A Child's Story

It was time to listen to a story. After we had seated ourselves in a circle on the soft carpet and the others had grown quiet, the teacher handed me a small book with plastic covers and pages. "You should narrate today's story," she instructed. I began to read.
"once there was a little girl named Amanda. Hey, just because the main character has my name doesn't mean I should have to read this. I am not a little girl. I've never let anyone call me that."
"just keep reading," came the teacher's voice. "Once there was a girl named Amanda..."

 

And then I was outside on a swing set in the middle of a perfect Spring day. Directly to my right, a familiar girl who had to be younger than ten years old was swinging in sync with me. I had no idea of where I was or even my age. On a swing set those things just don't seem to matter. From that other place came the almost inaudible voice of the other instance of myself who was still reading the story. "Amanda," called the girl to my right, "look up." I tilted my head all the way back as a friend in real life had only taught me to do less than two weeks ago. High above me I saw several branches of the tree which must have been supporting my swing. But that wasn't all of what she wanted to show me. She used many visual and color words for which I had no understanding, asking, "don't you see them?"
"The algorithm was incomplete," I heard the narrator say. What kind of kids' book contains the word 'algorithm?' It was as though I were on a wheel which had spun to the beginning of these events. I was once again the narrator, now holding the idea of a book and hearing the concept of a stern teacher instructing me to read.
"Once there was someone named Amanda."
On the swing again, the girl gestured. "Amanda, look up!" Was that excitement in her voice? I was enjoying the tree's geometry. For the first time I was aware of intricate patterns at a distance which could never be touched. Not one soundscape was ever heard. She kept trying to draw my attention to these other things. All I could see of them were nonsensical patches of varying brightness. "You have to see them," she insisted.
"But the algorithm was still incomplete," came the narrator again. So too, I realized, was the story.

 

Across the street from my parents' home, the familiar bells of the church struck 8 AM. About five seconds later the bell from the nearby middle school sounded four times. It had been such a pleasant dream, but the words "look up!" still echoed in my mind. What am I missing? What has to be done to complete the story?

Chased by Aliens

My instructions were to meet them in a hidden location designated by a wireless signal which could only be detected through the use of specific software. Very few students knew of this small part of North Ridge campus except those of us who were specifically told how to search for it. Walking around outside, I scanned until coming across a network whose non-English name matched that of the one in the directions file.
At that location I saw rough rectangles and smooth, short bars as the result of hearing the hums at many frequencies and steady beeps of strange equipment. I cannot remember precisely what convinced me that they could restore eyesight or that they would have any desire to help me. I also cannot remember who warned me, at the last minute, of their true intentions. That someone pointed out a word in their tongue and tried to translate it into English. As best I could, I wrapped my mind around the meaning of that alien word, and I understood what had befallen other students who had come here before me. In every previous encounter, Aliens had been my friends, but not these. I started to run back the way I'd come. They gave chase, but there was no way they could prevent my exit. Every sensation (the heat, the pounding of my shoes on the sidewalk, the cane gripped tightly in my right hand and everything it touched, and the exact location of every building I ran passed) stood out with sharp clarity. I was pure will and adrenaline, with no curious dog to slow me down the way he had about a year ago as we were chased by the mad scientist across a space station which somehow morphed into the second floor of this same campus. Of course, I escaped. I got home only to find a forwarded email about my physics professor being sick and wanting me to come to the lab, which turned out to contain broken glass equipment. Then I remembered Sasha's warm up, thought about it a bit, and woke up.

I thought I'd start my blog by explaining how my week has gone so far, and that, my friends, was how I started Monday morning. I contemplate life through intensity. In the past week, I'd been praying for the wisdom to handle my enemies who work in the Segregation Office in the right way that is helpful to everyone. When I feel my livelyhood being threatened I tend to have dreams like this. Sasha is a Russian weight training coach who probably competed in the Russian Olympics and sounds a bit like the Terminator. I woke up from the dreams in a pleasant mood, remembering that I would be allowed to participate in enough of his mainstream class to cause my muscles to burn and heart to race before I'd even start practicing power moves. Some other things are happening this week. One of them has to do with the latest changes in my vision, which I will probably discuss tomorrow. Right now I am signing off so I can view some photos I received from an online friend. Just remember, if you find yourself at my school, please, stay away from secret groups, and stay away from Student Life too. They should be renamed Student Death by Pokemon and Unfinished Homework.