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.

Update: Ingles esta mi idioma favorito

Tomorrow, the twenty-fifth of March 2015, I will be headed off to a country outside of the united States and Canada. It’s for a school trip, and I’ve been waiting for this amazing opportunity since I heard about it, before I spoke Spanish. But first, let me take a self-sufficient moment to tell you other things.

So the introduction you may or may not heave read to that short story I was working on is now obsolete. I managed to delete 14 pages of work when trying to save the document. Since the flash drive incident, I decided to save it on my new flash drive and the computer, and when I was coping and replacing the document, I replaced the newer version with the older version. And then I groggily realized my mistake at 10:30 pm, once it was too late, and gave up on the entire project. For now. But probably also forever. You have read a ghost project. One that never stops haunting me and will forever be unreal.

It is as if the universe is personally telling me something by upping all clumsiness and mistakes I make. And I for one, make a lot of clumsy and stupid mistakes. Probably enough to account for millions. Or at least enough to account for the little amount of readers on this page de la red. Anyway, if I believed in that type of thing, I’d day the universe is telling me not to write anymore. Well, universe, screw you, and screw your faulty punishment system. I shall write and write I shall until the day my heart seizes beating.

Also as an update I’d like to say that there is a slight possibility that readers may or may not get offended when they read this and perhaps find themselves within my writing. And, classmates, people I know, humans of all species, do not flatter yourself. There are so many people who do similar things in our little section of New York state, and you are too kind on yourself to say that you are the reason for a blog post, or two. Or none. (If you don’t get this, it’s all good. This is just a precaution for future incidents that may or may not occur, and things that have. Apparently people have never heard of freedom of speech, and I have to write this just in case one of those people goes on a rampage… again).

Ingles esta mi idioma favorito. English is my favorite language. Despite this amazing factoid, which is actually a fact about an opinion, which is just a matter of thinking, I am traveling to Spain. For about 8 days, including travel. And during that time I really am hoping that something gives me the inspiration and motivation to write more. To not give up when things get deleted or aren’t coming together (right now) as I hope them to. I hope that seeing a different part of the world helps me understand my own situations, in my own world, and connect me to something bigger. I want to see that we may be just random pieces of the universe, but damn are those pieces pretty cool.

Hopefully I don’t get mugged.

After the trip, or during depending on the internet situation, I’ll make a blog post about the travels. For now, I’m trying not to remember famous movies with airplane crashes… Oh man. I’m having flash backs to World War Z.

Anyway, while I’m gone, I’ll be thinking of writing and what I’ll have to say upon return. Keep on writing, and I’ll be back soon.

Kylie Eileen

War Accordance

I’ve started writing a new story, and I’d like to post the beginning, which is three pages before Part One. It’s the tale of Gareth Kane, peacekeeper in some distant society, new to the concept of war. It is meant to show the irony that exists within the concept of war, especially to someone who isn’t blind to peace. The title itself is an oxymoron in that accordance means peace, conformity. I’d love to hear what you think, and perhaps in the future I’ll put the completed story on the blog. 

War Accordance First three pages

Stay low.

Nothing is visible and all I can hear are the crashing sounds. They’re shaking my ears and the earth. The sounds almost make the darkness blacker. It’s so dark that when I close my eyes things are brighter.

Stay low.

I feel the earth under me, my body lay low. The rumbling shakes my head, pounds it against the ground. My right hand feels the rubble underneath me, but I can’t move my left hand. My lips are covered in dust, but I whisper anyway.

I can’t feel my left arm.

Stay low, he repeats. I can’t see him, and his breathing sounds stop when another crash hits, and my body thuds against the dirt and ashes. There’s raging pain in my head, and that’s the only pain. My entire body is numb, and I can’t move my left arm.

Another crash happens, and something falls near me. I wish I could see what is going on. Everything is in slow motion, and every noise is louder than it really is.

Wait for it.

I can’t wait any longer. My head must be bleeding, or something. It feels dark and damp and the ashes on the ground are sticking to my skin. I breathe in, trying to move my arm. Hold the breath, blinking, hoping to see. Staying low, staying as safe as possible in an unsafe situation. Not talking, listening for the crash that ends it all. Feeling everything move slower and louder than it is. Breathe out.


Get up. Feel the ground with my right hand, push myself up. Stay low, run. I can’t see anything. I feel the ground beneath me and I can move my legs.

Run, stay low.

Things start to speed up. Another crashing sound. My ears are ringing. I can feel the blood on my face. The ground shakes as I start to run. My legs press against the wave of force trying to bring me down. I breathe heavily, my shoulder aching. I’m running, feet slamming up the dust and dirt and debris. I’m running and I feel him grab my right arm, and I run faster.

Stay low.

There is a light at the end of the dark place, and we sprint toward that, my ears ringing, my feet slamming, my heart pounding. My eyes are starting to close, and the light is getting smaller. Stay low and run. Breathe.

He grips my arm tighter and I can feel blood start to fall where he breaks the skin. I can almost see him, running in front of me as the light gets brighter. The earth shakes as another deafening sound cracks the ground, and something falls behind me.

I feel the thing that fell shake the ground, and with the light come screams and cries. He pulls me harder to keep on running, but my eyes are starting to close, and I can feel the blood fall down my face. It almost feels like rain. Almost there.

Everything gets faster. The light is brighter. It’s a glowing rectangle, and the sun shines through and I can see the back of his head, which is red. His neck is covered in blood. Keep up. I look at the arm he is digging into and blood drips down into his fingers. He is either pulling me harder or I am slowing down. I can’t feel my legs anymore, so hopefully he’s just getting faster.

Keep up.

The screams of the brightness get almost as loud as the crashes. We’re almost there as another wave of noise rings in my ears. It’s quieter, but something falls next to me and it digs into my right leg. I start to trip. Run faster. My eyes start to close all the way.

Stay with me. We’re almost there.

Are we? Everything is moving too fast. The light is consuming us. We aren’t going to make it. He tugs on my arm as I fall a little more. Keep up, breathe. I press on my lungs with every breath. I can see his green shirt and how it is stained with blood. I look at my feet, which are bloody and full of ashes and dirt. The ground is a light brown, and the light is brighter.

The screams are terrifying. I have never heard so many screams at once. We get to the light, and he is dragging me because I can’t run as fast, and my eyes are half closed.

Stay low.

Stay low but run fast and know where you are. These are things I have learned. Look around. There are people everywhere. There’s a big truck I know we have to get into. He doesn’t let go as we sprint for the truck. It’s blurry and it’s shaking. The ground beneath me rumbles more as someone runs into me, screaming. I can’t look over. I can’t take my eyes off the truck. Behind it something explodes. A wave of dust reaches my eyes before I stop running.

Keep going.

I stop running and I let my eyes close. He pulls on me as we walk as quickly as possible. Someone else runs into me, screaming. The screaming never stops. Another crash.

Grab onto him.

I stop breathing as people grab onto me, yelling something. There’s another crash and half of the screaming stops. Breathe. I open my eyes for a second and someone is talking to me, pulling me somewhere. Things are starting to go slow, again. Breathe. You’re safe now.

I can’t feel my arm, I mumble under my breath. The truck is moving, shaking with each crash. Someone says something about how three couldn’t get out of there.

I know, someone replies. Get me something to stop the bleeding.

Someone moves my body over a little bit. Try an open your eyes. I see the ceiling of the truck. There’s blood on it. Someone’s head briefly comes into view. It’s clean, so it can’t be anyone I know.

Something is pressed on my shoulder and I scream in pain. No one says anything and all I can hear is the truck move fast against the shaking ground. I can’t hear any crashes.

Where are we going next? I ask through the pain.

Home, someone from far away says. We’re going home.

Red Flash Drive

Red flash drive

You contain everything

Over 150,00 words

And I lost you

And with your death

I am also buried

Because the universe hates me

That is a micro-poem I posted on Twitter a few days ago. I have lost my red flash drive, and no one understands how I feel. And this post is mainly going to turn into a rant. And I literally feel dead because my life is an epic action film, where the flash drive contains everything.

An epic action film where the only plot is of a girl, walking away out of a room, and then a jump shot to her crying because after exhausting all resources, the flash drive is most likely never going to be found. It’s a sad film, and most people will walk out of the theatre, and not for the good reasons like the best depicted war scene ever. No, this isn’t Saving Private Red Flash drive, this is a sad tale of Kylie being stupid and making people walk away, because they simply don’t understand my cinematographic art.

The death of the flash drive is the death of me

I suppose I should start from a small beginning, or something, even though I feel dead right now. A few months ago, my computer screen broke, and I’m no expert but since I had to hook up another monitor, I moved all my writing and documents onto a red flash drive. This was a good idea seeing as the lap top failed to work after a few days of being all bionically hooked up to something that was high-tech in 2006. The red flash drive was the back up.  And so for the next few months I’ve been writing on there, and during that time, I’ve successfully completed a 60,000 word work, give or take a few hundred. It was over 130 pages long, and was the sequel to Basil, which you can read in the Longer Works section of this blog, but you probably won’t.

After the sequel to Basil, titled Clover on the flash drive, I began some pieces that I have yet to finish. These range from 4-15 pages, so it isn’t a major loss, but the novel I wrote in 9th grade is on there, and the only other versions are ones with spelling errors and stuff, which are on my email. That was 61,225 words, I think. A short story trilogy, titled “The Insomniac” that I wrote in 2012, spanning around novel length all together, is on there and no where else. Now the others, including the trilogy, aren’t written well and they aren’t anything I’d let people read now that I’ve developed as a writer, but they’re important to me. I can remember something and go back and read about these characters and their lives.

When I talk to people in school, and even my mother, I see that no one understands how much time is put into writing something around 50,000 words. There are so many little short stories on that flash drive that I’ll end up forgetting about in years and never being able to feel the stories and characters again. The short story Clover was one of the most transparent things I’ve written, and I expressed myself in it and I felt everything I wrote. I felt the main characters and I felt what was going on. Letting that just fade off into nothing makes me fade off into nothing.

Without my writing, I am nothing.

And not even the so-called “writer” friends I have understand. I hate putting people under the bus, but they have no idea what it feels like to connect to a story and to write something that you put in your mind as art. Something that is art. They’re writing is like the Insomniac story I mentioned before. It is something I would be embarrassed to call my own. And I hate saying that but it’s true, and I am ranting. And the universe hates me.

I lost the flash drive at a small college, but security and an intern at my mother’s work who goes there can’t help me. The security desk has my phone number, and the intern looked all over the room I left it in. My mother says a college kid probably wiped it clean, but to do so one would have to go through everything. Can anyone be so awful that they would delete years of my life away? Probably.

And, yes, I know what comes next. “You should have put it on several flash drives”.

Do you know how many times I’ve heard that the past week? Almost every single person has said that to me. But, really, would you have taken the time to buy another flash drive and then copy all 50 or so documents onto it just for a back up in case you left it at a college at a Model United Nation’s conference? NO. You’re lying if that would have come to your mind. The flash drive was the back up. 

No one understands. Not a single person. And sympathy does nothing, because it’s easy to say “Aw bro I’m sorry your mom got murdered” but it means nothing when your mom also didn’t get murdered, bro. And it means nothing when people go “Yeah that sucks but you should have made other copies and put it in other places” because I’ve done everything in my power to get it back after my awful mistake. It’s as if people don’t see how much losing the red flash drive is killing me. My soul is literally breaking.

The flash drive was the back up.

I’ve said that so many times. I’ve been defending myself this whole time, and keeping my spirits up, but right now, I want to cry. And die. Because it isn’t just a red flash drive. It is literally years of my life. It is a story that I can’t retell. Some girl actually said to me “re-writing that is going to suck”. I can’t re-write my life. I don’t plan my stories, I have a thing called talent and I let them flow and waver and I can’t remember every single thing that happened in 60,000 words. No one understands, and I have to defend myself on a topic they automatically loose on because of what? Popularity?

The characters are dead. And they were part of me. So part of me is dead.

Part of me is dead. It isn’t the red flash drive, it is the lives they’ve lived and the part of me that feels them. A year after I wrote the Amleth Tales, which are also on here in the Longer Works and aren’t that great, I can still feel the characters in my heart. Do you ever have a good memory of something or someone, and you feel it in your heart? You literally feel it there in your heart?

That’s what it is like for what I’ve written. And when someone leaves my life, I feel the loss and grief, and sadly, these made up characters give me more pain than anyone who has ever left me. These just “made up” characters mean more to me than my friendships and family relationships. They are part of my life. Writing is the only thing I can do where I feel human, and reading the writing, I can remember who I am and who these just “made up” people are. They aren’t just me. They’re something so much bigger. And no one understands this.

The death of the flash drive is the death of me.

And I’m so angry, and sad, and I feel even more alone than I did before. Basically all of my life’s work is gone. And, I know, I’ll write more, or whatever, but the stories are important to me. Clover is important to me. Writing more doesn’t change that. Writing more doesn’t negate the time I’ve spent on the story and the life I’ve build within it. Writing more without anything to reflect back on doesn’t let me grow as a writer. And so, I’m angry and sad and alone.

And this is the end to my rant, I guess.

It isn’t just a flash drive. It is more than 200,000 words.

To give you perspective, this post doesn’t even break 1,400 words.

The death of the flash drive is the death of me.

It must be my face, or something.

Listen, Kylie, we’re not friends or anything and I don’t care about you, but I am in a bad mood and am going to rant to you and tell you secrets that will stay with you and wear you down along with all the other bullshit of life because, I don’t know, pity, or something? Yeah, make it pity. I’m not really a friend, but you’re just like a talking wall, because, you know, walls don’t nod and make me feel like a confident individual. You understand, right? I have no other friends here, and you’re a fellow female, so I’ll make it seem like an equal conversation but really I’m the only one talking. If you talk I’ll just look or walk away because this is actually about me. My problems, in case you didn’t get the memo, are the actual center of the universe. Yeah, I’m also amazing at science, and writing, but I don’t let people read my stuff. You have a blog? Yeah well I’m going to change that into a subject about me now, and, uh, next time just don’t respond. Okay, so I’m emotionally damaged- I know- and I need at least ten minutes for this rant. You have stuff to do? Sorry I forgot that other people besides myself exist. We’re not really friends, I’m just waiting for my real friends to get here, have you seen them? Oh wait now it’s time to fish for complements to raise my self-esteem, that is actually really high up but I like to make people think it’s super low because for some reason I like attention, or whatever. No, don’t start talking, I haven’t finished telling you about all my dreams and accomplishments so even though I’m like damaged and broken I’m still better than you. Didn’t you know that I am actually better than you? But you should still feel sad for me. Like, I kinda feel bad for you, since I’m talking to you, but that’s different. I’m just a super nice person. Oh, what you said was witty but I think you forgot the universe is about myself. Yeah, you should feel bad. It’s hard being the center of everything all the time. Did I mention my parents? They’re awesome and support all my ideas and dreams. I have so many dreams. Kylie, I know you have something insightful but shut up while I tell you about what a good writer I am. You like movies, well I am practically a movie I am basically a 16mm that is basically me. Literally me. Me. Me. Have we talked about me yet? Did I tell you all my deep secrets? It’s just casual; I probably tell everyone but- I don’t know- you wouldn’t tell anyone so it’s like writing in a journal. Which I do. I’m also a little bit better in everything you are in to and my “struggle” is, like, so real. Kylie, you’re so nice, why don’t people talk to you more? I mean, I would, but I have friends. Well, you know, real friends. We can’t hang out. Hey! Is that so-in-so? Oh my god! I’m not going to say goodbye or anything, and I’m just going to walk away now.

It must be my face, or something.

Today a hyperbolic event of what usually happens to me happened, and I decided to write a blog post of what must be going through people’s minds when they do this to me.

I stood there, listening to her, and the entire time I guess I was thinking about this. What goes through people’s minds when they talk like this to me? Is it just because I’m weird or something that people feel the need to open up, but do it in a flaky fashion? Is the world too stupid for intelligent small talk or are we all just competing for who is “saddest” or the “best” at something? I feel like people change their entire goal of what they were talking about just to one-up me or to relate in a way that changes the subject completely about them. Now, I’m all for anecdotes that relate and contribute, but come on does everything have to be pretentious and phony? Call me Kylie Caulfield, but today I was just not in the mood. And I gave this person my blog address but the thing about being a phony is that one isn’t up for follow through. Or listening. It must be my face.

Letting yourself feel sad

I say goodbye. My voice cracks subtly, and I bring the phone away from my ear. The faint voice travels away, and the glowing red circle on the screen waits for the warm goodbye of my thumb. I hesitate on pressing it, thinking that there should be more; there should be at least a minute more. Of course there can’t, but there should and there isn’t anything I can do about it. I press the circle, and the call ends permanently, and I am left to look at the time of day staring at me, the voice gone forever. The white lined numbers know not of what was said, and all that is saved is the time the call took. It wasn’t more than ten minutes. And as I bring the phone down, as I set it on the table and look at my place of work, where I should be focusing my energy, I feel sad. I shouldn’t, though. I should be used to this. It’s just a phone call, it is something people do all the time. Out of everything that happened today, to compare it, a phone call is the most innocent of events. A phone call shouldn’t leave me to remember everything and recollect on how nothing is okay. Hanging up isn’t some sort of silent killing; yet it is. And I swallow, and I know that this is a stupid thing to cry over. This is a stupid thing to produce watery eyes and a cracking voice. I’m not sad, I tell myself. I’m angry, I’m upset. Of all the things, this is not that one that should break me, but it is. And as I swallow again, I close my eyes, forgetting the work place, forgetting where I am, and let myself feel the sadness. And for some reason, it helps. And this time, just for me, I say goodbye again.

Living as a nihilist

Please don’t turn away from this post because you have different beliefs than me. I’ve spend more hours in a church than I have spent doing homework my entire life. I have been raised to be accepting of everyone’s views, and for a few minutes of reading time, I ask for you to be as well. This blog, I know, has been more of a platform for me to blindly tell the world how I feel about things rather than the network for my creative writing, as it was meant for. Sadly as of the moment all my creativity is being pushed to find new and exciting ways to keep myself from failing math this semester. So, bare with me.

I was raised to be a roman catholic. I suppose I should capitalize that seeing as many feel their cults deserve pronoun-like respect. As a Roman Catholic, and going to Catholic primary school, I got to learn the ways of the lord, and the tales of the bible. My grandparents and parents thought they were doing me a favor; bringing me into their religious beliefs before I could spell the world Mississippi (Also a pronoun but sadly not a cult) and forcing me to spend more time in my day for religious study than mathematics. Yes, from a young age I was doomed to be bad at numbers. But, that really shouldn’t be the motif of this.

I then moved on to a Lutheran faith when my Catholic school closed and I was introduced to people of other belief. I went to Lutheran church and spend time with a Lutheran family for a few years. During this time I was an adolescent so I was questioning everything. I was questioning why I was supposed to learn algebra and why everyone was so sure there was a god. I was also really, really afraid of dying. From a young age the concept of Hell was real to me, and from a young age I thought even saying certain words would doom me to a lake of fire for the rest of eternity (Which doesn’t make any sense, but Unicorns don’t either and they’re right there in the bible as well). So, I didn’t really understand why people even believed this stuff, and why the people who opposed were so adamant of opposing and proving religions wrong.

I know, I know, a lot of back-story.

Anyway, I stopped believing in god around winter of freshman year of high school. I came to realize that at night, when I was lying in bed and talking to my ceiling, I just made myself sadder. I begged my ceiling to be happy and to make my parents love each other and to show me signs of why I was even on this earth. But, you know, ceilings are pretty quiet.

The more and more my 14-year-old self stepped away from religion, the more and more I realized how awesome the world was. I could say the word Fuck and not have to worry about drowning in fire. I could see nature as something that would only happen in small circumstances of evolution, not the easy creation of a higher power. Suddenly everything was brighter. The evils of the world were not a response of the devil, and this so called devil would have no impact on my life. Everything I did wrong was okay. We were all going to die, so why must we live a perfect and boring life on earth while being simultaneously judged by a figment of our imaginations? Religion seemed really dumb.

It was easier in the fact that my super religious friend seemed even dumber. When I wanted to talk about college and the future, she would kind of just zone out and say that god had a plan for her. And I saw more and more why people looked at me weirdly when I tried to witness to them about Jesus and tell them it would all be okay. It seemed really stupid on my part.

I didn’t know what to call myself, so I just kind of said “I don’t believe in anything”. And then recently I found out what I do believe, or think, rather, is nihilism. We are just specs upon specs of specs of randomness (Dr. Seuss had a good thing going, man). And nothing you, or I ever do will make a change in the ultimate force of how things will play out. In ten years that time I ran into a trash can won’t matter. In one hundred years, you and I probably be on no one’s minds ever. Like, ever. Unless I write an amazing book, of course. But, let’s not get our hopes up.

Personally, I like not having a higher power watching over at me. Every time something fails, which is usually a daily occurrence, I don’t feel as if I did something wrong, or as if the devil is trying to trick me into thinking my cult leader is upset with my actions. Because my actions don’t matter. Not really. And I’m not afraid of death anymore. When I die, my brain will stop functioning. I’m no Bill Nye, but I know that when I die, I won’t have any thoughts. And the thing is, not having any thoughts means I can’t summon up a thought or emotion of fear. I simply won’t exist. And the only scary thing about not existing is getting to that point.

The brain named itself.

I didn’t make up that cool quote, but I know it’s true. And it really helps my point. The brain is what is your thoughts. Yeah, how profound, but without thoughts, you couldn’t think about god, or that you have a soul. A soul. Your brain made thought waves, or whatever, and you thought up the idea of a soul. There is no part of your body that is a soul. It’s kind of (as I see it) a network of your consciousness. But, without the consciousness, the idea couldn’t exist. If we look at it with a timeline, the brain and all of it’s thoughts would have to exist before the soul so as the soul could be there. But since the brain and it’s thoughts are simply a network of signals and neurons which make up your thought, there really isn’t a soul. So, when your brain stops, so does the so-called “soul”.

I’ve confused you, but I’m not trying to persuade you.

This is just how I see the world. It makes sense to me, and it’s more logical than a higher power and more logical than eternal life. So, then, why even say this aloud (or… type it aloud?) if I’m a nihilist and know that nothing really matters? Well, Watson, that is a good question. Probably a better question is why am I asking myself questions posing as John Watson. But, you know, logistics.

There really isn’t any point to anything, as I see it. That’s why I don’t care about things that I probably should care about. And talking about how we all mean nothing sometimes makes me angry because, truth be told, I’d like for something to have meaning. But life does have meaning. It’s a time for you, and your thoughts and consciousnesses to be happy, to find something you enjoy. To live. And that’s why I kind of like viewing the would in the way I do. I don’t have to succumb to rituals, or rules of faith, or fright that I will screw something up. I can just live, and enjoy that the universe kind of messed up and made earth, and me, and everyone who is alive. And I can just live, and not worry so much because in the end, we’re all going to die. And I can just live because there really isn’t any other point I can make.

I’d love to hear your thoughts and how you probably think mine are completely misguided, so comment away. And that isn’t sarcasm. I haven’t had a comment for months, so please, type away.

Hopefully throughout the next few weeks I can get back to fiction writing, which is what I enjoy most (Besides putting puns in essays). And if I do, I’ll be quick to share it here on this blog, which if you aren’t following you should start following. It’s like super easy, you just gotta click that button that is somewhere to the right of this, and somewhere on top of this page, I’m pretty sure. Seriously. Just click it. Please.

Lastly, you can always comment for things you’d like to see, or send me a shout on twitter, which is also a click away in the right column somewhere. Thanks for reading this and as always, keep on writing.

Kylie Eileen

Trying to explain Synesthesia

Okay, so, I understand if you can’t pronounce that word on the first try. It’s okay; most text boxes on the inter-webs think it deserves the dreaded red squiggle underneath. But it’s real, no matter how many times people try to tell me I’m making things up in my head, or I’m just saying I have Synesthesia to get attention. Which is ultimately pretty dumb considering most humans factor that I’m weird enough already.

Anyway, to get to the point of the title, I’m writing this to try an explain Synesthesia as best as I can. Many people know a basic understanding about it, which is that some people randomly see colors floating around when they listen to music. And that is a type, called sound-to-color synesthesia, and many musical artists are well known for having such condition. There is also most commonly, grapheme-color, the association and experiencing of colors with letters and words. And there are number form, spacial sequence, and personification synesthesia types (along with others that are more rare). But that’s a lot to take in, and for a more scientific view, I suggest more reliable sources.

To start off my lucid tale of weirdness, I’ll tell you that I wasn’t the one to discover that I had Synesthesia. One of my best friends thought I was weird enough, I guess, to look up on the internet why I associated things in such a weird fashion. She told me about Synesthesia, and at first I thought that I was completely normal. What, normal people don’t see the map of the year around them? To make a long story short, I looked it up, and more and more I found out that this was something I had, and that other people had it as well.

And after looking back in old notebooks and whatnot, I found that years before I even heard of this, I was drawing ovals with the months of the year in accordance to how I saw them, and numbers with their assigned colors and personalities. Yes, I thought. I have found my place!

Synesthesia week
Messier versions can be found in 7-year-old-Kylie’s torn up notebooks

So I began telling other people as soon as I found out they don’t see the world like I did. Most thought I was pretty amazing, and others thought I was weird, which, as I’ve mentioned in other posts, was pretty normal for people to do. It still is. And I did more research on it, and read other’s experiences and how there were different types. I had found a little community of people and literature all dedicated to this thing that none of my friends understood. Like me, there were people who saw colors when they listened to music, and they knew each number and letter’s color, and they felt the week and year surround them in a perfect oval of order. These were the people who understood.

And they were the only people who understood. After a while of bringing up this sixth sense of mine, I noticed that most people didn’t understand, and some even got annoyed. Other’s dismissed it as something I was making up, as they could easily associate a color to a letter. A is blue, there you go, it’s so easy, Kylie. Well, no. A is red. A will always be red and I can’t imagine a world in which A is blue. I didn’t pick red for A. And when I read the word Applause, I know it is in black ink on the purplish background that is this blog, but in my mind it is yellowish. I’ve only met one other person who had it and even then we argued about what colors things were.

Many people think that when I listen to music, my view of the world is somehow obstructed by the colors it brings. And I always have a hard time explaining that it isn’t there, but it is, well, you know, it’s there in my head. Around this time the other conversationalist will have given up. But I guess the best way to explain it is comparing it to a day dream. When you daydream, you’re seeing the world pass by you, but in your head the pictures of your dream are playing. I see the band and I see my sheet music, but in my head the saxophones are drilling this fuzzy orange hue as the drums cascade a nice but subtle pang of resilient brown.

Okay, so that makes sense. I guess explaining the sound-to-color isn’t as hard as I thought.

Four is the younger sister of eight, who is a deep, oceanic blue.
All dressed up and no place to go except in between three and five.

Yeah, sorry picture I found on the internet, four is pink. Four is the only pink number, actually. But it isn’t the only girl number. Four, five, six, and nine are all girls. Eight is the older brother of four, and he has this cute crush on nine, even though Gothic nine, the older sister of both six and three, is in love with ten, who is a jackass. Three is a boy who is a muddy brown color and is best friends with two and four. Five is acquaintances with six, who is reddish and kind of selfconcious about her weight. Seven is the golden older brother of five, who is a pale yellow and pretty indifferent about everything.

This is when people usually think I’m crazy, or I just made this up when I was little. It makes sense, if we look back to those “factor families” or whatever they were called when you learned simple algebra in first grade. Either way, it has stuck with me, and I can’t really imagine a world where the simple integers don’t have lives and colors. I was trying to explain this to someone recently, and I fee like this person will always view me from a higher point of craziness than before.

Personification, as best as I can explain, is like connecting with characters you’ve written. As a writer you didn’t necessarily pick how they turned out; they just are that way, and the writing just flows the way it goes, be it upstream or down. I can’t stop thinking the way I do, just as no one really changes. Most characters stay with me, and they are who they are, just as if they were real. It’s the same with single digits, oddly enough.

The alphabet doesn’t have a strong personification, but the colors are usually pretty static. When I read, the synesthesia isn’t very prominent, and I absentmindedly know the colors of each word. It’s just that the colors of words don’t pertain to the content being written, and it doesn’t really draw any initial thought or reminder that they have colors in my head. To explain this I guess would be to compare it to another sense. You feel things all the time; but usually the feel of something isn’t thought worthy. When I open a door, I don’t stop and think about how amazing the worn down metal feels on my fingers, and how cool and beautiful it is. But if you feel a super soft shirt, you might think to yourself “Wow this shirt is super soft”, or not depending on your view of soft objects. Hopefully you weren’t strangled with some soft fabric when you were a kid or else this post is going to take a dark turn. Anyway, that’s the same for synesthesia. When I read, it isn’t important to register every color of every word. Just as when you go about your day, every texture of every thing isn’t some extraordinary experience of the senses.

And synesthesia, though some people think it must be extra interesting to go about my day in that world, isn’t as prominent to me as I make it seem. I know others feel it more intense, but most days I don’t even spend time thinking about how my world is different than everyone else’s. Yeah, four is pink, and yeah that song is a cool combination of warm colors, but it is secondary. It doesn’t interfere with my daily life.

The only thing that interferes is when I attempt explaining it, or having a conversation about it without making it seem like I’m bragging about my super cool brain mix up.

I'm not crazy, I swear.
I’m not crazy, I swear.

Because, in the end, I may be really different, but I’m the same in the inside. Or, well, not really because my senses are scrambled but- you know what I mean. I guess I just wanted to actually formally explain it, instead of further confusing people, or having people tell me I’m making things up. Hopefully this was interesting, and hopefully I’ll get back to fiction writing very soon in the near future. If only I could go back to the future.

Kylie Eileen