\”blog\” ryhmes with \”bog\”…

I stood at the top of a mountain, surrounded by trees, dirt, and crumbling boulders. It was a landscape vastly different from the beach I had grown up on. Miles of bleak sun-baked desert lay to the east, and the west was far enough away that the ocean could not be seen.             

It was raining. Children all around me were running to the shelter of their cabins and counselors, while those who lived nearby celebrated the end of the drought that had plagued their town all summer. I stayed still in the midst of the chaos, reflecting that when it rained back home, the leaves and fiber of palm trees were scattered down the street by the wind, making it look as though a tropical hurricane had hit. Here, the ground just got wet.             

  Drops of water splattered against my face, mingling with salty tears, and running down my cheeks. I watched them hit the ground, felt the rain hit my skin through my jacket and dirty jeans, and thought of home.            

 I wished them all away, all the campers and counselors I was stuck with. I was sick of them and the shallow personalities they presented to the camp. I was sick of the saxophone players who wore sunglasses constantly and acted as thought they owned the place, sick of the girls in my cabin glossing over magazines, sick of the video game addicts with their eyes glued to their Game Boys, sick of the gun-toting rednecks who teased me for being vegetarian. But most of all, I was sick of the ten year olds who spent all their time playing cards and giggling at nothing, the girls to whom everything was wonderful, the girls who stuck to me like glue.            

I heard my name called by a counselor with an umbrella, and trudged back to my cabin, reflecting unhappily that home had never seemed so far away.     

            Mr. Collins is not at all humble, but acts submissive and modest to look better in the eyes of others and so that he can feel more proud of himself. Mr. Collins is first introduced through a letter that he wrote informing the Bennets that he would be paying them a visit. Upon hearing the letter read aloud, Elizabeth comments, “There is something very pompous in his style. –And what can he mean by apologizing for being next in the entail?—We cannot suppose he would help it if he could” (Austen 63). This statement leads the reader to believe that Mr. Collins is apologizing for inheriting the Bennets’ estate not because he does not wish to, but because he wants to look as though he regrets taking their money so that he can gain their approval. Mr. Collins also enjoys flattering people and acting submissive to them simply for his own personal pleasure. “I sometimes amuse myself with suggesting and arranging such little elegant compliments as may be adapted to ordinary occasions…” (Austen 67) He is pleased by his own skill at complimenting others. Mr. Collins is also known to be modest so that he can gain compliments. “We know how little there is to tempt any one to our humble abode. Our plain manner of living, small rooms, and few domestics, and the little we see of the outside world, must make Hunsford extremely dull to a young lady like yourself.” (Austen 208). Mr. Collins says this to Elizabeth upon her leaving his house not only because he prides himself on living simply, but to gain her “assurances of happiness” and compliments on the entertainment he provided for her (208). When she gives him such assurances and compliments, he is “gratified” and feels prouder of his ability to entertain guests (208).

We stepped out of the car into the wind, the California sun shining down on our backs as we walked away. It was mid-Tuesday in December and the air was crisp and cool. I paused to pull up my thick navy blue knee socks and ziped up my jacket as my housekeeper, Bertha, scanned the street, looking for “de thrifty store.” She found it at last, an oppressive two story building looming over the narrow sidewalk. “Oh, das nice,” she smiled, pointing out its glass windows, which were covered in paper snowflakes for Christmas. I returned the smile as she held open the door for me, murmuring, “Baminos.”                 The Venice Boys and Girl’s Club Thrift Store was dusty but warm. I pulled off my jacket and looked around at the plates, vintage clothes, figurines, and paintings cluttering the surfaces of rocking chairs, dressers, file cabinets and tables. My housekeeper made her way toward the grey-haired man at the counter to ask if he had any glass bowls, explaining that she had broken her employer’s. He led us over to a brightly-lit display cabinet and pointed to a decorative bowl. “Is this what you’re looking for?” he asked.            

“Si, singor,” she replied. “How much?”           

His reply was a casual “Fifteen dollars,” but upon hearing those words, Bertha’s face fell.            

“Thank you,” she said softly, “but I don’t have de money.”              

All thoughts of the math exam I was to face the following day vanished with a pang of uneasiness. They didn’t return during the drive home. On the contrary, they were pushed away even further. Bertha kept glancing at me in the review mirror, assuring me that in her neighborhood, such things were much cheaper, maybe costing ten or twelve dollars as opposed to fifteen. She asked me to tell my mom that she could find a glass bowl there, to which I quietly replied that my mom would understand. “A lotta things in dis area is so expensive!” she sighed as we pulled into the driveway. “Oh, well.”             She helped me carry my books up to house, then wished me luck on my exams for the week, and turned to limp down the stairs and climb back into her car. I smiled and waved as she drove away, though I still felt uneasy. I unlocked the door and stepped into my house, a place where all our paintings were gifts from my grandmother and had been custom framed, where we received gift baskets of wine and chocolate from my uncles each holiday season, where organic food was purchased every week without fail. Mine was a place where fifteen dollars could vanish in the blink of an eye. 

I can still see our green minivan pulling into the driveway after a day spent at Sea world with my two best friends. I can picture myself getting out of the car, turning around to slam the door behind me and finding myself face-to-face with a woman I had never seen before. I can hear her asking if we had a small white dog, noting the stern expression on the pale face framed by thin, dark red hair. I remember each word of the story she told, of how she had been walking around our cul-de-sac when she noticed a dog wriggling out from underneath a gate, and the hand she extended when she told me she had tried to grab it, only to be bitten and watch it run away.
The next thing I knew, my mom and I were running around the neighborhood with a flashlight and a leash, the cold night air numbing my face. My feet pounded against the pavement as I tried not to think of what could have happened to my dog. I stopped running for a second, to catch my breath, cup my hands around my mouth and yell her name. As we ran past an alleyway, I saw a blurry white blob emerge out of the darkness, watched it hurtle toward me, transforming into a creature whose long ears flew up with each bounding leap. I knelt down, scooped it up, and hugged it so tightly, I heard its breath whoosh out. I held on to my limp and tired puppy, wanting the moment of reunion to last.

  Something is blocking my train of thought. I sit at the computer on a Friday afternoon, my fingers resting on home position on the keyboard. The spacebar flashes on and off at the top of the page, blinking.            I run a hand over my face, weave strands of hair through my fingers, and stretch out my back. I listen to the vertebrae in my spine re-align themselves, and sigh. Once again, I scan the list of possible blog topics, eliminating them one by one. I have nothing to say about my “guardian angel”, have never wanted something so much that I felt an eternity pass before I had it, and have never been told to “grow up.” There is nothing on the list I can write say 175 words about, and yet, I can’t think up a new topic of my own. I riffle through my copy of The Odyssey, but my mind is as blank as the Word document before me. The clock ticks in sync with the space bar flashing on and off at the top of the screen.              As the sun sets I stare at my hands, waiting for a thought to come, to make my fingers spring into action and type. The computer bathes my face in an electric blue glow as the cursor flashes on and off, blinking.     

Balance is regarded by many cultures as something worth striving for. Balance is needed at times, such as the week of exams. As I know all too well, this week is one of the most stressful weeks of the entire year. Every one of my friends and I are completely focused on schoolwork and studying, on memorizing every last fact that has a one in a thousand chance of appearing on an exam. This is definitely not a time for balance; schoolwork takes top priority and the balance between work and leisure is completely lost, along with sleep. The results are chaotic: dozens of people get sick, and the rest of us loose any and all sanity and begin to develop nervous habits. One such habit is my friend’s tendency to dance while declining nouns in Latin.             At other times, however, balance is not needed. For example, when it comes to my room, I completely disregard the balance between neat and messy. My room is always what I consider a mess. It is completely normal to find a long-lost pen in a jumble of blankets, a sweatshirt stuffed behind a box of old stuffed animals, countless jackets and bags draped over a chair, tennis shoes hanging from a door handle, two-day-old strawberries in Tupperware on my desk, birthday cards, crumpled paper, and a cape on my bed, or an open dictionary under my pillow. However, I like my room this way; clean spaces always feel cold and unlived in. I also like the surprise of seeing things I haven’t seen in years turn up under my desk or bed. In this case, a lack of balance is appreciated. Balance is not always best.        

The wind howls around me, pushes my board back over my head. I manage to hang on and move it sideways to tuck it under my arm, only to be twisted around full circle. I continue to trudge through the fine sand and look out at the monstrous waves beneath the cloudy sky, water flying off their crests. I shiver.            

 My parents have found a spot and are lounging on beach chairs in sweaters, sweat pants, and hats; talking to my uncle Andy. My cousin has already striped off his t-shirt and is wading into the water. I drop the board and sit on it, hugging my knees up to my chest. All too soon, my mother asks, “Why don’t you go join Austin?”            

I grunt unhappily.

“Come on,” my uncle says, standing up. “I’ll take you out there.”            

Reluctantly, I slip off the jeans and shirt over my bathing suit, pick up my board, and walk waist-deep into the surf alongside my uncle. I push the board over a wave and hop on, shuddering as the next wave crashes over my head. Andy swims breaststroke past me, out toward his son. I pant rhythmically each time I move my arm through the cold sea, pulling myself across the rough water, paddling away from the shore.
Austin waves as I near them. His skin is already turning pale and blue; his teeth chatter as he smiles.            

“You know where all the big waves are?” shouts Andy over the wind, treading water.            

 I straddle the longboard, shaking my head no.             

“I’ll show you,” he roars, and grabs onto the end of my board. I hastily lie back down and begin to paddle again as he pushes me out. We make it over a swell and I gasp at the sight of the next wave, a nine foot unbroken pounder, towering over my head.            

“Would now be a good time to mention that I can’t take unbroken waves?” I yell.            

“What?” he yells back. “We’re right over a sandbar! That’s what makes these waves so big.”            

“Don’t sandbars cause riptides?” I cry.            

“Yep!” He grins, and begins to turn the board around. “Here comes a big one! Hold on tight!”            

He gives the board a push as a giant wave swells beneath it. I feel my eyes widen as the nose angles steeply toward the ground.       

A time when I have been aware of silence:             

             The silence presses in.            

             One ear serves its purpose, funneling the low babble of voices, the jazzy music in the background. White silence fills the other.             

        Dense mist, cotton, caught in my right ear distorts the cocktail conversation. It finds its way through to my brain, slowing my thoughts, dulling emotion, bluntly numbing me. It takes me away.             I struggle to read the lips of others, unable to even recognize my name. Hands placed over thudding speakers absorb the vibration, the only way I know music plays. Like the aunt turning 95, I shout to hear myself. The loudest voice is inside of me, pleading for the soft pillow obstructing sound to be taken away.

            One of the main themes in the first few chapters of Homer’s The Odyssey is inspiration. This thyme is apparent when Athena inspires Telemachus to stand up against the suitors living in his house and encourages him to travel abroad for news of his long-lost father. She does so by comparing him to his father, whom she says Telemachus greatly resembles in looks. This inspires Telemachus to be courageous, because he believes that if he has inherited his father’s looks, he must have also inherited his father’s courage, spirit, wit, and other positive qualities. She also compares him to Prince Orestes, who “won glory throughout the world” by avenging his father’s death. Telemachus is encouraged by the motivation and decides to search the world for news of his father.            

           Many people inspire me on a daily basis. However, they do so not by comparison, but by setting a good example for me. One such person is a friend of mine in another grade. She always tries to be available for me if I have anything I want to talk to her about, and is very patient and understanding. Her kind qualities remind me of the importance of treating others well and being sympathetic to others when they are upset.   

           My violin teacher is another inspiration to me. She is a great musician and plays well enough to make a living playing professionally. She never stops working with me to perfect my playing. She often plays my concertos to demonstrate something to me, and when she does, I can’t help but notice how good her articulation and tone are. She is much more talented than I am. However, she never makes comparisons between me and other musicians and tells me often that I am progressing. Her patience, diligence, and talent inspire me to work harder on my music.

            It’s Sunday morning at nine. I sit on a long pew with a red cushion, squeezed in next to six other seventh grade girls. The small children sit on the steps to the chancel, listening to a middle-aged Hispanic woman read to them about a little girl whose grandmother now lives only in her heart. The congregation lets out a collective “hm” of appreciation as the cellist picks up her bow to play. Loud sniffs tell us that Diana has taken out her star-spangled handkerchief. I hear a snore and realize that Madi has fallen asleep on my shoulder, as always. I smile to myself, knowing that she stayed up past midnight watching Narruto.    

            As the cellist vibratos the last note into silence, the minister walks forward, a navy blue book in one hand. “Please rise as you are able and join us in singing hymn number 102,” I mouth along with her, pushing Madi off my shoulder to haul her to her feet. She groans, places our shared copy of the hymn book into my hands and turns the right. At five foot ten, she towers over me, her long red hair brushing my arm. As always, she has to bend over to read the music I hold level with my neck. She sings softly into herself, a few notes flat, just as she has done every Sunday for the past four years.

        I know after the service she will approach me, grinning evilly, a half eaten pastry in one hand, to sing The Phantom of the Opera, pull out the fingers I will desperately stick into my ears, making sure I know every word. And I know she will sing that flat too. I know that while the other girls gossip and whine about their boyfriends or how ghetto their middle schools are, Madi will chase me around the block, her light yellow skirt billowing around her long legs, giggling the whole way. During religious education, I know she will try to tell me about a fan fic she read online, or a movie she saw, or a book she has read, perhaps the one she brought to church this week. If I don’t listen to her, she’ll tickle my neck or poke me in the stomach, causing me to shriek with laughter, getting us both in trouble. If she’s in a good mood she’ll invite me over to her house and we’ll walk to the beach or go see a play at her sister’s college. If she isn’t, I know she will sit cross-legged on the floor, refusing to move or eat, emitting high-pitched squeaks.

        I know that while the other girls our age are busy sleeping in after a late night party or meticulously deciding what to wear, Madeline will be at church with a good book in one hand and a hairbrush in the other. She will be waiting to give me braids, waiting to share a song or story, or waiting to fall asleep on my shoulder, as always.