And Now, in Other News...

This week:
1. Band concert Monday. I have a solo in Symphony that I tend to go out of tune on, so hopefully that goes well. Maybe if I play really, really loudly...

2. Work. Always, always work. I like my job, though, so no worries.

3. Friday is senior skip day. I'm skipping, but I have a valid excuse. I'm going up to Morris to register for classes. I also have to take math and spanish placement exams. Ick.

I think that's all. Just preparing for graduation in general.

Because I'm Sick of It

This is how I feel when people tease me about the relationship I'm in right now:
1. Really, really angry

This is why I feel angry:
1. I have every right to be in a relationship
2. Why is it anyone's business, anyway?
3. Because it's the worst feeling in the world to walk through the halls and feel like everyone's staring at you

I'm dating Charlie because I want to. I like him, he likes me, so we're going out. I realize that the age difference is a little unorthodox, but what does age matter in the end? Demi and Ashton make it work.

I know that a lot of people who tease me don't realize that it's not funny to me, or that it's embarassing, but still. I'm just sick of it. This is kind of the first real relationship I've been in, and things are awkward enough without other people adding to the heap.

This has been a rant, I know. But everyone warrants a rant now and then. Five a month is the suggested amount, I believe.

A Gem From the AP Test

Whilst taking the AP English Lit. test today, I discovered this poem in the multiple choice section. It gave me the strength to continue, to pick up my pencil once more and struggle onward into the void of literary devices and essay questions...

The Imaginary Iceberg
By Elizabeth Bishop

We'd rather have the iceberg than the ship,
although it meant the end of travel.
Although it stood stock-still like cloudy rock
and all the sea were moving marble.
We'd rather have the iceberg than the ship;
we'd rather own this breathing plain of snow
though the ship's sails were laid upon the sea
as the snow lies undissolved upon the water.
O solemn, floating field,
are you aware an iceberg takes repose
with you, and when it wakes may pasture on your snows?

This is a scene a sailor'd give his eyes for.
The ship's ignored. The iceberg rises
and sinks again; its glassy pinnacles
correct elliptics in the sky.
This is a scene where he who treads the boards
is artlessly rhetorical. The curtain
is light enough to rise on finest ropes
that airy twists of snow provide.
The wits of these white peaks
spar with the sun. Its weight the iceberg dares
upon a shifting stage and stands and stares.

The iceberg cuts its facets from within.
Like jewelry from a grave
it saves itself perpetually and adorns
only itself, perhaps the snows
which so surprise us lying on the sea.
Good-bye, we say, good-bye, the ship steers off
where waves give in to one another's waves
and clouds run in a warmer sky.
Icebergs behoove the soul
(both being self-made from elements least visible)
to see them so: fleshed, fair, erected indivisible.