The Great Escape

I ran away over 13 years ago.  I was four years old and my older brother and I were tired of bowing to the demands of our youngest brother, being forced to eat broccoli, and being asked to make our beds.  Sick of the choking injustice, we hatched a plan to leave and never come back.  I packed up my Barbies, Wood-Kin paper dolls, Jelllies sandals, and blanket into my kindergarten backpack and met Adam at the front door.  Clutching his pillowcase full of Hot Wheels, he fearlessly led the way off the porch and down the sidewalk.  We made it to the end of the driveway before our grand escapade was halted due to the spying eyes of our younger brother.  My mom called us back inside and sentenced us to the horror of Windex-ing the bathroom mirrors. 

Since our compromised mission, I have often contemplated running away.  I even packed a bag of t-shirts but decided to stay because my mom made brownies.  

One time, I declared out of rage, “I’m running away!” To which my mother coolly replied, “Go on, there’s the door.”  With that challenge in mind, I grew up slowly realizing that emptying the dishwasher was not a prison sentence and David, though the baby of the family was not the designated favorite child.  My parents were not monsters, and taking out the trash required little to no effort at all.  Turning 16 and receiving a car should have reignited my desire for escape, but I realized I had homework to do and a dog to feed.  But the most peculiar thing is that when I wanted so desperately to leave, time had held me captive.  But with college on the horizon, time has set me free. As it even pushes me forward, my mother’s voice echoes in my head.  “Go on, there’s the door.”

Ladies and Gentlemen....

Artists are weird people.  Do they classify as people?  They’re easy to spot and impossible to forget.  Ugh, I just used a cliché right there.  And there I go again.  The world is an artist’s stage.  They talk to no one, yet talk to everyone.  Artists can be painters, drawers, sculptors, musicians, actors, dancers, writers, photographers, cinematographers, and other lengthy named professions.  I suppose they are people, I mean, they do breathe, walk on two legs, circulate blood, scratch their heads, and eat (though some forget to occasionally). 

These artists are easy to spot, primarily through their talents, but also through their personality.  I have been involved in theatre for many years, and will be the first to proclaim from the roof tops how absolutely strange, questionable, sometimes terrifying, yet utterly endearing “drama people” are.  Walk into your nearby Starbucks, what do you see?  No, not the sorority girls ordering their white chocolate mocha latte java chip frappuccino extra foam hold the whip cream two sugars please.  Look in the corner at the huddled group with laptops and funny hats.  Walk down the road and see the girl yelling, “hold it right there! Don’t move until I grab my camera!”  Look at the fingers of an artist.  Are they caked with clay, stained with paint, or blistered from a guitar?

I always knew I was going to be a writer.  Growing up, I was the one that had tons of imaginary personalities.  They weren’t just imaginary friends named Blankie or Rachel 2.  To me, these were real people with real physical features, real emotions, and real stories.  Laney, girl who played basketball and worked in her grandfather’s car garage on weekends.  Christopher, the boy who lived on a cattle ranch in New Mexico. Maggie, the rich Italian girl whose family was stranded in the Amazon rainforest.  Anna Maria, the Spanish orphan trapped in a boarding school (inspired by Francis Hodgson Burnett’s A Little Princess, one of my favorite childhood books).

For artists, life is simply an art gallery, a theatre, a lit stage, or a best-selling book.  There may be critics, (there always are) but that’s what makes us shine.  

Looking for a Rainbow

What is it about our depression that really affects us?  We live like Eeyore from The Many Adventures of Winnie the Pooh walking around with a dark rain cloud looming over us.  Suddenly, everything is seen in a shade of gray.  This feeling robs us of seeing color and emotion.  Happy yellow, bold red, somber blue, elegant purple, perky pink, unpredictable orange, wise green—they all turn into gray.  Simple gray with gray mid tones and no high lights or low lights.  Every situation for us is clouded and masked, like the looming clouds before and after a storm.  Where you can walk outside and feel the bitter cool wind whip against your skin.  But it’s a relief from the blazing heat, isn’t it?  Or in this mask of gray, is it simply another uncomfortable weather change?  Our dejection leads us there, standing on the front porch, clutching our crocheted sweaters against us and wondering when the rainbow will shine its merciful colors through the thick clouds.  We don’t need a dazzling show of bright colors, but simply a tiny peek of light.  Something other than gray to let us know hope is coming.  

The Photograph

Click

I am a hunter

I am a poacher

I am a captor

I am a kidnapper

Click

I am a thief

I have stolen

This landscape

This beauty

This creation

Click

These mountains

This river

Those trees

That person

Click

The emotions

I’ve stolen them too

Anger, sadness

Joy, frustration

Laugher, love

Click

It is mine

I am a thief

My camera is my weapon

I steal

But I leave everything behind

Just the way I found it

Click

Abracadabra

I don’t believe magic is casting spells or drinking potions.  It’s much more simplistic than that.  I believe “magic” is how people explain the unexplainable.  It is the first snow of the year, when the world seems to fall silent.  Or it is a new born baby’s first smile, or that ray of sun that shines through the living room window on Sunday afternoons, warming from the inside out.  This magic takes many forms.  It’s the subtle glow of fireflies that dot the summer night, the tingle and fright of first falling in love, or the sound of rain pattering on the tin roof, creating a stillness in the chaos.  Magic isn’t the leprechaun holding a pot of gold at the end of the rainbow, but rather, the burst of color in the hazy, storm-torn sky.  Simplicity.  It cannot be explained by human terms.  Isn’t that what makes these things magical?

Allow Me to Rant

Kudos to the brave therapists who listen to problems all day, but my therapy today comes in a good, old-fashioned rant about my pet peeves, all of which I have experienced this week.           

            1.  When people are late.

This one just really pushes my buttons.  We said 7:00.  Do not show up at 7:15.  7:00 and 7:15 are not the same time, strangely enough.  It’s not a hard concept, essentially.  Just leave earlier.  I just love waiting in dark parking lots for late people.  Actually, I don’t.  I very much hate it.  So be on time.

            2.  When people text me to start a conversation, then reply about every ten minutes.

Really?  Yes, this happens to me quite often.  It isn’t brain surgery.  If you’re busy, don’t text me.  Are these tax dollars really going to education?

            3.  When people believe they are smarter than they actually are.

Welcome to my school.  I may be indirectly referring to a few choice people, and I am in fact aware that I do sound like a 13 year old girl’s twitter account but isn’t that the purpose of ranting?  People really need to get over themselves.  Ever heard of the sun?  The world revolves around it, not you.

            4.  Excessive cussing.

I am not preaching, just irked.  Wow, you look so tough dropping 27 F-bombs because you just stubbed your toe on the side of the desk.  I only wish I was as cool as you.  Marry me now?

            5.  Cocky guys.

You will never be as hot as Ryan Gosling.  Don’t even try.

We've Come a Long Way From Lunch Pails

Today, I opened my lunch sack to find a sandwich on white bread.  I detest white bread.  Call me a snob, but I only eat whole wheat bread.  This problem could have been overlooked if it had not been one of the many lunch blunders my mother has committed just this month.  One was packing me Cool Ranch Doritos which in response, I promptly sent her a picture of the unopened package as visual evidence of my distaste.  A couple of times, she has forgotten the flavor packet to my water bottle.  So guess what I got to drink?  Water.  Plain water.  Now why on earth would anyone want to drink that?  Recently, her blunders have been more excusable though.  For example, giving me Snickers instead of Twix.  I can cope with that, I suppose.  Except today I got no candy.  And white bread.  If this pattern of irresponsibility continues, I might have to start packing my own lunch.