Personally, culture is what people share. It’s similar to community but it refers to a group of people. A good example would be the culture of Native Americans (nomadic, the appreciation of family values, higher spirituality) and/or how the culture of Spanish ranchers had on the visage of the American cowboy (and from this it’s evident that I do pay attention to U.S history). A single person’s culture differs since everybody isn’t alike; especially those not living in the same continent or overall area. So, in turn to a human being’s train of thought, a culture is hard to define due to the fact that one culture tends to derive from another—like the basis of Christianity is pretty much in every religion yet; people still start feuds religiously (which is downright idiotic).

My facts may not be right but I still make my point. A culture is what we all have. A culture is also vulnerable to criticism, verbal and/or physical battery and rivalries. Culture, in a sense, defines people—or helps people define who they are on this Earth. That is my take on the definition of culture and, in this stage of life; I can’t really say that I partake to just one culture. I am an artist, a writer and probably just another idealistic dreamer who chooses not to judge.
If there’s a specific word for this type of “culture” or if there are people who share that same belief as I; it’s probably right in my face—to the point where I’m unable to distinguish it for what it truly is. Besides, I feel really out of place in the materialistic world. Where are the people who appreciate what they already have? Tree-huggers? Where are those aspiring writers and artists who want to make their mark in this world?

Prepare to laugh out loud (LOL) since there is a way to bring together people who share the same ideals.

Internet communities.

(that too is a culture right?)

Hello all!

I doubt that this is appropriate (since I’m typing this during my Comp Graphics class). I haven’t been posting much on this blog but that’s changing at this very moment (LOL). Currently, I haven’t really been paying attention in school—just kind of drifting in and out due to lack of sleep, as well as my cousin’s mom staying over at the house. The bad thing about why she’s staying here is that my mother hates (I think) my cousin and her mom for some stupid reason so she can’t ever find out that they’re here (but I like them). There were a few close calls but those were dealt with—I’m just glad she’s staying till this weekend! But besides all the family drama, it’s been a good week (when I’m at home) and I finished re-reading CHILD 44 just yesterday. Now I’ve set my reading glasses to The Story of Edgar Sawtelle—and I may need glasses since the formatting and font size makes the page seem like a group gathering at Tienanmen Square (and that’s a heck of a square my readers—okay, maybe a good one or two, or that server ghost from some unknown land somewhere that haunts all innocent bloggers). GASP.

As for the story, hmm it’s going fine—had to do a rewrite of the upcoming one though and it totally threw me off since I’d have to rewrite the third chapter. The whole once a week thing is kind of fun since that gives me enough time to balance my writing and schoolwork—and I need to focus on the schoolwork since I’d hate to take summer classes (for the very vain reason that summer is not my most favored of seasons; that happens to be winter).

Now, to conclude this rushed post—I’ve probably rambled a bit here. My birthday is coming up and I’m not sure whether I should be happy or not happy, etcetera (16 is a fine number but I have my reasons).

*flees from the server ghost for messing with my font—or did it?*

[insert dramatic orchestrated music HERE]

Lucia sat on the rocking chair. She stared at the same window, towards the same hill where the same sun rose. For most of the day she stayed there, her knitting in hand, casually taking a glance every now and then. A sigh escaped from her lips, the needle was set down then her hands rose to cup her face as she sobbed.

* * *

My mother had told me a story, her eyes ranging from happy to sad. Sometimes tears would fall and all I could do was offer an embrace just to soothe this pain that I cannot feel. From time to time she'd tell me that I reminded her of him. When I finally got the courage to ask about my father I did. She motioned for me to sit down on her lap, setting the knitting aside the open window. As I sat she brushed her fingers through my hair, something she did when her mind was troubled.

"Maori,"she said, "your father was a good man. My sadness is nothing to be concerned about."

"But mother,"I faced her and took a lock of her hair. It had begun to lost it's color, I showed her, her expression didn't change, "I don't want them to talk about you anymore. They say that you've gone mad and that I shouldn't stay here...but I want to live here and take care of you. Until father comes back."

She smiled, shook her head, stroking my hair again. Then, in a low shaky voice she said, "He can't. He can't come back anymore. This isn't where he belongs."

"Then where is he?"

"Somewhere, love."

It was now my turn to disagree. "But I want to know what happened so when I find him I can get him to come back. You need him mother. Look at you--"

Lucia cocked her head to one side, her hands steadying my shoulders. Tears had begun rolling from her eyes as she embraced me. Her body had begun to shake. "But he's right here. Alexander, my love, is here--" she retracted her embrace to face me "--your beautiful eyes give me hope that he's out there somewhere. Soon, he will come home. Soon he'll see what a wonderful son you are. Soon...I promise."

After that day, my mother was in better spirits. When I went outside, she did as well picking the flowers she loved from the fields. When I went by the riverbank, she came too dipping her feet into the clear waters urging me to join her. At this time, I thought it best to keep her happy. Although her hair had lost it's color it shone bright like the winter snow. Though for her age the color was unusual but so were my eyes. We both didn't let it get to us. As long as she kept smiling there was no trouble, no sad memories.

Then she finally told me the story.

"Your father was an unusual one. To tell you the truth I met him while picking these daisies, the same field too. He was sleeping on the incline and I thought it was too good to be true. His face, hair and when he awoke, staring at me with those eyes that reminded me of golden fields I could only think--" her voice began to falter, as if thinking twice before talking "--could only think that-that this man could not possibly exist. It felt like a dream to put it simply Maori.
"Soon, as we spent more time together, talking and taking walks in the river. We were soon in love and everything--" Lucia placed a hand at her cheek, her mind replaying an old memory "--everything began from there. We stayed together till the day you were born. Since then I've never been able to see him again.--" she pulled on her necklace revealing a silver ring "--This and you are the only remnants I have of him. Don't you think it sad for me to be lovesick like this Maori? Sure it isn't something you can't comprehend yet..."

I was curious so I spoke. "Why?"

"Find someone to love and you'll know."

"But where do I--"

Suddenly the door burst open, letting the night air enter the house. He stepped inside, removing the cover over his face. Grigori's eyebrows were furrowed, sweat dripping to the tip of his chin, his mouth moved but no words came out. Lucia's fingers clenched tightly around the ring on the chain, her free hand was tightly clenched into a fist.

"They can't be..."

Grigori shut the door behind him, locking it. "The curtains."

Lucia fussed with her hands, double-checking that every window was shut and the curtains drawn. Maori sat still, unable to understand. He should be happy now that Grigori returned from his trip but the time didn't seem right to be happy. Something was happening.

"Maori," Grigori remarked, kneeling to face the thirteen year old, "how'd you like to go on a little trip?"

* * *

It was dark, cold and it had begun to sprinkle. Grigori told me to stay hidden behind this tree. Stay hidden? Was this a game? I peered from the tree, gripping the cloak around my body, I saw that all the houses weren't the same as mother's house. The curtains were open, the villagers could be heard being merry. There was no trouble but then I heard it. I saw it. Among the darkness of the forest that surrounded this village, it was clear to see. Fire. Torches. You could hear them now. Crash! Clang! The gate was being broken down. I returned to hiding, making myself as small as I could as I crouched near the base of the tree.
My heart was pounding upon my chest. The cloak was tightened around me. Surely this cloak could protect me as it blended well with the scenery but what was it I was hiding from? I debated, trying to be logical. I can't panic now, not right before I saw whatever it was that got me scared out of my wits. Scared? For what? I stood, my knees stiff and breath haggard. As I was about to turn a scream had scared the birds from their resting places. I closed my eyes and decided to stay close to the ground.

"You can't be scared now Maori. Get up."

I looked up seeing the outline of Grigori among the stars, his ice blue eyes almost shining; glaring in the dark similar to that of a cat.

"Grigori I--"

"There isn't anytime," he took my arm. I gasped letting the cloak slip away from my face. "It's just a little blood nothing to be worried about. Now come on!"

I covered my head again and followed him for a few steps. I pulled on his arm, he looked at me and in a stern voice he said, "What is it?"

I gulped. It was the first time I heard him talk like that before but this was important. "My mother where is she?"

Suddenly Grigori turned around and ducked, motioning me to do the same. We silently watched as the house I lived in, my mother's and my father's burned. Grigori placed his palm over my mouth. I wanted to scream, to cry out for my mother, my father. There were men, dressed in black armor, that did the same to the other houses. Burning them killing all who lived inside and if any escaped, they were executed through decapitation. I struggled to see straight for tears clouded my sight.
My vision distorted, colors pooling into each other, melding together. The orange stood out the most.

Grigori held me close, tightening his grip, we couldn't afford to be seen so we huddled behind the tree with cloaks over our heads. Now I couldn't see anything. Nothing but black.

I closed my eyes, water falling onto Grigori's hand. Then the cloak was lifted, a cloth was given to me. He kept his hand over my mouth as I dried my eyes and upper lip. I looked at him and he put a finger to his lips. He then removed his hand from my mouth, using the same cloth to wipe them clean. The cloth was returned to me, sodden with tears and blood from his wounds. I tugged on his pants leg, he pulled up the cover from his eyes. I handed him the cloth and pointed to my right cheek. Silently, he took the cloth and wiped his cheek.

I've yet to ask him about those wounds and the blood on his face. All I knew was that there was no scar.

* * *

It's white. Snow is falling and mother just called for me to go inside. I run to her but I drop the scarf she had knitted for me. I stop and turn around. A man appeared, the scarf in his hands. I come closer with the notion that Grigori was playing games again but this man was different. As I was close enough, he draped the scarf over my shoulders. He kneeled to adjust the scarf length and smiled when he finished.

He said to me,"how old are you now Maori?"

I held out eight fingers. "I'm going to be that many soon. Mother told me so."

"That's good," he stood and turned around. I clung onto the braid that lay upon his back. I took it in my hands, he turned with a laugh. I let go and stepped backwards.

"How come you're like me?" I said, pointing to my eyes, "She said they remind her so much of him. She wants him to come back you know?"

"Who's that?"

"Dad."

"Where is he?"

I looked to the ground, then towards him. The same golden eyes as mine, looking at me with kindness.

"Somewhere."