Wayward Wind

White listlessness upon the leather bound spine gathers up with the wind, creasing the air with every weathered page’s sound, life itself not sturdy enough as print to stop the incessant drain of words that have leaked out of the blank spaces of the mind. The mind, of course, being a representative for actual life. For actual words.

Wind as sweet as the trees which drive it carry the dead, thin passages through the dimensions. The wind’s howl, though soft, rustles the layers of death and leaves the carcass standing still, for it does not have the strength to ruin everything, to affect everything in it’s way. The structure is surely gone, as the black liquid has already vanished, a varnish not suitable for the droplets of purity, for the cleansing it rightly deserves. However the skeleton stands, upright in comparison to what structure actually is, deep and saturated in color, unlike it’s dead predecessor of winding, crinkling, white lies. Lies, if not true, can also be washed and forgotten. A secret, in a way, is an empty surface where the death used to stand.

When the wind seems to stop, and the hollow structure is indeed not hollow, but rather just empty, the print does not feel inclined to find it’s way back. The telling way in which the cream is left pure, or broken if the wind proves stronger than usual, directly showcases the life which has been forgotten. The air, though crisp, is deep and changing. It is symbolic in the sense that to allow such to occur, forgottenness would have already taken place, and the blank mind would have already been formed. (Of course in an extent all minds are deemed blank). And the structure would have been appealing still, have not the judgement been blank in its measures as well. Hollowness, fondly found in a tree, ironically, may not be as apparent as in the dead coffin. For there to be blankness, there must be something to be blank, even if words reappear, though unlikely.

Wayward wind picks up again, fluttering the life, manipulating the death, whiteness aghast at what insolvable misery has become of the darkness that once left. The spine, of course, stays, supporting nothing, supporting everything. The mind, lesser than the spine in a sense, has become aware of it’s fate. Knowledge not meant to jest, the wind does not hold the fate. For, eventually, each white, listless, blank, empty slice of life, will be overturned, will be evaluated for no purpose. Each will have it’s light, it’s darkness. But the mind will stay in place, the spine will not move. Fate is not determined by the wind, as soft and sweet as so. Even a harsh wind will not change the binding; not really.

Winding up in a pattern, an unforgiving combination of wind and misery, each white layer of life will still be blank. For the strongest wind cannot change the fact that all death has left. That the black lettering will not return, even if so replaced, will not give meaning to blankness. The wind carries the ideas around, not very far, for the binding still acts as a skeleton for the mind, still encompasses every blank thought. The wind, then, perhaps stands as a sweet relief, a realization that all of it would have been for nothing. Unless, of course, the absent print means something else entirely. However so, the pattern continues, the white listlessness upon the leather bound spine gathers up with the wind, creasing the air with every weathered page’s sound.


Just Undo It

“You know you don’t have to talk about it.”

I’ve been staring at the same poster for the entire hour. It says “Racism: Just undo it”. A square, laminated piece of paper, half black with white lettering, half white with black lettering. Not only does the declarative not make any sense, but it is virtually unachievable. People will always be fighting over something and a pathetic piece of paper isn’t going to change that.

The walls around the paper are a light gray color and the sun makes it almost look cheery. The sun casts a yellow line across the poster, cutting some letters apart, segregating them with the happiness of the sun.

My eyes slowly trace down the gray wall to the man sitting across from me. I think about how no matter how many posters they hang up around this place, around the world, he’ll always be African American. Not that he should have to carry the raciest baggage with him, but the poster might as well be saying “Race: just undo it” because the faults in society will always be as concrete as genes, if not even more so.

“I know.”

He adjusts his glasses, the glass glinting the sun into my own eyes. I squint, and for a second, I can’t read the poster. It all falls under the same blurry haze, fogging out specific words or facial features. He adjusts his glasses, but he might as well be pointing a gun to my head.

I look back up to the poster. I wonder who put it there, or if he even knows it’s up there, toward the top of the wall, kind of tucked away in plain sight. I wonder if he knows what it means. I wonder if I know what it means. Just undo it. In our world, sadly, I don’t think anything can be unthreaded that easily. It isn’t as simple as erasing the letting from a poster; everything is so cemented and embedded in human nature that nothing, not even the end of the world, could get rid of it.

I see that he is looking up at the poster as well, body turned around in the chair like a plane just landed in the office. He looks up at the poster for quite some time, brown suit wrinkling awkwardly at his disheveled disposition. I wait silently for him to turn back, and when he does, he nods. Maybe he finally understands how idiotic that poster is. Maybe he gets it.

“That came with the office.” He says, gravelly voice harsher than the sun cascading on his face. He folds his hands on his lap carefully, as if they might break. “I never took it down. I don’t know why. Maybe it was just because I couldn’t get a ladder in here. It’s awfully high up there.”

“I know.”

“And it’s a positive sign, I think. Positivity is always good to have in a place like this.” He says. I don’t know if I believe him though. He looks up to the poster one more quick time before clearing is throat, a sign that our hour is over. “It looks like that is all the time we have for today.” He says, standing up. I stand as well, taking one more glance at the poster. Racism: Just undo it. If only everything could be simplified into a declarative. If only everything could be undone on a whim. Just undo it. I wish it was that easy.

Last year, in my AP History class, I spent probably too much time looking up at a poster like the one described above. Now, I’m not blaming the poster for my ultimate failure of the class and exam, however it did inspire a lot of questions as to what it meant, exactly. My teacher said that it came with the classroom, but I wasn’t so sure as to why he never took it down. It obviously isn’t a very powerful message since things like racism are so embedded into society, even after the lettering hung on a classroom wall.

Anyway, it inspired this little piece as well. Hopefully my distraction and detachment while looking at the poster for the majority of the classes are clearly represented above. You can’t just undo things, and I hope this message at least gets through a bit more than the poster.

As always, thanks for reading.

Racism just undo it

First day of summer school

While looking through a pile of loose leaf papers, which all have miscellaneous writings on them, I found something that was intended to be a blog post, but never made it onto the internet. So, instead of typing it all up, I thought I’d do something different and put the actual paper on the blog. This was you can see my minor editing that is done before the actual changes made when typing, and can see how many spelling errors I rely on the computer to catch for me. Hopefully my handwriting is legible. I wrote this on my first day of summer school while abjectly sitting in class, not paying attention to the information needed to pass the test…

…of which I failed miserably. IMG_6416


How I write a story

In case you haven’t heard, I often find myself doing one thing: writing. In the “Longer Works” tab you can find a bunch of ‘short’ stories I’ve written over the years, most of them not very good. Though my writing has (hopefully) improved as time goes on, I think one thing remains the same. The structure of all the novel(ish) length pieces.

When I start writing, I start out with a small conceptual idea. In the case of “The Amleth Tales“, my idea was, what if one person in a group of friends was insane, but it was told from the perspective of a sane person? Of course, if you ever end up reading that anthology of tales, the story stretches way beyond that. And this is because I do little planning, and the concept that strikes the idea to write becomes less of a focal point and more what makes the story unique. This pattern is all throughout my writing. In the short story “Freely“, I thought it would be interesting to write something where a person was diminished to the role of an animal; I wanted to strip all the humanity from someone. Of course, the actual piece has much more depth to it than this, even poking at the nature of love and human condition, but it just the same was drawn out of a simple idea.

So, once I have my idea in place, I start writing. I don’t really know what the story is going to turn into. This is why most of the pieces start with what the TV business calls a “cold open”. Meaning, I start the story right in the middle of an event or scene with little exposition, or just enough to get a grip on what’s going on. Many of the beginnings to the stories I write are different, especially in voice, than the rest of the piece. In the beginning I’m finding the story and what is going to drive it. I’m setting up the world and the emotions in order to set the story in motion and do as little planning as possible. “Solomon” starts in the middle of a very descriptive, distraught scene. It’s separated from the rest of the work in many ways. I did the same thing with an unfinished work, called “War Accord”.

The cold open allows me to either pass time, or set up a separate scene from the rest of the work. It makes it easier to write the actual story and to set the scene without actually setting the scene. After this, I either start the first “chapter” or section, or I put in a visual break and continue on. This is where the real writing takes place.

And this can take place within weeks, or months.

As I said before, I do little planning when writing. This is probably apparent, though I do try to loop things back and focus on certain themes in order to blur out this fact. I write a section, a few pages or a few words, and leave a little note for myself with what I want to happen in the story when I return to writing. In the beginning I focus more on characters and setting up things. Towards the middle I’m planning more and realizing where I want the story to go and maybe even how I want it to end. Most of the things I’ve written follow the same type of structure, though. All of the longer pieces have “chapters”, but are told in an almost episodic manner. They’re told in scenes, similar to a movie type of set up. There usually aren’t pages upon pages of thought, unless pertinent to the plot, and each scene usually has something important to offer to the work as a whole.

I wrote the “Amleth” series in my freshman year of high school. I wrote “Basil” Sophomore year. I wrote “Solomon” in the beginning of my senior year. The writing quality may be different (and hopefully better as I went on), however the structure is relatively the same. Even many of the themes throughout my writing, I’m finding, are the same. The titles, which I’m just seeing now, are all names.

All the things I’ve written usually end in some kind of realization. Most of them are slightly “coming of age”, and most have the characters realize something that is apparent, or at least accepted, in the end. I don’t like grand endings because they almost never happen in real life. So each story usually ends on a nice note, a note of growth and understanding. As it ends, also, I usually make larger time jumps, or have a few large time jumps. It helps wrap up an ending that would wrap up slowly in real life, too slow for a few hours or weeks between scenes like usual.

And after I finish a work, I write a little blurb about it and then when it was completed, and I save it. And, if it’s good enough, I make it a PDF and put it on this blog.

And that’s how I write a story.

You can read some of them here.

Autumn’s Rapport

The season everyone seems to adore

Is left dead in a comparison war.

For when leaves begin to fall

No one can tally the total all

Detrimental succession

Of my overall impression

Of your rapport.

Nothing in Autumn comes as green

As your smiling scene.

For when leaves begin to fall

Short days make time stall

And it’s never my desire

With you to retire

Because that would be obscene.

(Unless, of course, I can implore

Another usual Sunday tour).


After three months of writing, I finished a “short” story, that can be found here, titled “Solomon”. I’m writing this blog post because no one would really know I added to the page otherwise. If you choose to read it, then I guess this will have served it’s purpose. I go into why I wrote it on the last page. Also, I just finished it today, and the version on the page isn’t edited of course, so there are a few minor mistakes in spelling and whatnot along the way.

Thanks, keep on writing.

-Kylie Eileen

The obedient must be slaves

For my senior project I am proving that two different film genres can convey the same exact idea due to the creative approach. Me being me, I wanted both films (a short and a documentary) to touch upon the idea that education plays a crucial part in the ingraining of obedience in society, something that ultimately results in arbitrary conventions and the ostracizing of different individuals. The two quotes below basically sum up my idea.

“Disobedience is the true foundation of liberty. The obedient must be slaves.”

-Henry David Thoreau

“Education… becomes all the more disgusting, the more, by the action of Modern Industry… and their children [are] transformed into simple articles of commerce and instruments of labour.”

-The Communist Manifesto

Since the screenplay isn’t finalized, nor good enough to put on the internet, and this is mainly a story-based writing blog, I decided to post the concept, which can be read more like a story than a script.

Log line:

An outcaster looks at the conformity of school subjectively, hyperbolizing the actions of others which display an obedience to the arbitrary conventions of society she omits; this disregard results in the ostracizing of her and her ideas.


An alarm beeps to alert someone to wake up, and the hand of a girl turns it off. The Girl is then seen driving to school, particularly downcast, though offset with freedom as she travels down the road. It isn’t necessarily a positive tone, however the scene is at ease, she does not have major stresses to deal with. Perhaps some noise from the radio or such leaks through, the ambient hum of the car providing a warm feel to the situation.

She enters the school with everyone else, arrives at a classroom full of peers. She sits by herself in the classroom, alone, and is clearly not friends with anyone in the class. Over the loudspeaker cracks, “There will be an assembly today in the Auditorium during free period discussing the upcoming school wide events. Students please report to the auditorium instead of your period teacher.”

Everyone gathers in the Auditorium. The Girl sits slightly away from others. A voice over a microphone says, boringly, “We will start the assembly with the pledge of allegiance.” Everyone stands up unenthusiastically and says the pledge, facing the flag. Everyone is in a uniform position, except for the Girl, who is standing with her arms at her sides. As her face is the focus of the camera, the pledge continues on. A wide shot shows the students now raising their arms in salute to the flag, bringing to memory the images of Nazi Soldiers saluting Hitler and his regime. The pledge continues on, growing louder, ambient noises increase, and as it continues it forms into a sort of cult-like chant as follows “…Without liberty, without justice, for all. In the sense that we are all the same, we are all each other, in words and in actions, we unite. Omitting free will, following society, we are but simple articles of commerce. We are instruments of labor. We are the people who blindly follow the great nation, encouraging difference, allowing only obedience and conformity.”

The hum of the pledge and the ringing in the Girl’s ears all break with the slamming of books down on a table in the lunchroom. Again, the Girl sits alone, and the sounds of mindless chatter and laughter overcome her. Bits of conversation are heard, as well as other ambient sounds which blend everything in together. She is watching two other people talk about nothing, perhaps even arguing about nothing. It is clear she is becoming agitated with everything, feeling as if she cannot change the way things are. The scene then flashes back and forth from the lunchroom to turning off an alarm clock, to driving, to saying the pledge, to people in hallways, etc. As it flashes, the hum and talk continue. The two continue to chat, and the Girl grows perplexed as how they can talk about nothing in particular.

The Girl leaves the school building, and everything gets quiet. She walks to her car, gets in, and takes a deep breath. As she drives home, calmness sweeps over her face, showing the relief of leaving the school, putting the conformity and ostracizing behind her.

Again, an alarm clock beeps and is turned off, the cycle starting all over again.

Oh look, a blog post

Originally I wasn’t sure if I’d post anything on here until I had a set idea of what I wanted to write, or waited until I had finished the story I’m working on, or just felt the need to document what has been going on in my life. I even wrote a whole melodramatic page on my experience in summer school. I planned out what I wanted to say about starting my senior year, and even thought of writing another poem. However none of these were viable enough to make a blog post, which apparently has some sort of standard code that arbitrary events in my life don’t match up with. I’d like to, after over a month of not posting anything, be able to post something up that was of slight value, something I could be proud of to have on the whole internet thing. This just isn’t the case.

So, why keep reading if, by the above description, this is just a mess of absolute nothing? Well, I’d like to say officially that I will be probably taking a leave of absence from the whole blog thing. I’ve been making more and more films lately, and it’s even what my senior project is going to be focused on. I still write on the regular, however it isn’t anything of internet worthy value; I’m writing a short story that is more for me than anyone else. I’ll put it on the longer works page once it’s done, though. Not that anyone views that page. Anyway, since I’m spending more time thinking about scripts and camera angles rather than paragraphs and character development, posts are most likely going to be even rarer than usual. Not that many people read this blog anyway.

The motivation to write is pretty minimal; not many people read things I’m actually proud of. Actually, in order to get any sort of feedback I have to force people to read or watch things. The feedback is usually “Yeah, it was good.” Which isn’t feedback at all, it is a standard answer for people who do not care. It is the standard answer from my friends and parents. So hopefully you understand why the motivation is small and why what I’m currently working on is for me. And why I probably wont be posting blog posts so much any more, not that I ever did that. It isn’t as if my writing is so worth reading anyway.

For now, thanks for reading. I’ll try to write something of actual blog post value next time.

A thought

It is hard to relish in the fact that I have no idea who I am.

As humans we are comprised of atoms, built together by tiny inter-molecular forces that somehow string up a sense of being. Neurons that deliver the world around us into an intangible thought, into a perception that can never be repeated twice, only supplement the very concept that we exist, that we have some sort of actual representation in the world other than our mind’s eye of life itself. We exist, we are alive in the functional sense, we think, we breathe, we operate at a standard of intelligence that sets us apart from most other beings- beings which are made of the same compositions as we are and yet manage to lack in perception. Our science has figured the foundation of life, the melody behind thought, the preamble to our creation. Facts upon facts lay structured in our minds, reminding us who we are and what life is supposed to be. We are composed of atoms, arranged in such a way from the start that we will always be destined to be the same and different at once, forever. Information about ourselves is always at our disposal, knowledge is rained down on us from the beginning; we are made to absorb as much data as possible, always evaluating, subverting what we know into linear facts about others, complying all information into a set way of life. No matter how disconnected someone ends up, there will never be an escape from the collective. A human is more defined than anything.

Yet most people have no idea who they are.

If people folded up like paper

Lately I’ve been thinking about the possibilities in life if only people could be folded up like paper. My mind has been filled with thoughts of mailing people places, and fixing a scratch in skin with a staple gun, and being able to hide from murderers behind picture frames. If bones were as malleable as paper, if people could attach themselves to string and go for a soar in the sky, if we could live in shoe boxes with a simple fold of ourselves, maybe then all of our problems would be solved. And if these paper people fell in love, every night they would pocket their love with a kiss, tie themselves together as so no harm could reach the other. If people folded up like paper, we’d have no room for the faults, for the messy feelings spilled on us every day. If people could be folded up like paper, I think it would be a better life.

I haven’t written in a while, so I thought I’d put this random paragraph I wrote a while back on the blog just to keep things rolling. Hopefully I’ll write more soon, not that my absence is hindering anything on the internet world. 

Update: War Accord

The title is an oxymoron, but so is the majority of my life, so it’s appropriate.

A few weeks back, maybe a month actually, I posted the first three pages to War Accord on the blog. Click here to read it. And then, in another post, I mentioned that I had deleted a few pages and was contemplating giving up on the whole affair. Well, after my flash drive incident (click here to read about that) I felt that giving up wasn’t an option. So, I took some time to think, and I came to the conclusion that I would keep writing it. And I did. It’s a story I feel the need to tell.

I’ve been working on i for a while now, and I’ve reached about 63 pages, just under 25,000 words. I’ll put an excerpt below. But first, the moral of my post.

I could have given up on the story. I could have given up on the half of what I’ve written, on the deleted 14 pages, on the character I was learning about, the world I had created. And I did, for a while. But I guess something in me wouldn’t let that happen. You see, nothing really goes as planned in my life, hence referring to it as an oxymoron at times. And I’m forced to give up on almost everything, as sad as it sounds. And for some reason a few pages on my computer, filled with words and a cheesy title, gave me the will to not give up. It’s just pixels on a screen, with no real value in this world. It’s just something that people will probably never see. But to me, the story, even parts I had yet to tell, mean something more. I’m putting my views and my thoughts into plot and characters and a world that I am creating. And, if I do say so myself, that’s pretty awesome.

So, maybe the moral here is to not give up. However, I’m not as skilled as those kid’s cartoons that give the same message in a more exuberant way, so instead I’m just going to put a piece of War Accord below. Tell me what you think. And don’t give up… or at least, try to not give up as much. You might surprise yourself.

This is the ending scene to Part One.

We get into the main corridor as people start running everywhere, the alarm sounding to tell us we need to go. Jackson runs into us and says something that I don’t hear so I look down and see I cut my hand on the glass. The red line isn’t deep but half my hand is covered in blood. I wipe the blood on my pants, not feeling anything but the heartbeat in my shoulder.

“Kane,” I hear. I look up and Jackson is waving his hand in front of my face. Someone pushes past me and I try to block out the pain it causes. “We have to go now. There are too many airstrikes so we have to take trucks.”

I look around the room. People are going towards the exit stairwells, trying to find order in leaving the compound. It’ll take too long to take trucks there. Chaos will be worse if don’t get there in time. We can’t have chaos in our peaceful compound. We can’t have war in an area of peace.

Someone starts screaming and we all turn. The kid from the bathroom is running into the corridor, screaming.

“They’re lying!” He shouts, running towards us. His eyes are wide and crazed. Red lines stream from his pupils. Behind him, behind his eyes, the commander and his assistant work to catch up. The kid stares at me. “Don’t listen to them, they’re starting the-”

The gunshot is louder than the explosions.

The kid is at my feet, his fingers almost touching my boots. I feel splatters of blood on my face. I look up at the commander’s assistant, holding the gun up still. He looks at me. And we just stand there.


I start running towards him, around the dead kid, around the thick, bloody air, around everything I stand for. He points his gun towards me. I keep running.

The gunshot is ringing in my ears.

The ceiling is above me again, and I’m looking at the dent where the bullet hit it. Someone is yelling, and someone else is pulling me up, and dragging me out of there.

“Kane,” Jackson’s voice is the only thing I hear. “Start walking. We need to go.”

I stand on my own and see Bennett pointing towards where we need to go. The commander is behind Bennett, looking at me. His assistant is holding his head, catching his breath. We walk to an exit, people already gone. No one chases after us. There are no more gunshots. Everything that just occurred stands still, right where we left it. I keep falling into Jackson, and we start walking up stairs before I know it.

“You’re lucky I pushed you out of the way,” Bennett says after a while of walking up stairs. I disagree. I rather die than live not knowing the truth. I rather die that participate in this war. “You’re lucky that they need soldiers to fight more than they need to keep them in check. If the war wasn’t so pressing, he would have attempted to shoot you again. It’s better to just keep yourself mindless and go along with things than to defend everyone with an opinion.”

“What’s your opinion?” I hear myself say. We keep walking up stairs, the alarm getting quieter and quieter.

“We’re almost there,” Is all she says. She has no answer because she, herself, is mindless. She could have died in the middle of a base of peace, and she has no thought other than entering war. A young soldier ran toward us, yelling something so damaging he had to be killed by the leader of our small military. I was then almost shot because I knew what happened was wrong. And then, in desperation for manpower alone, we walked away alive. And she questions none of it.

We reach the top.

This is the last I’ll see of the compound. We’re going to war, now.

And then suddenly it hits me, it’s a year ago.

Cue the indie rock music playlist as I nostalgically reflect on the fact that it’s been a year since last spring.

Spring is not my favorite season, but I really like it for many of the reasons that others like it. The rebirth of plants, the ending of the school year, the more sunlight during the day, the birds, the general upbeat vibes that everyone seems to have during the spring. I like springtime, even though my motivation to actually get stuff done, like homework, decreases, and I look out the window during class more. I like springtime, even though it’s getting warmer and soon it’ll be insufferable in school. I like springtime for many of the reasons that others like it.

And a year ago I was writing so much during the spring. I wrote Basil in a few weeks last spring, during April. And I can’t believe it’s been a year. In that year I really haven’t done much writing that equals the expanse that the one piece contains. When summer comes around the bend, I don’t write as much as I do experience. And in fall I’m always busy, and in winter too tired. So spring seems to be the most productive. And I’m looking forward to write more, hopefully.

Last spring I was keeping a journal, and I was angry still with the world, and I was figuring stuff out. A year ago I was a girl with braces who took geometry class and was ostracized in gym and who spent more free time with friends. It’s actually funny to read back in my journal and think “if 15 year old Kylie even knew”. Last April I went on a school trip to Chicago and spent the majority of the time alone, watching people. Last year I sat with this kid I didn’t know every other day during lunch, and we wouldn’t talk to each other unless I was in a good enough mood to say hi. Here’s a quote from my journal. April 21st 2014: On another note, I don’t feel awful. It’s raining so I feel kind of down. Plus everything that is going on in the world, but I don’t want to completely separate myself. Not yet, at least. I guess not much has changed. I don’t want to separate myself completely from the world right now, but I’ve gotten close as 2014 dragged on. Later that April I wrote: A year ago it was very bad. I’m still discontent but I’m dealing with it. I guess life is full of that. So I guess reflecting on years past is a thing of spring.

I’m not sure why I’m writing all of this down. Maybe this is sort of a journal, this blog. Seldom I can be transparent, however, because anyone can see this. So perhaps this transparency, this clear glimpse in the fog of my life, is special. Consider yourself lucky.

I wish I’ve been keeping a journal this year, because it is so much more to actually read your own thoughts than to remember bits and pieces of what your life was like years ago. A year. It’s been a year since last spring, when I read Catcher in the Rye and when I went I started my phase (which hasn’t really ended) of just not caring. Last spring I was constantly arguing with my best friend and shaking ground so much with every relationship I had that everything was on verge of collapsing. I could have separated myself from the entire world. But I didn’t.

It’s funny to think of all the things I didn’t know back then. It’s funny to think of the things I was angry about last year that have no matter anymore. And the things I felt that actually still have relevance.

I’m not sure what this post serves to prove or show. Maybe it’s just for me.

Anyway, this is dragging on, and I should probably end with whatever moral there is to my story. I guess it’s important for spring to happen each year, even if it means with the end of winter, other things end as well. I’m a different person in some respects, but I feel like no one ever really changes. You can grow up, but you can’t really change into something totally different, especially in only a year.

A lot has happened since last spring, and it wouldn’t be coherent to write it all down here, but it’s still pertinent in my heart. Oh, how sentimental I am.

Hopefully this spring has it’s own surprises and awesomeness and I can look back on it next year with happy nostalgia and slight embarrassment. And hopefully your spring is just as ace.

Until next year, or next time, rather,

Kylie Eileen

A week in Spain wasn’t enough

So, after an airplane ride of horror, getting robbed by gypsies, photo bombed by singing Spaniards, bored to death by tour guides, annoyed by annoying classmates, sleepless nights, and another airplane ride of horror, I am back in America.

The trip to Spain was fun, an learning experience, and most of all a once in a life time opportunity. I’m so much more thankful that I got to go than most of the other students, who barely spoke Spanish and were more concerned about the WiFi situation than the fact that we were in Europe. I’ll probably never go again, and I’ll keep the experience with me for the rest of my life. And in the seven or so days of traveling around the country, so much occurred that I can’t write it all down, and I kind of don’t want to evaluate everything so technically. It’s important to keep the memories as great as they were without reflecting on every little thing, which happens when writing.

A friend and I got photo bombed in Corboda by singing Spanish men
A friend and I got photo bombed in Corboda by singing Spanish men.

The first day all 25 of us (including teachers) toured Madrid with about 2 hours of sleep. Madrid was a beautiful city, and we were warned to stay in groups and keep purses in front of us because there were robbers. It was set up a lot like a big city, and reminded a lot of Times Square- save the billboards and advertisements. In the Plaza of Madrid, there were many people dressed up funny or in a costume that took attention so that they could earn money for simply being there. There was a man wrapped in streamers with a wooden dog face who chirped at people, need I say more?

The people were very kind, and as we traveled I learned that most knew more English than I knew Spanish. And everyone talked a hell of a lot faster than the teachers did at school. We went south after two days in Madrid, going to Toledo, Corboda and Seville, visiting museums and getting yelled at by Spanish people. Most of the interactions I had with the Spanish peoples were of being chastised for either sitting somewhere I wasn’t supposed to, or touching something of value. Or not giving a gypsy money after she forcefully read my future via my palm.

We visited museum after museum and royal palace after palace and cathedral after cathedral and mosque after mosque, until by the end it was an April Fools joke four our tour guide to say we were going to another museum. But I learned about Mosque architecture and Jewish heritage and Catholicism faults in total more than years of history classes in school. I saw ancient buildings from the 1200s and rooms kings and queens used to live in. I witnessed ancient paintings and forms of art graphic designers couldn’t compare to. All this happened while the richer kids just took selfies and asked fr the WiFi password.

The food in Spain surprised me because what I was getting extremely excited for turned out to be a nation obsessed with ham. I know, ham. And I can go on for days about the two ham museums that we passed in Madrid and how every single store had racks and racks of ham legs, and how the most expensive ham were only fed acorns so the meat would taste spectacular. Ham. Everywhere. Every meal offered ham, and every local tour guide had something to say about ham. They were obsessed. Ham Tapas (tapas are a famous form of small food in Spain that used to go on top of drinks so bugs wouldn’t get in them, and are now a local and tourist specialty) ham breakfast, ham lunch, ham, ham, ham. You know what I ate? Bread.

Olives, too. An art teacher than went along with the trip bought olive oil from every store we visited. On a four hour bus ride to Seville, I’d look out the window at the Spanish terrain. And where you’d see grass, there were thousands and thousands of rows of olive trees. Every second of that bus ride there were fields and fields of olive trees in sight. The view would expand to the horizon on the rolling plains of trees.

There's more where that came from
But wait, there’s more

With great food and beautiful architecture, there are always downsides. There were a lot of sketchy people, as there are anywhere you go. In the subway, I witnessed a man try and grab a bag from a girl in our group. He causally passed us, walking the other direction, and tried to swipe it out of her hands. She immediately pushed away, and I was the only one that saw. There were gypsies everywhere, begging for money, some super strung out. In Costa Del Sol there were street vendors, basically walking shops, who would come up to you while eating at an outside restaurant trying to sell you crappy tourist items. Pick pockets would apparently work in teams of two, one distracting you with touristy information while the other stole money. I guess us Americans looked shady, too, because at shoppes owners would stare us down and sometimes follow us. I guess the United States isn’t the only nation full of profilers.

I could go on and on about the time there, and all the cultural differences, but no amount of words can fully describe it.

So here are some pictures.

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This is me awkwardly posing in a beautiful gazebo

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A week in Spain wasn’t enough.

I had just started getting used to the lack of sleep and not knowing what people were saying. I had gotten used to trying new things every second and dealing with annoying people in our group. Coming back into JFK airport was like waking up from an amazing dream. Hearing English everywhere was almost a sad thing. The modern world, full of new architecture and the ability to understand what people said to me, wasn’t relaxing or easing to the soul.

Exploring the world is something I’d like to do more, however probably will never get the chance to do again, especially at the depth that I did. For now, I’m just going to remember as best I can this amazing experience, and probably cherish it forever. During the trip, I even got some interesting writing ideas. The culture, the landscape, the people, the food, the architecture, every thing, was amazing.

And, for now, that’s all I have to say.

English may be my favorite language, but it never hurts to be immersed in a different one for a while, if only for a week.

After an airplane ride of horror, getting robbed (one euro) by gypsies, photo bombed by (beautifully) singing Spaniards, bored to death by (knowledgeable) tour guides, annoyed by (extremely) annoying classmates, (countless) sleepless nights, and another airplane ride (or four) of horror, I am (almost sadly) back in America.

The trip to Spain was fun, an learning experience, and most of all a once in a life time opportunity that I’ll never forget.