A Christmas Time Memory (I know its not even thanksgiving, but seems like a good time)

Christmas time at the Adams family was once filled with memories of wafting bacon in the morning to wake you up and beautifully wrapped gifts under a tree surrounded by greenery, adorned with singing red birds bringing the joy of Christmas- that was until my brother was born, which was even before I came in and disrupted the solemn beauty of a quite Christmas at home. Yes Christmas was once celebrated at the Adams house with wreaths, candles, greenery, and trees. Now it contains suffocation, more than surprising gifts, and learning opportunities that exceed anything ever thought before.                   

My brother has filled my mind with delightful Christmas memories. He has evolved from a young boy to- well I was going to say man but really just- an older boy. A young slim child, to a bulky, no necked, college student with a tangle of hair on his head, to a business man with a pressed suit, slicked hair, and 50 pounds lighter, but one detail has always remained with Will no matter what he looks like: his spunk and ability to enjoy life and help others enjoy it as well. He has been known to suffocate his sister, give slankets (yes slankets), and convince some that the dog is truly gifted and very intelligent.

                  First, I'll start with the suffocation. My brother enjoys watching Christmas time football while I can see no joy in watching grown men throw their oh-so-built bodies at each other. Other than tight pants and gorgeous faces I can see no reason for watching football. During the Christmas season I would try to change the channel on the tube when my brother exited the room only to be reminded when he came back what two hundred and twenty pounds feels like. Yes, my brother would sit on me till I would give him the remote. He would sit on me and suffocate me almost to the point of death so that he could watch his beloved boys in blue pile up on each other and slam their bodies into the ground. Although I might have lost a few too many brain cells through this monotonous action I never could stop laughing when he sat on me. For some reason air rushing from your lungs gives you the unceasing urge to burst out in the giggles. True it did not help me breathe back in, but I am alive today and can attest for the loving brother-sister relationship some know so well.

Guilty again, my brother is famous for giving the most amazing gifts. The boy is 27 now and still contains this unique talent for flabbergasting people with the stupid amazement of certain gifts. This year my brother bestowed upon me an oversized, light blue, fleece blanket, with sleeves, and a collar. This invention is more commonly known as the Slanket. Yes- slanket (sleeve and blanket put together (original- 'I know')). On receiving this year's slanket from my brother I pulled it out of its plastic case and was speechless. Amazed and confused, "Oh, a... slanket? Thanks... so... much." (Followed by a pregnant pause). I stood up and put it on walking around with a blue train trailing 4 feet behind me. Then I realized the pure genius of this remarkable gift. I have always been cold in my house. I would attempt to cover myself in blankets but am never able to cover my arms: my bottom half steaming hot while my top half is freezing cold. This blanket solved the whole problem: I could sit and never be cold again. Standing up with the slanket strung around my shoulders like a victorious superhero I proclaimed, "Mwahhahahahahah! I have defeated you North wind. Never again shell I be stricken cold!" Although met with dumbstruck, uncertain amazement, the slanket ended up being the most useful present I received. "Thanks bro."

                  To end this precise record of my brother's famous misdoings during Christmas, you must hear of his famous dog- Lucky. This record would be incomplete without it. Lucky was the family dog- a gorgeous black lab, who loved people. On a Christmas Eve night before I was born Will attempted his most amazing sneak ever: Will taught the dog to open presents. On Christmas Eve Lucky- trained by Will- went into the family room and proceeded to open the presents under the tree, but not all of them- Will had trained Lucky to read- so Lucky only opened the presents with Will's name on them. My brother did not want to spoil anyone else’s surprises; he only wanted Lucky to be trained so he sacrificed his surprise for the betterment of the dog's education. This Einstein bred dog proceeded to do as he was taught and then went back to his bed and waited until everyone was up to receive a well earned pat on the back from his master and teacher. Remember: Will did not open these presents on his own (if you haven’t figured it out yet this is all sarcastic: dogs can't read: Will got impatient and went down and opened all of his presents before Christmas morning.) Oh! No! The dog was just naturally that smart. And till this day, Will has stuck with that story.

                  Truly my Christmases are filled with joy. There is nothing more enjoyable then being suffocated, flabbergasted, and tricked all at the same time. If my brother hadn't been there for me during my exhausting Christmases I never would have enjoyed all the laughs he has given me throughout my life. I really do enjoy being with my brother. He brings me happiness and the occasional giggle. Now he is a very successful business man in Dallas and I am glad to say that these events have not come back to haunt him... yet. Though possibly now that I have written them down in this 'eulogy' he will receive some consequence and finally the younger sibling will receive her come-up-ance.

Two Stories

Cane sat a while at his mahogany desk. His left hand pulled at the bridge of his nose, stretching the skin into a vibrant pink hue. His right hand was thumbing the corner of his yellow legal pad. The pages passed so quickly from the zenith of his thumb to the rocky bottom of the blank yellow pages, that they blurred in a speedy brush stroke. Although he willed it so, Jerry could not fix his mind upon any subject specific enough to satisfy his quivering pin. Tracing the same scribble he had for the previous ten minutes he willed the words out, his brow turning an increasingly darker shade of pink.

To will the pen upon an end,

Create a world with just your hand

To mask outlined reality

And splash a watercolor soft imagination

*************************************************************

This story is not about me. I am just waiting. Not like Jona was waiting, but in my own way. Jona waited in the belly of the dark cavernous alleyway. Fire escapes climbed, bone like, up the sides of the adjacent buildings, and trash dumpsters floated stagnantly, like dead fish, waiting to be gutted. Jona’s hands were sweaty inside his jacket pockets. Rubbing his four fingers with hi thumb, he had rubbed the pads raw. A loud bark sounded at the back of the alley. Tony and Cobain sauntered out of the disapaiting steam seeping from the sewer drains, breathing under the sculpted dumpster.

Tony pierced Jona with a charcoal pupil, “So have you got it?”

Jona’s lips quivered and his fingers twitched in heartbeat, metronome clicks, “well… half.”

“All I ask of you is if you had it. You said you did- you don’t. I wash my hands of you.” Tony turned on the ball of his Armani tux shoes and paced away with Cobain at hi side. Cobain’s hips sauntered with an arrogant pop in each step. They both disappeared into the fog and Jona stood with his arms outstretched and forgotten as they began to quiver. 

Tommy- and the color question.

The Who's musical creation Tommy, has created a heated storm in the Dallas regional theater. Not only has it shattered the lines between traditional theater and blow out rock concerts, but it has also taken a complicated story and painted it on the stage to apply to multiple families, religions, and races across the world. 

Tommy typically cast with caucasian Brits staring as the main characters, bursts with racial color. The lines it crosses, with the colorblind casting and appreciation for the cross culture message allows Tommy to be accessed and enjoyed by everyone. The family unit, is unexpectedly a cross-culture mix of Middle-Eastern, North-American, and African-American. This interesting transition across the color line, pushes our generation out of its comfort zone, and into spectrum rarely experienced by the Dallas community. By seeing an African-American in a traditionally white part, we have taken the courageous step of moving from a racially driven society to a more meaningful societal standard. 

To question the situation even further, I wonder if this situation can transcend reality. If we can complete the theatrical circle and take a colorblind situation on stage and put it into our everyday lives. Is it possible to be colorblind, or are we all simply doomed to judge a book by its cover?

England Bound

I've always had this nagging feeling that I haven't been in the right place. I have always lived in the city- grown up around cars, sky scrappers, and gas guzzlers. When I was younger my father would take me and the rest of the family to my Godfather's ranch. It really was it. It was out in the open, with life, and air. It was full of horses, pecans, and hay. (So that might not sound amazing to you, but when your a child who lives for adventure and feels closed off in a city with too many walls, and blinding lights, you long to be in the soft glow of the stars, and having your day planned to the punch the freedom of going to the ranch is cool air filling your lungs.) 

When I was out there, I loved to explore. I was a very wired kid so the first couple of trips it took me a while to figure out that, I wouldn't be waking up and watching Scooby Doo. I remember wanting to just ride my horse into the mountains and explore all day. I just wanted to look at everything, and find places that no one had seen before. I wanted get lost in the country. Unfortunately when we would leave I would be thrust into a happy life of sign posts again, where you couldn't get lost if you tried (or at least I couldn't). 

My father grew up in England. His mother was born there, and then when he was in his teens they moved over here to Alabama. (Why they picked Alabama, I don't know.) So every now and then my father would take me over to England to visit my family there and get to know them. I was so excited to go to England. It is one of my favorite places. My cousins and I would ride are bikes up and down the streets, and I could get lost just following the horizon. 

I think I felt more comfortable searching the country inside the island of England, then I do speeding the familiar streets of my 'homeland'. 

Junior year I plan to go for a year long study in England. I guess it is me kind of testing my British legs. I will be able to see if that really is the place for me. 

Writing

I m sorry about not posting in a while, but I haven't had enough to say. Here is something I wrote near the end of the school year- thoughts?

Cane sat a while at his mahogany desk. His left hand pulled at the bridge of his nose, stretching the skin into a vibrant pink hue. His right hand was thumbing the corner of his yellow legal pad. The pages passed so quickly from the zenith of his thumb to the rocky bottom of the blank yellow pages, that they blurred in a speedy brush stroke. Although he willed it so, Jerry could not fix his mind upon any subject specific enough to satisfy his quivering pin. Tracing the same scribble he had for the previous ten minutes he willed the words out, his brow turning an increasingly darker shade of pink.

To will the pen upon an end,

Create a world with just your hand

To mask outlined reality

And splash a watercolor soft imagination

*************************************************************

This story is not about me. I am just waiting. Not like Jona was waiting, but in my own way. Jona waited in the belly of the dark cavernous alleyway. Fire escapes climbed, bone like, up the sides of the adjacent buildings, and trash dumpsters floated stagnantly, like dead fish, waiting to be gutted. Jona’s hands were sweaty inside his jacket pockets. Rubbing his four fingers with hi thumb, he had rubbed the pads raw. A loud bark sounded at the back of the alley. Tony and Cobain sauntered out of the disapaiting steam seeping from the sewer drains, breathing under the sculpted dumpster.

Tony pierced Jona with a charcoal pupil, “So have you got it?”

Jona’s lips quivered and his fingers twitched in heartbeat, metronome clicks, “well… half.”

“All I ask of you is if you had it. You said you did- you don’t. I wash my hands of you.” Tony turned on the ball of his Armani tux shoes and paced away with Cobain at hi side. Cobain’s hips sauntered with an arrogant pop in each step. They both disappeared into the fog and Jona stood with his arms outstretched and forgotten as they began to quiver. 

Senioritis

I thought that at the end of this senior year, I would be motivated through the end because it would move so fast, and I would want to leave with a good mark on my record. Unfortunately, I am plagued with senioritis. It is a devastating epidemic passing through the entire senior class at ESD (and even some of the Juniors). All of us have been accepted into a college we are interested in and some of us are even making choices between a few that really interest us, unfortunately that gives us no drive to do well. All we want is to have a fun chill fourth quarter and the teachers feel an unquenchable sensation to crush us with work, and stress us out even more than before. I only have about 15 days left, and am more crunched with work then ever. Why do teachers punish us for doing well the last three years?

Confessions

I have a confession. I warn you it is frightening. I am a little embarrassed to say it myself.--- I drink my morning tea with a straw. Yes, I know, it is frightening, but the first step to recovery is admitting that I have a problem-- right?

Anyway, when I pick up my tea (from a place that rhymes with Harbucks) I insert a lengthy green straw into the small (too small) slit for the straw and quickly "suck the sweets of sweet philosophy." If philosophy is what you call the small quotes on the side of the cups that they give you. Such as, “People don’t read enough. And what reading we do is cursory, without absorbing the subtleties and nuances that lie deep within — Wow, you’ve stopped paying attention, haven’t you? People can’t even read a coffee cup without drifting off." This quote came from David Shore the producer of House and fittingly so, he mirrors the character of Gregory House himself.

I realized this morning when I was enjoying my quick cup of sweetened English Breakfast Tea, that I drink it too fast. I finish my glass of tea before I get to school- maybe a seven minute trip from the shop that rhymes with Harbucks to school. And to top that, I stick a straw in the cup to enjoy the drink in my car safely. I have reasoning for drinking it with a straw- I can drink it in my car and still watch the road, and also it stops the liquid from pouring out the cup and staining the center console of my car.

I realized at that moment, that I live my life too quickly. Jumping into the car to go from one place to another, without stopping to simply look at the sky. For instance, today- I woke up at 6:00 so that I would get out of the bed by 6:30 and be ready for school by 7:00 when I would leave my house. HA, No- I woke up at 6:00 and promptly, almost robotically turned my blasting radio down so that the drone of the NPR announcer would lull me back to sleep, which it did. I then woke again at 7:00 and freaked. Jumping from my bed and dressing faster than a jackrabbit with a fox on its tail, I raced out of the house at 7:20 to get to Starbucks (whoops I'm going to fast I said the name) to then be off to school. Ugh, I then got my acolytes in order. Luckily, I had some really funny guys today so the process wasn't as stressful as it can be. All in all though I rushed through the morning and didn't even get to look at the sky and see how blue it was, splashed with white clouds brushing across the atmosphere. I really do miss looking at the sky. Most of the time I'm in such a hurry I don't get to do my favorite things anymore. I love to walk. I try to walk everywhere I can. I even park my car half way across campus just so I have the excuse to walk to it, but I found today that I was sprinting to my car so that I would be able to rush a quick dinner and be back at the school by 6:30 in time for play rehearsal. I also love to dance. I haven't danced in weeks. Well, we have had rehearsal and choreography for a couple weeks at school, but that is 45 minutes of basic movement for a choral piece in show choir. Not really the satisfaction I am looking for. I put no offense towards show choir, its just I look for something a little more fulfilling, and intense in my dance. I am a student of dance, egar to learn and happy to do so. I have dropped my Monday night dance schedule this entire semester. I haven't danced since January.

Goodness, I think in the end, I miss enjoying life, and doing what I like to do. I mean, I enjoy being buys, but I really what to go back to what I really liked to do.

Don't worry, not to much longer, and I'll be back to coffee mugs- just as soon as softball season is over. (wince* wince*)