My friend Jesus.

So...just now, as my mom walked by, I took out my planner and it opened up to a page with two random Buddhas and a Jesus drawn on it. Needless to say, my mom was quite surprised and slightly (very very very very) offended. Luckily, my experience as an Asian child helped me to save myself by letting her know instantly that I certainly didn't put them there.

Anyways, that close-call reminded me of something. My mother's reaction, I must admit, was similar to how I first freaked out when my friend drew Jesus on my planner during school earlier today. This sort of thing goes to show that the freak-out-factor is genetic. I think it's weird how whenever I go to Church (sorry if some people don't like religion-y things), I get told that God should be like my best friend, my dad, my teacher, ....everything. Even though I'm sure that is a very encompassing and good idea, to be honest I can't quite imagine myself saying, "'Sup God," or "Oh hey there, it's the Holy Spirit," or "Holaaaaaaaa.....Jesus." I feel like to revere something, I somehow need to get sort of distant to it: Jesus is amazing y'all, but DON'T YOU DARE TOUCH A HAIR OF HIS HOLY HEAD. IT'S NOT ALLOWED.

I remember this one time I came back from Church when I was about seven, and I was kinda excited 'cuz that was the first time I heard God was supposed to....be my best friend?
So I remember sort of staying up that night at until 12 and just sitting in the dark (this is way back in the old days when 12 was LATE for me)....trying to talk to God. Up till that point, when I prayed, I'd just recited standard stuff. It was the same everyday. So this whole conversational thing was new, and weird. And after struggling for about half an hour, I decided I was being ridiculous and went to sleep.

So what is it that makes people avoid stuff like that? Why is it bad to "talk to God," or Jesus, or the Holy Spirit, or whatever floats your boat, for that matter? For me, I feel like there's a taboo. I'm supposed to be super well-behaved talking to someone like, God, have my best attitude, and my brightest smile, and he's supposed to know that everythings going wonderfully. The world is great.

But then, that doesn't quite fit either, does it? It feels so unnatural, so dishonest. Which it is, I guess. So I kinda just felt like writing a thing about Jesus, in a less....not in a less reverent way, but in a less awkward way. In a more honest, blunt way. I'm not quite sure if it's still what I'm looking for, but hopefully, I've gotten somewhere since my seven-year-old problems.

I know a guy named Jesus. He's an old friend. I've known him just about since I was born. He's super smart and he tells good stories, while being the perfect listener. He gets what you're talking about instantly, and he doesn't judge you. So basically, he's an overall awesome and nice guy. But there's a problem. It's not his problem. It's my problem.

He listens even when he knows I'm lying. I know I shouldn't take advantage of that. But thinking about people like Jesus makes me feel like crap. If I were honest I'd probably complain all the time, or freak about something completely irrelevant and unimportant, or talk about a bunch of ordinary, bland topics that he hears about just about a million times a day.

And another thing. I haven't seen him in a long time. Talking to him was awkward, so I guess I quit being his friend over a period of several years. I used to go over every week, I swear, but I'm a busy kid. One week I was busy being sick after staying up three nights in a row, and the next week my mom was sick, and then my dog was sick, I had a birthday party to go to, I had a huge project, I procrastinated on homework, I felt tired, I didn't really know anyone at his house anymore, I couldn't wake up early enough, I forgot about it.

I'm a heathen, I know.....So do you think he'll still be friends with me?

I hope so.
He's a smart guy who can understand. I want his good stories to make me smart, too. And the way he listens makes me wish I talked using a little less words, with a little more honesty.

Nostalgia

I don't consider myself a writer. On a normal basis, the idea of writing kinda makes me cringe. I journal because I want to keep memories, not necessarily because I feel like writing. Which is why I always push back, back journal entries, saying, I'll do it tomorrow, or the day after tomorrow, until I realize I've forgotten what I was first going to write about, or I turn to my last journal entry and freak about the fact that it's from a month ago. Or when we get an essay from school, I just get a sinking feeling, thinking about how I'm going to spend the next several days sitting in front of my computer and getting my skin bleached by the light coming off the screen.

Other times, like the flash backs we discussed in class (but not really), something happens, and I have to write. I'm afraid of forgetting stuff, losing ideas, or not recording something important for future reference, and if I'm unfortunate enough, I'll have to get up in the middle of the night to scribble something on a random scrap sheet or an index card before I forget it...although I probably won't be able to read it the next morning. And when I actually get myself to journal or write letters, I can't seem to stop. I might as well finish and get out a lot of thoughts once I start, right?

So those are the times when I feel compelled to write--kind of forced by my conscience. And my other reason is tied to fear of forgetfulness I guess, but it's a different way of looking at it...I like looking back at old journal entries. They're like a call from the past, and then there's a wave of nostalgia, kin of (I sound like I'm 100 years old....). A lot of the time that makes me upset, but I feel like nostalgia's also important and necessary, despite people always saying, "Move FORWARD!!!!!! INTO THE FUTURE!!!! LIVE IN THE NOW AND SEIZE THE DAY!!!" Once I'm through with the upset part of nostalgia, I'm actually a bit more cheerful and a dab more secure than I started off. Nostalgia's like a check against the future. It's exactly as it sounds--sad, but soft and round, comforting and warm. When I move too far forward, all at once, that I get lost, I look back and see how I got where I am. I retrace my steps--laugh at mistakes, cry at losses, listen to old music, draw with crayons, look at pictures, and youtube a TV show I used to love--all to run into Nostalgia's arms. i rest a little in the past, because it's easier to relive things than to forge ahead, always pushing the boundaries of time. I think that it's important, especially now that I'm applying to college, that I keep the sense of Nostalgia alive, because it's so easy to try and put up a pretense, a perfect-student-image that's set and cropped to match what we think colleges want. And there's all that rush--people get ready for the next stage in their lives, and it kinda makes them forget what they're also in the process of leaving behind.

Intruded

For some reason, I had a hard time with this assignment and really thinking of what to write. Do I focus on the fear? the descriptions? the vulnerability? Focusing on a lot of things at once kinda makes my head explode. So here's the result of my brainsplosion.

POV 1:

She was dicing the carrots at two in the morning when she heard it. She stopped mid-dice and cocked her head to one side, one hand on the knife, held up in the air above the chopping board, the other resting on the edge of the board and holding down a half-chopped carrot that was screaming bloody orange.

Silence. She set the knife down and scratched her head, itchy from the red hair dye that was setting and drying against her scalp. It was probably nothing, she reasoned, but her pounding heart told her otherwise. Still, her mind prevailed. Get the onions. She turned slowly, mechanically, forcing herself to swallow away the sense of vulnerability that was choking her. Once she had the onions in hand she whipped back around towards the sink.

Thunk, thunk, thunk. Her knife kept time with her sinking heart. Suddenly--a slip! and she whirled around, back towards the fridge, checking to see if anyone was watching, as her quivering mouth nursed her bleeding finger. Really, she resembled a little kid trying not to wet her pants during a scary movie. Just take away the hair dye and the smeared mascara, and she looked about five-years-old, at the moment, complete with the runny nose. Ugh. She blew her nose and used the glossy refrigerator door as a mirror while she rubbed away the mascara. All the tears were making it run. Probably, it was the onions. But she kept the knife close while she rubbed, just in case the tears were the result of legitimate fear, and not the onions.

She loosened up a bit as the stubborn mascara came off. But suddenly--there it was again! A squeaky swish-swish sound. She almost jabbed her eye out when she heard it, and before she knew it, she'd grabbed the knife, and her ridiculous legs were throwing her forward, heart in mouth, past the corner, and into the hallway that led to her violated house door.

POV 2:

His teeth were....itching. So he'd good-naturedly gotten up, up from the soft spot on the floor where the carpet hadn't been flattened and matted yet. He'd go out to the front yard and grab a stick fallen from the tree in the yard, perhaps. It was a simple enough goal, the kind that you don't plan for. Like how Mommy got up from bed in the middle of the night to make vegetable soup because she was hungry all of a sudden and dyed her hair at the same time, because she wanted it to be nice in the morning.

But he had to belly-crawl his way through the small kitty door. It was growing a bit tight, grabbing his middle a bit on all sides. Eventually he pulled his way through. But again, his feet were still too big for him, and his tail too heavy, and he stumbled down the short cement steps. Before he knew it, he was stuck in the brambles. His breath wheezed and squealed in pain. Forget the stick. He wanted Mommy now. Cowed, he bobbed and staggered back to the kitty door.

Desperately, he nosed the door open a little and began to inch forward a little. It was easy enough, at first. But the thorns and burrs were starting to hurt, and the kitty door made a terrible protesting sound every time he moved, and the middle was impossible, sticking the pointies even deeper into his fur. He was stuck on all sides, uncertain of how to back out or move forward. Not even the smell of vegetable soup was enough.