Through a "Window"

College essay that I may or may not use... but I like it! :D

The glass panels surrounding the ice rink are clear today. Through them, I see a group of young figure skaters getting ready for practice. They giggle amongst themselves as they start skating around the rink. Their coach sternly tells them to stop talking and start skating. The skaters tone down the conversation a little and are soon hard at work, skating, spinning, and jumping. I see my nine-year-old self bumbling around, trying to remember my program for my first competition.
I took my first skating lesson in second grade and never stopped. Skating is one of the constants in my life; I’ve gone through other extracurricular activities, like soccer, ballet, gymnastics. I’ve changed schools, changed houses, changed countries, but through it all, I’ve always been a figure skater. Skating for so long has, of course, taught me many things. There are the usual life lessons of perseverance and time management. But it has also taught me that falling a few times is a necessary part of life if you want to succeed. That 5:30 am actually isn’t that early of a time to wake up and head to the rink. That winning doesn’t necessarily involve a gold medal. I’ve learned that most people outside the rink think it is weird, if not bordering unnatural, when your leg can easily go above your head.
Skating is my life (minus school). I’ve put hours and hours into it, giving up other things I might have otherwise done, but I still love the sport. Even when I stop skating regularly at the old age of, perhaps, 24, I will never forget the excitement of competition, the feeling of flying into the air, and the laughter and fun times I’ve had with the best friends I made at the rink.

Fête de Noël

Une histoire avec des mots de vocabulaire choisi au hasard :D Peut-être une histoire bébête mais ça m'est égal :P

Hier soir j’étais avec Chloé. Elle est une petite fille très mignonne de trois ans avec des yeux qui brillent comme les astres et une personnalité qui corresponde. Ses parents étaient à une fête de noël ce soir, alors j’ai restée avec Chloé. J’accepte toujours avec gratitude quand ses parents me demandent à la soigner. Elle est comme une petite sœur pour moi. Elle a commencé aller à Montessori cet an, mais elle avait eu des problèmes médicaux, et elle y est allée depuis seulement deux semaines, bien qu’il soit décembre. Donc elle ne se fait pas encore à Montessori. Elle était très heureuse de me voir cet après-midi.

« Bonjour, Julie ! Est-ce que c’est tu qui va m’accompagne chez moi aujourd’hui ? » Elle m’a demandé en prenant ma main.

« Oui, » j’ai dit. « Mais tu vas rester chez moi un peu parce que tes parents ne va pas être chez toi pour quelques heures. Ils sont à une fête. »

Chloé a fait un visage drôle. « Je veux aller à une fête, » elle a dit avec une moue.

J’ai rit. « Ne t’inquiet pas. Nous pouvons avoir une fête aussi ! »

Chloé a souri. « Oui ! J’en veux bien un ! »

En marchant à mon logis, Chloé m’a dit ce qu’elle veut à sa fête.

« Est-ce que je peux inviter Michelle ? Nous pouvons rire des films drôles de Noël et chanter des chansons renommées. » Michelle était la meilleure ami de Chloé, et elle habitait à l’autre côté de la rue. J’ai dit à Chloé que si la mère de Michelle agréait, elle pourrait venir.

Quand nous étions sept minutes de ma maison, il a commencé à pleuvoir. J’ai pris la main de Chloé et nous deux a couru le reste de la voie.

Quand nous sommes arrivé, Chloé a déclaré, « Je suis très mouillé ! » J’ai cherché des serviettes pour nous. Quand nous étions secs encore, j’ai jeté un coup d’œil par la fenêtre. Il y avait un orage ! Chloé était un peu triste parce que Michelle ne pouvait pas venir.

« Le temps est très désagréable aujourd’hui, » elle a dit avec un soupir. Mais je ne voulais pas abandonner l’idée d’une fête. J’ai trouvé des disques compacts des chansons de Noël et je les ai mis dans mon ordinateur. J’ai tenté à trouver des biscuits de Noël aussi, mais je n’ai pas aucune. Donc Chloé et moi, nous avons fait cuire des biscuits ensemble, et puis nous les avons mangé en regardant « Un Noël de Charlie Brown ». Quand les parents de Chloé sont revenus, elle a du retourner chez elle. En quittant la porte, Chloé m’a dit, « Il était la meilleure fête de Noël ! Merci, Julie ! »

Joyeux Noël à toi aussi, Chloé !

College Essay

Well, with all that effort, it seems a shame not to use it, and also not to stick it anywhere else. 

When I started piano lessons at five years old, I spent more time underneath the piano than actually playing it, hiding from the bore of repetitive practice. As the years went by and I learned to play, however, I grew to love the piano and the music I made. Now I don’t escape beneath the ivories; music is my escape. When I play, I close my eyes and lose myself in the notes. The melodies push away the daily stresses of life, painting scenes of peace and tranquility instead. I’ve long known the happiness that music brings to me, but it took one rather unusual recital last year for me to fully understand why I love to perform.

It was at Life’s Garden, a retirement community in Sunnyvale. My piano teacher held recitals at retirement homes year round, and Life’s Garden was a place we frequented. While younger students started to play one after another, the residents filed into the room, some on walkers, some with canes, all going slowly and quietly to find seats.

At last, it was my turn to play. That day, I performed Mozart’s “Fantasia in D minor”. The music reminded me of a ballet and my fingers turned into dancing ballerinas. I enjoyed the sounds, imagined the dancers striking perfect poses, finishing the piece with a flourish.

With that, the recital ended and everyone moved towards the back of the dining hall for refreshments. Yet amidst praises and greetings floated a twinkling melody from the piano once more. I turned around and was surprised to see a lady who must have been at least 70 years old sitting at the piano. Her playing, a bit rusty at the beginning, progressively became more fluent and emotional. Captivated by her music, I wondered what had compelled her to play. She had looked, after all, frail and not extremely enthusiastic when she came in, just like most of the other senior residents in the audience. Then it struck me. Of course! It must have been our music! While the sound of her last notes still resonated in the air, I watched as she turned and stood up from the bench. Her beaming expression made me smile, too. I was proud that I had helped make her spirits a little higher, her day a little brighter.

            I have performed at more retirement home recitals since then. On the surface they look the same as before: sometimes people in the audience doze off and snore loudly, or shout into each other’s ears, trying to have a conversation over the sound of the piano. Yet in my heart I know they are listening. I play with stronger conviction and satisfaction; the music that is my life permeates theirs as well.

Le Train

Chaque jour, je prends le train au bureau. Chaque jour, la navette est la même. Je marche sur un trottoir gris et passe des maisons et des bâtiments gris sous un ciel gris. Je vois les mêmes gens, mais je ne connais aucun. Nous avons nos propres vies occupées ; pas de moment à perdre à dit bonjour.

Je composte mon billet. Le son de la machine se confond avec tous les autres bruits dans la station. Je n’attends pas sur le quai ; après avoir le prenant chaque jour pendant cinq ans, je sais comment arriver exactement à l’heure. Comme le mouvement d’une horloge, je monte le train et trouve ma place. Les autres gens font la même.

J’attends que le train roule. D’abord, je pense que tout est comme toujours, maussade et monotone. Mais quelque chose est différent. Je ne peux pas dire quoi ; mais une vue, un bruit, un sens…

C’est un enfant.

Il ne peut pas avoir plus de cinq ans. Ses yeux bruns brillent avec enthousiasme. Il porte un manteau jaune et bleu, et une petite casquette. Il est avec sa mère, une jeune femme qui apporte un sac à dos. Probablement l’un de son enfant.

Le petit garçon dit à sa mère tout ce qu’il voit.

« Regarde, maman ! Cet homme-ci tient un livre mais il dort ! » il dit, en le montrant du doigt.

« Cette femme a un chemise avec beaucoup de fleurs. »

« Maman ! Et l’autre, il parle à quelqu’un avec un téléphone portable. Je ne pense pas qu’il est heureux. » L’homme avec le téléphone jette un cout d’œil au garçon, moitié conscients de lui.

« Ce train est tellement excitant ! Est-ce que vous pensez que l’école va  être si amusant, maman ? »

Ah, donc il est son premier jour d’école, je pense. Je regarde mon montre. Oui, il est le premier septembre. J’ai oublié.

Mais en écoutant ce petit garçon, j’ai réalisé quelque chose.

Les couleurs, ils ne sont tout gris. En fait, il n’y a pas de gris dans ce train. Jaune, rouge, violet, vert… Si j’écoute, les bruits, deviennent les conversations. Je regarde par la fenêtre ; je n’ai jamais vu la beauté de la campagne que je passe toujours. Je ne dois pas continuer avec ma vie sans couleur. Je ne dois pas faire la même chose jour après jour, année après année.

Je descends du train un arrête tôt. Je veux changer ma vie, et je veux commencer maintenant.

Alternative Ending

From Kindred by Octavia Butler

1

… The black man hit him one more solid blow, and Rufus collapsed. There was no question of his getting up this time. He was out cold.

As I approached, the black man reached down and caught Rufus by the hair as though to hit him again. I stepped up to the man quickly. “What will they do to you if you kill him?” I said.

The man twisted around to glare at me.

“This good for nothing trash has done enough to deserve to die a hundred times over,” he growled. He punched Rufus in the head once more for good measure, then let him drop. The girl winced as she watched Rufus bounce slightly as he hit.

“Let’s go, Alice,” the black man said, taking the girl’s hand.

“Please, Dana,” said Alice quietly to me. And with that, the two of them disappeared into the woods.

I stared after them for a moment, confused. How had she known my name?

Of course. Alice, the young, thin girl I had seen at my last trip here. I hoped the best for the two of them, then looked back down at the unconscious body beside me.

I knelt down beside Rufus and rolled him over onto his back. His nose was bleeding. His split lip was bleeding. His face was a lumpy mess, and a red splotch was steadily growing on the side of his shirt. He makes a strained kind of noise, like he wants to say something, but ends up coughing instead. Despite all that Rufus has probably done since the last time I saw him, I don’t want him to die. If only for the reason that I don’t know what would happen to me if he did. There’s a stream nearby; perhaps I could try to get him conscious again, or wash some of his wounds before looking for help. When I come back, the red splotch has grown to cover nearly half his shirt, and he looks a few shades paler than the last time I saw him. That red spot worries me, though I’m also very uncertain that I want to see how badly he is hurt underneath.

Suddenly, I feel very dizzy again. Am I going home again already? But Rufus is still half dead…

I had knelt to the ground and held my head in my hands to try to stop the dizziness. Now I wasn’t dizzy anymore, but something didn’t feel right. I opened my eyes and looked down at the ground – but it wasn’t ground anymore. I was curled up on hardwood flooring.

“Dana? Are you okay?” A voice asks. Kevin? Rufus? It doesn’t sound like either of them. I look up and see a sandy-haired man in glasses looking down at me in concern. I squint at him. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him in my life.

“Who are you?” I ask uncertainly. “Where am I...?”

The man helps me up guides me to a chair. It’s soft and modern-feeling. Am I back to 1976, then? I seem to be in some kind of office. Books are everywhere, filling the shelves along the wall and piled up on the desk. A wastebasket overflows with crumpled papers.

The man studies me. I meet his eyes when I’m finished looking around the room. They’re light blue, and I am faintly reminded of a coffee shop, but I don’t know why. He looks nearly as confused as I am.

“You really don’t know where you are or who I am, do you?” He asks. I shake my head no.

“Do you know who you are?”

“I’m Dana,” I reply.

“That’s right,” he says, sounding a little relieved. “And I’m Bryan. Your husband?” He says this last part questioningly, hopefully. Husband? Where’s Kevin? Well. First things first.

“What year is this? Where am I?” I ask. The man who says he is my husband tells me it’s 1976 and that I’m in my house, our house, in New York. A thought suddenly crosses my mind. But no. It can’t be.

I look at Bryan, stare at him hard. If this is my life, shouldn’t I have memories of it?

“What… what happened?” I ask. Perhaps if I figure out what happened on his side, I can figure out what happened to me.

Bryan wrinkles his brow. Something tells me I’ve seen this expression before, even though I am certain it’s not something Kevin ever had. “Well, we were sitting in this room, talking,” he begins. “Then you said you felt dizzy, and I told you to go lay down for a bit. But then all of a sudden, you disappeared – and then, a few seconds later, you appeared again. Kneeling, as you were just now.”

A feeling of terror washes over me. I had left Rufus while he was still hurt, still half dead.

What if it had been worse than that?

To be continued...

Loss

click after you read the story --> http://29.media.tumblr.com/tumblr_lrg59vm5OH1qcd9hyo1_500.jpg :P

I can't believe I've lost you. After so many years, it's hard to see your place empty, never to be filled with your bright, comforting presence again. I still come to bed and expect to see you there waiting for me, but alas, I am alone. I'm not sure that I can ever rid myself of the grief that came with your disappearance from this life; it's hard for me to even listen to music now! Music, that beautiful thing that used to always cheer me up. You always had it in you, helped bring it into my life. Yet when you left me, the music did too. So many songs, some of them I can’t remember anymore. How I miss you, your wonderful words, the fun games we'd play... But don't worry. I will never forget you. I will never be able to replace you. I don't think they make iPod shuffles anymore.

Magic

It was partially hidden in the back corner of the little shop, sitting there as if it were trying to hide behind the shiny new guitars that were placed in front of it. She had caught a glimpse of it as she was playing on one of the other pianos, a Steinway grand on prominent display at the front of the store. When she pointed it out to her friend, it took him a while to see it, too.

“What piano? Those are guitars, silly.” She didn’t know what drew her to it, but it was a force strong enough to make her get up from the Steinway and walk over to the back of the shop to point it out.

As she got closer to the piano, she could see that it, too, was a grand, though far less grand in appearance than the shiny new Steinway. The wood was ancient and worn. Perhaps it had once been glamorous, but whatever glamour it had once enjoyed had long disappeared. The keys were yellow with age, and a few of them were chipped. The metal pedals were no longer a sparkly gold; the paint had flaked off, leaving an ugly grey-brown color behind.

Yet none of that mattered. She was entranced, gazing at it in admiration as if it were the most beautiful instrument she had ever laid eyes on. Her friend watched her curiously. All he saw was a dinky old piano. As if in a trance, she sat down at the bench and ran her fingers over the keys, feeling them without playing.

“Isn’t it beautiful?”  She says to her companion. He shrugs, unsure of how to respond, but decides to humor her.

“Yeah, it’s alright.” She gives him a pointed look.

 “It’s not just “alright”. It’s amazing.”  She turned back to the piano and played a few notes. The sounds that came out are rich with emotion, yet sweet and as soft as a feather pillow. Her companion’s eyes open wide in surprise; if he hadn’t been staring straight at her and the piano, he wouldn’t have believed such a sound had come from such an instrument. She sees his expression and starts to laugh.

“See, I told you! It’s beautiful!”  She starts to play a song, one that both of them love. The sounds fill the entire little shop and catch everyone’s attention; the other customers stop their browsing, and even the clerk leaves her place at the front desk to come closer to listen. She plays her heart out, and he leans on the piano. They look into each other’s eyes, oblivious to the crowd that has gathered around them.

She ends the song with an artistic flair, letting the final chord last loud and long. Her audience applauds with great enthusiasm, and she turns on the piano bench to face them with a stunned look.

“Holy crap, I didn’t notice people were listening,” she says unceremoniously. Everyone laughs, and the clerk pips up, “Man, you are amazing. That piano has been sitting in the corner forever, and no one has ever made it sound as pretty as you did. It was like magic!”

She blushes and gives a little smile.

“It sure felt like it.”