And the season's change was a conduit.

I wrote this back in writing fiction as a very superficial, insignificant way to get through the last bit of my semester. I hated it until tonight - it bears some kind of deeper meaning to me now, and I love it so much more than I did.

Maggie Randall was a fourteen-year-old girl who lived on Gossamer Street in Durham, North Carolina. Pine trees, maples, and oaks surrounded her home, and the occasional dogwood would light up the small forest with its white flowers. Gossamer Street was a quiet sort of street, with mailboxes and flowerbeds that lined its borders and a creek that gurgled behind its homes.
Maggie was a silent, ordinary girl, with mousy brown hair that reached her shoulders when she wore it down but, more often than not, it hung limply in a ponytail instead. She had a small nose with dark freckles that ran across it and onto her cheeks – a few of them even ventured down to her chin or up to her eyebrows. She wore her older sister’s old clothes not for lack of money, but because she rarely wanted to go shopping.
Each year when the summer came, Maggie looked forward to the thunderstorms. Rather than going to the pool or the mall, her favorite thing to do was to sit on her back porch and watch storms pass right over her home. The more violent the storm, the better the show.
Maggie had an image in her mind of the parents down the street, looking out their windows with furrowed brows, concerned more for their freshly-raked lawns than the mortified children wrapped tightly around their legs. She knew that it was with crossed fingers and futile hope that they sided with the familiar weakness of their rooftops and flowerbeds.
Maggie, however, often found herself identifying with the powerful lightning bolts and hail, rather than the hopeless pine trees whose spines were so easily broken. The pines never won and, while it was with pity that Maggie looked upon them, she was never one to bend or break. It was with the smallest amount of guilt that she fervently occupied her thoughts with fallen branches and lost leaves, all in the interest of a victory shared with her beloved rain clouds.
Still, the passing of each storm would leave Maggie slightly heartbroken, for as the summer wore on, she realized nature’s beautiful destruction that she loved so dearly would soon come to an end.
She would often walk the streets of her frightened neighborhood once only the distant rumblings of the formidable monster remained, and she would pick up fallen branches and pine cones, marveling at the life that had once resided in their helpless frames. And, in the latter days of August, these walks left her with a cold sensation that sat in her chest densely, growing heavier with the passage of time and the falling of leaves.
Every September, Maggie would begin to feel the soft but foreboding breath of autumn press impatiently against her heart, warning her that the epic battles between land and sky would not resurface before the other three seasons had their turns that year.
It was August 23rd – just a couple weeks before Maggie started her sophomore year of high school. She sat on her back porch with a shaking, shuddering screen as the only barrier between her and the strong, graceful deluge that sometimes engulfed her backyard during the summer. The creek that lay less than fifty yards away seemed unable to control itself and gushed forward, turning her backyard into a cloudy, brown ocean. Periodically, she would hear pinecones hit the roof, or hear a branch snap, and she would smile.
Maggie was happy with the porch. Recently, she had found herself riding her bike and taking walks around her neighborhood more often than she had in the early months of the summer; she did this in a genuine effort to spend as much time with the warm weather as she could. But here, there was no rush – the hammering of the rain on the screen and roof left her no choice but to stay inside and love every sound and smell that the thunderstorm provided.
Still, Maggie often felt a sense of urgency that came with August, like there was too much to be done. And, while she loved the last month of summer dearly, she dreaded September. Although she’d never had a boyfriend, she imagined September was what breaking up would be like.
On September 3rd, the last storm of the summer happened. Maggie could almost tell, as the storm was rumbling in the distance, that it was the last one. The hail that had hammered against the roof and bounced off the ground seemed to be a good-bye, and Maggie had felt sadness weighing her down as it died.
Autumn came and Maggie occupied her thoughts with school work. While she would admit that the leaves were beautiful, she missed the display of power. She sometimes sat in school and stared out the window, hoping that dark clouds would give rise to something greater than the dreary rain they always provided.
Maggie desired the menacing darkness of the sky after a lofty lightning bolt flashed silently across the sky. She longed for the thrill and surprise of thunder, whether it was deafening like a gunshot, or gentle and sonorous like a bass drum. Maggie wanted the wind to sing, high and low, howling along with the percussive rhythm of the hail.
Instead, there was rain.
The winter came and Maggie was frozen. Snow etched the corners of the bare, ugly trees and sometimes kept her away from school. Most days, Maggie slept as often as possible, willing the days to pass quickly. Everything once alive was dead, and the world was entirely gray.
February crawled onward, dragging Maggie drowsily along with it. Even March was somewhat cruel as it teased her with its occasional warmth. April was kinder. It seemed far more consistent to Maggie and she began to remember what shorts and flip-flops felt like.
It had been warm for a solid week now and the end of April was fast approaching. It was April 20th when the first storm of the year struck her neighborhood. She couldn’t help but feel happy as soon as she heard the distant roar of thunder.
The rain began to pelt the roof above her room and Maggie ran downstairs, flinging open the door to the back porch.
The warm wind and smell of humidity hit her forcefully as she closed the door behind her and took a seat in the worn, wicker chair that sat near the screen. She looked to her left to see blue sky and white clouds, but in front of her, the horizon was like charcoal. An entire cloud lit up with a flash of lightning, flickering dangerously like a dying fluorescent light. Seconds later, there was a rumble.
The storm passed right by, leaving very little impact on Maggie’s neighborhood. True, it was not the most interesting storm Maggie had ever witnessed, but it was a storm nonetheless.
When the rain had died down to a fine mist, she walked out her front door and sat on the top step of her porch, which was barely damp from the weak display the storm had given. Maggie noticed the absence of pollen in the air and felt the mist settling on her bare feet, generating small goose bumps on her legs.
She smiled, prepared to fall in love and have her heart broken all over again.



I feel hopeful or something. I guess God had me write this with something else in mind.

END.

Squeaky swings and tall grass, the longest shadows ever cast. The water's warm and children swim, and we frolicked about in our summer skin.

I don't recall a single care,
Just greenery and humid air.
Then Labor day came and went,
And we shed what was left of our summer skin.

On the night you left I came over,
And we peeled the freckles from our shoulders.
Our brand new coats so flushed and pink,
And I knew your heart I couldn't win,
'Cause the season's change was a conduit
And we'd left our love in our summer skin.


I want to write something that beautiful.

But, since I can't, I'm just listening to it over and over again.

I hate this song, but I love it. It's just too sad.

END.

Don't wanna end up a cartoon in a cartoon graveyard.

I'm trying. Really, really hard.

Too hard, maybe.

I need some sort of guidance, but what else is new?

I really am quite happy right now - just a little confused.
I intend to write a lot more tomorrow. I would like to continue writing now, but I'm only just realizing how late it is.

I used to hear nice little phrases in my head. I would hear the middle or the end of a story and not know where to start, or one line to a song that I didn't know how to write, or I would feel something that I wanted to let out through my fingertips in a poem but not know how to articulate it. Writing was like dreaming to me. It took so little effort, but now writing is more like falling asleep after drinking a huge cup of coffee: you toss and turn and your eyes feel heavy but your body can't relax.

Music used to inspire me, but now music is just work.

Work, work, work. I'm 21. Should I be having a good time? I'm not sure. I think I might already be going through a midlife crisis - does that mean I'm going to die when I'm forty-two?

I sure hope not, but there's no way to tell. Maybe I was actually having a midlife crisis in seventh grade and I'll die when I'm twenty-four. That wouldn't be surprising, based on what kind of kid I was in seventh grade.

Joking.

I'm just a horse stuck in the quicksand. Help is on the way soon, but I just have to remember not to fight too hard or else I'll sink faster. I'm happy anyway. I really am. Just a little stressed out.

Relaxing and taking a deep breath is the only way to make it through college alive.

It's the only way I'm going to make it out of this stupid quicksand alive.

END.

I have to admit, it's getting better, a little better all the time.

http://hearsay.alphaquam.com/music/070302_05-Getting_Better.mp3

One of the few Beatles covers I've heard that seems to really carve its own path through the music, rather than just sticking to the safe, comfortable grooves that the Beatles had already established. Also, I love Fionn Regan (www.fionnregan.com), so I was sort of leaning in that direction before I even heard it.

I'm a biased, stubborn girl - what can I say?

But really, I've decided that I like it.

You know, things might not be getting "better" so much as getting "different." No, that doesn't really make sense grammatically or technically, but it sounds approximately right in my brain, I think?

I need to prioritize. I wonder if I can even do that anymore... I think I've started to realize where my priorities should lie, but I don't know how to execute that realization, or even if I'm capable of executing it.

Despite feeling a certain sense of enlightenment, I'm feeling a little down. I struggle with all of the same things I've been struggling with for the past few years, months, weeks, whatever. I'm not really different on the inside. I wish I could say that I am, but it isn't true yet.

I hope I change soon, and I hope I start to prioritize correctly.

END.

Even so, it is well with my soul.

How little faith you have. You ask, "What are we to eat? What are we to drink? What are we to wear?" when all these things are for the pagans to run after, not for you. Set your mind on God's kingdom, and His justice before everything else, and all the rest will come to you as well..."

I love God. Can I say that again?
I love God. And He loves me more than I love Him. And I am so incredibly imperfect!

I wish I could see exactly what He sees.

That's the end of it for now.

END.

I figured I had paid my debt to society by paying my overdue fines at the Mulnoma County Library.

And they said, "Son, go join up.
Go join the Youth and Beauty Brigade."

I have figured something out. My happiness as a person is entirely dependent on how happy I choose to be.

Wow. I never thought it would actually be that simple.

Starting recently, I have made the choice to do my best in everything I do and to be satisfied with the outcome, even if the outcome is not too satisfactory.

I have been trying to cook a lot lately. I suppose my inspiration came from J's brother's girlfriend, Sabrina, who is a wonderful cook. I aspire to be able to cook for people I love and to have them really, really enjoy it. It's a lot of trouble sometimes, but it's so much fun! I would like to share with everyone all of the cooking that has been taking place over the last couple days.

Last night, J and I cooked dinner for ourselves and my parents. First we cooked these tartines that Sabrina and Mason (J's brother) had cooked before, and J had them a couple times when he was in France, as well. They turned out really good and my parents loved them! For dinner, we cooked crab cake sandwiches and cole slaw. It was all very good. I would only have changed a couple small things about what we made. The clean-up wasn't as bad as I thought it would be, either.

This morning, I woke up and decided I wanted some French toast. I threw some bacon on the stove and sliced some baguette and made some French toast. My dad made coffee and we all ate together, and that was my breakfast before work. What a great way to start the day, right? Lastly, I made some homemade guacamole so my mom would have something to eat when she got home from work. Both of my parents really love it, so I'm excited to have that recipe logged away.

I am happy with what I've been doing, because I have made myself happy with what I've been doing. I have been working so much lately. This week I'm working thirty-eight hours (thank goodness, I'm finally getting the hours I want!), but I have really been enjoying it. I'm trying my hardest to put my cynicism to the side and just love people for what they are, and I really am trying to control my temper while understanding that everyone has good and bad to them.

Another thing - I have been working my butt off lately. Do you know why? I have recently become excited to perpetuate myself as a successful person. It doesn't matter if lifeguarding has anything to do with being a music teacher, because it obviously doesn't have much to do with it at all. Either way, though, I have supervisors in this job who will probably be writing recommendations for me sometime soon. Shouldn't I do my best for them?

Beyond that, though, working makes me feel good. Productivity is the best kind of upper you can take. I want to say that every day was worth something by the time I'm done with it. I want to say that I have something to show for every single day I live. Just by making myself excited for work, I automatically enjoy it.

I have been getting a lot out of reading my Bible recently. I think I might go more into that later, though, because my thoughts are not organized enough to discuss something as important as spirituality. All I can tell you is that I have learned two very important things from the Old Testament. First, I have learned that Old Testament God is the very same God as New Testament God, despite Old Testament God's seemingly wrathful nature and New Testament God's boundless mercy and love. Secondly, there is a reason we call him "Father." It is not a formality - it is a name based solely on love. God is the only real Father. He's the only one with any real knowledge of what we need.

I have been trying so hard to remember to thank Him more often, for everything. I am so blessed.

I think that sums up my thoughts for the night. Right now, I'm incredibly sleepy. I need to go to bed now so that I can enjoy more of what God has in store for me.



Nothing will stand in our way.

END.

To her cheshire smile I'll stand on file; she's all I ever wanted.

I need to stop worrying needlessly and just suck it up and do what I need to do.

I can't help being terrified every single time I think about going to a bunch of schools and talking to a bunch of professors. I don't feel prepared for it, and I'm scared of what will happen if they don't like me, or they don't like what they hear when I play. I guess they'll be polite. So far, everyone who has emailed me back seems relatively approachable, but I'm still pretty intimidated by... Well, by everything.

I need to just practice my butt off. Whenever I play, though, I sound so bad that I just can't bring myself to keep playing. I need to get over it.

Stupid low self-esteem...

END.