Elementary, My Dear

I am a little ashamed to admit that I haven't bothered to clean out my bookshelves since I was around 13. This means most of my childhood companions are still on the shelf - The Penderwick Sisters, Roll of Thunder, Hear My Cry, White Ruff, The Trumpet of the Swan, Chasing Vermeer - all along those lines. I can't visit the library as often as I like, which means I frequently revisit these bookshelves. The stories are still as good as I remember, and there are constantly little bits that I read that I don't remember reading the first time. That's one of the best parts of rereading, right? You get to find new sentences you skimmed over last time. I still find new parts in my Harry Potter books, and I've thoroughly canvassed those. Thoroughly.

And yet, while most of them present unchallenging topics, I pulled from my shelf two days ago a book that was surprisingly advanced for its book cover and length. Super surprising, because this is one of those that I've reread many times - maybe five or six times? - and I've never picked up on so many subtle themes before. Is it my age? Am I finally "mature?" I can't believe that was the reason - I remember thinking nearly the same as I do today as I did back when I was thirteen, and yet even I can't help feeling a little condescension towards those in their early double-digits.

But I digress.

This book is called The Shadow Guests, by Joan Aiken. The last time I read it was, oh, maybe two years ago? Back when I was still a sophomore. The basic plot (I'm trying so hard not to spoil) is that Cosmo Curtoys (pronounced 'Curtis' - Cosmo's a stickler about that) moves from Australia to England to stay with his Cousin Eunice, a mathematician. While there, odd occurrences happen and he discovers that he is part of a family that has a curse upon it, one that dates back to when the Romans began taking over what is now the U.K.

A pretty typical plot, very predictable, but that's not why I've brought it to light. Concentrated in the middle of the book are a lot of theories about mathematics, space, time, that sort of thing. Here, have a quote:

"I began to wonder why their maths was getting better and better but also wilder and wilder - they seemed to be grasping concepts that I'd have thought were far out of their reach; and then I went out to dinner with the local Laird and his family, and when I got back the students and the whiskey runners were having a great party, playing sardines all over the castle and hunting in the dungeons for the square root of minus one, which somebody swore he had seen down there." 

 

It's not just the students grasping at concepts. Aiken mentions quite a few; I dogeared the pages that stood out the most to me. A lot are about bending time and space. It's along the lines of looking at stars as they were millions of years ago, and if there were living organisms on those stars/in those solar systems, they would look on Earth and see the volcanoes covering the surface, or the ocean forming for the first time, or maybe even the first of the Australopithecus. In short, concepts I skimmed over when I was younger.

"Can we affect what happens in other dimensions? Or can those happenings affect us?... I honestly don't see why not... After all, even if you just see a thing, it can affect you in all kinds of ways... Seeing a film can change your life. And if the sight of a thing can do that to you, then the sight of you can affect it. There's a theory, you know, that no experiment can be wholly detached and scientific if somebody is observing it. 'Dear sir, it is not at all odd/ I am always about in the quad,/ And that's why the tree,/ Still continues to be,/ In the sight of,/ Yours faithfully, God!' " 

 

Seeing a film, yes, that can change your life, but can you change the life of the film? Not likely, unless it was by your approval that it was hugely popular or your condescension that lowered the net gain of the company. So, you can change an inanimate object's life, but I don't believe the pure sight of you changes them. Not directly, of course. I suppose I see the reasoning behind the theory mentioned - as long as someone is putting on the pressure to do well, there will always be a bias. Doesn't mean I agree with it. I further researched that interesting phrase and found this page. By reading this I realized it's a limerick. Much more sense. Of course, this theory is only valid when it is given that God is real. Wait, no, there's always something somewhere. They make it seem that everything's under observation by God, but if you count beings that aren't sentient (like the film) then we are always under observation by those things too. No need for God.

"I chose to go off into the desert because I didn't choose to die in some stupid war... Wars are an outdated way of settling problems."

Why doesn't everyone else understand this? This has been my mentality since nearly forever; I remember my 8th grade English teacher showing all the boys in my class a form they had to fill out in case the Army et al ever recruited them when they were older, and thinking, I'm glad I don't have to ever be forced to go to war. This is one gender stereotype I'm moderately okay with.

Don't get me wrong, I 97.6% (there are always some people with questionable morals who enjoy it) support those that go to war to shield and defend their families, and even especially those who are drafted into a war where they aren't defending anyone, but forced to by higher powers. I've heard of the ways some people who don't support a war (mainly the Vietnam War) treat those that were a part of it. No matter the reason the war was fought, those soldiers still put their lives out on the line. It is inexcusable behavior to treat them with disrespect and contempt. The majority probably didn't even want to go into battle.

This being said, I still think there shouldn't be wars at all. Alas, I probably won't live to see those days, if they ever do come.

" 'How do you suppose that circles differ from triangles?'
  'Well, sir: triangles are all different from each other. But circles are all the same. You could put them all inside each other and they'd fit.'"

One of those things that are so blatantly obvious and yet is still somewhat of a mind-blower when you realize it.

" 'Ain't she smashing with her hair done so posh,' said Mrs. Tydings fondly, and Cosmo noticed that Eunice had her hair drawn up in a great silver-yellow sweep and looked quite like a model of a film actress - not in the least like a possible Nobel-prize winner."

 

Perhaps it's the feminist within me that cries out that it is unjust to think that a woman can be either smart or beautiful, but not both. I'm a little put off by that voice; to me it's whiny. Ah well.

Eunice had told Cosmo about ogham: It seemed a very useful and beautifully simple writing system, twenty different combinations of straight lines meeting each other; what a pity it was no longer used.

 

Here's everything: link. I wouldn't call it beautiful, but it is quite interesting. 

" 'Teach you? Wh-what am I supposed to teach you? Geometry - stuff like that?'
   ' Nay, no magic. I am a very plain fellow.' "

 

To think that geometry and simple maths used to be thought of as magical. If the twelfth century could see our age now. Or if we could see the thirtieth. 

All this and more in a book aimed at middle schoolers. And here I am, a high schooler about to go off to college,  learning new advanced maths in it.

Maned Wolf (Chrysocyon brachyurus)

How gorgeous is this thing? Deer-wolf!

It's been a while since I researched an animal/plant, so I want to resume with this guy. I can't stop looking at dem legs.

They aren't very big, only about 3 feet at the shoulder and 50 lbs. Theirs ears are quite long, about 7 inches, presumably to catch even the smallest sound. They have a reddish-brown coat with black points (muzzle, legs, ears - they're called points on a bay horse (as well as other colors), I took some liberties with transferring the usage). Their throats and the tip of their tails are white. The long fur on the back of their necks can stand on end, giving the appearance of a "mane." They live in Central and Southeastern Brazil, Paraguay, eastern Bolivia, and northern Argentina, in the open forests, savannas, and marshlands. They are omnivorous, eating small mammals, insects, reptiles, birds, bird eggs, fruits, and vegetation.

They're not completely endangered, per se, but they're a bit too close to the line for comfort. They don't have many natural predators, but need lots of open space to claim as territory. This necessity proves to be their undoing, as habitat destruction is spreading over their homes.

Fun Facts:

• They can tap the ground with a front foot to flush out the prey so they can then pounce on it. 
• Maned wolves are monogomous. Though males and females generally live solitary lives and come together only during  breeding season, they share defended territories. 
• The maned wolf is the only species in its genus.
• The maned wolf’s fox-like characteristics – the shaggy, white tipped tail and large ears – have earned it the nickname of “fox on stilts.” ACCURATE.
• They like bananas, apples, and avocados.
• Many are hunted because it is believed, in some parts of the world (probably Asia), that specific body parts contain magical healing properties. Gee, where have we heard that before? The magical western black rhinoceros, with it's all powerful "cancer-healing" horn, was declared extinct on November 6th, 2013 due to excessive poaching. The last one was seen in 2006. Seriously though! People are basically eating placebos made of ground fingernails!

Enough depression.

This song seems accurate for this post: What's My Age Again?, by Blink-182

Running Amok

As senior year goes on, I find myself caring, in various and wildly fluctuating degrees, less about what happens. Or more. As I said, it fluctuates. I'm drawing in more from strangers, and expanding my boundaries for close friends. One of my past posts, 10 Myths About Introverts, talked about common misconceptions of the socially awkward. But I want to draw slight attention to Myth #4: They can count the number of close friends on one hand. It's my senior year, I've given up on making anymore true friends, so I've just focused on strengthening the friendships I do have, because I fully intend on making the best ones last my entire life.

“It's not all bad. Heightened self-consciousness, apartness, an inability to join in, physical shame and self-loathing—they are not all bad. Those devils have been my angels. Without them I would never have disappeared into language, literature, the mind, laughter and all the mad intensities that made and unmade me.” Stephen Fry

Mad intensities? Do breakdowns count? And I don't think I'm at the point where those devils became my angels. Yep, they're pretty much still my devils. But I agree, "they are not all bad." I do not dislike the solitude I am often confronted with, but neither do I believe that I can go extended periods without contact. A book sort of meets in the middle - I am completely alone, physically, but am surrounded by fictional friends. A perfect compromise. So I guess I am, to some degree, thankful for my "devils" - they gave me the books I treasure so much.

 “Solitude is a chosen separation for refining your soul. Isolation is what you crave when you neglect the first.” Wayne Cordeiro

Isolation is... what you desire when you.... ah, ok, that one took me a bit to understand. Ok, sure, everyone needs their alone time to sit and be. I guess the reason that took me so long is that I dislike just sitting blankly without something to occupy myself with. Even when hiking, I am content to sit because I can listen. Here's a tip, if you're interested: if you close your eyes long enough in an environment with just enough noise, the world gets a lot closer, somehow, with none of the claustrophobia. I think it has a much nicer effect in a natural environment, but if you like concrete jungles better, hey, that's your thing.

“As the new work fills my notebooks, I've come to realize that the characters in my stories were so real because I really did want to get close to people, I really did want to know them. It was just easier to do it on paper, one step removed.” Charles de Lint

TRUTH.

I've done a lot of self-examination throughout my angsty teenage years, and I have concluded that, though I call myself introvert, I actually can't stand being alone. Isolation scares me, especially in a setting where it seems no one else is as alone as you are. I guess dealing with it has taken the form in stories. My protagonists are always perfect: strong, badass, the witty comment always on the tip of the tongue. Essentially, what I flatter myself to be a perfect me. The more I created ( I can't say wrote, I've rarely finished any of the stories), I realized that these were all Mary Sue's and that that was kinda bad. I try to create characters now with flawed choices and imperfect personalities. I guess I do create my own friends sometimes.

“You are the salt of the earth. But remember that salt is useful when in association, but useless in isolation.” Israelmore Ayivor

In all seriousness, I'm not quite sure what this exactly means. I think it might be dissing introverts, though. Sounds cool. Have it.

So this was basically an excuse to save interesting quotes I've compiled over the span of a couple days. I'm tired.

Here is evidence of my imagination run amok.

A good song recommended by a good friend: Kryptonite, by Three Doors Down. The actual music video's a bit weird, in my opinion; if you truly want to see it, it's somewhere on YouTube.

Scattering of Stars

The stars are pitiful tonight.

Honestly though, when I was down south in Sequoia Natl. Park, I could barely make out the only constellation I recognize, Orion, because there were so many stars in between. And I could see the Milky Way. Faintly. Just barely there. But still, it's the first time I've ever seen just a hint of it, and it was gorgeous. The fact that I was surrounded by glittering snow both "above" and around can only add to the effect I was experiencing those nights.

It was a bit of a letdown coming back home. Hey, my eyes have to actually flicker to make out the next speck of light. Oh look, there's the big ol' neon orange city, glowing away. The one time I tried to take a picture of the stars in my backyard, with prolonged light exposure, three dots came through. Three. Really? Is this what we've given up for our beloved nightlife? The problem seems so much bigger than usual when you're right in the thick of it.

I don't want to rant anymore, not really in the mood. Jasmine hot chocolate does wonders for the mind.

---

I’m lying on some surface. I don’t really know what, but it’s something, because I can feel it beneath me. I hear a whooshing sound, so I must have ears. In opening them, I discover I have eyes. 

The first thing that registers is white: bright, blinding light. I squint and use the appendage at the end of my arm to shield the glare. Hand, I think dimly. This is called my hand. I wonder with vague curiosity where the memory comes from.

Once my eyes have adjusted to the light, I let my hand drop back down to the surface. Then I can’t do much more than sit paralyzed with stupefaction, because there are an infinite number of stars spreading above me, so thick I can barely tell one from the other. The great moon hangs off to the left, and I realize its light was what blinded me when I first opened my eyes. The stars cluster around it, swirling in thick streams across the heavens. 

A handy branch hangs next to me, and I lean on it, blinking around at the scenery. I see a jungle sprouting up not a hundred meters away. In front are these massive black lumps. I listen closely, and discern that the whooshing noises are coming from those lumps. Whatever those things are, they’re breathing. Like I am. One lump shifts, and the moonlight outlines a reptilian head, curled around its body. The whole thing is lying on top of a dirt nest.

 Dinosaurs.

 I don’t know where that word came from, but I know I have to get out of here. I stumble to my left, away from those dinosaurs, as if the moon were pulling me towards itself. I start to run, but branches still whip my face, scratch my arms, and finally one giant root trips me. I extend my arms, close my eyes, and brace for impact that never comes.

---

My eyes finally open again. I’m lying on a bed, with dirty linen sheets on top of me. The stars no longer hang above me; instead, I see dusty wooden rafters. Something clinks below me, and a voice mutters odd words. Carrots, lentils, celery. I sit bolt upright, because it’s a human voice. In flinging back the dirty sheets I realize I'm wearing even dirtier linen clothes. But no matter. I hesitantly climb down a rickety wooden ladder, turn around, and come face to face with the voice.

I'm standing in a wooden room. A small table is crammed into a corner, boxes of various objects are stacked haphazardly in another, and a fireplace with a mantle above it occupies the left wall. A figure with a spoon is stirring something in a pot that hangs on a hook above a fire.

Then something strange happens. Another image flashes above the homely one. The wooden room is now made of sterile metal. Instead of a small table, there is a sleek platform jutting out from the equally smooth wall. Instead of messily stacked boxes, there is a glossy silver filing cabinet, with one drawer open. And where the fireplace was, there is a countertop with random beakers and papers strewn across its top. The light comes from a fluorescent bulb on the ceiling. And the figure is in a stark white coat.  Instead of a spoon, it holds a syringe of clear liquid.

The image is gone as soon as it comes. I blink, unsure of whether I really saw that vision.

The figure turns, and I realize it’s a woman in a dirty print dress, with a stained apron tied around her waist. She smiles at me, and gestures to the table. I realize a bowl of food is sitting there, and just then do I realize how hungry I am. The food disappears.

The wind howls outside. I tell the woman I appreciate her taking me in, though I do not remember it. She smiles at me, the crow’s feet wrinkling around her eyes. I gather up my pack, put on a heavy coat she offers me, and open the door.

It is night out, and the moon sheds silver light on black lumpy haystacks, so much like those dinosaurs. The stars are still up there, but it seems to me a few of them have disappeared. I can actually make out the sky behind the lights now. I sigh, and take a step forward. 

---

Before I even open my eyes, I feel my body rocking back and forth. The movement is soothing for a little bit, and I keep my eyes closed and enjoy the sensation. There are clumping noises above me, though. The sound reverberates in my little area. I open my eyes, and see a flat wooden ceiling above me. Sloshing noises register in my ears for the first time, and I strain to decipher where it comes from. Everywhere, it seems.

I groggily swing my legs over the edge of the hammock-net I am lying in, and stumble towards the door at the opposite end of the stiff wooden room. The floorboards pitch me towards the door and before I can stop my momentum, I burst through the door.

I find myself standing in a short corridor, the air reeking of fish and smoke. There is a ladder at the right end of the corridor, with thick yellow light streaming in through the trapdoor at the top. Staggering and tripping all over myself, I finally make it to the ladder and pull myself up.

 The air up here is fresher, though the briny smell still lingers. The wind tears through my loose garments, and I shiver. Callous voices are shouting to one another, as people rush back and forth. The floor rocks under my feet again, and I grip the edge of a crate, staring, openmouthed, around.

 I’m on a ship. Thick timbers rise up like trees around me, their trunks heavily laden with ropes and rigging. Shadows cast by brightly flaming lanterns dance on the dark shapes. I’m facing the front of the ship, and I can see the prow ascending and dipping as it crests each wave. Barrels stand in groups here and there; one barrel has been knocked down by the ferocious wind, and a deckhand runs after it, slipping in the puddles of water.

 A stocky man swaggers up to me and asks me where I have been. Leaning back a little (he did smell rather strongly), I point down the trapdoor. He grunts and gestures toward one of the towering masts.

 There’s something about this man’s voice that differs from the woman’s. The cadence was off, the lilt was different, the accents stressed on different syllables. I just couldn’t place it.

I reach the mast and run my fingers across it, feeling the rough texture. I can count the stars above me with ease, but the black space between each glowing dot has grown bigger since I stepped out of that woman’s house however long ago. I squint at the stars, but the light from the scattered lanterns blinds me, and my eyes cannot adjust to the darkness needed to see those pinpricks of light. I peer carefully at the disappearing stars.

Fresh shouts split the air. I turn as a whistling sound comes toward me, turn just in time to glimpse a dark barrel, hung on a net of ropes, swing towards me. There is no time to do anything but stand and stare at the dark shape speeding towards me. In the split second before it hits me, my eyes catch the stocky man’s, and I see him with his hands above his head, his mouth open in a half shout. His eyes are wild.

The barrel caught me in the chest. I felt it crush my sternum, felt my spine curve around it, felt the briny air leave my collapsed lungs to make room for the unforgiving wooden boards. I fly, soaring backwards, my body a knife cleaving a path through the suddenly solid air. The lights speed away from me, then shoot upwards as I begin my fall towards the sea. The air scurries out of my way, and I hit the water with such force all the air I have managed to regain is pushed right back out again. My back screams dimly with pain, and I sink face up, the edges of my eyesight turning dim and wavery. I’m too surprised to obey my instincts to kick, to swim, to reach the air receding from my crushed lungs. I can’t do much more than think, there go the stars.

 ---

I don't, I- uffa.

At least I finished this one. It's time travel. That's all you have to know.

Seriously, I'm just sitting here, asking myself, where did this come from all of a sudden? I need a hobby. Well, one that I can carry out without a horse and an arena.

I'm going to stop explaining myself. Instead, I will share a song I found on Pandora, coming back from Sequoia. I had an irrational female connection with it, as in this song, quote-and-quote, "really got to me." Maybe it's hormones. 

The Script. "This=Love"

Rising Part 2

Apologies for the late post - I was too busy enjoying a view of the BIGGEST. TREES. ON. EARTH. in Sequoia National Park. Of course, with great enjoyment comes great sacrifice - I had no service or WiFi for four days.

I realize that I should finish my no-plot/no-effort/no-idea-umm-what's-going-on-guys story I started last time. It was all just an excuse to write down a cool setting and a half-hearted attempt to add plot to it.

I'm lazy. Sue me.

---

Yes, a cliff. A cliff roughly 200 feet in the air to where it met the lip of my cave, and then extended about 100 feet more above me. It was a long one-way trip to the craggy rocks the sea washed, but I had conquered my fears a long time ago. I considered myself a very rational person, and told myself I did not have a fear of heights, just a fear of falling, and time had acclimated my senses to my airy loft.

Of course, I couldn't hide away in my cave all the time. I would surely starve. The same man who helped me with my doorway curtain had built and hung a sturdy wooden platform outside the opening of the cave that I could step on. A pulley system allowed me to  lift the platform up to the top of the cliff. When it was first built, a rail had stood on the two widths and the length farthest from me, enclosing me on three sides and leaving the cliff wall to be my fourth rail, but a strong wind had blown up from the sea a couple of months ago and smashed my platform into the cliff. Luckily, I wasn't on it at the time, but the rails had broken off and I hadn't the skill needed to repair them. I reassured myself with a doubly strong grip on the ropes and continued using it.

I reached out and pulled the ropes to me, my toes still clutching the rim. The platform swung a bit as I stepped on, but I had come to enjoy the vertigo of the sheer cliffside. It was a short fifteen seconds to the top, and when the platform stopped just below the top of the cliff I had to haul myself over the edge.

By this time the sun was a good ways above the horizon and the birds were out in full force. I stood up and surveyed the flat green plains that stretched for miles in each direction. There was a small town to the east, but I avoided it whenever I could. I didn't like the stares the women there gave me, muttering about properness and civilization.

I pitied the people in the cities. There was no quiet, no privacy, no breathing room. This place was all mine. I breathed in a deep lungful of air, exhaled, and watched the smoke dissolve into the rising sun.

---

I'm bored. So much for that.

Since I spent so much time at the national park, instead of researching a cool animal/plant I'm going to regurgitate everything I can remember about Giant Sequoias from reading/learning from the park rangers.

• What I think the Latin name is: Sequoia sempivirens giganticus. What it really is: Sequoiadendron giganteum. Ah well.
• The biggest living tree IN THE WORLD is General Sherman (biggest meaning volume, not height). It's about 2,100 years old? Idk, you'll have to check that yourself. The person who discovered it named it after Sherman of the Civil War because he had served under him. However, some other socialists bought the land it was on and wanted to call it the Karl Marx Tree. In the end, since this is 'Murica, the park people went with General Sherman.
• The seeds look like flakes of oats. 
• Fire is necessary for sequoia growth, as the heat rises up and makes the cones open and drop their seeds, as well as killing harmful insects and fungi and clearing away the duff on the forest floor so the new seedlings don't have to compete with dead debris.
• The third largest tree IN THE WORLD is the General Grant (Ulysses S.) Tree. This baby is the National Christmas Tree, in case you were wondering, and also a national monument in honor of the US soldiers.
• Their bark contains tannin, the same as redwood, which is fireproof and mostly bug/fungi proof. However, unlike their redwood cousins, sequoias have soft heartwood, making them less than ideal lumber choices. This is why so many of them were eventually saved - because people couldn't make money off them.
• The National Park Service badge/insignia -
                        
  
  
  has a sequoia on it as that tall tree because 3 of the first 4 National Parks were created to protect sequoia trees.
•  The Centennial Tree was cut down in 9 days by two men (I think, I get all the days mixed up, there was another that took 13 days) in the 1800s, cross cut and cut even more into smaller pieces for shipping, and shipped over to the East Coast to show them how big the trees were in California. Their reaction? They said it was a "California Hoax" and was assembled from many different trees.

Oh yeah, and I guess it's New Year's Day. Whoops. Happy New Year's!

Last thought: My grandma got me the book I Am Malala for Christmas, and I finished it last night. The book touched on a poem that really got to me.

     First they came for the communists,
     and I didn't speak out because I wasn't a communist.
     Then they came for the socialists,
     and I didn't speak out because I wasn't a socialist.
     Then they came for the trade unionists,
     and I didn't speak out because I wasn't a trade unionist.
     Then they came for the Jews,
     and I didn't speak out because I was not a Jew.
     Then they came for the Catholics, 
     and I didn't speak out because I was not a Catholic. 
     Then they came for me,
     and there was no one left to speak for me.
                          - Martin Niemöller

Niemöller had lived in Nazi Germany. Make of this scrap what you will.

See you next year.


***PUNNYPUNNYPUN SONG:*** 

The Final Countdown, by Europe

Rising

The first thing I saw when I came to consciousness was nothing. Strangely, it's what I always do first, I try to use my eyes above all other senses. I snuggled deeper into the folds of my blanket, tucked my head further under the edge, and kept my eyes closed, enjoying the warmth and security of a good comforter.

I had a long moment to use my other senses while my eyes enjoyed their prolonged break.

Next sense - touch. Not much use, I couldn't feel anything further than fabric. My hand brushed up against my face whenever I curled into fetal position, and I could feel one foot resting atop the other leg, pulling the leg of my pajamas askew. I felt my hair slanting messily across my face - I resisted the urge to blow it out of the way. With me on my side, gravity would pull it back down, and it wasn't like I was trying to see anything, so I let it be. The longer I focused on my sense of touch, the more I became aware of. Not so useless, after all.

I took in a deep breath and inhaled a lungful of crisp, clean air, the kind that's so cold it feels like it's purifying your lungs before your body temperature warms it up and expels it as a cloud of wispy smoke. The air didn't smell like anything, so I took another breath and this time detected something tangy and sharp that momentarily made my nose wrinkle up a bit. It was a smell I knew well, though, and I easily determined its source. I stuck my nose out from beneath the blankets, then quickly drew it back in. No more smells, as far as I could determine.

I couldn't taste anything other than my own saliva, which is basically tasteless since it's in your mouth all the time, so I didn't dwell too long on that sense.

Lastly, hearing. I could hear the wind whistling, very very softly, as it blew past my front door. Beyond that, nothing. My shelter is the strongest there is - even a concrete skyscraper can make grinding noises in a tough wind. My abode was perfectly silent. Beyond the wind, I thought I detected a gentle washing noise, but I couldn't be sure. I had buried my head after all, and that created an effective sound barrier.

I sighed. Even with everything else, so much was out of context without the luxury of my eyes. I hoped I would never go blind.

Just as I thought this, a faint reddish glow appeared. I finally opened my eyes, looking through my long hair at my hands, and beyond that, the bedsheets and a rocky wall. I watched blurry lines sharpen as the sun came up behind me, throwing the crevices in the wall in sharp relief. I smiled. My favorite part was coming.

I sat up, my hair tangled and sticking up in many odd directions. Am I usually so focused on the way my hair looks? It didn't matter. I turned to my right and stared straight into the growing glow of the sunrise.

My house is the best.

I pulled my legs up until I sat cross legged on my bed and watched the sun laboriously heave itself over the rim of the ocean. Most of the sky was still indigo blue, but it brightened to green, then to what I call seashell pink as it got closer to the sun itself, which was surrounded by a halo of cream and the shade of golden maize. The stars were hanging on until at last the green expanded to take them, and they went as silently as they had come. It didn't take long for the sun to fully emerge and change the sky into a riot of scarlet, mauve, and amber streaks, with a little bit of lavender underlining the bellies of the clouds. The ocean, eager to share in the sky's glory, took on a dusky golden hue.

And to think I woke up to this every morning. I may have mentioned, my house is the best there is.

The sunrise was shedding copious amounts of light around my little room now, and I could finally use my eyes to scan the area, making sure everything was as I had left it. My room was essentially an oblong cave that was about 20 feet across, 12 feet tall and extended 40 feet back. I had situated my bed at the very back parallel to the wall (well, as parallel as I could get it along the curved face), along with a delicate wooden nightstand next to where my pillow lay. My favorite shells lay arrayed upon it. To my left and closest to me was a modest little vanity table, with precious little scattered on its surface. Further along that wall was my dining table, a little wobbly on the rocky floor but still very stout. It had a white tablecloth draped on it, and my only vase with withered wildflowers. Dammit, those weeds never lasted very long.

My right wall was dominated by my birchbark canoe. It lay face down, its paddle next to it, and was surrounded by neatly organized boxes and crates - some stacked on a shelf (it was whipped together with driftwood and 8 nails. It's a miracle it hasn't fallen apart yet) - filled with anything I could find or afford: food, clothing, rope, cutlery, dishes, and the like. One box contained my oddities, like my bright strands of ribbon or a silver pendant without a chain. Above all  this I had hung a long rope, supported by two poles in the "corners" of the room. On the rope I hung my dried garden harvest, away from the dirt on the floor. I didn't have a place to cook it in this cave, because a fire gotten out of hand could easily trap me in a heartbeat, so I had a campfire above-ground that I hid with long swatches of grass, in case a curious backpacker came by.  In the middle of my cave lay a braided cotton rug of medium size, undyed but, for some reason, still as clean and creamy as the day it was made - which was quite a while ago. Two rugs of a more modest earthy color lay in front and behind it; the second one was close enough that my feet brushed against it when I scooted forward and stood up.

I enjoyed the warmth of the sunrise as it intensified and drove away the chillingly cold breaths I enjoyed a few minutes ago. My entire cave was bathed in light, because I had chosen last night to leave the curtains pulled back from the mouth of the cave. Someone, a long time ago, had helped me hammer brackets from which to hang the pole and the curtains - a dangerous job. He was the only one who knew about this place other than me, and he had disappeared long ago.

The sky turned a brighter blue as I brushed my hair, and my cave lost its ethereal golden glow. I set the brush down, put on some proper clothes, and walked to the mouth of my cave. My toes felt for the edge and gripped the rim like a vise, to stop me from toppling as I leaned over and stared down the craggy rock face of a cliff.

-----

I will finish this little blurb next week, as I already wrote far to much for a standard blog and because, well, I just don't feel like it. I do what I want.

Question: Why does the sky turn colors during sunrise and sunset only?

No animal summary this week, also too lazy for that. Maybe I'll add one as an edit?

HAHAHAHAHAHAHA.

Can't Look Up

What are the characteristics of a bad student?

1. Doesn't do/put effort into homework.
2. Doesn't show up to class.
3. Sleeps/dozes/daydreams during most of the day.
4. Refuses to study.
5. Procrastinates constantly.
6. Rude and distractingly loud.
7. Often refuses to follow/ignores directions.
8. Sasses the teacher and laughs about it afterwards.
9. Tries to pass off a missed deadline on a lame excuse.
10. Cheats off other students.

According to my list, I am 35% bad student. Nope, nope, nope, from what I remember of freshman year I was 15% bad student. My life has gone from average student to borderline SENIORZZZ mania. It's only a few more months before I start cutting class. Oh god, never never never. I can't believe I would even think that. What is senior year doing to my mind?

But in all seriousness, my academic life has taken a nosedive and reverse engines are failing to initiate. I'm praying that I make it through my finals. I'm praying I get into a good enough college. I'm praying I make it through my finals so I stay in a good enough college. Why do I feel so much pressure to get into a good school - and not just a good school, but a good one that people have heard of? You hear what everyone says, "just because they aren't as popular doesn't mean they're not as good." Well, yes, they can be acceptable, but the whole reason that you hear about good schools is because they produce good students, and you don't hear about the "good" schools because they don't produce as many.

I would count it as a failure on my behalf if I didn't get into a reasonably well known school, and instead got into some place out in the nowheres. When people ask me where I'm applying, I don't want to feel a sense of shame listing my schools that I applied to; I want to say a reputable name instead of having to tell people in which state a college is when they ask for my list. But I can't help it, I can't tell people the name of a high-ranking college without feeling like I was being judged, like they're thinking, "Wow, that's a reach for her. I wonder why she's shooting so high for a place that's obviously going to reject her." I wasn't good enough.

It's shameful feeling like I'm the person with the lowest intelligence level in my close, immediate group of friends. The best places judge you on your grades (which is the definition of intelligence level in this case), not so much your personality, interests, dedication, so forth. Sadly, to me, those grade-oriented ones are the only universities that count.

I want so much. I wish for the day where I can be genuinely happy in my first choice college. I wish that my closest friends will get into colleges/universities close to mine, or that we stay in close contact for many years. Or that we even end up with a happy ending.

Call me Miss Sunshine.

Welwitschia (Welwitschia mirabilis)

On a past post I put this as one of my favorite plants. Now you get to know why!

Take a good look at that picture. How many leaves do you see?

The answer is two.

It's generally accepted that it was named after the Austrian botanist Friedrich Welwitsch, who first documented it. An adult welwitschia consists solely of two leaves, a stem base and roots.  Its two permanent leaves are unique in the plant kingdom, because they are the original leaves from when the plant was a seedling, and they just continue to grow and are never shed. As you can see, they instead bundle up into a deceptive octopus mass. The two leaves are leathery, broad, and strap-shaped (I can't think of a better comparison word) and they lie in a heap on the ground. The leaves shred at the ends into length-wise strips, due to time/wind/etc., but it soon grows back The stem is low, woody, hollowed-out, and sturdy. It usually grows to about 500 mm in height. The welwitschia is endemic to the Kaokoveld Centre in Africa, spanning part of the coasts of Namibia and Angola.

Cool Facts:

• Informal sources refer to it as a "living fossil."
•  It is the only genus in the family Welwitschiaceae and order Welwitschiales.
• This succulent plant (SUCCULENT KAROO, LOOK IT UP, IT'S AN ACTUAL PLACE) can live up to 1,500 years.
• It's thought to be a relic from the Jurassic era. It hasn't changed much since.

I want a relaxing song tonight, since I have too much homework to stress over, so have the first Italian song I ever heard. I assume you ( the reader) speak English, so I found a video with English subtitles. If you are a native-speaker of Italian and are learning English, yay, practice! If you don't speak English at all but speak Italian, then that last phrase was completely redundant. Enjoy one of the best songs of your language.

Vivo Per Lei, by Andrea Bocelli (feat. Giorgia)

Derailing from Track to Track

Winter is finally here! At least, as close as it gets to winter in California.

Senioritis has really hit me hard. Despite the fact that every single one of my classes are AP, I have no inclination to study or do the homework, as long as it's not due the next day. A lot of stuff gets piled up last minute, and sometimes I don't even finish all of that. I just turn it in partially finished, or find a way to make it look finished. I do feel bad about that - I've never been one to easily cheat. But I'm growing fed up with school. I've been continuously waking up much to early for too many years, studying hard for subjects I will never touch again in college, and putting up with the stress of confining myself into social acceptances, as every single teenager has done at least once in their lives. Yes, First World problems. For an angsty, angry teenager, that doesn't mean they're still not problems.

It's getting too cold to go back to Roost. As much as I love it, I love the warmth of my bed and my cup of hot chocolate better - especially when it's coupled with a good book. Lately I've started more books than I can finish. I checked out a book last week, and before I could finish it, checked out another one yesterday. This doesn't include the unfinished two from months ago, or my English Lit book Frankenstein, or the book I have yet to choose for my independent reading for school. OR the many others I have on my to-read shelf on Goodreads.

I never thought I would say it, but there are too many books in my life right now.

I also wish I had the motivation to continue a small side project story that I started with my best friend at the beginning of summer. It's wonderful to work on, but unless it's started right, I'll never have the energy to finish it. This has become blatantly obvious - I haven't touched that Google Doc in over a month now. I've always known about this flaw of mine, though. It happened whenever I was given a new piano piece to start on that I wasn't super enthusiastic about, and especially now in AP Studio Art, where we have to churn out top-quality work in a mere two weeks (when we are used to having two months to produce top quality work. What are stress?) I come up with an idea, but if it starts out looking funky, I give up almost immediately on fixing it and leave it lying around until the deadline the next day.

If I lay here, if I just lay here, would you lie with me, and just forget the world?
-Snow Patrol, Chasing Cars

*As I was re-reading my post, I realized how scattered the topics are, so that explains my title. It was taken from another one of my posts, I don't know which.

Glaucus Atlanticus (It has no commonly used common name)

If this is not the most beautiful thing you have seen today, then you need to tell me right now what was more beautiful (excluding your significant other/idol/pet/yourself).

Please, have another picture. Can I just show you a bunch of beautiful G. Atlanticus pictures and not list the facts?

Okok, I'm done.

The glaucus atlanticus is a species of sea slug. And as most sea slugs are, these are poisonous - a human picking one up may receive a very painful sting. How do you feel about the picture above now? There are also serrated teeth in those appendages. Talk about the thorn within the rose.

This nudibranch can grow up to 3 cm, and lives in temperate/tropical waters, mostly around the East and South Coast of South Africa, European waters, the east coast of Australia, and Mozambique. It preys on assorted sea snails and such, and the dangerous Portuguese Man o' War (it's ability to do so lies in it's concentrated venom, which is more powerful than the Man o' War's. Also, it's immune to the Man o' War's venom, and instead takes it in and saves it in sacs for its own usage). Occasionally, given the chance, g. atlanticuses are cannibals.

Cool Facts:

• Due to it's unique feeding habits, the g. atlanticus cannot be bred or held in captivity without quickly killing it. 
• Due to a gas-filled sac in its stomach, it floats upside down on the surface tension of the ocean.
• Much like the great white shark, the g. atlanticus has counter shading, which means (since the g. atlanticus floats belly up) the stomach is a darker shade, to blend in with the ocean's surface from an aerial POV, and the back is lighter, to blend with the sunrays shooting down through the water.
• The not-common-enough names include the sea swallow, blue angel, blue glaucus, blue dragon, blue sea slug and blue ocean slug.

 Because I was talking about not being grateful about my First World status, here's an appropriate song:

You, Me, and the Bourgeoise, by The Submarines