I got to looking at facebook, and I think I like it better than blogger. It looks a little more confusing, but I guess I'll get used to it. I don't know if I can put my photo-art there as well, but I guess I can try.
By the way, all the RUPERT videos are up, and live on YouTube.
Rain clouds overshadowed the pool, and with reluctance, we climbed out and toweled off, standing under the porch roof. I liked the sight of them, wet and bedraggled, here. No, really - HERE. With me.
I spent every minute of the day pinching myself, but it was real.
No, really - HERE.
"Showers are open," I offered.
"I'll hop in one," Jo said, and went inside. She was moody off and on, and it was weird. Typically I was the one zinging from polar to polar. But since they were here, I remained at a consistant high. (Until I was forced to take cold medicine...then I got cranky and threw a couple tantrums. But that's beside the point.)
I talked with Merry for some time before we too headed inside. But suddenly Jo came back downstairs.
"Problem," she announced. "I don't know which is hot and cold water. The taps - "
I started sniggering, and mum looked from paperwork on the dining room table. "Oh, just take your shower," she grumbled irratibly. Obviously, she was not having fun with the sums. I kept laughing.
"But -" Jo began again.
"Hot is on the left, Cold on the right. Like always." Mum huffed, and Jo rolled her eyes, going back upstairs.
I let out a loud giggle.
"She's really blonde, isn't she?" said Merry.
The next day, I noticed that the 'H' was on the RIGHT, and the C was on the LEFT. So they were backwards after all.
And a week later, when the party was over, I noticed that they had been quietly rearranged to their proper positions.
curious, and curiouser still.
I'm not one to get all political, and get into philosophical discussion about the news or anything, but a recent occurance has left me thinking.
The latest terrorist attack (and I'm sure you've heard of it) occured in Glasgow, Scotland, where 4 men drove a burning jeep into the airport. I don't know all the medical details and all, but it's obviously not stunning.
About two years ago, God laid it on my heart to reach out to the Atheist and Islamic community in England and France. It sounded wonderful at first, but then I got to thinking.
I knew it would be more difficult than going to Africa and such, because those people are so impoverished, they appreciate any help. Whereas in Europe, there's not this urgent sense of need. So...it'll be difficult to face these people. And now, as I realized last night, I will have to deal with terrorists.
I am so scared.
Going over there will feel like how Frodo feels when he comes home to the shire. He's expecting this image of rolling hills, and cheery faces, and instead he gets smoke in his eyes, and a battle to be fought. I think that's how its going to be. I may be wrong, but....*shrugs* I don't know. I just don't know.
I've been reading alot on the crusades lately. It's so horrible - and it's all done in the name of God. Slaughtering people? Sending hundreds of children to their death? For Christ? I feel sick. But I feel like I have to know this. When I get to England, I am going to have one of the old manuscripts with the crusade knights and everything on my door. That way, when I leave my apartment, I will think about it, and not make the same mistake. I am here , out of love. I am here to change hearts, to create new life, through the talents my King and God have given me. It may be easy to hate these terrorists, but hatred in a heart, Jesus says, is just like murder. So I will not crusade, and slaughter.
I will love. And I will only be able to do it through my Saviour.
I returned this morning at 5am (or at least that's what they keep telling me - I'm so mixed up, I'd tell you it was noon, except that it's pitch-black outside. Hopefully I'll be all sorted out by the time I get to Wichita, so I won't wake up at 3am, wanting to play a game of cards or something.)
Anyway, although I miss New Mexico, I'm glad to be home. I missed my kitty, and my comic books, and my own quilt. The quiet here is almost too quiet. I've gotten used to insanely loud stuff almost 24-7. Get this - if you were a good kid, and went to bed and got up when you were supposed to, you only got 6 and a half hours of sleep. Now calculate: annoying room-mates, zoo animals for neighbors, electricity problems, and having a hard time winding down after partying all day.
That's more like 3 hours.
But somehow this hobbit survived, and I wrote letters in every spare moment I had, so those will be sent out soon. (No, I don't feel like waiting. I don't like waiting.) I was my usual Nuwanda-self, running around with red-lipstick war paint, breaking rules and climbing trees. I SORELY missed the fellowship, though. Now-a-days, I feel at peace, and I'm okay with being so independant. But at camp, all that disappeared, and every waking moment, and even sleeping moments, the fellowship was on my mind. I dearly wanted to share this with you guys. I took a lot of pictures, but it's just not enough.
For starters, (and maybe this was part of my problem) the area looked just like Fangorn Forest. Big, green roling hills and mountains - Huge Willows and Pines and Aspens....
In fact, I was listening to the BBC radio program of the Two Towers, and I woke up to Tree-beard yelling, so I sat up and looked outside, and nearly had a coronary. I half expected Isengard to be on the other side!
Well, I'm about to go get dessert with my family. I'm listening to the beatles right now. It's great.
Well, signing off,
with love,
Maddie
Hey - I'm sick...and I'm leaving for camp on monday. So if you don't hear from me again, I'm probably dead.
The kids that go to school here are pretty dumb. They aren’t supposed to be, ‘cause you know, Pencey’s like one of those places where we’re all supposed to come out reciting Beowulf or something petty and rhetorical, and then go on through life acting like born geniuses. Whoever thinks that’s going to happen is pretty delusional. So anyway, these ‘smart’ kids pretty much all say I’m a ‘momma’s boy’ or some crap like that since I go home practically every other weekend, but you know what? First of all, I don’t care what they all say, and second of all, you wouldn’t believe the babes that went to public school up there. I’ll bet they never thought of that.
It was one of those weekends where I was fed up with my roommate Ackley who was always nosing around and the two weirdo lower classmen next door, Caulfield and Stradlater, and I decided to go home. I know it’s probably a big stinkin’ mark that I go to Pencey ‘cause I go around calling people by their last name, but Ackley doesn’t even respond to his first name. I used to try to call him Robert, or Bob, even Ack just for the heck of it, but he just stares off into space, as usual. Sometimes he won’t even answer to Ackley. It makes me want to punch his lights out, the way he ignores people with that dopey look on his face. I mean, he’s not that bad of a kid – just nerdy, I guess – but he has these tendencies or something that are just flat out maddening.
Okay, so back to the names. Caulfield doesn’t mind his name Holden, but I don’t know which he prefers. He’s kinda strange. Nobody knows all that much about him ‘cause apparently he’s gone to a bunch of other schools, and only came to Pencey pretty recently. He doesn’t do squat here, and just fools around. To tell you the truth, I sort of think he’s manic, ‘cause one minute he’ll be joking around or something, and the next, he won’t say a word, but will just stare out the window. I guess that’s why he changes schools so much. He’s also sort of known for his wild stories. Then his roommate, Ward Stradlater, is one of those guys who’s always getting a girl and going to movies and stuff. He doesn’t hang around too much, while Holden and Ackley are basically shackled to their rooms. They don’t do zip.
My name – well, my full name – is Herb Elijah Gale. Herb Gale goes on the records, but everyone calls me Elijah or Ely, ‘cause Herb just sounds....dumb. Like I should be working in some crappy office or something. And no way I’m getting stuck working in some crappy office. No sir. So call me Ely, will ya?
Anyway, Ackley was doing the usual routine, moping around, disappearing through the shower curtain, and I’d listen to their muffled conversation, and then Stradlater would show up and Ackley would come back and mope around and about an hour later the same thing would happen again. He hates Stradlater for some reason. I guess something happened long time ago. I don’t know. But anyhow, if he wasn’t roaming around, he was staring at his homework. You know what? I don’t think I ever saw him work a single problem, but I spent plenty of time – too much time, really – seeing him gape, glassy-eyed, at his lined notebook paper, as if watching the math calculations work themselves out on the page. Surprisingly, he got amazing grades in Calculus and all. I just wish I knew how the kid did it.
I was so fed up with the monotonous boringness of it all, that I decided to leave, and the only way to get out and get a life was to go to the game that day. So I got all bundled up ‘cause it was freezing, but then I realized that my winter coat was being cleaned. So I decided to pull an Ackley, and went in through the shower curtain to the other dorm.
Surprisingly, only Stradlater was there, putting on a tie and staring at himself in a mirror. “You going to the game?” he asked, without looking at me. “Holden actually went. If you see him, tell him to come back. I need him to write something for me.”
“Yeah, sure,” I said. “Hey, can I borrow a coat? Mine’s in the wash.”
He didn’t raise an eyebrow or anything. “In the closet,” he said, and went on staring at himself. Strad’s kinda narcissistic, if you know what I mean.
I went over to the closet, and found two coats; a brown camel-hair one, and a hounds-tooth one. I felt none too sure, but I took the camel-hair. “Thanks,” I said to Strad, pulling it off the hangar and trying it on for size. It fit pretty well, if only kinda stiff across the shoulders.
“You’re late you know,” said Stradlater. He finally put the mirror down and looked me over. “The game’s already started.”
“Aren’t you going?” I asked, half-in, half-out of the shower.
“Nah,” he said, going to back to the mirror and combing his hair. “I’m getting myself a date.”
“Have fun with that,” I muttered, and withdrew.
I quickly jammed some shoes on and then set out, asking old Ackley for the last time to come with me and get some fresh air. He said he didn’t feel like it, as always, and I left without him. When I opened the outside double doors, the wind hit me full-face with an icy blast, and I suddenly wished I had some mittens or something. But then as I trudged across the half-frozen grounds, the frosted grass crackling under my steps, my wish was granted; I jammed my hands into the pockets, and found a pair of fur-lined gloves. I instantly put them on and made a mental note to return them with thanks.
I finally got to the stadium and tried to find a seat amidst the roar of the band, the wild cheering, visible plumes of breath, and every other senior with a girl on his lap. I suddenly felt sort of blue, or out of place or something, when I finally found a seat to myself. I mean, I didn’t have a girl (‘cause I didn’t know any around town, only up north) and I basically spent the whole time shivering in the stands, yelling every now and then to root for the team, even though I’m positive they couldn’t hear me, and one voice in the sea of voices didn’t make that much of a difference. I happened to look up as a shadow passed over the already bleak sun, and a lone figure stood there, at the top of the hill, surveying the people in the stands and the game and the band. He stood leaning against the cannon, legs apart, shoulders hunched, face hardened – and I realized that it was Holden. Holden Caulfield. Just when I recognized him though, he suddenly turned around, and ran down the hill. I told you he’s manic. I never know what’s wrong with him.
Even half an hour after the incident, even after thirty minutes of me just watching the game, just watching Pencey win like we always do, I couldn’t stop thinking about him. A kid like that is bound to have problems. I finally leaned over a guy next to me, Mal Brossard, and struck up a conversation, just to get him off my mind.
“Hey that was a nice pass, wasn’t it?” I said. He looked surprised that I was talking. See, he was an underclassman. They’re always funny to talk to.
“Yeah – yeah it was a good play,” he said. He wrapped his scarf around his neck a little tighter as a gust tore through the strands. “Terrible weather, though.”
“You said it,” I grumbled. There was a pause.
“You’re next door to Holden, aren’t you? In the Ossenburger wing?” he asked suddenly. Oh no, I thought, remembering that he and Holden were buds. “Have you seen his hat?”
“His hat?” I asked.
“Yeah, sure. It’s one of those red hunting caps with ear flaps and everything. He bought it in New York while I was with him this morning.” The kid was grinning like it was some hilarious joke.
“In New York?”
“Yeah – but here’s the funny part – Holden wears it backwards cause he thinks it looks better or something. Its killer. You gotta see it.”
“I’m sure,” I muttered.
“He’s just doin’ it for laughs, you know,” the kid went on. I wanted to kick him or something. I didn’t want to hear about Holden. I wanted to hear about the game. “He just wants to go out with a bang.”
“What?” I said. I wasn’t really listening. “A bang?”
“Yeah – didn’t you hear? He flunked almost everything, so he’s going home Wednesday.” Mal said it with a shrug as though he didn’t care. But I knew he did. He and Holden did stuff together.
“Nope, hadn’t heard that,” I said after a moment. I felt really down, and wanted to leave; besides, dinner was going to happen soon. Not that it was any good or anything – Saturday night was always these rubbery steaks. But the potatoes were good.
I said so long to Mal and left the stands only a few minutes before the game ended and everyone else crowded out. It was a lucky break, I’ll tell ya that, not having to rub shoulders with everybody in the school.
On my way back to the dorms though, I decided I wasn’t hungry for steak or potatoes or anything. I wasn’t hungry at all, really. I wanted to go home. Pencey can be pretty miserable, if you know what I mean – always the same bells, the same meals, the same classes, the same spoken words, everything, everything exactly the same. And I had to get out.
When I got to my room, I could hear Holden and Ackley talking next door. I peeked in through the shower curtain, and sure enough, Holden had this red cap on backwards. I felt sorry for the kid. I really did. I would have stayed and maybe joined them, except that it was depressing me even more so I started packing. I had to lay out everything on the bed, ‘cause Ackley kept breaking chairs. He always sat on the arms until they cracked, or he tripped over his own shoes he left all over the place. Just another of his annoying habits, I guess.
I finished packing pretty quickly and then sat on the end of the headboard, smoking a cigarette near the open window so you couldn’t smell it, and listening to Ackley’s and Holden’s banter. But then I felt sort of antsy so I finally got up and grabbed my suitcase. I checked out of school and got a taxi and all and got off at the train station. It wasn’t until I got there that I realized I still had the camel-hair jacket and gloves on. I figured I’d return them when I got back Sunday night, and hopefully old Stradlater wouldn’t be sore.
I checked a timetable and bought a ticket for a train was coming in about an hour. That suited me fine. While I waited, I went into a nearby shop and got a cheese sandwich and a soda. It wasn’t much of a dinner, but it sure beat staying at Pencey, in the same seat, at the same table, having the same meal, with the same people. It drove me ballistic sometimes. I got back to the station in time to hear a message over the loudspeaker: “Due to inclement weather, the 8:45 and 9:30 have been delayed. Thank you for your patience.” And then the thing started all over again. “Attention all passengers – due to inclement weather....”
I went outside, and saw that it was snowing. Oh great. So I quickly went back inside. The trains probably weren’t delayed. They were probably glued to the tracks. I’ve always heard that ice and snow are terrible for trains and stuff. I ended up waiting around for about two hours, bored out of my skull. I read every magazine I could get my hands on, and I paced all over the place. Finally, I was told that the trains wouldn’t come until well past midnight, so I gave up. I was going to call home and tell them what happened, but then I realized it was pretty late. I’d tell them tomorrow. I spent the next hour or so standing outside trying to get a cab, and shivering like crazy. I finally got one though, and went back to school. Boy, that’s what really got me. I actually went back. I was pretty blue.
When I finally got into the dorm, Ackley was wide-awake, sitting up in bed. He looked pretty cross. “What’s going on?” I whispered, turning on a lamp. Usually, he was fast asleep by now. Ackley didn’t say anything, so I set my suitcase on my bed – and realized there was blood all over it. “Ackley!” I said, staring at him. “What the hell’s going on?”
“Holden left.” He gestured at my bed. “Apparently he got in a fight or something, and wanted to sleep in your bed – “
“In my bed?” I said incredulously. I didn’t know what else to do, so I started taking off the sheets. “While bleeding?”
“I guess his nose....” Ackley trailed off.
“You say he left? Where did he go?” I asked after a moment.
“How am I supposed to know?” Ackley snapped. “I gotta go to Mass in the morning. Are you going to spend all night interrogating me or what?”
I didn’t say anything and just changed out of my ice-encrusted clothes. I figured I’d better return Stradlater’s jacket before I forgot in the morning. I snuck over to his dorm and looked around for a moment. Holden’s bed was empty, and old Strad was sitting around, smoking. I tried asking him about what happened, but he only grunted and told me to leave. So I explained about my bloody bed, and I wanted to know as least why it was like that, so he let up and told a snappy story. I finally gathered that there was a fight between him and Holden over something Holden did. Which prompted the kid to just pack up and leave. He took all of his stuff with him and didn’t leave a note or anything.
“The most irritating thing was,” Stradlater went on, “we all knew he was gone because he started yelling at the end of the hallway. He said something like, ‘sleep tight, ya morons!’. That sonuvabi – ”
“Hey,” I interrupted, before he go on much further. “I got your jacket. I’ll just hang it up, okay?”
“What jacket is that?” said Stradlater, peering at me through the darkness.
“The brown one. And there were gloves in the pocket – ”
“Oh, its not mine. It’s Holden’s.” He took a long drag on his cigarette and gave a dry laugh. “It’s Holden’s,” he said again.
I don’t know why, but I wanted to slug him. I never really liked Holden, but I felt sorry for him, and nobody was sticking up for him; I was so irritated – I just couldn’t hold it back – so I dropped everything and socked him one on the jaw. Then I threw the jacket in his face and stormed back to my room without waiting for him to get up or anything. I figured I’d deal with everything in the morning.
It took a long time to fall asleep, especially with Ackley starting to snore and all. I kept thinking. Caulfield was gone. He flunked out. He’s manic. But is he that different from everyone else? Just a little more tired of life or something? I didn’t know. I finally dozed off, with the only non-blood-stained sheet pulled over me.
I dreamed of trains crashing all night long.
(Just another school writing assignment that I thought was interesting enough to post. The prompt was the write a chapter of catcher in the rye from another character's perspective. My teacher said I got the voice down-pat almost too well - the last comment he left was: "I wish Holden could read this."
Me too.)
I just put up a new banner.
I need a job.
Bad.
So it looks like I'm going back to Oz for a couple weeks. I'm....not sure what to think. But I'm excited, that's for sure.
I talk about myself too much,
and I'm
feeling vain.
I think if I just watched the film by myself, I would have still liked it, but under the circumstances, it made it all the more precious to me. I was home, in Wichita, for a couple weeks in the summer, staying with some friends. We’ve known each other since middle-school days and there are a lot of ‘traditions’ we do. Back then, we were sort of known around town, because we went to the movies a lot as a group; not that that’s anything special, but we went practically every time in costume. Just for kicks. It started with Lord of Rings, and only got worse. People at the local movie theater started rolling their eyes at us when they saw our cloaks. Sometimes, the cashiers didn’t even ask what movie we were going to see. They just rang up the tickets for us. We sort of advertised for them in a way. We even did that at the drive-in theater, which was way more fun but a lot more expensive.
Another tradition was nick-names; if there was a particular movie or book we were all in love with, we would sometimes go about calling each other by the character’s names. (I ended up being Frodo from Lord of the Rings, and to this day, they still call me on the phone, asking for a Mr. Baggins). So even if I hadn’t seen them for a year, when I came to visit that summer, nothing had changed. The same traditions were there, and will probably still be there for years to come.
I was staying a friend’s house and the usual gang was over. They had planned to rent a movie that I hadn’t even heard about and wasn’t too sure of. We usually watched ‘guy movies’, shunning mindless chick-flicks. It was just the way we were. But as puzzled as I was about the movie they had picked out, I decided to join them and we all settled into a friend’s basement to watch it. Within moments I was completely and utterly enthralled. The cinematography and music alone captured me, and when the character’s personalities and inside jokes became a part of the whole story, I knew it would be a favorite forever. It was the Dead Poet’s Society. It was laugh-out-loud funny; it was utterly depressing; it made you want to join them in their wild and daring escapades; it was heart-wrenching; it was bitter-sweet. It drew forth such an array of emotions that it left you feeling quite tired and contentedly pensive after seeing it. And I was in love. My friends were in love. It was one more adventure we had shared together.
It wasn’t long before they started calling me ‘Nuwanda’, and we snuck out at night and took a walk around a lake with the full moon overhead. It wasn’t long before we learned how to properly ‘yawp’, and gave our cries at local pools and the like. And it wasn’t long before I had to return to Kingwood, for school to start.
I still watch it alone every once in a while. Dead Poet’s Society is definitely a classic. There is so much packed into it: the smooth, natural dialogue; the stunning New England scenery; the endless action in the background, and the jokes; the soaring spirits of these young men, nearly tangible. You simply cannot refrain from grinning, and feeling like you are one of them. As if you have belonged there once. It is a fantastic film, but it was made all the more cherished because of the people that shared it with me.
(This was one of my last essays of the year, and I wanted to share...)
