The Countdown

Olivia’s face is pale white. She sits frozen to the bench, expect for her incessant foot tapping as we impatiently wait on the bench outside of our school.  As soon as the last bell rang, we both rushed to our usual bench. But this was no usual day. She is complaining about the location of this meeting, but we both know you can’t change fate.  She looks down at her arm.  3 minutes and 47 seconds. I try to calm her down, but nothing seems to be working. She looks straight ahead with a blank expression in her eyes. Its understandable, given the circumstance.  She wasn't given much time to prepare for the ‘big day.’ 

Just weeks earlier, Olivia and I, and all the other 18 year olds, were forced to join a program called ‘The Countdown.’ There, they stuck stopwatch-type gadgets into our left arm.  When inserted, the stopwatch gave everyone a number. However many years, however many days, however many minutes, however many seconds, counting down to the exact second that you will meet your soulmate.  The person with whom you will fall in love. 

Olivia pulls up the sleeve of her blouse for the millionth time and checks her arm. One minute and 18 seconds.  She frantically looks around, but I try to remind her that the purpose of the countdown was so that it would countdown to the time you would meet your soulmate. She nods but doesn't seem to be hearing a word I say. I try to distract her by talking. She tells me about her morning. She spent hours getting ready. And I am not exaggerating. She spent hours. She went shopping last weekend to find the perfect outfit for today. She woke up 3 hours earlier then usual just so that she could do her makeup and hair.  She does in fact look gorgeous. Her hair dirty blonde hair is pinned up in a bun with a bow fastened right above it. Her dress is freshly ironed. She is reapplying bright red lipstick to her plump lips for the third time in two minutes. I think it is weird how much time and effort she spent on her hair and clothes.  I thought that your soulmate should love you for you, and Olivia was definitely not acting like herself.  She was the more the sweatpants and Netflix kind of girl. 

30 seconds. “Ok,” Olivia declares as she starts to stand up,  “He obviously isn’t going to come, we should just leave.” Her voice is shaky. I stand up next to her and tell her that we are staying.  She starts to freak out in normal Olivia-fashion. She is hyperventilating. I make her inhale through her nose and exhale through her mouth. Inhale, exhale, inhale, exhale. I repeat the words as I tell her to sit down. She isn’t listening to me. She starts to wobbly around as if her feet are made of jello. She falls, but thankfully, in my direction. I barely catch and disgracefully put her on the ground. I rest her head on my leg.  I shake her as I call for someone to help.  A guy, probably around 20, comes rushing towards us.  He searches in his bag to get a cold water bottle for her head. She starts to regain consciousness.  She seems dazed, but all she can do is stare at the mystery guy.  Her arm makes a beeping sound and so does his. “I’m Ashton.” they guy says, “and I think we are supposed to fall in love now.” Olivia chuckles as her face turns an even darker shade of red. They are truly Soulmates.

I stare down at my own arm.  Angry, mad, disappointed. I pull up my sleeve. Just as I had guessed.  0 years, 0 days, 0 minutes, 0 seconds.  0 everything. 

Short Story Prt 1 of The Sleeper

  There's a thumping in my head as I open my eyes for the first time in what seems like years. I blink repeatedly to adjust to the light, and as I do so, I see an unfamiliar face. A woman.  She appears to be in her thirties, in a white nurse’s uniform.  She introduces herself as Ms. Smith. When I ask why I am in the hospital, she informs me that I had been in a severe car accident. I ask if I could use a phone to call someone. Her reply is that with my injuries she doesn’t suggest to get out if bed, so she lets me borrow her phone. She hands me a flip phone, while explaining to me how she’s so excited because it’s the newest model. Weird.  After some time trying to remember, I finally was able to type in all the digits of my wife's phone number. After two tones, someone picked up. But instead of the wo man I thought would pick up, it turned out to be some old man speaking Spanish.

"Andrea?" I ask, with the slightest hope that somehow I will be able to find my wife.  "Que?" The man replies.  I repeat myself.  My hopes deplete like a balloon that has lost all of its helium. The line goes silent. I double check the phone number. Everything seems correct, but why would someone else answer her phone? As I contemplate the few plausible reasons someone else would have my wife’s phone, the nurse comes into my room again.

“No luck?” She asks. I can hear the pity in her voice. She suggests that I get some shut-eye. She promises me that my wife would call the hospital later, offering me more reasons she would not answer the phone.  I could hear the doubt in her voice.  However, I am quite exhausted and decided to listen to her advice. Maybe everything would be back to normal when I wake up. 

                I awake from my endless sleep.  I look around the room.  Most things seem to be the same as before.  A women walks into my room.  She looks familiar.  I ask where Ms. Smith was.  She looks at me, puzzled, and tells me that she is Ms. Smith.  I stare at her with blank eyes.  Though she did look eerily similar to my previous nurse, there was no way they could be the same person.  I tell her the impossibility, that just hours previously, she was years older.  She seems perplexed, and tells me that she will be back in a few minutes.  The thoughts of what could possibly be happening to me race through my head.  Obviously, I had to be dreaming, I mean, that’s the only possibility, right?

                ‘Ms.Smith,’or at least the woman who claims to be her, returns with a doctor by her side.  She is whispering to him. He shows me the same confused look that she had just minutes earlier.

“Hey buddy,” the doctor starts speaking to me, He has a condescending tone with me, as though he  thinks he is better than me.  I introduce myself, the best way that I can considering I don’t remember my name.  After my meager introduction, he asks me to explain what I was thinking.  After some time contemplating my wording so that they wouldn’t think I was crazy, I tell them what I think.  That just hours previously, Ms. Smith was my doctor.  But she wasn’t this Ms. Smith, well she was, except she was older, like thirty-something, and now she is younger.  As I talk I can tell the doctor is ready to send me to the Looney-bin.  I explain to them that this has to be some sort of dream.  A terrible, horribly realistic dream. I pinch myself to show them that this isn’t really happening. Ow. That actually hurt.

Ok, now I am just as confused as my doctors are.  What could possibly be happening to me? Is this not a dream, but instead some sick reality?  My breaths start to shorten and I feel as though my lungs are collapsing. What year is it? I demand the answer as if this is a life or death situation. The doctor is taken aback by my abruptness.  He tells me to calm down. I repeat myself, with more anger in voice.  Ms. Smith finally answers me. 1994, she says. 1994. 1994. 1994.  The one year just repeats in my head, over and over again, until it has become meaningless.

I start to hyperventilate. My breaths feel short and my mind is racing.  Ok, so before I was in the accident, it was 2014.  And now, it’s 1994.  What happened? How did it happen? Why me? Then, I passed out. 

                When I regained consciousness, I was greeted by a whole new cast of doctors and nurses. I immediately demanded what year it was.  Their response, just as I had guessed, 1984.  Ok, so this had to happen every time I fell asleep.  But the question is, how do I stop it from happening? Everyone needs sleep.  If I don’t sleep, then I will die.  Am I already dead? Is this some twisted hell. 

I start to get up as the doctors are motioning for me to stay down.  I stare at my arm, and rip out the IV like one would rip off a bandaid.  Now the doctor and nurse are yelling at me and forcefully pushing me back onto my bed.  I ignore them.  I wobble my way to the door. After some time, I am able to walk faster, and head towards a discreet hallway.  The Doctors and nurses pass the hallway I am in, franticly searching for me.  When they pass, I sneak towards the exit.  I push through the doors and breath in the fresh, damp air.  It is drizzling outside, the clouds looking ominous.  

Old Money, New Money, and Everybody Else

Everyone everywhere are in different financial situations.  People could have old money, new money, no money, and everything in between.
Old money refers to people who belong to upper class families who have inherited their families money over generations. In The Great Gatsby, Tom and Daisy Buchanan have old money.  They live in East Egg, the more elaborate of the Eggs, in a "white Georgian mansion overlooking the bay.  The lawn started at the beach and ran toward the front door for a quarter mile, jumping over sun-dials and brick walls and burning gardens…The front was broken by a line of French windows, glowing now with reflected gold…" (Fitzgerald 11).  Fitzgerald portrays old money as people with grace, good taste, and elegance.  Though they are very sophisticated, they could care less about others.  Tom and Daisy seem careless, and never worry about others.
 In contrast to old money, new money, as the title suggests, was money made recently. In The Great Gatsby, Jay Gatsby, who lives in West Egg, is considered new money.  Opposite the Buchanan's, Gatsby is portrayed as having little to no grace or elegance.  Though he lacks class, he makes up for it by caring about others.  When he throws lavish parties for everyone to come, he rents shuttles to pick people up from his house and drive them to the train.
Though not payed much attention to, there is also a third theme of money in The Great Gatsby, the ones with no money, such as Myrtle and George Wilson.  Throughout The Great Gatsby there is a struggle between old and new money, leaving the ones with no money ignored and forgotten.  However they are not completely forgotten about since there is an affair between Tom Buchanan and Myrtle Wilson.
A major theme in The Great Gatsby is the struggle between old vs. new money, and which one is better.        

Thankful

When we were told we had to do a blog about 'thanks,' I thought I would do the typical, 'I'm thankful for my friends and family' and stuff like that.  When it was specified that we had to do it about a person in the class, I imediately knew who I was going to do!
PHEOBE of course!!! When I found out that we were going to be in a class together I was so happy! We are always amazing group work partners (and I can't forget Bebe).  She is so funny, amazing, cool, awesome, gorgeous, and helpful.  Whenever I forget to do something or don't understand anything she is right there either helping me do it or confused alongside me!
We have done 2 amazingly beautiful shows at Company and I can't wait to do my remaining one's alongside Pheobe! Even though we are on different crews (props is better) We still love each other and I'm so happy she is my 7/24ths sister in Company (or something like that :) ).
I couldn't survive without her and I can't wait to spend the rest of the year in English with her and the rest of my high school career with her in Company!!

I celebrate myself

I was told that this blog was supposed to be about something I value, and I had to connect it to some of Thoreau's, Emerson's, and Whitman's ideas.  One thing I value that is in common with their ideas is Nature.  Not to the extent of writing multiple poems and essays about it, but I do value it quite a lot.
One reason I value nature so much is because of a trip I went on about a year ago.  It was a FIVE week  'roughing it' camping trip around the Pacific North West, in the USA and Canada.  We could only pack the bare essentials, because they went through our bags and we had to much they took stuff away from us.  We had to make all our own meals, pitch our own tents, and basically survive in multiple difficult types of weather.  As an added bonus, we only showered about 5 times on our whole trip.
I compare this trip to the adventure Chris took in Into the Wild.  We both were living with what we had in nature, and learn to appreciate it so much more than we did before.  I can't begin to explain how much more I appreciate the "simple beauty and freedom of nature" after this trip.  You can never truly be grateful for nature and all it has to offer you until you have to depend on it.
I can also compare this to some of the ideas Whitman had.  In Whitman's poem, 'Song of Myself,' he talks about the grass and how every blade is different and individual.  I don't believe you can truly grasp this concept until you live it, like how I watched miles and miles of beautiful mountains in the badlands go by but I couldn't take my eyes off of them because they were all so different and beautiful.
 I don't think you can feel the way Chris, I mean Alex Supertramp, or how Whitman did in Nature, without experiencing something similar to what they did, where your life depends on nature. I believe this is why I value nature as much as I do.          

Poe

When I think of Edgar Allan Poe, I think of mystery.  Most of his writings, including the ones we have read in class, always seem to have a eerie and mysterious vibe to them.  Such as in The Raven, where the questioning of whom the Raven represents leaves readers with more questions than answers.
         This idea of being mysterious followed him to his grave, literally.  There are many theories as to what caused Poe to died, but no one knows for sure.  It is said that he was found on the street, delirious,  not able to tell what had happened to him.  It was also mentioned how he wasn't even wearing clothing that was his! I find it interesting how Poe, in both his writing and his life, leaves everyone with questions.  I mean, whose clothes was he wearing!?!
          And the mystery involving Poe's death doesn't even stop when HE dies! Every year on Poe's birthday starting in 1949, a person referred to as only "Poe Toaster" visits his grave.  When there, he or she makes a toast to Poe and leaves three red roses.  It just goes to show you that not only was Edgar Allan Poe a mysterious man when he was alive, but his legend continues on.
          The mysteriousness behind Poe and his writings is what makes his stories so unique and different.  It is what set him apart from other writers in his day, and it is why we still study him in schools to this day.

What is an American?

     To be honest, I didn't really know where to start with this question, so I decided to looked up the definition of an American.  Most of the answers were simply "a citizen of the United States of America," or something of that nature. With some time to think, I decided that this definition was only half right.

I had first thought about how I identify myself as an American.  I realized that not only do I identify myself as an American because I am a citizen, but also because I embody the things that I believe most Americans embody.   For example, most Americans are not only 'American,' but instead they have a very reach cultural background and their families often come from all over the world. Along with being an American, I also consider myself German because thats where my ancestors came from.   You are still able to identify yourself as an American even if your Family hasn't lived here for generations.       

I also believe that 'American' can't be put into one set definition.  Whom I may think qualifies as an American may differ from your idea of an American.  So, I think that the questions 'What is an American?' is really an opinion-based question.  So my Opinion is that to be considered an American, you simply have to identify as an one.