That Oratory I'm talking about

Well, funny thing.

So I was doing Camp NaNoWriMo.

NaNoWriMo: noun.
1. Intense masochism.
2. National Novel Writing Month, November; one must set a word count and reach it by the end of the month. For adults, the target word count is always 50,000.
Camp NaNoWriMo: noun.
NaNoWriMo during other months, generally April and either July or August. Everyone can set their own word count goal.

Anyway, so I did Camp NaNoWriMo, with a goal of 40,000 words - I reached it, at 40,089 words on 2 pm on July 31st. My prize? Bragging rights! Which I'm obviously using.

And then I realized that I did actually sign up for the Yale speech tournament and it is on September 22nd and I do have to get my original oratory done. And guess when it was originally due? August 1st.

Anyhow, I tried to get typing but frankly, I had just come out of a three-day word marathon. I had practically lived on the living room couch with my laptop. I had written 20,000 words in three days. I didn't particularly want to do it.

I ended up sending my coach an email asking for more time. She let me have a week. But I was still in a post-NaNo haze for much of that time, so it didn't get done then either.

By now I was pretty sure this wasn't going to happen, so I told my coach I wasn't going to go. Then my other coach jumped in and said he did want me to go to this tournament as originally planned and was willing to give me five more days.

Therefore, I am writing again now.

Speechin' the summer away

When I'm writing my Original Oratory and I have a kickass topic and so many things that I want to say but

HELP I CAN'T FIGURE OUT HOW TO SAY THE THINGS

Memories, Stories, Lives, and Years

Today I woke up tired (aka after a sleepover). I went to visit the Museum of Fine Arts with my friend and every time I heard the date, I knew there was something I should be remembering.

And when I came home, I realized.

A year ago today, I came back to America from Israel.

That's it, now it's been more than a year, more distance between me and that past. I don't know why the concept of the year is so significant to me in this respect. I don't know.

Part of me is a little bit sad. Part of me is just confused. It's odd - I gave my friend a notebook of mine to read, a notebook that included a chronology of the last months in Israel, and I haven't read it in a while, and I don't remember much from that part. Time goes by and I don't remember.

But looking back, perhaps Israel's changes were just as great in magnitude as the changes I went through this past year. A lot happened. I just - yeah. It's been a really weirdly crazy and wonderful year.

Really, I suppose I shouldn't try to attach additional meaning to certain parts of my life, because all of it is important. And sometimes I wonder - what if the events I don't remember too well affected me more than the times that are replayed in my mind?

A life, in my not-so-long experience, is like matter. Comprised of tiny bits that can be dissected into even smaller and smaller ones - and mostly empty space. The space between the molecules, the atoms, the hadrons, the quarks. And that space is important. It's what makes the matter hold its shape, what defines it. Because really, matter is just an exception to the vacuum (it goes the other way too - the vacuum is an exception to matter). A life is not just the memories. A life is all the spaces in between too. All the short, sweet moments saved deep inside a mind and all the stories.

We are little bits of improbability, floating in space, wanting understanding. I am not one to say what is or isn't in the spaces between. Perhaps it's things I don't believe in. I don't know. But that's what I try to find out.

Sad

I am feeling sad now, and I don't know why. I had a good day. I am okay, honestly I am. But it is one of those times when the sadness tastes metallic in my mouth and I feel like I'm floating in the worst possible way.

It's a time when I look on the world and I am so worried that other people are not happy. I am so worried that there is something I should be doing for them that I am not. I am so, so worried that someone else has the metal-taste and the floating and that they need someone to talk to, someone to make them feel better.

I'm okay, it's just that the world overwhelms me sometimes.

I'm scared. I don't know what I'm scared of and I don't know why I'm scared and I shouldn't be stressed at all.

But I'm still okay.

I saw a picture today that said something about "Feeling is from the brain. Leave the heart alone - it just pumps blood." And that is true. But where do you feel it? Your heart. Your chest. You don't get headaches when you're sad, or at least, not as much. You feel your chest.

Read that as you may. I hope your mouth tastes sweet and that you feel firmly rooted to the ground.

On Writing, or lack thereof

There is a certain silent sadness to the lack of writing.

Now, don't get me wrong. There was a lot of writing in my life this year. Essays, blog posts, journal entries - a lot of nonfiction.

But there is a comfort to fiction that cannot be achieved with such safe material.

Fiction is dangerous. It feels terrifying because creating is terrifying. It is a jump into the unknown, where there may be a safety net or a concrete sidewalk in the thick darkness. If it doesn't work, it hurts. But that analogy is a poor one, since writing fiction will certainly not kill you.

Fiction requires a certain freedom to the mind, a lack of preoccupation. My brain, when fuzzy with obligation, does not want to write fiction. In that case, my brain just wants to sleep. Or look at adorable cat gifs. Or just stare at the ceiling for a while.

Suddenly, I'm out of school and I can write again. This year, I began to doubt whether or not I was actually a writer. But I suppose, in a way, that being a writer is not a question of writing every single day on schedule. Being a writer is a matter of coming back to it. Of needing to come back to it. Of having the ideas curl into smoky rings of vapor until they condense into liquid and can no longer be contained. That is writing. It is a difficult love, but a fruitful one.

This July I venture into Camp NaNoWriMo, land of 1613 words each day and insanity. I'm excited and terrified. And hopefully, in August, I'll have a novel to edit.

The silent sadness is over, if only temporarily.

Living Inside My Head

There is, of course, an extremely subjective angle to my view of me.

Now that we are past that painfully obvious opening sentence, let's elaborate.

I think everyone has a love-hate relationship with themselves, which is the way things should be. You should love yourself at least a little, but you shouldn't be thoroughly egocentric. You should be able to see flaws in yourself.

In my experience, most people do this quite well. In fact, most people go as far as to see most of themselves as flaws with small seams.

I am no exception.

People say I'm smart, and yes, I know I am relatively intelligent. People say I'm flexible, which I know I am to an extent. People say I'm talented, which I know I am.

I know I am, but I don't think it's as much as other people.

Living inside my head is weird. I always want to stuff it with information. I always think there are things I should be doing better.

Periodically, people inform me of my intelligence because I'm okay at remembering things. Today I was helping people study for history finals, producing a date off the top of my head. "How do you remember that?" they asked, followed by, "You're so smart, why are you so smart?"

Also today, after I comforted someone who was stressing out, a friend of mine said, "Oh, she's not always an asshole."

Inside my head is a weird mix of the two views - contented with myself, yet thoroughly irritated at the same time and surprised when I get things right.

It's weird.

I don't know.

I'll go back to living inside my head.

At night, after the party

As the color fades around my eyes, I stare ahead, hearing the angels' voices sing
on the breeze, on the breeze.

As the water chills in the glass, I pour it down my throat, feeling ice
on my lips, on my lips.

Recalling the fading light and a sea's wind and a fleeting wildness
in my blood, in my blood.

As the music pounded in my ears, in my feet,
in my blood, in my blood.

And the sun escaped below the horizon, red and glistening with pearls
of sweat, pale sweat.

And songs tore from within me, within me
and my feet danced under me, under me
and a turtle's image appeared on my arm

And it was nothing if not everything

Because without the wild
what is there to the world?