things I want to do

It is currently 7:46 p.m. My art class has been canceled, and I have very little homework. Of course, “if I every find myself needing something to do,” I can always check out college websites. That’s what my parents are telling me to do. And it really is in my best interests, but I’m defiant and naive so I’ll write down things I’d rather be doing.

I want to draw. To be fair, I was drawing before dinner. But I want to draw and paint and try again and again. I want to lose the fear that I have for making mistakes when I draw, a fear that has been instilled because there’s so much pressure on the big works and I have little confidence and not enough ideas or practice. I want to draw pages and pages, but not mindless patterns. I want to make art that flowers, that blooms, that reminds people of things they’ve almost forgotten. I want to go outside and look at the stars, I want to go to the library and hang out with my friends, I want to have a nice warm cup of coffee standing under a streetlight as snowflakes grace my eyelashes and gloved fingers. I want to bake a cake, and play with my brother, and read the book on my table, I want to write, which at least I am doing, and I want to play with my quintet. Both of them. Because I love Schubert more than I love myself. And I only like Schubert because of his quintet.

I want to venture out into the mountains anywhere, but somewhere safe, and camp under the stars, I want to hike again to that glacier with my family, I want to count banana slugs in a temperate rainforest, I want to pick up a pencil, I want to run and shower and go shopping. I want to look at the shampoos in target and try almost every one to see which one my hair likes best. I want to live a life where I’m doing something useful that I don’t mind and where I’m appreciated by the people around me, and where I appreciate the people around me. I want to eat chocolate and blueberries. I want to drink ginger tea and eat graham crackers. I want to swim in a pool and in the ocean and in a lake, or go kayaking in the state forest. I want to adopt a cat or a dog (I’m a both sort of people), get a facial, finish all the work I’m supposed to be doing. I want to spatter paint on a large canvas, I want to save earthworms from getting scorched on my driveway in the hot sun after it rains, I want to splash in puddles and ride bikes and climb trees. I want to visit an art museum and take portraits of random people (with consent) and talk to them. I want to watch videos on YouTube and listen to music that I like. I want to sing and dance and do yoga. I also want to do word searches and puzzles and do a beach cleanup with some friends in the summer, I want to see justice served and truth prevail. I want to look into a camera and look from behind it. I want to produce music and go to concerts, have a jam session and learn theory, write and perform slam poetry, have long conversations with friends and reach that point of understanding and easiness between two people, do calligraphy and knit, plant herbs and roast marshmallows by a campfire…

this list has been abridged because I do too have a life and I should probably get back to it.


not sure what this is. that’s pretty much the defining phrase of my life.

here’s how I’m different yet exactly the same…

  1. One day, we were at the beach. It was noisy and crowded, so we were amazed to see a family near us tugging a board full of clams to shore. The clams were huge. I was horrified- were they going to eat them for dinner? Those poor clams. I had to find one. Wading out as far as I could, to the edge of the din, I found a clam. It was huge. After showing it to my family, I waded back out and threw the clam as far as I could: nobody was going to eat this clam for dinner.
  2. 11:47, at night- I’m not asleep. I should be, but I’ve stayed up later than this before. I kind of want to go to sleep, but I can’t. I really should. I will, tomorrow. I will. I flitted through the day in a glaze, wondering at the time when I looked at the clock beside my bed, taunting me: 11:52, pm.
  3. The soccer ball is flying- out of reach- I can’t move fast enough- it’s gone, I missed- again. This should be easy, my brother can do it, effortlessly. It’s getting frustrating. I throw the ball back out, try to be ready for the next time he shoots. “I’m ready, when you are,” I tell him. He’s too good, he’s too good. The ball is flying- flying. I reached out, fast– tentative. Not enough. The ball bounces off my arm, through the invisible line between the trees. I missed, barely. Again. My arm is pink and bumpy.
  4. Why am I crying? She didn’t say anything mean, or bad, I know it’s all true. It’s going to help me, I know. She’s going to help me become a better cello player. Not that I’m bad, or anything; in fact, good enough to be in JRO, at NEC (which is not that great lol). I just need to correct some crucial things- fixing things, starting with a new teacher. I’m crying- why? This is so embarrassing. It happens every time. I’m second to last seat, by the way.   
  5. On my essay: “I think it’s too random, too ‘stream of consciousness-y’.” “You know, it’s not quite random– but you need to explain how you got from here to there– you need to hold the reader’s hand through it all. Otherwise, they won’t understand. They’ll be lost. Got it?”