treasure hunt

The only people who achieve much are those who want knowledge so badly that they seek it while conditions are still unfavorable. Favorable conditions never come.

– C.S. Lewis

week 7, westminster term

Quite frankly, I'm surprised that my blogging, scant though it may be, has lasted this long - through the entire school year. Which is drawing to a close. Which is weird. Really weird.

I met our last history lecture with a bittersweet relief. I really have enjoyed history, but I'm glad that I won't be gagging on it's homework load in weeks and terms to come. Mr. Schlect is awesome. I've learned much from his class. But this week - let us say that it's going to be harder than anticipated due to the study sheet handed out this evening.

This last week of class is just like any other week of class at NSA. I finally feel like a sophomore, used to the wave after wave of never ending work, ("bring it on, bring it on....") and now it's nearly over.

And then I will be a junior. Fancy that.

still alive

Rest assured, homework hasn't killed me yet. But the snow is threatening to do us all in. May is almost here and the snow hasn't stopped falling.

montana

I'm currently surrounded by history paper sources, rough drafts, comment sheets, chocolate covered raisins and peanuts, a mug drained of the best hot chocolate known to man, and soaring mountains.

I'm in Montana.

Sometimes a change in environment is a very beautiful thing, especially after a week of extraordinary proportions. Exhaustion is invading every corner of NSA. Quivering knees are commonplace, Americanos (think espresso) are my new best friends, sleep is coveted above anything else.

My official reason to be here in another time zone from my dear old school is to look into a work possibility for this summer, but to be frank, driving away from Moscow was pure heaven. Despite the fact that I've been doing homework all day, regardless of location.....

solitude

Sought by many, gained by few,
Loved, yet hated, with room to breathe.
Found is lovely, kept is death.

when i grow up

There's something about music that sends shivers running up and down my spine. I can't pinpoint what it about it that makes me want to throw my hands in the air and spin around in elated circles, makes me drunk on sound. There's a movement, a balance, a wealth of stories and ideas swelling around the room. It can turn moods around, plaster a ridiculously huge grin on my face, or can make me feel very pensive, or, hopefully, profound. (Especially when writing a history paper.)

I am partial to singing. When I sing, I forget who I am, what I am, and where I am. All I can think about is the feel and taste of the notes, shaping them, seeing them flying away, hopefully where I wanted them to go. Twisting a phrase this way or that way. Being amazed that placing the emphasis on this note instead of that one can change the impact of an entire line. Even though I am very new to this world of invisible motion, I find that it's beautiful.

When I grow up, music will be involved in every part of my life. That's my hope, at least.

green sweaters and sweaty socks

The first and last 100 words of my hypothetical bestselling novel by the above title.

There was a lot of blood. An awful lot of blood. Rodney sat quietly on the porch and surveyed the damage. A drop of sweat made its way down from the reddish brown shock of hair that tumbled over his freckled forehead and found itself in the company of many other similar drops gathering on the young boy’s face. How, exactly, was he supposed to explain this to his mother?

The rough wood dug through his faded jeans, the sharp green of the lawn hurt his eyes. She would probably go into hysterics. Things like this weren’t supposed to happen.

.

.

.


She glanced over at him, sitting there on the old porch, his chin resting on a work worn hand. The shadows made the long scar look deeper than it really was.

“Rodney?” She broke the silence.

“Mmmm?”

“Have you ever wondered what your life might have been like? If, you know. ”

He turned laughing eyes in her direction. “Boring. And tragic. I never would have met you.”

The grass was very green; it mocked the coming of winter. It held onto the promise of spring, of life. Of renewal. A drop of sweat glistened on the side of Rodney’s face.