A Series of Short Stories by Sarah Simpson

Recently, I have been thinking about how strange it is that, to me, the story of my mother's childhood and youth seem entirely separate from the story of my mother's marriage and motherhood. There really is only one story: the story of her life, but in my mind, I am unable to fuse the two sides together. It's almost as if there is an intermission between the point where she becomes a Bachelor of Arts and the point where she is introduced to my father.

Whilst thinking about this concept, I said to myself, It's just because she's my mother, and the things that happened before I was born seem like a story in a book, and the things that happen while I am alive seem like reality. However, I immediately discredited that idea because I find the story of my own life to be segmented in a similar way. The childhood prior to school seems entirely separate from the childhood during school, and even then, the school years before meeting Amy seem entirely separate from the school years after that point. I think those are the points at which, if my life were a film, they would insert a new actress. The credits would read "Sarah at three," "Sarah at seven," "Sarah at eleven." Certain points in my past seem unreal, as if I don't really remember them. I just remember remembering them.

I have an image in my mind of myself as a mother, but that person is entirely different from myself at the present. I can't imagine this portion of my life leading into that portion of my life. (I certainly won't have acne, right? Of course, I'll be more assertive.) There must be an intermission during which the set dressing, costume and make-up can be changed.

For example, when I was little, I tasted my mom's tea, and I thought it was repulsive. It tasted like leaves (That's what it is after all). I knew how leaves tasted. I was in the habit of eating them or sticking them up my nose. My mom told me that it was an acquired taste. She said that there are some things that you have to grow to like. To me, this meant that it was something only grown ups liked, so when I was grown up, I would like it. This concept also applied to coffee, coconut, almonds, and whatever that sickening filling was in the chocolates I always managed to select from the candy box. Now, technically, I am grown up. I can drive a car. I can vote. I can buy cigarettes. But I still don't like tea. It tastes like leaves. I still somehow think that there will be a point at which suddenly, something will click and I'll like tea.

I am constantly waiting for that "click." Suddenly, my brothers and I will be parents, my parents will be grandparents, and my grandma will be even greater than she already is.

I want my mom to tell me her story from start to finish (or at least to the present) without intermission so that I might be able to see my life in the same way: as a novel rather than as a series of short stories. This seems essential to me because really, her story leads into mine. I am a sequel. How can I understand the events in my story without knowing what came before it?

The Rebirth of Sarah, the Harry Potter Fan

For those who need to know, these are the titles of the Harry Potter books in order:
1. Sorcerer's Stone (US title)
2. Chamber of Secrets
3. Prisoner of Azkaban
4. Goblet of Fire
5. Order of the Phoenix
6. Half-Blood Prince
7. Deathly Hallows (to be released in July)

My story starts in 7th grade when one of the girls in my gym class told me one day, while we were changing in the locker room, that she was reading an awesome book about a boy who is a wizard. She showed me her copy of Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone (because we're American, and we don't know what a Philosopher's Stone is).

I had heard of Harry Potter, but I hadn't been interested. It seemed like one of those dumb fantasy books that my friends in elementary school would read while I was reading stories about Medieval girls who are apprentices to midwives or betrothed to old men or cursed into obedience by fairies. It didn't really make sense. Harry Potter was just the sort of book that I would have enjoyed reading, but I had already developed a dislike for many things mainstream and popular. If something came with hype, I didn't want it. (Alas, my obsession with N*Sync was an exception.)

Anyway, upon her recommendation (Thank you, Elizabeth!), I read Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone and enjoyed it very much. Within the next few months, I read the next two, finishing Prisoner of Azkaban the very night that Goblet of Fire was released. I dragged my two best friends, neither of whom had read the books (one was actively opposed to them), to Crown Books in time for the midnight release. We stood in line with a whole lot of strange people dressed up as wizards. The friend who was opposed to Harry Potter happened to be a 13-year-old boy with dark hair and glasses. It was a tragically-missed opportunity for him to garner the attention of dozens of pre-pubescent girls.

(If you're a long-time Harry Potter fan, you might remember that around the time of the release of the fourth book, they were casting the first film. I desperately wanted to audition for Hermione, but I knew that I was too old and American. It never would have worked out.)

I bought my copy of Goblet of Fire that night, but I didn't read it. I don't remember what happened, but somehow, my passion for the books just somehow dissolved.

I saw the films and enjoyed them.

Finally, last year, Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire the film was released, and I found that suddenly, I wanted to know what happened next. I wanted to read Goblet of Fire and the following books. However, I had donated my copy to the used book store that a family friend owned (It looked great in his shop window.), so I made the trek down to Borders Books (as I often did) to find that they had no copies of Goblet of Fire. Feeling rather disappointed, I picked up a paperback edition of Order of the Phoenix and flipped to the first page of chapter one.

The first paragraph was not all that moving, but it gave me chills anyway. I don't know why, but I knew that I wasn't going to be able to read the first paragraph without reading the rest of the book. With a sigh, feeling disgusted with myself for deciding to read the fifth before the fourth, I bought the book and made my way home to read it over the next day and a half.

Two days later, I went to the library and checked out Half-Blood Prince (because the paperback edition hadn't been released yet, and I couldn't afford to buy the hardback copy). The end of the sixth book had been spoiled for me a few months earlier, but I didn't remember until after I had finished it. I love my selective memory.

Now, I'm obsessed in a quiet, subtle way (really, the same way I do everything). Since picking up Order of the Phoenix in March, I have been in the process of reading a Harry Potter book continuously. I read 5 and 6, then went back and read 4, found what I think was my grandma's paperback copy of Sorcerer's Stone, re-read that one, and then, read Prisoner of Azkaban again. Meanwhile, I read other very good novels (It's easy to read Harry Potter alongside something else.) and a few Harry Potter commentaries. Looking for God in Harry Potter by John Granger (which is very, very good) and Harry Potter and the Bible: The Menace Behind the Magick by Richard Abanes (which made me physically ill and I only recommend reading alongside John Granger's book) are just a couple. Currently, I'm re-reading Order of the Phoenix because I read it so fast the first time that I think I missed a lot of the fun details that Rowling puts into her books.

I spend much of my time visiting fanart websites (accioBrain is my favorite), following the adventures of Harry and the Potters (Check them out and confirm my insanity), waiting for the next film, and contemplating the content of the final book.

Really, I think this is the nerdiest post I've written to date. I just felt like I needed to share this. So many of my friends are surprised when I tell them I like Harry Potter.

I'm not a crazy person.

I like good books, and these books are good.

P.S. I've made some attempts at fanart of my own. If you're interested (and not a meanie), take a look at my deviantART account by following the link up there on your right.

My Hyperbolic Tribute to Summer

I'm sitting on a beach chair on our patio, and I suddenly look up from my book and notice that the sky is very, very blue. Strange. It's impossibly blue. It is so blue that it looks fabricated, like the ceilings in casinos in Las Vegas, and contrasting against the impossibly blue sky is a row of swaying palm trees.

Then, for the first time ever, it hits me that we live in a vacation spot. People from the land of ice somewhere northeast of us come here wearing Bermuda shorts and Hawaiian shirts, carrying cameras around their necks. They travel hundreds or thousands of miles to see Shamu or play on the beach or go to the zoo.

What did I do in a past life that deemed me worthy to be born here? In my next life (were I an actual believer in reincarnation), I shall be born in Siberia as punishment for the way I have taken Southern California for granted. I sit inside and read. I shun the sunshine.

I ought to be walking bare-footed around my best friend's cul de sac. We ought to be selling lemonade out of her pull-along wagon, offering to wash cars for money, swimming in the pool. I wish we were little again so we could do all the summery things, and I wouldn't be self-conscious. We'd take long walks singing songs from Anastasia or Mulan, pretending we were hanging out with the fellows from *N Sync or that we're members of a stranded wagon train.

Summer means sloppy joes and watermelon, sleeping until you can't sleep anymore and staying up so late that you feel sick. Summer is birds and sunburns and sleeping with the windows open. It is spending so much time with your friends that you can't stand them anymore and harboring irrational infatuations with the boy down the street - feeding the crush with whispers and giggles until you're unable to walk past his house without feeling a little light-headed. It's driving home from the beach in the back of your mom's van, feeling sandy and warm with the heat of the sun radiating from your skin. It's lying in the dark, on an inflatable mattress, talking to your best friend about how you wish you were a puppeteer, circus performer, pop singer, etc.

Summer is also that sharp, sinking feeling you get when the signs go up for back-to-school sales, when you get letters in the mail about class schedules, when you realize you haven't completed your summer reading. Summer is also the way you suddenly don't care about the boy down the street when the boy waiting in line at Six Flags says hello. Summer is a long, agonizing drive - the drive to Disneyland that couldn't possibly take only an hour and a half.

Even so, summer makes me sad. I spend months wishing it was cold, wishing that we could light a log in the fireplace, wishing I could wear scarves and sweaters.

I don't deserve to live here.

And that is why I'm moving to Antarctica.

The End.