Moving on, Part One.

"We keep moving forward, opening new doors, and doing new things, because we're curious and curiosity keeps leading us down new paths."

-Walt Disney

July 5th, 2015

(Nothing)

August 1st, 2015

Some time in the afternoon.

I moved out of the five long years streak of living in a basement, but it is not for a better place, or a beneficial experience. It was almost on a whim, by my mother, without even a destination in mind. And so the last few days of July was spent in  hurried time race to seek and find some help for what would now be considered homelessness in legal terms. A friend helped, and now I am wondering what will be next of this adventure. For what could have been avoided first of all. No blaming today.

August 8th, 2015

2:14pm
It has been a week since my arrival here at Teresa's living room. Moments would follow through as though they were on a slow but steady race. I can catch them once I step up to the track. I often don't run as fast as I imagine I would after my feet kick up sand. Documentaries became my lunch. Swimming has proved to be a convenient mode of physical experience, other than the library with an approximate in between distance of my runs around Lake Phalen, or three miles. All the more, going out and enjoying the day presses me forward.
On the quieter side of my enterprise, the night would fall soundlessly and the restlessness of my family blink away sleep, and here with my computer glowing in stillness, my ideas flowed easier. It's on a modern device. My reassurance will rest with the churning of a pen and its mouth. Notebooks will always have that warm, imaginative emporium. Some days, however, I do dream of one utopian afternoon, where bubbles of thoughts would be caught before they fly away. How would it be done? That's for us to decide. Us as in humanity and the universe's infinite expansion. Us as in our ways of thinking so distinct from our sisters and brothers of the animal kingdom, that we are able to engineer wisps of disembodied matter into whatever the creator decides should be birthed. How funny to think of such a thing. And how is it that we think, to top that off? Wait, not how, but why is a progressive question. All of these thoughts talk to me as I try to balance my day.

August 10th, 2015

10:52am
It has been a week for me. I've gone to a gradual rise on my writing now that I've intricately described what I am about to construct with comrades. And these people are the ones I've purposely kept behind the pretty wall from my mother. Aye, the world of my alter ego has casted a tension on the belt of my family bonds. There has been a dream of this person, and it was a rather questionable one. There was a friend from a bowling alley, a mask and matching soft red paws were worn by this person, and then came something else that at the time I thought was not such a big deal. There was mostly playful fights, and now I see it as another meaningful vision. What was once a side interest has engulfed my focus on what is important in the remaining weeks of summer. Only, let's see, twenty seven days of this freedom. Or is it even that? I wonder, I haven't read as often as I ought to be doing. My mind has swerved under the influence, of a subculture.
Today I have finally another chance at getting out of this pit of dependence via a job interview. I, oddly, do not appreciate the mindset of someone labeling another before the legal age of maturity as a "kid" or some other variance of the term. It is quite a stubborn argument to be giving. In reality, I have my hand in both pond of the spectrum of being so close to adulthood. I am still young. I am fervent in what I do, and at a ripe age at that. But I am also a responsible, independent, and maybe even a tier above my age group in thought processes and wisdom. Only four months until the watery stupor of being an adolescence will be over. And that has made me think, what can I do until then?
But what does that matter even so? I'll still be as healthy the next day of the month. I won't meet a tsunami of paperwork and bills the morning after. I may not even notice anything has changed unless I were to peer at the calendar, and remember why. But, meanwhile, I know that is not all where all the eggs are in my basket.  I will have from then on a deeper sense of galloping minutes in the sands of the wind. I won't ever relive my teen years again. It is one thing that I care about this concern, but another to see the clock ticks on a booklet as an important life event as well. No matter what the application says or what my neighbors are popping after, I will change once more, however different it may or may not turn out to be. However vague or descriptively tuned my planner fattens up to be. Daniel J. Marquez, he no longer will be, he already is.

3:58pm
The interview went well. It may be the closest I've been to obtaining an actual job, aside from the other place of Subway. It's at a senior home not too far from my temporal housing. So, I wait for a call that is the tether to the flow of income. I may as well make use of the rest of my summer to be a true, wholesome experience.
Writing has become an entity of energy for me. It's as though the field of pen to paper scripture is an actual animal. It's eyes are hungry for expression, but it won't comply easily to the beginner well. In fact, it may not even take a liking of its comrade at all. What it seems to boil down to, this metaphor, is that we must live a mutual relationship with our fellow warrior. Controlling it is not a possibility, for if one knows how well of a piece he or she may have baked, the juxtapose of our own expectations in the hands of an editor perhaps, or a judgmental relative, will flip that literary cake upside down. And not in fondant manners. The career writing may form for me has leveled my mind to be rather a selfish individual as I care for more "me" than "we" in this life book with sentences as my day. The little posse living right inside my office space? They are visitors. Oh, it is a difficult discipline, indeed, and even more so once someone takes the oath of doing it without a barnacle of regard for the lazy mind. Imagination will, eventually, be carved out of its box in the refrigerator  and join us for this business day. But, wait, let's take in all of the other meetings it has. And all of the soccer practices Creativity must attend. And the emergency that Abstract got itself into. And so on. Maybe not a hundred hours spent at the desk would be as profitable as we would like for it to be. All of these factors contribute to why dedication is a must. Ego and emotions cannot be interwoven among the mingling ants of creative possibilities. And so I realize on my little journey of keeping a daily writing habit alive.

August 12th, 2015

11:51am
I am keeping up with the schedule and so, I feel vividly energetic at the moment! So many friends I have, and yet, why am I not being concise and updating my whereabouts with them?
Anyways, I've registered to go to my first convention in Minneapolis called, well, it involves lots of fluff, so maybe that will be enough information for a few informed. This Migration will be held at a hotel, but, without a job, I won't be staying over in the rooms surrounding the vicinity.  It lasts for three days, but as a volunteer, I might be there for four. Lots of free, fun, and playful people of an invigorating warmth will be attending this public pool of the animal kingdom. And so, I'll be waiting with an ever lasting eager ego, ready for the marvelous hours there until the 27th.
     Friends of an informative level of intelligence know my ambitions quite from top to bottom. I feel enthusiasm raging me to go and meet a few and tell of my stories, or just merely go about and make small talk or chit-chat. I do have knacks to scurry over back at my apartment, the two weeks of iffy feelings I carried filling out the job application last Friday. Still no call from Subway, but from what it looks, I have a better bet on the senior homes. Now, I'm at that time of day where I know I should be doing something, but what is that something again? Hmm, I need a planner.
Ugh, it's still on my mind. It will be so fun!

A moment of Randomness

What do you call a pill that causes pain? A pill-ow!

I should be doing the laundry by now. Oh wait, I already know that my mother is on the case.

Rrrrruuuuuunnnn!

Writing is fun.

How did we go from a hunting and gathering society to one that is so segregated from the myths of food? We are focusing our energy on ideas and concepts that is unimaginably progressive? What will become of us near the end of humanity's existence? What sort of awe are we adept for, and capable of performing only in our future selves? What if we could witness the universe's end?

I wonder how the clouds of an imperial fortress will be attained as I, a groundling, am forced to climb an infinity to reach these steps? May it be madness, but all the wise ones are impeccable to boundaries, no matter how implausible they seem.

I think that's enough for this dispersing creative energy to chew on.

4:58pm
The days no longer feel as long as they once used to. Every passing glance is another hour out the door, or a day unseized by the arms of our present. I'll be moving once more, and maybe then, maybe this one more time as I may be transferring schools, that there will be the shock of my own doubtful, unselfish bridge between the faulty crevice of the mind and soul. Let there be randomness, let there be a wistful gate; the mind alleviated from stale breath as its open window allows all there is to accept, refute, or counter the curious, brittle, but all the more awe-inspiring universe of which a gifted opportunity has been granted in our own spirits. The way of the mind does not depend on those who treasure knowledge or logic or grounded ideas, it is a pleasant discovery of what could be happening, of our own improvising nature and creativity as the wayward guide of our lights are the definitions of what makes us truly ourselves. It is the magic in wonder that preserves the child we physically outgrew. But with some help, the fountain of youth will be present in our hearts. All the ways one can think of today as an excellent miracle, forever more, and until the day of our life's still pond to refer back on our memories upon, is a gratitude in itself.

By Friday, this will all fade from my mind, and I will be simply exerting caloric energy through the rise and fall of boxes and bags and whatever else that should have been thrown out. Maybe then, maybe today, maybe even through my own reflection of now, I could understand what it means to be human. Wholesomeness through the universe.

"Once you make a decision, the universe conspires to make it happen."

Ralph Waldo Emerson

Testing Season

As you move outside of your comfort zone, what was once the unknown and frightening becomes your new normal.

Robin S. Sharma

April 26, 2015 

-9:14pm
Forcing oneself to change is part of the process, and especially when the occasion is felt for it. Especially since I have "big dreams".
My dreams have been running low on fuel, as if they were stopping in pit stops, taking their time out of the night lane, and staying there for the rest of the, it has been a few weeks now, hasn't it? Sleeping in their cars rather than in my head, then telling me all about their experience. It flops a perspective to think that the occasional vision occurs when my mind is not digging the piles of books out of the to-do pile. So, I wonder how that can be seen as, in terms of a character and person.
The month of April has been action packed from the head to even beyond the feet, a few feet into the ground of May. Lately my planner's been full of studying, and hardly do I see the relaxing degree below the high bars of responsibilities nor the cover of my sketch book, my journal, even my weekend, and I have not spent that as wisely as I should have! So, one test is bound to be over this Tuesday. Already it creeps up as though it were not Tuesday, but in eleven hours. Ay, I spend the hours going over my obligations and sometimes a bit more than that. These days, the time goes by faster. Weeks are three long days. Hours are fifteen minutes. And before, as I was once a small child eager for the school to be vacant, that same hypothetical dream is from such a different person who thought of it. Will the same be thought of, ten years, or even half of that ahead?
Tomorrow will know.

May 2nd, 2015

-7:15pm
This is the final week of the, I don't believe madness is the right word to use in this context, as it would imply the circumstance boiling the curriculums were out of hand, but meanwhile, there is a friction between the required hours of study or homework with the time available in the last full month of my junior year. Lately, I've devoted a fraction of my active week to find an alternative as a catalyst to getting the full output of learning and homework in another, more beneficial manner. The shortcut across the back alley to get the jobs done, without sacrificing detail. One of those methods I found was reading at a faster rate. With one out of the five tests down, my studying habits are flooding to the point of infiltrating other important devotions. My AP Calculus BC exam, for example, has occupied what could have been chapter homework for my second C++ class, or for my rewrites for my essays, or for my AP Chemistry exam that is actually before the calc test and is tomorrow.
 With these preoccupations, the forgetting calmness of the final weeks is trifle now. Imagining what I would do in the meantime is a cloud away. Mother's Day is a week away, and I haven't begun scratching the canvas yet. Also, the end of the year edition of my school's newspaper, Polar Prints is coming, and I've been putting off the comics for this special reason. The mounds of borrowed books collect dust. Pockets empty, too. But for now, I will focus on what matters most, and that is dependent on the future ahead. The standards of success must prevail. Princeton, here I come.

May 12th, 2015

-17:35
I'd say I'm a bibliomaniac in some ways. Often I read dictionaries to learn new words for my bafflegab in journals like this. The frabjous time spent in preparations for what would become my permanent mark on a draw for free money is, well, worthy and a juggle to balance. The final three important hours of AP are tomorrow. Hmm, in hindsight, this wrongful child should not have been written, and instead would have been useful time in study. But that idea is defenestrated from my thoughts. All time not spent well is not wasted. It itself is a lesson learned. And social life is as important as *the curriculum between the stops.

*Written after the date on the 16th

May 16th, 2015

-8:56pm
I feel a surge of wisdom, but not necessarily of words, or of the sudden mind, it's a peace that I finally have made with mind and soul, as I have pushed the button that I said I would about the ten percent of my wholesomeness that I have held inside and kept it there. Could this have been since the sixth grade? Is that what I was referring to for the five years since? Is this the explanation for the not teary, not sad either, and not down, but the longing, of an honest mind to be imagining the relief of the duct tape over its wonderful staged in faint outline speeches? The moment was on a Friday afternoon, some time after the suckers lab in AP Chemistry. I was idle, surveying the classroom as I default to doing and is not a manner of absorbing their posterity, but a study. Waiting, I decided to work on the comics for Polar Prints, and that's when part one began. My classmate behind, with the same name almost, wondered what I was doing and I told her. I then added that this sketchpad was also used for my other art.
Even at the experimental paintings, I felt as though these were the amused children huddling at my feet to get to touch the interesting Eagle I had at arm. It was then that the person whom I saw and competed with in grades came up to me and asked me a question. It wasn't the first spoken sentence, however. "I'm going into computer science as well." "What? Oh, computer science! So what college are you applying for?" "Hopefully I'll go into one of the elite schools." "Like Harvard?" "No, something like Princeton. I keep getting letters from them." "Oh, Princeton! I'm thinking about applying there as well." A pause. "The best thing I could draw was in Studio Art II (Drawing), and it was this hand that was in the shape of a cave. ("Cool!") It wasn't very accurate and it is the best thing I will ever draw in my life." I wanted to reassure her that with practice, makes perfect, but, the conversation receded as the bell rang us apart. Then I ran downstairs into Advance American Literature B.
The class began with an odd number as the David Foster Wallace speech was re-represented by the teacher, only this time he was live and in person and not behind a beard and a camera. This was one for a graduating class, but all the same, it applied to us as well, as that day is no longer sitting on the horizon. After it was done, I was captured by it again. I felt a nobility surge, as though I were standing inside my own body. This was the time to push that button of yours, my subconscious rang. Mr. Krueger looked around to find my crawling hand inching upward. "I liked how you just crawled your hand upward, slowly inching it!" Go ahead, he tells me. So I did.
"I find that each of us can take bits out of this speech and apply it into our lives." "How so?" "I find it that in the world we live in we all are a little judgmental. By applying ourselves with allowing the mind to be open, I feel we all can, um, lower our stress of responsibilities and obligations, and we would be more accepting of the life we have." "Nice."
As I spoke this, I quaked, but only my body did. As I was packing my binder, I hear the silence rising to a halt. I looked over to hear what he had to say. "You should talk more. Whenever you speak you have interesting things to say." And then he continues. " I mean, I don't want you to  force everything out, but it would be nice for you to share what goes on in your mind more often." "Thanks."
My summer began at that moment. Of all the opportunities I had, this was the one that was long overdue. "So I'm writing a book over the summer. It's called... Sketches. And originally it was supposed to be a sci-fi/fantasy, but I changed that to be more of a fiction, ("mm-hmm") a realistic fiction." The last sentence was asked like a question. I went on. "The second book I'm writing is called Thirty Percent of Ninety and what the title signifies is that thirty percent is what is told about myself (even though I meant anyone in general) and sixty percent is hidden. The extra ten percent is how people should live, one hundred percent of their life." He did complement me, and I did go away. I did have another prompt to ask, and thought, he will be here until those three remaining weeks are over. Help me lower the clouds of my dreams, Mr. Krueger, the same ones that were raised by Mrs. Schreiber, and are still high, beaming brightly against the whiteness, and have them no longer be an incredible stretch of hand anymore, but a revitalization of that kick I have always stowed away.