What I'm Listening to (and You Should, too)

Hannah Newberry. Honestly, she's going to be the next JBiebs, but actually GOOD and with a cooler haircut, i.e. she has a youtube channel and awesome hair: HannahNewberrySings, and she's stinkin' fantastic. It's only a matter of time before she's discovered and whisked away to the Hollywood hills and making music videos with special appearances by Usher. Just kidding, she's too cool for that. 

And simply because I just don't trust you enough to make all the effort to type in youtube and that name up there, I have provided just a little sampling of her song "Another April." Now all you have to do is press a little white triangle and get hooked on the melody like I did and then spend the next half hour browsing her videos and then realize you've missed a dentist appointment.... not like that's actually happened to me or anything... You can check out her wicked hair (and music) here. By the way, did I mention she has a blog? Julliard: Enterprise. Hello missed dentist appointments. 

Infuriated Fowls

I feel as if this particular subject needn't warrant a description; however, just in case, I shall e'ssplain. For those of you who don't know, Angry Birds is an app for iPhones/iPods. The goal of the game is to try to aim your stash of birds (pre-loaded for each level of the game), by means of a slingshot at little green pigs which may or may not be obstructed by certain obstacles. 
Now that that's out of the way, I think I should admit my secret addiction to said app as of yesterday afternoon. In the midst of playing, I realized a lot of things I was thinking to myself were pretty parallel to life lessons. 
#1. You never know what life will give you, but somehow you have to figure out a way to turn lemonade into lemons, or however that saying goes. Each level in Angry Birds has new and unexpected surprises. For example, maybe you'll only have two birds to bombard a whole army of green pigs. You never know how many hogs there will be for you to destroy, or how difficult it will be to reach them with your limited supply of feathered friends. 
#2. The farther you go, the more you gain. Yes sometimes the app and life in general are ridiculously difficult, but we accomplish and  we earn things, whether it be a new skill, or a new bird that can explode when you toss it at pigs. In the end, things are worth it, no matter how hard they may be to begin with. 
#3. Never never give up. There's blockings in life, as well as  in Angry Birds. People we don't get along with, a flat tire, or a whole ton of computerized stones you have to break through to vanquish a couple of pigs. Either way, we learn to cope with such things. We learn to deal with that person we don't particularly enjoy spending time with, we learn to change a tire, or how to hit just one stone out of the way to topple over a seemingly impossible 2-D tower. And when we learn how to do these things, it's a pretty great feeling and sense of accomplishment. 
So that's life and angry birds. In a nutshell. 

Qadaffi Sending Mixed Signals, Reports Obama

President Barack Obama announced Wednesday that relations between the Libyan leader and himself have grown strained. 
After launching a surprise missile attack two days prior, Obama admitted he may have been reading into things for the past few months. 
Obama says he called after about an hour to see if Qudaffi had gotten the launch, but Kadafi's secretary picked up and said he was out, though Obama insists "I could hear Kodaffi in the background telling her to say he wasn't there."
The U.S. president is currently debating whether or not to text Quadafi directly. "I just want to know what I did wrong," he says. 
Later however, after Kudafi forces attacked American troops, Obama thought perhaps the air had cleared between the two leaders, but discovered that he had been defriended by Koddafi on Facebook. 
He does insist he will not call Qudafi until the Libyan dictator calls him first "so as not to seem desperate."

Wing Women > Wing Men

Aloha from the exotic shores of Topsail Island. I'm here for a few days with my friend Jessie, who it just so happens has tolerated me for 12 years. Even I have to admit that's an impressive feat. So anyway, on the way down I was drawing a picture of a girl with wings watching a city in complete ruin. 
Jess looked over at the picture and said, "Haha, it's a wing girl!"
LIGHTBULB! 
So now I'm working on a book. With a legit plot. Usually (like most things I start) I run out of momentum and have no plan for an ending, so I have about 20 half-finished books occupying my hard drive. No more! I wrote out a plan. 
You know wing men? Über popular amongst various timid men. So I can say from personal experience that when you see 2 guys sizing you up from across the room, it's freaky. (I'm just kidding, I've never had that happen). So what if they thought to be smart? What if, guys brought a wing girl? 
Think about it: girls know how other girls think. We know how to act in a way that doesn't freak others out. On the other hand, you have the male species. They have NO clue what's going on in a girl's head, so doesn't that make absolutely no sense to bring along 2 heads that are so not better than one? 
That's the idea behind the book. 
What if guys could hire a third party, that's a girl? Wow, I'm using a lot of what ifs. 
Imagine if a guy could call in a wing girl as easy as a pizza. It's simple enough for males to comprehend, and it makes so much more sense than two big testosterone fueled goons. 
Working on the first chapter currently, I'll keep you posted. 
Whatta ya think?

It's a Sign. Part Two.

Second and final part of the series. So sorry. Perhaps I should have divvied these up better. Anyway, these are mostly from my various adventures around the country: Denver, DC, Pinehurst, Philadelphia, Meadows of Dan, Alexandria, Topsail Island, and my home.

This wasn't even the best sign at this restaurant, the "Opossum" flavor under cobbler types was.

Sometimes, I get this huge urge to just leave a sticky-note on someone's windshield when they have a totally lovable car just to tell them that it's okay if we become best friends. 

That's right. Paper made of elephant bizzness, in the middle of a grocery store.

Museum exhibit dedicated to Barbie? I think yes.

So was this a warning that the SIGN has sharp edges, or the sculpture behind it? Hmmm...

Story of my life.

Only in the Italian part of Philly would you find this sign...

I think I found the car of the cat chick from the eHarmony video: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mTTwcCVajAc

Who doesn't love the cheeseburger special for breakfast?

Unfortunately, blinky signs don't like to be photographed. But you can sort of tell that this does say "AVIOD" in our nation's capital.

Number 6. Stranger danger.

No explanation necessary.

Clearly the pricing person for this book really didn't feel like doing the conversions on how much this would cost in Canada.

I'd prefer if instead of Marley, this was a rock star.

This electrical box on Boulder's campus is endorsed by Shakespeare.

I'm a vegetarian. 'Nuff said.

It's a Sign. Part One.

Alright, so have you ever seen a sign on the street that you just HAVE to take a picture of? Some crazy phrase or horrific misspelling that you simply must show someone? Welcome to my everyday life. It's quite sad how easy it was to compile all the pictures I have of signs that make me laugh. So, I decided that instead of storing all these pictures on my iPhone and occasionally flipping through, stumbling upon one, and laughing, I should probably make use of them. Ergo: SummerSalt viewing pleasure. You're welcome. So the first part of the series (dunno how long it will be yet), is from my journey to Hong Kong over Christmas break to go visit my family. Enjoy.

After my first groggy and un-time adjusted night in Hong Kong (11 hours time difference), this was the first thing I saw on the street. Classic. Wait, I changed my mind. Actually the first thing I saw was waking up and looking out my window down to a whole pig being butchered on the sidewalk. No worries, they later hosed the cement. Completely sanitary. Ha.

Me and my mama, trying to avoid being hit by a bus by Deep Water Bay. We later realized it would probably make more sense for us to have switched places. 

Turtles protesting. Total win.

What frequently scares me about these kinds of signs, is that they're put there because someone did that once before.

Use your imagination. I'd hate to ruin this by explaining it.

If you've ever heard that in China, you have to.... ya know, in a hole... that's not a joke. This is the sign on the outside of the toilet.

Of course you have options, there's usually one sitter. 

Actually outside of our apartment. Made coming home feel very welcoming. Who doesn't like to be greeted by a cyclops cephalopod?

Again, not ruining this one.

Eat in total? Customer right reason? So many reasons this is a fabulous sign. P.S., we do not chow down on 84 dollars worth of BK, nor do we endorse the establishment, but it was our only option quick enough on top of the mountain to see the light show down below in the city. In American dollars, this is around 10 bucks.

Keep in mind, this is in Hong Kong.

Outside of my godbrother's door <3

Grunden Quotable Quotes:

Okay you guys, I am like legit hyperventilating with enthusiasm right now. I’ve wanted to post this pretty much since the day I was born. I introduce to you, probably one of the greatest people alive (don’t let that go to your head), ERIC GRUNDEN. Insert round of applause.

            So for the unfortunate number of you who have never had the immense pleasure of meeting Mr. Grunden, I’d like to intro a bit about him. First: he’s an oober Harry Potter nerd. This is fitting because, as my friend Bryn discovered, he and the famous wizard look very much alike… in cookie form.

He’s also totally into Jeopardy, and Phineas and Ferb, and he pretty much knows everything about everything. I’m almost positive he has the ability to read minds. Or possibly he might be Einstein reincarnated. Or both. Could Einstein read minds?

Anyway, the most important fact about the remarkable Mr. G is this: his multitude of quotable quotes.

Note: I messaged Mr. Grunden asking if posting these magnificent beauties would be alright with him, and yes, it is, HOWEVER, he reserves complete and total rights to deny anything posted here. I’m spacey, so I very likely could have possibly picked and chose words he said in a stream of sentences and fused them together for entertainment.

So I kept these in my notebook all year (seriously, I have 3 pages entirely taken up plus margin space), and when I started studying for my final, I ended up just reading all of the quotations scrawled in there and cracking up. So for your viewing pleasure: Mr. Grunden Quotable Quotes.

·      First day of school: Games. I hate games.
·      I have mice living in both my cars.
·      Me: Mr. G, what were you like as a child?
    Mr. G: This. But smaller.
    Me: That’s very frightening.
·      Kill all the rules and eat them!
·      Mr. G: Acids conduct electricity.
Alexandra: So can your puke conduct electricity…?
Mr. G: I’ve never tried it.
Me: Can we do a lab?
Mr. G: Oh sure! Write your procedure, first step: gestures finger going into throat. That’d be the last lab I’d ever do.
·      We’re going to be running an observation of gases. Just like we would go to a jungle to watch chimpanzees. Except there’s a lot less delousing I’ll tell you that.
·      There’s really no danger in anything bad happening tomorrow- well except fires. And minor explosions. But you’d have to work pretty hard to make that happen.
·      And he’s killed because people think he’s Jesus…. But he’s not.
·      How many Cheez-Its are you?
·      To be honest, my math teacher was an alcoholic, so I had to teach myself math most people don’t believe in.
·      Mr. G: Stoichiometry is like weighing baby elephants.
Me: Um… what?
Mr. G: You have to weigh the baby elephant and the mama elephant then take the baby off and subtract the difference. Baby elephants are hard to weigh, or so I’ve been told.
·      Are you polar? Let me ask you this question: when you take a shower do you dissolve? No, that would be a problem. Someone tries it once and we learn from his or her mistake.
·      All rock songs are about one of three things.
One: Substance abuse
Two: Impressing girls…. Or guys. Depending on who you are. Or both… Also depending on who you are.
Three: Being a B.A.
·      We’re about to electrocute a pickle. Don’t try this at home. It can kill you.
·      Yes Alexandra, you can make poop a mirror.
·      Well I’m not really talking about soap, but we’ll be talking about soap. So let’s talk about soap, but not really talk about soap at all.
·      If you have a knife does that make you a chef? No. But it might make you a ninja.
·      Zombies gathering around, pulling people out of a crowd and eating them. It’s kinda like that.
·      If you try to do that to your calculator it’ll curl up into the fetal position and cry. Except it can’t do that…
·      Thinking is what causes all the problems. So stop it.
·      The spectrum of bonding is similar to a spectrum of relationships between 2 people. At one end are people that are tolerant of each other. In the middle is a spread of degree of contentment. And at the other is a paired off couple.
·      So… don’t take a bath with a toaster.
·      Me: Now I really want some rotini.
Mr. G: That’s your 3^rd alcohol reference today… do we need to talk?
Me: Rotini’s a pasta.
Mr. G: Oh. I thought you said martini.
·      No, that’s ninjas with flamethrowers. That’s my theory on spontaneous combustion.

And fourth period chemistry lived happily ever after. I learned so much this year in Eric Grunden's class. 

Truth or Dare with a Dash of Salt

Ever wanted to know what it would be like to tell the truth all day, go from dawn to dusk without using the letter 's'? Ever had a question you're dying to ask me, whether it be about fact or opinion?
If you answered yes, then now is your chance! Mainly I'm just too lazy to think of new stuff to post this coming week-- but besides that, I want to hear what you want to read. Just comment here with something you want to ask (a truth) or something for me to try out for a whole day this coming week (dare). I'll write it up and/or document it and tell you about the dare, or give my total and complete truth on a subject. I'll pick my top 5 and that will be my posts for the coming week, Monday- Friday.
Ready, set, truth or dare.

Luminescence Everlasting

I climbed a fourteener today in Colorado, and as such, clearly I was unable to attend Mehdy Hazheer's service. At the peak however, I thought some words towards him. 
I wished that wherever he is now, it was as beautiful as the view from the very top of Mt. Evans, ( and less cold), because someone as awe-inspiring as Mehdy in life deserves an eternity of beauty. My other thoughts tended towards their normal route: poetic. Also they were extended more towards those who attended the service or who would have given anything to be there. 
Losing a son, a brother, a friend, a student, a cousin, etcetera, is the epitome of tragedy. I thought words towards those people, and I feel that it's a relevant fact to know in regards to this piece, that my entire life I have been called Sparrow. I wish I could have been there today, but I said my everlasting goodbyes from where I was. These are the words I would have spoken today at the service, had I been in attendance. 
With much love, Sparrow. 

Luminescence Everlasting

I think I saw a sparrow
Bathing in your flowing tears
She washed away her own griefs and sorrows
In warm and briney currents. 

I think I heard a sparrow
Crying the name you yourself called aloud
Falsetto and bass together
Painting most perfect harmony. 

I think I saw a sparrow
Nestling in your heaving chest
Seeking the shelter of human empathy
For she too has suffered losses. 

I think I heard a sparrow
Whispering towards your ear,
"Though the blackest vacant space
Left by lack of presence swells and grows
With threats to steal away
Every light you have ever known,
You are never alone."

And I think she may be right. 

Life and Death According to a Teenage Buddhist Atheist

Warning: potentially controversial article ahead; proceed with caution!
I've described myself in that hybrid theological combination since I was in 6th grade. People would laugh and try to convince me that wasn't actually possible, and I would always tell them it really was, and who were they to tell me what religion I could or couldn't possibly believe anyway? Then today, in Denver, I was perusing The Tattered Cover bookstore and I found this book: Confessions of a Buddhist Atheist by Stephen Batchelor. So I say to those people now: HA. 
Anyway, I had this idea for an article when I got an email from one of my sophomore year teachers asking how I was holding up after recent events. 
I admitted that as a Buddhist Atheist, death can sometimes be a much more difficult concept to deal with because I DON'T believe in an afterlife. As much as I would like to think that when we die, our soul lives on in a higher place and we go on, I simply don't. The way I see it, when we die, we're gone, and that's it. The end; story over. 
He was curious about this of course, as many often are. So he asked about my opinions on life and death: do I think we have a purpose or meaning here on earth during our lives? Or is it all just noise? 
I had a lot of time to think about the subject as I explored Denver today. We rented bikes and pedaled to the botanical gardens. Nothing gives you more tranquility than walking around and seeing, feeling, touching flora. It was an ideal place to question myself on the matter. 
Here's what I came up with:
I think that in my case, in many ways, life has MORE meaning then. When your time is up, it's game over. No do-overs or afterlife in general, so we might as well live the best life we can while we're still living. That's not to say I don't believe in a purpose or moral code for following here on earth. We call that dharma. I do good not for a higher being, but for myself and everyone I know.
The closest I come to worship is mother earth. I think our duty is to do something that gives back, as opposed to taking and taking from precious energy and resources. I feel fortunate that we've been able to evolve on a planet so rare and able to sustain life, and though sometimes bad things happen (like a tornado taking half my house), it's a good life.
In the gardens today, there was a small girl throwing an absolute fit asking her mother if she could pick a flower- an iris I think it was- and her mother would have none of it. It made me think back to a previous time when I was that little girl, and my own mother said to me: "If everyone in the entire world came in here and picked a flower, there wouldn't be any left." At age 4, this was not a satisfactory answer. It was a preposterous explanation, it's impossible for EVERYONE in the world to come in and pick a flower. Duh, Mom.
 I came to realize I live by those words now. If everyone in the world left all their water running all day, there would be no water left. If everyone in the world was a murderer, there'd be only one person left. So I think that in order to retain a sense of morality, religion isn't absolutely essential, only common sense. 
I feel a lot of duty also because I don't feel like a god can help by my praying or wishing. If I want something done, I do it. I fix my own problems instead of asking a god I don't believe in to do so for me. Although I could pray for my house to be rebuilt soon, chances are that's not going to help anything. 
I see the appeal in religion, in regards to an all loving power, but I find so many flaws: science, corruption, hypocrisy, and the like. (I'm starting to sound like Siddhartha Gautama).
So that's my opinion on the matter. I understand completely if you disagree, but I implore you to please respect my religion as I do yours. Thanks. 

Denvah

Greetings readers of SummerSalt, from gate C15 of RDU airport. It's a bright and shining (ha, not really) 6 in the morning and I'm awaiting my flight that will whisk me away to Denver.
I am currently packing 30 small slips of paper only slightly bigger than my index finger. Written on them is the SummerSalt slogan (Pass the salt?) and the website.
I got the idea from Jerry Spinelli's novel, Stargirl. The heroine of the story for whom the book is named after, drops change for people to come across. She loves the look of excitement a person has when he or she stumbles upon a serendipitous coin in an unexpected place.
How does this relate to slips of paper, you might ask. Well I'll tell you. These are, in a metaphorical sense,-pause- boarded plane. Greetings from seat 9A. So hopefully people will pick up these emblems I'll drop off in random places and maybe, just maybe, I'll make them smile.
Better go before a flight attendant yells at me.

Mehdy's Graduation Speech

*My apologies for the short removal of this post. 

This was the speech Mehdy would have given at graduation, had he been able to attend. What he was prepared to read to the graduating class was everything Mehdy Hazheer stood for, and it's saturated with the essence of imense love Mehdy had for his friends, his school, his family, the world, and God. I hope wherever he is now, he's seen the golden city. 

The Gardener

          Friends and family, brother and sisters, peers and faculty; I have the incredible honor

to come and speak to you on this remarkable day, a truly momentous occasion, on the matter of our seeming rite of passage into college and ultimately, independence. Before I start, I would like to thank my parents for being fabulous in so many different ways and for not having kicked me out of the house. I appreciate their wonderful kindness. Raleigh Charter, you’ve been amazing and  you have constructively challenged me to elevate myself, to appreciate diversity, and to serve others valiantly. And most of all, I would like to thank God, the Beloved for every good in our world. The mistakes have only been ours. So thank God for being...God.

            And so, we sit here, celebrating what will be a memorable moment of our lives, rejoicing that high school, that our initial years of education are finally over. We’re with our families and our friends; we are shedding some indelible tears on this inevitable movement towards tomorrow. And to describe this in one word, "Wow!" What a time we live in now. The thing is though, that if you listen closely enough, in the background, you, I...we can hear the spiritual gunfire. If we focus, between the cracks of our privileged lives, we can see an oncoming darkness that will try to cover and in a sense, suffocate the hopes and dreams, the passions and love of our youth, of our lives. This 'gunfire', this pervasive complacency, this widespread acceptable apathy, can become my downfall and the downfall of enriched students and people like you. The seeds of inspiration will have no possibility of surviving under this blanket of numbness that may come over us, penetrating our fertile hearts through various means, forcing us to succumb to a sense of mediocrity. Notice that in history, it's youth in general, that initiates revolutions, that topples dictatorships, that drives a society forward to further paradigm shifts. It was the sacrifices of youth in Tunisia that ignited the youth of Egypt into widespread social demonstrations. It was the heroic demands of youth in Egypt that inspired the oppressed youth in Bahrain and Syria to stand up against decades of corrupt tyranny. It was through the struggle of youth in the Middle East that the Libyan people woke up from their freakish nightmare and strived and are striving towards a golden future.

            That golden future is what we need to constantly be conscious of, struggling towards, and I want to relay to you today an experience of mine, a personal one and possibly a Life of Pi kind of story. I had once known a great man, a family man, a Godly man. His name was Ehsan. And Ehsan was a member of the community, and oddly enough, a part of me. I didn’t think much of him at the time, nor did I think he thought much of me. We were strangers to one another, but incredibly enough, we were mysteriously linked.

          And at some point in time--this is going to sound fuzzy and possibly silly--but at some point in time, Ehsan had a dream. And what a dream it was. Please don’t ask me how I came to know this dream, or how I became aware of it, what path I took to see it, because honestly, I don't know. This dream stupefied me, astonished me; it truly perplexed me. And it came, the words, the vision, it came to him, and I believe it came to me. In his dream, there was a golden city of human perfection, a spiritual utopia, one where the possibility of crime and corruption was present, but no one dared to lower themselves because they were conscious of their transcendent identities, their community, and their God. There were riches, wealth, but it was not of the material kind but rather of the spiritual and intellectual one. In this beautiful world, there was only a lower-case "I" to describe the self, and people strove to make their needs their only wants rather than all their wants their needs. And at the risk of this seeming very "radly hippie," it was a world of peace, love, and Unity. A world, to us, of  impossibility, foolishness, and pure fantasy.             As this dream progressed, Ehsan walked through the divine streets of gardens that blossomed life, on third avenue where the daffodils sung and were kissed by lips of the magnificent, cherished Sun. The city was full of men and women, children and elder, but there were only two categories of people who lived in this golden city: there were dancers who read and there were scholars who danced. Ehsan followed the trails where lovers bicycled their way through and found at the dead center of the massive Golden city was a humble hut with a small olive tree to the side. I watched, through Ehsan's eyes, as Ehsan carefully entered the hut with humility before the awesomeness of everything.

            And he found, or we found, in the center, on a mat, in meditation, a middle-aged woman, who seemed to emit an alluring light from a recent birth she had. Her name was Marium. She cordially invited us in, and gave us a seat on the patted mats that were against the sides of the hut. Ehsan stared for a while, unable to really grasp any of it, and she recognized, I mean she always seemed to know, that we were stuck. She then, with a smile, reached for her pouch, and from it, she took out a seed. She looked up at us, with a slightly different smile, one which saw opportunity, and she held that seed a foot away from her face, displaying it optimistically to us, and she said "The pensive light awaits awakening. Plant this seed in your spiritual ruins and let Atlantis come alive. Achieve Atlantis,  and then allow it to spread. Golden cities will grow into a Golden world and eventually into a Golden universe." And with that, all of it became a waterfall. A moment in evaporation. And all I know now is that I received a seed of inspiration and at same time, a new friend: Ehsan.

            That seed, I planted it, and Ehsan became the gardener. He was no longer an acquaintance, but rather, he was me. And I him. We were one. And he became the embodiment of my passion to enrich myself with the immense amount of opportunities available in my world. He was the one who, in order to nourish that seed, strived at Raleigh Charter these past four years. And his essence is not something unique to me, but rather, is found commonly within each of us. It's his essence that we continue to find enlightened within each of us at Raleigh Charter, and it is those inner, at least partial, enlightenments, that have empowered Raleigh Charter to achieve an environment where intellectual curiosity is fostered and encouraged by not only teachers and parents, but by students as well. And we will receive those seeds constantly from Marium, with her continual urgency regarding the need to transform our world into Atlantis, but we need to translate those seeds into Golden cities. Friends, classmates, be awakened and awaken others. Achieve your inner Ehsan. Thank you, and I hope you all have a wonderful day and eventually all of you will realize success.  

To Mehdy:

            I open my yearbook to page 22. Top row, 3^rd picture on the right. That’s Mehdy Hazheer, and yet not Mehdy Hazheer at all. How could you tell from a photo of a young man smiling in a striped polo how much that person means to this world? How could you look at any picture of someone on the fragile precipice of life, struggling so unbelievably hard to hold on with shaking fingertips? How can you watch, helpless, as someone falls to a place you can no longer reach, and know that there’s absolutely nothing you can do about it? What can you do when a life is lost: a son, a friend, a brother, and an inspiration to us all.

            When Mehdy fell, we all fell with him. Our worlds have upended from a refreshing dive into summer to striving to stay afloat through all the tears and sorrow that threaten to wash us away with Mehdy’s passing. We need to stay strong, though the current threatens to drag us under; we must stay strong. Strong for Mehdy; strong for the Hazheer’s; strong for each other, and strong for anyone who has ever had a loved one slip away.

            I can’t honestly say I really knew Mehdy. Or know Mehdy. I refuse to speak of him in the preterit. He was here, he is here, and he will always be here. He’s 2 years above me, a senior. I had the unbelievable fortune to meet him this year. We had Student Legislative Assembly together, the same committee: environmental. Although I’m glad for the time I had with him, I’d still give anything for it to be longer. It simply wasn’t enough. He’s anything you could want in a friend and more. You can’t help yourself when you’re with him; you laugh. I never saw Mehdy upset. I don’t even know if he has any other expression besides a smile or a thoughtful contemplation. He’s always thinking.

            I love his thoughts. I love his crazy ideas. For the big SLA meeting of the year, he had this plan for everyone in his committee. He figured, since everyone already hated the environmental group so much, we should mess with them all and bring in a huge feast to display proudly and lustfully on our table. He was so motivated by this scheme; it was infectious. With his enthusiasm, beyond compare in anyone I’ve ever known, he coaxed us all into signing up for bringing in sweets and snacks.

            The next morning, on the actual day of the assembly, Mehdy was late. He was a co-chair, and all of us were getting restless that he hadn’t shown to join in on our scrumptious banquet. Finally, he arrived, toting two gigantic gallons of still piping hot chocolate. Complete with whipped cream. Even in the face of what is happening now, the memory makes me smile. He was here.

In the photo, though you can see only a bit of Mehdy, the joy he emits at all times is evident in the smiles and laughs by all in view.

            The bond of love is in many ways, much stronger than the discord and destruction of death. At times it feels as if death drains away everything good until only darkness is left, and though even the most powerful of love cannot prevent loss, love is still one of the things left untouched, unpolluted. The other is memory. Memories of Mehdy will live on, long surpassing his time here on Earth, which was entirely too short. Impressions much deeper have been made in our souls by the love and memories we share with Mehdy than the death that threatens to take so much away. He is still here.

Do not allow the darkness to engulf you; because we all know in our hearts, Mehdy would not want it to be this way. Never has there been an individual I’ve known with such faith, and such belief at this young of an age. For Mehdy, life was a journey, and he had his journey planned, beginning with step one: Harvard this fall. Technically there was a precursor to step one: high school graduation. He wrote a speech on the beautiful city of Allah, and now he’s there. He’s in a place beyond suffering, beyond pain, and he has reached his destination. If Mehdy were to speak now, I believe he would simply say that this was the next step, this was what Allah wanted of him, and it would be wrong of him to not obey the call.

In the most difficult of times, it can seem unimaginable to see the light in a situation, but Mehdy could. The loss we all suffer can only be healed if we keep Mehdy alive in our thoughts, our memories, and our attitudes. He was there for us, be it making a joke out of the antagonism some have towards certain legislative committees, or being someone to talk to on the worst of days to brighten your outlook. It’s our turn to be what Mehdy was for all of us now, towards the Hazheer’s and everyone we get the privilege to meet. If we do this, Mehdy is not gone. He was here, he is here, and he will always be here. 

Highlight of My Day

            My best friend Jessie and I went to Cameron Village today to hang out. Amongst all the window-shopping, I allowed Jess to lead me into an art gallery. After all, I had just kept her browsing over jewelry for an hour.

            Admittedly, I’m an art geek, so I actually enjoyed the drop-in. It didn’t hurt that this adorable old lady ran the shop either. In the back by the bathroom was a row of paintings by renowned artists, including the Mona Lisa. Instead of the original face however, the elderly owner’s smiled out.

            Upon making our exit, I expressed my admiration for the remixed paintings. The woman’s name was Ruth. Apparently for her 85^th birthday, (which made my brain shout to ask how old she was now), her grandkids threw her a surprise party at the gallery, and instead of the original art on the walls, they’d replaced it with the photo shopped works instead. She kept her favorites.

            We laughed and were on our way to leave… for real this time, but then I saw something that commanded my attention. I had to ask. There’s this wonderful little man, mid-40’s, slight paunch, and the most beautiful moustache in the entire world, right within reach from behind the counter. It. Has. Knobs. Like elegant French man style.

            I turned to him; “Perchance sir, do you happen to work at Trader Joe’s?”

            He cocks his head in curiosity, and Ruth behind him shouts excitedly, “yes! Yes he does! He’s the manager at Trader Joe’s!” Of course in the most proud little old lady sort of tone.

            “I recognized your moustache.”

                        His moustache is a serious art. He described how some days he wears it turned down, others cock eyed, one up and one down. For Halloween he goes all out and decks it up with jewelry to go as a pirate.

We ended up talking for a half an hour, me, Ruth, moustache man, and Jessie. We swapped veggie Trader Joe’s recipes. I admitted that meeting him and talking to him in the flesh was like meeting a celebrity. I told him he was a total Renaissance man, selling groceries and art by day, and I bet he’s a superhero by night. I knighted him as The Super ‘Stache. His spandex onesie would feature a printed knobs ‘stache, akin to the one he wears atop his upper lip. Super power? Twirling the tips and giving an intimidating stare at perpetrators that would cause them to freeze in the middle of the act. I was clearly excited to meet my hero. I cannot wait for the next grocery run. 

Forgotten Letters

Summer break gives me entirely too much free time. With that vacant space, my curiosity takes over. I've searched nearly every drawer, and every cabinet in the house over the past 2 days to discover new things, old things, and some possessions I'd never even seen. Amongst the most fascinating to me were the ancient. Those items stowed away in some surreptitious place, long forgotten and slowly collecting the faint grime of dust and the yellow edges we so frequently tend to connect with forgotten memories.
I found letters. Too many letters to count. Birthday letters, old pen-pal letters, notes I meant to send but never had and now I never will, and even those little notes I used to pass back-and-forth between my friends. Remember those? The ones you fold up into careful little triangles, and they end up making a perfect square with an origami flair?
Written word seems so much more powerful than our modern communications. Of course, I say this as I sit typing away at my laptop. The image of another being, sitting down, pen in hand, periodically gazing off into space to remember what it was he or she intended to tell the recipient next. The jagged lines, sometimes deep carved into the paper, the ones that make us wonder why such force was used. Was the writer angry? Distracted? Exhilarated? So many things to provoke our thoughts and wonders.
Words really are my life. They give my entire being a different flavor, more crisp, more distinct. I write. I write because there are all of these thoughts, scattered about in my head, constantly running into each other and their surroundings. I need an outlet for these ideas. I'd be wishing my life away so frequently with things I'd never say aloud if not for the written/typed word.
Writer. That word evokes a tenderness in me; a knowledge of who I am, a compulsion, a purpose. Isn't that what we're all here for anyway? To fulfill a destiny or purpose we may not even be aware of.
Essentially, we all have five senses. I'd like to think I'm using them to the best of my ability.
I want to be interested in the world; I want to see, think, and describe objects, situations, people, and ideas. I want to show the world what they might be missing. Being a writer is almost akin to being a small child. The two are quite synonymous in so many ways. I feel like a kid in the backseat of a car, surrounded by people who can't see what I do from my position. They're so focused on where they're going that they can't acknowledge where they are. When I point to the cows in a field, or an old homeless man, they pay no attention. I'm so frustrated trying to show the world look. Look at what you aren't seeing! I can't get everyone to listen, or look, or feel, or taste, or hear the world the way I do, but that's not to say I'm not trying.
I hear the whispers of the unspoken words of night; the crickets singing each other to sleep, the leaves rustling quiet murmurs, and the silent presence of the bats in search of a good meal. I feel the heavy, moist sea air, and the way it has a different pressure than that in the city, or the country, or anywhere else for that matter. I taste snow, so distinct. Made essentially from the same molecules as any other double hydrogen attached to oxygen, but yet so different. Slightly sweet, a sharp flavor; in a way the subtle differences are acknowledged by myself in the same way a connoisseur of fine cheeses or liquor can sense much more powerfully than the rest.
Maybe you don't like me, urging you on your drive to look around at life. Maybe you don't want to acknowledge the beauty, the subtleties, the oddities, and sometimes the sadness in the same way as I do. But I'll be here, tempting you to pause and observe life from the backseat. Because I'm a writer. And this is what I do.

Not in Kansas, but I'm Home

           Where were you on April 16^th 2011? Does that date ring even the tiniest of bells? Well it does for me. It’s been nearly 2 months since the tornado hit my home and took so much, yet left much more than I ever thought possible behind.

            Date: April 16^th Setting: My living room.

            I come from a small Italian family, which yes I have been informed is a total oxymoron. It’s just me, Jeff (Dad), and Debra (Mom). We include our dog as part of the family as well, but not so much the cat. She’s hidden under a bed for the vast majority of the time anyway. So we’re kind of a family of 4 and a half.

            On April 16^th, just before 4 in the afternoon, my family and I (minus the cat), sat lounging and enjoying the rainy day. It was my first day of spring break, and I’d been out late at a party the night before. I was on my laptop, writing of course. Jeff had the weather channel on as white noise. Debra sat with her iPhone, browsing Facebook. This is pretty typical for my family. At any one moment at least one of us is using an Apple product.

            The wind outside was insane, and the rain hit the windowpanes with such force it made me think of medieval times when invading armies would attempt to siege a palace by means of a battering ram. I fervently hoped this outer opposition would not succeed and invade my home with bombardments of watery droplets. The weather channel was having a field day with the immense number of tornado watches and warnings.

            Debra stood up, gaping at her iPhone and shouted to the rest of us that a neighbor had just updated her status, reporting a tornado coming straight towards us.

            That’s right. Facebook saved my life. I ought to send a fruit basket to Mark Zuckerberg.

            So here’s the ranking for levels of panic in my home. First place, hands down, is my mother. I’m a close second. As for Jeff, I doubt he even knows the meaning of the word ‘panic.’

            Debra shepherded all of us to the center of the house, as far away as possible from the ten-foot high windows. She and I took refuge in the bathroom, one of the few quarters in our house without windows.

            Side note: We live in a 200 year-old cotton mill. Complete with 100-foot tall smokestack.             Anyway, there are two tracks of thought going at this point. One is the half full approach: Meh, some tornado that’s probably not going to come has nothing on this place. 200 years versus 200 mph of speeding winds, no biggie. Then there’s the half empty, which I would post here, but I feel as if that would be a very bad thing for children to stumble upon. I hate to ruin innocence. For the most part it involved images of a falling smokestack.

Side note over. Debra and I sat on the floor of the cramped bathroom, Macs splayed across our laps. Jeff, meanwhile, sought shelter in the pantry to do laundry. This was so not the right moment to be the ideal husband.

            The lights crackled, and then flickered out in perfect harmony. Debra screamed for my dad. Jeff let out an expletive and dashed across the hallway.

            Sitting in complete and utter darkness, the door flashed open to let Jeff in, and through the hallway I could see close to nothing. The windows were enveloped by a smoky gray that seemed almost as pitch as the bathroom now with its door returned to its former closed position.

            I had always heard that tornadoes sound like a train coming. Not so for me. It sounded more like a thousand nuts and bolts locked in a washing machine running on high. It’s a terrible grating, whirring, powerful noise.

            The pressure was immense, and I could feel it on all sides. My breath came out ragged, and the weight from the air pressed against my ears to the point they ached and I cried out in pain. The walls shuddered and groaned in protest to the onslaught of twisting gusts. Bits of ceiling plaster fluttered down onto our heads like harmless snow, so benign in comparison to the violent events which caused them.

            Then, as sudden as it had begun, it stopped. I let out a deep breath, one that I hadn’t even known I’d been holding in. How was I to know we were directly in the eye?

            It started all over again, the walls shaking, the floor rumbling beneath my feet, the awful noise, and the immense pain that threatened to split my head in two.

            It was all over then, no fake-outs this time. I opened my laptop once more to check the weather; it reported another tornado coming in 4 minutes.

            Then the knocking started on both doors. I ran to the front, Debra to the back, Jeff upstairs to survey the damage. I ran, struggled with the locks even more than usual, and swung open the door, afraid of what I might see. I couldn’t even look past the slender figure in front of me to process the damage left behind. It was my neighbor Roess, 13.

            “I’m home alone,” she sobbed to me. “I don’t know where my Mom is!”

            Roess was by herself when the tornado hit, and she had to go through the entire experience I was able to go through with my family as support, and she  had not even knowledge of if the person who gave birth to her was alive. She hid in a closet downstairs with only a flashlight for company. I couldn’t even imagine. And then she ran down to my house, not knowing if another tornado would sneak up behind as she sought shelter and comfort.

            From behind I could hear one of my neighbors demanding a sledgehammer; someone was trapped in a unit and couldn’t get out.

            Jeff came down, reporting that my ceiling was missing, and that puddles of water had begun to saturate everything in my bedroom.

            Debra relayed this information to another neighbor at the back door, who shouted back that the main building had it much worse. A roof had been ripped off, busting the main sprinkler pipe, gushing thousands of gallons of water, knee deep, into the main building.

            I took Roess into our bathroom, and we hid in the tub, preparing for the next onslaught, towels above our heads to protect us from falling ceiling pieces. I recall repeatedly kissing her knee like I used to when we were much younger and telling her that everything would be fine. My shaking voice betrayed the calm facade I was putting on to reassure her.

            I checked my phone, I had a message from my neighbor Mark; he’d sent it just before the twister.

            Mark: Hey, how’s the storm over at the mill?

            Me: Hey, where are you? We just went though a tornado.

            Mark: Cup a Joe. Are you serious? How are things?

            He called to report he was on his way home immediately (despite my protests he’d be safer there).

            Then I called my boyfriend of the time. He was completely freaked out of course, and insisted on coming right away to help out. He began immediately cleaning his home to make room for my family to stay while the mill went under reconstruction. I still owe him the world for that, and he’ll never understand how much it really meant to me.

            Reports from neighbors unveiled that the rest of the mill residents were hiding underground in our storage basement to escape the next tornado.

            At that moment, Roess’s mother, Diane, burst through the door screaming and crying. She had left her car, wide open on the main road, unable to pass through the gates blocked by fallen trees, and ran to her house. Roess wasn’t there of course, and Diane had begun to think the worst. Sopping wet, she clung to her daughter, and together we all ran to the basement.

            It was practically a big party down there, despite the constant annoyance of the intolerable fire alarm, plus the fact we were all pretty scared we’d die. Eventually the update reached us that, at least for the moment, we were in the clear. I stepped out into a dazzling green tinted light.

            This was the first look I’d really had at what happened.

Taken by the Incredible Sam Bennett

            Gutters, ripped from the building, splayed across the lot like grotesque and twisted metal corpses. Trees hundreds of years old were ripped straight from the ground, lying defeated on their sides. My roof had fallen atop our outdoor dining table. The other half dangled off like ripped fabric. Leaves were plastered across windows, creating an opaque green curtain. Pieces of brick clustered on the concrete everywhere. Broken glass, broken gutters, broken roof, broken home, broken heart.

            I cried. I cried for the loss of the materials. I cried for the loss of my things. I cried for everyone in surrounding neighborhoods that didn’t have a house as well equipped to withstand the damage as our own. I cried for it all.

            I ran to my room to salvage as much as I could as soon as I’d recovered. The first thing I grabbed was my great-grandfather’s collection of currency from World War Two. Then I heard Debra below: “Summer, get out of your room now! The H-VAC unit’s about to fall in!”

            Those are words you really don’t want to hear when you know the H-VAC in question is right above your room.

            I rushed down to join the throngs of neighbors below, all staring up at my 45 degree angled unit. For the record, it didn’t fall. But you can bet I was not comfortable spending more than five minutes in my room after that moment.

Sam Bennett

            Roess and I went to survey the damage in the neighborhood. A gas pipe had broken up the street, blocking off roads to our house. A car had driven off the road, its bumper stuck deep in a gaping hole left behind by an uprooted tree. The search and rescue team walked down the hill, dodging downed power lines.

            This wasn’t how spring break was supposed to go.

            We were asked to go back to our units and gather anything we needed, for an indefinite amount of time. We were being evacuated.

            I packed and cried. I lived in 3 different homes over the weeklong spring break.

            We’re back again. For now. My ceiling is still half ripped off, but there’s a temporary roof over the whole building. My wall is down, including all the insulation, and it will be years until everything is even close to back to normal.

            But the tornado wasn’t all bad. It brought the mill even closer together. There’s a sense of camaraderie that lingers after such a disastrous event that makes you look at the ones you didn’t know too well, know that they survived the same as you, and feel a connection to them. It makes you realize how you’re all in this together. No one came out unscathed (either mentally or physically), and we all know we couldn’t make it through without the support of each other. We’re working together to build back the things we lost. But everyone’s still there. No one was seriously injured. We’re all okay in the end.

            Then I realized; homes are replaceable. People aren’t. And that's what really matters.

Before

After- Sam Bennett