Mourning a dream of the symphony

Without any prior warning, I experienced a profound moment of mourning while sitting in the audience for the Seattle Symphony, listening to the Nimrod movement of Elgar's Enigma Variations.
I wanted to listen to the performance since it had been announced - the piece is both fascinating and beautiful - but (no offence to Elgar and Elgar fans) it has never been my favorite. I was expecting to go in, enjoy a lovely performance, and walk out largely feeling the same as I had when I first walked in. This is not what occurred.
In the movements prior to Nimrod, I was already marveling in the sound. Having been away from playing in an orchestral setting for over a year, my emotions were a wash of reminiscence.
The moment Nimrod started, having being played attacca from the prior movement, I knew that something was different. The symphony had dedicated the movement to the recent horrific attack in Las Vegas over the past week, and the sound as a result was heavy with grief. My breath caught in my throat as the music swelled, and although there was a small smile on my face I found myself slowly crying.
I would like to say that I was overwhelmed with emotion from heartbreak over the violence in Nevada, but while it was present in my mind, I knew that I was crying for an entirely different reason.
Since I was in middle school I knew I wanted to be a musician. By the time I was in high school, I knew I wanted to play in a symphony. I wanted to be a part of that sound. I wanted to play beautiful, legendary music.
Throughout my collegiate career, I had slowly abandoned that dream. Not with anger, and not out of spite, but because my interests had shifted. I wanted to create new music. I wanted to make sounds no one had heard before. I am lucky to say that these days, I am living that idea. I am making that idea into a career. I find joy in the music that I make. I am absolutely thrilled in the direction that my life has turned. But along the way, I had not yet said goodbye to the symphony. I had not yet grieved the loss of my dream.
So sitting in the audience, looking up at the symphony, I said my goodbyes.

A letter, to myself. Love, me.

"Dear me, in 10 years."
You wrote one of these right?
Your middle/high school English teacher told you to write it. You'd put everything that was happening now, and everything that you hoped would happen. Then they'd make you write down your address, and they said they'd send it to you in 10 years.

I never got mine. I think it would be near impossible for my high school to know where to send it. At that point, I lived in a vastly different house, my parents have moved twice since then. I've moved across the country. Chances are, I'm never going to see it.

Here's the thing though - my high school self had absolutely no idea what was going to happen. And if I were to write a letter to myself in ten years from now, I am positive that I would get it all wrong now too.

So instead, we're going to pretend. Let's pretend that the internet stores all the information, from every possible timeline, forwards and backwards. Let's pretend that 10 years ago, when I was 14, I found this blog, and I read this. This is what I would want my 14 year old self to know.

Dear 14 Year Old Me,

Your life sucks right now. Seriously, I know. You can't really imagine it getting any worse.
And it does. Sorry. That's going to happen.

Wait don't stop reading yet! There's something amazing at the end of this letter, just read the whole thing okay? Promise? Alright.

Really though, things are about to get awful. You're gonna think about jumping off of the roof of a building. You're gonna dangle your foot over the side and that's a really dumb idea so don't do that. You don't hurt yourself, or anyone else, but it does freak out literally everyone who knows you so don't. Save yourself the long winded speeches.

Things are gonna get so freaking bad that you're gonna think that you're all alone in the dang universe. But you're gonna have the best friends you could possibly rely on. Everyone's gonna be there for you. Well, not everyone, but everyone who really counts. (The ones you'll keep in touch with! More on that later.)

Not gonna lie me, you're gonna make a lot of mistakes. I mean a ton of them. And you're gonna hurt some people - not intentionally - but you're gonna have to live with that. But you are stubborn as a mule, and you're gonna learn that despite anyone's advice you have a tendency to do whatever you feel is right regardless. Sometimes you're right. A lot of the times you aren't. But they're your mistakes. Own them. Learn from them.    

You're gonna go through some shit. And it's gonna suck. But you're gonna survive. You're gonna do better than survive. You're gonna get out.

Yes.

You heard me.

You fucking escape. You get out of that hellhole. It's AWESOME.

And yes, you'll stop talking to like, 90% of the people you know in school. It's GREAT. You're gonna meet new people. People who actually get you, and not just pretend to get you, so that they can get more gossip on you to spread around to those really awful people. You'll have friends, in the plural. You won't be soul crushingly lonely anymore. Surprise! Wow, I sound lame. Yep, sorry, you continue to be pretty socially awkward and you never really quite get over that. But that's okay, because you learn to communicate like a normal human being. 

You're gonna do exactly what you want to do with your life. Isn't that fucking crazy? Turns out, you don't totally suck at that thing you really enjoy doing. That's cool. And it turns into a career. It's gonna be a real struggle, but it's so worth it. I mean, literally everything in your life hasn't been easy and will continue to be a struggle so you're already used to that. 

Speaking of which, you stop puking after running the mile sometime in high school! Running is still hard, but at least you become slightly more athletically competent. No more puking up your guts from a little cardio though. No, you don't get weird and sporty, don't worry about that. You do martial arts and circus stuff. All that shit in movies that you really wish you were physically able to try? You just do it because you reach a point where your body doesn't revolt anymore from exercise. Hooray!

I'm sure you're wondering the most important thing, and yes. 
Yes you did. 
Your hair is purple and it looks awesome. It is exactly what you hoped it would look like on your head. 

So yeah, get ready me. You're gonna start jumping through hurdles like you wouldn't believe. Buckle up, and try to enjoy the ride. In the end, you'll get out. You're gonna be grateful for everyday you wake up instead of wondering why you bothered with waking up. Life is gonna be beautiful and you'll pretend to be jaded, but really you're gonna be so happy it'll be hard convincing people that you're jaded. It's that good. So hang in there. Chin up, don't let the assholes bring you down.

With much love,
Me, 24 years old.

Mind Pollution and Resistance

After the confirmation of Betsy DeVos as Secretary of Education - a new bill has been tabled not even 24 hours later.

HR 899 is one sentence. "The Department of Education (ED) shall terminate on December 31, 2018."

Representative Thomas Massie of Kentucky is the one who created this bill, stating that: “Unelected bureaucrats in Washington, D.C. should not be in charge of our children’s intellectual and moral development.”

The segment about "moral development" is what worries me the most, especially after the election of creationist Betsy DeVos. Of course, if the bill passed she would be out of a job, but the result would essentially be the same.  An emphasis on private schooling, or the introduction of "moral teachings" in school - and in the United States - that means bringing Christianity into the school and ignoring all other religions as if they were merely fairy tales.


When looking at arguments by politicians on why they voted for Betsy Devos, or why they're backing HR 899, I see mostly the same rhetoric. Dangerous liberal schools are "polluting" young minds. One nation under God means God should be emphasized. These teachers are dangerous for our children.

While it's not quite on the same level, I can't help but be reminded of my mother, and the way that she grew up. My mother was a young child during the Cultural Revolution in China. My mother saw first-hand when it started to become dangerous to go to school. The Red Guard came and dragged teachers out of their classrooms and beat them for "polluting young minds". Schools were shut down.

My mother was taught in the basement of a library by her grandfather, alongside other children from her neighborhood. She remembers the hushed tones - sometimes waiting in darkness and silence to make sure that the guard was not near. Her grandfather loved learning, and loved books. He saved books from burning in that basement. He taught the children regardless of the risk, because he knew they had to learn.

My mother loves learning. She ended up eventually getting her bachelor's and master's degree in education, and she instilled that love of learning in me from a young age. But she rarely talks about those days, hiding away, soaking up knowledge in a secret classroom.

Every time I see a news article about whats happening in politics, I can't help but see the connections to the past. A light goes off in my head, an alarm of warning. I wish I could say that the phone calls we do have helped, but despite the volume of phone calls to the senate creating record numbers in opposition to Betsy DeVos, I can't help but feel a little bit defeated. I can't help but feel dread. But most of all, I feel the need to resist. I just hope that if the time came, I could be as brave as my great-grandfather, but mostly I hope that we do not let that ever come to pass.

I almost quit.

I know that for the past few days people have been waiting for a large facebook post telling everyone how thankful I am for coming to UW to get my degree, how happy I am now, etc etc etc.
This is the reason why I have not posted it yet. I am trying to figure out the words to politely say, but there is a dark cloud hanging over my head that I have to address before I can say anything just yet.

So I have to write this. I have to tell you, that the last two years of my life has been one of the biggest struggles with my own self-worth, my confidence, my desire to continue in the arts at all.

In short: Graduate school killed my love of music.

Don't go anywhere just yet - this is an overarching statement that I need to address in pieces.

First: I am aware that love comes from within. No one can take away your passion. Something inside me died and I allowed it to, and that is my own fault.

Secondly: Academia didn't single-handedly destroy it. It just helped along a feeling that I was already growing before I came to Seattle.

Thirdly: I still love music. But differently now.

To understand how this happens, you need context. I can't remember a time in which I was not passionate about new music - music written by living composers, that crossed boundaries and pushed the limits of my instrument. I remember my senior year of HIGH SCHOOL, where I competed in the Nebraska Solo and Ensemble: I played a piece that included timbral trills and multiphonics. I didn't even come close to "placing" - the judges thought my piece was too avant-guard. But I didn't care. I wanted to play it anyway, and was thrilled that most of my classmates came to my performance, and that I got to share this cool music with them.

When I auditioned to graduate school, when the teachers would ask me: "Do you have any questions?" I would always ask: "Can you tell me a little bit about your modern ensemble program?" I wanted to be involved. I wanted to focus on new music. When I arrived to UW, I contacted programs, I told them I was there. I contacted the composition department too, telling them I'd workshop their student's pieces. I practically threw myself at the modern ensemble saying: "Please - I don't even need to play flute, just let me be a part of this."

But they never did.

Not one single time at my time at UW did I play in the university modern ensemble.
It didn't stop me. I became involved in local professional modern ensembles - but they already had their own musicians, and I rarely got to play. I contacted composer students on my own: and made great relationships which resulted in great pieces. I joined the Harry Partch Ensemble, where I learned Bass Marimba and Harmonic Cannons, and sometimes microtonal flute. But I wanted to be recognized in this at the university. I wanted to be the "go-to" girl for modern flute. But every time I offered to play, I was told that someone else would do it instead.

I tried to work on Voice by Takemitsu, and was told to work on Ibert instead. I tried to work on a new piece involving flute and electronics, and had to play Muczynski instead. Every time I presented to work on something new and exciting, I was questioned about the worth of the piece, whether it would add to my career or detract, whether I should even bother.

And slowly, I kept getting pushed down in every turn. I began to feel like it didn't matter what I believed in, I was not good enough as a player to be involved in the world I loved.

So I practiced. I played standard works. I drilled patterns over and over and over to make my technical skills better. I spent hours in the practice room working on pieces that I didn't care for but knew I needed to learn to better myself. I had to be GOOD ENOUGH. I had to be BETTER THAN GOOD ENOUGH. I needed to show that I can do it, and I deserve it. And I began to hate.

In the meantime, I did shows with my flute/guitar duo. I traveled to Chicago, Phoenix, Denver, and even Canada. I presented strange new works at each show and felt accomplished. But I would bring this information back to the university and no one would bat an eye. No one cared. I wasn't winning national/international competitions on Nielson flute concerto or playing in extremely expensive summer orchestra festivals. I may as well have been taking a vacation on all those days as far as they cared. And so I sank further into depression. I sought out opportunities to play on my own. I pushed my way into playing Ferneyhough. I went behind the flute studio's back to play with SO Percussion.

I spent days in bed, questioning how badly I wanted to be here. Did I even deserve to do what I love? I wasn't good enough anyway. I should just quit and do something else with my life.

I made small victories. I got to play a piece with multiphonics in my spring recital. I got to play Berio in my Master's recital. But my studies always made it seem like these were just bonuses for me - I was allowed to play them, not that I should. Apathy took over in my practice and my attitude towards my flute.

But there was one thing that kept me going.

Taiko.

Twice a week, I would put down my flute, regardless of how much I felt like I needed to practice. I would grab my bachi (drumsticks), and go to taiko.

I was not good. I understood when I needed to hit the drum, but not how. I heard the rhythms but was unable to accomplish it with my untrained hands.

But not once did the team say: "Sorry, you can't play." I played on every song I could. I hit the practice drums when they played songs I didn't know. I kept working to get better, but no matter how bad I was - I could make music.

I felt the energy of the group. I found joy in our music, in being a part of a ensemble that is more like a family.

Every single weekend, I learned how to love music again. It was a lesson that I needed to learn over and over. Some days was harder than others. Sometime I would come to practice feeling as if I couldn't play music anymore, but not an hour later I'd realize how wrong I was.

I remembered that music could be fun.

Taiko is the reason why I stayed. Without it, there's absolutely no way I'd have my Master of Music degree now.

Now that I've graduated, I want to re-learn how to love the flute. I want to become passionate about new music again. I have to re-learn how to love myself, and to truly believe that I am worth it. I know how I'm going to do it. I'm going to take my attitude towards taiko and apply it to my flute. I am so excited to be able to work on myself and get rid of my self-loathing.
And of course, I'm going to taiko practice.

I wore men's boxer briefs for a day and the world didn't implode

Yes, my friends, you read that correctly. I wore men's underwear, for an entire day. The last time I reviewed underwear, you seemed to enjoy it, so now I'm back to review the underwear designed for people without periods. (if you missed it, I reviewed the underwear for people with periods here.)

Now you might be asking yourself - why? Why would you want/need to wear underwear that is specifically designed for someone that isn't you? Well I had an opportunity and I took it. An opportunity which presented itself in the form of my own laziness when it comes to laundry.

You see, I had run out of clean underwear. In my foolishness and laziness, I had allowed this to happen, and was in dire need of some clean undergarments. Enter: my boyfriend. A man who decided to buy a pack of new boxer briefs and not take them out of the package for a month. So I took one of his - brand new, straight from the package.

I wore them for a full day. I was warned by my boyfriend that I would be spending most of my time pulling them down my thighs as they have a tendency to rise up and bunch at the top of the legs. But I had a fairly different experience. So here's some good and some bad about wearing the underwear for the opposite gender.

Initial reaction:
Comfy as fuck. That being said, I had a ton of fabric - some of it on my legs. Which was super bizarre, and took a while to get used to.

Visible Fabric:
I had to determine what clothing to wear by my underwear. Not that I normally wear super short shorts, but the underwear quite literally would be visible through the bottom of my shorts if I wasn't careful. Also, the underwear came up to my friggin belly-button. No crop tops for me.

Totally Wedgie-less:
Which is awesome. Furthermore, I didn't have to pull them down at any point, the underwear never bunched up. My boyfriend and I determined that I don't have his (awesome) hulk thighs so I didn't have his problem.

Obviously designed for man-butt:
Yeah. No seriously, my butt looked like a sad, deflated grey balloon. Lets be honest here - girls' underwear is cute. Regardless of whether we're wearing it so others can see it or if we just have that knowledge for ourselves, we don't wear pink underwear covered in koalas because koalas make the undies innately more comfortable. We wear it because it's friggin adorable. Men's boxer briefs (in grey) are not adorable.

Obviously designed for...something in the front:
Also awkward. I didn't do anything with it.

Final thoughts?
There wasn't anything terrible about wearing men's boxer briefs, and they were comfy as heck. I was really happy wearing them all day, and I basically forgot that I was doing anything out of the ordinary pretty quickly.
It really comes down to preference. Wanna wear men's boxer briefs? By all means, do it. It's just clothing. Wear what you like.

Never Underestimate an 8 Year Old's Love for Cheetos

So for the past week I've been teaching kungfu/wushu at a bible camp. Not because I'm religious (in any way), but because mega-churches pay real damn good for you to babysit their kids for two hours while they learn something "culturally relevant". The class structure is quite interesting - the kids go to church for an hour, come to learn martial arts from me for two hours, and then they have 10 minutes of bible study at the end with volunteer parents. I typically warm-up during the church part, but I do hear the 10 minute section where they talk about their bit of scripture for the day.

Well during this 10 minute talk, the kids also get a snack. Today's snack - Cheetos.
The volunteer decided that today, she was going to liken Jesus to bread. Basically, she was saying that bread fills you up, but Jesus does so too - spiritually.

Keep in mind, these students are like, 7 - 11 years old. They've been running around yelling their heads off for the past two hours pretending to be Po from Kungfu Panda, and they're pretty much 100% done listening.

So upon hearing that "Jesus fills you up", one of the 8 year olds excitedly responds: "Cheetos fill me up!"
The volunteer then said: "Yes, but you'll get tired of Cheetos. You will never get tired of Jesus!"
The 8 year old thinks about this, frowns and then says: "I never get tired of Cheetos. I eat Cheetos all the time."
The volunteer, now losing her patience says: "Well, sometimes we get tired of the things we like to eat, but Jesus still fills us - " and as she's talking, the 8 year old - quite ignoring the volunteer at this point states:
"God is like Cheetos - for the world."

Cue me - trying desperately hard not to laugh. This kid had quite made up his mind about the nature of God and Cheetos as a whole. This is the point in which the parents showed up to take everyone home, and the volunteer had to stop her lecture. Cheetos won today. And frankly, if that kid loves Cheetos that much - I think his analogy was spot on for bible school.

The weird shadow that is my relationship with my mom.

Warning: If you've experienced verbal/emotional abuse, physical abuse, or gaslighting, you may not want to read this if you feel that you may find this brings back bad memories. 

I'm having trouble catching my breath.

I've never written about this before, but after what I found today, I feel like I have to say something or I'll just explode.

Back in 2011, I wrote this article, talking about my relationship with my mother and the nature of tiger moms in America. Many of you found it very informative, and interesting, and I felt like after writing the piece I had gained a better understanding of my mother. Looking back, it occurred to me that I only focused on the aspects of our relationship that fell into the "Tiger Mom" category - anything that didn't fit was thrown out. It wasn't a complete evaluation of our relationship. There was this dark strange cloud that hovered in the background, that I wasn't sure how to approach. My upbringing certainly included many aspects of the Tiger Mom phenomenon - but there was more to it.

Today, by nearly complete accident, I discovered the missing half. The weird shadow. I am relieved that I am not alone. I am terrified by the implications.

After stumbling around on the internet, my boyfriend found a reddit entitled: Raised by Narcissists - which is a support group for survivors of narcissist parents. After reading a few posts, he told me that I should give it a look.

I was dumbfounded.

It was like looking back in my own diary.

"My mother says: I love you more than anyone. I care for you the most. Do you know where you'd be if I didn't care for you? You should be grateful."

"My mother says I make my food the wrong way. If I don't like something, she'll make it for me and tell me that I've always liked it that way."

"Today, I ruined Easter."

"Today, I ruined Christmas."

"Am I just overreacting?"

"I'm thinking of running away from home."

As I read the articles, a million scenarios ran through my head.
When I was 10, my mother called me a demon child, and that I couldn't possibly be her child. She had raised me better. All because I wouldn't drink cough syrup.

When I was 15, my mother told me that I was all she had in the world. She disowned me the next day because we had an argument over something trivial.

I've been disowned 12 times.

When I was 18, my mother tackled me beside 144th st. She was screaming at me in the car. I had escaped when she was stopped at a light. I thought I had gotten away, but she screeched the car into a u-turn, drove the car off the side of the road (nearly hitting me), slammed the breaks, and than tackled me on the sidewalk. Because I had forgotten a bag in the car - this was my fault.

I've ruined Christmas more times than I can count. I can't remember a Christmas with my family where I didn't end up crying for most of the days. I learned to hate the holidays since I was very young.

When I was a senior in high school, I ran away from home. I couldn't take it anymore. My mother pleaded and guilted me into coming home during the summer (She missed me. She needed me to be home. What if something happened to her while I was gone?), but I almost cut all ties back then.

When people told me that their mom was their best friend, I honestly couldn't believe it. I couldn't imagine being friends with my mom. I had an obligation to love and fulfill my mother's wishes - I wasn't her friend. I thought they were lying to make me jealous.

I had trust issues with anyone older than 25 until I hit graduate school.

My mother constantly tells me that I need designer clothes and bags to fit her image of what I need to look like to be "presentable". She throws away my old clothes when I'm not looking.

Thing is, I never thought my mom was abusive.  I just thought that she was weird, controlling, and just a tiger a mom. But I was wrong. Turns out, there's a lot of people out there with parents like mine. And I didn't really understand it until I read this article:
6 Signs You Were Raised by a Narcissist

Aside from the section about siblings, every single bullet fit.

It's strange that this article came into my life at this time. Now that I live in Seattle, I'm farther away from my mother than I've ever been. She's still controlling in little ways - if she texts me and I don't respond in 30 minutes, she panics and sends a million and 1 messages asking if I'm OK. This sounds sweet, but not when she sends that to me at 4am.

I visit her less and less.
It keeps me sane.
And I feel like a terrible person for it. She's my mother. And I love her. She supports me, and she loves me.

But when a simple question of whether to park in one parking spot or the other can become a full blown screaming match - it's hard for me to want to be around her.

The last bullet on the list mentions that people who are raised by narcissists tend to have a lack of a sense of self, wants and needs. And as I near graduation, I find this more true than anything. I have been following my mother's wants and goals for my entire life. She wanted me to get all A's in school, so I did. She wanted me to get a full-ride to my undergrad, so I did. She wanted me to get my master's degree, and now I'm almost done. Without her goals to follow, I no longer understand what I want in life. I can't determine what is my own desires verses what she's told me is my own desires.

I feel lost.
But now, at least, I know that I'm not alone. I'm not some crazy person who made up this weird thing where my mother can love me, but still cause me harm. It's not just me.

It's a start.

I'll figure out where to go next, but it's gonna take time.

For now, I'll just breathe.

Thinx, I Review the thing for People With Periods

Okay people with dicks, I suggest you hightail it out of here before you get grossed out.

Everyone who is left - welcome. If you're here, then you understand that periods freaking suck. Seriously. Raise your hand if you have underwear that looks like sharks attacked your hind-side. *raises hand*
Raise your hand if you have pants that have dubious stains.
*raises hand*
Raise your hand if you're friggin pissed that you stained your bed-sheets, AGAIN, FOR THE UMPTEENTH TIME.
*waves arms aggressively*

The morning I woke up to find yet another bloody splotch on my bed-sheets for what seemed like the 20th month in a row was the last time I decided to deal with it. This was going to end now, and it was going to end on my terms.

You see, if you're anything like me - you hate tampons. They're uncomfortable. They make you anxious (TSS isn't super likely, but it's enough to freak me out). And they're really, really effin bad for the environment.

So you tried elsewhere.

Me? I got Softcups. Which were actually, really great. I didn't feel them when I had them in at all, they were easy to use. But they leaked at night. Another stain on the bed-sheets. Not to mention - they were still disposable, and removing them was oftentimes a mess I didn't want to explain in a public bathroom.
I thought about trying the Divacup, but I didn't want to run into the same problems in a more expensive, non-disposable version.

So one night, after a fit of anger about a bloody stain on the bed, I impulsively bought a new pair of underwear. But not just any underwear. $35 underwear.

WOAH there, you say. That's some expensive knickers. Why would you do that?

Because my friends, the future of periods is here, and its expensive, but DAMN is it worth it.
Meet Thinx. "Underwear for Women with Periods."

This is some freaking luxurious underwear my friends. They are ridiculously soft. They're so comfortable, you'll want to wear them even if you're not on your period.
But here's the crazy/awesome part.
You don't need a tampon when you wear these beautiful undergarments.
Don't get me wrong, you can if you want to.
But the underwear will literally absorb two tampons worth of blood without a spill.

Ew, you say. You'll be walking around in a pool of squishy blood. It's like pads all over again. Can we not?

Nope. It's not just the website saying this, because I tried it, and its absolutely true. When they say these undies are moisture wicking, they mean it. They always feel dry. All day.

So yes, this is a pair of underwear that literally erases the need for anything else when you're on your period.

If you haven't been convinced yet, consider this.
Thinx were designed by women.
They're manufactured by a family run company in Sri Lanka that provides supplementary education and training for their female employees.
The coolest part - Thinx donates a portion of each sale to AFRIpads, which is a company in Uganda that makes reusable pads. Awesome.

Just so you know, since getting Thinx, I haven't had another spill. My only problem? I only bought one pair - that I mostly wear at night and wash in the morning (they take a LONG time to air dry). I want them for during the day. I'll be buying another pair really soon. That way, I can say goodbye to pads and tampons for good!

PS: Hahahaha I'm not a popular blog, ain't nobody paying me to say this stuff. I just thought you should know. Bloody female solidarity and whatnot.

Want to buy these amazing undies? Here's the link.  http://fbuy.me/dBidp If you use my link, you'll get $10 off your purchase! :D
For the record, I have hiphuggers so I have no idea what the other styles are like.

Edit: After so many people had more questions, here's some more answers!
1. How do you clean them?
 Hand wash, then machine wash, then air dry. It's kind of freaky because you look at the underwear and it looks like you magically didn't bleed at all, and then suddenly the sink looks like a murder scene. Then again, I only have the black ones, so maybe that wouldn't be the case with the tan ones. I intend to find out.

2. Do they feel like dipers? 
No. Don't get me wrong, they're some thick material (especially on the absorbent parts), but they definitely look and feel like regular underwear.

3. How's the coverage? 
Awesome! Like I said, I've had no more spills, so even with the weirdness that happens while I'm asleep I haven't had an issue.

In which I do something useful with my blog, and actually write about my life. In Italy.

Hey look, I decided to do something with my blog.
For the entire time I was at Flauti Al Castello, the summer flute seminar led by Sergio Pallottelli and Leone Buyse at the Sorci Castle, I decided to capture as much of the experience as possible. I decided rather quickly to blog every day I could. I was met with a minor setback when I realized I couldn't access my blog due to the rather shoddy internet, so here it is now. All of it. All at once.

I'm sorry, it's a novel.

Also, if you happen to be anyone who is suddenly being introduced to my writing since you wish to read about my experience, fair warning:
I curse.
I write with an exceptionally colorful voice. In other-words, you would not send this in to a teacher as a report. This is just me, talking about my day.
I am ridiculously blunt.

If you aren't scared yet - go ahead, and read about my adventure.

Flauti al Castello Day 1

Today was a day of infinite travel. I'm not sure where yesterday ended and today begun, so we'll just start from the moment I landed in Italy.

Airports are always the same. Really, the only real difference is which language comes first on the signs. But I gotta admit, the airport in Rome is ridiculously friendly. Even though there are obvious hustlers, trying to scam you into buying tickets for places that you don't need, if you ask them for help regardless of their agenda they're quite willing to be useful. It didn't take me very long to figure out exactly which bus to take from Rome to Sansepolcro - the city closest to the castle that I could be picked up from.

Rome, at least from the vantage point of a person on a bus, is a wonderful study in juxtaposition. Reddish tan houses scatter the landscape between lush green, but some of those houses are brand new apartment complexes, while others are ancient brick slowly decaying. It seems that in Italy, any old-ish building/wall that's not old enough to be a landmark is fair game for graffiti, because graffiti lines the walls practically everywhere. It's stunning, to see ancient Roman architecture yet directly across the street see an old warehouse rainbow splattered in bold words like "Liberte!"

Once I had arrived in Sansepolcro, I was picked up by the lovely Veronica, who at 42 years old, is the person who runs the castle. I can't imagine running a castle for a living. Seems crazy to me, but she does it with grace. After we had exchanged pleasantries, the first thing she asked me was "are you afraid of ghosts?"
Apparently the castle is haunted. By a ghost. His name is Baldaccio, who was a mercenary who died in 1441 the Medici family. His headless body just roams the castle.

As we got closer to the castle, we passed the "village" of Anghiari. It looks exactly like a town straight from Hayao Miyazaki's imagination. Just all stone, built onto the side of a mountain. I didn't realize places like this still exist and function, but here it stays, and lives. I was completely blown away.

The castle itself is also picture-esque. A step out of time, the warn hewn stone is absolutely everywhere. My room, of course, is on the top floor, which is exceptionally fun when you have a very heavy suitcase, and the stone steps are slanted ever so slightly from use. But the view absolutely cannot be beat. The mountains are a sight I absolutely cannot get over.

After meeting the thirteen students and Leone Buyse (who is absolutely lovely), my day was finally over.

 

Castello Di Sorci

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Flauti al Castello Day 2 - 3

Last night I was far too tired to write anything whatsoever, so today I'll go over some basic things.

Between today and yesterday, I must say I have eaten some of the best food of my life. Everything is local, fresh (some fruit even being from the castle orchard, where I personally picked myself some plums and apples), and delicious. Due to the traditional Italian cuisine, most of the food contains beef/pork, but thanks to the wonderful pianist William Braun (who is a fabulous person, musician, and happens to be friends with David Lang) who is vegetarian, the kitchen has made a vegetarian option for the both of us every day. Eating entirely vegetarian food is something I am not entirely accustomed to, but if vegetarian food was always this freaking delicious, I wouldn't have any problems switching over.

Local vegetable soup. Aka: Vegetarian heaven.

Masterclass with Leone Buyse and Sergio Pallottelli has been absolutely incredible. Mrs.Buyse is just a tremendously beautiful human being, and her wealth of knowledge is outstanding. Some particularly good quotes from her class are:
"My end is in my beginning" (in referring to practicing)
and the extremely eloquent
"AIR WOMAN! BLOW!"
which I believe can be relevant to the majority of flute practice.
Playing the Dutilluex Sonatine for Sergio was admittedly terrifying. Not because Sergio is terrifying, (he's not, he's actually kind and approachable) but because the piece for me is quite a challenge - I simply do not feel confident on the piece yet. That being said, William Braun was extremely kind accompanying me, considering that it was my first time with the piano, and I learned so much. I know I have much to work on in the piece, but now I feel that I have a greater sense of direction on how to practice it.

Bill Bruan. What a fantastic guy.

Both Leone Buyse and Sergio Pallottelli performed a concert yesterday night, and as much as I was blown away by the music, I admit I was so tired through the concert I had a hard time staying awake. It did not help that the concert started at 9:30pm - which apparently is standard for Italian concerts, and ended at around 11:30pm. That being said, - Mrs.Buyse's Poulenc Sonata was absolutely flawless, I had not truly appreciated that piece until she had performed it.

Today, we visited the city of Anghiari, the Miyazaki-esque town I talked of before. It's absolutely gorgeous. I explored as much of it as I could. I had my first actual Italian gelato - which was so mind-blowingly-delicious. I had a moment of: "OMG I'm eating GELATO in a WALLED IN STONE VILLAGE in TUSCANY." It was brilliant. Ps: Straciatella and chocolate is a fantastic combination. I found an incredible little graphic art store called Aut Bookshop, which had only opened 2 months before. I talked to the owner, and bought a board game that she had made herself. It's a little castle defense game, and I think it's just perfect.

Anghiari. You'd have to drag me out of there, its too perfect.

It's fucking beautiful.  Gelato > Icecream

A quick note about languages - as much as I was prepared to know some basic Italian in order to function here, I had no idea how much Spanish I would hear. Obviously, it's not because I'm in Italy, but there is a student here named Christian who only speaks Spanish. Due to this, the teachers essentially translate into Spanish every once in a while, and in order to communicate with him I have to try my best with the very very very little Spanish that I know. Hopefully by the end of this, I will have improved on both languages!

A note from future me: I didn't. Italian got better. All I can say in Spanish is Buenos Días. That's it.

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Flauti Al Castello - Day 4 - 5

Apparently, the habit of being too tired to write one day and then fine the next is a continuing trend, as I was unable to write yesterday.
Firstly, about the ghost named Baldaccio, as it turns out, all the people believe he haunts my bedroom. Which, is exceptionally fun when your roommate screams bloody murder in the middle of the night because she thought she saw a face staring at her above her bed in her sleep. Worse, according the the locals the ghost specifically haunts either mine, or Sarah's bed.

Speaking of Sarah, I would be awful to not mention that I have become rather good friends with her over the past few days. Unsurprisingly to me, I of course made quick friends with one of the youngest people in the class whose still in high school. She was the one who explored Anghiari with me two days ago (and today, but I'll get to that later), and joined me in orchard fruit picking and dungeon exploring.

This girl. The best.

Speaking of dungeon exploring, I failed to mention in previous posts that I did explore the dungeon of this castle, and it's ridiculously creepy. There are jail cells, a rather gigantic axe for beheadings, and a horrifying torture room. The torture room is overseen by a mannequin with creepy monk robes, and the room itself frankly is one of the coolest/scariest things I've ever seen.

What. The actual. Hell. Is. This. Room.

Yesterday though, we went to the town of Sansepolcro, the town that Veronica had originally picked me up from to take me to the castle. Since there was an arts festival going on, we had expected more people, but forgot that since it was Sunday, everything was basically closed except for the churches. That being said, the churches were extremely beautiful. I fell in love with a series of statues in one church that appeared to be flying above a painting, up into a window on the ceiling.
Although sight-seeing was fun, we actually came to Sansepolcro with a purpose. We performed trios and quartets outside of a little restaurant where we later had (a delicious) dinner. Sarah, Jeanne (a fantastic flautist from New York), and myself played two very cute dances, a tango and a samba. During the tango, Sergio and Jordan (one of the other younger students) started "dancing" a tango, which was so ridiculous that we nearly all stopped playing from laughter.

Picture taken right before we lost it from the dancing. Thank goodness.

This morning, we went back to the lovely city of Anghiari, where it almost immediately started pouring rain. We stayed inside shops as much as possible where I kept attempting to use my credit card. Now, I have a very nice normal credit card that I use at home, but my parents made me get a new card specifically for Italy that doesn't have foreign transaction fees. What my parents didn't know, is that my credit card ISN'T ACCEPTED ANYWHERE. Don't get me wrong, not having foreign transaction fees is nice, but it's not really that helpful when I can't have foreign transaction fees because I CAN'T MAKE FOREIGN TRANSACTIONS. I'm trying desperately not to spend what little euros I have on anything but food, but when you find stuff (like the gorgeous infinity scarf I am currently wearing) that you can only find in Italy, it's almost impossible not to buy when you're stuck in shops due to rain.

Sarah and I decided to visit the Museo Palazzo Della Battaulia, which is an adorable little museum dedicated to the history of Anghiari. The museum had some really incredible things in it, ancient copper coins, pottery from the second century, a book from the 1600's, beautiful frescos, paintings, and the history of the Battle of Anghiari and the lost DaVinci painting that he made of the battle. Sarah and I, being geniuses, decided to explore the museum garden, despite the fact that the doors were rather hard to budge open, the handles were red, and it was raining outside. After we had thoroughly investigated the rather small, but beautiful, garden, we returned to the doors to find that they were both:
A. Locked.
B. Only had handles on the inside, not on the garden side.
We were quite effectively locked into the garden with no hope of escape, besides a gate that led to the main streets. Now unfortunately, the gate's opening mechanisms had rusted to shit, and they wouldn't budge an inch. So we banged on the door. Nothing. We found stairs to the upper level. Banged on the door. Nothing. So finally I saw some people walking by the gate to the street.
Me: "ahhhh, scusi? Scusi!"
Passerby: 0_o ?
Me: "Ummm..." *shakes garden gate* "stuck! Museo?"
Passerby: *nods vigorously*
About a minute later, one of the museum workers came to the door and opened it, laughing and saying that it was alright. We were pretty embarrassed.
Admittedly, it could have gone a lot worse than it did, but we were alright.

By the time we got back though, I was freakin exhausted.
I ate lunch quickly, and came back and took a 20 minute nap. Probably one of the best naps I've had in a while.

Unfortunately, I was still ridiculously tired during masterclass, so I was quite glad when Bill (the Pianist) asked me to turn pages for him. Otherwise I am 90% sure that I would have fallen completely asleep.

I finally ate meat today, being turkey. Not going to lie, I missed meat like crazy. Since I left the US, all my meals have been of the vegetarian variety since most of the meals served had either beef or pork as the main entree. The kitchen staff have been kind enough to make vegetarian versions for myself and Bill though, and they've been incredibly delicious.
Speaking of delicious, limoncello is not. Limoncello is some extremely strong lemon flavored alcohol, and while I enjoy the lemon-y aftertaste, the initial extreme burning in my throat and watering eyes are not worth it. I had less than a shot before I decided I was quite done with it.

Note from future me: I had it again in Venice. This time is was delicious. I don't know why. Magic?

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Flauti Al Castello - Day 6

I honestly cannot believe that I've been here for nearly a week. The fact that I will be leaving here in a just a few days is something I haven't quite wrapped my head around. I have made some fantastic friends, and I have learned so much. Not to mention, having a very regular schedule has been a wonderful thing for me. As a person who tends to sleep in until 1pm do nothing all day, do a bunch of useless things in the evening, and then go to bed at some random point, with sometimes forgetting meals, having a regular schedule has been a new experience. If there's anything I'd like to keep doing when I return home its:
A. Eating 3 meals a day. That are hopefully not crappy. (They're absolutely amazing here.)
B. Practicing. Often. Throughout the day.
C. Getting up and going to bed on a NORMAL schedule. Not necessarily this intense go to bed at 1am and wake up at 7am though.

This morning, I played the Bach b minor sonata for Ms.Buyse, who had quite a lot to say. I recorded the lesson, so that I can take notes later. I really had to think about space between my notes and I realized I was actually very technically inaccurate about my 32nd notes. Even after a year of working on it, I still have so much more to learn and work on.

I have SO MUCH WORK TO DO.

By the second masterclass of the day, I was already exhausted. Apparently working with only about 5 hours of sleep per day eventually catches up to you, because I kept nodding off during class. After the class was over, I came back to my room and passed out. Seriously. For two hours. I nearly missed dinner as apparently Sarah and Carmen had a hell of a time trying to wake me up.

Because I'm immature as hell, one of my favorite things about the castle is that they have a swing attached to a zip line. So whenever we can, Sarah and I run over and zoom around. The weather here has been incredibly moderate due to the rain we've been getting, so the zip line is absolutely phenomenal.

Also, I forgotten to mention the dogs. Since the owner/managers of the castle both work and live here, so do their dogs. There's two dogs, Polly and Dick(a? Not sure whether his name is Dicka or if they were trying to tell me Dick.) Dicka is a great old german shepherd,  who rarely barks and enjoys laying outside in the sun. Polly on the other hand is an adorable small dog who enjoys barking whenever she can. Polly is black and white, and super soft, but I haven't quite figured out what kind of dog she is. Both dogs though are just as sweet as can be.

Polly!

Dick(a) ! What a sweetie.

Here's a few more things about Italy that I've forgotten to mention so far.
1. The toilets. Apparently the water tank is suspended in the wall high above the toilet bowl, and you pull a tab down to make the water go. I'm not sure though if that's a standard thing in Italy or if that's just what this area does. I guess I'll find out when I go to Venice on Saturday.
2. Getting olive oil to dip your bread in is not an Italian thing. Apparently that's Americanized Italian food.
3. Dinner is LATE. Dinner typically starts around 8-8:30pm, and people tend to stay out and socialize past 10pm, even the kids (without parental supervision!).
4. Wine is served at both lunch and dinner, and there's a special wine for dessert.
5. I've had actual Italian Spaghetti, Ravioli, and Pizza now. The pizza was the only thing the US came close to (as far as authenticity goes), and the pizza I ate had no meat, but giant slices of zucchini and eggplant on them.
6. Italians are SERIOUS about their espresso. It tends to be drank after almost every meal as well as with breakfast.
7. Cars. It's like all of Italy is in a "who can drive the tiniest car" competition. So far, I've only seen one truck (parked) in Rome, but none here. Every vehicle is extremely compact.
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Flauti Al Castello - Day 7 - 8

Once again, I shirked my writing duties last night in favor of sleep, so I'll catch up today. Here's some fantastic things that occurred yesterday:

Immediately following breakfast I had a bout of immense drowsy-ness, so I laid down and attempted to sleep for about 10 minutes. While my roommates were practicing. Regardless, it didn't last for long because after I while I started to hear them panicking.
Let me back up two steps. At night, we leave the windows open so that it can be cool, and them close them during the day in order to avoid our room being filled with the Tuscan sun. And apparently bees.
See, it was still the morning, and we had not yet closed our windows mostly because I think we had forgotten. At any rate, the open window meant that anything could fly in if they wanted to, and so a GIGANTIC bee decided to do just that.
The bee was on the ceiling by the time I had realized what was going on, and from what I could see he was a little over an inch long. My roommates shrieked whenever it flew by them, and one was asking the other if they had anything to kill it with.
Now normally this wouldn't bother me at all but I was GODDAMN TIRED. And I knew that this would continue if something didn't happen. At this point, the bee had landed and taken up residence on a spot on the curtains. I decided to take action.
With all the zen poise I could muster, I grabbed a plastic cup, and slowly walked over to the bee, while my roommates freaked out about my actions. With the calm serenity of a Buddhist monk, or a dead-tired zombie student, I placed the cup near the bee, and then in one fluid motion, scooped it into my cup, brought it around the curtain, and it flew out of the cup and out the window. At that point I was feeling rather accomplished and proceeded to return to my spot laying down on the bed.

Another fantastic thing that occurred yesterday was the orchestral excerpt masterclass lead by Leone Buyse. I learned a great deal, but I must admit that I felt a little stupid afterwards. I had chosen to play an excerpt that I needed a GREAT DEAL of help with, the Til Eulenspiegel's Merry Pranks by Strauss. I was not nearly as sure about the rhythms as I thought I was, and my technique was sub par. As much as I am glad to have gotten help on that killer excerpt, I feel that in the class I have not yet put my best foot forward and the week is nearly over. The Dutilleux was nice, but still in much need of help. The Bach was fairly good, but not amazing. And the orchestral excerpt was just plain bad. Had I had a second shot, maybe I would have played a different excerpt. That being said, I REALLY needed to learn what I did on that particular excerpt.

Something not so fantastic but kind of still fantastic - I finally visited the Sunflower field yesterday. I cannot tell you how beautiful it was, it's just truly stunning to see rows upon rows of enormous sunflowers. The sunflower field was surrounded by tobacco fields, which were also beautiful. I had wandered down to the fields with Sarah and Alfredo (a 37 year old math professor from Spain), and when we returned to the gate to the castle, it appeared that the gate was locked. I found that the chain had merely been wrapped around it and that the lock was just hanging off of it loosely. Once we were on the other side of the fence, I tried to replicate the original set up, to no avail. Alfredo took the chain from me, fixed it, and then accidentally closed the lock.
Sarah, Alfredo and I had gone down to the sunflower fields FIRST. The rest, all 10 of them, and left after us. We has passed them by on our way back to the castle. We had essentially just locked them out of Castello grounds.
Alfredo and I went to go get help, while Sarah met people at the gate and basically explained the situation. Eventually, we found that if you climbed a GIGANTIC hill from the fields you could make it back up to castle grounds, but the climbing group was not thrilled about it. I was just thankful they could make it back.

Let me just make one note about food from yesterday - I got to eat DUCK, which is one of my favorite foods ever in the world. I honestly had no idea that Italians eat duck though, thanks to my not-so-broad culinary pallet, I was under the impression that duck was a mostly Asain meal. I am very pleased to be wrong in this aspect.

This morning, I actually managed to fall back asleep after breakfast. I suppose that 30 minutes meant the world, because I wasn't tired for the rest of the day. It's amazing what a nap can do.

Speaking of breakfast, I forgot to mention that breakfast is not nearly as big of a deal here as it is in the USA. We have our choices of breads, yogurt, nutella or jam, biscuits, fruit, and sliced meat. But the coffee is really the star of the breakfast table. You won't be finding omlettes or bacon here. Very simple foods for the morning. I personally, ADORE the breakfast here. I've had a croissant, yogurt, plums, kiwi, and  tea for breakfast every day, and I feel fantastic afterwards and not bogged down like eggs/bacon/and toast breakfasts.

I miss this breakfast already. So much.

Forgive me that I write about food often, but food culture here in Italy is vastly different from in the US. For example, vegetables (including salad), are always considered a part of the main course. So it is common to have an appetizer, then pasta, followed by your main meat dish, THEN your salad before dessert. And frankly the food is so good here it's hard to not talk about it.

This is partially because it's really freakin fresh. For example, the orchard. Today, we had some extra free time so I took a trip (in the rain!) down to the orchard. I picked: 2 perfect apples, 2 very unripe pears, a bunch of small orange plums, and 2 beautiful purple/blue plums. This was only because I was feeling hungry post masterclass and wanted a snack since dinner was late tonight. I've decided that grocery stores are extremely overrated.

Why yes, those fruits are sitting on my poor towel that was slowly being dyed blue from my hair.

Speaking of the rain - it rains a surprising amount here. I had imagined it to be a lot like Texas, hot, dry, and with little rain. But it's rained about once every other day, and it doesn't drizzle, it downpours. And it comes seemingly out of nowhere. The weather will be gorgeous one moment and soaking the next, although if you're careful you can watch the rain come from the mountains.

In fact, it was still raining when the first of the two final concerts started in the evening. I was pretty excited to just sit there and listen to the amazing music, but I ended up being the page turner for Bill Braun. Which, was actually fantastic. Not only did I get to listen, but I got to see him do his magic up close, and I got to see the scores as the music was happening, which is one of my favorite things to do. The whole concert was such a wide variety, I really enjoyed the program.
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Flauti Al Castello - Day 9

What an insane day. It started with me completely sleeping through my alarm. I was so mad! I woke up 30 minutes later than I'm used to, so I was pretty late to breakfast.
Not too soon after breakfast, I went to masterclass where I played the Great Train Race by Ian Clarke for both Sergio Pallottelli and Leone Buyse. They were so helpful with my extended techniques! I'm very excited to work on it more. And apparently I got the "train idea" down pretty well, so I'm proud of myself for that. I was complimented several times by different people about how well my performance was, so I was feeling very confident and proud of my work.

After masterclass and lunch, we had the chance to return to Anghiari for one last time. I was so excited, we managed to see BOTH museums in Anghiari, and this time I didn't get locked in a garden! The museum building we went to today was ancient and stone, it was practically a museum piece itself. I tried pistachio and coconut gelato, which as much as I love pistachio ice cream (gelato I'm still on the fence about. It's not as sweet!), I loved the coconut gelato so much more.

Gelato. Hell yes.

I ended up being one of the last people being picked up from Anghiari, which gave me very little time to warm up for the final concert of the week. I started the concert with Train Race, and although the beginning went fabulously, I fucked up the middle so badly it made me want to cry. And I did (post concert). Luckily for me, I have EXTREMELY sensitive, wonderful, and kind friends and teachers here, so they made me feel a lot less awful about my screw-up. That being said, I wish I had recovered better from it. I felt that I sold the beginning but not the ending one bit. Next time, I need to just put the mistake away and keep on trucking. The rest of the concert was incredible though. There is so much talent in the group that came this year, I basically spent my entire time here in shock. In some ways, it makes me feel inferior. In others, it makes me incredibly, ridiculously inspired. I want to work on EVERYTHING now, and take bits an pieces of each performer in my own sound to create something beautiful.

 The whole gang's here.

All in all, my experience at Flauti Al Castello was a blast. I believe I learned a great deal about Tuscany, the culture, the food, the language. I also learned a great deal about myself as a musician and a person. I cannot stress enough how glad I am to have participated in this seminar. For any of you fluties reading this blog and wondering if you should do it next year, the answer is YES. DO IT. You won't regret it!

Buon viaggio!

Moksha - Short Story

Hello everyone,
As some of you may or may not know, I'm taking a creative writing class this semester. Frankly, I feel that I've learned....some, but the feedback that I've gotten from my classmates have been only vaguely helpful. I'd love to hear what you think!  So I'll be posting my short stories/poems on my blog as well throughout the semester. This story is called Moksha - a story about the near future where the dead are frozen and living children are already "dead".

Moksha

Adam was born in 2050, the dawn of a new age. His clear blue eyes drank in the world from the moment he arrived, but not once did those eyes water. He greeted the world in silence, not a cry, nor a laugh escaped from his pink mouth.

The year is now 2055, and my son has still not cried. Not once. Nor has he laughed. He is intelligent, his teachers say he learns very quickly, he can easily say his ABC's, and math is not a problem for his mind. But Adam is lost in art and music classes. If he is told to draw a dog, he will draw a dog. But otherwise, he is without ideas when it comes to creation. Adam does not smile. Not unless he is told to do so. But even then, his smile doesn't reach his eyes. His eyes are flat, just lenses for which to see.

The doctors call it “Emotional Detachment Syndrome”. Adam is just one of many, the growing epidemic that is sweeping the world. At first, the news blamed the water. Then genetically modified foods and vaccinations. Even air pollution was named criminal, the thief of children's' laughter. But it didn't matter what we did, what foods we fed them, or that water that they drank. More and more, our cities became filled with children who do not smile.

It is a rainy day in Boston when I decided to visit Michael. Adam and I walk to the subway, down into the veins of the city, avoiding the sweating sky. An old man with skin like paper and gritty blackened teeth sits on a red plastic milk crate, strumming rusty guitar strings grubby fingers. He glares at Adam as we pass by. “Zombie child,” he spits, his voice cold and grating.

“Mom, what's a zombie?” Adam asks. He looks at his shoe, more interested in the gum he had stepped in than the world around him. I debate several answers before deciding.

“They're monsters from silly horror stories. They don't exist.”

“Okay.” Adam is not offended. Nor is he amused. He is focused on his shoe. The man called him a zombie, and that was a fact for him to absorb, not to worry about. Sometimes I wonder, perhaps it is easier, to live in a world where events are just information, something to watch passively as it marches on.

The Sleeping Home smells like plastic and chlorine, it burns my nostrils at first, but soon I am breathing normally. Adam doesn't flinch like I do, he just walks forward, knowing where Michael sleeps. It takes us about fifteen minutes to find our family's pod, even with the moving walkways there are too many families sleeping in here for us to have a spot near the front of the home. A plaque labeled “Henderson” rests above the pod where Michael, my parents, my grandfather, and his parents, and his grandparents all sleep. Their faces are peaceful, despite the ice that creeps around their skin, all pigment seeped away in their frozen beds. Michael still looks the way he did before the accident happened, the car that took away his breath for the last time crushed into his chest, but his chest only shows the car in the form of a thin scar. His blue eyes are closed, but they stare at me in my mind. God, Adam has the color of Michael's eyes, but there's just something missing. I touch the glass, just on Michael's cheek as a feel warm wetness slide down my face.

“What's Dad doing?” Adam is looking at his father, not at me as the tears keep coming, the sobs wracking my body. It takes me a moment to compose myself. Deep breaths.

“Daddy is,” I catch myself. Adam never says Daddy. Or Mommy. “Dad is sleeping. He needs medicine strong enough to wake him up.”

“You said that last week.” I look at him, hoping for a hint of a whine, a face pained for his father. But Adam is unchanged. I did say the same thing last week. Adam just remembers. He turns around and walks to another pod, blank eyes absorbing the family in front of him.

“Yes dear, I did.”

It was a week before Adam's birthday when the bombings started. We were sitting on the couch in the living room, our shar-pei Rocky sitting on my lap as his blue-black tongue lapped Adam's wrist absentmindedly. Adam looked at the wriggling brown mass of folds, but made no attempt to move his wrist away. We were watching a movie when suddenly the screen switch to a woman in a red blouse that was far more confident than the slump in her shoulders and the grimace on her face.

“This just in: New York City, Paris, Shanghai, London, and fifteen more cities around the world have been attacked simultaneously. This is not a test.” She looked as if she had been crying, her eyes red and her cheeks blotchy. She takes in a deep breath and continues, “Cryogenic centers around the world have been blown apart by a terrorist cell. The group has not been named, but officials are warning citizens to avoid cryogenic centers and surrounding areas. As of now, the Boston area Sleeping Home is officially off limits to citizens and security measures are being taken to protect your families.” A scrolling list of cities appears at the bottom of the screen, the death toll is staggering. Thousands of families, who could have come back to the living someday, all gone in the blink of an eye.

I taste metal as dread fills my body like sand in a broken hourglass. I am heavy, the hands of the dead presses down on my arms, my legs, my shoulders. All I can think is Michael, Michael, Michael.

Barely a day passes before the next bombing occurs. This time, Chicago, San Francisco, Dubai, and Okinawa have lost their dead to the fires and smoke. The news speculates as to who the terrorists are, but the only hints they have are glimpses of red and yellow robes caught in security cameras moments before the bombs went off. They suspect perhaps a cult, or maybe an extremist political group. Regardless, at every bombing, none of the living are lost. The cryogenic centers are always empty, besides the dead that sleep within. There are no bodies to freeze when they are done, the blasts wipe out all of the pods where the bodies would have gone anyway. No one understands their motive. Why bomb the dead, when they are already gone?

It is the third day since the first bombing, and I decide to visit Michael myself while Adam is in school. The subway ride to the Sleeping Home is uneventful, but before I even step out onto the street I realize how foolish I was. The sound of the mob hits my ears like a shock-wave, violent and relentless. Mothers, daughters, fathers, and sons, all surround the Sleeping Home in droves. The street is engulfed by them, like a swarm of fire-ants upon an unsuspecting foot. Some hold posters above their heads, others simply attempt to slam into the police blockade that has locked the perimeter of the Sleeping Home. The shouting blocks out all other sound. Without warning, I feel a pair of hands grab me by the shoulders and flip me around, and suddenly I am facing a man with red hair and wild eyes. His fingers dig into my flesh like talons as he shakes me.

“IT IS HERE!” He shouts, spittle flying from his mouth. He looks all around in circles, unable to maintain his gaze on any one spot. I try to push myself away from the man, but his grip is iron. He leans in close and talks in my ear.

“The zombie children. The fire of the dead!” He pulls away a bit, still not letting go. He grins, a smile that would make the cheshire cat proud.

“THE END IS NEIGH!” He shouts again. I am panicking, my breaths are short, but with the air saturated with noise, no one would hear me shout for help. A blur of yellow and red flash into my vision, and the iron clasps of my assailant let go. I feel a hand grab my own, soft and sure, and I am lead away from the crowd, as if drifting by a current away from the shore.

As the noise slowly goes away, I find myself able to breath once more. We are about a block away, when the man lets go of my hand, and turns to face me. He is short, almond shaped eyes over a kind smile. His head is shorn, and the robes that he wears are worn from use. He speaks, but the words he says are in a language that flows like water, they dance around me and disappear, and I feel oddly comforted. He takes one of my hands between his own, and speaks quietly.

“Moksha,” he says, looking at me expectantly.

“I don't understand,” I say slowly, shaking my head.

“Moksha,” he repeats with a smile. He makes a short bow, and walks away, as quickly as he had appeared. I look into my palm to find that he had placed a red rope within, knotted into many parts that twist into one another, an infinite loop.

A week has passed, and the cryogenic centers have been destroyed in rapid succession. Boston's Sleeping Home is one of three cryogenic centers left in the world. Despite the militia of men with guns and shields, the helicopters and tanks that parade around our streets, I doubt that the Sleeping Home will remain standing for much longer. The terrorists have come forward, not with demands, and not with explanations. The men of the yellow and red robes are Buddhist monks, men known for peace, and they have turned themselves into the police without a fight and with a smile on their faces. Regardless of how many monks turn themselves in though, the cryogenic centers keep falling. I have been preparing for the worst, reminding myself that there was only a slim chance that Michael could have come back.

It is the evening of Adam's sixth birthday, and after a long day at the zoo we retired to sitting on the couch, watching cartoons. Rocky sits on his lap, gnawing on a rubber bone toy, his slobber sliding onto Adam's pants. Adam is watching the television screen, but the yellow dog on the screen running in circles doesn't make him laugh. He just notices the dog, the fact that he is yellow, the motion of the dog running. The screen abruptly blinks blue, and once again the grim news reporter is on the screen, today wearing a navy blue blazer. I know what is coming. The fear that had been at bay is suddenly the lead in my bones, and my breathing becomes shallow and silent. I barely hear the words as she speaks that the Boston Sleeping Center is gone, that my family is gone, that Michael is gone, gone, gone.

Michael is before my eyes. He smiles at me, and places his hand on my cheek, as warm as a beam of sunlight on my skin. Then he is broken, on the ground, the car just feet away as I scream until my voice gives out. We are at the park, playing on the swing set as we giggle like schoolchildren. I hear laughter bubbling up like water from an underground spring. It is a full laugh, one that comes from the belly and fills the body from your head to your toes. I realize that it is my grandfather's laugh, a laugh I haven't heard since I was ten years old. But the voice is high, clear, and sweet. My eyes blink open as I stare in shock.

Adam is laughing. His eyes are bright, and shining in a way I had never seen before. Rocky is licking his face, as he laughs fully, my grandfather's laugh. In that moment, I knew. I take Adam into my arms, and my heart is lighter than it has been in years. 

I finally understand what “Moksha” means.

In which I have a panic attack at lunch without realizing I am having a panic attack.

Dear reader, I have been over the past several months, dealing with the ordeal that is Applying to Grad School. This endeavor has essentially swallowed up my life, which is dear reader, the reason why I have not posted anything in a long, long time. Also because I am lazy, and because I also have better things to do.

But today, I post because something happened to me today that has never happened before in my life.

I had a panic attack.

No not a fainting, hyperventilating, moment of screaming. In fact, I did not at all realize that I was having a panic attack until now, 9 hours later.

Let me back up.

Today, I am in Seattle, Washington. This is not a normal state of affairs for me to be in. I have never been in Seattle, WA before in my life. But today, the culmination of Applying to Grad School was upon me, in which I had to come to the university in order to audition for the flute performance program.

(spoiler alert: I did not have a panic attack about auditioning for grad school.)

I auditioned this morning at 10am. The audition went as well as the universe wanted it to, and I had accepted that fact from the moment I woke up. I was nervous, but NOT PANICKING. Afterwards, I was actually quite fine.

I proceeded to spend the rest of the day exploring Seattle.

Seattle is a rather large city. Okay, seriously, Seattle is BIG. One of the most rapidly growing cities in the country. And downtown Seattle showed that quite well. Every single space was packed with people, people everywhere. The views were gorgeous, and the shops were new, and numerous.

It was at 3pm that I had a panic attack.

I was in the middle of eating lunch, lots of fresh seafood (can't get that in Nebraska, so man, I was quite the happy camper.) on the boardwalk. Although my stomach was happy and I was in a very good mood, I got EXTREMELY dizzy out of nowhere. I drank more water (my 2nd glass), and put more bread in my mouth (I sometimes get dizzy from lack of sugar, yay hypoglycemia, bread tends to help that.) But no matter my efforts, I could not stop being nauseous. I couldn't figure out what was wrong with me. My dad offered the fact that he tends to feel that way when he as a panic attack, which he tends to get in large crowds. Seeing as I was sitting in a restaurant, eating tasty food, and was not at all claustrophobic, I hadn't the slightest idea.

Looking back now, I know exactly why I was having a panic attack.

It was the very reason I thought I was happy.

Everything I saw was big. New. Unknown to me.

In less than a year, I was going to pack up my bags and move. Not necessarily to Seattle. But to somewhere much like it. A place where I know nothing and no-one. I would not be able to visit my favorite shops for comfort, sit at my favorite cafe, walk at my favorite park.

And by god, everything was SO EXPENSIVE. How could I possibly pay for living, let alone school, in ANYWHERE ELSE besides Nebraska?

All of a sudden, Seattle was not a new place to discover, it seemed like a horror story unfolding to me. And without warning, I realized that I honestly, truly love where I live and was terrified to leave.

I had never realized this before. I thought I wanted adventure! To go and never look back!

But once I was gone? All I could do was keep looking backwards lest I vomit all over my nice seafood lunch.

This will pass. At least a little. To live in one place forever would be a terribly boring life. Seattle is a beautiful city, and so is many of the other cities in which I'll be auditioning at. And someday soon, I will find myself back at one of them and calling them home.

I only hope that my version of "crossing the threshold" isn't puking on my shoes.

I wanna hold your hand?

I know I haven't posted anything in forever, so I apologize, but today I have something truly full of angst to rant about today.

There is a boy that I teach. He is about ten years old, and he is a joy to be around. He constantly smiles and tries to make everyone around him laugh. He loves to play with anyone, and he adores being the center of attention.

This boy is Chinese. He was adopted into an American family very recently, so he's still mastering English. On top of that, he has a slight speech impediment due to the shape of his lips that makes him a little difficult to understand.

Despite these things, he has made himself extremely popular with my other students. He is well liked, and genuinely gets along with everyone else.

Today, I learned that this student of mine is ostracized by his fellow students at school.

He does not have very many friends.

The reason?


He likes to hold hands with his friends.




Due to this, he has been labeled a weirdo, and therefore cast out.

It breaks my heart.

This kind, loving child, in an act to show his friendship caused him to loose what friends he had.

Apparently, American children now think that if a boy holds hands with another boy he's "gay" or if a boy holds hands with another girl he's "flirting".
These children haven't even hit puberty.

My student doesn't think of these things when he wants to hold hands. In China, hand-holding is a sign of friendship.
Oh wait.
It's a sign of friendship in Japan too.
And India.
And Afghanistan.

and BASICALLY EVERYWHERE.

Why is it a symbol of sexuality or romantic intention here?

Moreover, why in the world do these very young children view it as such?

I remember when I was in elementary school,  girls would ask me "Which boy is the hottest?" as they pointed to the cover of an 'N Sync CD and I would be left with a blank stare. Frankly, I was far more concerned about dragons and spies than I was about boys. But even then holding hands between myself and my friends was a very innocent thing. We did it all the time.

I just don't understand how a very simple gesture has turned into something fairly taboo. How can children do that to another over something so innocent?

I'm honestly still struck with horror. I can only hope that my student will find someone who accepts him for the positive ray of sunshine that he is.

Kicking science in the mouth

Getting bored at a computer is a fascinating phenomena to me.

Don't get me wrong, I get bored sometimes on the computer. I check my facebook, devaintART, Etsy, and my webcomics. When I'm done, I browse around for a bit, and then I inevitably get bored.

Of course after the fact, I then realize how incredibly, ridiculously, LUDICROUS it is to be bored at a computer.

The computer is an amazing thing.

If you wanted to, you could find a song for every moment of your life. You could listen to something new every minute of your spare time.

There are THOUSANDS of books available online. You could read about anything. Fiction, non-fiction, classics, brand new authors, science. You could learn so much.

But if you didn't want to read a whole book, there are thousands more articles about anything and everything.

Don't want to read? TV shows, movies, and short films are all easily accessible thanks to youtube.

There are games, social media, "how-to" articles, photo editing, video creating, music writing, all kinds of media available at your fingertips.

And yet - you and I are bored.

Can you believe it? We are so INCREDIBLY FUCKING STUPID that we choose to sit there watching videos of cats jumping into boxes with our eyes glazed over and think: "By god! This is the best use of the internet I could possibly think of!"

REALLY?!

We essentially have a portal to all knowledge we could possibly want and all we do is look at pictures like this?

 

WHAT THE FUCK.

WE ARE  KICKING SCIENCE IN THE MOUTH.

Not so long ago, if you wanted to use a computer, you would have to leave your house, go to the nearest university, and access a computer THE SIZE OF A ROOM.

We now have PHONES with a higher processing capacity.

And yet, all anyone does with this phones is send pictures of "inspirational" cheesy quotes with blurred out backgrounds and sad looking dogs with signs tied around their necks!

I MEAN REALLY.

When was the last time you used the internet to actually LEARN SOMETHING?

Do yourself a favor. Look up a topic that you're genuinely interested in. FUCKING LEARN SOMETHING. Repeat this process every goddamn time you find yourself bored and staring at a computer screen.

....

and afterwards you can go look at lolcats.