Cabin Free Write

As I imagine a cabin, I start from the outside. It is day time but the dense canopy of the deciduous forest keeps out most of the sun. The ground is speckled with splotches of light and is covered in brown crunchy leaves slowly decaying. There is a old gravel path that leads up to the house but is dominated by grass. The exterior of the cabin is splintery and the bark is peeling. As I cautiously walk inside it smells dusty and ancient. There is a creaky rocking chair that is mysteriously tilting back and forth. Probably because of the slight gust from when I opened the in need of new paint door. There are plenty of windows that shed light beams exposing the dust in the air. I carefully tip toe through the living room with only wooden furniture carful not to wake anything I don't want to encounter. The kitchen is extremely bright and the floors are recently steamed cleaned white tile. It is super modern with a floating island in the middle only held by an oddly shaped piece of metal. There is a bowl of fruit with perfectly ripe bananas with a ting of green on the stem. I pick up the banana and unpeel it, eager to bite into the firm fruit. As I bite the banana I hear someone walk into the room and I quickly hide the peel behind my back and guilty chew. It’s my mom and I feel relieved. All of a sudden I’m back to the comfort of my home and my imagination has retreated to the truth of reality.

Failure

As I was assigned this blog assignment, I faced a blockade. A mental blockade that for some reason prevented me from thinking of any of my numerous failures. I know that I have failed because I am certain that I haven't succeed at everything I tried. So as I was pondering what to write, I realize that I fail to think. Not all the time but only on demand. For example, I when I took the dreaded SAT on Saturday, the essay prompt, which I can't say the exact one because that's apparently illegal, but I couldn't think of an example. It was horrible, knowing that my college future was on the line and I just didn't know what to do. In the end I wrote about Martin Luther King Jr. because how could you go wrong with that? So the moral of the story is I fail to think on demand. That doesn't  mean I don't think at all because that's not true. I think all the time, about everything and I always speak my thoughts. People often say that if you always talk a lot, your do not think, but I completely disagree. In order to speak, you have to think. Although some people do not think a lot, they still are thinking when they speak.

 http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mental_block

Free Write About Food

So ever since I was little, food has been a prominent part of my life. My dad being a private chef, and my mom a nutritionist, delicious healthy food is always around... but not for long. I feel like when my dad brings home food it would be gone instantly as Ginger and I rush to grab spoons jabbing at the spongy yet firm almond cake. I don't know what makes almond paste in cakes so scrumptious, but if you haven't tried it, it's amazing.

 Anyway, some people like to spend money on electronics, but my family spends money on food. We go to fancy and strange restaurants every new city we encounter. I remember one time I dubiously tried a raw quail egg at the DePuy Canal house. It was a golden yellow with a transparent goop around it, which helped it slip down my throat easier. By being exposed to different cuisines I became willing to try more foods and other things. Since I was little kid, I’ve been know as a “good eater” because I try everything and I like almost all of it. I love to eat all cuisines from Chinese to American and all the counties in between.  Vegetables, meats,  fish and fruit I value equally except for broccoli rob. It’s just so bitter and bland.  Thankfully, eating  delicious food expertly cooked by a chef hasn’t made me a snob either, because I love junk food and sweets just as much as the next person.

Food has influenced me to try new things, not just food but other activities. On a micro scale, getting the courage to swallow a raw quail egg has helped developed my courage to try other more important things in life.

Boomshackalacka

One place that makes me feel at peace is Boomshackalacka.

Well that’s the code name my sister and I use, because we’re not supposed to go there. It’s at my grandpa’s vacation house in Maine, and the house is located between a bay and the ocean. Boomshackalacka  is at the ocean side of the house. I can picture sneaking out of the quiet house urging my sister Ging, to come. Often she would say no so I would go and persuade my Bella, my dog. Bella and I would sprint down past the stagnant mosquito ridden pond (were Bella would often take a pit stop) and stop at the neighbors juicy raspberry bushes and silently go to the coast hopping through the patch of poison ivy. Bella would stand sturdily on top of the dock with a mesmerizing pride about her. We would look out at the calm ocean with occasional white ripples caused by lobster men collecting their traps. The dock is crusty with sea spray and dried up coral. When Ginger comes with me we scurry down from the dock and collect sea glass scattered around the rocks. After we collect enough merchandise and have our pockets full of sand and rocks from the coast we go back to the house to asses our winnings.  Boomshackalacka is not a white sand Hawaii beach, its more of jagged rocks and slippery seaweed clashing with the salty ocean. Theres hidden coves with thousands of snail shells scattered around and round ocean worn  stones.

 Oh I forgot the reason I’m not supposed to go to Boomshakalacka is that it’s technically the rich snobby neighbor’s property. One time, Ginger, Caroline, Maddy and me wrote a script and were filming a zombie movie. I timed it perfectly so it would be sunset and just as I said “action” the frigging  Smiths come and yell “get off my property.” I never got to make the movie, but I did get revenge. The next day Maddy and me went to town and bought snappers and laced the Smiths driveway with them. I waited in the by the peach tree with unripe green peaches all morning to hear the sweet SNAP POP and then the “what the hell just happened.” I left after a while getting bored but I saw the next day that the snappers were snapped.

Ive been on numerous adventures to Boomshack (for short), including one time when Ginger, Caroline and I decided to travel to the faded  light house in the distance. I didnt realized how far it was when I embarked on the journey, but it took over three hours of carefully stepping over seaweed and collecting sea glass. I thought we finally arrived when I could almost touch the chipped red stripe of the light house but there was still a couple hundred meters left. We walked up the scattered boulders but even though we were so close, we never made it to the light house. There was an abandoned warehouse place behind the beacon of light, and also some shady guys on motorcycles. Ginger and Caroline got scared so we ran back for about 20 minutes. Then in order to make better time I had the stupid idea of going thought the woods to get to the road. After getting chased by a dog  and silently passing the “Trespassers will Be Shot” signs, we finally made it to the main road. I realized how far we got because I didn’t know where we were at all. The shady motorcycle guY  passed by us twice which motivated us to move faster. Sweat dripping down my brow, I could see two peninsulas, one of which was where my house was. I chose the right peninsula, and it turned out to be right. We came back the same way we left, secretly and pretended  nothing had happened.

 

 

 

 

Jammin' In Jamaica

When I was a kid, I used to go to Jamaica every year. It was something I looked forward to; to feel the warm sand beneath my toes, sometimes heating up so much that I had to run around not to get burned. The ocean was kind and aquamarine blue with hundreds of colorful fish all about. With my family , we would go on glass bottom boat trips with Jack, a local Jamaican man with a pleasant weathered look to him. We would go on adventures snorkeling  in forbidden caves where only the bats lurked. The coastline was jagged yet smooth from the ocean constantly smashing against it. White foam would mist up and sting my eyes, but I didn’t care because I was happy. Looking back, as a kid I never saw  the bad part of Jamaica, only the good. I would hear Bob Marley’s music and the smell of freshly cooked jerk chicken instead of the poverty and dangers of people’s greed.

The last time we went to Jamaica I had a glimpse of how it was not all good memories, because we were robbed in the middle of the night. Someone came into our room, broke into the safe and stole most of the money. Thankfully, no one woke up. I swear to god I knew who did it. It was the sketchy security guard who had connections and one eye that was slightly off.  I think everyone knew, but the hotel manager argued that “his dad was a police officer so it couldn’t have been him.” Despite this, I was still happy because I got a colored band that allowed me to get free fruit smoothies and the delicious rum raison ice cream at the beachside bar.