8 days...

For three years I have been wondering what it would feel like to graduate. What would be running through my head a month, a week, a day before it happens. Graduation is not one of those things that you just say “oh, it will happen some day” and then when you least expect it, it is here and gone. You know an exact date, for sometimes years, and look forward to the day with anticipation. A hovering air of mystery and suspense shrouds this particular day, as if when we reach it my life will be revealed.

Until this point in my existence I have only been preparing to live, not actually expected to live. I have been gathering information with an expectation to survive long enough to use it. Last semester I was participating in 21 credits worth of classes at Edinboro. The stress I went through almost drove me to suicide. For about three hours one dark October evening I fought with myself mentally over what I should do. I was drowning in work and struggling with social connections, my life was perpetually miserable.

I owe my life to some very good friends of mine, who pulled me out of my depression and back onto my feet. They pushed me forward with the full expectation that I would succeed. Once I passed this test I found myself in my final semester. Student teaching was more educational than all the classes I had ever taken combined. No one could have prepared me for the shock and challenge that awaited me. I cried at least once a week at school, and much more at home, started drinking, made out with 4 people, bonded with my family, quit a job, spent a whole day staring at my ceiling, lost 30 pounds and created a business.

As I sit here in the art room at Cochranton Elementary the sound of children’s shrill voices fills the air, buzzing constantly, never ceasing. You start to block it out after a while, it becomes a new standard for silence. A child’s obsession with speaking is too great to tame. So many thought run through their heads at a time, they are unable to hold it in. I love it. I love teaching all together actually. I was born to be a teacher, and hope to continue as one for the rest of my life. Sitting here at my desk gazing out at the classroom I have become so familiar with, I am so happy, so at peace; I never wish to leave. I wake up every morning excited to come to school. I go to bed every evening longing for the night to be over for the new day to arrive. I have been lucky to find something that I love so much in life that it excites me anew every single day.

Perhaps the best thing about teaching is the interaction with the children. I am much stronger at teaching high school students than elementary students. I feel like the constant lack of control in an elementary classroom is ill-suited for my personality and expectations of my students. In a high school classroom I can engage in conversation with my students, I can communicate with them. The amount of communication you can have with an 8 year old is limited at best.

On the other hand, I love the elementary students for their life, vitality, excitement and curiosity. Children are all so wonderfully bright and intelligent, Their ability to absorb information is never broken, never satisfied.

17 Days

I graduate in 17 days. Thats Seventeen, in case you didn't hear me. Seventeen. Not a month, not a year... 17 days. WTF. F. F. F. Where the hell did this semester go?! I, Abigail Lynn Binkey, am graduating from college in 17 days. F.

Well thats all for now. Just though I would let you know.

17...

Barrow, Alaska

So I applied to teach at a school in Barrow, Alaska this week. Barrow is the furthest town north in the u.s., its in the Arctic circle. That's right... damn cold. It has the lowest average temp of any us state, not the lowest record, just the lowest average... this means it is insanely cold all the time, not just on specific days. The highest recorded temp EVER was 79* F in July and the lowest recorded was -56* F. The average temp in the winter (Sept through Feb) is -20.1* F. It holds The record for most consecutive days with the low temperature equal to or below 32 degrees, which was set in August 1955 through June 1956 = 321 days. It also experiences midnight sun and polar night. The polar nigh is when the sun sets on November 18 or 19, and it remains below the horizon for about 65 days. Beginning on around May 11 or 12, the sun remains above the horizon the entire day, and the phenomenon known as the midnight sun is observed. The sun does not set for 82 to 83 days, until around July 31 or August

So.. yeah... thats where I want to go lol

Elijah.

The four-year-old boy screamed the high pitched shrill of a distraught child. His tiny body shook with the force of it as he clenched the sides of the blue plastic chair he was being restrained in. One… two… three… four… five… six… seven… eight… the scream stops. Several seconds pass as the other children stare at the disturbance. They must be used to this by now, I think to my self as I watch for their initial reactions. The child starts screaming again, one of the other children bursts into tears, stumbles over to me and clings to my leg. As I scoop her up into my arms the screaming stops again, the boys slight body is trembling more now as he flails his legs in an attempt to reach anything close to him. The teacher holding him against the chair shuts their eyes and rests their forehead against the back of the chair as the child puts their head on the seat of the chair between their legs. Several seconds pass. The girl in my arms continues to cry softly against my shoulder. The boys body tenses, his forehead comes off the seat and he inhales deeply. Here it comes again… He screams once more. Three more of the others scramble over to me and cling to my sides, pressing their tiny bodies against me as tightly as they can, as if their classmates scream might blow them away if they don’t. One… two… three… four… five… six… seven… eight… nine… ten… he stops, letting his body sag, folded in half, forehead resting on the seat between his shaking knees. His breath comes in ragged gasps as he attempts replace the air in his lungs that he just expelled. The teacher behind him lifts her head off the chair. She is crying.

“Miss Binkey, please call the office, tell them that Elijah is having a meltdown.” She says softly as the boy tenses for another scream. His next scream last the whole time it takes me to detach the children at my legs, walk to the phone and dial the number. The boy stops screaming just in time for the secretary to tell me that no one is available to come up right now, I look to the teacher and shake my head. She places her head on the back of the chair again as Elijah inhales once more. We have to keep him the rest of the class. I glance at the clock, Katayah still in my arms. Only 30 minutes more. Elijah screams again.

So i started a new job this weekend. It is going rather well. I cook/ run salad bar/ dish-wash/ prep at Ruby Tuesdays at Millcreek Mall. It is not exactly the most exciting job, but there is always stuff to look at and people to watch. Of all the jobs I do there, I like prep the best. Prep is when you get everything ready for the next day. Mostly braking product down into portions and putting them into bags. It is a very repetitive job that requires almost no though or movement, leaving me free to day dream or watch people as I choose. I usually need a lot of stimulation at a job but this really doesn't bother me very much. I am the only girl in the kitchen, which makes it rather interesting, amongst 6-7 guys. I am a rather short person so pushing my way through all these guys can prove challenging at times. None the less, I am going to work the rest of the school year there, until I graduate in May, and possibly over the summer if they can guarantee me hours. That is all for now, will write more later perhaps.

I feel dead. I feel hollow. Or do I? When one feels so cold it is hard to tell what you feel. My head hurts, I think. It is difficult to even lift my fingers to type this. I keep misspelling words, they are not coming out right. I know that this probably doesn't make sense, but I don't really know what to do about it. I think that I am angry at a friend, he has not texted me back, or he does and he will apologize. I don't want an apology. I want you to make it right. My finger tips hurt, you know, from working on the mosaic at school. They are bleeding. It kinda sucks. I will have to wipe off my keyboard after this. The whole right side of it has tiny red dots on it, like little bugs. It is a good thing I have the letters memorized, or I would be in trouble. The little bugs are not moving, just growing with every stroke of the keys. Poor bugs. Poor fingers. There is a little streak of pain that flies up my finger every time I hit a key with it, adding to the color. It is nice though. I don't really mind. I have not been functioning fully for the past three days. Just kind of dead. Maybe I will go to sleep.

sad

The tears clung to her long onyx lashes, pulling two day old charcoal off in beads, shimmering in the pale light, like oil in water. The only movement of her body being the breath that barely kept her alive, shivering with each inhale, deflating with the exhale and, every several seconds, a blink of her fluorescent blue eyes that caused the poised droplets to leap to their deaths at the mercy of the frigid stone floor.

more random writing

Wrote this at Tim Hortons the other day. Caution! Do not read if you have an exceedingly weak stomach!

The graceful padded foot steps of a large grey wolfhound trotted cautiously along side the girl over the golden mosaic floor of the temple lobby. He was alert, focused on the task at hand, as he scanned the echoing space for signs of any other life. Every several seconds his large nose was driven to the floor as he inhaled for human scent, but was greeted only by a nose full of musty molding grout that was securing the priceless tile in place. The disheveled tan fur on his long snout was covered with dust from repeating this the whole length of the lobby. They were nearing the end now, he could see something in the distance, which he supposed was the alter. They just had to make it that far, just to the alter.

The dogs ears perked up as his head swung to the side at a sudden sound. The girl had tripped. A tile protruding from the ancient floor had caught her left foot causing her to fall onto her hands and knees. The girl stood and stared at her bare, bruised foot. A large gash now joined the others already consuming the slight toes, slicing the smallest nearly in half. The dog watched as the effete human stared at the toe, blood pooling on the floor, simply watching it. He glanced up to the alter, shimmering in the distance and back to the girl, still poised, entranced by the blood. They needed to move. The dog softly nudged her leg. No response. He moved behind her and pushed at the back of her knee with his forehead. The girl looked back, blinked and began forward again, once more staring at the sequestered alter. The dog assumed his previous position at her side as they continued, now leaving a trail of red glistening blood to stain the precious golden floor.

Sand House

Wrote this cause I saw this picture online lol enjoy!

They stood outside, watching, waiting for a sign. Waiting for God. But he did not come; He did not meet them at the house in the desert. Only their horses and the wind and the sand accompanied them here, in front of the ancient house that was said to house the Messiah. They simply stood… waiting. For what they were waiting they did not know. They had only been told that it would be here, in this abandoned house in the desert, that they would find him, alone and waiting for them to arrive.

The grand double doors, in front of where they stood, had long been wrenched from their hinges, no doubt with the rest of the doors from the place, now scattered across the waste land just crossed. One of the travelers, the brave of the two, reached out a dark, cracked hand and brushed two blood soaked fingers across the white wood left of the door. The sand of the desert, over hundreds of years, had worn smooth the imperfections of the wood, it was now as soft as a new born foal, every crack patiently worn away, every blemish painstakingly brushed into submission.

The sand on which they stood was slightly darker than the white wood of the house, and it continued inside, blown into mountains and valleys in between the doorways they could see through the gap of the previous entrance. The interior of the house was much more chaotic, violent even, for the walls had large bruises of molding ripped from them, exposing the skeleton underneath. Large cracks, originating from the gaps, crawled up the walls and onto the ceiling, as if any moment the house might split into pieces and be blown away into the endless sea of sand.

The ceaseless wind picked up at that moment causing one of the uneasy horses to whinny, throwing their head in protest of the wait. This, along with the realization of the setting sun, threw the travelers into motion, as they prepared to enter the antediluvian dwelling.

Leaving Edinboro

My life is constantly in motion. It never ceases, always pushing towards the next unachievable goal. My college career has been condensed to the max, in three short years I have earned my degree as well as experiencing life like I never have before. It is difficult sometimes to look back on these last three years and remember all that has occurred. Every day I have been here is weighted with experiences and adventures that I will never be able to recall. Of the hundreds of “worst days of my life” and “best days ever” only a select few will be remembered enough to repeat them. Not that anyone is willing or wanting to sit and listen while I ramble on about these past three captivating years. The average life of a college student is four years, at which point we then morph into adults and move on. I am still a child. I can not even visit to a bar legally yet people are going to trust me to teach their children who are only a year younger than I am? How the hell does that seem logical? It doesn’t.

I remember vividly my first day here at Edinboro University. My mother and father dropped me off rather quickly since my sister had to be 6 hours away in Ohio by that evening. In approximately 2 hours I was moved in and left on my own. I slumped in my faded grey desk chair, staring out my third story window, wondering what the hell I was suppose to do now. I must have sat there for at least an hour before my mother called me on my Verizon Razor cell phone and asked how unpacking was going. I sprung up and began unpacking, apologizing for not doing so yet. She yelled and I apologized, end of conversation.

As time moved on I started to treat my parents differently. I began to lie more to them, not for the reason of wanting to hurt them, but just to help them realize that I could solve problems without them. That I could be on my own and make decisions with my own opinion in mind. My tattoo is one of these decisions. I hold a different belief about tattoos than my family. I have an opinion that does not match theirs. I have an independent thought about it. It feels good to know now that I can think independently, I can express this, and I can do it whenever, however I want. I have been through much since that first day of freshman year, sitting bewildered in my not yet unpacked dorm room. I still sit sometimes and wonder what I should do, but it is different now. I am not sure how, it just is.

Graduation still scares the hell out of me, as I am sure it does to everyone in my position, but I feel that I can deal with it. Maybe. There is really no need for remembering or forgetting, for in about two months I will be able to condense these past three years into one sentence. I went to Edinboro University.

Pride and teaching

Pride is an amazing thing. It can be considered a negative aspect of a personality yet we operate off of it in every day life. Had we no pride we would not conceive of keeping ourselves presentable or striving to go anywhere in life. A certain amount of pride, an amount that I do not know, is needed to not only succeed but simply to maintain every day life. I have had very few people tell me that they are proud of me in my life, and as unfortunate as that seems, just think about it for a while; how many times has someone said the exact phrase “I am proud of you” to you during your years? My guess is not as many as most deserve. Teaching has taught me the amazing things that people, especially young people, are capable of. Children are so wonderfully bright and engaging, they are absorbent, almost to a fault and never cease to stun me with their abilities and thoughts. Observing a seventh grade art class is something I believe everyone should experience at least once in life. A 13-year-old goes about everything with such gusto and pride, such fervor and passion; it leaves me quite exhausted just watching them. Even the way in which they interact is fascinating, every movement is so carefree, they never think about where their body is or where their hands and feet are placed. Always it is movement on impulse, action out of habit and inclination. I am starting to think that this is why young teenagers eat so much and are so clumsy. The amount of movement that the average 13 year old performs in a single minute can exceed many adults action for a whole hour. I suppose all children are like this though, movement without thought and impulsive limb motion with no thought involved. I am starting to love teaching the younger grades, seventh especially, for they are marvelously talented and intelligent, I feel that my mentality fits with them much better than any other grade and I am keen on finding out how well I will like elementary school.

Timothy Hortans

I am one of seven patronizing the long awaited Tim Hortans in Edinboro, PA. It is a clean, modern sort of shop, designed well and intriguing, it draws customers in with ease. The sandy brick lining the walls behind the counter vary in size, emitting a dynamic and active look. A strategically placed wall blocks off all the messy business in the back, that is essential for running a business, while supporting seven large black flat-screen televisions. The TV's sport advertisements for both Tim Hortans immaculate baked goods and Cold Stone's heavenly ice cream. The front counter itself stretches almost the entire length of the shop with two large display cases exhibiting the previously described delicacies.

As for the people, two have left since I arrived, leaving me one of four. A young couple sits two tables away from me flanking a Compaq computer. Neither one has emitted a single word since my arrival. Both stare at the shinny black machine , that he is operating so intently, I am certain it might run away. While the man supports his chin on a rough looking open palm, the girl leans on manicured knuckles. One finger, I notice, hosts a large silver diamond engagement ring. The stone's crystal clear faucets reflect the yellow light protruding from cone shaped fabric lights hanging from the ceiling. It is indeed a beautiful piece of jewelry. Her right hand, equally manicured but lacking the equivalent decoration, making her seem strangely lopsided, poises holding a white and blue bank pen on an empty sheet of white lined paper.

2-2

It is strange being back on campus, watching the students I once knew so well as they move about their day, consumed by their petty problems, which to them control their lives. Being on the outside of this, I seem to have grown a hard shell against these annoyances, such as classes, significant others and beverage choices. One such male entered the shop in his brown Carhart jacket; his swagger marked him as confident and in control of the simple existence he was leading. He stood at the counter, staring at the board of options for at least 3 minutes before making his profound decision. I admit, that even I have been guilty of this menial crime from time to time, but of course that does not come into considerations when I am judging others for my own entertainment. That male, I decided in my own head, was a poor semblance of a life form, that was hard pressed to make something of himself.

Many others after him approach the counter and gaze, bewildered at the wall of text. They had most likely seen this board many times before, but always seem to have difficulty interpreting meaning from it. Why is this, you may ask? The words are written plainly, even for a diluted college student, so what is the problem? I believe it is the French words that get people sometimes. Why can they not just say “This drink contains an obscene amount of chocolate!” Or “Drink this if you want an abhorrent dose of caffeine!” But then again, most 18-22 year olds do not know the definition of obscene or abhorrent, so that plan wouldn’t work. In short, I do not know how to solve this troubling problem and will tire myself over it no longer.

Story, pt One

Here is a little excerpt from the story I am writing. The main characters are Kam and Trust. Both are about 200 years old, with the looks of an 18 year olds, because of abilities that will be explained later. Hope you enjoy, it is one of the more slow, close contact parts of the plot. More exciting ones to come!

“Closer” Kam whispered “Just a little closer”

“I… don’t think I can” Trust whispered back “I am way past an arms length already"

“I just can’t do it… I’m sorry Kam” at that Trust backed several steps, to exactly Kam’s arm length away, and ran. They had been practicing approaching people, like they normally do at midday break. Trust had been about 13 inches away from Kam, the same place she gets on every other day. Had Kam wanted to hurt her in any way, he could have easily reached out with both lean arms and pulled her slight form towards him. She couldn’t take that risk, just being that close to him threw her mind into overdrive, reeling and rearing, trying to get away, screaming the danger she was in. Kam always exclaimed, when she came back from running, that she had appeared so calm and placid, why had she run? Trust had learned, over hundreds of years of torture, the skill of keeping her emotions cloaked by a serene facial expression.

Trust returned to camp after dark that night. Kam had set up their bedrolls and prepared a dinner of raw fish and berries by the time she came through the shadows. Trust walked slowly into the camp, behind Kam, silently as a doe. It wasn’t until she sat and slurped down the first piece of fish that Kam stood, turned and drew his sword; his feet automatically assuming an on guard position.

“Who is jumpy now?” Trust asked, reaching for out and pinching another strip of fish between her gnarled hands.

“Yes, well I was snuck up on.” Kam stated, joining her for the meal “At least I don’t run for hours, away from those that are right in front of me, and are trusted. “ he did not look at her as he said this, just selected a plump berry out of the bowl and popped it into his grinning mouth.

Trust frowned and slowly returned the fish to the bowl. She folded her hands in her lap and gazed at the ground, Kam was right, she admitted silently to herself. She had no reason to run from him, or anyone, unless they gave her reason to. It had been 31 years since she had touched another person on purpose. 31 years since she had felt someone else’s skin, leaned against them, held their hand. She looked back up at Kam; he was so kind to her, always taking care of her and protecting her. She had known him for so long.

She fluidly stood and took a step around their little picnic towards him. He stopped eating and looked up at her, turning his head to one side, much as a dog does when confused. Trust continued to look at the ground. She took another step, smaller than the last. Then another. She stood right next to him now, he bare toes only inches from his outstretched leg. Trust sunk to the ground, keeping several inches away from his body. Kam turned very slowly to face her, tucking his legs underneath him, watching her closely. She continued to look at the ground, also sitting cross-legged. This was the closest they had ever been, in all the time they traveled together, since they had been children some hundred years ago. Kam lifted his hand and slowly, very cautiously, reached out to her down turned face. He paused an inch from her, wondering what would happen if he continued, but only for a second, then, lightly as he could, he touched his fingers to her scared cheek. She immediately closed her eyes and leaned into his open palm. She started to cry silent tears; they rolled down her face gathering along his hand. Without opening her eyes she reached out and placed her right hand on his knee, Kam smiled in return and lifted his other hand to lift her chin. Her eyes met his; their gaze held for several seconds, both breathing in unison. Kam leaned forward, a breaths width away from her, wondering if she was going to flee. Trust didn’t run, she held his gaze, waiting to see what he would do next. Before she had a chance to consider more, he leaned in and gently pressed his lips to hers.

Trust held there for a split second, then quickly stood turned and walked back to the other side of the dinner, sitting down exactly where she had been before. Kam blinked, mouth open, still poised from their fleeting kiss, wondering what had just happened. Trust on the other hand, was back to her calm controlled self. The piece of fish she had set down was already in her mouth, as she ate it slowly she smiled.

Snow Day Number two

Today is another snow day. Remember back to when you were a kid and how you loved snow days? Yeah well, there nice for a while, until you have absolutely nothing left to do. I am going to be so bored today! Hopefully one of my friends will save me from boredom!

I re-read my post from last night, and realize now that it is quite ridiculous. But no matter, I will leave it up, for the simple matter of that being my thoughts at the time. I really don't know what got into me. It was like someone had just woken up a piece of me that desired that sort of thing. I have always had a problem with the concept of love. Last night I even looked it up in several online dictionaries to see other peoples definition of it.

Now the kind of love you have for friends, I have no problem with. I tell my friends all the time that I dearly love them. It is the romantic love that I seem to be incapable of; all I have is infatuation. I wish I had some one to practice this sort of love on. I need a test. A practice run. A trial. I have to know if I am capable of it. You see, I have only dated one person, and I told this person that I love them, but I am not so sure I actually did. Right now I go through these fazes, in which I become abnormally obsessed with a guy. Actually I have one right now that has been going for about 7 months. I can't seem to get him out of my head. I would rather hang out with him, and 2 others, more than anyone else in the world. I don't think he understands this at all. Of course I cannot tell him about this ridiculous 'love" for it would most likely get us nowhere. I was always told that if a guy liked you he would do something about it. He would make it happen. During my online search last night, I found a peculiar article about sucessful women, women with a brain, scaring men away. I know in stature I am not very ferocious, but in mental state and statement, I am a force to be reckoned with. I will have to work on being normal so that I won't frighten people away anymore.

thoughts.

On average I get depressed at least once a day. Something hits me and sparks feelings that run rampant until I can find something to distract myself with. On occasion it is more like 2 or 3 times a day. Today, for the simple reason of the day starting off on the wrong foot, was one of the more extreme days. I have considered quite a bit within the span of today and I had a very engaging conversation with a good friend of mine. This conversation consisted mainly of discussion of the topic surrounding my endless need for physical comfort. I crave it so badly it hurts. To prove a point, during our discussion, I reached over and put my hand on his knee. I felt instantly more calm. It was like someone had given me a sedative, except this little jolt I experienced in my upper chest, near my neck. I don't know why physical touch does this to me, I don't even know if anyone else has this problem, but I consistently run into problems when attempting to manage it. My friend said that I will go crazy the first time I sleep with someone, and I believe him.

But enough of this now, I must get to bed.

teaching

so i made it to student teaching. it is wonderful and even more than i could imagine it being. I love everything about it, except the lesson plans; the kids and school are all to my liking. i am cooking shrimp for dinner tonight and Andrew is coming over. as you can tell, i am severely lacking adequate sleep, and need to get some of that soon. that is all.

problem

The solution to a problem can only be found after one identifies that there is a problem to be had. Two of my very close friends are currently experiencing this in the heart-wrenching way. I am the type of person, as I'm sure I mentioned before, that has the internal drive to help others and take care of them in their times of need, so of course I offered my aid in any way that I could. But one can only offer so much help before the people you are assisting begin to suspect that you have some self-serving reason for help in the first place. I truly have no such interior motive. But the solution to this problem is keenly displeasing to both parties involved. Does that make my intent on helping them any better or worse, when I know the solution, which has been activated, and it is hurtful to the internal and external form of the people? Eventually, yes, it is going to be better, however the here and now of the situation is tireingly accute, espescilly being in the position I am in.

New semester, new apartment

This is it, this is the end. My last semester of college is upon me, waiting to be taken down and forgotten. It amazes me that the proceeding semester seemed stressful setting all to straights for this one, but now it is ready and starting and I don't know what to do with myself. Of course I have the inevitable "planning for my future" to deal with, but not for another month and a half. As of now I am perfectly content to sit here at my recently acquired desk and observe the heavy snow as it coats the ground and trees. I have come to love Edinboro, besides the fact that I have only been here two and one half years. Undoubtably, I am proud of myself for completing my degree in three years, totaling 6 semesters, when it takes most the stated 4 years or more even. It is a small sort of achievement, I suppose. My mother seems not to understand what sort of accomplishment this is, or even that it is one at all. My dear father on the other hand praises me endlessly for it, well as close to praise as my family can get. You see, praise in my home often goes something like this: "You have moved through college quickly, which will look good on a resume, but I fear the lack of extra-curricular activities will hold you back." It is a double edged sword always; you may have done this right, but this still needs improvement. It is a game, a test, a business arrangement with a new goal always in sight.

This brings me back to the place I am now, sitting here and watching the snow. A small sort of achievement for me, to be letting all my work sit by while I am engaged in an action that will not improve my person or standing at all.