. "You're talking to an Atheist, so..."

"So?"

"You're talking to an Atheist?"

SO WHAT IF YOU'RE AN ATHEIST?! Seriously. Just because you don't believe that people are going to Heaven after you die doesn't mean that you can refuse to acknowledge my name, especially when you ask. I didn't really say this to him, but it was running through my mind. Instead, I said something about my mom being an atheist and how I still had a biblical name, although it was not from the Bible itself.

"Your mom has a twisted sense of irony, no offense." As we all know, no offense is just the way to say, "I'm going to be rude now, but I'm hoping you won't take it the wrong way." Well, anytime anyone says ANYTHING about my mom, or any of my family, I get heated up. First he refuses to say my name because "he's an atheist" (oooh i don't believe in God ooooh what now!) but now he's saying stuff about my mother. I quickly shot back,

"You don't know my mother so you better not say ONE MORE THING about her." He opened his mouth to say, "I was just saying your mom has a twisted sense of irony." At this point I said, once again, "You don't know ANYTHING about her, so I would suggest we stop talking altogether now." I nodded my head vigorously with finality and turned my attention back toward the book in my lap. And that was that.

Seriously, though, what kind of a JERKFACE can ask my name and then NOT SAY IT just because it's got to do with my name, and then go and start talking nonsense about my mother.

My name is frickin' awesome. I used to think it sort of sucked because everyday I get a new joke about my name, everytime I meet someone new I get a song sung to me. But you know, it's not so bad anymore. I let it slide the first time and just point out the fact that nearly nineteen years of jokes is enough and it's starting to get annoying (especially the one where they say "You have a first name for a last name and a last name for a first time." No, I really think I have a first name for a first name and a last name for a last name.)

Anyway, that's enough of my ridiculous banter. My name's awesomesauce. Ye-uh!

Social Justice and Making Myself Vulnerable

I joined a club, I am proud to announce. The club I joined is called the Social Justice Alliance. We're like the small number of kids on campus who actually seem to care about equality among people (all people) and what the government is doing to the education system, especially in California. We're organizing a huge protest and day of action (well, we're the ones who are trying to get it going in Riverside/The Inland Empire) but it's a statewide thing. It's called "March Forth on March 4th" and basically we're going to be protesting the tuition hikes/budget cuts, and how more money is going to the federal prison system than is going to schools now (if I got that right), or it might have been the same amount of money is going to school as is going to prison. That's seriously an issue, I would say. We're paying for an education that keeps getting worse and worse while the people who teach us (if they're lucky enough to keep their jobs) are also getting their salaries cut and the people who are above them, the UC Regents, keep getting pay increases. In fact, UCR is looking for a Vice Chancellor. As if we need a new one when half of the English department is getting wiped out, without even mentioning all of the other classes that have been eradicated or cut-back. It sucks. We're all paying a crap ton of money to come to this school and pretty soon everyone is going to be feeling the affects of it. I'm rambling and getting off topic. The point was that I joined the Social Justice Alliance, and that I'm helping to organize a protest. Everyone's really nice that I've met, and everyone's super passionate about what we're doing. Tomorrow (Saturday), we're going to be making signs and t-shirts, writing letters to the editor and drafting up more flyers, while also making little crafty things to sell. What I've noticed is that the leaders of the club, especially the ones that inspired me to join, are all super hippies. They're the dudes who rock dreadlocks and cotton shirts and sit in drum circles. I've always wanted to sit in on one of their circles but I've always been too shy, but now I'm learning their names and getting to know them, so maybe eventually I'll be able to.

Oh no. Aaron always warned me about staying away from the drum circles in Golden Gate Park, but look at what I'm doing! I'm trying to get in on the only one at UCR. I always knew that's where I was going. Maybe I'm not one of them, but it's okay to be friends with them, you know. I don't see a problem in trying to meet the people whom I admire. So, it's pretty cool.

I'm actually going to be a security person at the protest (hopefully). It's a peaceful demonstration, so what I have to learn how to do next week is to manipulate someone who could be getting in my face or the face of someone who's in the protest. Eddie (one of th leaders) did a pretty good impression. His eyes got wide and his palms went out in front of himself a little bit and he kind of backed up, saying, "Dude, you're scaring me." It's going to be pretty cool to learn how to do that. I can implement the training in different situations in life too. Hopefully it will help me be less of a confrontational person. I'm not a fan of confrontation, but at this point I have no problem with standing up for someone (verbally or physically) when the time calls for it. I have to learn how to not be like that. It's not a good mindset, and I don't REALLY have that mindset often, but sometimes it just comes out. Anyway, that will be pretty neat. It will help me judge my reactions better as well as those around me who are also confrontational.

In other news, I have successfully become a Jew. I've been saying I was Jewish for the past seven years (because I am!) and people here (the Jews!) are saying, "Yeah, you even look Jewish! Except your nose!" My friend Anthony (not a Jew) and Danny (super-Jew) were talking about it and they said, "Jewish girls either look super Jewish, or they look like Heaven." I thought that was really cool. Danny went on and said, "Except for the nose, which is weird because that is usually what gives Jews away." But, seriously, I feel totally Jewish. I have stopped eating pork 100%. Yesterday, I went to get sammich at the sammich shop by my dorm building and the sammich I got was deceiving: It said Turkey and cheese but it was really HAM AND CHEESE! The Turkey and Cheese sticker had been stuck over the Ham and Cheese sticker and I didn't notice until I had already paid for it and gone back to my room. Luckily it was unopened. It was busy in Logo's (sammich shop) that afternoon, and when I went to tell the student lunch ringer that I couldn't eat the ham for cultural reasons, she said, "Did you get it today? I don't remember your face." She had looked me right in the eye when she rang me up, yet she didn't remember my face not five minutes later. "Seriously, I don't remember your face." What I had to do was go dig my receipt out of a trashcan FULL of receipts, show it to her, and then I was able to switch my impostor sammich for a REAL turkey sandwich. And then I ate it and Rawr. It was good.

So, I guess now I'm going to share somethings that I wrote in my Creative Writing class. We're doing this project called "56 Publishing Project" and this was the first REVISION draft that I did (off of the topic : write about a picture you see everyday). Tell me what you think!

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In this photograph, you are a prince in commoner’s clothing. I have always suspected that was the truth, but you would never admit it, even if I were to ask politely. You hold your head high, chin tilted toward the lens, as if to say, “I do not fear today nor tomorrow, and neither should you.” Your yellow shirt, dyed by the dandelions your father used to rub under your chin, absorbs the sun’s rays ; for a moment, it seems as though they are actually pouring from your heart and emanating from your skin, engulfing the yellow in purity.

That was the day your father asked you, “Do you love her, son?” and you responded, “I love the idea of her.”

Golden thread is spun into your black jacket, braids of fountains and flowers. Your jacket reminds me of the courtship of the phoenix—they are the true hidden Mahdi—and the potential that this burning love could last until the end of days. These embroideries are memories of when you would sail your ships, proclaiming a life of piracy. Whoever said a pirate had to be a scoundrel? The only one I’ve ever met is a gentleman and a star-gazer, a puppeteer and a philosopher. You teach children weather conjuring incantations in their native tongue, and someday you will whisper these same spells to summon a wind that will take you to the middle of the Mediterranean. I think once you get there, you’ll stay.

An intricately woven sash is tied around your waist, a carefully cultivated botanical garden. Here grow tulips and butterfly bushes, plumeria and splashes of lavender. I think you wear it to keep your secret garden locked within; one time you coughed and I swear I saw a monarch flutter from your lips. You played it off like nothing happened, but I know of the beauty you conceal.

“My only real motivation in life is that everything has the potential to be beautiful.”

This garb, you said, belongs to your father from his village at Home in Turkiye. When you stay too long in California, you start to feel trapped. This is home, but it’s not Home. Home is where your spirit runs free, where you can hear the sound of your Mother’s breathing. Here, her voice is raspy from a recent asthma attack. At Home her voice is soft, singing, rejoicing, “Holy, holy to the Lord.”

The Earth is your Mother, the Sky is your Father. That is how I know you are a prince.

Your surroundings are really unimportant. Vines grow up a trellis and a fern stretches its fingers toward the wooden patio planks beneath your feet. The misty blue sky is imprisoned behind stretching branches of red and green leaves. I would usually say that this composition isn’t all that great, but it’s your posture and the angle of your chin and your hands tucked behind your back and the slight curve of your eyebrows and the calm written on your lips that really get to me. They are enough to make me break down and cry for “what is not but could be if.”

All I can really think to ask these days are trivial questions. Why? I feel as though I’ve wasted too much time and I’m never going to be given the opportunity to ask you what really matters. Why couldn’t I have just called your name that afternoon I saw you, if only to just smile and wave before continuing on my way down the hummingbird trail. If only: two of the most bitter words on my tongue—they break my heart a little bit every time I sigh, every time I get lost in the weaving of my shoelaces or the cracks in the sidewalk.

How do I stop loving this stranger, this prince of supernovas and shadowpuppets? Will there ever be a starry night when I am the manifestation of the cotton princess? Will I ever be the one to hold you back when you try to walk into the deep to hear the talk of the sea? The girl that runs beside you in a pack of wolves? It would suffice, even, to gaze into your coffee eyes and find my home away from Home—you—my prince of dreams, my prince of possibility, my prince of…

My prince of…

I don’t know. It doesn’t matter. You’re just perfect and your mother is lucky to have you. There is no chance that I ever will.

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I guess that's all for now. I'll add more as the weekend goes by

On Fathers (formal craft exercise)

We had to write a piece in class about someone who is really important in our life, and then we had to go back and edit it. This is what came out of me. I like it best. :)

My dad is the sort of person who will never be called Daddy. He is not my biological father, but he is my real dad, as far as I am concerned. He is the sort of person who will forever conceal the shape of his chin and the whiteness of his neck behind a curly mass of red beard. In fact, I don’t remember the last time I saw my dad without a beard; I was too young, or the beard is too prominent a figure to allow me to remember a recent shave. However, I do remember when my dad stopped smiling in photographs and began to scowl instead, proclaiming the civil war will come again. My dad—my real dad—is the sort of person who digs holes, miles of trenches; who installs sprinkler systems ; who lays sod. He is the sort of person who smells like fresh cut grass, dirt, and sweat when he comes home from work in the late afternoon. In the evening, the smell of hot water and soap wafts from skin and drips from his beard and the monotony of hours of landscaping dissipates with the steam being sucked into the bathroom fan. Even after hours of labor, although his engines are in need of rest, his work does not end. Somehow, he manages to make time to take a stroll around the block with his little son and vacuum the artillery of white hair from his couch and cook dinner for his girlfriend. Finally, without fail, he calls his daughter, if only for a moment, to tell her he’s proud of her and that he misses her. I would not surrender him for anything this world could offer.

I'm Gettin' on a Plane and Headin' to California

Well, the REAL California, as in Norcal! First plane ride ever in a month from now. I'm scared and excited and nervous and holding my breath and anticipating it. If I get super nervous when I'm on the plane, I don't care who it is, I am going to explain to my neighbor: Hi, this is my first time flying in an airplane and I'm sorta freaking out right now, playing LOST scenarios in my head, do you mind holding my hand for the next five minutes or however long it takes.

Yes, that will be me. I feel weird going to Norcal, too, without actually going Home. Germain's wedding is good too, but, you know, the allure of going Home, within an hour and a half, and I won't even be able to go Home. And, like I said, I'm not going Home for spring break, either. Stuck in Socal for six more months. Oh, how fun. Pancho better show up at the wedding in a red sweater, or else I will be sad to not have seen him. I'll find a way to sneak him into the hotel, just you wait.

Anyway. I just emailed Aunt Joni the flight information and I decided that now would be a good time to announce:

I'm gay...

No, I'm just kidding (it seemed sort of fitting. Haha). To announce that I actually AM getting on an airplane of my own free will. UGH. I'm so nervous. I wonder how I'll feel when I'm actually at the airport on March 5th. Goodness, who knows what that will be like. I guess it's good practice, though, to get ready for Japan and Danmark and Iowa (grad school?) and New York ('cause I'm going to be that awesome) and anywhere else I need to go.

But just imagine if the plane got sucked into some vortex and I ended up in the 70's on some hippie Dharma island with a smoke monster and Ben Linus. I would totally join Sawyer and Juliette in trying to get everyone off the island. And what's up with John Locke? Alive or dead?

ONLY SEVEN MORE DAYS UNTIL THE FINAL SEASON STARTS!!! YESSSSS.

(to be continued...)

Change of Plans (part 1)

There is so much to do in L.A. in the next few months that I don't even know how I'm going to do it all.

Next month is the HEAT Music Festival, which is held on the UCR campus. All students were given one free ticket, so I stood in line for nearly three hours to get it because I thought that this was the only day that they would give away tickets. A week later, I have discovered that free tickets are still available without the long lines. The line-up isn't very good, but it's music and it's free, so I'm going anyway. The bands that are playing are: The Crystal Method, Atrak, Shiny Toy Guns, Sick Puppies, New Boyz, Steve Aoki, Far-East Movement, and Taking Back Sunday. Taking Back Sunday is obviously the big headliner, and I was never really a fan of Taking Back Sunday, but I did like a few of their songs that were played on the radio in the past, so hopefully it's still a fun time with friends.

Coachella is also coming up and Aaron is trying to hook me up with a ticket or two so that I can get in and hopefully bring a friend. There is no doubt about it: I am DEFINITELY missing school that Friday and going for all three days. (My 'F' key keeps sticking. This sucks.) The line-up is amazing... the headliners almost every night is someone that I have been dying to see. If Aaron can't get me in somehow, I think about it like this:

The festival costs $300 ($269, plus tax). I can go for three days and see about twenty bands that I WANT to see, plus get to know some new bands that I have never heard or seen before. If I went to go see the bands that I want to see at Coachella individually (at the Wiltern, the Fillmore, different venues in L.A. and San Francisco), it would end up costing me the same amount, if not more, to see only a few of those bands. It sounds like a deal when I think about it that way! So hopefully all works as we are planning it to work. If not, we're going to have to figure this out quick, as April is fast approaching.

Another thing: I am probably not coming home for Spring Break. Spring Break is only a week long, but I was planning on taking a bus or even an AIRPLANE from Ontario to home, or Kat was planning on going to San Francisco so I was going to bum a ride there from her and then get home somehow from there (a lot easier than getting home from L.A.).

But, as it turns out, Aaron is going to be playing SXSW with Aaron E, Ariana, and Jason, and they will also be playing another show the Wednesday of Spring Break in L.A. So, the new plan is for me to try and stay at someone's house in L.A. (Joel's, if someone is going to be home while others are at SXSW, J.P, if/when I ask nicely). I'm going to figure this out. Then, hopefully, I'll be able to go that show on Wednesday, and then have a few days to hang out with Aaron in the L.A. area before heading back to school for the last quarter of my first year.

Everything is going by so fast. I'm already almost halfway through Winter Quarter and I feel like I've only been here for a week. Time seems to be speeding up, but maybe it's just because I'm using more of time instead of just sitting around doing a whole lot of nothing.

Well, this is just the first installment. I've got to get some homework done, but I'm going to be writing more about this schoolweek sometime this weekend.

:)

On Fathers (personal)

Goldberry Long asks us to be vulnerable, so I am going to be vulnerable, and this is part of it.

Lately, I've been thinking a lot about my dad. Well, not my dad, but my biological father. The way I see it, Aaron Burtch has been and will continue to be the only real dad I'll ever have, and that's all I want. He's the best guy I know and I love him just as if he were my dad. Well, because he is.

Anyway, off topic. I've been thinking a lot about Clint and whatnot and it's really starting to bug me. I don't know anything about that side of the family-- I don't really have any strong desire to be part of that family, since I've never been in the past (with the exception of Jared and Emmeline, I don't really care to start now). But what does bother me is that I feel like a bad person when I think about it. I know Steve Lindsey (my grandfather) has the desire to be in contact with me, but after years and years of not speaking, I don't know what to say. Yeah, you're my grandfather, how have you been? This is what I have been doing for the past eighteen years of my life, thanks for noticing. I guess I must care somewhere since I harbor such strong negative emotions, but I think anyone could have a similar reaction. Ugh. I don't know.

What does bother me is that... I just want to know why. Why was I left like that? Why did everyone have to lie to me and let me figure it out on my own? Why did he do it? I don't understand. And I guess I don't really want to understand that much, I just want to know if, whatever affected him can affect me to. Am I prone to sadness and depression? I've had to fight it for a long time, but I'm usually pretty happy and upbeat these days. I don't think I can act well enough to fool everyone into thinking I'm a happy person. That's good. But I had to make the conscious decision to be happier. For the past year and a half, I have had to remind myself that life is beautiful and that there is always something to live for. Butterflies in spring. Sunshine on my skin. Holding hands with my best friend. Riding four hours on the bus to see my mommy. Pancho's warm tongue on my nose. Untying Aaron's boots after work. It's all worth it, and I wouldn't trade it for anything or anyone. Everything happens for a reason, even if it's not how you expected it to happen. What's done is done and there is no going back, there is only looking forward. It's cliche, but it's true.

Now, for vulnerability. For my Creative Writing class, I have been asked to write about something from my childhood that had a significant impact on my life, and I wrote about my father. If my dad hadn't died, who knows what life would be like now, and I guess I'm just expressing my anger and my frustration that I've built up for years and years and years, and I guess I'm going to share them on here. If I'm going to make myself vulnerable to strangers, why can't I make myself vulnerable to my Family. After all, you are the only One I've got.''

***Warning Warning Warning*** DUE TO THE GRAPHIC NATURE OF THIS POST, VIEWER DISCRETION IS ADVISED*** (NO REALLY. I DROPPED SOME F-BOMBS. YES. I DROPPED THEM. REALLY.)***

"besides, I've already got one"

My father died when I was four--

NO.

Stop.

Let me rephease:

My father killed himself when I was four year old.
People used to try to tell me

You don't know how much he loved you

Heaven Leigh

(for emphasis)

They say
He would have done

anything for you.

But I say NO. I say STOP. I say

YOU don't understand.

My father was an asshole,
a fucking selfish coward,
and I'm glad he's dead.

I am glad he's dead and gone.

This was written for my creative writing class. This one doesn't drop any f-bombs, but I was trying to remember what the funeral was like. This is what I came up with. Don't know if what happened in this actually happened, but I was four. Give me a break:

I crawled between the pews across the brown, corkboard carpet—you know, the spotted kind they put in classrooms because it’s cheap. I had no worries of red splotched knees or palms as I made my way across the aisle, from my maternal side of the family to my paternal. I giggled as I made my way to my Uncle Jared. He looked at me, wiping a rolling tear away from his cheek and placing one index finger against his lips and pursing them, silently informing me to be quieter. I crawled back to my mother, seated in the second row from the front. I don’t remember if she was crying, but I remember going home later that night and being locked out of the room—I could hear her sobbing and shrieking from within-- and I knew I should not disturb her. She was only twenty-one. Back within the confines of the pink wallpapered, fluorescently lit church sanctuary, I was aware of the separation of my family—my father’s family sat in the middle row of pews, all dressed nicely in clothes I cannot remember and silently sobbing, my mother’s family to the right of the building, some crying, some silent. I thought all of the crying was a game—could I cry too? I sat down on the pew and did my best to squeeze the tears out of my eyes and whimpering, emulating the adults surrounding me. My attempts failed, so I gave up and continued to crawl from family member to family member, giggling once again. Beside the light squeezes or the forced smiles to acknowledge my presence, all gazing toward the coffin that rested in the front of the room. A picture of my father and I, surrounded by a wreath of flowers, perched on an easel beside the coffin. I don’t remember the service, only the division of my family (the only time I remember having been in the same room with both sides of my biological family), and going to sit on the stairs near the coffin to look at the picture of my father and I. I inquired of his absence. Where is dad? Why isn’t dad here? No one could really answer, nor could anyone look me in the eye, without choking up. Outside, after the service, I sat on a brick wall, kicking my legs back and forth. My grandfather had walked to the grocery store and bought me a single blue balloon. I held it by the string in my little hand for a moment, until my grandma told me I should let it go. Lose it to the atmosphere? Why? Why would I let this balloon go? “So you can share it with your daddy.” I still didn’t understand, but I looked toward the sky and unclenched my fist, releasing the balloon, watching as it twirled and swirled into the sky. My memory fails when thinking of what happened between the time of releasing the balloon and sitting in my booster seat, watching the landscape pass from the back window of the car. I don’t remember much of the funeral, but I do remember this: As we were driving, my cousin Germain sat beside me, talking to me and looking out the window. It had cleared up and only one cloud was left in the sky, stretching across the sky like a giant, pale hand, reaching for something unseen. Germain turned to me. “See that cloud?” Yes. “That’s your daddy, going to get the balloon you left him.” He began to wave to my daddy, so I began to wave as well. Bye, Daddy. Bye. Byebye, Daddy. Byebye.

So, yes. These are what I wrote. I hope no one gets too offended, but this is what is going on inside of me as of now. My professor is always talking about how we write about what we know (how do we write about something we don't know? it doesn't really work), and this is part of what I know. Yeah. I guess I'm done for now. Next blog will be more school related (but I guess this one is too, if you think about it).

TWO MORE MONTHS UNTIL I CAN COME HOME FOR A WEEK. YES!