Opener

It seems to me that lately something has been poking its head up in the back of my brain. My life is headed in a new direction. It's a direction that I can be happy with and proud of. But I'm still looking for an answer to the question that has been looming over me as far back as I can remember. What do I do now? Sure, I'm back on the right track. I've placed a leash on the uncontrolable creature that I called myself for the last year of my life. Step 1 is under way, and the master plan is still in progress. Every day can still be a small battlefield in my head, but the slacker within me hasn't been able to prevail over my deep seeded want to make something of my life. This of course is a good thing. However, the question is still bugging me. I can't quite say that I can truely pick out something that is really of interest to me. I find things that are fun and entertaining, but i constantly change what my main activity or interest is. After examining myself a million times over, I've found that i either just get bored with things or haven't quite found that one thing that really makes me tick.

With classes starting up I have begun to question where exactly I will take this new found direction. I actually care about my grades, which is a new and strange feeling, because growing up the only thing that motivated me to to do good in school was notion of my parents tearing into me when they got my report card and saw that row of numbers. I dreaded that row of numbers. Such a simple concept that determined so many things in my childhood. Just ink on paper. A stain on a processed tree. Anywho, That small amount of motivation, if you could call it that, was only enough to make me get A's. Of course, before too long I found myself testing the limits of my parents. I wanted to see how much I could actually get away with. I felt so wise. What could I say to them as their eyes peered over that folded sheet to aleviate the barrage of words that was about to knock me off my feet. I needed a real challenge. Something to push me. I loathed and cherished deadlines. I couldn't stand the fact that I had to actually do the homework, but without the deadline nothing would have been completed. I thrived of the pressure. Always thinking of the consequences to come if i didn't manage to make it. I couldn't deal with them if i had to look them in the face and feel the true weight of them. It's for this exact reason that I managed to wiggle my way out of AP courses and found a new level of procrastination.

In these "regular" classes, I literally had to do nothing. The only thing that needed to be done outside of class were the papers. Through my entire high school career, they were the only thing that could make me pull actual thoughts out of my head. However, this was shortlived. Only a few hours of work once every blue moon. Always the the night before the due date. Sometimes the morning of. Those were my favorite. I felt invincible in these moments. No deadline had ever stopped me. I was unbeatable.

I'll always remeber the last paper I wrote in high school. An analitical (sp?) paper over a short story read in class. I remember the two grudgingly long weeks spent in class staring at nothing bored outof my mind while the others in the room sat at their tables drafting, reading revising. I had accomplished nothing. Two weeks to work on seven pages of essay, and I just couldn't find single reasson that gave me even the slightest urge to put my pen to paper. The deadline approached on a tuesday night. I sat in the living room, just waiting for my dad to finally stumble his way down the hallway into his bed for the night. Finally the moment I had been waiting for came upon me. My dad kicked down his recliner, leaned forward, and lurched out of his chair with a painful but releived moan. Off balance and in a sleepy daze, he made his way down the hallway. The door slammed behind and reluctantly shut after dragging against the old door frame. He probably went straight for the mattress, but it wasn't until I heard his faint snores that I sprang from my red leather couch and ran to the kitchen. It was completely dark and my eyes hadn't quite adjusted, but in the house i grew up in the cabinent handle to my right seemed to find it's way into my hand. Once I had poured my glass of coke, I quickly made my way back to the the corner of the living room, turned off the TV, sat back in the computer chair, and rested my hands on the keyboard. It was my time to shine.

Instantly my fingers started moving and the words poured out of my brain. Once I had started there was no block in my brain. The faucet had been unwillingly opened while the idea smoothly flowed on to the screen in front of me. The writing was easy and the time flew by. After about three pages came from my fingertips, I looked at the clock and decided that I needed to get some sleep if i wanted to finish itin the morning. I crawled into bed, pulled over the covers, set my alarm and tried to calm my mind as the ideas kept flying around in my head looking for way out. I closed my eyes and fell into a light sleep.

Next thing I know, my alarm is screaming at me to get up. On any otherday i would have felt around on my headboard and searched for the snooze until I could peacefully return to sleep. This day however, the pressure gave life to everything. My bed spat me out, then I found myself in the shower alert and ready to finish the conquest that I forcefully put on hold only a few hours before. Sitting in front of the computer once again, I let my mind takeover my body and the paper was finished in an instant. I had blinked, and missed the wonderful feeling of steadily triumphing over this insurmountable task. All at once it was over, no more pressure was left with the essay complete. I started to read over to check for any flaws or typos. As I reached the end of it I leaned back in awe. It was sheer perfection in one draft, the night and morning before the due date. I printed it, bound it together with the click of a simple staple. Looking at the final copy I could only grin with satisfaction.

I arrived at school and turned in the paper just thinking of the moment it would be returned to me. I gave my teacher a smug little look as if to say " I told you so", and she returned it bye raising one brow and slightly squinting at me. She knew as well as I did that true test would be the grade. There were many like me, procrastinators and slackers, but they didn't want the same thing that i was seeking. They were looking only to pass, and wanted the A. I wanted just to prove that I could get it.

The day the paper came back to me, i'm fairly certain was one the most nervous moments on my timeline. I opened it to the last page and saw three grades below the end of my type. Drafting - 83. With only half-assed fake prewrite and a final draft, I wasn't too upset. Class participation - 85. I supose that a small amount of peer editing for my neighbor had gained me a few points there. The last grade was what had been in the back of my mind since i handed the materpeice over to my teacher. Essay - 95. I had done it.

Reflecting back on this and moment and a few others like, I realized that beyond the forced assignments I had hated so much, I really enjoyed writing. Those breif moments when I crammed all my thoughts onto a page at the last minute. At this realization, I decided to create this blog. Not to vent or have a jounal, but to simply take all things in my head and organize them into some sort of coherent structure. I'm not sure if this will workout or what it will look like, but I am certain that I will continue and try to explore this art and see where it takes me.