freewrite #11- started to fall asleep a couple times during this one...

Freewrite #11

Chalise sat down to her new book, treasuring the site of it. She always loved reading. It transported her to a world which was completely separate from her own. Oh the joy of reading! She thought. As she began to immerse herself into the book, she fell in love with the romantic interest. Who couldn’t fallin love with him? He was soo very attractive. Not too tall so as to tower unreachable over her, but not too short so that he was eye level with her. She had to look up just a little for he was only a couple of inches above her. He had light He had dark hair and light blue eyes. The most gorgeous eyes ever, she thought. She imagined him walking towards her. Had someone been watching her as she daydreamed, that someone would have noticed that Chalise was sitting with her head up, moth half open, eyes closed, and a silly, giddy, smile on her face. The attractive man walked towards her still… her heart began to beat more quickly- oh, how lovely his eyes are! She thought. He was only a few inches away and she could smell his cologne- how lovely is that smell? I once smelled that smell before, and upon smelling it I told myself, “If if a guy ever smelled like that and wasn’t creepy, I’d fall in love with him” wlel, this guy isn’t creepy, and he smells like that. I am falling in love. He gives me his hand, askes me to dance- finall someone at the stake dances that actually asks girls to dance! He has a nice firm hand, holding tightly onto mine, like he never wants to let go. Oh, I am in love! Or so Chalise thinks.

Or so Chalise thinks. He looks at her, gazing deeply into her eyes. Of coruse she is gazing back, ferfe fervently awaiting whatever it is that he has to say. “you have mustard on your nose!!”

What?! Mustard!!!! Oh, it’s only Billy. Stupid little brother, disrupting Chalise’s dadream- again. Why is it that everytime my one true love is aobut to say something reall really special and romantic, Billy interrupts? Welll, Chalise, such is the life of having younger siblings, or r rather, the fate of of those with siblings, whether they be younger older or the same age.

Back to her daydream… no, it’s not happening. Chalise can no longer go back to that one, Billy ruined it. She tried and tried, but she could never recapture the moment as it played out in her head. She blamed this on Billy. Everytime the main character love interest was about to saying something to her that was amazingly romantic, she heard Billy’s voice excape his throat, saying “you’ve got mustard on you no your nose!!” and there was nothing she could do to erase him. S tuck there forever.

Chalise sighs, upset that this is haer fate. It’s unfortunate, but true. So much for kissing- I can’t e eeven kiss some made up guy in my daydreams because he’s not realy and I’ve never met him. I haven’t been up to much lately- just homework and such. Lots of homework, and of coruse I’ve been turning morst of it in ontime now ( rob doesn’t have an appt till Wednesday, which is what I thought you were calling about really.

Next year, Mary is thinking about not doing footall, but doing track. I think it’d be pretty cool to have a diver do sdim, and he in several things tend to by more psyach. Some classes seem really interesting to me, but I know, for example, that I couldn’ tget pie plates medez. Isn’t that interesting? I thought so, esp. since last noped as long and stinno tassic with floow!! See you now! Love ya!

Cassn

SD. Okay,

Well, I happen to be getting very quiet. I wonder if I’ve been taying anything youldn’t that be funny if I were… In fact, I really wouldn’t surprised. Oh, how about, I’m awake again, looking at what I’ve written, and I think I started to fall asleep after “I think it’d be pretty cool to have ….” A diver do swim? Mary’s not a diver- I am. And he in several things tend to be more psyach- in several ways mary tends to be more physical than me? I remember thinking of gymnastics just a few moments ago… I wonder what that was all about… Funny funny. I think my next freewrite I’ll let myself start to fall asleep, and then see what I write. Okay, well, off to that, now, since this here is about a page!

freewrite #12- the funniest of all

Freewrite #12

Okay, here is the last one. I will type it quick. I am tired, so I decided that I will type and let myself fall asleep, just with the idea of don’t stop typing going through my head. We will see what I write, because that will be really really interesting to find out.

Okay, closing my eyes. Listening to music. It’s Les Miserables. Still not sasleep. How about now? Y’know typing really isn’t that difficult for me since I’ve been typing forever. I wonder where tugger went- he’s somewhere around here isn’t he? He must be.

It’s difficult to get his attention since he’s deaf. Oh, here we go, having my eyes closed, the lids are starting to get heavy and it almost feels like I have a load already to go and ater we puick up. Sister Lofgran, I aam so grateful for everything oh look, I’m a wake again- I started to wake up right after or during while I was typing Sister Lofgran. I don’t remember what I said before that… Well, continuing with my rt typing (I never took a break, btw, I realized realied mostly on the other for help, because I was blind and confined to a weelbchair. It is all very confusing. Tomas it pretty cool. I’m sort of awake again. I wonder if I am in Zimbabwe…. See I’m started to wake up again, because when I start to wake up a g ain, I notice that last couple words that I typing, and then I realize that what I’m trying to sayn’t by feature working. Oh look.

I stopped typing. Whoops. Shame on me. Anyhow, I wanted to forward forward this because it’s silly. I wasnna drive it first. Why? I’m not so sure… funny stuff. Perhaps if we llived so much closer to the music stand, there would be cassy only 2- minutes from this classes. Pint taken. This class seems like good communication skills, and other lactic. Righnow now I should take a few mminutes and leaving heand foryou my information. Like I said , emailing is bes, when you ‘ve va e.f Se Seen me some paikces cv ckup? That’s sooo bI need to find my boosline . You’re fav rooon please help me to gkeep writing.

I keep on storeopping, and then I realized I’ve started. What does a printer dood er reou you dno’t doo and of the doodwaeelish, fra (how do the quarts stillhave ear), you an har please help mom to find a jobn. I mean, she already has a jobn. Please helpe

I am wondering where the turn signal on this car is. Oh, I found it! I could payed sixty, though that a pretty nokay, I wonder if I am down, not that I am abnout halfway here. Let’s check and seefar where just started primary.

Wow, my eyes are open, and I’m awake again. I think that Ireally did fall asleep there while I was writing. After I submit it (my work is already late because it past midnight, but I’m hoping it’ll be okay- my stomach was being silly and I couldn’t “hold it” any longer and had to use the restroom, and mary took forever to let me on the computer). Perhaps other people have typed while they were falling asleep. It looks like I had a lot of typos…. Is this a page yet? How about now? Not quite… unfortunate. I think that this should count as a full page, because it basically is one.

But not quite, so I still have more to say. Well, poor Tugger got scared. He was continually looking under my bed for libby, trying to get to her, but she didn’t like that, so she growled at him, not that he noticed ‘cuz he’s deaf…. Well, anyhow, the boxes we had ou are here for the other animals finally what do you think we’re gonna move the washer for… wowm that’s someinteresting looking s tuff. So, amber, how do you like your communication class? Like, I said, it sounds really interesting class, I wanna take it… haha. Okay, well havefun in there. Don’t fall out. It was it Katie that you guys were telling not to fall over? It was friends please help me father, am I done yet? I should probably reponen my family and responsiblility for my actions. HowBRAKE, HOW LONG ARE THESE GONNA BE ON YOU!! LET’S SEE HOW CLOSE TO THE IMAGINARY LINE I SEE. Time to get out and check. What does mom said, “yeah”- she sounds tired! And Brynn- how was it Brynn? Well, I’m falling asleep, and this must be a ge, so good night. I love and appreciate you al, even though it sometimes steems are tjat resnet more or jhusrsh/pressure/drugs etc. can affect a fetus severely. That’s unfortunate. I am blad enough to get me to do this. What am I doing? Am I done ytet? Yes, I hithink I will better brepared for blah blahj blah blah… pb%J. Okay, wall acreasing nexte from maybe grandpa will elst us drive to where go tget condolice. I’ve criver’s aed, and that ekarand now I’d like to end. The end. Now long is it? Long ehough? Let’s hope so- knowck on lib (unless you don’ot have anyhow, in the which was………………………make as much funtist cucssle Jomes. James. Is that better. Pirni[ellp, we’ll help yta out.

Oh well. ttyl love ya!!

The Joy of Reading- literacy narrative rough draft #2

The Joy of Reading

There is this Gilmore Girls episode where one of the main characters, Rory, is showing a girl around the Yale Library. Rory walks up to the old books, takes one out of the shelf, opens it, and then extends it towards the girl, saying, “smell that! That is just the best smell in the world! I love it!! Don’t you love it?!!” Well, Rory, I happen to love it.

It's Sunday morning, and I get up out of bed. (I am a young elementary school child.) Go ask mom if I Can watch TV? No. It's Sunday. Just find something quiet to do. So I walk around our little apartment, bored, trying to figure out what to do. No TV. Brownies are off-limits. I see my mom's bookshelf, full of books from her college days and then just books that she likes and has collected over the years. I wander over to the bookshelf and take an old black book off the shelf. The corners of the cover are twisted in like they've just met up with a curling iron. The edge of the binding is slightly frayed. The blackness is undergoing a graying process; it is more black with gray spotches than it is just black- like my grandpa's hair. With the book closed, I can see the pages in between the front and back covers. They are uneven. I run my finger along the uneven, yellowed pages, feeling the texture of the book. I am in love with this book and I have not even opened it yet. It has texture and substance. It is interesting.

I open up the book. The words aren't typed in what we know as Times New Roman, but they are typed in what I know as Courier New. Intriguing. I continue to look at it. There are blue lines under the text and words written in the margins. I turn the page over and feel the back- I can feel the lines and words! The handwritting is nice, but the letters are slurred togethor. Sort of like a combination between print and cursive- the sort of combination that many people resort to when writing by hand in a hurry. There are many phrases here and there that are underlined. Many little phrases written off to the side. Circles around some words. Sometimes the lines turn from being straight to being squiggly. Sometimes the circles take on the shape of boxes. They all form a sort of jungle-gym, and I can feel them embossed on the other side of the page. I close my eyes and run my fingers across these embossed markings. I pretend that I am blind. However, I realize, If I were really blind, I would actually understand what I'm feeling. I then wonder, Why are these things underlined and drawn on? What makes that phrase so important, and that one ignored?

I lean closer to the book, I don't remember why, I just did. And then I discover the best part of old books. I lean in. Breath in. There it is. The loveliest smell in the whole world. It is a deep, warm smell. Strong like perfume. I think of the color brown. And of pot-pouri. It is a heavy smell. I smell the book, and then an army of molecules came surging towards me, ready to both please and overwhelm my olfactory senses. My eyes are closed. I take another breath- deep and slow, filling my diaphragm and then lungs with the savory scent. I want to read this book. I want to know what it has to say. And with that, I hopelessly dive into this world of books. I've fallen in love, and can't climb out of love. Nor do I want to.

That thought- I want to know what [this book] has to say- has influenced my reading. Various qualities of a book attract my initial attention. Those qualities can vary from the smell, the cover drawing, the title, the summary, the opinion of others... However, what secures my attention is when a deep curiosity is aroused. I want to know how Mr. Darcy and Lizzy fall in love. I go crazy trying to figure out what secret Mr. Rochester is hiding from Jane. Mr. DeWinter from Mrs. DeWinter. I pull my hair out wondering how it is that the little strings drawn on the cover are (theoretically) the basis of our universe. Once I have this yearning curiosity that makes my soul feel like it will be wrenched out if I don't satisfy it, well, that's when I pick up a book. And don't put it down. Until that curiosity is satisfied.

At the age of five (maybe four, maybe six), I had my baby blanket tied around my neck. It used to be pink, but is worn now, so much, to the point that it is white. I ran back and forth in the apartment with Baby Bear, my beloved panda bear who had gone everywhere with me since the age of six months (he would even be a princess with me a couple of halloweens later). I was a superhero. I was saving the world from... who knows what (I certainly don't remember)? And what did I have in my hand? The Random-House French Dictionary. Pocket sized.

"Mom, how do you say 'cat' in French?"

"Look it up."

Do you hear that sound? The fervent flipping of pages? It comes only when one seeks desperately for that one place where the answer to the world's biggest question lies (at the very least, the answer for this very moment). "'castor, casuel, catalogue, cataracte..." (I butcher those words) "Mom! There's no cat!" I'm complaining; whining.

Mom glances up from the kitchen counter, and looks at me. She takes into account where in the book I am looking, and the words that came out of my young mouth. "You're looking in the wrong section. You're in French to English, not English to French. You need to go to the back of the book."

So I faithfully travel to the farther back pages. Categorical- it must be on this page. "castaway- n. naufrage m., rjete m." Nope, not this one. "castigate- bv. chatier, punir." Still not the right one. Am I ever going to find it? "castle..castoff.. casua... casualties... cat! here it is!!"

" Okay, good job. What's the word?"

"... chat?..." I pronounce this like the english word 'chat' which means 'to talk informally'.

Mom chuckles a bit. "Not quite. Almost. In French it's pronounced 'shot'".

"oh... wait, so cats are shots? That doesn't make sense! Poor kitties!"

Despite the fact that cats and shots are synonymous in French (which is absolutely awful), I walked around with that book, learning the language, one word at time. (Until I stopped learnng and forgot it all.) Not that I ever learned very much, but the French dictionary captured my attention, and retained it, making me wonder, "how do I say such-and-such in French?" And with that, I continued to wonder what a book contained, Do I care about what's in that book? Is it interesting? If it is, I can probably learn from it! French began my introduction to non-fiction books.

Nowadays, when I read non-fiction, it ranges from american sign language to physics. I have a book by Stephen Hawking on my bookshelf. Another two by Brian Greene- these two are about string theory- the theory that may just unite general relativity and quantum mechanics. I have a book which discusses the nature/nurture debate. Another book in which a journalist chronicles a man's love for his brother, who has become sick, and whose life must be saved. Another book which is the story of an adult man who finally develops language. ASL dictionaries; Swahili phrasebook; Spanish books; The Book of Mormon in six different languages; German. I have a Keep It Simple Stupid guide to photography. I have the Student's Handbook, which technically belongs to my whole family, but is under the care of me. I have drawing books. Various novels... and so forth.

I peer tutor in the developmentally disabled (DD) department at Kentwood High School. I really enjoy this. The teenagers there are, overall, delightful, wonderful people who are happy with their lot in life. I hear the teachers talking about something having to do with Autism, or Down's Syndrome, or teaching methods, and I get curious. "What is ______?" They give me an answer, but I still have questions. I write down whatever it is I wonder about, and then by the time I am home, I log online and head to Google. From there I google the term, and learn about it. I have a new curiosity, and I will not stop reading till that hunger is satisfied! This process of looking up things which I don't know has stemmed from my initial curiosity and love for books. When "I don't know" is my answer (and I care to get the real one), I head to the written word of what it is my question is about. It's simple. I get the feedback.

Aside from constantly learning from the DD teenagers, I also am presented with a greater perspective. Reading has always come easily to me, and often I forget that for others it is much, much more difficult to read and get enjoyment out of it. I often wonder, if I couldn't read as well, would I enjoy it? Would it hold the same feeling of captivation for me as it does now? I think it might. I see these awesome teenagers struggle to read (some especially more than others), and I think to myself, that would suck. But then someone finally gets through whatever it is he or she is reading, and it is such a happy event. Finished! Triumphed! At those moments I realize that I have that exact same feeling with reading. My little sister just about has a party when she finishes a Winnie-the-Pooh book. I feel the exact same way when I finish a Jane Austen book. Finding out what a book has to say can result in happiness and self-satisfaction- no matter what book it is or what reading level it is geared towards. Whether it has that new book smell with glossy pages, or if it is yellow and smells of pot-pouri. It matters not. I am determined to be happy- because I can read, and in turn, can continue to learn.

HOMECOMING- Part I

HOMECOMING- PART I
setting- at home

So, the rest of my entries have been a bit more constructive, essay-formatted. This one is a synapsis of Homecoming. I think I'll tell it in narrative form (plus, if I make it long enough it can count as a freewrite for my Engl 110 class!). But I might switch. We'll just have to wait and see.

Well, I have a gorgeous dress. I really do. It's dark blue at the top and bottom, but then has a gradiant to the middle where it is this lighter blue. Last Saturday morning my mom got out the sewing machine- this black thing that was given her from my grandma (and will be passed down to me), and was made probably around 1950. This sewing machine, like so many elderly people, is finicky. Some days (this is what my mother tells me, by the way. I wouldn't know any of this without the information from her, considering I'm not the one that sews) it decides to be a kind, lovely sewing machine, while others it decides to be the most stubborn piece of antique junk. Yesterday it was junk. So what did my mom do? She hand-sewed sleeves onto my dress. You see, my dress had no sleeves, which isn't such a good thing because it's not entirely modest, and I prefer by a far stretch modest dresses.

Getting ready, I was going back and forth between actually getting ready and studying for my psychology class.

So finally J_____ and K____ (names have been erased to protect the innocent) show up. K____ and my mom are best friends, so it's been funny getting ready for homecoming because some of it has been K____ asking me, "so, what color do you want your corsage to be?" and "oh! Your dress looks so pretty!" (this is when she saw it) "J____________ has a tie that is that'll match it perfectly!"

Oh, by the way, there is a history here, between J____ and myself. Would you like to hear it?

The Creepy Shrek Moment

I've known J____ for a very long time- since he was that kid sitting in the back of the primary room, tilting his chair back on two legs and ending the "Hello, hello we welcome you today" song with "good-bye". Our mothers (when they were both single) would attend the singles' dances togethor, so I would usually go over to K____'s house where C____ (her second to youngest child) would babysit J____ and me.

I had a crush on him. I was about 11 or 12 years old at the time, putting him at the age of 12 or 13. We were sitting on the couch, he on one side and myself comfortably seated on the other. We happened to be watching Shrek at the time. He started to move over. Just gradually, mind you, but he still started to move, about an inch at a time, every time bringing him closer towards me. Considering my age and naivete, I had no idea what to do. So I sat there and felt uncomfortable. He continued to close in. I felt like a deer being hunted, and moved an inch closer to the other side of the couch- away from him. This repeated. A few times. Until I was against the arm of the couch, and J____ was right by my side. He yawns. Stretches. And his left arm finds its way to the back of the couch. Behind my head. I tense. And I am scared.

Concerning what comes next in the story, I always have to ask myself- Did this happen? Did it really happen? The image is so blurry, I can barely tell. Why is this sole part of the video in my mind so blurry? This section is blurry because after that night I decided I didn't want to remember. Maybe it didn't even happen... I told myself. It couldn't have... I must have imagined it. Well, here's what couldn't have happened. Here's what I can't remember. Here's what I imagined happening:

My body stiff and straight like a pole, my heart is skipping madly. He leans towards my ear. And then everything gets fuzzy, like the whole picture in my head has been covered by gray clouds- distorting the image; and a windstorm is raging in the background- a deafening sound which dwarfs all other sounds. J____ whispers loudly- I love you. I am stunned. I sit in shock. And then-

Off the couch, I leap!! I dart across the room, arriving at my bag. Into the bag I dive, searching frantically for my book to read. To distract. I think, oh no, he's going to like me more because I'm reading and he'll think it's soo hot! I find my book and am immediately buried in it.

The rest of that evening was spent in discomfort. After the event, I avoided J____. He also became labeled as "Creepy-Shrek Dude". What a horrible reputation that would be to have.

Sweatpants

Is it promising when your date and his mother show up, and he is wearing sweatpants? Sweatpants which are baggy at the hip area (emphasizing his wonderfully curvy shape... oh, just kidding- he's not curvy) and have the bottoms scrunched up so the pants actually end a few inches about his ankles? And then there's the gym socks. With well-worn tennis shoes to top off the ensemble. At least his casual shirt is nice, I thought to myself.

Mom and I are standing on the doorstep, greeting K____ and J____ as they step out of the car, grab their things, and head up to the entrance. J____ gets there first. "Hi, J____! Long time no see!"

"Hey, Cassanndre! How are you?" And a nice, big hug. I hadn't been sure of what to expect- hug? handshake? I would have been more comfortable with a handshake. But it was a friendly hug from the side, and it reminded me of the hugs counselors gave at EFY. He stood there for a quick moment, his arm around me (and me feeling a little bit awkward), catching up.

Curling Iron, Mascara, and Time

At this moment, I am wearing jeans and a shirt, with my hair straight down. My bangs have just been trimmed by my mom, my make-up begun (but not finished). Still a lot left to do. In a very little time. J____ heads to the bathroom with his hair gel, shoes, comb, and older brother's suit in hand. I head to my bedroom. Mom is right behind me.

Then the curling fest is initiated. Top layer of hair is pinned up. Bottom layer combed and sprayed and curled; and curled and sprayed. Ten minutes later, second layer combed, curled, and sprayed.

Then an unexpected call is heralded from my littlest sister. "Cassanndre!! A bunch of people are here and they're all dressed up fancy!!"
"What?!!" What could she be talking about? Did Trevor and Coral, Christine and Tyler come for J____ and me? We hadn't planned that! Well, we actually hadn't planned anything having to do with transportation, but that was beside the point. Are they late for their pictures? "Mom...? What do we do?"

So Mom heads out to greet them, and introduce. From my bedroom I can hear, "Hi everyone! Oh, wow! You all look so nice! This is J____ and K____. Come on in, Cassanndre's just finishing up. J____, this is Trevor (not Stefan, right?), Coral, Tyler, and Christine." And they all start socializing. I make use of this time. Make-up: eyeshadow is finished. Chapstick is found. Mom comes back.

Ten more minutes, and the hair is all done. Bangs straightened with a slight curl. Hair at the sides pinned up. Hair in the back teased just a bit. Final touches. More hair spray. Perfume. Then the dress. Over my head. Mom zips it up and fastens the fastener. Put on shoes. So much for nail polish. Necklace and earrings. Mirror check. Tickets? There they are. ASB card? Where is it?! I check my wallet. Not there. Search around my room frantically. No, Mom, please stay with me, I don't want to come out by myself. No, Mom, I already looked there. What? It's in my wallet? I already looked there... Thank you. Am I ready? Mental Checklist: Hair, good. Make-up, yes, nice. Shoes? yes. Dress, yes. Tickets and ASB? Yes. Cell-phone? J____ has one. Anything else, Mom? Okay. No, you go out first.

The corsage, the bootineer (how do you spell that word?!), and we all line up for some pictures. Mom accidentally got a couple where I made a funny face, but those were deleted. Maybe I'll upload 'em with this story. Or maybe not.

Coming up next- pictures, dinner, homecoming, stake dance, and denny's.

language

"If no language is learned by adulthood, one will never be learned"

That is included in the study guide for chapter 3 of my psych 100 class. I disagree. Wholeheartedly. I don't care what the research says- it's not impossible. It may be statistically unlikely, nearly impossible, or an unbelievable challenge for both the language-less adult and the educator. I read a book about a man who was born deaf and raised in Mexico. He never learned a language, and at about age 30, he finally began to learn one. It was an extremely difficult journey for him, but he did, however, eventually learn american sign language. The difficult connection for him at first was just understanding that there are words for certain ideas. That that thing right in front of him has a name. What's a name? That's what he had to learn first. And once he learned what a name was, his whole world began to open, and he began to learn language. What a wonderful story. Don't you think? I think so.

I disagree with that statement because it is contrary to what I believe. I believe in miracles, and I believe that if it is God's will, then an adult of any age can learn language- a first language. It may be difficult, but it is possible.

Language is an amazing thing, don't you think? I've always been fascinated by it. You see, communication is at the core of everything in this world. Take, for example, your neurons. A message recieved by the dendrites, processed by the cell body, and then sent along the axons and finally delivered at the terminal branches of the axons. This whole process is merely communication. Sure, it's not the same type of communication that we humans employ between one another, it's an electrochemical communication, but it is communication nonetheless. Our whole body operates on conversations similar to this one.

In fact, the whole world is just one big conversation. Really, it's true. Chlorophyll, for example, and the sun (am I getting my facts straight or am I confusing my biology just a bit?)- I mean, the sun's rays are communicated to the plant, which (by its chlorophyll) "hears" the sun and accepts the message, internalizing this message for its benefit.

That is how life is. Every aspect of life is a conversation, a dialogue. Genes, for example. We just have to figure out the genetic language in order to have a fluent conversation with our genes and thereby understand them better. I am currently communicating with my computer- by giving it input through the keyboard. Though, the keyboard isn't a very good conversationalist- he just digests what I have to say and then spits it out- giving me the same thing I put in, but in a different form.

I think it would be fun to help bring language to a language-less person. Can you imagine life without language? Life without having a name for everything? Walking at school and not thinking, "locker... hallway... boy... book... girl... classroom... chair... water... teacher..."? What a life!! To recognize and yet not have a name, I most certainly cannot imagine living like that. It would be awful. It really would.

I really think sign languages are a blessing from God for some of his language-less children. I wonder about kids like F____, T____, and D_____. Will they ever learn language? Will D____'s sentence mostly comprise of "yes, no, maybe" and other little grunts? Will F____ ever use a realy word? Will Jake ever learn to speak? Or at least read. how lovely would that be, to be able to open and rad a book after years of really really wanting to.

Well, that's one page. Good night- it's 11:28 and I'm tired. Tomorrow I get to listen to people from the UW. That should be interesting. It just means that I have to skip going to Russell Ridge. I should work on my rough draft tomorrow; and read some history, considering unit two is due on friday and i haven't done anything at all about it... grr... History. I don't like that stuff. And Psychology, well, I should just study, so I get better than a 78.181818....% next time. Blech. Okay, well, good night now!

Oh, PS- Jon F called me right in the middle of driver's ed! And of course I forgot to turn the phone off, so here comes the hokey pokey... "whoops... I say quietly, hoping no one notices. Well now, good night.

freewrite 10.9.06

Cassànndrè Sager
9 October 2006 ~ Engl 110
freewrite #?

Well, M____ has decided to do her freewrite, so I guess I’ll do mine, too. Let me go grab my USB so I can listen to some music. Okay. It’s all good now. So… here I am. At the RRC. I mean, at Russell Ridge. I think I like it here. Although the computer is driving me nuts right now because it’s being really difficult. I’m think I’m just grumpy. I didn’t take me Sertraline (Zoloft ®) last night because I’m all out and when I thought of it I couldn’t go get any from Mom ‘cuz she was already in bed. And I haven’t had my singulair for the same reasons. Maybe those things having something to do w/ it. And this keyboard is really really lame because the backspace is just a little arrow and the key is really small and it’s pretty much gonna drive me crazy having to be so precise with my pinky in order to hit that backspace just right every time.

Ugh…. I hate it!!!

I think I’m thirsty. I’ll grab some water and then come back.

Okay, I’m hydrated. N____ was playing with some toy and I said, “that doesn’t look like homework!”
He throws the toy down and says, “so?!” I took a drink of water and looked at him. “nice come-back.” N____ just kinda smiles and looks at his homework. Funny boy.

I found out more of what M____ actually does. He’s a behavioral specialist (a BS- a bologna sandwhich… haha…). The reason the school district hired him is because F____ hit R____. I guess F____ is having a hard time adjusting to the new school district. M____’s job is to figure out what F____ knows, and to help F____ be calm and not violent. When F____ acts up he uses what’s termed as “verbal de-escalation”. Interesting. He was very nice when I asked him what it is that he actually does- what did the school district hire you for? He started telling me about what he does, and why the school hired him for F____. I thought that it was very interesting. I’m listening to him talk and enjoying it because I’ve been very curious, and it wasn’t difficult to satisfy my curiosity. He says that he is CPI certified.
“CPI? What is that?”
“Oh, you’d ask that.”
“Yes, I would… and I did.” (How lame does that sound? Well?)

CPI certified means that if verbal de-escalation doesn’t work to calm F____ down, M____ can restrain him and no one can tell him that what he did was wrong. He said that he’s a punching bag (though that was earlier in the conversation). What exactly did he mean by that? I guess I’ll have to ask him about that sometime. That’ll have to wait, though, because tomorrow I plan on asking about what schooling he went through, and what? So, you have a bachelor’s degree in behavioral science or specialty or something? Or a master’s? Or what? How old is he, anyhow? He’s not much taller than me, and he’s kinda cute… but that’s beside the point. Or is it? I think it is. I think that if he didn’t have that little goatee thing going on he’d probably look much younger. When I first met him I thought that he was my age, maybe a year older. But I see now that he is in all likelihood in his mid twenties. Peculiar. At least to me.

S____ was difficult again today. Ugh! I’m getting tired of it! Maybe I’ll read up on stuff and see if I find anything useful to help me deal with him. Behavioral science? Or just flip through my psychology book? I’ll probably start w/ the psych book because it’s very readily accessible. And I don’t want to try and find out if the computer is cooperating again or not. I mean, the internet. ‘Cuz the internet wasn’t working for me. It was really stupid and rather annoying, actually.
So, I’m going to cooking today. I hope that it proves worth my time. I think it will, but I’m not sure what to expect. Well, I’ve hit my one-page mark. I guess I’ll move the margins a bit larger so it’s all on one page. I’ll come back later to do another freewrite. I happen to be rather behind here. Maybe I’ll try and imitate Jane Austen. Indeed, I think I shall. That sounds like fun to me.

Well, till later, then.

freewrite #?

Hmm... Thinking thinking thinking. It's another freewrite (yippee!). What is going on with me today? Well, I'm not quite sure. Oh, well I went in the special ed room and it was kinda funny... I went up and said hi to people (like normal) and when I went up and said hi to t____ he leaned his head against me! I thought, whoa... weird... I guess he likes me! While out doing the recycling T____ found this large rolled up piece of cardstock paper with a bunch of writing on it. He decided he liked it and kept it. I asked him if I could see it (he wouldn't let me at first) and then put it up to his ear and said "Helloooo, T____!!" Later on asked him if I could see it (he hid it under the desk for a moment) and placed to my ear and told him to say something. He burps. Just a little one. I laughed and told him that burping is bad manners.

I really like playing in the orchestra. Today I guess I was a bit closer to getting my timing right in some of the more difficult places. When we stopped playing, Mr. Harrison talked to me about those spots just a little bit, and then he told me "good playing". That made me happy because I have been concerned w/ this piece... It's a very difficult piece. The eighth notes are trick because we're playing so fast and I just can't tongue that fast on many of them, so I tend to slur two tongue two. But the more difficult thing about this piece is the timing. It's not like I can't play the notes or the rythms, those aren't difficult. It's just the actual coming in on time and knowing how I fit into the whole orchestra.

I think that life is a lot like that. We all feel we're our own instrument and trying to figure out how our part fits into what the rest of the orchestra is playing- what is the significance of our individual parts? It's hard to tell sometimes, and we feel like we're doing more harm than good othertimes because we are trying our best and still messing up at parts. But that's okay, because eventually we'll be able to play those parts, and everything will be fine. We will eventually be able to see how we fit in and what we bring as individual musicians to the orchestra.

"Good playing" makes me think of M____ and F____. When M____ tells F____ "wait please!", and F____ waits well, M___ says "good waiting!". He does this with other things, too... I just can't think of them at the moment. I really like the people in special ed- the teachers, students, and other peer tutors. I feel wary around I___, just because he's a bit less predictable I suppose- the teachers tell me to watch out for him because he likes to grab. And F____- today I felt wary around him, but that was just because the teachers told me, "he's having a bad day today."
"worse than yesterday?" I ask, curious.
"yes"
"oh... wow"
"so, if we say 'clear the room' we need to get all of the students out as quickly as possible, okay?"
"... okay..."
Strange, isn't it? F____ to me usually seems harmless. I guess I forget that he hit R____ because I didn't see it. In fact, I haven't been around when he gets aggressive... I've been around when the teachers were worried about him getting aggressive. Like yesterday, when M____ was telling me to watch out during lunch because he's waiting for F____ to lunge at him.
"why... do you think that'll happen?" I ask, phrasing my words carefully so he understands me.
"because I'm eating"
"what does that have to do with....? I mean, why would he lunge at you because you're eating?"
"I don't know. If we knew then we could fix it."
I accepted that. It's interesting that there are things like that with developmentally disabled students. So much we don't understand about what life is like for them, and what they see and understand of the world around them. I'm sure that to F____ it makes perfect sense to lunge at M____ when M____'s eating. At least when he does it. Other times when he doesn't, I'm sure it doesn't make sense.

I'd like to know more about CPI. It's interesting to me. M____ once described himself as a punching bag. That confused me, but I didn't ask more about it because I was questioning him on a different line. Does he mean that when F____ gets violent, M____ is the one that is around to calm him down? Whether it be (preferably) verbal de-escalation, or physical restraint (hopefully unnecessary)? Or that working with F____ is bound to bring some cuts and scratches? Perhaps someday when F____ isn't having a difficult day I'll ask M____ about why he works as a behavioral specialist. I mean, it's different to focus on one particular student from 7:00 to 2:00 or whatever his hours are every day than to work with multiple students. I'm also interested in Community Cares. If I go to the UW, perhaps I'll see if I can get a job there. Or maybe I'll be able to find a place like that near BYU or MAC. I guess we'll just see how things play out.

literacy narrative crappy rough draft~ engl 110

Cassànndrè Sager
Engl 110 ~ literacy narrative “crappy” rough draft
12 October 2006

Focus questions~
do you think I any potential leads? Where are they?
what memories have I included in there that don't really belong (are somewhat irrevalant)?

My first memory involving reading and writing is when I was in pre-school. One day I decided that I wanted to spell my name. So, I grabbed a piece of paper, and a nice pen, and I began to spell. It took me a couple tries, but eventually, it turned out right, or so I thought. I slowly sounded out my name… the going got tough, so I turned to the teacher, who wrote my name down for me. I copied it onto a piece of paper. Look at it. Digested the spelling. Then I put away both the teachers’ paper and my own. I wrote my name. Correctly. Once again- or so I thought. That evening I showed my mom my hard work. “Look Mom! I spelled my name today!”
“Wow! Good job! But you missed just a little bit, let me show you.” Little did I know that this was a type of what was to come concerning my name. “You see, above your second ‘a’ and your ‘e’, there go these little accents, so the letters look like this-” and she wrote, “à” and “è”. This was the beginning of the saga of my name.

In first grade there were 40 kids in my class. Whenever Mrs. Tucker or Mrs. Lapic were gone (we had two teachers because the class size was so huge), the sub would call role. Well, she’d get to my name and say, “Cuh-san-druh Sager?” Well, that’s not how you pronounce my name. You see, my name isn’t spelled Cassandra, it’s spelled how you see it at the top of this paper- Cassànndrè, and it also happens to be pronounced differently. Well, I had told this to all of my fellow classmates at least ten times, so they all knew exactly how to inform the teacher of this.
“Cuh-saawwwn-druh!!!”
It was suddenly as if my small seven-year-old self had suddenly multiplied and become a choir of 40!

I’m told that the class did this also in the second grade by my friends; however, I don’t remember any of that…

For Christmas in first grade my Grandma Bridges gave me six Nancy Drew books- the first six. They were Chapter books!! What a change! I had already begun to read these mini-chapter books which were Wini-the-Pooh and somewhat difficult for other students to read, though I could read them without too much difficulty. Well, anyhow, I got my very first chapter books and began to read them, somewhat cautiously, for I had not an idea of what difficulty of reading they would be. I read the first. It took me a while. But I was committed to it.

Y’know, it occurs to me that books teach us commitment. Especially the longer ones. Unless you are committed to reading a book, then you’ll never finish it because books take time.

Well, Anyhow, I finally finished the first Nancy Drew book. It was very good. At that time I was one of the few students in my class reading chapter books, though I’m not sure if I really realized that difference.

Well, my youngest sister is eight now. She’s in the second grade. I was surprised recently when I found out that she has just started reading chapter books. I thought, I started a year younger than her… that’s kind of weird.

Not that I mean to point out how good of a reader I am. I’m about average, I’m sure. Slower than some, faster than some snails I know.

What else? Well, in the seventh grade I took a creative writing class. I enjoyed that class. Seventh grade was the year that I was depressed actually. I began to write a lot that year- lots of poetry and diary writing, actually. Some of my poetry was written fairly well, actually, but was depressing and very somber. Poetry and writing became my way to get out my emotions and feelings. To understand how I felt about what was going on. I had some troubles with a close friend, and I consequently wrote a few poems involvuing or inspired by him. I was very frustrated w/ my dad at that time as well, and so I’m sure that he was behind some of my reasons for writing. Well, creative writing was a fun experience. There was this one boy who
decided that didn’t like poetry, so what did he do? He wrote about cheese!

When I was in ninth grade I had to write a story. I decided that I wanted to write a fictionalized story of how my great-something grandparents met each other.

Well, it’s this fantastic story. Would you like to hear the beginning? Or an excerpt, let me find
you one, alrighty? Here’s the second paragraph- where the story starts.

“The wind fiercely buffeted the ship to and fro. Most of the sailors were not God-fearing men, but they could be, if a situation called for such "faith" or "selective faith" as the mainlanders disapprovingly called it. The skies were tumbling and turning, as if they could not make up their mind which way to turn, which way the sea should roll the boat… Franz, in the brief moments he could look up, could see the black and blue sky as clearly as if his world had been covered by a never-ending bruise.” (“True Love is Never Forgotten”. Cassànndrè Sager. http://home.comcast.net/~scottpre21/truelovestory.html%202004.)

I do enjoy writing, actually, once I find something to write about. I wrote an essay where I styled my type of writing after Jane Austen. Actually, I wrote two of those. I was very well
pleased with them when I finished. What fun they were to write!!

Now I am taking English 110 at Greenriver Community College. Where will this take my reading and writing experience? Well, probably not my reading experience so far as my writing one, because that class is called “College Writing”. I want to take a class that’s about reading things… I want to read classic books! But there are many books I would never read if not in a class, because I don’t know of them, or just don’t have time unless I have to. It’s unfortunate, but true.

It seems that the reading emphasis has been removed. There are not many people who appreciate that old book smell. There is this Gilmore Girls episode where one of the main characters, Rory, is showing a girl around the Yale Library. Rory walks up to the old books, takes one out of the shelf, opens it, and then extends it towards the girl, saying, “smell that! That is just the best smell in the world! I love it!! Don’t you love it?!!” Well, Rory, I happen to love that smell. My mom has some books that are older, and every once in a while I like to just open up one of those books and take a whiff. Oh! What lovely aromas lie within those worn pages! The aromas of Emily Dickinson’s poems. I suppose part of the beauty of their smell is the sense of nostalgia that I get, which really can’t belong to me, but must belong to someone else- perhaps Dickinson’s nostalgia from writing it. Nonetheless, the old smell seems to relate to me that oldness of the book and its works therein. It reflects the classical nature of the book, and enhances the enjoyment thereof.

Perhaps something I write will someday be in a book that has that old book smell.
Or, you know what would be lovely? To discover a book of some sort that is very old and that one of my ancestors wrote. Maybe a diary. I would like to come across something so very old like that! What a joy to read, as well! I like geneology, actually. I never really thought I would. It always seemed so boring. But it’s like searching for someone- I get to be a detective! I can learn about where I cam from. I am Welsh. How cool is that? I am Prussian- my people come from a country that no longer exists! Wow… I guess in an indirect way I can see how WWII affected myself- it affects my heritage. And since heritage is important, I suppose, then, that history can be, too. Sometimes.

Brynn recently came across these short stories that my mom wrote when she was in elementary school. One was titled “The Nice-Looking Man”. I don’t really remember what it’s about, but it has something to do with a man that looks nice, but actually is not a very nice person. I wonder what got that idea into her head… I should ask her sometime.

I guess I’ve come a very long way since I first learned to spell my name. I can spell other long words that are spelled kind of strangely. Like hippopotomonstrosesquippedaliophobia. Microsoft Word tells me that I’ve spelled that wrong, but they don’t have any suggestions on how to spell it right. Doesn’t it seem that people can be like that sometimes? They have so much criticism to offer, but hardly any advice on rectifying whatever it is that they are criticizing! Well, anyhow, I have come far. I expect to go further.

writing guru~ engl 110 assignment

Cassànndrè Sager
Assign 1~ The Writing Guru
Engl 110
September 27, 2006
rough draft

Dear Distressed Reader,

Ah, the academic essay! Why, it’s a piece of cake once you know what it is! You should realize, of course, that cake is not necessarily easy for everyone to make. Despite any struggles, if the right ingredients are in there, then it comes out good and worth it! An academic essay consists of four basic ingredients: motive and idea, thesis and development, tension of argument, and structure of argument. If you include these ingredients, then your essay will come out great!

An academic essay must have a motive- a reason for writing the paper. Sometimes the motive is to get a grade- these essays tend to be boring, in my opinion. The less boring essays have motives like wanting to enlighten or inform people. (What I am writing now could be considered an essay with the motive of informing you and getting paid my hefty fee.) Accompanying the motive is the idea- the opinion of the paper. (The idea of what I am writing to you is my opinion of what an academic essay is.) When researching a topic for your academic essay, ask yourself questions about the topic. Once you have a question that has real potential for an interesting and well-rounded essay, then work towards finding the answer to that question and then adapt your information for essay writing. The motive and idea are the flour in an academic essay- without these, an academic essay just won’t work!

There is more to cake than just flour, of course. Your essay needs a thesis- the chocolate in a chocolate cake! The whole point of an essay is “nut-shelled” in your thesis. (My thesis in this response is what the basic ingredients of an academic essay are.) A thesis is the most vital part of an academic essay. What is the point of making a chocolate cake if you don’t put in any chocolate? The same idea holds true for theses and essays. Your academic essay should be about supplementing, or supporting, your thesis. A classic (and somewhat elementary) thesis comes in the form of an “If-then-because” statement. “If I take food away from a cat then it will starve because it has no nourishment.” After stating your thesis you spend the rest of your essay (except the conclusion, of course) developing arguments and points about your thesis. This is like putting chocolate pudding or ice-cream in your cake; building on the main idea of your essay/cake and making it better.

My recipe book tells me that I need sugar and salt. An academic essay must “taste” good. The way you argue your thesis (your “tension of argument”) convinces people either that it is a reasonable thesis or that it is utterly absurd. Butter, sugar, and salt all make a chocolate cake reasonable to eat because they are what make the chocolate and the cake itself taste good. There is a single large difference between yourself- the writer- and the reader of your essay. You know more about your thesis than your reader does. Your reader does not know why your thesis is correct (in your opinion), but you do. The cook that cooked that chocolate cake knows it tastes good, but the customer probably doesn’t. You argue your point in your essay so that your readers can understand why you believe your thesis is correct. A cake cook should anticipate some cynical customers that say “your cake has too much fat in it! It’s not worth it!”, and he (or she) should have prepared beforehand some sort of reasonable response to convince those cynics to still buy the cake. Rely on the fact that your readers are reasonable people, like yourself. Reason with them, explain, teach, and argue your point. We all know that a little sugar
and salt can make something taste great.

Despite all of the good ingredients in your cake, people aren’t going to buy it if you don’t make it look like a cake. Similarly, the structure of your argument is very important. An essay with an ambiguous argument structure is distracting from your main point. Cooks occasionally place their cakes on an attractive little cake platter and in a case with an attractive background. You must also “set the stage” for your thesis by giving people context. For example, you would use the information I have given you in writing an academic essay. That is the context in which you would actually care about this information. A scientist writing an essay about how serotonin is found in both the brain and the intestines might give the context of how such information is important because it helps to understand the link between anxiety and stomach pain. Use logic in the structure of your argument. Our cook would not put his cake in a case that contained rats because he knows that anyone in their right mind would not buy a cake that has been in containment with rats. There are two methods of structuring an academic essay. You can structure it as a deductive argument, giving your conclusion and then using facts to support that conclusion. Or you can structure it as an inductive essay- giving your facts and then your conclusion. Whatever you do, make your cake attractive and don’t let the structure of it distract people from eating it!

I hope this information has been helpful! Remember- motive and idea, thesis and development, tension of argument, and structure of argument. These ingredients can lead you to making an academic essay as fantastic as our dear cook’s cake.

Sincerely,

The Writing Guru


Source~
“Overview of the Academic Essay”. Harvard. http://www.fas.harvard.edu/~wricntr/documents/Overvu.html

freewrite #2

So, apparently fixing bugs in programs is a lot like being a detective. Or an FBI agent. Funny conversation. Funny funny funny…..

Not that you care. Unless you like programming.

Maybe I should write a story. I think I might just do that. What should it be about?

I’m not so sure. It should be interesting. I have a lot of thoughts in my head. But they’re kind of lame… I mean, they’re not. By they are. Oh, I know!! How about an interpreter that through her interpreting discovers some sort of murder or something?!! Oh wait… that’s already happened in The Interpreter. Gosh! But I could take a twist on that… And a nurse. There should be a nurse. Or an accountant. You see, I would like to be a nurse. Or an interpreter for the deaf/deaf-blind. And Marianne might grow up to be an accountant. And John a software person. My mom is a paralegal. Kaitlyn will be a teacher. Blake, a doctor, I think? Of course, journalism seems kind of like a cool career… Or a detective. Who should the main character be? Or should I have more than one main character? I should have one main character is almost like a second-person. But not. She will be the connection between all of the other characters. There should be a mafia! Or not… that’s kind of over used.

What are some issues that affect me? Well, pre-marital sex. People who do that are really stupid. And they annoy me. Modesty. Education. I like judo. And music. And languages.

I want it to be a mystery. I want a Nancy Drew. But not quite a Nancy Drew. And of course there has to be a hunk of savage manliness. There always must be. A kid get kidnapped. One character knows the single mother of 4 from whom he was kidnapped. One character knows the people that kidnapped the poor kid. Another character teaches the kid? One character’s children play with the kidnapped child. He is deaf, and so can’t communicate well. Not many people in this part of the country know ASL. He learned some before he was kidnapped… but now, where he is, no one knows it. And they’re all kind of ignorant people, so they don’t realize that this kid is a genius, they just think that he’s slow. Or maybe he should be a she. I’m not so sure.

Anyhow, why did these people kidnap the kid? I’m thinking this kid is actually a teenager, now. Or an adult. Yes, an adult that is being held captive? Making that mother of 4 single. So that makes the person a man? I guess so… unless it’s a now-single father of 4…. And the mom is the one being held captive. I think the father will be the one held captive. Yes, the father. And he’s deaf. And really smart.

But why was he kidnapped? (Adultnapped?) Does he know something he shouldn’t? Or is it his genes? When he was little, was he injected with experimental stem cells that caused his deafness? No, no, no… that would put a negative light on the stem cells. Unless that stem cell thing was just a theory. And what actually happened was that the stem cells saved his life, leaving him with just a hearing problem. Yes, indeed. I like that. You see, he’s an orphan. And the stem cells that were used leave a trace behind themselves in someone’s genes. Or something like that. Or maybe he isn’t an orphan. No, jk, he is an orphan. But the people that gave him the stem cells know who he is. And they have kept an eye on him his whole life to see how their experiment turned out. They are like his guardian angels. They are not just concerned about this specimen. They have grown to love him over time. Stem Cell Angels. Just as the people who gave the deaf man his stem cells are about to reveal their work, another company steals their work. And they need to contact the deaf man so they can show him as proof of successful work. The only problem is that he’s been napped and can’t be found anywhere. The other company wants all of the credit. Why? For riches? I suppose so… The head of the company… well, his name could be Laban…. Well, that’ll be it for now.

freewrite #1

Cassànndre Sager
October 6, 2006
Engl 110 freewrite

Okay, so what should I babble about? Marianne says popsicles. I don’t want to babble about popsicles. That’s a lame subject. Almost as lame as Romanian postcards. Actually, it’s lamer. Speaking of which, I want a Romanian postcard.

John’s going to Romania. That’s a pretty crazy idea, to me. He’s leaving in January. Wow… Romania…. Wow. That’s all I have to say about it. Oh, and I wonder what the chocolate tastes like.

I should practice my flute. I haven’t practiced my flute in a couple days. Unless you count orchestra. But I wouldn’t count orchestra, because I’m talking about out of class practicing. And Marianne is playing the piano and it sounds nice.

“Oh, just about” I say when she asks me if “that’s it, then?” And it is. I don’t have much more of importance to say. So we hang up.

And now I’m sitting at the computer typing…typing… typing… Perhaps I should turn the monitor off, just so I’m not distracted by typos… but I don’t really feel like doing that. I kind of like seeing the words that flow from my brain, down to my fingers being born on the page. I like seeing the amount of black grow.

I walked home from Kentwood today, just like every day. Except for the days when I don’t. I felt like I was living in Washington. (Which is ironic, considering that I am living in Washington. Haha.) You see, it was raining a little bit, and there was a man outside mowing his lawn! How crazy is that?! Mowing your lawn in the rain?! Oh well, whatever…

I want some music. Wait just a moment while I turn it on. And respond to what John just said on IM. He tells me that I am a sissy because I’ve never mowed the lawn before.

Soo… Homecoming is a week from tomorrow. And that’s pretty exciting to me. I almost went to Tolo last February, but I didn’t. But that’s a different story. Anyhow, I’m going with John to Homecoming. Not John, Romanian John, but a different John. And I haven’t seen him in two years. He’s probably changed a lot. His mom, Kathy, tells me that he has big arms. From football. And Mary Ann (Kathy and my mom’s friend) says that he’s pretty cute. Well, good for him, I suppose. It was a funny conversation, though, listening to Kathy and Mary Ann tell me how good-looking my date is. That was pretty dang funny, in my opinion. Of course, I’ve probably changed a lot, too.

Oh look- a useful train of thought! Anyhow, I’ve probably changed a lot, too. What is different about me now? I guess that question wouldn’t lead to a very clear answer. I’m obsessive-compulsive. My hair is short- but wait, it was short, then, too. I know more things. I’m older. I probably look different just because I am older. But no, that won’t give the proper information about me. That won’t tell a person how I’ve changed over the past two years. And that there is the real question. You want to know what’s different about me, now? Well, my hair being short isn’t very different from two years ago… unless you knew me 5 months ago, when it went half-way down my back. It’s not just that I’m obsessive-compulsive now, it’s that I became obsessive-compulsive, or developed OCD, and have been working at it. And now I’m better than I was a year ago. But you wouldn’t know that from two years ago. I’m better at sign language. I’m better at the flute. I’ve been on dates. I haven't been upset about Russell in a long time. I had a dream that he called me the other night. I don’t even remember anything else about it. Just being on the phone with him. Strange.
Oh, and look now. I’m done with my one-page freewrite.

living w/ IBS

I wrote this in response to a google groups question from a writer who was curious to hear different peoples' stories of living with IBS.

Hello there,
Well, I am a teenager and have only been aware of my IBS-C for a a few months. It has been a very frustrating situation. I still do not understand it that well.

Before I was diagnosed I had missed almost two months of school due to unexplainable symptoms which had been bothering me for about 3 months. At first I thought it was a UTI, and after about 3 weeks and two rounds of antibiotics, my doctor ruled that out. Then I saw a urologist at Children's Hospital here in Seattle. She was a very nice lady, and explained to me that there were a few good possibilities of what it could be, and even though she didnt' know exactly what was wrong, she could help me out a bit now, and then she told me that we'll get it cleared up.

That was a very difficult time for me, being sick so often. I began to struggle with depression which had been well under control until that point. Friends that I would see often at school and church I began to not see as often because I was at home. I didn't feel good. With no definate answer, I wondered very often if it was "all in my head". Or perhaps it was some sort of dangerous and difficult to diagnose diseases. Knowing a bit more now about my condition, I think that it's no wonder that I was so sick at that time- with worrying and all of the anxiety that I felt, well, that couldn't have helped my bowels at all.

Finally, I saw a gastroenterologist. She looked over my file, asked me a few questions, and then diagnosed me with Irritable Bowel Syndrome. I don't remember much after that. I remember being kind of shocked. I thought- "Irritable Bowel Syndrome? What is that? I've never heard of it before!" It was good for me that my mom was there, because she actually digested what the doctor was saying. I didn't hear much of it. I wasn't sure whether to be happy or relieved or upset or what. It wasn't what I expected. I had read of many different disorders, why hadn't I read of IBS?? (Actually, I hadn't heard of IBS because I hadn't been looking for information about bowel movements. I hadn't been paying attention to my bowel movements until I was diagnosed with the IBS.) What is this that it has to do with anxiety? I wondered. Was the doctor saying that my anxiety problem caused this? Did I not really have a problem?

Funny how statistics say that about 25% of the population has IBS. I wonder how many people who have it know that. What about people that don't have it? Because it is a disorder of the bowels that in order to discuss with others involves excretory matter, it is little discussed, because that is inapropriate and disgusting. Sure, whatever. I have come to view bowel movements as facts of life, and since people with other chronic disorders can talk about them, I don't have much of a problem telling people about my IBS if they ask.

IBS is difficult to live with for a few reasons. First of all, since it concerns bowels, it is a taboo subject. However, if it were socially acceptable to "open up" to those around us about our functional disorder, then we would most likely hear of many people who have it. People I've told usually say something like, "oh! My sister/uncle/aunt/cousin/friend has that!". Another reason is that there is no specific diagnostic test for IBS. It is diagnosed based a lot on bowel movements and what the patient reports of pain and other situations. As an IBS patient, you wonder how much your brain affects your stomach, and if it is really "all in your head", or if your bowels are really ,as they say, your second heart. It is difficult to figure out what foods set one off. It varies a large amount from case to case. For myself, there are symptoms I experience with my IBS that I don't udnerstand why I experience them.

IBS can have a severe impact on peoples' style of and pleasure in life. Its complications can impact emotions, and self-confidence. It can promote a feeling of loneliness. However, these are all my opinions, however, though I would assume that many feel similarly. Of course, I wouldn't know, because I haven't talked to many poeple about it. I guess that's because we don't mention it ot other people.
Wow, that's longer than I thoguht it would be!! Hope this helps!
~CJudo

Yesterday (well, actually I believe it was this morning), the following paragraph was written:

"Or maybe that personality comes pre-packaged with all of our character traits- our strengths and weaknesses, and our goal in this life (living on Earth, I mean) is to take the bits of our personality that shine through (for we cannot immediately see all aspects of it) and improve upon them, eventually becoming what our God sees- His divine daughter, with a radiant personality. Eventually expanding on our strengths and strengthening our weaknesses, until we come to a junction where we abandon imperfection for perfection, student for teacher."

What is personality? Or rather, how do each our individual personalities fit in with the grand eternal scheme of things? Are we born with our personality, or is it something that we develop over time? This sounds rather like the nature vs. nurture question, and perhaps the real answer to both lies somewhere in the middle. However, I'd like to explore the idea that we are born with our personality.

Perhaps when we are born our personality comes along. It is (when I state things like they are fact, please remember that they are actually mere speculation) pre-packaged with all of our character traits- our strengths and weaknesses, quirks, preferances and dislikes. However, we aren't aware of all of the different facets of our personality. We don't know what we can become. There are some aspects of it that we can see, and these we work with, improving on them, developing them. More and more becoming who God knows who we can be because our personality was designed by Him (the great Creator).

I think church callings illustrate this point. I have never thought of myself as a leader-type of person. I theorized- I'll take the lead when no one else does, but usually I'm not the leader "type". However, I have been called to young womens' class presidencies, and am now on dance committee. Are these not leadership-type positions? I think so. And lately, I have found myself wishing for a type of leadership position, just so that I can make a difference and see the effects of it. Carry out ideas. Perhaps I just need to go to more dance committee meetings to satisfy this, and to act on what we talk about! ;)

Heavenly Father knows how great a person we can each be because He designed our personality. It is our responsiblity in this life to find out who we are, and to build our personality on what we are given. To discover who we are and direct who we become from there.

Or something like that. Or maybe the truth is something quite the opposite.

But anyhow, it's an interesting idea.

Life's Grand Junctions

I don’t think that young men realize the impact that their mere existence and presence has on us young women. Of course, I also believe that I as a young woman do not realize my impact on them. In point of fact, most people do not realize the far reaching effects of what they do. It's a fact, often observed by many different sorts of people.
It's interesting that we as human beings always want to see beyond that which we currently can see. How do we even know that there's anything else out there to see? Isn't it possible that we can't see it all?
Thank goodness there are many people who do not think this way. If there were, or rather, if they were the majority, I believe our world would be God's collection of ignorant fools. And yet, I am constantly amused, bewildered, bothered, and occasionally even vexed at choices that people make.

Why wear clothing that covers nothing but that which is necessary to have yourself be begrudgingly approved of as "covered-up... enough".
Why repeat mistakes that you know better than to make? I'm not talking about little ones like having ice-cream when you know better, but ones which have potential for consequences on a much more grand scale.
Why have guardianship over a child that you show no love for? That you do not keep home for his own good (and that of others') when he is sick?
Why let yourself be deluded into thinking that what you are doing is in others' best interest, when it isn't?
Why not follow the counsel of those who have "been there [where you are] and done that"? Shouldn't they know what they're talking about?
Why suspect others of personality errors that belong to yourself?
Why sacrifice the eternal for the temporal?
Why adorn oneself ostentatiously?

All in all- why are people so stupid sometimes?

Before continuing further, I would like to clarify something. By "stupid" I do not mean to imply those with low intelligence. Rather, I mean people who make bad choices and live lives of the natural man when they know better. I just can't fathom why. If you know that one choice will make you happy for long-term, while the other won't, why choose the second? It just does not make sense. Why choose contrary to principles that you believe?

Or perhaps, the question is- how is that people can sustain opinions which are amazingly contrary to their beliefs? How is it that a man who dislikes "know-it-alls" behaves as one himself? It just does not make sense.

Yes, yes, yes, I know. We often see what is that scripture? Mote in someone else's eye, but completely miss seeing the beam in our own eye- or something like that. Human nature. Or is it human nurture?

And that brings me to psychology. Nature vs. Nurture. These are my thoughts.

We all come to Earth in a body with a divine spirit that is who knows how old. Our spirit comes with a great deal of our personality.
Perhaps the personality it comes with is our fundamental values and our task in this life is to expand on those basics, preparing our personality for the eternities.
Or maybe that personality comes per-packaged with all of our character traits- our strengths and weaknesses, and our goal in this life (living on Earth, I mean) is to take the bits of our personality that shine through (for we cannot immediately see all aspects of it) and improve upon them, eventually becoming what our God sees- His divine daughter, with a radiant personality. Eventually expanding on our strengths and strengthening our weaknesses, until we come to a junction where we abandon imperfection for perfection, student for teacher.

I find it hard to believe that such a junction exists- such a pivotal junction. No, indeed, not. Not all of its severity in one place, at least. It is broken up for our benefit. There are little junctions all along life. At each junction we make a choice- which way will I travel today? There are many different paths, and we must each decide for ourselves which path we travel. We have road maps, and have been taught since a young age (well, many of us have been taught this) the laws for which way to travel at certain junction situations. Using this knowledge, we are able to perfect our personality. The junctions are the junctions that we encounter on the way to a perfect happiness, with a perfect personality.

So, then, what happens? Well, you see, sometimes we can't see the junctions up ahead. We can't see that some paths of travel are unwise to take because they take us off-course from that ultimate goal we made at the junction between Heaven and Earth. The promise to return to our Father in Heaven, and follow in His and His sons' footsteps. The Heaven-Earth Junction is critical. It occurs at both the beginning and the ending of life. It is first where we decide to come and perfect ourselves. This is the beginning of our life on Earth. The second junction is at the close of life- when we, as actresses and actors, all bow before our audience, and (hopefully) go to see our God, being worthy to live with Him in His lovely mansions, and if those don't work, well then, Father in Heaven prepared us for that at our first junction, by telling us to endure to the end. At the end of our travel is a fantastic mansion. There the junctions end. Or do they? Do they end, or do they continue, as always, for all of us?