Salsa

Morning. The smell of salza mized with the rain. Softener in the back room, mice and birds in harmony soaked blossoms outside my window, the feeling of a big house and a day before you. One basketball bouncing, cars on the wet road. A shiver and sunlight, inspiration. Laziness and energy, soft music in my head, the calm kind, not sad. Tasting some sweetness that is almost like sun-cooked grass and days that never got old.

Conditioner

The commencement of the season

Marked by a sound

Humming

Heavy-breathing

Brushing.

Like the gentle shushing

Of a reclusive peacemaker

Brought to subdue

The clatter.

Sitting in the back

Patiently

Watching as the party streams in

With another day to conclude

Absorbing the traces

Of sunlight on their skin

Replaced with folds of coolness

Seamlessly

As a slow breath

In

Out

And disappears

From the atmosphere

The smell of late afternoon -

A smell

Like fresh copy paper

Is introduced into the evening

Summer is not present

Until the nights are narrated

By the variant whispers

From the corner

Welcoming

Into a room made

an oasis

By the leader

Of the orchestra

Of these days.

Fourteen

And no joke, I was sitting there with my calendar open, years flashing by in my head. With my backpack open on my lap, squished into the corner seat of the subway, I opened the vinyl cover of the set of papers that mapped out a year of my middle school life. Staring at the pages, I flipped through, month to month, looking, as I realized that soon it would be June, and another summer, another transition, and half of us would already be fourteen.

Remember back when we were all in fifth grade and turning eleven was a big deal? When being fourteen was one of those far off places of such maturity? Being all grown up and sophisticated with big issues and life that kept going in a dramatic line of constant excitement. Eleven was big enough for us, and we owned every bit of knowledge above those who were still stuck in fourth grade. Slowly we would creep up to be teenagers, but thirteen didn't count 'cause you would still be in middle school, and fourteen would be a teenager. While we could barely feel it, those mythological times were dawning upon us with every Friday afternoon, until we filled those silhouettes.

Soon we would be celebrating sweet sixteens and normals sixteens, and we would feel like kids, but be in the shoes of adults. If we can go from being 10 to 14 without too much changing beyond a bra and a few inches, then how long does it take for us to be eighteen? We would be standing together, remembering when we were little kids. Hopefully.

The best part is, I had these deep revelations about ten years flying by, just by riding home with my planner open.

Blog

I've been thinking. That after all this time of writing these posts about my latest discovery, or venting about my latest emotion, or the poetry that I wrote in my school notebooks... I've been thinking about where this is going. I've been running this blog for the past year and a half, and next year I'll be off to high school. I'll be around all different people, a whole new place, a whole new dynamic, and I won't be the twelve year old that started this blog. So this is my proposition: I've considered running this blog until either graduation, or until the end of the summer. I'll keep going the way I've been going, and then when I end it, I'll start a new one. The format would be more of a journal type thing, except I wouldn't keep it like I keep my written one. It would just highlight certain moments of my day, and I'd tell it almost like an excerpt from a book. I also thought that it would be a good way to let the people I won't be seeing as much anymore, know about what's going on in my life. I'm also kind of bored of the way I write here. In conclusion; I feel I will need to start an entirely new blog soon, for my own peace of mind, and for my friends. But what do you think?

Art

This is a response to a post by The Wizardress, which was at first a comment, but then it got too long and I figured it should be a post. In order to understand my post, you're probably going to have to read hers.

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Art becomes shared and appreciated when people can relate to it - which I think is what you just said. I like art more than nature, and I guess we're talking about human made art because I dont understand why nature cant be art. even if it happened without any prompting, it still causes emotion for people and people see beauty and emotion in it, as they might a painting or sculpture, etc. Those two aspects FOR ME, define art.

And what's wrong with seeing multiple ways to get inside someone's mind? Tying into what i said at the beginning, relating to people makes people feel better, as does the creation itself. I think that art that does not convey emotion in a way that people can read it, is just one-ended art. Because if it has ANY emotional value, the artist can feel it and use it. That's much different than tissues.