12 Days of Christmas Practice, 2006

On the twelfth day of practice
My swim coach gave to me:

12 x 25 EZ
11 x 50 IM
10 x 25 sprint
9 x 50 kick
8 x 25 sprint
7 x 100 free
6 x 50 free
5 x 100 IM’s
4 x 25 sprint
3 x 50 stroke
2 x 75 drill

AND ONE TWO-FIFTY FREE!

Comparison

Just a little something I thought up at swim practice and churned out in about a half hour.


Everybody needs it: down time. Some people take naps, some play sports—I lose myself in my own imagination. Whether it is by writing, by strategizing unreal military conflicts, or simply by daydreaming, my place of complete solace is within the limitless corridors of my mind. However, in given circumstances, certain methods are more preferable than others.

Have you ever studied the spontaneity of chemical reactions? In a given circumstance, a spontaneous reaction—one that happens of its own accord and continues to completion on its own—is usually one that releases energy. It takes the components from a state of higher energy to one of lower energy. This is rather like release of stress. Activities that people tend to do of their own accord and complete are those that take them from a higher level of stress to a lower level.

For me, writing is a stress relieving activity. However, it is like a large number of spontaneous reactions that require activation energy. These reactions, in order to occur, need an input of energy that takes them to a higher level—the activation energy. After this level of energy has been reached, the reaction will take care of the rest on it’s own. It’s like lighting gasoline on fire. A match or a spark is necessary to give it the activation energy, but after that it happens on its own. So it is with writing and my stress level. It relieves stress beautifully, but first it requires me to raise my stress level. I have to plan, ponder, and initiate the habit of writing daily for the process to be of any use. All of these things increase my stress level before the writing’s soothing effect kicks in.

Even so, there is more than one type of spontaneous reaction. The melting of ice into water, for example, requires no activation energy so long as certain conditions (namely, having the temperature about freezing) are met. Something similar to that is a recent opportunity I have been given. Now, it is completely nerdy and would not appeal to many. However, being an irredeemable nerd, I snatched it up. Certain friends of mine, all of them science fiction writers, have challenged the genre of fantasy to a battle. Two other fantasy writers and I have been constructing the armies, planning strategies, and devising ways around inevitable science fiction advantages. In the end, it is an utterly pointless endeavor. But it relieves my stress spontaneously, and does not raise my stress level in the least simply because it is so pointless. If the pointless condition were not met—say we had money riding on the outcome—the stress release would not come so easily.

The simplest form of spontaneous reactions is the type that occurs no matter the circumstances, like radioactive decay. Nothing can stop it; it just happens. That is my chemical equivalent of daydreaming. No one can put restrictions on my mental wanderings, and I slip in and out of them with ease. They do not have the immense, immediate impact on my stress level (radiation is a slow process), but it takes it away a piece at a time, keeping me sane.

Though I can’t say that my relating chemistry and stress relief says much for my sanity.

On the Upside

So I'm basically home-bound, I can't really breathe, my coughs sound gross, and I now know exactly what the doctor is listening for when he puts the stethescope on your chest and tells you to go through various respiratory practices. I am now so sick that I can't visit my dad for fear of infecting him. BUT, since I am incapable of doing anything else, there is no more putting off reading The Brothers Karamazov. In fact, my time is so unscheduled that I'll probably finish my explications before the break is over. There's always a silver lining.

Also, I am planning a war. It's a joyous thing, really. The science fiction writers of Writers' Block challenged fastasy to a genre war. Three armies vs. three armies, plus a back-up, last-ditch effort for each side. Fantasy is going to kick trash. And yes, we do have referees to ensure that no one goes to unreasonable extremes (though I am unsure "unreasonable" can apply to either genre, most especially my own). My army is practically planned. I'm especially excited to use my elementals and my sprites. For one, I know there will be element manipulation from the scifi-ites, because one of them told me so. My elementals are immune to any effects from their given elements. The sprites are small, and scifi-ites tend to be enamored with large machines, so they will pay the blighters little notice. Too bad my sprites have the most lethal poison ever conceived. Haha. The only reason the scifi-ites aren't already shaking in their boots is because they've only seen fantasy writers who exhibit restraint. But we're pulling out all the stops now. For example, I won't be using any Sfereshan sorcerers, because they suffer effects as devastating as those they deal out. Not a very intimidating opponent. But when the sprites suffer no repercussions for the devising of their poisons, or for their innate magic that relates to avoiding detection--that's something to be concerned about. And the Fantasy Allies haven't even gotten to using evil creatures yet. Demons, necromancers, and all that shnazzy jazz are at our disposal. Watch out future, here comes your worst nightmare.

I am such an irredemeable nerd.

Running On Empty

I got sent home from practice today. I don't know how I feel about that. After I had stopped about three times to cough up my lungs, Todd had me climb out of the pool and swim a 1000 cool down in the short lanes. I think that's a bad sign. Well, at least I got to help some JV swimmers who stayed late with their flip-turns. Little Gee says it feels a lot better, and she isn't flapping her arms anymore.

Anyhow, I just feel crappy. Whenever I try to do kick sets, my legs feel like we've been doing leg-intensive workouts for the past three days. Too bad I haven't even been practicing for the last three days, so that theory's dead. My cough's getting worse too. I've been sick for three months, and I'm taking a dip in my health. And I've hit my late-November/early-December low a little early. No big surprise there, given the circumstances. I'm stressed. Nothing new. But I'll post my l-N/e-D theme song, just because. Not all lines apply, obviously. But the chorus definitely does, and quite a few other lines.


Running On Empty - Jackson Browne

Looking out at the road rushing under my wheels
Looking back at the years gone by like so many summer fields
In sixty-five I was seventeen and running up one-o-one
I don't know where I'm running now, I'm just running on

Running on - running on empty
Running on - running blind
Running on - running into the sun
But I'm running behind

Gotta do what you can just to keep your love alive
Trying not to confuse it with what you do to survive
In sixty-nine I was twenty-one and I called the road my own
I don't know when that road turned onto the road I'm on

Running on - running on empty
Running on - running blind
Running on - running into the sun
But I'm running behind

Everyone I know, everywhere I go
People need some reason to believe
I don't know about anyone but me
If it takes all night, that'll be all right
If I can get you to smile before I leave
Looking out at the road rushing under my wheels
I don't know how to tell you all just how crazy this life feels
I look around for the friends that I used to turn to to pull me through
Looking into their eyes I see them running too

Running on - running on empty
Running on - running blind
Running on - running into the sun
But I'm running behind

Honey you really tempt me
You know the way you look so kind
I'd love to stick around but I'm running behind
You know I don't even know what I'm hoping to find
Running into the sun but I'm running behind

Regardless of the song, I'm gonna be all right. Really. I get through this slump every year. Just because it's more intense doesn't mean I can't handle it.

So It Begins

700 words today. Only 133.33333 words off of the schedule for a half NaNo.

Epiphany

So I figured out how to quiet my inner turmoil and make Maylene stop pounding on the door (actually, Maylene may still be pounding, but Ayliel's been indulged and strengthened lately):

Physical exertion and competition.

So, in short, I stopped having my mental issues about mid-way through this week. Good thing, too.

Fundamentally Different

Time for a little venting. Girls cannot do everything guys can do in an athletic sense. Girls who argue against that point are ignorant of basic facts. However, there are some things in athletics that guys cannot do as well as girls. This allotment of specialies is the inequality that actually iritates me greatly.

Let us take a trip to practice today. I swam with the top two girls on the team in my lane (we were only three to a lane, because people were missing). Now, I'm not even relay material anymore (the ferret officially beat me out of my last-hope relay spot unless I pull off a miracle). I'm not a top-ranker. I've scored one point in a state meet. A great accomplishment, but nothing extraordinary. Yet I was not only beating top-rank guys in a set, I was doing a faster set. There were guys doing the times I was doing too, but I was beating guys that were higher in the guys' pecking order than I am in the girls' pecking order. This is nothing new. I do it almost every day, and I'm not the only one. Of the two lanes that normally do the sets I do, one is girls and the other is guys. The majority of the girls' lane often beats the majority of the guys' lane.

But when it comes to races, to meets, do the girls even come close? No! I get beat by every stinkin' one of them! The slowest varsity guys can pull off times equal to or better than mine, despite the fact that in practice I can beat some of the guys that make up their relays (not all; I didn't say all). It drives me crazy!

Now, we could blame this on male lethargy and ego, or a hypothetical female inability to compete (though I don't know if either of those, especially the last one, could ever be proven). But scientifically, women are better suited to extended physical exertion. Women are more inclined to endurance than to explosion. This isn't just through observation: the chemical levels prove it too. I can't remember what either chemical is called, but women have more of the endurance chemical and men have more of the sprinting chemical.

I guess that what is meant to be is what is, but that doesn't mean it can't irritate me from time to time.

Disappointment

So, today I not only swam terrible times, but I ruined an almost three-year stint at a goal I made...almost three years ago. Around that time, I made a goal not to punch people anymore. Stop laughing--the goal wasn't to stop hitting people altogether, just no closed-fist, full effort punches (since that's my definition of a punch anyway). Well, I punched someone today. I made at least half the girls' swim team happy while I was at it, but that's only a minor consolation.

Moreover, Ayliel and Maylene are fighting again. This time Maylene has a stronger front; she is fueled by leftover mad cow disease that wasn't dispelled with an antibiotic dose of real life.

All in all, not the most pleasant of days for me.

Sweet Madame Blue

Since I have found myself in possession of time I did not intend to have, and because literary constructions is waiting for blueprints, and even though I should be in bed, I've decided to chronicle an event that was insightful, fun, and altogether satisfying. Of course, as it always is, anything important takes me forever to write.

Today was the Blue & Gold swim meet. For captains, those words spell stress. (I know, us captains can't read very well.) About a week ago, we picked our teams, and my team--BLUE--got stiffed with first pick. See, the system works like this: the first pick chooses one person (guys and girls choose together) and the second pick chooses two. Then we go along, choosing two at a time. Well, long story short, the teams were even in an uneven way; Blue's girls were handicapped when compared to Gold's girls, but Gold's guys were not matched perfectly with Blue's guys. So really, for me, it became a matter of hanging on to enough points to have my guys' team make up the difference. Sounds easy, don't it?

Not so much. I had forgotten to pick a backstroker. Not through sheer stupidity, but through confusion. I thought I had picked one, but my co-captain and I second-guessed for a moment and chose a guy for some reason (it was a good reason, I just can't remember it). So I went the entire time thinking I had a backstroker, all the while leaving a noticeable gap in my lineup. (I had no sprinters either, but I can make people sprint.)

In the end, responsibility for filling the gap fell to me--but I'm not a backstroker. My seed time was six seconds behind the second-slot backstroker (by the way, six seconds is a LOT). Anyway, enough about personal stress; let's move on to the stress that filling up the rest of the team gave me.

Really, the Blue & Gold is an elaborate game of rock-paper-scissors. Each captain tries to guess what the other captain will do, thus changing the strategy and fight for points. The Gold girls' captain was scientific about this; she got stats, numbers, times, charts, etc. from the coach's website and other sources. I visited the charts too, and wrote down a few times, but mostly I just thought it out over the course of four or five days. Eventually, I decided that I couldn't guess any better than I already had, and I threw my lineup together in 45-60 minutes. Not too shabby.

The only benefit of the way I did it was that the greyhound, the Gold girl captain, overestimated my intelligence. Of course, I helped her by talking about a supposed "stroke of brilliance" all week, but she should know better than to believe me when I'm trash talking. She thought I would split the fast people up in my relays to ensure second and third place, seeing as I couldn't take first against the fastest relays they could put up. So I won every relay, because she split her relays. Hah. Take that. That's what you get for out-thinking me on the fly, I.M., and 200 free.

Ultimately, I had my lineup set and there was nothing I could do about it but motivate people. Unfortunately, my best manner of motivation--yelling--doesn't always work on peers. I had to be NUTURING. Can you say "shoot me"? Before the first three events were through, I had two people stop in the middle of races. I had both of them telling me I was terrible for asking them to do the things I did. One of them, I might add, was doing the exact same events she does every stinking meet, but I still got crap about it. The other just wouldn't listen...to me, anyway. Eventually she finished the race, but she continually asked me to scratch her out of her second event. Hello! I can't do that! I only have twelve girls to work with! I need the events filled, hun! But saying that would have been mean. So I had to nuture. I growled to myself a couple of times.

But all was not lost, for others stepped up where I hadn't expected them to. There are twin freshman on the team, and I chose one over the other because--looking at the numbers--she does well under pressure. In the 500 yard freestyle, the longest race we swim in high school, these JV swimmers managed to finish within a tenth of a second of each other. But the one on my team came out on top in spite of nearly missing her last wall. I was so happy! You have no idea.

The meet wore on, times were placed, points scored, key DQs pronounced, I dropped two seconds on my backstroke time and forced the girl next to me to match her Region time, and in the end...well, let's look back on history.

I have never been on a winning team in the B&G. Never ever.

BUT I WAS TODAY! BWAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA! The Gold team had to serve us dinner tonight, because they LOST! Hah! Spaghetti never tasted so good. Delish.

My moral of the story: I'll never get mad at Dan about a meet's setup again, and I'll always try to do what he's asking me to do. Also, never underestimate your opponent, or your allies.

Though I guess the greyhound's moral would be: Don't overestimate people who don't like to do research.

It's All Relative

So, during Drama 1 last class period, three of my friends and I were critiqued, and each received very specific recommendations. One's actions appeared unnatural, another's voice was too mellow, one spoke sideways, and I had difficulties putting up the appearance of a nuturing mother. The most hilarious part about all of it was that everything mentioned was completely natural for each person. For example, when my children come crying to me, I will be the mother who says, "Suck it up, child! Deal with it!" Later, at swim practice, I drew an interesting parallel from acting to writing. My problems with my character come from her, Mother, being portrayed simply as me talking. She isn't herself; she's me in a disguise. It's just like writing. My characters don't become real to the reader until they stop being my voice in disguise. When characters become themselves, and begin to behave on their own, is when art happens.

I had another enlightening thought that had to do with relating one thing to another thing, but I lost it while I wrote this. Goodbye, thought.

At Last! An Idea!

Adapted from a writer's headstone: At last, a plot!

Anyway, I finally found a topic for one of our English essays that is personal, but not so personal that it's going to kill me to write it or share it! It's far removed from the present time, though effects are still present, it didn't have any heartbreaking effects, and it's actually pretty hysterical in retrospect. I thought it was funny then, too. I love having a thick skin.

Oh, you want to know the idea? Yeah, for the "write a narrative about a time when you were an outsider, isolated because of social, intellectual, or ethnic differences between you and others" question, I'm writing about being the only girl who played kickball in elementary school. Score for freewriting. That wasn't what I was planning on doing at all, but it kicks my other idea's trash.

Perspective

There's nothing like hearing other people's problems to put your own in their place. In a way, I'm glad that my friend told me about his home issues today, because it made me realize that while my current problem isn't an itty bitty one, it could certainly be worse, and that helps be deal with it. But that's really the only positive part about it, and it's not very positive for him.

Three Words

MAD COW DISEASE!

That was mainly for the bluebird, in case anyone thought they should have understood and didn't.

Face-Suckers

"What a boring date!" Rori exclaimed for the umpteenth time.

The Writers' Block meeting was attended by the regular three (Dax, Yoda, Ayliel/Me), plus the usual latecomer (Puff), and an unexpected visit from the long-absent president (Rori). The aspiring authors sat in a clump under the pavilion at a neighborhood park, occasionally casting glances up the hill to a pair of teenagers that Ayliel would have found fitting subjects for her satirical playwriting assignment in creative writing: The Attack of the Tonsil-touching, Lip-smacking Face-suckers. It was well known in the club that both OHS and PGHS were having Homecoming that day; the majority of the absent members were at PG's event. What was more apparent was that the couple went to one school or the other--the girl was wearing a violently pink formal.

"Yeah," Yoda agreed. "I mean, they didn't even bring a lunch or something to make it look legit. They just sit there making out."

Puff laughed. "Who can tell which head belongs to which person? I can't."

"I can't separate the arms either," Dax said.

For anyone who was simply listening to the conversation, nothing made any sense. In between discussing writing ventures, there was the dream-analysis portion of the meeting, the sketch-book investigation and discussion of comics portion, and the usual "why haven't you been updating, you good-for-nothing slacker?" interrogations. And the entire presentation was sprinkled with frequent examination of the couple on the hill. For a gathering of socially inept, human-interaction-entertained writers, the two proved to be highly intriguing. The subjects discussed varied from a passing old man being the girl's father to sneaking up behind the pair to blow Ayliel's lifeguarding whistle before rating the aesthetic composition of the couple's positon from different angles, thus instigating a debate on which view was superior.

But honestly, if one was planning on sitting around for nearly THREE HOURS making out, wouldn't one want to do it in a secluded area (i.e. not a public park) and maybe not in the middle of the day? And one definitely doesn't want to be within visual scrutiny of the nearest set of wannabe novelists. They had the gall to give us funny looks when they left the park.

Settlement

Since that last post is soooo depressing, I decided that I can't let it sit around as my current post for any longer. I'm tired, but I'm not depressed. So instead I'll stick a rant on top! Huzzah for a change!

I have written so much crap! I'm not even kidding. Because of the Sterling Scholar stuff, I've been going through every line of prose that I've saved since the Great Explosion of the Compuker of Death. Some of it actually extends to before the GECD, but those are few. Anyway, the point is that so much of it is so sickeninly crappy. And not all the crappy stuff is old. Example: I just wrote a reaction paper to stuff we did in government and citizenship. Gag me! It's terrible, as far as literary merit goes. But I won't fix it either (by my logic, Rhees can't talk, so he really can't judge if my writing struggles in one essay). There are so many times when I've settled for less than I was capable of. Even with the application essay I wrote recently! The idea was excellent, especially for a late-night idea, but I didn't bother to clean it up. All it really took was one deleted sentence, a few added words, one taken out here and there, and it was ten times better. But I settled. I'm sick of settling! No more settling.

(Says the Cynic in Me: Yeah, that resolution will last until the next deadline. Explications are due soon, aren't they?)
(Says the Realist: Um, Cynic is right. You're gonna be settling on some of the less important scenes. I betcha that if we looked at it, we could even figure out which ones you'll settle on.)
(Says the Optimist: Shushupyourmouths! See if I care! Oh wait, I'm the optimist. Happy day, all!)

Tearstains

Why these silver drops
On a blushing field?
Why the wracking sobs
That give my weakness strength?
That last time this happened
The last time it was this bad
There was a fair reason

But this time, this time is different
Why the tears for something so simple?
Why do I fall apart at one day, one incident?
Is it the responsibility?
The desire for the past?
The fact that there's no way out?
That I have no control?
Or is it simply the final straw?

It couldn't be the last
Because there's still nothing
I'm going to do
There's nothing I can do
Without making it worse
And a further division
Is as far from my goal
As anything can get.

Home?

My home is ruined. I'm not kidding. In one particular place for which I feel a great deal of affection, at least half the import of the place has been stripped away, replaced with unfinished new wood. Every mark that has so engaged my mind for countless years has been not only attacked, but completely removed from my sight. Every carving that has exemplified my time spent there has been totally eradicated from the vicinity. The unintelligible markings on the eastern wall that had given rise to so much fond speculation have vanished.

Not only this, but the very entrance of my abode has been remade to look like that of other homes, and not like mine at all. The characteristics that so defined it in my mind are blotched out by new additions, and the smell is not that of my dwelling. It is the scent of newness, so unlike the aroma that has welcomed me upon my return every day prior to this. The sheer vastness of the entry has robbed the passage of its former closeness, its former protection. Bare and open, it is mine no longer.

In summary, the new additions to the Rec. Center are nice, and I'm sure a lot of people will enjoy the steam sauna (I will not be among them), but I can't help but feel that I've lost a part of my past with the remodling. Especially with the stripping of the sauna walls.

Big Mouth

I really need to use my promises sparingly. I take them far too seriously to use them like I do. Today, to get Little Brother #1 to do a back dive off the diving board, I agreed to promise that if he did it, I would try the trick he had just accomplished. What was that, you ask? Well, that was a gainer. For anyone who doesn't know, that's when you jump frontwards but do a backflip. He even told me that I didn't have to do it after he did the back dive, but I had promised, so I tried. I made it a quarter of the way around, just enough to do the most beautiful back flop anyone could ask for. My skin is still all tingly, and I did it at least a half hour ago, if not longer.

The Walking Dead

That's what I looked like today...

Sometimes my dream world is further off base when I’m awake than it is when I’m asleep, but last night definitely didn’t follow that game plan. I spent five hours of when I should have been sleeping being chased by various undead beings, ranging from grave rats to some human-sized version of the Balrog. Honestly, people. There were two necromancers, the woman being the dominant and the man being a subsidiary (the feminist in me, perhaps?). We were chased through a huge mall, initially, and we (the group of people I was with; I think I was near to being the oldest, and there couldn’t have been more than four of us) couldn’t catch a break with the weather. You know, the whole sunlight-beats-undead thing. It was partly cloudy, and the mall had a glass ceiling, so we should have been okay, right? Not so much. The clouds seemed to follow us, and these weren’t fluffy clouds either. They were the thunderheads I pray for at work (could that be karma in the form of nightmares?). The undead creatures following us at the mall were largely shambling human corpses.

Then, somehow, we ran to a boarding school. I know it was a boarding school because there were places to sleep, though it wasn’t as though we took advantage of them. Mainly we spent our time running up and down the huge spiral staircases, running from the grave rats and more shambling corpses. Then we ran up a tight spiral staircase and into the techie booth for the auditorium. That wasn’t a good idea, ‘cause it was darker there than anywhere else, and I was fairly traumatized by innumerable enemies. Going down another tight spiral staircase, we passed a bunch of places that run together in my brain, but there was much running to and from the tight spiral, until finally we just ran down the whole thing to the deep, dank cellar place beneath the building.

Oddly, it wasn’t as dark down there. Everything glowed red (so either I love the dungeon or it was a very angry place, says Freud). There were lots of little cells there, about three feet by three feet, made all of cement but without doors or bars (remnants of Support Your Local Sherrif?). There were drains in the center of the room where the floor sank (trauma from work, perchance? The cells could have been the showers at the Scera changed from tile to cement, now that I think about it). Only two of the numerous cells were filled, one with the human-sized Balrog and the other with a pasty white, over seven feet, bald, wiry, thick-skulled something or other. He had big teeth. These two undead were actually very friendly, and they apologized time over time about how, if their masters arrived, they would turn all evil on us and try to devour our souls. They were really sorry about that. And of course, since we had been seen on the spiral staircase and nowhere else for at least two hours of the dream, it wasn’t too tough for the bad guys to know where we’d end up. So then we were running from Balrog and Bobby (the pasty guy’s name was something like that, maybe it was Fred).

We managed to get outside, and Balrog and Bobby were outside of their masters’ range, so we chatted for a while to catch our breath. But it was nighttime, so we were practically doomed for another six hours of dreamtime.

The worst part of it was that I didn’t even sleep the entire time. I started to fall asleep the first time after an hour of tossing and turning, and that was around 1:00. I continued to wake up periodically during the dream, only to pick it back up again when I fell back asleep. The last time I remember looking at the clock was 6:15-ish. Bleagh. I feel terrible.

Now, I’d blame this whole thing on the fact that I re-read Sabriel recently, but that was two weeks ago. Either my psyche has delayed reflexes, or it was something else.

What the Stupid?

How stupid can ya get? How hard is it to know that a Suburban is at least twice as big as an Accord, and therefore more immovable and lengthy? The good news is, I'm not dead, and I did not get in a wreck. Too bad it took a near-wreck to get the idea through my thick skull that Blue Thunder is not The Beast and vice versa. And the worst part probably is that the occupied car next to me belonged to a good friend, so I will undoubtedly hear about my stupidity at school. Gah! I know it was stupid, I don't need to be told again. I hope he lets the matter lie.

Other good news is that at today's swim captains' meeting, we got a lot accomplished, considering. Pretty much, the team will vote on the color of the sweatshirts, we'll do some research on price, and we'll have them ordered. Hopefully we'll have them before the Park City trip (if people aren't around for signing up what you want on the hood, I think I'll just put their last name on it). We have the sweat pants planned, color and all, and the T-shirt. All things considered, that is saying a lot in and of itself. We have the opening party almost planned, and requests for certain types of practices at certain times. We're making signs for the first meet and we're going on the preliminaries for our coach's retirement stuff. All in all, not too bad.

Flipping Out

A telling from Friday, delayed until Monday, after it was fancied up on Sunday. Do tell me what you think of the actual writing. It might be useful for random contests that I don't want to actually WRITE anything for, but I want to enter anyway. :D And yes, I realize that the tricks listed in this piece are not difficult on the grand scale of things, but for me, these were huge accomplishments.


I have never been one for excessive daring. True, roller coasters enthrall me to no end, but that is usually where my search for bigger thrills ends. The times are rare that I strive to force adrenaline into my system through stunts.

But somehow, staff parties at the swimming pool can change a person.

As a lifeguard, I know the reason for every rule at the pool, and I therefore know the way to break each without dying or causing serious injury. After breaking all the rules I could think of, I turned to more docile entertainment: tricks off the diving board. My repertoire was small, and the most difficult trick was a pike dive—on a good day.

But if anything can change a person more than a staff party, it’s a challenge.

Usually I will cede the spotlight when it comes to stunts. Challenge me to a race, and I’ll jump to the starting line. Challenge me to a game, and I’ll be the first to learn the rules and find the loopholes. But I’m not an acrobat, and I won’t claim to be.

Somehow, that inhibition melted when I saw that Jared, the coworker that started the challenge, had the limit of a pike dive as well. After that, it was all just a matter of guts. I suppose that’s why I accepted the challenge.

Through some manner of masochistic stupidity, I mentioned that once my mom had done a back dive off the board and I had been unable to follow suit, much to my eternal shame. Jared immediately grasped the weakness and pulled off the back dive, raising his eyebrows. Hello, gauntlet. How I do wish people would not abuse you with such frequent throwing.

“You work on that flip of yours and I’ll get back to you,” I said. His front flip was more of a mutated upside-down twist, so while he hammered out a straighter variation, I practiced backbends off the side of the pool. No one would ever know that I had once been a gymnast for a six-year span.

The next obstacle was the fact that the board was much farther from the water than the wall was. After several minutes of psychological anguish and a bout of clinging to the board in a most pitiful crouch, I managed to throw my hands back and follow them into the pool.

So, of course, I had to do it again after I matched Jared’s front flip. The second swing at the dive resulted in a heinous over-rotation, and I slapped my legs on the water.

“Just a bit farther,” Jared mocked, “and you’ll have a back flip.”

“Then I’ll raise you to that.” Curse my unfettered mouth.

Jared had never done a back flip either, but for some reason I was not the first to try it. I was grateful for the lapse in gentlemanly procedure; “ladies first” was a rule that could keep itself away from such trials.

“This is all just self-inflicted torment,” I laughed when he scrunched his face again at the end of the board. Every time he got close to jumping, his facial features would collapse into an image of agony.

“I know,” he said.

“What can happen? We both know you won’t hit the board, so what’s left? A back-flop? It’s just water.” Despite the competition, I wanted to be an encouraging friend. I’m sure I sounded encouraging too, but that didn’t mean I believed anything I was saying. I had drawn my line at the back dive. Jared could beat me out, I had decided, and I would find a way to heal the wounded ego. Better than a wounded head.

“You’re right.” Jared’s next almost-attempt got so close that he had actually bent his knees to jump. He opened his eyes and stabbed a finger at me. “If I do it, do you promise to do it too?”

A moment’s hesitation, then a pained, “I promise.” Reason shrieked at me, but my mouth had outrun it and I was committed. Promises are sacred, especially death pacts.

Jared closed his eyes again and started to think about going through with the back flip. My encouraging words had dried up. I wouldn’t stop him, but fire would burn cold before I helped him.

Seven minutes later—I insisted on keeping time—Jared jumped into a nearly perfect back flip.

If I were one to swear, I can conjure several words that would have left my mouth, none of them particularly pleasant.

I paced to the edge of the board and hung my heels over the end. If I let myself think, it would never happen. A promise was a promise. One, two, three.

What? Lady Cynicism, are you yet living?

Yes, yes I am. But I must say that I was disappointed. The first moment, that leap, that flinging of one’s self into nothingness—that was terrifying. But after that, everything was expected, and occurred without a thought or fear, and the water cradled my fall.

There might be something to that.

Officially

Officially, I'm going to take a crack at Kin of Kumei, sequel to Son of Sferesh. If all does not go well, and the plot line that does not yet exist in its entirety never solidifies, I can always abandon it and go back to the Son of Sferesh as a stand-alone plan.

As far as revision of Son of Sferesh goes, my mum finished reading it, and gave me quite a few criticisms that were very refreshing. I'm bouncing a few ideas around because of her. Endrea might not be so stupid now. She might have a brain. Heck, the rest of her family does; she must have picked something up. She can still be a cocky jerk, though.

Another friend finished it, and he hasn't given me any feedback yet, aside from his opinion on the projected sequel. I've plunged into working on it, but it's reminding me why I've always hated beginnings. Blegh. Pretty much all the torment that kept me from Son of Sferesh for so long...all over again. But still, I'm only thirteen pages in, and I can totally tell the difference between my viewpoint characters. That makes me happy. I didn't even try, but they're so easily discernable. Huzzah for things working out!

Useless Information

Tonight was a UI escapade with mi padre. We discussed everything from the origination of the term "hooker" to SKSes/Vietnam War to how customs will confiscate a bayonet but not a semi-automatic weapon to the history of several major narcotics to, eventually, the course of The Illiad. I love my pappy.

In other news, that I had meant to deliver differently to Terri, I finished SoS on Sunday. 330 pages, 42 chapters. I MADE IT!

Broken

I'm in the last chapter (chapter "Broken", FYI). Two more have died in this chapter, and at the end of chapter "Sacrifice" I killed one more (have I mentioned that Ciria is dead yet? She is). Right now Maric is suffering from the loss of two loved ones and another close acquaintence, the most immense, total muscle pain that could ever be imagined, and skin that hurts so bad that he would rather enjoy it if all of it fell off. But that's okay, because soon the last two will disappear. I'm so close I can taste it. *licks her outlines* Yes, precious, nearly there.

In other news, today I wrestled with a slimy, moldy, evil hose that saw fit to attack me with soiled water and its own mildewy self. Ewwwww. I hates it, I do.

Sabotage!

So there I am, striving to make a battle scene worth reading. I'm certainly not in the mood, but there's hardly anything for me to skip to instead. I mean, the end of the battle is the End, so I can't skip to the scene I feel like doing. I've resorted to mood music. In short, that means I'm desperate. Not so desperate as to make me walk down and up the stairs though, so my mood music was the Pirates of the Carribean soundtrack instead of Lord of the Rings. So I'm at the computer, struggling with what I want to say, what Maric wants to say, and what Rehde will say whether he or I wants him to or not. I'm tussling with formations, with how Sferesh will charge, with how Kumei will answer, whether Kumei will answer in time to save the front rank, whether half the pikemen will be dead before the armies even meet, how in the world Maric is handling this, and how to work this all into the part of the battle I've already written, and my dad decides to sabotage me. He gets on his computer, picks the stickiest, most repetitive pop queen song that I haven't expressed complete dislike for, and blasts it on his compuker! It's been stuck in my head ever since. Grrrrr. He's not helping the stress of the scene. When it comes out flat and lecturish, I'm blaming him. Nyeah.

Bonding

EFY was freakin' amazing. 'Nuff said.

Since then, I've been bonding with the fam. Not many people can say that their bonding time with their dad consists of rocking out to Green Day, Simple Plan, and Good Charlotte, especially when he knows the words better than you, but I can. When we went boating on Saturday, Little Bro #1 did disco moves/beauty queen wave/picked his nose/other assorted goofing off-ness while wakeboarding, and Little Bro #2 was schooled in the art of taunting Padre. We also constructed an interpretive dance to the song "Toy Soldiers" that we perform on an hourly basis now. Today, bonding consisted of taking a noodle lightsaber and bashing Sir Droolio (Little Bro #4) in the face with it, all the while discussing Seasame Street. Currently, I am disguised as a Valkyrie, with uneven braids and a Viking helm to prove it. I've decided to stay this way from dinner to bed time. Now all I need is a Goblin King. *begins singing his theme song* Hmmm, definintely a day worth remembering. I told Sir Droolio to start a journal with it. "Today, July 10th, I bonded with my sister. She whacked me in the head with a noodle stick while telling me how awesome Oscar the Grouch, Cookie Monster, and Grover are. I tried to steal her Oscar slippers, but that resulted in being whacked with those instead of the noodle. In the future, should I wonder what is wrong with me and why, I will remember this day."

Slaughter

It's begun. I killed a slew of scouts the other day, and today Heth was impaled by an arrow shot by Eyend'sal, Endrea's and Elyste's guard. Next chapter, Eyend'sal dies, at Elyste's hand. I doubt Elyste will see that, but that's to inform him anyhow. He does get to kill a named character (though, I won't grant his wish of killing Endrea; I like Zefran too much to do that to him). In the following chapter, my favorite character croaks (being my favorite is the bane of any character's existence, whether I'm writing the story or not). In the next one, at least three other named characters keel over (more of them might die). So really, I'm not that gruesome. I only have five scheduled deaths that anyone really cares about, and one of them should have some people rejoicing. So there.

Oops.

*peeks over the edge of her legal pad*
Urm, I just broke 300 pages. It was an accident, I promise.
*adds another check mark to the "Does Son of Sferesh need to go on a diet?" poster*

Overwrought

I have never worked so hard for so little. I spent seven hours, total, writing a grand scene that took up all of two pages. SEVEN! And it still isn't what I wanted it to be. I haven't been this frustrated since the second chapter (that thing was of the devil). I guess I shouldn't be too hard on myself; I've always cheated my way out of goodbye scenes before, so I don't have a lot of practice. Still, two pages, seven hours--what's wrong with this picture?

One Step Closer

All the required winter activities should be concluded in one chapter, approximately five pages. Then we move into spring. Guess what happens in spring? THE END!

Today in SoS

Today Ciria decided she likes being a lithe wolf more than being an old woman, she played with wooden blocks, she knocked over the Captain of the Sword, and while sacrificing four days of her life, she bailed me out of a problem Maric caused a while back. Score. I love Ciria. I want to be like her when I'm a grandma. I'm calling my grandkids "whelp". No joke.

Oo-oo, I Want to Linger

So I'm back from Girls' State. In the course of the week, I ran for the Nationalist Party positions of County Delegate from Walker City, Freedom County Vice Chairwoman, and State Secretary (the last, I didn't know I was running for until someone from my city nominated me). I made County Delegate, but that was it.

For actual elected positions, I ran for Walker City Judge, Freedom County Sherrif, and State Supreme Court Justice. We would give 30-second spiels about why we should be elected (in the case of Supreme Justice, it was 1 minute). My sherrif one was hilarious (it was written without my conscious supervision at about 2:30 a.m.). Somehow, my county decided to go with the utterly serious candidates. Oh well. My Justice spiel was pretty good, I thought, especially since I brought in my appointed positions (I'll get to that in a minute). I got on the primary ballot for that, but I didn't make it to the final bit. But I had a blast.

My appointed positions were Town Transient and County Executioner. Unofficially, I was the campaign queen. I couldn't campaign for myself to save my life, but I campaigned for everyone else like no other. It's actually how I got my hobo appointment...but that's a long story. There was one point in time where I had a head-to-knee campaign scheme for all Freedom County Nationalists (I had one Federalist in that scheme, but oh well). I had stuff tied onto my head, stuck to my arms, but shirt blouse, my waist, and of course, the hem of my skirt. I was campaigning for my entire city, plus girls from the other cities. I think I got labeled that day; I was crazy.

The best part was definitely the girls, though. I made so many friends! Everyone was so accepting. Even my brand of crazy was praised. It was pretty much awesome. I got to know girls from other cities too. I loved it (even if some of the meetings were THREE HOURS LONG! Our county council meeting was funny though; apparently 97% of Freedom County is disabled, blind, or blond. 1% is scent deficient).

259

259, 259, so many pages so far from divine
When will it end, when did it ever begin?
Is there any way I'll reach el fin?
Revising is going to be a nightmare and a half
Maybe someday I'll look back and laugh
At this story like I do as so many more
And this one is so fraught with ugly gore

Am I really going to finish?

~~~~~~

Um, yeah. Whatever that was...

Water Polo Banquet

The banquet was a blast. I love presenting captain's awards...and I get to do it two more times! Probably. At least once more. Anyway, here's the results:

Most Valuable Player - Bobcat
Most Improved - Greyhound
Most Inspirational - ME!!!
Rookie of the Year - Chipmunk
Coach's Award - Fishing Cat

My captain's award (given by the bobcat) was the "I'll Shoot You With My Knife!" award. (Long explanation. Let's just say I was very, very angry on the freeway and the only weapon I had was a flip knife.)

I also found out that I made 1st Team All-State! That means that in our division, I was one of the top seven players! Yipee! The bobcat was 1st Team too, and the greyhound was 2nd.

I loved seeing everyone again. About five of us stayed there forever with the three coaches joking and laughing and assessing what type of drunk person each of us would make (I'm either a corner drunk or a giggly drunk; no one could officially decide; the bobcat is a destructive drunk, we had an angry drunk, a babbling drunk, a pass-out-after-one-despite-big-talk drunk, etc.). It was just so awesome to be with everyone again. I hope we do the summer games; I told Tia I was totally up for it if we did.

My goals for next year:
1 - Get meaner (I'm really way too nice [well, clean] for my position)
2 - Learn to shoot (Angry-Gay-Guy style, I suppose; but I need to learn to aim while I'm at it)

Responsibility

[Excerpt from page 231, chapter 28, Son of Sferesh]

[Anloi] whirled her head around, knocking [Maric] in the jaw. “Sorry. But what do you intend to gain by going back?”

Maric rubbed his jaw a little. “Nothing, but I can’t leave Kalen and the others in the position they’re in. I have nothing, but they have mountains to gain by me coming back.”

“Maric, they’ll try to kill you!”

“I hope they’ll be afraid enough of me to keep those attempts at bay until I tell them where Endrëa is. Knowing her, she didn’t tell them where she was going, and though I’ve never been a brother, I can guess that Kalen is frantic, and Randalek too.” Almost as an afterthought, he added, “Zefran’s probably not in the best of moods either. His betrothed has gone missing, and I have no doubts as to who he’ll be blaming.”

“I didn’t tell my family where I was going either! I never would have gotten anywhere; Brandon would have stopped me before I got to the street. But I’m not asking you to go back and explain to them. It is Endrëa’s fault she came to Sferesh; let it be her fault that she won’t be coming home anytime soon.”

“You didn’t tell your father? You didn’t even leave a note? What were you thinking?”

“That’s not my point, Maric. I’m ready to accept responsibility for what I did, and I am, as she says, a simple tavern wench.” Maric’s chest vibrated against her back as he started to growl. “If I can accept it, so can Her Highness.”

Sometimes the difference between high schoolers' responsibility levels bothers me. Two people will do the same stupid thing (which can be labeled as irresponsible, but is not a part of the discussion right now), but one will blame others and the other will accept the blame as their own. It gets to me sometimes. Considering that Anloi and Endrea are both in their late teens, this is more or less my allusion to that.

Sunset

The ocelot clawed her way out of the river and joined her fellow defenders at the roots of a rowan.

Yesterday, the water polo season came to a close.

They huddled together and the general spoke some parting words.

We lost our game, and took third in state. We closed the predicted gap between us and the team we lost to by over half.

The bobcat called loudly, and the others echoed in turn. The ocelot bowed her head as they chanted, and golden drops of liquid emotion mingled with the sweat of her labors.

As we cheered our cheer for the final time, I cried.

The flamingo passed as the ocelot watched, and as the fishing cat paced along, she paused. The ocelot embraced her dear friend, knowing that they would only see each other once or twice more.

So many friends are gone. So many more are leaving.

As the ocelot watched from her tree, her eyes glistened. For the end of this season's defenders meant much more. It heralded another end, one that the ocelot found much harder to face.

Six years. It won't ever be the same.

The ocelot looked to the far horizon, seeing a second sunset. It wasn't her sunset, and it wasn't really the second. It would be far from the last sunset. The colors flashed brighter than she had ever seen, and the final light trickled onto the backs of more than it had when she had watched before. The flamingo waded downriver, and the fishing cat bounded away into the mists. The bobcat faded, leaving only a half-image. Almost like ghosts, the badger and the wolfhound appeared somewhere in the distance, if only for a moment. Somewhere a mighty bird called. The sunlight drained from the sky, and the ocelot wept again.

Take It Easy

The chorus-like parts of this song are now my theme song for the next undetermined period of time.

"Take It Easy" -- The Eagles

Well, I'm running down the road
tryin' to loosen my load
I've got seven women on my mind,
Four that wanna own me,
Two that wanna stone me,
One says she's a friend of mine

Take It easy, take it easy
Don't let the sound of your own wheels
drive you crazy
Lighten up while you still can
don't even try to understand
Just find a place to make your stand
and take it easy

Well, I'm a standing on a corner in Winslow, Arizona
and such a fine sight to see
It's a girl, my Lord, in a flatbed Ford
slowin' down to take a look at me
Come on, baby, don't say maybe
I gotta know if your sweet love is gonna save me
We may lose and we may win
though we will never be here again
so open up, I'm climbin' in,
so take it easy

Well I'm running down the road trying to loosen my load,
got a world of trouble on my mind
lookin' for a lover who won't blow my cover,
she's so hard to find

Take it easy, take it easy
don't let the sound of your own wheels make you crazy
come on baby, don't say maybe
I gotta know if your sweet love is gonna save me, oh oh oh
Oh we got it easy
We oughta take it easy

Praises Be!

Maric has acquired another talent! Considering that he's only been REALLY good at one thing he has tried thus far, this is a happy thing. Well, not really, because the talent is thievery. But it keeps the guy alive! All should rejoice, except for him. He needs to feel bad. *gives Maric remorse* Poof! I never knew he would be a good thief. I guess his craftsman's hands are for more than just pottery.

Really, I'm just having issues with calculus right now, so I played around with Son of Sferesh for a while. For those calculus students that will read this:

What is the format for making your calculator do finite integrals for you? I can't remember, and it's making Section I, Part B of the practice tests a lot harder than it needs to be.

On a Half Hour of Sleep

pretty much anything seems hilarious.

Last night the water polo team had a sleep-over. We all swore we'd go to sleep at a reasonable hour, but who were we kidding? Normally, I can sleep through other people, but I couldn't this time, even though the only other two people awake at the time were whispering. I have no idea what we talked about all night, but we just sat there and talked (waking up the rest of the team eventually, of course). But the talking came after we donned our war paint. Using the ceremonial permanent marker, we drew designs all down one leg and had an Indian-ish design drawn upon our opposite foot. At first I objected, but really, at 3:30 AM, you can get me to do pretty much anything with a little mildly coherent persuasion. Really, I only slept for a half hour this morning, and none at all last night.

The game was nothing short of a travesty. We won by a landslide, making it all the more ridiculous. The girls team opposing us actually forfeited, but then they combined their three girls with all but three of their guys and played the game (which made me happy; guys are stronger, and make defending the middle more interesting). And now for some of the idiotic antics that all of us indulged in because we were high on poisoned carrots (don't ask).

The bobcat was probably the worst. When a girl grabbed her ankles, she giggled and said, "Don't grab my ankles; that's gay." When she hooked a girl with her feet and, due to the other girl's lack of stature, sank the player, she merrily said, "Oopsies" and swam past. That was by the other team's bench, so she got some funny looks and "what a jerk" comments. When she put her hand on a guy's arm to keep track of him, she said, "Oooh, you're strong." Being completely serious, of course. She convinced another guy that she didn't want him to guard her because he was strong--right before sweeping in a shot under his armpit (heh heh). That same guy she tricked had an issue with people putting their hands on him to keep track of him (the move is perfectly normal; it's even legal, which says something). He kept flicking my hand away, which just made me want to put it back to bug him. I was giggling by the time there was a turnover (and those of you who know me well realize how hard it is to get me giggling). The pinnacle one for me, though, was when this one kid, #21, came into set. I was setting up on him and my hips were down for a second and he grabbed my leg under the knee. Normally, I would just pull my leg out, or nudge his hand off or something. However, in my half-daze, I used my mouth's position next to his ear-guard to full advantage. Not bothering to keep my voice low, I told him, "Grab my leg and I'll kill you." He immediately let go and said, "Sorry," in a pitiful sort of tone. He really didn't want me guarding him after that, and never returned to set. It was actually kind of lame. I mean, he was probably near twice my weight. Wait for me to back up my threat a little before you lay off, stupid!

It's probably not that funny, except to me. Anyway, now I have to go clean the house. Yippee-kai-yay and a bucket of rum!

Ego Trip

To repair my pride after our pitiful final game during our tournament yesterday, I shall list three things that make me feel wonderful.

#1 - I finally broke 200 pages. I'm typing on 204 right now (well, not RIGHT now, but you know what I mean). Anloi is very tired, Maric hasn't shown up for over a chapter, and Sinx is going to very soon try to cheer Anloi up. Oh, and Ciria starts to give up on Sfereshan/Kumeyan prejudice. It's about time, woman!

#2 - One of the numbered guys (I can't remember his number; I should really give them animals, or at least the two that aren't graduating this year) was being random and weird and he texted the fishing cat "You're all beautiful in your own way." This was said to the carpool of six girls coming back from the tournament. He was asked to specify, and I really liked his reply. Now, I wouldn't be surprised if he was just making stuff up because he had to answer for every one of us in the car, but what he said about me still made me feel good. It was something to the effect of, "She's my favorite girl on the OHS swim team because she's so nice to me all the time. No one deserves her." Even if he was making stuff up, that was pretty sweet of him.

#3 - The mongoose, Puff of Writers' Block, gave me this compliment after reading the updates I had for her...a while ago. "I must congratulate you: I've been treating [Son of Sferesh] like a really good book. I was eager to get the new pages, finished them in a day, and am now reluctant to part with them. I don't think that's happened since... High Rhulainn came out." That's saying a lot, because she loves the Redwall books (High Rhulainn was the last one to come out).

Anyway, maybe I'll go try to write an article for the water polo team. Or do the laundry. I'll probably end up doing the latter. *sigh* Getting ready for vacations is what makes you need them, I swear.

A Leap too Long

I am exactly one line's length away from breaking 200 pages. I have stopped one line short of a complete 199. Why am I torturing myself like this, you might ask? Well, only because I am seriously the COOLEST sister in existence. My ickle brudders wanted the computer. Knowing what I know about my brain and my story, I knew that if I wrote that line, I would get into a thing I call the Discussion, and it would take me three pages to grind to a halt. So, being the awesome sibling that I am (they'll never realize I'm the coolest sister they could ask for, because I'm the only one they have), I relinquished control of the computer and I have not begun the Line. Now I'm out of the time necessary to write three pages. I'd be up till one if I started now. I'm going to be very on edge tomorrow, just so you know.

One. Stinking. Line.

UGH!

Chlorine Withdrawal

Today, come 7:05 a.m., I had officially been out of the water for twenty four hours. I was going crazy! Yesterday I watched the soccer game, and that made me long for soccer and land sports again (kind of "Nostalgia in Yellow Socks" revisited). It was even worse because I had been deprived of my yellow ball sport for the day. To deepen the depression, I found out that we focused on the sort of stuff I LOVE at practice yesterday. There was a separate set/hole-d practice and then--then, we practiced screening and picks. That's like, the best part ever! They named the play while I was gone, too. The cross-screen (I'm not going to explain it) is now called "Rainbows and Ponies". Thus shall it be called in games, and thus it shall be carried out. I lugged my water polo ball around with me all morning to console myself. I couldn't join in the post-practice dry-land workout either, because of my knees. I'm just having issues right now. And Tman, water polo does not suck, and it shows how far your arguments against it have fallen that you've resorted to prejudiced comments with no support. Therefore, come the beginning of the season next year, you are hereby banned from disuading impressionable freshmen and/or sophmores unless you can give valid, non-exclusionary evidence (meaning if you argue that it makes it so you can't swim, you can mention Paul, but you must also mention Lelani; be fair). That's really the only reason I hate you dissing on it. Right now, I couldn't care less. At the beginning of the season is when I hate it. Don't be stupid next season, or I'll have to attack your personal credibility.

Wow. Now I just sound ornery. I blame it on lack of chlorine! I'm sorry!

Why?

Why am I always the odd girl out? Why? And why must the odd guy out always be Mike? Curses. Why can't I get paired up with a slow boy? Or a stupid boy? Or a boy that isn't twice my size? Gosh dang! And he complains about me grabbing his arm. Well, if I could REACH the hand with the ball, maybe I WOULD! Nyah!

I actually don't hate it too much, except that I have to think hard to look like I'm out swimming him.

Game 2

Our first water polo game was against the best team in the state, and was used as a learning experience. Today was our first game against a team in 4A, and we were pumped. Our coach had been telling us that he had heard they were awesome, and especially that they had a good set (translation for the water polo illiterate: set is the offensive position that plays right in front of the goal. Also called hole, 2-meter, position 6). Since I play hole-d (the person who defends set) I was all prepared to have to step up and rely on my team to help me out of a bind. I was also ready to foul her into uselessness.

As it turned out, they had eight players (meaning they only had one sub). They didn't even sprint during the first two quarters (sprint = water polo equivalent of a jump ball. It's to see who starts with possession). Their set was decent, but I found that I'm just over decent at my defending. She never scored. She rarely even tried to take a shot. Half the time I had her left hand shoved straight under the water and clasped in my right (meaning that when they passed to her right hand, it was all too easy for me to jump across her and swat the ball away). I also managed to get a dirty player ejected (ejection = player sits in the corner for 20 sec. If three are given to the same player, they get rolled out of the game). She was goalie initially, but during the second half she played in the field (pool? Whatever). She guarded people by putting her elbow on their shoulder and her wrist under their chin. So she was basically crushing people's necks. I started to swim over her arm and push down with my chin when she tried it on me (if she wouldn't have let go, I would have either broken her arm or seriously screwed up her elbow). She kept trying to do it, so I flipped my back against her. Then she put both arms on my shoulders and straight forward (her arms were about six inches apart; yes, that move is illegal). I called for the ball so I could get her called on it, then she twisted her arms against mine. But my legs were stronger so I shoved her up into view and because I was yelling the refs saw it. I was proud.

A lot of the new/less experienced girls stepped up. We passed really well and we played as a team. There was no one person that was always our go-to girl. We scored eleven goals, and the most one person scored was four. I didn't score, but I had a few assist and a ton of steals. We paid attention on defense too, and we almost shut them out (they got one point). Our newbie goalie stepped up, as did everyone. It was an awesome game.

Rhymage

Today the bobcat and I rhymed words while we did our treading water. It helped a lot. I didn't notice how bad my legs hurt until AFTER we were finished! Good stuff. We were going to sing a song, but we couldn't think of one. I think we confused other people on what we were trying to do. We started making up words that rhymed too. Is "ool" a word?

Defenders

And, since we started defense at water polo today, I can actually call water polo the Defenders, no matter how incredibly corny that still is! (Time did not diminish the high levels of cheesiness.)

The ocelot glanced side to side furtively. Her face was half submerged, giving off an impression of apathy. But every muscle was tensed. She saw the bobcat coil her muscles out of the corner of her eye. When the larger cat sprung forward in the water, the ocelot was ready.

She leapt backwards into the bobcat's path. The bobcat lunged sideways, but the ocelot blocked that way too. The rolling about in the water lasted for only a few seconds, but at the end, the ocelot was the clear winner.

The ocelot's accomplishment of the day was that she had gotten a much larger cat to threaten her.

Osprey Opening

Hah! San Diego gave me more than sun. I got closer to the team, and one team member in particular decided that it was okay to talk in the presence of girls.

I have been swimming with the osprey since I was eleven. Yes, six years. Not once in those six years have we exchanged more words at once than, "Hey, good job" and "Thanks". Every once in a while it would be, "Thanks, you too." I have now had two conversations that lasted at least a minute each with this guy. Wow. Milestone moment.

Water Polo, Day 3

Hogui Bear was there! I'm so happy. He made me grin, and it made me work harder, just to show him what he's taught us. I wish he could be there all the time. *sigh* But he talked to the new coach about each one of us (privately, of course, but you could tell he was pointing to the players he knew and saying what he thought of them). That makes me happy as well.

I now know a total of...seven names, but I can only match six of them to a face. The names I know do not include people I knew before this season of water polo.

The new recruits are learning well. Yes, they are. Mwahaha! We'll make fiends of them yet. There are a certain two guys that I just met that are catching on quickly. Certain other folks are good too. Zach (guy #1 or 2, methinks) has a nice shot, but he hesitates about it. His little brother needs to get his arm out of the water when he throws.

Next week we start defensive work! Then I can really shine. I love defense oh so much. Beyond that, if I can prove that I can take hole-d, the bobcat won't have to worry about having to play both hole and hole-d. (I'm sorry to those of you who don't understand the positions I'm talking about. If you're really curious, I'll go into detail and perhaps scan a picture. On second thought, there will be no picture. I don't think I can make it work. Just know that hole and hole-d are the hardest positions for offense and defense, respectively.

Anywho, my back is full of knots, my legs are about to fall off, but my enthusiasm is still running strong. We are going to be awesome this year!

And I'm mongo stressed over stuff in general--school, poetry night, my CPR certification, the birthday kidnapping tomorrow--and now I stupidly agreed to help plan a season-opening party for water polo. Yeesh. If I would just stop doing things, I wouldn't stress! Gosh!

Water Polo Begins

And the chaos has commenced. Our new coach isn't talking a lot with us, so I don't know what kind of guy he will be. But him not talking is a good thing. That means he wants to be impartial on matters of positions and such. I know that he can't ever replace or match Hogue, but no one ever could, so I won't hold it against him.

They have done away with the Division I and II thing we had last year. We're going with the high school 3A, 4A, 5A dealio, based on where the majority of your players came from the year before. Since most came from OHS, we're 4A. Do you know what that means? Of course not. No one knows the skill levels of our state's water polo teams except water polo players. I'll speak simply: our main competition is Murray, and we only lost to them by 3 last year. We lost a few players, but they lost their best two, and if we focus and work our tails off and play as a team, we could take state. The greyhound, the bobcat, and I have made it a goal. We've also decided to really focus on team building by having parties and hanging out on weekends, and avoiding talking about the racoon behind her back. I've made an individual goal to know everyone's name in three weeks' time. This is a toughy, because the new coach is bringing a lot of his swimmers into it.

We're also going to make sure we don't huddle with the people we know, or those that have played before. Today, when we paired up for passing, we made sure to pass with people that we didn't know and that were inexperienced. We even crossed the gender barrier (ooooo). I have learned three names for sure, and one tenatively. Three down, twelve to go! That is, if no more new people show up...

Wolfhound Wanderings

For those of you who are keeping track, the wolfhound is the final incarnation of the wolf/coyote schizofrenia issue.

The river folk gathered once again at the greyhound's den but this time they were invited. Many of the younger animals that had been at the taking of the greyhound were absent, but they had not known the wolfhound. The ocelot pitied them; the wolfhound was a creature worth knowing.

When most of those who were coming had gathered, they started down the hill. The ocelot ran ahead, with the flamingo and the bobcat close behind. The greyhound and the agouti followed at a more leisurely pace, but they didn't arrive long after the others.

Gathered at the meeting place were others--the cougar, the chipmunk, and the squirrel from the other side of the river, and the tree frog and the brown bear cub from the males of the stone jungle. The hawk flew in unnexpectedly. The only beast missing was the badger. The ocelot missed her.

After a time, silence fell on the gathering. The gathering was not small, and the river folk did not represent the majority, but when the wolfhound rose to speak, it was like he was talking to them. The wolfhound spoke of many things, but under every word spoken was another of farewell. The ocelot was torn between happiness for the wolfhound and sorrow for herself. She buried the latter emotion, as she felt a little self-centered for harboring it.

After the gathering had reached its end, the wolfhound greeted all of them merrily. The ocelot took her turn embracing her rarely-seen friend and lingered watching him after he had moved on. For two cycles of seasons, she would not see the wolfhound.

She turned to the rest of the river folk, tears hiding just beyond her eyes. She looked especially to the bobcat, the cougar, the flamingo, and the bear cub. In her mind she saw them standing with the serval and the fox. Behind them were the hawk and the badger, and farther were animals that the ocelot held in fondness, but only vaguely recalled. She bit back her tears. She didn't like to cry. But she couldn't imagine these creatures, her family away from her family, falling into the obscurity the older animals had passed into. Her fur stood on end. She wouldn't let that happen. Never. And to keep these creatures close, she would keep the wolfhound near with words, if in no other way.

The wolfhound is leaving on the 15th. He's going to Peru after the MTC. He's so awesome. You think I missed him and the hawk and the badger last year, when they had only graduated. Hah! And the seniors this year...I think this is the closest I've ever been to the swim team. I'm not going to get through the end-of-year shindig without crying my eyes out.

Breaking 100

*fidgets*

I've done it! Behold, Son of Sferesh now contains one hundred seven pages! And weighty events have been put into motion. A new wave of characters shall enter, including the long-awaited Elyste! I'm so excited.

*inhales deeply*

Calm, Ayliel. Calm.

*whirls around and begins typing furiously again*

State Qualifications

I qualified for State in two individual events! I've never done that before! I'm ranked 14th in the 500 free (scoring range!) and 19th in the IM (I'm 1-2 seconds away from scoring range!). I'm excited. I'm thinking of dying the tips of my hair blue.

Capture

This post relates to events that occured on January 26, despite the disillusionment created by my procrastination.

The ocelot paced around the base of the tree, twitching her tail. One of the creatures called at her to stay behind the trunk, but the cat shrugged off the comment. It wasn't as though the tree hid the small group of river folk. The self-assumed leader of the escapade didn't know the first thing about hiding and hunting in the woods. But then, what can one expect from a flamingo? Regardless of the bird's good intentions, if their quarry looked their way, they would be seen whether the ocelot stopped pacing or not.

The bobcat padded up to the clump of creatures and whispered to them. "Her mother says that she will be leaving their den in a bit. She has some musical gathering."

The ocelot smirked. She guessed that the musical gathering involved the malamute and the tomcat, among others that she knew. She decided that she didn't quite care.

The flamingo led the way to the opening of the den, doing her best to be inconspicuous. The ocelot rolled her eyes, but followed silently. The creatures split into two groups, one at one side of the den and one at the other.

"Goodbye, Mother!" their target called from the tunnel. The ocelot grinned. Perfect.

The small cat crouched low, and she saw the bobcat do the same across the way. They watched a black nose emerge from the den without moving. The flamingo twitched, but took her cues from the hunters. A long gray muzzle followed the nose. The bobcat and the ocelot waited for the greyhound's neck and shoulders to appear before the leapt. The bobcat bowled the dog over and the ocelot fell across the canine's eyes. The smaller cat held on tightly until the flamingo approached with a wide leaf to bind over the dog's eyes. Snickering silently, the group snatched the confused canine and dragged her away.

Remaining near to silence during the entire journey, the river folk carried the greyhound all the way to the flamingo's pond and tossed her in. The dog yelped in surprise, then caught her balance in the water and rubbed off the blindfold. She looked up to her friends. The ocelot, along with all the others, shouted, "Happy birthday!"

Hah, sorry about that mishap, tomcat. How were we to know you had planned a band practice at the exact same time that we planned the greyhound's birthday party?

Bungee Swimming

Bungee swimming is probably the funnest type of practice that is given to us. You all have no idea. I guess it's not bungee swimming, per se, but that's what we call it. The chords are more like rubber tubes with a belt on one end and a strap on the other. We hook the strap to the starting block and the belt to the swimmer. The swimmer then swims (or pulls on the lane line) to the other side of the pool, stretching the chord extremely tight.

Now is when we pit the watchers against the swimmer. The swimmer's goal is to swim fast enough to get the tube to have a little slack. The watchers' goal is to pull the chord fast enough that no slack is created. The swimmer never wins, but even so, she gets an awesomely fun experience along with it.

However, my lame-o lane was skittish about the chords (they tend to have flaws, causing welts if one isn't careful), and very, very few would help pull the chord. The serval and I ended up with the brunt of the work; one other girl helped whenever one of us was in the water. The result is that my hands are heinously sore, mostly from the chord and partially from the lane line. But it was lots of fun. With the chord, you can swim a 25 so frigretchen fast! I love it.

Region VII Meet

Region Review:

Our guys dominated! Several of the guys upset horrendously, and SHS rolled over and died, so the margin between first and second was substantial. The girls sufffered key losses, and we took fourth by a larger amount than we were supposed to. The serval feels horrible about her last race; she added ten seconds and fell out of scoring range.

Individually, I did well. In the I.M. I moved up from 8th to 6th place and I dropped a half a second. I think I'll make it to state! The 500 was much cooler.

Recap: At the LHS vs. OHS swim meet, I swam the five. The girl next to me had a seed time six seconds faster than me, and I decided to pace off of her to go faster. I kept up with her perfectly, but she out-thouched me at the end. And you know what else? SHE DIDN'T GO HER TIME! She went my time, so really my pacing off of her did nothing for me, AND I lost. Since then, I've been itching for a rematch, and I've engrained a rivalry in my blood.

Come Region, I was delighted to find that we were seeded next to each other, and we would be in the center of the lanes: perfect for pacing off of each other and creating competition. In my excitement for the meet, I would often say, "I'm swimming the five against ________, whom I hate." Not a I-want-to-kill-you hate, but a healthy hate. Seven seconds worth of hate.

When I got into that pool, my only goal was to blow her out of the water. I had spent the past two and a half hours getting focused. I was so focused, I was about to snap. I went out fast; too fast, if I wanted to keep a steady pace. However, steady pacing was not my goal. When I got to the 15th lap (there are 20 in the 500), my lap counter was signaling that my coach wanted me to pick up my pace by one second. When I saw that, I just about puked there and then. I still had five laps to go. The only thing that kept breakfast in my stomach was the knowledge that if I threw up, they'd stop the race and I'd have to do it all over again. So I died at the end. My last few laps were signaled by continued efforts to get me to speed up and kick harder. But I was several body lengths ahead of the other girl, so my prime motivation was satisfied. Even with the dying that occured, when I pulled into the wall, I had a time seven seconds faster than my seed time: 6:11.

Even better, in my 8th-place ranking, I should have earned five points. I broke into the fastest heat and took 5th place (one shy of a medal), earning 10. I was really, really, really happy.

Oh, and then there was Preference. I'd almost venture to say that it was the funnest date I've been on. But I'll go into detail in another post. Right now, I need sleep.

I've Got a Feeling

And it feels something like numbness. All over! I have hips, and I have feet, but I can't feel my legs! My arms are nearly nonexistent! My back feels funny; I can tell where everything is. Awkward. And I have come to the conclusion that since my attendance at the state meet is so questionable, I will wear my shnazzy state suit to Region. It is so cool. But very thin-feeling. Awkward again. That's okay though, 'cause I can double up when I'm not swimming.

It's really funny when the swim team guys shave their heads. It makes me laugh, and bald/recovering-from-being-bald heads are fun to rub.

Oh, and my scheduled events for Region are:
200 IM
500 Free

The first is tomorrow, the second is Saturday. I'm an alternate for two relays, but I doubt that anyone is going to die between now and then, so I don't think I'll swim those.

Taper Entry Dos

Heh, you're going to be getting a lot of these. Today in Taper:

My lane, consisting of six girls, sang songs. Not quietly, and not similar songs. They varied each time we hit the wall and we never finished any of them. We drove everybody crazy, but what did we care? We reenacted inside jokes, such as "What's in the water?" and "Breastroke? Breastroke? WE DON'T NEED NO STINKING BREASTROKE!" and "Do you feel violated yet?" and "This is how I'd (insert an action) if I had no arms!" Oh, good times, good times. Our coaches were muttering, "I hate taper" over and over again. It made me grin. Then we were told to do eight entire 50's on 1:15, and no faster. In case you're wondering, that is actually really hard. We have to get creative.

Some people cope with this requirement by doing flips down the pool and back, non-stop. Wow. I can't do that. Sometimes the drill "corkscrew" works (I'm not going to try to explain corkscrew), but that just makes you sick and you don't get any air. My method was less dizzying, but it certainly required more skill (no, I'm not conceited; I'm the humblest person I know). I swam backwards--not backstroke; backwards--for a third of the pool, then swam slowly but normally for the remaining time. I did this in both directions. The result was that I slowed up the people behind me, but I came in on exactly the right time. When that became too mentally taxing, I resorted to climbing underwater along the lane line like a monkey and resting at the far wall to make up the difference in time. This was less skill-intensive, but much more relaxing. Swimming backwards takes thought! You try it sometime, and you'll see what I mean. It takes coordination. I think I almost have a method for it, though. But everything's backwards, and you can't kick hard, or you won't move, but you can't just not kick, or your feet will sink. Rotation becomes crucial, if only to remind you to do your stroke recovery right.

Hah, I bet this makes hardly any sense. That's okay though; Taper rarely makes sense to anyone but swimmers.

Mwahaha! The guys are going to freeze tomorrow night. *evil cackle*

Taper!

Taper taper taper taper atper taoer taer taper taper taperrepat! I love taper. When you can get 30-40 people together, grinning from ear to ear and hyper as squirrels while marinating in chlorine at 6:00 in the morning, you know you have reached Taper, those few precious weeks when 'work' falls out of your swimming vocabulary, and the coach is forced to yell at you to get you to shut up, instead of to swim harder.

If Taper weren't enough, we did a Preference pre-date thing today. We were going to use Region as our day-date, but since the MV girls we have coming with us won't be at Region and don't know their dates as well, a pre-date was requested. Shortly after practice this morning, we got together and had breakfast (there was one non-swimmer there, and he was dead, while we had been awake for three hours). We had pancakes, waffles, bacon, and eggs. But that wasn't the best part. The best part came after breakfast.

After eating breakfast, we went to the greyhound's church (I'm sure some other folks know which one I'm talking about, provided you know who the greyhound is) and played games in the gym. I brought soccer socks, not quite knowing why I was told to do so (I only had 14 pair, as my ickle brudders wore some of them skiing). The greyhound had these funky rocket things with foam tips that we shot each other with and we played a few other things with them. We did this with the soccer socks on, resulting in much tumult.

Following our rampage with the foam rockets, the greyhound produced a big plush die. With it, we played soccer, using those random pads at the ends of the basketball court as the goals. The greyhound made the teams, and she made the team opposing her highly unfair. But that's okay, 'cause I was on it! There was much mutilation in the game, and we all came out of it bruised and sore, but having had much fun (I can't talk right today). We had just done the very sort of thing our coach tells us not to. I quote:

"When we get around to taper, you all have so much energy, 'cause you're used to being dead. Now, this is what we want, but you guys always get stupid and go play contact sports and get hurt. DON'T DO IT!"

Heh heh. If we can't swim come tomorrow, we're all dead meat. And yet I'm so happy. ;D

Show of Intelligence

I got answered for Preference tonight. I'm pretty embarassased, actually. The guy doorbell-ditched my house, and I found a huge rock on my porch. It had an 'I' on it and a note. The note said something to the effect of "Your quest is to find three stupid rocks. I hope you don't tire [insert picture of a tire] easily, as you might have to look!" So I went to my car. Sure enough, there was another huge rock behind the tire. There was an 'O' on it and a note slipped under the tire. This note said, "Congratulations! You found the second stupid rock. Throw this away and you might find the third stupid rock!" So me, being the logical person that I am, retreated around the corner of my house to the residence of the garbage cans. I opened the first and dropped in the papers. There was no rock in the garbage can. I searched the second garbage can. I heard a honk. Earlier I had tried to ignore the fact that I recognized the silver van sitting across the street, but then I glared at it. I searched around the garbage cans. I went back to Rock 2 and put it in the garden, followed by Rock 1. I searched the garbage cans again, still finding nothing. Feeling lost and confused, and bereft of the hint notes, I started inside. As I opened the door, they honked at me again. I turned back, shrugged my shoulders, and shouted, "I can't find the third stupid rock!" I walked inside, thinking that perhaps I was being tricked into looking like an idiot.

I needn't have given the fellow so much credit as a coniver. A few minutes later, I checked to see if they were still there. They were. I waited a few more minutes, and saw them leaving. As I did, I saw my neighbor's garbage can, which was out in the street in plain sight of any passing car. And sure enough, right next to that garbage can was the third stupid rock. Wow. I feel so intelligent. I looked that way nearly three times before I saw that garbage can.

Oh, and for those of you who must know, the third rock had a 'U' on it and the note with it said to unscramble the letters in the language of love. Though, French is really no more Romantic than Spanish, Portuguese, Italian, or any other Romance language (yes, that's for you, bluebird).

Daemonic Disgrace

My mother has a soft spot for puzzles. I happen to hate them, but I lend her a hand on occasion out of love, I guess. Actually, it's because she tells me to. Anyway, we got this evil puzzle for Christmas. This puzzle is not just evil for simply being a puzzle, but it is detestable for being a disgrace to all puzzledom. I mean it! None of the pieces fully fit, leaving room for interpretation on which one goes where. In addition, the patterns on the pieces are repeated over and over, making it necessary to see which pieces will fit around the other piece to know where it belongs. We couldn't even do the edges first! The First Law of Puzzles states that the puzzler must always begin with a completed outline. This puzzle defies all of this, and more. I have denounced said puzzle, decrying it as a thing of evil, Pure Evil, I say! And what do I receive in return? Questioning of my love for my maternal figure! Does she hold this deformity closer to her heart than she does her own daughter? I should hope that she comes to her senses soon enough.