Fin

   Hello, ya'll!!!... That is, assuming anyone still actually checks this blog out, which I assume is unlikely since I've been just about dormant for over half a year. Regardless, should someone stumble across this post, it is high time you heard the news; I'm moving!!
   Of course I will still be living in the same house, but my blog address is changing! And by changing, I mean I've got a second one and this second blog is the one I'll be updating and using. You can find it at TheBenMJones.blogspot.com. Toodle-oo; see you there!

Time

   At 11:30 on the Saturday night of week two, while homework and projects have started to accumulate, I decide that now is the optimum time to pay some respect to my blog for the first time in... too long. Typical.
   Well, here's a little list of reasons why nothing has been posted here since the new year. First off, I got myself involved with two different theatrical productions. I played the role of Man in Walter Wykes' play "The Worker," a psychotic 25-minute play about a man (Me) who is overworked by an abusive company and comes home to learn his wife (Hannah Rice) has officially lost her handle on reality. And then a messenger (Nick Ryan) comes along and everything goes the way of the Titanic.
   The other play I was in was an adaptation of the classic Jane Austen novel "Mansfield Park," in which I played Edmund Bertram.
   I've also been working on some writing; a couple of projects can be seen on my deviantArt site, but most of what I've been working on isn't available there. I've written a couple of plays; one is a very short ten-minute play, the other is closer to a half an hour. My hope is to get the longer one produced over the next year, and possibly turn the short ten-minute play into a short film, but we'll see what happens.
   The more significant achievement of late is that I have finally finished one complete draft of my first novel, "Black And White." After two years of work, I have compiled a draft which, if read at 275 words per minute (which is apparently more than believable) could be read in a little over two hours. My current word count is 33,026, but that is definitely going to change (and quite likely become substantially larger) as I go back over the whole thing, editing and revising for tone, consistency, and eradicating any plot-holes that may have crept up (although those should be minimal).
   In the impending future, I will be doing a dramatic reading of a student-written play called Afterlife at the Oregon Contemporary Theatre late this May. Until I have more to tell you, adieu!

Across The Line

   After a few last long strides, I have crossed that single white line that all my comrades have been focused on: the finish line.  At long last, I can let my legs wind down, relax, and enjoy a break.  I can celebrate, too; I did well!  Why should I not revel in my A-class performance?
   Indeed, I can look up on the score board and see my time, written in bright letters, showing how I did.  It was not a record-breaking performance, I give you, but I did a great load better than some people ever will, and than most people have.
   As I continue to watch the board, however, I can see it already determining who has made it on to the next heat, when and where everyone will have to run for round two.  I cannot help but notice my name in for the next heat, and it reminds me that this I have only just run is done; tomorrow, I begin again.

I Can Hear The Crowd

   The home straightaway is disappearing beneath my feet, and I'm beginning to outpace more and more of the runners.  The straightaway is where I'm comfortable; there's no waiting or adapting to the bend: here I get to just run.  The pressure is uncomfortable, but it's what forces my feet to push the track backwards beneath my feet.
   It is only now that I allow myself the luxury of listening; the crowd is getting louder in every instant.  The fact that I even consider the sound is worrying; I must focus on the rapidly approaching finish line, and the cheers of the audience are not going to get me there.  Nonetheless, I can't help but acknowledge that there are people taking a strong stock in how well I and others do.  I can't imagine anyone earnestly wishes me ill, but only one person can win the race.  Still, I know many people are cheering for me, hoping I get to that line first.
   Now is not the time to indulge, however.  It is time for me to find the energy wherever it comes from, and force it down through my sneakers.  "Keep your head down" is the phrase that comes to mind, although that's bad form for running.  The mental principle, however, is the one I'll take on.
   See you at the finish line.

Finish Line In Sight

   I have finished the bend and am on the final straightaway; I am a little over halfway done and the end of the race is quickly coming into view.  My efforts are increasing; I have little time to put space between those behind me and myself, and even less to close that distance between the leaders.  I can imagine the commentators going about a mile a minute, trying to keep up with the action as us runners push the ground away with every fiber of our being.
   I cannot help, however, but look beyond the finish line, to the brackets and the future; this is only the first heat.  There will be several races after this, and I cannot expect them to all go as smoothly and without incident like this heat has.  I've seen my strengths and weaknesses tested, and my ability on the curve is being compared to that on the straightaway; I'm considering which lane has the curve that best suits my abilities, and wondering how best to secure that lane in future heats.
   In a way, the end is coming; in another, this is still just the beginning.

Off The Blocks

   Three weeks into the race, and at the least I can say I'm off the blocks; there is distance behind me, and whatever equalized all us runners at the start has dissipated behind the events which have given us the chance to put as much distance between ourselves as possible.  I find myself keeping up with the pack, but perhaps I am not as fit as I thought I was...

   Classes are picking up in pace, and the first exams are coming around the opening bend.  I've seen a few people in the neighboring lanes all racing for the front, but most have been too focused to acknowledge me, although I'm certain those trailing me can see my arms as they pump up and down, back and forth.

   The main curve is coming straight ahead, and then it's the home straight; I can't help but be nervous.  This is only the beginning, but it sets the stage for everything to come.

The Gun Has Been Fired

   The gun has been fired, and the starting line has suddenly been abandoned.  From a complete standstill, my life has taken up a rapid pace.  For the past couple of weeks, I have done little spare listen to a variety of different music in a myriad of forms.  But since yesterday afternoon, I have met up with several new people, worked on college projects even before classes start, and planned on auditioning in a small scale theatre production.
   I have moved to college.  There are so many options, I would waste the rest of the decade trying to list them all for you.  Luckily for me, they don't all intrigue me.  I'm not interested in any of the religious groups, nor do the hard or soft sciences pull my attention, and fine arts?  Forget it: I can't draw to save my life!
   Theatre, cinema, and writing, however, have a particular pull for me.  I'm taking an acting class this term, and as I've already said, I'm auditioning this afternoon for a small theatre production.  It's a one act play about meeting someone on the internet and then in reality, and was actually written by a student at my University and won a competition, leading to its production.  Even if I don't get a part, I still think I'll get to call myself a small part of that, and having seen the theatre, it'll be an amazing experience.  It's a nice, small space that is appropriately titled "The Closet Theatre."
   I'm also looking forward to ultimate frisbee and all my classes.  I feel the above is enough text, however, for this update, so I'll end by saying that this isn't really the end; soon enough, I'll have so much more to talk about.  Expect me to ramble like an elder discovering language.
   I hope that metaphor made sense.

Absence.

   Wow... This blog has been empty for some time now... wow.
   But worry not, I'm still here!  I've still been writing, as well, but since I've done little but school and rest for a long while, the writing has been fiction, and as a result of that, my writing has ended up on a website called deviantArt instead of this blog.  My name on deviantArt is the same as my name here: B' Dancin' Jones.  If all two watchers of this blog (and any stragglers who fall across it as well) would check that out, I'd very much appreciate it.
   Anyways; this blog hasn't been abandoned, there's just little to say.  But whenever there is an update or something worth mentioning, I'll bring it up.  Until then: ciao!

Graduation

   Nine days.  I have nine days left before I graduate high school.  As much as I try to convince myself that this isn't a big deal, (I'm graduating, along with 3 million other Americans, or about a whole 1% of the population of the country) I am still surprised that it's actually happening.  I've been in public grade-based school for twelve years, a whole two-thirds of my life.
   I recall starting high school after middle school and thinking something along the lines of "this isn't too different."  I can most certainly be sure that going to college will be different.  I'll be living on my own, for starters.  My classes won't all be in the same building, and they also won't be organized into a six-hour school day anymore.
   ... I have no conclusion for this.  I simply figured that since something is happening in my life that a lot of people may think is major, I should at least acknowledge that it's going on.  I'm graduating high school.  Woo hoo.  I think...

English Is A Rough Man's Mistress

English is a rough man's mistress:

She asks not for much, but to be treated fair,

But somehow she is refused even there.

She has rules from which she won't digress.

But very few ever choose to follow,

The rest think they know best, acting as if hollow.

English is the mistress of a rough man,

One who takes everything he wants

With the good charm the majority wants.

So give her what you can;

Treat her right and she will shine

Because at her core, english is the epitome of fine.