Stu st studder

So you know that little boy next door that your children sometimes tease for the way he talks? That boy is just a little different. For whatever reason he just can't seem to get the words out the first time, it takes him a while. Your children don't nessessarily dislike the boy, so you don't press the matter when they make an ocasional remark as to his speech. It's just childish teasing and you really don't have the time to handle that situation. You've got to pick your battles right? Is it right? No, no it's not. Consider this. Studies show that childhood studdering is posotively corolated to violence as an adult. So? What does that mean? Well, think about it. A child who studders is not able to defend himself. He can be the victim of mental violence. His condition both makes him a target for childhood persicution and unable to dish it back. He cannot verbally defend himself. So what option does he have? How does he fight back when being called a retard, loser, or weirdo? His little fists are the most natural option. Now I don't know about everyone, but it just makes me want to cry to think of a small boy having to retreat to using his small hands to fight off words that life hasn't given him a defence for. So all of us, let's teach our children, little brothers and sisters, and small cousins to be kind to these children. And if your child, brother, cousin, or friend is a studdrer do your best to be an encourager and support them in being able to deflect the words without using their fists.

Normality...

Don't think for one second that I am traveling pointlessly back to my disscusion of "average." What I am speaking about now is completely different and infinitely more powerful. The normality of a person's life is priceless to them. A family may not be rich, but they pay their normal ammount of bills. A person may not be brilliant, but at least they don't have a learning disability. A person may not have a car, but at least they can pay for a bus pass. A person may not be an athlete, but at least they have a body that functions correctly. It depends on the person, how they define normality. We all look at eachother and judge based on our view of normality. It's a changing and ever amorphous term. It's shelf life is ephemral and we do not know how desperately we cling to it. "You don't know what you had till it's gone," I'm not sure who said that but it certainly applies to this conversation. When the bank forcloses, the rutine cancer test comes back positive, or the child is expelled depending on the situation these may be things that shake your perception of "normal." The thing is....things never go back to the way they were. We tend to think in a, "they have meds for that," mentality. Sure something bad might happen, but we have an emergency fund. So what will these people do when their fiance has a stroke and will never speak or move their left side again? What will they do when the house is gone, and the children are angry? I beg myself, don't let me get swept up by this blindness for the stablity of normality. Help me to appriciate every second of it, every day.

Photo's for Dance

Mark Virtue. A fantastic photographer and my friend. I take a class with his daughter and often sell him his daily (or hourly) fix of diet coke from the Gallery Cafe. He takes all the show pictures for the studio. :)
http://gallery.virtuousphotography.com/dreamsofdance

hum drum

Just sitting in the computer lab...........bored and blogging. It's cold and rainy outside the sound of typing is varied and never ceasing. People are working, playing, writing. The guy behind me is a farm-ville addict and no one seems to actually be doing homework. I was facebooked by some guy that I've never met but apparently sat next to me in the computer lab yesterday....can you say creepy? I deleted his friend request and baned him from making more. I have a summary to write before noon but of course that would require me to read the essay.. I suppose I could do that. I've been feeling especially creative lately. I wonder what that's about. I just realized that the painting that I've been staring at for the last two hours as I worked is in two pieces and screwed into the wall. Who would do something like that???

Fashion

Ok I'm totally ticked off. I just wrote the most wonderfull post only for it to be lost in cyberspace. Grrrrr. Well I will do my best to re-create it. Fashion. Perhaps one of the worst of human plauges. It controls, manipulates, shames, objectifies. A few special people have learned to control the beast of worry over fashion. I am not one of them. Ever sinse I was 5 and a girl in my class told me that my clothes looked funny I have worried (sometimes obsessively) over what I am going to wear. For example; right now I am wearing a short black pencil skirt, a rust-colored baby-doll style sweater, brown tights, tan socks, small leather boots (vintige, I <3>Fashion is broken and good for nothing, it's time to bin it. Is it worthless? After all God din't create man with clothes on. Thanks Eve, for the headache. I certainly agree with Ayn Rand when he said, "There is a level of cowardice lower than the conformist: the fashionable non-conformist." Egads! Socioty even has a label and brandname for the "non-conformist." I mean look at stores like Hot Topic. Oh the irony of it all. However Coco Chanel said, "Fashion is not something that exists in dresses only. It is in the sky, in the street, fashion has to do with ideas, the way we live, what is happening." This would suggest two deffinitions of fashion. The fashion of the day: what is advertized, marketed, idealized, and common. Or the fashion of the moment: the pidgions on the electrical line, the rain through the window, or the dust on the bookshelf all caught up in a person's mind and rendered as a work of art in cloth. So what am I going to do with my fashion problem you might ask. Well who wouldn't want to be a piece of sky for the day?

Ok I'm sorry to disapoint all you people that don't read my blog but I have decided to give up on my little saga. I just don't have time to sit down and write all of it.

A side story

I'm taking a little time out of my storyteller's series to present my readers (however nonexistent they may be) with this amazing link to an incredibly talented artist's blog. http://theextraordinarypencil.blogspot.com/

Story Tellers Continued...

"Ok let's tell stupid stories. Or your most embarassing moments or something." Tim said, now that the sasquach stories were done the conversation was beginning to die down and people were looking bored again.
"I don't know," Andrea giggled, "Mine might not be good for this company." She looked pointedly at the boys in the group. Most of the girls, including me, laughed and agreed.
I laughed looked at Kaylen and asked, "What about that one that happened when we were at the cabin?"
She groaned and said, "Oh, that one. Ok tell it."
"Well," I began, "One summer when we were like 12 Kaylen and I went up to my Aunt's ex-husband's cabin with her and some of her friends for the weekend. Mark, Aunt Rachel's ex, had a passion for energy drinks, sodas, and pretty much anything like that. He used to keep a refridgerator stocked with Thomas Kempers and Jone's Soda there whenever the neices and nefiews came over. So we would go down there all the time to grab some after hikeing or whatever we had done that day. Now you'v got to understand that there had never been anything in that fridge but soda ever before. So we thought nothing of it when we wen't down there one night and found clear bottles full of colorful liquid in them. We thought it was Jone's or something like it. So I picked Watermelon flavor and Kaylen got Green Apple. It was super yummy and we wen't back upstairs without a care in the world. We ploped down at the kitchen counter to say Hi to my Aunt. Her eyes bugged out and she gasped, "You guys know that those are alcoholic right?!" Talk about embarassing us in front of EVERYONE. We slunk away to our rooms for the rest of the night."
"Funny," Austin said,"But it would have been better if you had gotten drunk." Everyone cracked up.
"You're right, Austin," I agreed, "that would have made a better story."

Story Tellers

Youth Group last night was amasing. Nothing was planned, we were just hanging out around the campfire out back of Tim's house. Jason and Sharadon had come. And Jen and Jacob. Kaylen, Andrea, Kaylee, and I were there too. Josh (as usual) was the first to arive. And Conrad and Austin were doing their best to cause trouble. After most of us had arived Tim, our youth minister but mostly our friend, asked us what we wanted to do.
"Let's play hide-and-go-seek in the dark!" Jason sugested eagerly, "We haven't done that in forever."
"That would be great, Jason," Josh answered, "but it isn't dark out."
"It will be in a while."
"Great what are we gonna do until then?"
"I don't know." Sinse no one had any ground-shaking ideas we just milled around for a while, talking and laughing
"Finally Tim asked again, "Do you guys want to play wink'um or something? We could put up the volly-ball net and get a game going." There were agreeing murmurs, but nothing concrete. After a while Tim had a new idea.
"Let's tell stories. Anyone got a good story?"
Kaylee spoke up, "We could tell Sasquach stories!"
"You want me to tell Sasquach stories, Kaylee? Well ok I'v got a good one." Tim began,"I read this once on a website. There were these two hunters who were out in the Olympics over night. That night they hung their backpacks in a tree to keep the animals away and bunked down on the ground in their mummy bags for the night. It was about midnight when one of the hunters woke up because he smelled something really bad. When he looked out he saw three or four huge figures in the campsite. They picked him up like a sack of potatoes and carried him three or four miles. Then they dropped him and left."
"Couldn't he have been making it up?" I asked.
"No way," Tim said, "I know people who have had experiences with this thing!" The group proceded to tell a whole batch of various Sasquach stories some convincing, some not so convincing.
When they were all done I said, "I still don't know. It's so unbelivable, like the Lock Ness Monster or something."
"Hey the Loch Ness Monster is more possible than Sasquach." Conrad sarcastically reminded me.
"Whatever."



TO BE CONTINUED

My Sunshine

This sunshine is AMAZING!! Nothing to lift the spirits more than a little dose of vitamin D.
I once wrote a poem about sunshine. I remember that when I looked out my window and saw all the trees lit up with gold it seemed like the best part of a wonderful world. Now when I see sunlight I feel more like it is a brief breather in an uphill climb. That's kind of sad isn't it? I can't figure out which one is right either. True now the world seems like a much less hospitibal place but is it maybe just me? As I have gotten older have I just kept telling myself that my troubles come from the world just being a sad hard place. Am I the reason I'm not so happy anymore? I'm inclined to think that I am. If that is so, could I change that? Am I capable of making the world a better place? If throught just a different mindset I could make myself a happier person could others do that. I'm sure that if I were to put my troubles behind me I would be much more capable of bringing happyness to others. So maybe that's the answer. So today I will do my best to appriciate the sunshine for what it could be, the best part of a wonderful world.

The Idea of "Average"

What is "average?" What's it like to be "average?" Am I "average?" Is it bad to be "average?"

The word "average" has many different meanings, some of which are more flattering than others. Dictionary.com's definition is: typical, common, ordinary: His grades were nothing special, only average. The definition from Webster's Intermediate dictionary is: something typical of a group, class, or series. The Synonym Finder offers these synonyms for "average": norm, normal, normal state, mediocrity. So being average is a bad thing. This bothers me a lot. And confuses me. Obviously no one wants to be "average" but many people, I think, feel that a life of "averageness" is inevitable. After all the probability of becoming extraordinary is not very high. In my life I am very afraid of ending up average. "Average" I think takes on many forms. As a teenager "average" is often thought of as a good thing. After all if you are "average" then you aren't failing classes (you aren't acing them either but at least you're surviving right?) If you're "average" then you have reasonably cool friends and probably follow most of the latest trends and fads (after all individuality is really overrated right?). But what if you want to be different???? That's not cool. And even if you break away from the crowd what if you aren't good at being extraordinary? What if you're still just "average" but now you're just an average dork? Are you doomed to a life of mediocrity? I don't think so. I think that these definitions leave something to be desired. The specification. You are only average if you are judging by someone else's standard and only if you think that there are only certain things that you can be extraordinary in.

Red Shoes! No way!

When I was in seventh grade flared jeans were going out of style. Now, seventh grade is an awful time for the world to go through a fashion flying change. All you want is to blend in to the wall, not stick out like a sore thumb. And at the time I thought that flared jeans made me automatically a leper. So I begged and begged until Mom took me to Goodwill and (being the stupid sevy I was) I bought the first pair of straight-leg jeans that my hands touched. For a little bit I was elated. Finally! I looked like everyone else! It was the best thing ever. At least for about a month. Then the newness wore off and I started to take issue with shoes. What were these magical automatic-acceptance things that everyone else had? Converse? I had to have some, normal sneakers just didn't cut it anymore. But alas! "Converse" were not to be had at the local thrift store, or my favorite consignment shop, or Walmart! In fact "Converse" were way expensive. 40, 50 dollars?! I didn't have that kind of money lying around! So the magical "converse" were out the window. I went through thirteen year old withdrawals.
Now my Aunt Rachel heard of my predicament and decided to do something about it. One day she showed up at our house with a small paper starbucks bag. Inside the bag was a pair of red shoes. They were slip-ons, made of leather, with non-obtrusive black rubber soles. They were very adult-looking, not trendy or fashionable at all. Aunt Rachel smiled and handed them to me. "Heard that you needed some shoes. These are a little too small for me. You're a seven right?" Not wanting to appear rude or ungrateful I half smiled and took them. As soon as she was gone I took the offending footwear and tossed them in my closet. But she was right, I did need shoes, however unattainable the ones I wanted may have been. So next Monday as I got ready for school I unwillingly put them on with my over-worn straight-leg jeans. I remember being mortified as I got out of the car in front of the building. I was sure that everyone must me staring at my uncool shoes and snickering behind my back. I suffered through my first three classes of the day before lunch, all the while dying from embarrassment.
As I went to go get my lunch I accidentally ran into my first-period English teacher, Mrs. Moore. "Sorry Mrs. Moore." I mumbled. She intimidated me a lot. She was witty, tough, and always well dressed.
"It's quite alright Lydia, don't worry about it." She smiled as she spoke. I began to leave but she stopped me and said, "By the way Lydia, I just wanted to tell you how much I love your shoes. They are so cute." I was shocked.
"These? Really? I don't like them at all." I very unwisely blurted out. "I mean," I hastily recovered, "Bright red isn't very fashionable."
"Oh I disagree." said Mrs. Moore; and then she said something that changed my life, "Lydia, I think that every girl in the world should have at least one pair of red shoes."

After that I wore those shoes almost every day. That one little phrase became my calling card. Whenever someone commented on my shoes I would tell them that I was once told that every girl in the world should have at least one pair of red shoes. I was heartbroken when those shoes wore out. But since then I have never been without a pair of red shoes. These days I'm sixteen and skinny jeans are in, but I'm back in flairs. I own three pairs of beat up converse (one pair bought at Goodwill, one at my favorite consignment shop, and one given to me) and I own three pairs of red shoes (two pairs of heels and one pair of converse).

Wow it's been a looooooooong time since I wrote anything on here. No pictures this time, too much of a hassle. Well what can I tell you? Currently a silly Sophmore living in the greater seattle area. Tenth grade is a killer compared to last year. I'm sitting here hunched up in front of my computer when I should be doing homework, listening to U2 Achtung Baby, if any of you know the album.
First a picture. A blue room. Binders and loose paper, spread with an artful unkept apearance, apon the worn, off-white carpet. Misoulanious dressers and bookcases crowded along the sky colored walls, which are adorned with the products of an amature artist. A double bed in the corner by the window covered with a dark orange comforter. The blinds of the two east-facing windows are shut, only a portion of the gray rainy light shines through. A few empty mugs join the multitude of books still waiting to be reshelved after reading. And a desk. Large, flimsy, cluttered with more paper and pens. A bottle of clear nail polish hides forgotten behind the laptop, which looks forlorn in the alcove originoly intended for a much more space-consuming apliance. In front of the desk a small, mousy girl perches on a hard chair writing a long wordy description of her room to no one in particular.