you might find me anyway

today, I decided not to be sad. I’ve had enough of my happy gloominess. it’s about time to get a grip.

so I pulled out my red lip-stick and tutu and got to work.

today was to be a happy day.

 (but I still drank tea. it’s one of those lovely things that goes with moods of all sorts.)

(and I like how I got lipstick on the Gettysburg Address. baha.)

 I colored.

 I ate marshmallows and thought of  a new slogan.

“make mallows, not war.”

yeah, it’ll be an overnight sensation.

 these, my friends, are my two trusty companions.

on the left, we have Clutch. Clutch is 13 or so years old, and we’ve been through thick and thin together.

he was what used to be known as a ‘baseball bear’ for the Anaheim Angels, my favorite baseball team in the history of ever.

on the right, we have Hatilydo, given to me by my ol’ pal Hails.

Hatilydo is just special. He is, after all, gloriously out of the ordinary, don’t you think?

 ^that’s my messy wall. it has the soul purpose of being messy.

this was my favorite tutu when I was seven.

I think I’ll start wearing it around the house again.

I miss it.

currently listening to: raindrops – regina spektor

sometimes

“just eavesdropping on their sheet music.”

Roughly five months ago, I got on a plane bound for Nashville.

And there, I attended the Fine Arts Summer Academy.

The best two weeks of my year.

Because, it is at FASA that you can thrive off Starbucks granola bars that look like bird seed and people don’t condemn you.

Because, it is at FASA that you are with amazing, Godly, and encouraging friends pretty much 24/7.

Because, it is at FASA that you are expected to be good at your instrument. Without having time to practice.

Because, it is at FASA that you’re pushed to be as good as you can for God.

It’s like I said.

The best two weeks of the year.

So, without further ado, I present you with the three-month-late Fine Arts Summer Academy recap slideshow.

Enjoy.

it was a dark and scary night

Upon rummaging amongst one’s oldest and most precious belongings of the past, one often stumbles upon an old notebook of sorts. Doodles, church notes (which often turn out to be more doodles- however these, at least, have meaning), journal entries that somehow ended up in your 3rd grade math book, and the like.

Occasionally, however, one may find something that would interest you a tad more. Attempts of novels extracted from an eight-year-old’s mind is something that would definitely spark curiosity, so naturally, when I found one of these rare notebooks, I was overwhelmingly excited.

The following has been unedited grammar and spelling-wise for the sake of the cuteness despite the overall morbidness of the… uh… scene. Yes. Scene.

So, without further ado, I present you with an excerpt of a book composed by my eight-year-old brain back in 2005. Enjoy.

—

“The Gate to Heaven”

by Katy Maisano

It was a dark and scary night. There was a thunder storm and David’s father was out! Yes, out in that bad, bad storm. And the worst part was that he was fighting!

David was in by himself! David could hear the clanging of swords. He look’d outside but couldent see anything because it was so dark! Suddenly, all was quit. David lookd again, but couldent see anything! He went out and yelled “Father!” but there was no answer! Daved cept going. Robers came and tore down his house, but he didn’t care. He wanted his father.

David didn’t know that his father was dead he thought he was JUST hurt! He also didn’t know that he was being wacht by the king’s servent. Suddenly,  the servant jumpt out from behind a rock and grabd David and tied his hands and feet and brought him to the castle. When thay got to the king, the king thought he would be a good SLAVE! So David workd hard for 6 years!

—

Quite the morbid little writer I was. My favorite part: “Robers came and tore down his house, but he didn’t care.” Can’t you just see an eight-year-old brain thinking that up? Picture the scene. His father was just slaughtered gruesomely in an unexplained sword fight and David is left clueless. So I suppose he’s walking away from his house at this point, desperately screaming for his dad, and our of the blue, these robbers come and “[tear] down his house” within about half an hour. Poor fellow.

That’s brilliance right there, folks. Brilliance from the mind of an eight-year-old.