Ugh.

Oh dear. It's script frenzy isn't it? Ooops. Well for now, poetry.

If I should see
Another day
Where stars shine bright
And doth delay
The coming of
The final vow
I'd fight a thousand years
For thee

Don't tempt me to
Wander far
Don't let me out
Don't let me out upon the hill
For if I but catch wind of such
I'd silence all but dearest trill
Goodnight my dear
I'm lost to all

I'm lost again
And now I'm found
I'm suffering
And blest profound
Weary weak and worn and torn
And pierced by all but sharpest word
Then comes the waking, brighter sun
And all what slept
Is now begun
So hear my voice
And hear this plea
Dearest please don't
Forget me

Sorry I totally had The Parting Glass stuck in my head when I wrote this so the rhythm seems off unless you sing it like that.

April Fools

Well.

Yesterday I dropped a watch in the toilet, forgot about it and later it got flushed. Also, I forgot to write.

I've written every day since September 10th. Every single day. Even the first seven days in November when I was delirious with fever and was clinging to life by a thread (that's stretching things a bit, but it felt that way at the time.) This week has been rotten. And this makes me incredibly sad. A few months ago I woke up late at night, remembered that I hadn't written that day and rushed to record a simple poem. It wasn't much but it was still something. I didn't even do that yesterday. I was too busy watching the stupid I mean Hunger Games. Boy, this has been a lousy, irritating, frustrating week.

Okay, enough of that. Time to be positive again. The sun is out. That's something to praise the Lord for. Other than that I really can't think of much. I guess I should be thankful that even though I forgot yesterday, I can still sit here and write this today. And I can write tomorrow and the day after that, and all the days for the rest of my life if I want. I should be thankful that I learned to write at all. I should be thankful that I live in a place where I have teachers and principals and professors and other students all around me.

I am thankful. I'm done writing now, for today. But I'll be back tomorrow.

System Reboot

I can't help feeling torn apart. Lost and lonely, yet desperately tired of people. People everywhere. They bring their problems and their feelings and they make me afraid. I don't know why. They just do. I guess sometimes it just seems difficult to juggle friendships and school and work and family and me. Me is such a hazard in life. Some days I wish I didn't have feelings and fears and trials of my own, so that I could just make everyone else happy, without faltering or failing. At the end of the day I feel empty. Like I've been used up and can't hold any more from other people. I don't like feeling unkind or unable. I wish I could be perfect all the time. And I can't help wishing that I could just figure things out on my own, without waiting to hear what God wants me to do.

Next year I'll be far away from this place, and although I'm excited for a new adventure, I'm scared of making all the same mistakes that I've made here. But more and more I'm realizing that I'm not afraid to leave, not like I thought I would be. There are so many people here that I love, and I'll miss them. But there are too many things here that I won't miss. I'm ready to start my life. And be me. And remember that it's okay for me to feel things too. I'm allowed to fail. I'm allowed to be moody and frustrated. And I'm allowed to be who I am, as long as that girl is who God's making me.

So goodnight world. Goodnight and sweet dreams. The clouds may never clear again, here in this Northwestern mad land, but planes soar high above the clouds, and for that I am thankful.

System Failure

Well I officially can't write anything of worth tonight, so instead I'm just going to rant about how much pain I'm in. I'm in some serious pain. My legs hurt so bad. Silly legs, they haven't even worked today! I think that's why. They are mad at me for eating chocolate and not taking them to the gym. But compared to most people, I'm probably actually doing okay. I hate feeling sick though. That was rather obvious. I don't think anyone likes feeling sick. Blah blah. Okay I'm done trying to rant. Even my rants are falling flat tonight. It has been a very, very discouraging week. I am feeling like a pricked balloon with nothing left inside of me but some leftover spit. It's gross. Angry, unhappy spit too. Not good, contented spit. There, I finally made a metaphor that I'm happy with. So here's some poetry (aka desperation writing.)

Okay well I wrote poetry. But it ended up being too personal to share. 

Goodnight world. 

You and Me

Tonight 

The stars are friends 

They laugh at me 

Because they know

They get to smile down on us both

And they know 

Everything we don't 

I'm wondering where you are tonight

And if you're thinking about me

I'm working hard and laughing 

In between 

The stars can see 

And you and me

We've got everything 

And nothing all at the same time 

So tonight 

I'll look at the stars and wonder 

Who you are

And who I'll be 

And when I'll find you

Oh you and me

You and me

3/29/14

   The day was growing older. Golden ribbons of light from the setting sun drifted through my windows as I walked in, thankful to be home for another night. I fixed an apple. Somehow the dusk was too beautiful to share with the hollowness of tv. Something about trivial reality shows or even a movie would have spoiled the tranquility beyond recapturing. So I sat in silence, listening to the the nothingness of a spellbound city. Breathless, I watched the sky as it melted into cotton-candy pinks and winsome blues, bathing the city in a glorious, rose-colored hue.
   The beauty made me lonely. It was still too soon for tv, so I turned on my radio. A rich chocolaty voice slithered into my consciousness, bribing me to remember the past. I did remember. The sun sank down lower, and I thought of everyone out walking the streets beneath its blessing. Couples growing old together, babies being born, dreams being met and houses being built to furnish new lives and new dreams as they unfolded.
   But I was alone.
   I pulled out my cell and toyed with it for a moment. If not for the voice on the radio, I would have been safe. But such songs tempt me to live life, not just exist.

I'm tired tonight. But the sunset is beautiful. For some reason, I keep wondering if you're watching it too.

   I pressed send before I could linger another moment. As I did so, the light lessened into remembrance of a day gone forever. And the sun set.

You

Take my heart 

It's yours 

Take me away now 

I'm useless 

Fill me up because I'm hopeless 

You took me broken, bent and undone

You took me when I said I was through 

You took me Home

When I had no words left to say

And You were mine

You told me everything I ever knew

So thank You

A thousand times, thank You

Your love has made me who I am 

And who you're making me 

Help me when I'm caught 

Help me when I'm lonely

Help me when I'm desperate for peace 

Fill me up

Because I'm still broken

Still bent

Still undone

Fill me up with Your love

I've none 

The light betrays me 

Hope eludes me 

Destiny 

Destroys me
But You
You save me.

Just for Tonight

just for tonight
i wish you'd stop being you
even though i love you
i wish you'd stop doing what's right
i wish you'd forget about honesty
and tell me you're on my side
just for tonight

i know everything you say is true
your words are everything i don't need
all i need is you
telling me you love me and i'm beautiful
telling me you love me and i'm safe with you
there's no end to us in sight
please, just for tonight

all i want now is to laugh and just forget
forget about the pain
forget about all of them
just you and me
just for tonight
say you love me like you really do
just for tonight,
say i'm the only one
and you will never be the same again

just for tonight
stop telling me the truth
tell me i'm right
to feel the way i do
just for tonight, let me be free of all responsibility
stop pushing me
just for tonight
let me be me
and just you be you

just us two
just for tonight
pretend you're on my side
then we won't have to say goodbye
even though i know
tomorrow will come and all of this will end
just for tonight
let's pretend

just for tonight
tell me you love me like you really do
i don't want to say goodbye
to you

My awesome chemistry homework part 2

What is pH? 

First of all, it is an example of how ridiculous the English language is. How on earth "ph" and "f" make the same sound, I shall never understand! I vote that we should all talk on fones and that the name Phoebe should be spelled like it sounds: Feebee. HOW HARD IS THAT?

But perhaps more importantly, it is a logarithmic measure of the concentration of H+ ions. Soren Peter Lauritz Sorensen (was he Soarin' over California? Probably not. He was Danish, actually.) defined it in 1909.

pH = -log[H+] where log is a base 10 logarithm and H+ equals the concentration of hydrogen ions in moles per liter of solution. pH is an abbreviation for "power of hydrogen."

What household products can be used as acid/base indicators? 

Testing for acids and bases sounds like a very tasty process:

Blackberries, raspberries, grapes, carrots, cherries, onions, tea, strawberries.

Other not-so-tasty-items that are indicators are:

Geranium petals, ExLax tablets (definitely not something you want to taste), mood lipsticks, morning glories, red cabbage, vanilla extract, washing soda, and about a hundred different types of petals (the best option for the outdoorsy chemist. I will stick with the lipstick and the tea.)

What is a universal indicator? 

A universal indicator is a solution which hasn't learned to be confident with its self image, and therefore caters to the demands of a large variety of pH values by changing colors.

Can you classify acids from their formulas alone?

Because there are very few strong acids in aqueous solutions, it is fairly reasonable to assume that most will be weak acids. It might be helpful to memorize the most common strong acids, such as HCl, Hbr, Hl, H2SO4, HNO3, and HClO4.

If you don't want to do this, you can always order your acids to drop and give you twenty. That should clear up who's strong and who's weak pretty fast.

My awesome chemistry homework

My chemistry assignment was basically a work of art today. I was instructed to answer these questions "in my own words." Let all teachers know that it is very dangerous to give a writer that kind of freewill.

Why are acids called proton doners? 

Acids are nice substances that give H+ ions away to Bases as presents for Christmas and other holidays, such as Pi day and Mole Day. Because H+ ions are really just protons, acids are called proton donors, although a much more creative name for them would be "Base Benefactors." 

Why can't hydrogen ions exist by themselves? 

In short, because hydrogen ions take "sharing is caring" to a whole new level. If water molecules shows up, hydrogen ions get really clingy and want to share electrons with them in order to form hydronium ions, or H3O. However, H+ ions are okay hanging out by themselves in gas form. (But basically everybody would rather be by themselves when they are feeling gassy. Otherwise it's just awkward.) 

Is a negative pH possible? 

Yes. If the molarity of the hydrogen ions is higher than one, you will get a negative value for your pH. But that's okay, even though it seems completely crazy. 


Also, apparently even the strongest acids don't dissociate completely at high concentrations, which is probably the most inspirational thing I have read today. 

How can you tell if a compound is an acid? 

I get asked this a lot. Usually I just tell people, "When you know, you know." with as much of a cryptic aura as possible. But I only do that because I'm embarrassed about my own ignorance. Now I'll never have to pretend again! 


There are a few different ways to distinguish whether a compound is an acid. You can use an indicator, which will change color to expose acids, or you can dissolve some of the compound in distilled water and see if the concentration of H+ ions rises, or you can use a pH meter to see if the compound's pH is lower than 7. 

Nightmare

This is a dream.

It is a bad dream, but it's almost over. In these moments my heart thrums with deadly flickering, as the nightmare grows steadily worse, and worse still. Awakening is heaven, and the dream is a prison. Mascara stains leech down the walls and accusations rise up all around me, currents of hot steam on an icy night. With each day I find my feet heavier. The monstrous slathering of a hound echoes in my ears. He is on my heels and I feel as though I cannot run much longer.

But I know nightmares. Eventually it will be too horrible to be real, and I will awake and be free. I'm close. I can tell. My fingers are shaking.

Today

  It feels so good to laugh again. I'm so thankful for good friends. It is lovely to laugh, to feel like laughing. I love  to forget for a moment, the way my heart beats to the rhythm of chaos.

  This week I felt as if I had stepped from the gates of a golden sea, peaceful and infused with the magic of hope, into a deep pool of life-sucking goo. But somehow today was better. God sent a legion of valiant soldiers to fight for me, even if they didn't know it.

  Joy is an elusive prize, but today I felt it briefly. And last week I felt it bubble up inside me like a spring. Funny, in those glorious moments, you feel as if life had always been that beautiful, and never could be anything darker again. I wish I could savor the serenity for longer than a moment. Tomorrow is a new day. But nothing is too big, not even the vast stretch of time that is a single day in this ordinary madness that surrounds me.

First Installment of Short Story

The first time I met Miss Margie, I was crying.

It was spring, and I had endured an entire autumn and winter of school trials, particularly arithmetic and little Betty Haysmill, who was a monster worse than fractions themselves. I was walking home the long way that day, in order to avoid meeting any of the others along the road, and so I went way out down by the edge of Walker’s Eddy, where the cattails were waving kindly in the wind and the birds’ songs soothed my tattered soul. That is where I saw Miss Margie.

She was standing on her front porch, a saggy affair that had probably been a beautiful old Victorian porch when Miss Margie’s father had first breathed it into existence. Now it was old, older than the hills that cradled it. The whole house was a coffee-stained color, and the front window had a cracked pane. Miss Margie wore a blue cotton dress and had her hair pinned tightly up on her head. She was barefoot.

“Hey there,” She called to me. Wiping my nose, I glanced up at her. I had never seen a woman more wrinkled and tan. Her white hair was the lightest thing about her, next to her eyes which were so blue they reminded me of the island and fishing and too much sun and not enough time to explore.

“Hey,” I called back, not eager to be on my way. I wanted to be well through with my cry before I got home, otherwise my mother would see my red nose and ask me what was wrong, and the others would avoid me all night until bedtime. No one wants to play with a crybaby.

“Was you cryin’ for?” She asked softly. There was a lilt to her voice that made it sound like music, but old music, the kind that would play out of a phonograph, all crackly and distant.

“Nothin’.” I said. I had reached that age of unparalleled wisdom when it seemed to me that grown-ups never wanted anything but to make trouble or spoil your fun if you were having any. In those days kids kept their mouths shut if possible, and didn’t waste words when it wasn’t. At least in front of most adults. But Miss Margie wasn’t most adults—that I could tell even in those first few minutes.

“Little girls don’t just cry for nothing. I was one once, so you can’t fool me. Come on up and have a cookie.” She said, smiling. Her teeth were glaringly white, like her hair.

“Okay,” I said, brightening a bit. I was still wary, but cookies where a rarity never to be passed up.

We sat down on her porch. The chair she offered me was considerably less grand than her manner in pulling it out for me. She sat down herself and wiggled her toes, sighing like all old people do when they settle into a chair after they have been standing a long while.

“I’m Miss Margie Atkinson.” She declared bluntly, sticking out an old, skinny hand. I shook it and mumbled my name lowly.

“Mary Ellen Dewberry.”

“Pleased to meet you Mary Ellen,” Said Miss Margie.

“Nobody calls me Mary Ellen, ma’am.” I said.

“What do they call you?”

“Mickey.”

“Mickey it is, then.” She grinned again, and held out a plate painted with pink roses. On it was a pleasant array of stale molasses cookies. I thanked her and chewed slowly, wondering if my nose was back to its normal color yet.

As if reading my thoughts, Miss Margie swallowed her cookie in practically one gulp, and returned to the prior subject. “Now,” She said resolutely, brushing the cookie crumbs from her hands. There was a pitcher of watery looking lemonade sitting on the table in front of us and Miss Margie poured me a glass while I chewed. “What was it you was crying for, exactly?”

I hesitated. Clearly, Miss Margie was an ally. Everything about her reeked of kindred ambition, but still, she was a stranger, and talking wasn’t my specialty, even amongst friends.

“Betty Haysmill and all them at school.” I finally choked out feeling my eyes begin to burn again. I pulled another cookie from the plate without asking. Something told me Miss Margie would understand.

“Betty Haysmill?” She didn’t seem to recognize the name or the problem, so I sought for more words.  

“She made me cry, Ma’am.” I explained clumsily.

“No, child she didn’t.” Miss Margie laughed, a gloriously rich cackle that filled the air with the smell of hope.

“What you mean?” I was confused.

“Nobody can make you cry, sweet thing. You chose to cry, an’ no Betty c’never make you.”She bit into another cookie, wincing a little at its stiffness. 

I thought of Betty and winced myself. “I can’t keep myself from crying, though ma’am. She tells the other girls I’m ugly. And she’s right.” I admitted sadly.

Miss Margie looked at me closely for the first time and squinted those dazzlingly blue eyes.

“Well, you look alright to me.” She snorted. “Now, look here, Miss Mickey.”

“Yes, ma’am?”

“There’s some things you’ve got to know about women, if you’re to survive in this world.” Miss Margie ate another cookie and swept the crumbs from her lap again. I finished my own cookie and mimicked her. She leaned towards me. I leaned back.

“What’s that, ma’am?”

“Women, are at a disadvantage.” She said grimly.

“What’s a dis-ad-van-tage?” I struggled through the large word.

“It means that the world is harder on us than it is on men.” She swatted at a mosquito as it bandied about the mouth of the lemonade pitcher. I pitied the mosquito. Miss Margie’s hand was well trained and looked tougher than leather. The insect retreated to the opposite end of the porch, and seemed to be planning attack strategies. Miss Margie rose to her feet as she went on. She stood with her back to me, and peered out across the fields that must have belonged to her, and out across the street, and the houses in the distance where the town was sleeping in the shade.

“Y’see, Mickey, back when the earth was a whole lot newer than it is now, women was like cows and dogs and land—men traded them back and forth as part of a money-makin’ opp’tunity.”

“What’d they ever do that for?” I asked, wide-eyed.

“Because they didn’t know better, I s’pose.” Said Miss Margie. She sighed heavily. “Them was bad times for us women, though, Mickey. Marryin’ was like hiring, except women didn’t get paid to work for a man for the rest of her life, her father did.”

“That doesn’t make sense.” I said indignantly, the plight of the historical female gripping me strongly for the first time.

“No, it don’t.” Miss Margie sat back in her chair, in order to bat away the mosquito as he crept up on her pitcher. Satisfied with his defeat, Miss Margie smiled and went on.

“When the Lord came to the world, He taught men and women that they ought respect one another, males and females alike. Since then things got better. But y’see, that wasn’t good enough for some women, Mickey. Some of ‘em have got the idea that women should run things altogether. Now, that seems to me like taking more of our fair share.”

“Yes ma’am, it sure does.” I nodded.

“But you want to know what I think?”

I nodded again.

“I think those women are still just afraid of becoming like cows and dogs and land again. They’s afraid some man is going to take everything they’ve got an leave em’ in the dust.” She chewed on her lip for a minute. “Tell me, what’s your daddy like, Miss Mickey?”

Surprised, I smiled. “My daddy? He’s tall and he has dark hair—”

“No, no,” She interrupted, waving a hand at me. “What’s he like? He good to you?”

Shocked I nodded emphatically. “Oh yes ma’am. He is.”

“He talk to you?”

“Yes ma’am. Every day.”

“He do other things with you?”

“Yes ma’am. Right now he’s teaching me how to throw a baseball so I can play next year. And he reads to us out of a big book every night. I can’t remember the name though.”

Miss Margie smiled. “Then I think you are mighty lucky.”

“How do you figure that, Miss Margie?” I said with a flicker of sass, scowling. I didn’t think any girl who had been called ugly at school that day could be very lucky on any account.

“Because I don’t think your Miss Betty Haysmill has that kind of a daddy.” She said.

Then for a few moments we were silent, me trying to wrap my head around the thought that Betty had a father at all. I’d never given much thought to it before.

“What’s that got to do with women being like cows and stuff?” I asked. A splinter of sunlight poked its nose around the edge of the house and speared me in the eyes.

“Well I’ll tell you, but you’s goin’ to have to come back around tomorrow an hear it. I think it’s about dinner time, and your mama would be madder than a wet cat if she knowed I was givin’ you cookies. Scoot along home and come see me again after school t’morrow.” I glanced over at the hill, where my house sat placidly among the others, and I could tell Miss Margie was right. Nobody was out playing in the yard, which meant I’d have to hustle if I was to make it back in time for dinner.

“Thanks for the cookies, ma’am,” I said, hurrying to pick myself up. “And it was a pleasure t’meet you Miss Margie.”

“It was fine meeting you, Miss Mickey.” She replied.

I hurried off and watched her wave at me, a solitary figure on that lonely stretch of road. The house seemed even older than when I’d left it, but Miss Margie seemed younger. Her back was straighter than a yard stick and twice as tall. 

Random, Mentor/Protege Dialogue

“Some people are born with something extra—a special something that makes them more than just good. You have that. You have the potential to be somebody great, so why would you ever choose to be anything less?”

His eyes drilled into me, but his words cut deeper still. I wished I could escape from them.

“Because I’m afraid.” I admitted at last.

“It’s alright to be afraid.” He replied. “Remember, without fear, there would be no opportunity for courage.”