SPACE ARTIST FROM MARS!!!!

My sister just did a major clean-up of her room. This is always a bit of an adventure, and this time around she found 1.) a toy lightsaber, 2.) a small music box that plays a weird song none of us can place and 3.) an old journal of mine from when I was 7.

It's this last find that had the most entertainment value (despite the fact that my dog hates the lightsaber and will scurry around in hilarious ways if you turn it on around him). THE THINGS I WROTE. It's like a small composition book full of WONDER. It reflects very strongly my 2nd grade obsession with Mars, aliens, and space--or more specifically, my desire to become something I called a "space artist".

On the off chance that you were wondering, no, there is no such thing as a space artist.

I am going to now write up a list of highlights because I can't afford to forget any of this. Please excuse the poor spelling, but I think that the bad spelling is the maraschino cherry on top of the Shirley Temple that is this journal.

1.) "Tomarow is rousasona. I do not slabret rousasona. I am lucky. No school for nothing!"

2.) "Dinosors were extingct 65 million years ago [such science, mini-Caitlin! Good work.] Not all dinosors were big. Some were very small. Some ate plants. Some ate meat. Some were gross looking."

3.) "Pretty soon I am going to Mars! I will see a lot of stuff. I will go to sleep now. zzz. Today is the big day! Wow! Our rockit ship is cool! 5, 4, 3, 2, 1, 0, blastoff! Outer space is very pretty. I see mars! IT is red! We are landing. Hey! I see sines of life here! Yikes! Aliens at 2:00! Don't go. We are the frist people to see aliens. We are even the frist people to land on Mars. Beep, beep, come with us. Wow! You live here! Back to erath."

4.) "This is a space creecher. A space creecher gets arond on a speeder bike. If the space creechers are in danger and can't get away, they use the force. If a persin (wich they call humins) is smart enaf they can understand the talk of the space creechers."

5.) "Tomarow is my sister's birthday. I am not glad. She is going to be one year older and one year annoyinger. She is not going to invite any of my friends."

6.) "I am going to be an outer space artist when I grow up. Today I am going to go to our space ship. Come on Mike. Mike is my robot. He steers the ship. We are takeing off. Wow! We are high." [end of entry]

7.) "Hello, my name is Caitlin. My bouet is called the Oshin Oxtra [why? No idea.] We explore outer space. My crew is men and wemin. Our ship is made of tinetaneum. We eat things that look like eyeballs. We find aliens."

So you see, 7-year-old Caitlin had very few things on her mind besides her promising career as a space artist (even though--and this is an important point--I ABSOLUTELY CANNOT DRAW) and her annoying little sister. I spent this evening reading parts of this book aloud to my parents and laughing myself into tears.

I left the best part out, though, because I never, ever, ever want anyone ever to read it. It is basically Star Wars-Animorphs crossover-fanfiction. It is...amazing? Priceless, in an uncomfortable way. Just imagine the Animorphs using the force and having adventures with Han and Leia's kids and you've got the glory.

Jousting the air

There are some things I would like to write about, but I can't get my head completely around them yet.

Instead, I am going to try to do one of the most insufferable things in the world and write about writing. Sit back and enjoy! Or leave. I'll never know who you are...(that was for Charlotte and Rachel. Anyone listening?)

So it has been established that I am a total geek. Seriously, I love it all--I stayed home on Friday nights and watched Battlestar Galactica, I will marathon LOTR or Star Wars any day of the week, and yes, I sat through and enjoyed that lovely eight-hour epic The Tenth Kingdom (cheers, Nina and Kirsten and that bottle of cheap whiskey that got us through).

It all traces back to a childhood spent with Bruce Coville, Douglas Adams, Terry Pratchett and most importantly, Tamora Pierce. That was my shit. It still is. Those fantastical plots, the slightly off characters, the dramatic and implausible twists--they rock my world.

So because I am naive and impressionable, most of the things that I've written have followed this pattern: reluctant character in an odd situation/world must deal with strange events. Of course, that might be the formula for every single book, but whatever. The first novella-length thing that I ever wrote (embarrassingly titled "Princess of Thieves," god help me) was pretty much exactly stolen from Tamora Pierce. Then again, I wrote it--all 50 pages of it--when I was in 6th grade, so maybe I can be excused? But then the second thing that I wrote, about aliens who landed on Earth during the Middle Ages, cribbed liberally from Douglas Adams, so maybe things don't change much.

There's probably some psychological analysis to be done here, most likely by a very, very bored psychologist with nothing else to do. I'm someone who very frequently feels stuck in neutral, so I write about dramatic events full of exciting people doing exciting things and working towards exciting goals. I like to envision myself in the center of some conflict, Sir Caitlin, Lady Knight, swinging a sword and casting spells and shooting the shit out of things with a bow and arrow. It's my fucking DREAM. I would kick ass SO HARD.

So yeah, despite the fact that I am a mature 20 years old, I still have romantic visions of myself on a large horse, jousting or some shit (have I ever been on a horse? No. No, I have not). I don't think there's anything wrong with that, though. I wrote about life-threatening peril because, up until a couple weeks ago, it wasn't really a part of my life. And it's not really anymore, but for one horrible moment those couple of weeks ago, it was. And it wasn't something that my delusional image of myself could fight off with a sword or a crossbow or even magic. It was nasty and evil and dirty and intangible.

I'm sorry if this seems disjointed. My mind only seems to work one way these days, and it's a way that even I'm having trouble keeping up with. I don't know what my point is--I'm just trying to sort through some thoughts, some of which have been chasing each other in my head for a year now, and some of which are really recent additions to this tangled game of thought-tag. Give it a moment, it'll all sort itself out?

No need to call me "sir," Professor

I have a month and a half left of summer, and I've finally figured out what I should do with it. Get ready, guys. Hold onto your undershorts. This is creative, out-of-left-field, and totally never been done before.

I am going to reread all of the Harry Potter books.

Yes. Fine. It's not original, but does that make it any less necessary? We are approaching the end of an era, people! In one year, the last incarnation of a beloved character that we have literally grown up with will trot off the silver screen into his happily-ever-after! And not just any happily-ever-after! Oh no! We don't leave him as a 17-year-old with the whole universe in front of him. We leave him as a middle-aged man with a wife and kids and probably a mortgage and responsibilities. What's the fun in that?

Like I said, it's the end of an era, and that era is our entire childhoods. I was 8 when I first read Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone. I waited for my letter from Hogwarts with every other 11-year-old. I was 13 when Harry lost Sirius and 15 when he lost Dumbledore--and despite my advanced teenage years and maturity, I cried like a tiny, tiny baby both times.

Most importantly, though, I was 17 years old when Harry finally accomplished the goal he'd been moving towards his entire life. I was Harry's age when he killed Voldemort, and for some reason, that means a lot to me.

I'm not sure if you realize it, but I fucking love Harry Potter. I love the world, I love the characters, I love the story. I love that the plot-lines grew darker and more dramatic as the characters aged. I even love that J.K. took out half the cast in the last book (probably just because she could) because it showed that the tiny skirmishes that had been introduced in the first book had transformed into a full-blown war that even protagonist status couldn't save you from.

(I will, of course, never forgive J.K. for killing Fred. Too far, lady. Too far.)

My point here is that I was 8 when I first met Harry and Ron and Hermione and Draco, and I'll be 21 when I have to let them go. The obvious solution is to drown my sorrows in vats of alcohol immediately following the second 7th movie (which I will be doing, believe me). But I'm not someone who easily lets go of the past. For example, as I write this I am wearing a Tintin t-shirt that I have had since I was 9. It is threadbare and I cannot wear it in public because I will be laughed at. But I fell in love with this fictional character when I was 9, and I can't let him go, even at 20. I fell in love with Harry and his entire world when I was 7, and I can't let him go.

So I'll read all the books again. And again. And again. Why should I stop? If you're going to try to hold onto your childhood, I think reading is a pretty healthy way to do it.

And my kids had better love these books as much as I do because they are going to be hearing me read them over and over and over again.