By now I've probably lost all my readers, but I'll talk anyway.  I'm mailing my college applications next week, and I wrote two essays, so here they are, in order of clarity.

1.  (beware, this is one sentence prose poem)

                                                          Time Flies

I don’t know which door, and I don’t know why all the other girls haul flat fussy totes instead of backpacks to their classes and when I dive for some seat stranded in the bell’s wake even the whiteboard watches me stutter that I am Daryl ******** a freshman without a pass, and the guy in front of me has mossy armpits and loathsome legs as my lips trip over my braces and my backpack’s zipper interrupts the teacher and for some reason, this place calls the bathroom the lavatory, like laboratory, as if latex gloves and goggles are requisites to piss, and I scrawl poetry on the stall door among crossed-out curses (erasing it after superior pens mark the grammatical flaws) and at the mirror by the sink I meet the eyes of some senior’s reflection, her lashes like spiders stuck in tar and I say sorry for looking, and sophomore year I marshal beauty in the margins of my math notes, find Y equals time wasted, why equals space and life waits art waits and I hate this place, those orange lockers, how they blaze after five failed tests and never punch back, never write back to my fractured, caps-lock poems about them, and I stumble into biology in the high heels I wear for every inch I should have grown, if only I ate things other than cheez-its, and whenever this kid taps his feet, I smack his desk, my alarm on dusky mornings, while I fill bubbles on tests in colored pencil and personify plutonium and read On the Road in drivers' ed, a wayward atlas in my hands as the blackboard maps car crashes and back home I burn cheap incense and savor its persistent smell, but mom just throws it out because the meatloaf tastes like chamomile and I tremble at the threshold of eleventh grade, watching ancient juniors squint in daylight, bleed Starbucks, wrestle stunted scores and now it is my turn, autumn, and I walk home past my licensed speeding peers, I favor slow scenery, I like my shoes muddy when they march up the stairs to my room where loose-leaf and paint-sets are strewn about the floor, and I'm the Thinker in a swivel chair bathed in laptop blue, musing by a tenement of pixel windows where the residents watch the watchers, writing for a teacher who puts my papers in piles by themselves, copied for the class and how satisfying silence can be after years of stormy thoughts, rows of heads bent over my words, necks craned toward my art on gallery walls and I search out beauty in renewed library books, in the rippled shine of a rushing train, as I linger on museum floors, span the painted battlefields of Jackson Pollack and come home, a senior, to hear mother turn the knob of the right door and whoa, wait, today is the deadline to order my cap and gown?

2. 

A Breakthrough

A deer ran through a school window, according to The New York Times: it reminded me of being an artist.  The bewildered deer, explains a wildlife professor, mistook its reflection for the enemy and charged through, only to find beyond the shower of bloodied shards a vacant hallway.  Like a misunderstood teenager, the hormonal Bambi tried to find himself as he aimlessly hobbled past classrooms, teachers, janitors, children, all panicked by the sight of the desultory, yet determined, intruder.  After about half an hour, a few brave adults cornered the by then hysterical buck, and amid a clamor of relieved cheers, led it out the back door.

I don’t have this problem in school. This is because I use the front door and I am not a deer. Still, there are many windows to break. Mine are blank pages, white canvases, and smashing them, whether with pencil or paint, is a silent, accepted process. Standing before this emptiness, I face an imagination paralyzed at the sight of its infinite likeness, and only after I charge at the looming white can I continue my search. So what am I searching for? That question is the white paper; its answer is vague.  I search for searches.  I read the Times not just for the news, but for kindling, and after many fires I have found that the local stories are the dynamic ones.  The words “Troops Surge into Iraq” lose their vitality in the race to inform; but “A Normal Lesson in Vocabulary, Until a Deer Bursts through a School Window” is motion arrested. Call me a pyromaniac of metaphor.

In the past I have been labeled with other neuroses, namely attention deficit disorder and cynicism.  My penchant for surreal news supports these, as does not having a driver’s license or an “acceptable” math percentile.  But how does one measure attention? Does it appear flawed when it darts from object to object as my peers, set in alphabetical rows, solve problem after problem in mind-numbing sequential order? Yes, in a classroom where everything is right, wrong, or undeclared.  To the searching deer, this is a petty concern.

Every morning in pre-calculus, I remind myself that there are no geometrical lines in the natural world; things are what they are, and any explanation, any outline, is a futile cry for order.  If I daydream, if I search, it is because I have unlucky genes and a scant sense for relative values, and I am glad of this.  The great poet Richard Hugo once said that the “imagination is a cynic.”  It assumes all things have equal value, which is the same as saying nothing has value, which is cynicism. Without this, I would read that article on Iraq, because it is more important.  I would forget to celebrate the deer. Without this cynicism, I would be a great math student, a driver undaunted by the straight highway, and a terrible painter. 

A friend once asked me which I could live without, writing or art.  Neither. They depend on each other.  Painting supplies my mind with images, while writing cleans my room, packing everything into quasi neat new carrying cases so more thoughts can filter through. Weaving through limitless color and music, I defy the straight line, that highway, that deathbed for so many deer.  I have colors and words to translate my thoughts to others and myself, to show why I’ll never wait behind a pane of glass, my life on the other side.

Both these essays are amalgams of almost every xanga entry I've ever written.  There is no point in asking which is better, because each belongs to a separate genre. I want to know which one you think will get me into college. 

I just wrote this for my language class, but I felt the need to post something.  Also, I turn seventeen tomorrow.  Buy me things.

Hands off

           Last spring my art teacher asked me for a favor.  He worked for an art gallery in New York City and needed an intern to guard an exhibit.   I don’t know why he asked me; he taught many kids, and even some of his seventh graders were better equipped for the job.   Still, he insisted, and three days later I stepped from a cab and onto the gallery’s echoing floor. Swaying with boredom, I stood for eight hours shielding art, struggling to restrain people from touching the pieces.  Guards should be intimidating, but I, with my quivering voice and abs of jell-o, was not qualified.  Nonetheless, after a month on the job, I have pocketed tips and pointers to help protect art, and none require lethal weapons or steroid injections. 

The Attire.

Despite what kindergarten teachers believe, the outside counts, especially when working in a gallery.  When people eye you, they only notice your clothes.  So, don’t wear pink.  Don’t wear yellow, purple, or magenta.  Ditch the whole rainbow.   Colors suggest personality, emotions, and thoughts – all human attributes.  Those may be essential in real life, but in an art gallery you won’t be taken seriously donning a periwinkle parka.

You will be taken seriously wearing patterns, especially if you’re guarding installation art.  Installation art uses sculptural materials and other media to alter how you experience a certain space. Walk into a room, and everything is suspect.  “Is that art?”  one may ask, gesturing to the white, souless floor.  “What about that?” asks another, gazing at a cold, rigid chair.  Imagine what they’ll think when they see you, stiff in a corner, frowning, decked in patterns.  God forbid you match the art - these people will beleaguer you like a flock of starving geese.  “I’m not really here, I’m invisible” you’ll repeat.  They won’t believe you.  Your words may even inspire them, and they’ll study you, stroking their chins for hours.  Don’t feel flattered.  If you continue distracting, you’ll be fired.

To keep your job, wear black.  Black attire is severe, and even if you’re a chuckling midget, people will less likely antagonize you.   You’ll blend with the gallery’s staff of starving artists, who have been wearing black since high school.  You’ll also appear at least five years older and therefore more experienced.  Besides, it’s slimming.

The People.

Imagine you’re in a video game and you must terminate a shape-shifting enemy. Its name is Compulsive-Art-Toucher and it attacks in four forms:

The Hipster.  Some hipsters visit galleries because they love art, others pretend to love art to enhance their hipster persona.  Either way, their presence is inevitable.  Every gallery-going hoard carries nail-biting hipsters, and soon those nails will scratch art until it bleeds black polish. 

Spotting hipsters is easy; just note their appearance.  Most sport skintight pants, screen-printed T-shirts, studded belts, and tattered Converse sneakers.  Hair is black to vomit-green, and often resembles tangled, grime-crusted seaweed.  Don’t be afraid; these people aren’t as unique as they strive to be.  You’ll notice, after awhile, they all look alike. 

You’ll also realize they’re easy to handle.  Select a suspicious hipster, one who has been circling the same piece for fifteen minutes, and stare.  Don’t smile, don’t mope, just fasten your gaze.  He may hide it, but he’ll be nervous.  You’ll be sure he’s uneasy if he worms his hands into his pockets.  As long as they’re there, he may live.

Others won’t be as lucky.  These are the pseudo-intellectual hipsters, and their fingers poke art as if it were in a coma.  You can scold, but your words will wane on pierced, deaf ears.  When the hipsters do acknowledge you, they’ll argue.  “Art is an experience,” they’ll say, “Sometimes, a hands-on experience.”  This may possess a grain of truth, but if all visitors wiped pieces with their greasy palms, art would resemble a Happy Meal.  Explain this, and if he still refuses to abide, whine to the lady at the front desk.  She wears even more black than you. 

The Tour.  Here, the Compulsive-Art-Toucher splinters into about fifty people.  They are adults, and they press “HELLO MY NAME IS…” stickers to their shirts.  Their young guide talks with her hands and smiles until her gums bleed.  As the people pour into the exhibit, warn her touching art is prohibited.  She will either reiterate this to her tour or, more likely, blink and continue gesticulating in art history babble. 

Now you are burdened with fifty curious forty year olds, their thumbs twiddling behind their backs.  The guide has summoned them into a quiet mass, and she prattles on.  You’ll have to wait. Any moment, a  finger will linger, and when one does, be quick.   Shuffle to the culprit and tap his shoulder.  When he turns, whisper “Please don’t touch the art,” loud enough for others to hear.  Don’t shout, because the tour guide will stop lecturing, and everyone will glare at you.  If the touching persists, then you can shout, but only after the guide pauses, which won’t happen for another fifteen minutes. 

The Art Collector.  You will recognize the art collector because the lady at the front desk warned you about him.  He will be tall, frowning, and in his mid-sixties.  His attractive wife, clinging to his arm, might be your age, but don’t ask.  The two will stride throughout the exhibit, furrowing their brows and muttering.  The gallery owner will walk with them, explaining each piece.  She wants their money, and she won’t acknowledge you because she doesn’t know who you are.  Keep it that way.  In the gallery world, the more power you have, the less soul. 

Let the collector and his wife touch the art.  Soon, it may decorate their dining room.  If average people arrive, they will want to touch, and you can’t stop them - they’ll ask why they're forbidden.  Answer with “Well, you’re not important” and they’ll curse you to oblivion.  Still, if you're silent, your boss will notice, and she’ll fire you.  My suggestion?  Run to the bathroom.  If someone asks where you’re going, gesture to the restroom and say it’s an emergency.  You won't be lying. 

The Family.  If you’re lucky, the family will only have three members: the mom, the dad, and the baby sleeping in its stroller.  This never happens.  Parents visit exhibits to press culture on their kids, and infants can’t even hold drool in their mouths. Parents prefer bringing your worst nightmare: six year olds. If these children were only curious, there would be nothing to fret about.  It’s inevitable that their stubby fingers graze the art.  What you don’t know is, seconds before, those fingers were scooping snot from sliming nostrils.  Warn the parents to watch their kid, and even advise the child not to touch.  If it happens anyway, the parents will scold, and the kid will throw a violent tantrum, punching and spewing booger-lumped tears on the clean floor.  Run for a soapy towel.  The dad will haul the kid over his shoulder and the family will exit, mortified, mumbling “Maybe next year.”

Basic Survival.

When guarding art, your number one goal is to survive.  A healthy human needs food, water, a bathroom, and entertainment.  You won’t find these in an art gallery.  Food is scarce, and if you steal a sandwich from the office fridge, its owner will hunt you.  Starve or ask where the closest deli is, and when you eat your meal, eat alone.  Your colleagues will be discussing existentialism in another room, and if you join the conversation, you’ll sound like a moron. 

            There may be a bathroom, but it will be under construction.  Proceed if you dare, but don’t switch on the light – the socket has exposed wires and you’ll be electrocuted.  Digest in the dark and press the lockless door closed with your foot.  If the door is too far, pray no one opens it.  Also, bring Purrell - the sink water isn’t water. 

For entertainment, brainstorm stories about the people touring through the exhibit.  Narrate what they’re thinking based on their facial expressions.  Eventually, you’ll develop schizophrenia, but when you start shouting obscenities to your imaginary friends, open your cell phone so it appears you’re conversing with real humans.  Don’t read books, and don’t jam to your iPod – those things will distract you.  Stay as focused as you can.  You may go insane, but at least the art will be safe.  Who knows? Maybe, when it’s all over, you’ll even get paid.