By Nous
                      
                      October 1, 2k2
                      
"I dont want to be like everyone else.  I WANT to be different."
The famous words of a boy named Chris, fellow photography student in 
the infamous "Ms. Stillwell's class".  She is known not so much for 
her vast array of knowledge on the arts as for her breasts. Terribly
lacking the former (being, in actuality, a florist), Mrs. Stillwell,
by use of those same breasts for which many a student has joined and
become a member of the "photo family" (a phrase never before used by
another till now), sways the judgement of the administrators and has
actually gained (if not, at least attempted to gain) a respect for a
class once considered a throw-away class.
If you can consider being a slave for breasts a respect of some sort
as I'm sure most everyone can; for, what is respect if it isn't some
type of hold over another, even - especially - if by the use of that
throbbing sexuality inside us all?
The situation is this:  Chris, talking endlessly about the length of
my brother's hair (a fetish worthy of praise; the golden fleece of a
lost generation - long hair!), gave me his opinion on a matter I had
not even deemed worthy of conversation (he had done most, if not all
the talking up to this point, as I murmured ok's and mm-hmm's).
"You should grow your hair out long."
I explained how I can grow it only so long before it starts to turn 
on me.
Chris is the kind to hang out with that group of people that, at an
attempt at non-conformism, do outlandish things to prove their title
as "outcast" or "freak" or whatever it may be.  The "outlandish" (in
quotes because, just as synchronised swimming is not outlandish, 
neither is synchronised non-conformism) things that they would do 
that proved to be successful trends, they kept as their own.  A kind 
of brand of their group.  Being the maverick by not only accepting
your brand, but by designing it! Their yellow star in our Nazi Germany. 
Are we there yet?
The pictures of Marilyn Manson and Korn that, cleverly choreographed, 
danced on his binder cover shouting, "Look at me!  I dont need your 
approval!  I'm my own person!"  So say the the names of various mass 
murders written on his book cover, so must it be true. Remember when 
those guys wore their pants backwards?
And yes, he's in the full garb:  ripped pants with scrawled lyrics in
pink, long hair that he hangs over his eyes, homemade wristbands also
with writing in pink, the silent "I'm going to kill you all if you 
discover my secret" glazed look on his face, done very well might I
add.
And then there's Diana.  She is indeed a strange girl.  Though border-
line skater, she seems to keep herself together instead of letting 
herself spill into the stereotypes that have been attributed to her 
due to her choice of hanging out with the freaks.  She doesnt look for
compliments, but I cant compliment her enough, and she always takes 
my compliments humbly enough. She doesn't even live in the same world 
others live in.  I see that look in her face that (I wont get into it) 
resembles what I feel inside.  A look of being somewhere else. Having 
your thoughts with someone else, I suppose.  Not being with yourself
and not really being with anyone else either.  Just being.  I've 
tried, selfishly, to figure her out.  I feel that if I can figure her
out, then I can discover something about myself, but she doesnt seem
to be open for viewing.  I wonder if she's a Saggitarius?  Eh, John?

Orchestra class is like a family to me.
They are one of the few group of people who even make an attempt to
accept me as I am.  My hair isn't too short nor too long; my pants
aren't too small nor too big; my attitude isn't too bright nor too
dark.  I'm just me, and they accept that.  The fact that the majority
of us actually like to learn and play music makes that bond even more
comfortable.  Being in that class is best described by a scene I've
had in my head since I was a kid about how life should always be.
It's winter and, despite the fact that this doesn't occur in Texas,
snow falls steadily, giving the outdoors a blue-green tint.  An icy
grey.  A window beside my bed makes it possible for me to enjoy the
view when I take a break from reading or when I just wake up and
poke my head from out of the warm covers with a gentle song playing
in the background.  I smile.
Why is it I can never quite catch that song?  Before I think about
it, it disappears into some place in the back of my mind, waiting
for its next chance to play.
So as with that song, I enjoy orchestra class while I can, because
pretty soon it will be over before I even think about it; and, I'll
be walking down the hallway and see someone from orchestra, but I 
cant say hello the same way that I do in class, because things just 
aren't the same on the outside. 

Today, having gone to buy something to eat with my friend, Sloth, we
arrived at his house and randomly spoke about even more random things
as is our way.  I brought up the statistic that ten percent of our
society have a positive attitude and are generally optimistic, eighty
percent let their environment and the things around them affect the
way they feel, and the other ten percent are negative and you can't
change the way they think.  I let that sink in, thinking to myself
how many people are within that ten percent.  Always negative, never
quite satisfied if things weren't exactly right.
Thinking about this, I could hear Sloth's parents in the living room.
Sloth exhaled and looked up.  He jingled his keys, stood up, and said,
"Let's get out of here.  I hate it when people are really loud."