See the piper in my wake

I hope the chicks he will not take.

I’ve heard his tale; I know his way:

What will be lost if I betray,

Enchanted urchins are sorely missed.

No trail to follow, no second wish.

The piper’s pipe leaves not but grief

Nor not a chance of sweet relief.

Yet if I keep my head, I hope,

There’ll be no loss of which to cope.

Make the pact and keep it right,

I’ll gain, not suffer from his spite.

I could be as gorgeous as the sun,

I could be as rich as a kingsman,

But, I worry; not to be outdone,

What will the piper take when I have won?

(more…)

I’m face the back door, in the dining room. Covering the right hand wall is the computer and the piano. There’s no wall or door to the left, just the kitchen. Behind me is the circular dining table.

I’m only seven, so I have to pull on the door’s handle with both hands to slide the giant door open. But I can actually open it! I run forward, over the small, square, cement porch, and towards the far fence. The back yard is HUGE, about a billion feet long.

I get to the fence that separates my backyard from the field where the horses are. They’re outside today; hooray! Mommy is right behind me, and she gives me the apple quarters. I hold one quarter through the wire fence. It takes HOURS, but one of the pretty horses comes over and eats the apple. Its tongue tickles!

I giggle and run back to the house to put on my shoes so Mommy will take me to the creek. Frankie next door says there’s copperhead snakes down there, but I never see them.

We walk down the road a little, to where the wide space between two houses is. It’s all grassy and overgrown, and there’s a white pice of something that’s big. Mommy tells me it covers the well; that’s what the street is named for.

We’re past the treeline now, and not long after we climb down a little slope and walk along the creek. I toss some rocks in and try to get rocks to skip, but I never can. I’ve seen deer around here, but we don’t see any today.

We go back home then, and I have a snack: Grahm crackers and juice. Amber, my best friend and neighbor, calls; can she come over and play? She does, and we play house. We make supper (grass) and go to school and pretend to get in trouble.

Too soon, Amber has to go home. After supper, Mommy and Daddy say I have to go to sleep. I don’t even argue, so that this perfect day can end on a good note.

Somewhere, over the rainbow, way up high,
There’s a land that I heard of Once in a lullaby.
Somewhere, over the rainbow, houses are cheap
And the cars that you dare to covet
You really can afford.
Someday I’ll wish upon a star and wake up where the tax collectors are Fining that, too…
Where troubles melt like lemon drops, Away above the chimney tops
That’s where you’ll fine me.
Somehwere, over the rainbow, bluebirds fly. Birds fly without paying for plane tickets,
Why then- oh, why, can’t I?
If happy little bluebirds fly for free so far,
Why, oh, why, can’t we?

Choco Me.

Mom took me out on a drving lesson today.

We went to a big parking lot (who says development is evil? Oh yeah, me) and I practiced the sequence

Pushing Down On Clutch

Pushing Down On Brake

Shift Into Gear One

Take Off Parking Brake

And then the scary one–moving forward.

Before all that, we’d bought a bag of Dove Chocolate (and you’re thinking, ‘oh, THAT’S what the title has to do with driving!’) and every once in a while I took a break and had a chocolate. The first two said “Learn to say ‘hello’ in a different language.” I mastered that when I was five.

Hello. Hola. Bonjour. Take your pick.

Right before I started practiceing Start Moving, Shift Into Second While Moving, Stop, I got a Dove that read “Slow down today. Be grateful for what you have.” Or something like that. I disregarded this advice, though I got THAT Dove twice, too, and did a little driving in second.

And it wasn’t terrible. I killed it Seven Times Total, this I know because I counted carefully, and did plenty of starting, moving ~4 feet, stopping, moving ~4 feet, etc.

Since even a parking lot does not have endless space, I attempted (and I stress the word attempt) to turn. And through this I learned that, while I am very good at the Game Cube’s Mario Kart Double Dash, even without playing every other day, this proves a problem for REAL drivng. In Mario Kart, steering takes small, gentle twitches of the knob on the control paddle. While in a CAR, you have to turn the steering wheel A LOT to get it to turn at all. I think I managed to make it actually turn, oh, once. Before I figured out the Mario Kart Bad Habit, but after I figured out how to turn.

If I do say so myself, I am pretty impressed with me. And if you EVER wondered what driving an Auto-Gear-Shift is like, let me tell you: it is a pain.

I am taking a very boring Credit Advancement Health Class this summer (22 days left. I can make it). We went to the media center today and worked on powerpoints presentations which we must present tomorrow. I finished mine with ~50 minutes to kill, so I opened a Word Document and wrote poems. Whatever topic popped into my head I wrote about. Here they are.

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It’s Hot

Trickling

Damp

Uncomfy

I wipe my brow

But still the sweat is there

In the heat of running

In the sun

Winter Faeries

Dancing snowflakes fall

Twirling specks of white drift down

Cold wind bites my toes.

The Furry Monster

Hour

After hour,

After hour,

After hour,

Of

Hissing,

Spitting,

Clawing,

Scratching,

Snarling.

Ouch,

Ouch,

Ouch!

Hour

After hour,

After hour,

After hour,

And then…

Slowing

Stopping

Sitting

Lying down

Eyes

Closing…

Purring…

Sleeping…

I pet the worn out cat.

Summer School

Tick…

Tock…

Tick…

Tock…

Tick…

Tock……..

I

Am

So

Bored

All

Af-

Ter-

Noon

I

Sit

Lis’

-Ning

To

The

Teacher

Drone on,

And on,

And ON.

Under the table

Not an iPod

Not an MP3

Not a phone

It’s a book

But they still tell me to put it away.

Computer Research Day

Done with my research

Look to the left, to the right,

I write poetry.

Can’t Think of a Poem Topic

Poems for a long time

Running out of poems now!!!

Still very bored…argh.

For a mini myth unit in English, we had to write a myth about how cyclones were made. Here’s mine.

Early on in Kaila May’s life, while she was still but an infant, it was clear she had a great Dervish gift for dancing, greater than any other Dervish in the land. Her dancing gift became apparent the first time she slept: when tossing and turning in a nightmare, the twists and rolls seemed graceful and styled. Such twisting and spinning and turning in one’s sleep was a sure sign of the gift as any in the land could tell you. Every Dervish who met Kaila May in her childhood agreed that she would one day become a fabulous and well-known Dervish dancer.

Indeed, Kaila May lived up to and past the people’s expectations. She sped through dancing classes, graduating the last class three years younger than the norm, and then taught herself new dance moves that were breath-taking to behold. Kaila May was only fourteen when she left her village and went to perform in the capital of the country. The breath-taking, beautiful, words-failing dancing of Kaila May spread faster than wild fire throughout the country and beyond. Letters upon letters piled up in Kaila May’s home, each requesting her to perform in some place or another.

Kaila May traveled the world, reading reviews of her performances; even the most demonic of critics couldn’t seem to find a flaw in Kaila May’s dancing. The perfection described in the reviews went straight to Kaila May’s head: she became confident and arrogant.

“There’s not a dancer in the world who can dance as well as me,” Kaila May told people, “and not a critic in the universe can find the smallest of flaws in my dancing—because there’s none; my dancing is perfect!”

It seemed true that Kaila May needed no criticism, that she was the greatest dancer in the world and that there was not a single flaw in any performance.

And then once, Kaila May traveled to America and performed for the people of Los Angeles. And to the performance came Laurent, the most demonic, cruelest, and snobbiest of all critics. And Laurent was not impressed.

“Elaborate, very different,” Laurent described. “But repetitive. I’m not impressed—Kaila May’s reputation has been exaggerated. Nothing more than a bunch of quick spins and twists.”

Kaila May was enraged. How dare this simple, small-minded critic say such ridiculous lies! Kaila May demanded Laurent write a new review, one that was true and not filled with those lies. Laurent agreed to see another of Kaila May’s performances and reassess her dance.

Kaila May’s next performance was for a South American princess. It was the smallest audience she’d had since the pageants of dancing school back home—and those audiences had had thirty parents, not one princess and one critic!

Laurent gave Kaila May his new review of the performance on the spot: it was boring and dry, just fast spinning.

“It made me dizzy!” Laurent teased. The princess agreed.

“Spin, spin, spin, spin, spin!” The princess laughed. “What is so amazing about that? Any one can spin!”

“I’ll show you what’s so amazing!” shouted an infuriated Kaila May. She began to twist and turn and spin, faster and faster and faster, her arms and legs waving wind into the air. And that wind sped and spun with her twisting around her. And Kaila May continued, speeding and spinning; the wind sped and spun as well. Kaila May didn’t stop spinning, even when her feet left the ground. She floated in the room, and the spinning wind reeked havoc, throwing vases and pictures and furniture around and crashing them into each other.

Kaila May left the palace, the princess, and the critic, spinning throughout the city, chaos following the spinning wind wherever it went.

And so whenever Kaila May is reminded of the evil critic and the vile princess she loathes, she proves their teasing is lies by spinning this fast, making frightful cyclones and causing a path of destruction as she shows them what is so amazing about how she spins around and around.

And as for the critic, soon after Kaila May created the first cyclone and rode it through town, the cyclone returned to him, sweeping him up and spinning him round and round. He disappeared; no one has seen him since. It is rumored that he was taken to Oz.

What does Summer sound like???
Lawn mowers rumbling through the grass.
Yelling kids, shrieks of excitement, circling the pool

What does Summer feel like???
Hot air fighting the cool water on your skin. One is the air conditioner, the other is the heater. Ah, balance.
Soothing wind quieting the muggy, thick heat.
Pleasant showering rain, enjoyable, not too cold for chattering teeth.
Wet air, tastes like sweet water.
Cool grass beneath my feet.

What does Summer look like???
Sun, sun, sun.
An outdoor pool.
Someone going around with a jacket–and not a coat–on.

What does Summer smell like???
Sweet flowers; wet air, cool after a soft rain.
The chlorine of the pool.
Sunscreen

What does Summer taste like???
Lemonade and popsicles and ice cream outside

Spur of the moment inspiration caused by the fact that is kinda on the hot side today. Also possibly inspired by pretending my bicycle is a Big Lizard. :)

Desert, beyond the sight of human eye, was all that there was. Dry, flat, desert. Hot, hot, sun. Dry, dry, air. That was what the nomads of this place comprehended: dryness, heat, and lifelessness. There was no creature in these endless deserts except the Big Lizards and the Humans. There was no plant in these endless deserts except the Cactus. The Cactus provided water, just enough that you only get heatstroke once every seven Sun-Cycles, as the days were named back them.

But what is there to eat? The Big Lizards could be tamed, but there scale hide was impenetrable by anything the Humans had. So that left only one thing to be eaten by the Humans: Humans. And so it was that the Humans were forced to survive on cannibalism. Barbaric, you may think, but morals took second place after life.

The Humans banded together in nomadic groups, catching and training Big Lizards and teaching them to track Humans from other Nomadic Groups for food.

In this time, the leader of one of the Groups was Srrayda. Her Big Lizard was Pearl. Srrayda, Red Skin, and Fei Mao were the main hunters in the Group. The three would go out everyday, searching for Cactus and Human.

Once, when Srrayda and Pearl were not with the other two, she discovered an injured woman. Her ankle was horribly sprained. The woman knew that, despite the pain, she must get back to her Group or risk running into a Hunter. She had a daughter, only one and a half year old. So Srrayda found the woman and her baby limping desperately, but the limp was no match for the four-legged Big Lizards, and her strength was no match against Big Lizards’ piercing teeth.

But the woman began pleading with Srrayda, begging her not to kill her child. And Srrayda noticed the dialect—each Group had its own unique dialect of the same language—was exactly the same as hers. Was it possible that this girl had been kidnapped from her Group and raised in another? Kidnapping was as frequent as killing—no laws forbade it, no morals discouraged it—so it was very possible.

And Srrayda wondered: where did all of them come from? Had Fei Mao’s great grandfather been kidnapped, and Fei Mao became apart of her Group? Where did the kidnapper of Fei Mao’s great grandfather come from? Or perhaps Srrayda herself—had someone taken her? Who had taken that someone? Who had taken the someone who had taken the someone who had taken her?

Srrayda pondered the origin of her Group for many days. Finally, an answer came to her upon waking: I wake up to those around me, Srrayda realized, Isn’t it possible that perhaps my ancestors, and my people’s ancestors simply woke up to each other and formed a Group? Srrayda deeply believed that that was what had happened to cause the First Group to form—they had awakened together. Srrayda told her story of creation to her people. The Creation Story was the first sign of a religion in the making. The influence of this Story spread quickly and influenced easily, due to the exchanges of other Nomads.

Srrayda continued to wonder about their creation—who had woken them? She asked Pearl, and even though Pearl could not reply in Srrayda’s language, Srrayda got an answer: the spirits of the green grass and the leafy trees and the cool wind had woken them. For while they slumbered, they had been uncomfortably hot, and dry, and thirsty. And when Green Grass Spirit and Leafy Trees Spirit and Cool Wind Spirit came into being, they had known, subconsciously, that there was a place where water was abundant and food was not each other. So these Spirits became hope for these desert people, who had never known cool, or grass, or trees. Srrayda described the lack of unbearable heat as no sweat, lots of water and food. This her people could comprehend. They asked her where these spirits dwelled, and Srrayda asked Pearl. Pearl told her—and she in turn told her Group—that they dwelled in the Green Land, where the good nomads went, and where all nomads would eventually go. Pearl told her that no matter which direction she led her people, it would take them closer to the Green Land, because that was where their souls were drawn to. Soon the Big Lizards became a sacred, precious commodity for learning the secrets of bliss they would someday know.

When Srrayda died, her stories had spread to all the Groups and were believed by all Humans. Srraydaism was everyone’s religion.

Srrayda’s work had been fulfilled, the desert nomads would say. The spirits that lived in the Green Land had given Srrayda the task of telling all the people in the desert there was hope, that the Big Lizards were not pets nor slaves but preachers of the spirits’ knowledge. Srrayda had been given the task of giving the people’s lives meaning. It is said that Srrayda became a spirit, too, an honor too great for words to describe. Some believe she became a less harsh sun that kept the Green Lands at just the right temperature. Some say she is the sky that stretches over the desert and the Green Lands, so that they know there must be a way to get to the Green Lands, because the sky can get there.

A soldier fights a war

Why does he fight?

Why does he kill?

No one win,

No one will rule,

So why does he fight?

Why does he kill?

 

A sailor travels in a boat

Why does he sail?

What is his goal?

There sea behind

And sea ahead

No land to find,

No place to go to,

So why does he sail?

Where is his goal?

 

The starving dog gnaws on a bone

Why does he chew?

Why does he gnaw?

There’s not meat to eat,

No sustenance to be had,

So why does chew?

Why does he gnaw?

 

The soldier fights a war

Because he must,

There’s not way out

There’s no way to win,

But there’s no way to run,

No where to hide,

Flight’s not an option—

He must fight to the death.

 

The sailor travels in his boat

–When he knows there’s no where to go—

Because his home is the sea,

That is where he is going

For him it is the journey,

And not the destination—

The sea is the both.

 

The dog gnaws

On a meatless bone

For something to chew,

Something to taste,

The grit on the ends,

The stained blood,

Red on the marrow,

Something to taste,

Until the end of the hunger

And the end of him.

*This is actually a song, but I can’t really record audio…yet.*

A Sailor saw a Mermaid

And jumped into the water.

He drowned and died.

The Sailors killed the Mermaid;

The Mermaids killed the Sailors

The water was bloody from that war.

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