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Profile for High School RP |
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ι ℓσσк ℓιкє: [ x._.sleepy ]
вυт ѕσмєтιмєѕ ι ℓιкє тσ мιχ ιт υρ α вιт: [ x._.sexy ] [ x._.enthralled ] [ x._.shady ]
My best friend gave me the best advice;
He said each day’s a gift and not a given right;
Leave no stone unturned, leave your fears behind;
And try to take the path less traveled by;
That first step you take is the longest stride.
ι ωαѕ вσяη ωιтн тнє ηαмє: Michael Richard Hammer
вυт ι ωιѕн ι ωαѕ ηαмє∂: Mikey
мαℓє σя ƒємαℓє: Male
ι'νє вєєη ρєяƒє¢т ƒσя уєαяѕ: 16
ι'νє вєєη вℓєѕѕє∂ ωιтн α тαℓєηт: Poetry
ι ƒιη∂ тнιѕ ρєяѕση ѕσмєωнαт тαℓєηтє∂: Although I watch from afar, I have never been able to really observe my peers thoroughly enough to believe any of them talented. The only one that I can even concur having some talent-like capability is that one kid who writes a lot, but I haven't read anything of his writing yet.
ιт αℓℓ ѕтαятє∂ ℓιкє тнιѕ: Oh, where to begin? Well, I guess I can start from the very beginning. God, I've never done an interview before for anyone, let alone the school newspaper, so forgive me if I go off on a tanget. I was born on April seventeenth, nineteen-ninety-two in the city of Santa Monica, California. It was a gorgeous place filled with life both during the day and night. I spent most of my life there, moving from school to school, always being shunned by the kids for being "different". Really, I guess they all just thought I was weird for liking to write. Because I got bullied a lot I did some stuff that I'm too particularly proud of, and I got into a lot of trouble. To be honest, I didn't really move from school to school; I was expelled from four different schools before I hit the sixth grade, an all time record (that I still hold) in the city of Santa Monica.
Yeah, 'not to proud of that, but I met a lot of people and I learned how to survive on the streets. You see, there's always a good side to things that happen. Unfortunately at the time I was participating in therapy with my family. Despite all the arguments and storming about done by my parents and myself, they never divorced. Once or twice they attended therapy with me, and soon they were going instead of me. I was an angry kid, but during my time laying on that "leather sofa" I learned how to suppress it and deal with it later. What I did to release all those bottled up emotions, was I would take my Journal and begin to write. It didn't matter what I wrote, so long as I did write.
In two-thousand-five I went with my eight-grade class down to the beach to collect samples of the Ocean Water to test for acidity. It was a normal December day with the sun out high in the sky, and not a cloud in the sky. Private planes normally flew out over the ocean at about one-hundred-fifty feet to two-hundred feet. That day, though, I remember it perfectly. One man's engine failed and I watched as the propeller plane careened into the Ocean just thirty meters from shore where we had collected our samples. I was shocked, stunned and unable to move with my feet sunk into the sand while I watched it lose altitude. That was the first moment that I ever acted according to reflex, to my inner instinct, I guess. I dropped all of the supplies I was carrying and darted from the group, ignoring the protests of my teacher. I stripped down to my jeans and belt and dove into the cold waves. I swam as fast as I could with my soaked jeans weighing me down, and as I came upon the very spot the plane had crashed a surfer who had been out there that day was on the scene as well. We merely looked at each other before we dove down underneath the water. We got the two people out of the cabin of the plane and pulled them to shore, gave them CPR enough to sustain them, and waited with them while the paramedics came and took them away.
I had never seen a dead person before until that moment. I had a feeling in my stomach that the man was dead, and the women was going to die. I found out an hour later from watching the news at my school that they both died, and that the man had died upon impact. That was the first time I had cried in several years, and from that point on I haven't been able to gather enough courage to go back to the beach. Then in two-thousand-six, at the age of fourteen, we moved away Santa Monica. That was when we moved out here and I first began attending ClairVelou. My parents, though, after the first week or so, were already missing California and all the fun things we could do there.
A year later, in two-thousand-seven we took a plane out to Los Angeles, California to go camping along the Kern River in the Sequoia National Forest. My older brother rented a convertible car from the airport while my parents and my younger brother rented a sedan. So we drove up a day after they did, and in style. On the way up there we had heard from one of the locals that near the actual sequoia trees there were some naturally formed water-slides, and so when we got to our Camp we told our parents about it. We went up to find them the following day, and we found that we needed to hike a mile and a half to get to them. My little brother complained all the way about his sandals hurting and the sun being too hot, and there not being any water-slides anywhere. Well, he was very, very wrong. We found them, and for about an hour and a half we had the time of our lives.
Now, we had taken the Sedan up there while my Mother stayed down at the camp to tend to the tents and the cooking, being the amazing Mother that she is. Well, my older brother and I hiked down to find the third water-slide. We found it, and we slid down into the pool at the bottom. When we tried to get out, we couldn't; the rocks were too slippery! My older brother, though, was intent on finding a way out, and when he stood up and took a couple steps on the rocks he had the accident. Out of the corner of my eye I saw him slip and fall into the water. I waited only one second to see him reach the surface of the water, but when he didn't I reacted again, and I jumped under the freezing cold river water.
I got a hold of him and swam him to safety, all the while he was unconscious. He woke up in my arms, crying, screaming about pain in my shoulder. I stood him up on a pocket of sand I found and I held him while we both assessed the situation. You know, when I look back, it's hard to believe that I was so calm and decisive. When we saw his collar bone, or rather collar bones, we both knew that he had broken it, and bad. It looked like someone was taking their finger and trying to push through his skin from beneath. I told him to get on my back the best he could, and he was able to clamber on my back and wrap on arm around my neck and his legs around my waist. I fought every law of nature at that moment in trying to get out of that pool, and I succeeded. I climbed up the boulders to reach our Father and our little brother, and when he saw my older brother he panicked. I got one of our towels, made my Father give me his belt, and I made a sling for my older brother so that his arm could be supported and it wouldn't hurt so much. My Father couldn't stand the sight of my brother's arm, nearly vomiting. My older brother, in his pain stricken state told me where the car keys were. I took them from my Father and walked back the mile and a half to the cars with my brother. Our Dad told us that he would take care of our little brother, and he'd use the pay phone at the parking lot to let our Mother know what happened.
At the bottom of the hike I asked the local there, picnicking with his family, where the nearest hospital was. "Fifty miles south along the Highway" he said. I remember saying thanks, panicking, and getting in the car. From there I drove him down to the hospital where we found out that he had broken his collar bone in two places, and he had a concussion. They told me they were going to reset the bones, and that I needed to be out of the room while they did it. Well, they knocked out my brother while they did it, and when I came back in after two hours he was awake. He told me, in these exact words, "Hey Mike, thanks for saving my life." I never felt such conflicting emotions at the time. I felt like a b*****d, and yet I was a Hero. I guess I didn't want to be thanked for doing what I thought was the duty of every human being. Needless to say, we flew home the next day and we haven't been back to California since.
As for my affinity for poetry? Well, I've been a literary exhibitionist since I first learned how to write. I even taught myself how to write in cursive, I loved it so much. I usually write my poems in my Journal where I know they're safe from the eyes of those whom I don't want to read them. Inspiration? Well, I already told you two of my stories, both of which I get tremendous amounts of inspiration from. I also draw my inspiration from past relationships, situations on the streets with the gang, parties with my friends, and every day life here at ClairVelou. I'm almost always writing, too. This might be one of the only times you'll catch me not writing my heart away in my little black book.
вєнιη∂ αℓℓ тнє ρσρυℓαяιту: You see, it's really hard for me to explain my personality. I guess I'm kind of shy, yet I'm really outgoing. I hardly talk unless I'm comfortable with the person I'm talking to, because if I am I don't stop talking. I find girls really confusing, but most of my friends are girls. Does that make me a walking, living, breathing contradiction? I guess so... Oh well! It's who I am!
тнє яαιηвσω ιѕ ησтнιηg ¢σмραяє∂ тσ: Medium Slate Blue
ι ∂ση'т кησω єνєяутнιηg: Being popular is alright, but a lot of the time the drama involved can be a bit much. I usually try to balance out my ever inflating ego by helping others. I mean, sure I get "street cred" for being a good poet or what-not, but I'd rather just have a real friend or two.
тнє яєαℓ мαѕтєяρєι¢є: HAMr v-2
ι αℓмσѕт ƒσяgσт: While poetry is my main style of writing, I don't just write poetry. I also write short stories that I love getting published in the ClairVelou school paper, and that I use to compete with that one writer kid.
 xHAMR · Thu Mar 12, 2009 @ 06:02am · 0 Comments |
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