I’m going to Prague tomorrow.  Well, I’m getting up at 5 AM (blech) and going to Oneonta first, then I’m going to NYC, then I’m going to Prague.  I’ll be back late-ish next Monday, so unlike last year or the year before, I’ll be back before you know it.  A week is no time at all.

For the first time in my traveling career, I could theoretically take my laptop along and blog whilst abroad.  But I’m not going to.  I’m like a new mother, very very protective of her little one.  Very very unwilling to travel with her little one.  Etc.

Normally I’d make this much more eloquently contemplative, but I had a long day of puzzling over voltage converters (Hey world!  Can everyone just go with 220 V and round-pronged plugs?  Or whatever, as long as they’re all the same.), meandering around Borders (”Have you been finding everything okay?” “Um, actually, I can’t find my mother.”), playing the piano (what else is new…), eating ice cream (Oregon blackberry cheesecake!  I didn’t know that was a real flavor either!), and packing packing packing.  You know– cleaning shampoo bottles, randomly switching suitcases, placing shirts in a careful arrangement that will be ruined as soon as it leaves my hands– the works.

Oh, travel.  I’ve known about this trip for well over a year, but it’s still managed to take me by surprise.

Bye, Ithaca.  See you later.

Today I finally worked at Brötchen for a significant amount of time, instead of like an hour.  In my defense, Angela never did call me after my first couple times… but I went down and pestered her in person so it was all good.

I didn’t have to make totally screw up any espressos, because I was outside the whole time, laboring over the lemon juicer and the ice cream scoop in the beating sun and sweltering heat.

In the beginning I was absolutely horrible and had to apologize to every customer for my slowness at scooping, the inadequate roundness of the resulting scoops, and my ineptitude at pressing buttons on the cash register and counting out change.  But the customers were always patient (”Yeah, the life of a college student…”  “Actually, I’m in high school.”) and my fellow employees so so so encouraging.  And five hours was enough for even me to learn.  My ice cream scoops were quite pretty by the end of it, if I do say so myself.

Also the lemon juicer was sweet, even if it did require serious muscles to operate and end up wounding my index finger (ouch).  When people watch the lemons get pressed right in front of them, they know it’s going to be fresh lemonade.

Afterward I waited like two hours for my mom, who said she’d meet me at five but unexpectedly went out to dinner and thus came… slightly late.  As (preemptive) retaliation, I bought a book.  Hee hee.

That is what I stared at for those two hours.  The second photo encompasses much of what I love about Ithaca: cheap clothes, used books, what is apparently now called the “Owl Cafe,” and anti-Bush/anti-war signage everywhere.

All in all, not a bad day.  Although accompanying requires less standing.

Fireflies kept me awake last night.  Fireflies and LEDs.

Reading Denis Johnson’s Tree of Smoke right before turning out the lights at midnight did not help either, what with its scenes disturbing in so many ways.  My lips were so uncomfortably dry I simply had to get up to apply chapstick.  I sweated and shivered at the same time.  I heard my mom getting up, puttering around the kitchen, scrubbing the bathroom.  Was it already morning?  Had I slept and not noticed?  I checked my watch.  2 AM.

Two hours lying in the dark is a lot of time for thinking.  I thought about school, and recitals, and Facebook.  I thought about California, for no particular reason.  I thought about photos and parabolas.  I thought about the millenium.

I must have fallen asleep sometime, because at 10:11, I woke up and it was another day.

I always remember the time in Scotland, when I was in second grade, that the night passed quite literally in the blink of an eye.  I was lying curled up on my side, staring at the wall.  My squarish stuffed sheep was upside down and leaning against the wall.

What it felt like was a very slow blink, but that was it, that was a full night of slumber.  I closed my eyes and everything was dark and blue; I opened my eyes and everything was light and yellow.  I hadn’t moved the rest of my body.  The sheep was in the exact same position.  It was a very strange sensation.

That was also the trip when I watched the Teletubbies during a solar eclipse, bought my first watch, and took a Swiss Army knife onto the plane.  Do you remember when that was still possible?

I walked from Downtown to home today, and though that’s happened before, that doesn’t mean I have to be used to it.  Ergo, I’m really tired.

Every time I stand up, my legs start shrieking at me.  “STOP STOP YOU’RE HURTING US!!!”  “Calm down,” I tell them sternly, “I’m not going to kill you or anything.  (I mean, c’mon, you’re my legs!)”  “That’s because we’ve already died!  A cruel and torturous death!” they cry.  “I don’t appreciate the melodrama.”  “We don’t appreciate the two hour uphill walks!”  “Walk.  There was only one.  And it was nice.”  “Bullshit.  That’s just what your head wants you to think.”  “…”

Well, I bought them pants.  They should count their blessings.

Yesterday I sifted through all my college emails from early May (which was a lot), and it feels really good to have an inbox with an unread count of just one.  By the way, I promise that I will start thinking seriously about college this summer.  But not till after Prague.  Everything waits till after Prague.

Except for the things that have to happen before Prague, like finding out if I’ll be making big bucks playing Suzuki tunes this summer, and packing.

I might also be able to finish learning my Prokofiev piano concerto in the remaining four days, if I keep digesting notes at my current pace.  Normally I would not be learning something so gnarly so quickly, but now is an exception because I seriously have nothing else to spend my time on.

Plus, playing modern music is kind of ungratifying during the early stages, since it never seems like you’re playing anything right.  I want to get past this phase as rapidly as possible.

For a while I’ve had this itch to write something.  Not like a blog-type something, but an actual something (as if I’ve ever had the ability to write a real something before).

But I can’t quite remember how to start.

While I am mulling this over, why don’t you go amuse yourself elsewhere.

The Big Picture, the awesome news photography blog you’ve probably already heard of.

When It Sizzles, a long but highly entertaining dispatch from the wilds of Paris.

Singalong XKCD!, a great idea honoring a great comic and a great advertisement.

I Speak With Sylvia Browne, an excruciatingly detailed account of when skeptic meets psychic.

Facebook in Reality… no explanation needed.

And, last but no least, easy pb&j, perhaps the most crucial thing still missing from our world today.

Stacy, in her infinite wisdom, has gazed into the crystal ball of her mind (because those of infinite wisdom have no need for an actual sphere of crystal; kind of heavy, you know).  “Lo!” quoth she, “April has nothing to blog about!  Thus I shall bestow upon her this meme, that she may go forth and blog about that which pleases her: herself.”

Ahem.

1. This is a (backwards, Photo Booth-produced) photo of my room, specifically its walls.

Now that I have posted this online, I think I no longer have any reason to feel embarrassment.  I mean, look at it– National Geographic maps, my sister’s math project from 6th grade, a Hello Kitty shopping bag from 2000, an ice cream cone birthday card from before I was conscious (i.e. 6 years old)…  No one is allowed to suffer the immaturity my room besides my family.  No one.

2. This is a photo of Cayuga Lake at Stewart Park.

I have a penchant for sitting and staring at natural bodies of water for bizarrely long periods of time.  It is such an angsty teenager thing to do, but I don’t do it because I’m depressed or feeling spiritual or whatever.  I do it because the water looks so awesome when you stare at it for long enough.

Also it makes me feel happy and at peace and stuff.  But mostly it’s because the water looks awesome.

3. This is a (baaad) photo of the Unitarian Church.

Okay, this isn’t relevant, but you see that cube hanging from the ceiling?  I’ve played like three recitals in the Unitarian every year for 13 years, and every time I can’t help but look at that cube and wonder, “What the hell is that for?”

Anyway.  I’ve been playing piano at a Methodist church for over a year now.  I am not the least bit religious and took the job purely as that– a job, where I work and get money.  The people are incredibly nice and I don’t regret supporting them or anything, but I always wondered a little whether after going to church every week and listening to sermons about God’s love for a long time, I would gradually get indoctrinated and become religious.

It hasn’t happened.  I am as much a godless heathen as I was before.

4. This is a photo of what Mr. J wrote on my last APUSH test of the year.

You know what I said earlier about never feeling embarrassment again?  Scratch that.  Yes indeed, I take photos of good test grades and cool stuff teachers write on my papers.  I have a lovely photo of the time Steve gave me extra credit for randomly noting the presence of the Fibonacci series in a test problem.  You are permitted to taunt me and throw tomatoes.

5.This is a photo of the lake at IC.

I know we had that swimming unit in freshman year, during which I sort of learned to keep myself afloat, but I still don’t think what I do in the water can honestly be called “swimming.” And I don’t really mind.  Who needs to swim?  (Besides, you know, everyone.)

6. This is a photo of a Scrabble game.

I have a photo of virtually every game my sister and I played– literally every game, if you count starting in 2006 when I got my camera.  They are rather interesting to look through and see the patterns.  But due to unforeseen circumstances (which I’ve been intending to write about for a long time), it’s unlikely we’ll ever play another game.  Thank you Scrabulous.

As an aside, the highlight of my Scrabble playing career will always be “woozier” on the triple word score, with the “z” on the double letter score.  Mmm.  So nice.

7. These are photos of (some of) my buddies from People to People and (some of) my buddies from Luzerne.

I am a little obsessive about ranking the best experiences of my life.  But mostly I’m happy that I’m only 17 and already have so many “best experiences” that saying which one’s the best “best experience” becomes difficult.

And on that warm and fuzzy note, I conclude.  If you are reading this, consider yourself tagged.  This is the best way to go about doing this since I have approximately negative one readers (plus Stacy, who tagged me, so…).

Me: “Did you put ginger in these?  Because they taste like you were trying to make ginger and oatmeal raisin cookies… at the same time.”

Mom: “No.  There are two reasons why they might taste like ginger.  No ginger, though.”

Me: “Okay…”

Mom: “First, I think I added too much molasses; ginger cookies always have a lot of molasses.  Second, I put this powder in… where is it….”  She rummages in a cupboard and presents an unlabeled ziploc bag with some brown powder.

Me: “… A ‘powder’?  What’s in it?”

Mom: “Um… I think… plum, and some other…. things…”

Me: “Okay, where did you get it?  Some dealer in an alleyway?”

Mom: “Haha, no, a friend gave it to me.  To eat with tomatoes.”

Me: “… The plot thickens.”

Mom: “You see why I didn’t want to explain this to you?  It just starts sounding weirder and weirder.”

Listen.  Do you hear that?  That is the sound of my actual summer break beginning.

It sounds a little like Poulenc.

As of now, I officially have NO MORE SENIOR RECITALS… until my own!  I think I’ve been rehearsing every waking moment—i.e. at least once a week—since spring break up until now.  I actually had people coming up to me at the reception after Maira, Maria, and Cecelia’s recital this evening and saying, “Good job… again.”  And I got to tell them, “Thanks for coming… again.”  Ryan asked me how many recitals I’ve played for this season and it was a bit embarrassing because I’d actually lost count.  I believe the answer is five.

But it matters not, because it is all over.  This was a very nice recital too, what with the harpsichords backstage and the camaraderie and the frolicking at the playground and the lemon bars.  And the music.

I was also asked at least a dozen times whether I was going to study music in college.  Clearly I need to formulate a better answer for this apparently crucial question, because “I don’t know” isn’t cutting it for these people.

Also, while I’ve got you here thinking about senior recitals, you should know that anyone whom I’ve accompanied, anyone whose recital I played at, anyone whose orchestra I’ve participated in, anyone for whose choir or group class or anything I have provided pianistic support (which basically covers the entire population of Ithaca), is required to attend my senior recital next year.  It was in the fine print of that nonexistent contract I had you sign– you know, the one that states “The undersigned agrees that April will accompany him or her in return for slave wages and his or her attendance at April’s senior recital.”

If you come, I promise to make it worth your while.

In other news, I am exhausted beyond all belief and my internet isn’t working.  Life is good.

So, it’s graduation day and I have been merrily traipsing around town since nine this morning.  I have been to two CTB locations (I’m in Collegetown itself now), Autumn Leaves, the public library, Bartels Hall… and I’ll be going back to Bartels Hall in an hour.  Ish.

At least it’s not roasting hot today like 2006, or tornado-ing like 2007 (… no blog entry? What is this?).  This means it will perhaps be tolerably hot at the ceremony and the choir will maybe be able to hear itself sing without the rain banging away on the tin roof.  (Is it actually tin?)

I still am completely against you people graduating.  But I will do my best not to disrupt the ceremony.  I can’t believe you’re doing this to me.  Losers.*

The people at the table next to me are talking about IHS grads going to Cornell, “what they call ‘Ithaca Festival’” and specifically Stand Up for World Peace, grad students staying in Ithaca to do research over the summer, and other such things.

Also, I’m a little ill and have this nasty cough that I hope won’t strike during the national anthem or something.

I know what is coming at graduation.  I don’t need to blog about it afterwards.  The uplifting performance of Pomp and Circumstance, the teary-eyed soloists in the senior song, the long inspiring speeches, the hands tired from applause, the endless recitation of 400 names, the crowd of parents rushing to snap photos, the beach balls being tossed about, the hugs, the tossing of hats, the chaos following.  Sure, this year there is a depressing proportion of my friends who will be walking across that stage, more than in previous years.  Sure, afterwards I could legitimately call myself a senior.  Sure, I myself will be wearing a cap and gown at the next graduation ceremony I attend.  Why would that make it any different from other years?

And now, my laptop battery is running low.

*I love you all.  Congratulations, class of ‘08.

To my long list of favorite numbers (3, 17, 31, 51, 131…), I’d like to welcome a new member.

I’m typically not vigilant about archiving my emails* as soon I’m finished with them, usually allowing them to accumulate for a few days (or longer, if their importance necessitates it).  But once I have inbox counts in the 40s or 50s, I collect what seems like an appropriate number of older messages and hit that sweet little “archive” button that sends them off into oblivion without really sending them off into oblivion.

But what is an “appropriate number” of messages?  Simple: however many leave me with a second and distinct “appropriate number” of messages in my inbox.  This is a fuzzy calculation; mostly I’m looking for something that requires scrolling in my browser window but isn’t much longer than my sidebar.  Something in the 30s.

Apparently, something like 38.

Because completely unintentionally, nine times out of ten I will be left with exactly 38 emails in my inbox.  Which is frequent enough to be slightly creepy while also strongly suggesting that 38 is the ideal number of emails to have.

Also, 38 is 19×2.  And what’s 19-2?  Seventeen!  I don’t know about you, but I am convinced: 38 is awesome.

*For those who don’t understand what this is: get Gmail.  Freaks.