Whoof. These Are Thoughtful.

I was Googling "deep questions" the other day in the hopes it would get me thinking about the novel I'm going to write in November.

I found this set. I answered them. And I have an idea for my novel.

Feel free to answer these questions yourself, when/if you have the time or interest. These were really good things to dwell on.
I discovered a lot about my own personal character through these questions. It may be just me, but lately I've seen myself be really crazy, rushed, and hyper (...my band self, really) rather than compassionate and kind and introspective.

But read this. And potentially copy/paste, if you want.

--

1. Why not me?
We're not meant to do absolutely everything well. For example, do I wish I could be more involved in Creative Writing Club? Yes I do. Do I wish I made the FOCUS staff? Yes I do. But I am unable to hold an Editorial position in CWC and am not on the FOCUS staff because I am supposed to be devoting more of my time and energy somewhere else. And my life is soon to be beyond high school (thank GOD)...and who knows what kind of things will happen then?

2. Am I nice?
I like to think I am. But I've heard myself think, and I know for a fact that some of the things I've thought have been anything BUT nice.

3. Am I doing what I really want to do?
Well, I'm making music. I write whenever I'm inspired. I laugh every day. I surround myself with good people. I'm working towards my college education for next year. So I guess I am doing all that I want to do at this point in my life.

4. What am I grateful for?
I am grateful for love and passion, vim and vigor. If I didn't have those two things in my life, I would not be able to appreciate life or have any desire to wake up in the morning.

5. What’s missing in my life?
Self-assurance. I am constantly wondering if I have any place in the lives of the people I hold dearest. I try to tell myself that, even though I may doubt it a lot, I AM loved and valued in my own little ways. And I don't need people to tell me that.

6. Am I honest?
Yes. Especially when I write.

7. Do I listen to others?
Yes. I like to listen to others more than myself, sometimes.

8. Do I work hard?
In some areas of my life.

9. Do I help others?
I try to.

10. What do I need to change about myself?
I need to change my outlook of myself in other people's lives. I have no sense of self-worth, especially at my worst. I always wonder if I've ever impacted another life positively (or negatively). I always wonder what role I could be playing.

11. Have I hurt others?
Yes, I have. And it hurt me.

12. Do I complain?
Not as much as others, because I hate it when people complain. But I do let out a little whine every now and then.

13. What’s next for me?
Currently, some hardcore sleep. But in general...who knows. That's the fun part. :)

14. Do I have fun?
Yes I do. I try, anyway. Life has to be fun.

15. Have I seized opportunities?
Oh yes. Many many opportunities. And I have yet to regret a single one.

16. Do I care about others?
Probably more than what's necessary.

17. Do I spend enough time with my family?
Lately, I have not. And it bothers me. I've been so busy with Marching Band, and after Marching Band I'll be busy with the fall play for a couple of weeks. But after that I look forward to having some down time with them.

18. Am I open-minded?
Probably to the point of being a little obnoxious about it.

19. Have I seen enough of the world?
Not nearly enough. I still have to go to New Zealand and Australia.

20. Do I judge others?
Initially, like everyone else. But I try to look past initial judgments.

21. Do I take risks?
More than some people I know. But not nearly enough. That will soon change.

22. What is my purpose?
I have yet to answer that.

23. What is my biggest fear?
Not living an enthusiastic life.

24. How can I conquer that fear?
Keep on living enthusiastically as much as I can.

25. Do I thank people enough?
I try to thank people a lot. But still I feel like it's never enough.

26. Am I successful?
Relatively speaking. It's still a little early, though, to be asking that.

27. What am I ashamed of?
Being too hard on myself when it isn't necessary.

28. Do I annoy others?
I'm not sure. I probably do, sometimes, to people that I don't know.

29. What are my dreams?
Extremely varied. I've had premonitional dreams, and the weird dream I had last night that made no sense.

30. Am I positive?
Very much so. I try to be sunshine-y and progressive.

31. Am I negative?
Only towards myself, sometimes.

32. Is there an afterlife?
Yep!

33. Does everything happen for a reason?
Yes.

34. What can I do to change the world?
Keep on doing what I do best. And keep my head up with my feet on the ground.

35. What is the most foolish thing I’ve ever done?
Define "foolish"...

36. Am I cheap?
Ehh. Probably. I make all the cards I give to people. Haha!

37. Am I greedy?
I try not to be.

38. Who do I love?
You, whom I have tagged in my FB note. And a few others that were not. And someone I have not met yet, whoever he/she may be.

39. Who do I want to meet?
Someone that likes all aspects of me. Someone that can tolerate my writing.

40. Where do I want to go?
Out into the wild blue yonder.

41. What am I most proud of?
Being true to myself intensely, and I'm proud of all of my friends for some reason or another.

42. Do I care what others think about me?
Everyone does, to a certain extent. I do sometimes, but to be honest, as I've gotten older I've cared less and less.

43. What are my talents?
Love. Music. Writing. Memory. Honesty. Drawing.

44. Do I utilize those talents?
Constantly.

45. What makes me happy?
Everything mentioned in #43. My friends. Family. Exploring. Life.

46. What makes me sad?
Negativity.

47. What makes me angry?
Shallow-mindedness.

48. Am I satisfied with my appearance?
For the most part. I like my unique features.

49. Am I healthy?
Pretty much.


50. What was the toughest time in my life?
Sixth grade, sophomore year as a whole.

51. What was the easiest time in my life?
Fifth grade. That was a pretty cool year.

52. Am I selfish?
I try not to be.

53. What was the craziest thing I did?
Whoof. I don't think I've lived enough to think of that one.

54. What is the craziest thing I want to do?
Shave my head for cancer awareness. Which I am going to do in March. :)

55. Do I procrastinate?
Yes...for some things...

56. What is my greatest regret?
I don't regret things. I learn from them.

57. What has had the greatest impact on my life?
Music has a great impact on my life. Writing does, too. Witnessing the struggles and triumphs of those I love is also something else that makes an impact...that actually correlates with my writing.

58. Who has had the greatest impact on my life?
Thus far, a lot of people have had an impact on my life in some form or another.
Sascha Nolan Simpson, Andy Sturm, Taylor Peters, my mother, Seth Worland, Mr Wall, Miss Sheehan, Ortwein.
And I'm sure there are others that have made little impacts, too.

59. Do I stand up for myself?
If I am being challenged.

60. Have I settled for mediocrity?
I never settle for mediocrity.

61. Do I hold grudges?
No. At least, I try not to.

62. Do I read enough?
No. I remember when I was little, I was that bookworm that read in the car, in restaurants, in church. Now I have so much assigned reading that I hardly have time to read for enjoyment.

63. Do I listen to my heart?
Yes. And my gut.

64. Do I donate enough to the less fortunate?
I don't really donate with money. But I go on trips with Habitat for Humanity - does that count?

65. Do I pray only when I want something?
No - I pray when I'm asked to pray, and when I'm thankful.

66. Do I constantly dwell on the past?
I try not to. My future's more exciting to look at.

67. Do I let other people’s negativity affect me?
I tend to make my friends' problems become my own. I worry about them. But when it comes to general pessimism and all of that...it annoys me, but I try to ignore it.

68. Do I forgive myself?
Not easily. There - I said it.

69. When I help someone do I think “What’s in it for me”?
No.

70. Am I aware that someone always has it worse than me?
Yes. That keeps me in check when I think my life is rough.

71. Do I smile more than I frown?
I try to. I laugh a lot.

72. Do I surround myself with good people?

I believe I said this somewhere in here. And when I say I DO surround myself with good people, I don't mean "obedient" or "novel" people.

These people are imperfect. One has hurt me a lot in the past...I'm still sorry for the most recent complication. One has a (beautiful) daughter. One wants to go off to college with me. One lives in Maryland. One has long hair (for a guy) and wears a different hat every year.

I mean, they're not all honor roll students, they've made mistakes, and they're living life to the best of their ability with a dream in mind, trying to figure out who they are. I love these people with all of my heart. Even if I don't remain this close with each and every one of them in the future, they will forever remain in my memory. And if you know me, you know how good my memory is.

73. Do I take time out for myself?
Not nearly enough.

74. Do I ask enough questions?
No - I only scratch at the surface.

75. What other questions do I have?
Well, let's find out.

Works of Fiction and Memory.

I never write fiction anymore.
But here's something I came up with. Is it taken from real life? Sure, some of it is. I tried to tweak it some while making a fine balance between fictional and real.
This is going to take some practice.
Andy Sturm wants to write a novel. I've wanted to write a novel for...years. But now I'm inspired to really start on it.

So here's random schtuff that came to me. Here goes nothing. I hope it sparks good things.

--

He didn't know when it started. It might've been the night they were both a little frazzled and jittery (for different reasons), lights dancing off her hair. God, he couldn't take his eyes off her hair.

It might've started a week later, or two weeks. How long has he known her? It feels like they should've met a long time ago.
So why now? Why her? And why wasn't he stopping all that he was feeling deep within his heart's core?

He found himself trusting her with things he hardly shared with anyone. His dysfunctional mother, his phenomenal father, how he truly viewed himself as a person. He noticed how she hardly said a word as they walked, but listened carefully. It seemed like she was taking every word he said and letting them roll around in her heart, experiencing all the pain and triumph word for word.

And here they were now, on her sofa, watching a movie that he couldn't find himself focusing on. His arm had somehow wrapped itself around her, her head now nestled in the crook of his neck. Her hair smelled like sunshine and fresh air.

The world began to fall away. His logic fell away, that part of his mind that says "Wait a minute" at times like this. It disappeared into oblivion. All he knew was his heart (which was beating very fast), and her presence next to him.

This is right.

Her head suddenly turned in his general direction, and his head dipped a little. He could ever-so-faintly feel her lips. The tension was there. It was almost unbearable...the electricity was insane.

He felt her inch closer to him, a little doubtful, testing to see if this was real. A little more, a little closer yet. What was going on? All was focused on the way her lips opened slightly, her head tilting to the side just so...

The few moments following seemed to fit the description of "forever." No - not even that. It was like time simply ceased to function. When her head found its way to the crook of his neck again, he felt logic trying to crawl its way back in.

What the hell? it asked.
Yes, he agreed. What the hell, indeed.
Why did this feel so right? Why did it feel like he had kissed her before? And why was he wishing to do it again?

The world ceased to exist again soon after those thoughts flew. He became one with the air, his mind away but his heart ablaze. With each kiss that trailed down her neck, he became even more lost.

He found himself whispering something to her, and her replying with a voice soft as a breeze. His hand arose to her breast, cupping it gently, every moment like a poem. Upon that initial touch, he considered himself finished. He was gone.

Later, he awoke with his head on her chest. Her heart beat steadily with slumber. Holding her hand in his, he touched the callouses on her fingertips with his thumb. He kissed each callous lightly, so he wouldn't wake her up.

He soon slipped back into sleep, himself, his cheek grazing the soft fabric of her thin sweater. He wanted to memorize the feel of her, in case this never happened again.

--

And it never did happen again.

Only after months of memory-dreams and rearranging her mind throughout the day was she able to let herself reflect upon that day again.

It was quite a feat, really, to be able to remember it all without a trace of negativity. She could not remember anything beyond touch, or the scent of fresh detergent on his shirt that was soft to the touch. If she made herself be perfectly still...and close her eyes...she could recall the energy burning in the eternal seconds before his mouth enfolded hers, testing the waters while still not backing down. She could still feel his hand tracing the outline of her face, holding it close, and the gentle agressiveness of him biting her neck that one time.

It was a relief, to remember it all without crying or feeling a little sick to her stomach. It was so much better to regard it as a happy day rather than a day consumed by "what-ifs" and mixed signals from that day forward (yes...no...someday?).

But she couldn't help but think "what if" sometimes. In fact, "sometimes" didn't suffice. She always wondered "what if."

And she always wondered if he remembered that day...and if he did, was it anything like she remembered it?

Cellulite vs Silicone?

Here's another funny blog.
I am in the process of writing something profound. But this is too good...

--

*joking about breast implants*

Brandon: I have breast implants.
Me: Oh, really? Lemme feel.
Brandon: No! This water is all for me!
Me: ...water?
Brandon: Er, not water...uh...cellulite.
Me: *dying laughing* Cellulite?!
Brandon: ...I didn't say something right...
Me: It's SILICONE, you dupe!
Brandon: *laughing* Ohhhh. What's cellulite, then?
Me: It's what you get when you're old!!
Brandon: Ohhhh!
Me: If you don't know what's in your breast implants, you're in trouble, my brother.

FridaySaturday.

I hate being a woman almost as much as I love being one.

I just gotta write about what I feel right now. This weekend has been one of extremes - extreme joy, and extreme sadness (well, at least it's extreme compared to how I USUALLY get about that sort of thing).

Let's get the bad part over with. I want to get to the joy and ramble on and on about that.

--

I went to Whiteland again yesterday.
Notre Dame vs Michigan State.

There are truly no words. It's one of those games that you have to process what happened because it happened so quickly.

Dave was drunk off his ass, so he missed practically three-quarters of the game. When Caleb and I were done being designated drivers, he put on his Irish jersey and conked out on the sofa.
Ryan was drunk off his ass, too. But at least he stayed in the garage with Caleb and me and watched the rest of the game in its tense entirety.

After Caleb and I dropped Ryan off at his house, we both sat in the car in stone-cold silence.
But I found myself chuckling a little. Me - having been gone from the jocky nature of my youth for seven-ish years - being upset over a football game? Yes, it was Notre Dame and yes, it was a very intense game...but seriously?

Man. In the words of Caleb Tucker:
I hate everything about Michigan.

But, because I'm silly and because I'm me, I CAN find something good out of last night that kind of segues into the happy part of this blog.

It was so funny, on the ride home yesterday, Caleb Tucker said to me, "You're so into this. I can't imagine what this loss feels on a newcomer such as yourself. What are your feelings right now? Are you going to blog about this?"

I love Caleb Tucker. Being with him always makes me feel happy, no matter what.

--

Okay. Now for the happiness!!

ANDY'S DAUGHTER IS HERE!!

Lilyana Isabelle Sturm was born on Friday, September 17, at 12:30 pm. After having some difficulty breathing, she's currently doing fine. Andy's kept me updated. I sometimes think I'm worrying too much - I've texted him once every day since he went to the hospital Thursday night, asking him how she's doing.

From the pictures I've seen of her, she's absolutely beautiful.
But hey, what else was I expecting, really?
She has a little bit of my best friend in her. Half of his heart - his beautiful heart - is hers.

Today, he got to hold her.
That picture of him holding her in his arms, her tiny little hand wrapped around his finger makes me cry.
Because it's amazing.

Now, this part is hard for me to write...but these emotions have never gone beyond my head and my heart. Never gone out of my mouth...because I knew that they could hurt. It hurt me to even think about it.

In the month of June, from what I had witnessed on his blog and Twitter, I almost let myself think that Andy was not going to be there for the birth.
Yes, I know it was ridiculous. And yes, I know that it was very heartless and mean for what I typically think and say.

But I just read his blog...those entries that made me physically sick...and it was very hard for me to tell myself that Andy had what it took to be there when the time came.
Because, as his blog made me percieve him to be, he had become someone that I did not recognize, like very much, or even love like I thought I did.

But he came to my house after I returned home from Washington DC, and he and I talked in person about absolutely everything...and he and I and a few other friends went bowling with us...and I began to have faith in him again.
He told me, "Something has to change, and that something is me. When I say I'm going to do something, I'm going to do it. I'm tired of letting you down, and I'm tired of letting other people down."

And I know I'll never forget that Thursday he texted me, saying that he was on his way to the hospital because Natalie was going into labor soon. I remember how scared he was...asking me to pray.
I got that text during band practice. After I got that text...let's just say that my mind was not on the field, or my drum.

I felt scared and excited for him...but while I was praying, I found myself saying "Thank you."
Because Andy proved me wrong. He has a tendency to do that, but this time it was something that I'll never forget.

He was there.
He was there when Natalie needed his coaching (and his hand...), and he was there when his daughter was born. There are pictures, therefore it happened.
He was there.

Deep down, because I believe I know Andy that well, I knew that he was going to fall in love with her the minute he saw her...and melt when he finally got to touch her with his finger, her hand gripping it tightly.
And he did. He loves her more than he'll ever be able to fathom.

However, on my end of the spectrum, it's very odd.
You see...I love her. I love this little girl. I took a picture of the picture on Facebook using my phone. And every time I look at it, it makes my heart feel a certain way that I can't really describe - I have never felt that sort of love before in my life, ever.
Is it bad that I love her? When she's not mine in any shape or form?

I asked this to Abbie on Friday night, and she said, "No, of course not. She's the daughter of a friend you love very much. Of course you would love her."

I still don't know. I probably never will.
But it's amazing. It is my hope that I'll be able to watch her grow up. The coolest part is that whole process of discovering who she is - what she likes to do, what music she'll listen to (or potentially play!!), what makes her laugh, how she'll do her hair.

But I digress.
Happiness from this weekend was indescribable happiness for my best friend.

--

That is all.

I love you.

Still A Steady Heartbeat.

Butterflies are supposed to be a symbol of happiness and luck.
Ever since the first day of band this season, I have seen at least one butterfly while we were on the field.

Every time I see a butterfly, I think of you.
And I like to think you're thinking of us, as well.

--

Two years ago today, my friend Sascha Simpson died.
Anybody that was in Marching Band with him or knew him by some other means can get this message, and be lulled into a serious mood for a few minutes.
We all remember where we were, what we thought...when we heard the news.

--

I was a sophomore, going downtown to get my hair cut that Friday afternoon. When I got home, I went online and heard from various people that Sascha Simpson was hit by a car and that he was in critical condition.

When I read his name, a face - a friend - came to mind.
And my first thought was, "It can't be him."

I met him when we were in sixth grade together. We went to the YMCA after school to hang out. I would always show him these stupid videos and songs I'd find online, and I'd go and do my homework or something so he could have the computer.
For the next ten minutes, he'd watch those same videos, back to back. I remember the way he laughed no matter how many times he watched them.

For some reason, when he was held back a grade and I moved up to 7th, he and I lost contact.
I don't think I even really got his last name. That's why I wasn't sure if there were possibly two freshman boys named Sascha. I didn't know...

I was talking to one of my friends in band about it. I asked her, "What does this Sascha look like?"
She said, "Brown hair, glasses, really nice smile. He's German."

And my heart sank.
It was him.

I remember that horrible Monday, when we all came back to school. I went into the music suite as I always did, my eyes stinging with tears. I looked up, and I saw other people crying, too. I don't think there was a dry eye in the music department for that entire day.

During Block Four, our principal came on the intercom. She said "I want to tell you that Sascha Simpson was let off of life support at 9 this morning, and that he is no longer breathing."

Somehow, we got through the week up to Friday. We were to perform at his funeral.
The bus ride was silent, all of us in black, the only color being the new bracelets made in honor of Sascha.

Since Sascha was an organ donor, these bright green bracelets say "Donate life" in English and Spanish.

Chamber Orchestra had to perform first. I remember walking into the sanctuary of Mount Pleasant Church, and seeing his casket. I was struck by how small it was. Sascha was tall as me. He was just fifteen years old...not even his full adult height yet.

And here he was. In that polished casket, all snug and safe.
Right as he was, eternally fifteen.

I stepped behind the casket carefully, sitting down in my seat. The pictures projected behind me made me remember him while he was alive all the more clearly.
We played...we had the opening prayer...and Chamber Orchestra sat down in the left wing.

This was the first funeral in which I knew the person.
And this was the first funeral I ever cried at. And was genuinely touched...saddened, but touched. And even slightly comforted.

We listened to the pastor talk, we listened to Sascha's mother talk. God, she was so strong...her strength was awe-inspiring...all of us that were there remember her voice, clear and German-accented. She spoke slowly, making every word count.
She made sure that her son's legacy was heard...and cherished.

Then the band played "It Is Well With My Soul." I remember looking up and seeing tears stream down their cheeks as they made their musical tribute.
I couldn't think of any other way that Sascha would've wanted it.
All of us...his best friends...making music in honor of his life.

That realization alone seemed to create a healthy sense of closure. It wasn't complete yet, but it was better than where it was at the beginning of the morning.

When I packed up my viola and I walked out to the buses, I noticed that the sun was shining luminously, birds were singing, and there was a nice warm breeze tickling my skin. The smell of almost-fall was in the air.
For the first time in a week, I smiled.

--

A year had passed. And I still remembered.

By that point, I was a member of Marching Band. I don't quite remember exactly when I decided that I wanted to join, but I do remember part of the reason WHY.
I remember thinking about Sascha throughout the year after his funeral. I felt really bad that I didn't get back in touch with him when he became a freshman and was in the high school with me. So I figured I'd give back to his life and do something he loved to do, too.

On the one-year anniversary of his death, I made a tshirt. I painted on words that I had written a few days before, concerning this special date.
"His heart still beats. It's the metronome."
On the back, I wrote the date that will stay forever in my memory: September 15, 2008.

--

And here we are, now. Two years later.
I didn't think I'd say this...but when I woke up this morning, Sascha wasn't the first thing I thought about.

I remembered today, of course, but it did not engulf my mind.
I can talk about it a little easier now. It still hurts, a little, but it doesn't hurt quite as much...if you know what I mean.

Last week, we went to the Southport game, like we did the night Sascha was hit by that car...
And Mr Belt didn't mention him, unlike last year.
But I understood. This year, my class and the class of 2012 would be the only people that would recognize the importance of this weekend.

But Sascha was never mentioned.

I'm one of few that still wear his bracelet.
But I know people that have either lost or broken their bracelets...and they told me how awful they felt when it happened.
I wish I knew where they kept the extras. I know they made a LOT of them. I want to give out those bracelets...those bracelets that keep his memory with us in a tangible sort of way.

It seems like we have moved on to the point where we don't need to acknowledge him by name on this day, because we remember and we know and we still love him - we can say a little prayer for him today or whatever in honor of him, if we want.
...but I want to acknowledge his name. A day will probably come when I don't need to write about him anymore. This is probably going to be the last time, in a while. But I know that I will still remember Sascha when I am in college...when I have a family. And if a friend of my child's dies (heavin forbid), I will be able to tell him or her, "I know what it's like." And I will tell them about Sascha.

When a person dies, after a time, their life is no longer simplified or existant by a date or by their name.
Their life simply integrates with yours, in a sort of way. It dissolves, and spreads out into the little cracks and corners, under the rugs...and you are reminded at the most random of times. And they are alive again, within you while you live your own life.

Sascha Nolan Simpson...thanks. I'll thank you again on Senior Night for Marching Band, but...seriously. Thanks, dude. Without you, I wouldn't be in Marching Band at all. And now I can't picture my life without it.

Thank you.

--

They're also building a sidewalk that runs down Laverne Road (the road he was hit on) all the way to the middle school.
I remember how happy I was the day I saw it.
He is still there. And here. And...everywhere.

MIKE JONES. MIKE JONES.

I don't even know how to begin.

We went to contest yesterday (it's Sunday now, I guess...currently being 1235 a.m.). The drumline was there early, as usual, at 9. We practiced in the cold September rain. We practiced with the band once they got there three hours later.

My bass solo was cut. Well, our bass solo (as a section) was cut, really. But it was given to Strobel...four bars of bass given to bass 1.
I tried to not take it as a personal insult. It just felt like...Austin (my instructor) gave up on me. I felt like he said "Nope - you can't do it," and condemned me to marching in silence.
I still heard my solo in my head, and the feeling of my sticks still against the rims of my drum made me feel empty.
In orchestra, they never cut parts. You have to learn it to the best of your ability and get through it. There's no sitting there in silence while one person in your section plays for you.

I hated myself. I hated myself so much, words can't describe it.
My head kept on yelling at me, "Why couldn't you play that better? What place do you have in this drumline? Why are you even here?"
It made me angry - no, furious.

But finally, we loaded the buses and we headed to Columbus North. I taped my sticks and made myself forget about the cut. If they felt like I sucked that bad, then maybe it was for the best. Maybe we'd score a little better.

When we were warming up by the other football field, my drum felt incredibly heavy. I had no idea why - everything suddenly hurt. The bottoms of my feet, my legs, my right elbow that's been giving me trouble for the past week, my shoulders.
I wasn't about to have this. Not before a competition. Not before the one time that everything counted.

We marched on that prim, clean-cut field. We didn't have any distractions. We were the first in our class to perform.
For having performed our ballad for the public only one other time, I thought we weren't all that bad.
Still, I kind of think the football performance was just a little better. But I'm not sure - both were pretty solid.

When we were in our little huddle for drumline and pit, Dustin told us that we had the best percussion in our class. I wasn't sure what this meant. Did we really have THE best? Could he tell this early in the competition?
I had no idea.

But hours passed, and finally it was time to hand out awards.

They announced that Perry Meridian won Best Percussion for Class AAA.
We won. We won something - therefore, I found out, we placed.
We didn't get a Participation plaque.
We PLACED. Specifically, Third place.

I couldn't believe it.
The drumline I was a part of won something.
All those hours during the months of June and early July...came to this.
All those Saturday camps, including the one the morning of contest...came to this trophy.

"Happy" is too weak of a word to describe how I felt.
"Euphoric" is getting closer.

I was honored to be part of it. But I let myself realize that maybe I wasn't so suckish, after all.
That maybe I DID have a place in the drumline.
That maybe if I let myself grow even more from this success, I could become the drummer I want to be. Someday, I want to play snare.
Today, I was proud of what my family accomplished.
And I allowed myself to be proud of what I have accomplished.

And if you know me, you know I don't let myself do that often.

Insert Meaningful Title Here.

According to this, I have five people that read this blog.
For some reason, I feel like writing again.
So here I go. This is going to be fun.
twss.

--

I just went back and re-read every single post on Caleb Tucker's blog. So if I end up writing just a little bit like him, you'll know why.
But it was kind of cool, to read all of those posts...fifteen of them, I think. The only reason I have this blog is because of him - he kind of inspired me to go beyond Facebook with my writing. And I really really like it.
It's so cool to think that my writing is going places beyond what I aim for. I don't write for the world to see, I write for specific people a lot of the time.

And about writing to specific people...
The one person I feel like I've been writing to for the past year has unexpectedly almost fallen to the wayside, recently. I don't understand why. We just haven't talked for the longest time like we used to. I wonder how he's doing.
I know that I miss him. But I also know that...for whatever reason...I don't view him the same way that I did when I sent him that last long message.

I still think of him as a very important person in my life. I don't want to lose him.
It's very hard to explain, what I'm thinking right now.

It seems as if I'm writing for someone else a lot more, now.

--

For my birthday, I made gifts for those I hold very dearly in my life.
One of the recipients has healthily used his copy, and he told me so.
He told me that gift (and reading stuff I've previously written) have given him inspiration for his writing assignments in his college classes.
The thing is...I feel like I don't write to inspire people. I write because if I don't, I go crazy.

I remember back in the summer, one of my friends kept a Tumblr. Some of the things he wrote about...oh, I can't even begin to describe it.
His entries made me physically sick. My stomach was all kinds of fucked up. And that didn't even compare to how my heart was doing, whenever I'd read his entries.
I'd be so mad. Good God, I'd be so mad. I'd think, "Where's the you that I love? Am I loving a person that doesn't even exist anymore?"

I have so many unsent letters to him during that month.
When he started a new blog, I sent him a message and told him I hoped it would be different from the other one. Then I told him how the other one made me feel.
He said, "Why didn't you tell me it made you feel that way? I'm so sorry - I really am."

It's your blog. You do what you want with it.
If you gotta write, you gotta write.

And I write with no holds barred. I enjoy reading people that write in the same way...especially people I know.
I always think I know people, until they write. Then I see another side of them.

I love that.

--

So, on Saturday I drove to Whiteland so I could be with Caleb Tucker and his family. We were going to watch Notre Dame and Purdue duke it out. It was the first time I had been to Whiteland in six years...it was so bizarre. I used to live south of it, in a town called Nineveh. Oddly enough, Whiteland hadn't changed as much as Franklin had in those six years. It was quite trippy, if you want to know the truth.

But anyway. The game.
It was really fun. Such a good game. And I typically don't follow the Irish.
Except, now, I totally will. I was converted on Saturday afternoon, in that garage.

And Caleb's family. They were such nice people. I felt like I was immediately welcomed into the fold. I could talk to any of them. And I finally met his sister, Emily. She is every bit as cool as Caleb said she was.
After Notre Dame won, Caleb and his uncle Dave started to play guitar and bass right there in the garage.

I love Dave's tat. It's a bass clef in front of a Japanese-character-like thing. It was very cool. Just thought I'd mention this before we go any further.

Caleb started to play bass, and we were all rendered to silence. The music resonated in our chests, fileld the garage with sweet, deep tones.
I snapped pics, trying to capture the magic that consumed my ears and my heart. (yeah, that was corny...)
Faintly, his stepdad, Ryan, murmured "He has no idea how talented he is."
"It's a gift from God," Dave agreed. "The day Caleb was made, God said 'Caleb Tucker, you will be a bass player.' And look at him now."

Yeah. Look at him now.
Not classically trained. Just picks up an instrument and is able to rip it up.
It amazes me.

Unfortunately, I had to leave.
When I got home, I wished I was back with Caleb. My wonderful day now had a cloud over it. I was pissed.

However, Caleb texted me to tell me that Ryan really likes me and thinks that I am "so fucking cool."
That, and a few other things we ended up discussing, made me smile. If anything, it made me feel less one-sided about everything. I'm not elaborating.

It gave me some hope.
Hope is a good thing. And so is happiness.
I can only hope that I give those things to him, during those nights that he loses his confidence and crumbles a little bit inside.
I've been there. And I know it isn't easy to reassemble yourself. I know it isn't easy to allow yourself to grasp that new possibility. But eventually...you do. You don't realize it...but you are grasping it and you aren't going back.

I'll be there for it all. It's interesting witnessing that process in someone else.
Someone that's not me.

---

I don't really know what else I got.
Except for this.

Have no fear.
I love you.