Turn On The Sun, Please

[Title concept from Pickles author/artist Brian Crane.]

Mrs. Leon complained today that I always leave before class officially starts, so I promised her I'll stay for third lunch next week (hopefully, but as previously mentioned, I'm not too good with promises). Maybe I will be there in time for sonnet readings. I don't know what else I could do with an extra half-hour of English class, especially since I'm probably not reading the same things (although my class is starting Brave New World, which Mrs. Leon's class has already read).

(Additionally, Clay told me he read nearly 150 pages of BNW in around two hours. Since it's, so far, taken me five days, more or less, I will probably need to dedicate a lot more time to reading. I'm past the first part—if there are any more, I don't know yet—of the everyone-is-talking-at-once pages right now.)

Other things of interest: I went over 10 pages of metabolism bio notes last night at around midnight (so also technically this morning), and have now come up with a really condensed, analogy-ladened version of metabolism, which I will add to the end of this, because I think I want to make more of these to prepare for the midterms (Mme Pottery mentioned midterms today, which set off a wave of panic).

Also, despite the cold, and the wind, and the general misery, there was frisbee today. There is another girl now, and she is pretty good at frisbee too (a great catcher, even in this wind). I ran around too (which almost never happens, mind you), but then my stomach started hurting, so I sat down and borrowed both Yuma's and Cameron's jackets (I wanted to borrow Tobey's too, since he wasn't wearing it at first, but by the time I'd gotten around to being too cold he was cold too and took the jacket) and tried to read more books (especially my LitEx book, which I have barely started).

Then a golden retriever came along and proceeded to sit on me despite my protests. Someone called out, "Be careful, he's a pervert," and with that the dog turned around and tackled me to the ground.

On that note, here is my version of metabolism:

• metabolism = energy vs. matter
• pathways: catapults tear down for boten anna to build up
• enzymes just float around for fun
• laws of thermodynamics: 
• energy is immortal; 
• entropy reproduces like bunnies
• ⌂G (free energy) = ♥
• likes to roll down hills and pull on wheelbarrows full of stuff
• must push it to make it go up hills
• said hill is a step-ladder hill
• In this analogy, "guy" is the substrate:
• guy wants to go over hill
• hill too high, guy too lazy, doesn't happen
• enzyme bulldozes hill, guy goes over
• enzyme only falls in love with one guy & his clones
• enzyme thus only bulldozes hills for guy & his clones
• when going over hill, enzyme and guy link hands
• their hands fit together like gloves
• at the top, enzyme pulls hard in excitement
• guy's arm falls off
• new products = guy + arm!
• then enzyme says, "eww, wtf?"
• enzyme ditches guy for clone #1209841
• other little-known facts of enzyme-drama:
• if guy is too hot/cold or brings H2SO4/HCl/HNO3, he gets slapped, enzyme says, "Get lost," and no hills are bulldozed
• cofactors/coenzymes: the bulldozer (the machine)
• inhibitors: the 3rd wheel
• either steals enzyme away (competitive)
• or kills enzyme and laughs maniacally (noncompetitive)
• allosteric site: door for 3rd wheel, except 3rd wheel is guy's arm
• arm can help or hurt
• too many arms will distract enzyme and result in no more bulldozed hills
• cooperativity: guy1 holds hands = guy2 can hold hands too
• many enzymes + many hills + many bulldozers = metabolic pathway (multi-enzyme complex)
• all these pathways come together to form . . . THE METABOLISM WORLD.
• dun dun dunnn...

This also effectively supports my argument that love/relationships can be a metaphor for anything.

It's a Small, Small World

My parents went out today to get my dad's passport photos taken, but since we have Canadian passports, he had to get specific pictures that have to abide by a host of rules. Like certain size requirements, no hands in pictures, no tilted faces, and of course, no smiles. I don't know why, but these requirements somehow makes for ugly pictures. I have always hated my passport photos with a passion.

Anyway, because his photo had to follow those rules, he couldn't get them from the post office (which normally takes photos for US passports). Instead, my parents went to find a professional photographer, and I presume explain the rules to take a custom picture.

They came back an hour or so later, and as my mom walked in she asked, "Was there a freshman in your English class sophomore year?"

I, obviously confused, said, "No. Why?"

"The son of our photographer said he was in your English class freshman year. What's his name again—Camet—wait, let's see if you recognize the last name from the business card."

She took the card out, and I realized it was Cameron. We never shared an English class together, but I was in his French class, so perhaps he confused the two. I mean, English, French. Big difference.

But speaking of Cameron. (I guess this is the pitfall of having nicknames that resemble real names.)

I had this typed up already.

. . .


Again with the thoughts.

. . .

I spent my car ride to the border (a good five or six hours, not including food time) and back thinking, as usual.

We left at 11 the night before, because my dad was intent on having me come back on time to finish my homework and other things I need to write. I was bringing the pillows and blankets out to the car, and I stared up at the sky, and it was breath-taking. I can’t see very well (I need new prescriptions for my glasses), but I could still make out a lot of the stars twinkling in the sky. (Although I have read somewhere, but I forgot where, that “twinkling” is not the best word to use in these situations because it implies happiness.) Silver-diamonds against a soft, satiny night.

I wanted to cry. I think I did.

There were a lot of things I wanted to say, but instead we drove towards that small Vermont town with the funny name and lies half-here, half-there. I slept for most of the way there, sat in a small room trying to eavesdrop on two people speaking French in front of me, then stared out the window on the way back. I thought I’d read awhile, but decided not to at the last minute.

There are some things you can’t say out loud.

. . .

These nights, I dream about running. I am running away from something—I don’t know what. I am just running, and someone, or something, is chasing me, and I must run as fast as I can and climb over fences and jump across rivers. I am fleeing, fleeing, and I am not fleeing fast enough. I am a goner, I think, I am going to die. I am in the panic between running and giving up, I want to scream, to shield myself from the inevitable, and then, and then, and then I wake up.

There is a lurching in my stomach, and maybe my heart, but that is it. The feeling fades. No more. Until the next time I am running, but I do not see the pattern until several nights in, when I wake up and there is a déjà vu moment, and I realize that I have been dreaming the same things all these nights.

. . .

I saw Cammie Thursday. At lunch, with Yuma. Upset over English, and many other things, and suddenly, she was there. In a black skirt.

I called out her name. She came and sat with us. We talked about some things. English, I think. Guidance stuff. Yuma asked about math. I am not sure how well I handled the situation. I was afraid to say anything beyond the trivial. Wasn’t sure what she wanted. Wasn’t sure if I could give it to her.

I would have wanted to forget, but that is because I am constantly running away from reality. I am not sure that is what everyone would want. I am not sure if that is even the best thing. If I make the best decisions. If it even matters, because I am not as rational as I would like to be (despite Mr. Wollen’s claims that we are all rational beings).

. . .

I cut across the the narrow gap between the two cars, and as I was walking, someone called, “What’s up?” I spun around, trying to look at who was talking, and tripped over the curb and fell. The car full of boys—no doubt it was them—laughed. I had never seen them before, but they were probably seniors (or maybe juniors, but then they would be conducting illegal business in driving each other around).

Thank you. I hadn’t realized I was so clumsy before. Thank you so much for reminding me.

They drove off. I do not know if they will remember me. I don’t think I’ll remember them. I was always bad with faces.

It’s a good thing. I wouldn’t know what to say even if I did see them again.

. . .

Gretchen said that Tea looked nerdy. And that I looked smart. And that Bryant looked both nerdy and smart. I would say that Bryant always looks like he can read my mind. Every time I am doing something, and I catch his gaze, he looks like he can see some deep, dark secret I have (and I don’t have any, or at least I’m not thinking of any when I happen to be around him), and I freak out and look away.

It is getting on my nerves. He needs to stop staring at people like that. Unless he does it on purpose, to make people think he knows more than he actually does. Or he can actually read my mind, and oh my god that is not good.

I am considering transferring into his English class (not the best decision, according to him, but the other choice is Brit Lit and there is someone there I would rather not be with right now). I don’t think I will—Caribbean is not my favorite style of writing—and I don’t really want to leave my English class right now either.

But if I did, and I changed my bio class into period 8 (because then it would be free), then I would share 3.5 classes with Bryant, and maybe 4 if I changed my area studies. It is all possible, although all unlikely. With Bryant, I am unwilling to sacrifice too much. Or maybe I am, in general, unwilling to sacrifice too much now. Because there is too much pain associated with sacrificing. And it won't always end well.

. . .

This week was awful. Beyond awful, but I don't have words to describe it. But I have figured out both equations to my take-home portion of the multi test, and that is due next week, so I am grasping onto hope (even if I only have a few strands of it). I am hoping tomorrow (and the next week, and the next month, and the next year) will be better.

After all, tomorrow is another day.