learn how to drive
graduate from RISD
get my first car
join an artist residency program for a year
get a job as a designer for a while
be an RA for the EHP program
join the Peace Corps.
get my own studio to work in.
start my own design firm.
Become a Fellow of the American Academy in Rome
settle down
raise a child
buy a house
design something that makes a positive impact on the world
travel the world
make people happy
never loose sight of God
be joyful
Thursday, November 19, 2009
Thursday, April 23, 2009
The Hayloft, 1968
Dust floats through the air in the quiet cool of the hayloft.
Up here we build our thrones and castles out of the golden bales.
Tucked away from the watchful eyes of mom.
Pieces of straw stick out every which way.
Poking at my skin and making it itchy.
Deb and I kick off our shoes and lift ourselves up into the rafters.
Breathing in the sweet smell of the wood and hay,
We carefully move along from one beam to the next
until we are way beyond the edge of the upper loft.
We tiptoe along a thick balance beam,
Standing in the middle, I am scared to look down.
It never seems this high up when you are standing way down there.
Deb grabs my hand tight and looks at me,
a smile creeping out the corner of her mouth.
Ready Panda?
My heart beats faster as I look away.
One. Two. Three. Jump!
I shut my eyes tight and take the leap.
Landing butt first in the large mound of loose hay below.
“Again, again!” I laugh, with straw covering my entire body
and sticking out all over my two long braids.
“Hey Debby look! Now my hair looks like yours! Haha!”
“Mleeeh” she says, as she sticks out her tongue at me.
Up here we build our thrones and castles out of the golden bales.
Tucked away from the watchful eyes of mom.
Pieces of straw stick out every which way.
Poking at my skin and making it itchy.
Deb and I kick off our shoes and lift ourselves up into the rafters.
Breathing in the sweet smell of the wood and hay,
We carefully move along from one beam to the next
until we are way beyond the edge of the upper loft.
We tiptoe along a thick balance beam,
Standing in the middle, I am scared to look down.
It never seems this high up when you are standing way down there.
Deb grabs my hand tight and looks at me,
a smile creeping out the corner of her mouth.
Ready Panda?
My heart beats faster as I look away.
One. Two. Three. Jump!
I shut my eyes tight and take the leap.
Landing butt first in the large mound of loose hay below.
“Again, again!” I laugh, with straw covering my entire body
and sticking out all over my two long braids.
“Hey Debby look! Now my hair looks like yours! Haha!”
“Mleeeh” she says, as she sticks out her tongue at me.
Saturday, April 18, 2009
2 hour exercise
I walk under the bright blue sky. Sun in my eyes, cold wind in my face. In the park I spot a falcon sitting up in the trees. It’s piercing eyes staring down at me. It swoops down and makes a quick and determined course towards a large group of pigeons, who take off and try desperately to avoid his hunting path. I doubt he’s trying very hard because he doesn’t actually catch any one of the easy prey and presently lands on a tree branch on the other side of the park. Quit playing games with me falcon! You might have actually had me for a minute there but now I can see that you never really had any true intention of going for it.
As I open the door the sweet smell of coffee and sugary syrup hits my nostrils and I am instantly transfixed. I’m normally not a coffee drinker but today I could use the extra boost. “Give me something mochalaty” I say to Patrick behind the counter. “Mochalaty!?” he says in confusion. “So I’m guessing that you DO want something with coffee in it? I’m just going to go ahead and be inventive here.” Great. Patrick always seems to know how to please me. I sit down at a small table by the window as more and more people start streaming in. Strange, I don’t think I’ve ever seen this place quite so busy. What exactly happens on a lazy Saturday afternoon that makes people suddenly feel the need for a coffee break? The large windows make this particular establishment quite excellent for people watching, though I could honestly do without the constant stream of mall traffic passing by. Along with the usual suspects hanging out in the corner, two rather scruffy, scrawny looking men are sitting in the high-backed wing chairs by the fireplace, warming up and trying to get comfortable, avoiding drawing too much attention to themselves and getting kicked out.
Mort Goldblum is a slinking sort of man, tall and old, looking almost fragile. His white hair travels down to around his mouth and chin, long slender arms and legs looking all too much like my own grandfather’s. He most often wears the same thing: worn blue denim jacket with a stained white shirt underneath, brown slacks frayed around the ankles, thin brown socks and faded brown loafers with a hole torn out of one of the toes. He is an obviously intelligent man, never to be seen without a book in his hand. And yet he too has somehow ended up on the streets, forced to brave the cold along with a group of mostly-crazy old men who often engage him in mostly asinine conversations about events that have never taken place and dreams that will never come true. This is his 7th year and he has miraculously managed to retain his sanity.
Ms. Danquith enters and sits down in front of me. She retired long ago but still enjoys the going down to the local Hope Street School and volunteering her time as a substitute teacher. She had taught 7th grade English for 38 years and never once forgot the names of her students. The kids she sees now really don’t appreciate her as much as she deserves, but then again what kid does appreciate women as ancient-looking as she is, perpetual grimace plastered across her face? Both children and adults also can’t help but notice that she always seems to be wearing any one of an array of strange hats. Today it is a bubble-gum pink fuzzy thing with rather large ear flaps, no doubt warm but far too bright and bubbly for the rest of her personality.
Nick Hoffledorf is a grumpy, incorrigible old homeless man whom I quickly learned about when I first started coming here. He’s rather strangely lumpy and is always seen wearing a brown leather jacket, black sweatshirt and black baseball cap with tufts of wispy white hair sticking out the sides. He comes in here every day and sits slouched way down in one of the soft leather chairs in the corner in order to stare angrily at people whom he feels are getting a better deal at life than he is, which, considering his situation, is pretty much everybody. On many occasions he has been known to try to flirt with some of the many pretty young girls who also frequent this place. Since they undoubtedly will ignore him and start talking to Patrick instead, he glares at them ever more incessantly until he can’t stand it anymore and goes to complain to the manager about how unfair it is that these girls don’t want to talk to him. Jane is a very patient woman, but sometimes his special kind of craziness is just more than she can take.
A white limo pulls up to the curb just outside, exciting a group of little girls who jump up on top of the window sill couch and press their faces up against the cold pane of glass, certain that anyone who rides in such a car must be somebody important and interesting. A bunch of bride-grooms carrying suits and a rather large, white wedding dress, ever so carefully wrapped in layers of protective tissue paper and plastic, step out and hurry on into the Biltmore next door. I guess everyone gets their special day when they get to be considered someone important and interesting by random strangers walking by. Maybe someday that will be me, but the closest thing I’ve come to an actual relationship in the past couple of years is my rather new, yet almost daily stint with Patrick, who will not only make me a mean cup of marble-mocha-frappa-macchiato-cino whenever I’m in the need, but who also does a great job of filling up the extra space on my already too-small bed on nights when the both of us should probably be getting in some much-needed sleep instead.
Maybe next time around things will be different. Maybe someday I’ll find someone who will give me the kind of emotional connection I really need, but hey, I’m still young, right?
Anyways, these 2 hours are just about up and my coffee’s getting cold. Time for a refill!
As I open the door the sweet smell of coffee and sugary syrup hits my nostrils and I am instantly transfixed. I’m normally not a coffee drinker but today I could use the extra boost. “Give me something mochalaty” I say to Patrick behind the counter. “Mochalaty!?” he says in confusion. “So I’m guessing that you DO want something with coffee in it? I’m just going to go ahead and be inventive here.” Great. Patrick always seems to know how to please me. I sit down at a small table by the window as more and more people start streaming in. Strange, I don’t think I’ve ever seen this place quite so busy. What exactly happens on a lazy Saturday afternoon that makes people suddenly feel the need for a coffee break? The large windows make this particular establishment quite excellent for people watching, though I could honestly do without the constant stream of mall traffic passing by. Along with the usual suspects hanging out in the corner, two rather scruffy, scrawny looking men are sitting in the high-backed wing chairs by the fireplace, warming up and trying to get comfortable, avoiding drawing too much attention to themselves and getting kicked out.
Mort Goldblum is a slinking sort of man, tall and old, looking almost fragile. His white hair travels down to around his mouth and chin, long slender arms and legs looking all too much like my own grandfather’s. He most often wears the same thing: worn blue denim jacket with a stained white shirt underneath, brown slacks frayed around the ankles, thin brown socks and faded brown loafers with a hole torn out of one of the toes. He is an obviously intelligent man, never to be seen without a book in his hand. And yet he too has somehow ended up on the streets, forced to brave the cold along with a group of mostly-crazy old men who often engage him in mostly asinine conversations about events that have never taken place and dreams that will never come true. This is his 7th year and he has miraculously managed to retain his sanity.
Ms. Danquith enters and sits down in front of me. She retired long ago but still enjoys the going down to the local Hope Street School and volunteering her time as a substitute teacher. She had taught 7th grade English for 38 years and never once forgot the names of her students. The kids she sees now really don’t appreciate her as much as she deserves, but then again what kid does appreciate women as ancient-looking as she is, perpetual grimace plastered across her face? Both children and adults also can’t help but notice that she always seems to be wearing any one of an array of strange hats. Today it is a bubble-gum pink fuzzy thing with rather large ear flaps, no doubt warm but far too bright and bubbly for the rest of her personality.
Nick Hoffledorf is a grumpy, incorrigible old homeless man whom I quickly learned about when I first started coming here. He’s rather strangely lumpy and is always seen wearing a brown leather jacket, black sweatshirt and black baseball cap with tufts of wispy white hair sticking out the sides. He comes in here every day and sits slouched way down in one of the soft leather chairs in the corner in order to stare angrily at people whom he feels are getting a better deal at life than he is, which, considering his situation, is pretty much everybody. On many occasions he has been known to try to flirt with some of the many pretty young girls who also frequent this place. Since they undoubtedly will ignore him and start talking to Patrick instead, he glares at them ever more incessantly until he can’t stand it anymore and goes to complain to the manager about how unfair it is that these girls don’t want to talk to him. Jane is a very patient woman, but sometimes his special kind of craziness is just more than she can take.
A white limo pulls up to the curb just outside, exciting a group of little girls who jump up on top of the window sill couch and press their faces up against the cold pane of glass, certain that anyone who rides in such a car must be somebody important and interesting. A bunch of bride-grooms carrying suits and a rather large, white wedding dress, ever so carefully wrapped in layers of protective tissue paper and plastic, step out and hurry on into the Biltmore next door. I guess everyone gets their special day when they get to be considered someone important and interesting by random strangers walking by. Maybe someday that will be me, but the closest thing I’ve come to an actual relationship in the past couple of years is my rather new, yet almost daily stint with Patrick, who will not only make me a mean cup of marble-mocha-frappa-macchiato-cino whenever I’m in the need, but who also does a great job of filling up the extra space on my already too-small bed on nights when the both of us should probably be getting in some much-needed sleep instead.
Maybe next time around things will be different. Maybe someday I’ll find someone who will give me the kind of emotional connection I really need, but hey, I’m still young, right?
Anyways, these 2 hours are just about up and my coffee’s getting cold. Time for a refill!
perspectives
1st Person
I hang from my mother, dying with the onset of the cold. Born nearly five moons ago during a time of much rain and wind, I have grown much.
Day by day I watch the winged beings (“flyers”) come out of the great blue above me and land all around my home and family, hopping around and singing many sweet melodies every morning. Here also are the furry grey creatures, which I have lovingly named “gatherers”, scampering about the world and leaping gracefully across my family tree and sometimes landing on my mother with such force that it sends wild shivers through my veins and threatens to rip me clear of my mother’s grasp.
Now in my old age I am not the color I once was. I have grown brittle and dry and I feel my grip on my vast home weakening with every new gust of cold wind.
Today I am finding happy amusement in the antics of the numerous gatherers below me, who are playing a game with the black pole that is sticking out of the ground, where the flyers often gather in a harem of feeding and happy banter all around. The gatherers are, as always, attempting to gain access to the many colorful little seedlings which are somehow stuck in to the very top. They seldom make it up there before sliding back down to the ground with a soft ‘thump’. But today there is something new in the yard. A similar black pole now stands a short stretch apart from the first one, but this one has some sort of strange vine attached to the top and about 2 gatherer’s lengths down from that is attached a stalk covered in mostly yellowish kernels.
Suddenly I hear a great clattering not too unlike the noise that comes from the sky when a storm comes and bright streaks of light flash across the sky. There is only a streak of grey as one of the gatherers leaps across the air towards this new treasure. With amazing accuracy, the small body hits its mark, but it doesn’t stop there. He continues downward and then with even greater speed, snaps back in the opposite direction towards me.
Closer and closer it comes as I realize that I too, am in a collision course with this ill-fated creature.
I am suddenly ripped away as I feel the whip of air and fur from the passing projectile. The air creates a current under me and glides me gently downward, swaying to and fro as the green, spiky looking ground looms closer and closer. When I finally land, I find to my great relief that this bedding not the terrifying deadly spikes I thought they were, but actually provide for me a fitting final resting place.
3rd Person
He sits there waiting anxiously, pondering on what the best move for him to make this time might be. All attempts at the bird feeders this morning have been futile as the wrought iron shepherd’s crook holding them a good 5 feet up off the ground had recently been slicked down with a rag and a jar of petroleum jelly. Each attempt to climb the pole in this state by either him or one of the other squirrels had resulted in a humiliating slide back down and often even a sore rump from hitting the ground with such force.
While they would normally turn dejectedly from this scene and settle for food foraging the good old-fashioned way, there is a new challenge for him to set his sights on this morning. A rather appetizing-looking fresh ear of corn is now hanging from a bungee cord, which has been tied to the top of a recently placed wrought iron pole a few yards to the side of the bird feeders.
It always takes a bit of trial and error before they can fully master any new contraption and figure out how to overcome all of its obstacles to obtain the tantalizing morsels of food set out there, as if solely for the purpose of taunting them.
This ear of corn seems simple enough to obtain. It is merely hanging there with no apparent other obstacles in the way. From a higher vantage point one could easily take a jump to land directly on the corn. But just as this thought came to his head, so too, it came to another one of the squirrel’s heads.
The race was on.
In a flash he took off to around the other side of the house, scaling a small tree that was oh-so-conveniently placed along one of the walls of the back shed with seemingly no effort.
The perusing squirrel caught up with him as they both tumbled onto the thin metal roof of the shed, but, startled by the sudden loud clashing noises upon the roof, this squirrel fell behind and came to a halt on the edge as the other squirrel leaped gracefully off and landed right on target.
The squirrel quickly realized that it had been a trap as he sunk down to the ground with his claws grasping tightly into the corn kernels holding on for dear life. In an instant the bungee cord snapped back and he was catapulted into the air at a sharp upward angle; landing about 8 feet away, stunned.
I hang from my mother, dying with the onset of the cold. Born nearly five moons ago during a time of much rain and wind, I have grown much.
Day by day I watch the winged beings (“flyers”) come out of the great blue above me and land all around my home and family, hopping around and singing many sweet melodies every morning. Here also are the furry grey creatures, which I have lovingly named “gatherers”, scampering about the world and leaping gracefully across my family tree and sometimes landing on my mother with such force that it sends wild shivers through my veins and threatens to rip me clear of my mother’s grasp.
Now in my old age I am not the color I once was. I have grown brittle and dry and I feel my grip on my vast home weakening with every new gust of cold wind.
Today I am finding happy amusement in the antics of the numerous gatherers below me, who are playing a game with the black pole that is sticking out of the ground, where the flyers often gather in a harem of feeding and happy banter all around. The gatherers are, as always, attempting to gain access to the many colorful little seedlings which are somehow stuck in to the very top. They seldom make it up there before sliding back down to the ground with a soft ‘thump’. But today there is something new in the yard. A similar black pole now stands a short stretch apart from the first one, but this one has some sort of strange vine attached to the top and about 2 gatherer’s lengths down from that is attached a stalk covered in mostly yellowish kernels.
Suddenly I hear a great clattering not too unlike the noise that comes from the sky when a storm comes and bright streaks of light flash across the sky. There is only a streak of grey as one of the gatherers leaps across the air towards this new treasure. With amazing accuracy, the small body hits its mark, but it doesn’t stop there. He continues downward and then with even greater speed, snaps back in the opposite direction towards me.
Closer and closer it comes as I realize that I too, am in a collision course with this ill-fated creature.
I am suddenly ripped away as I feel the whip of air and fur from the passing projectile. The air creates a current under me and glides me gently downward, swaying to and fro as the green, spiky looking ground looms closer and closer. When I finally land, I find to my great relief that this bedding not the terrifying deadly spikes I thought they were, but actually provide for me a fitting final resting place.
3rd Person
He sits there waiting anxiously, pondering on what the best move for him to make this time might be. All attempts at the bird feeders this morning have been futile as the wrought iron shepherd’s crook holding them a good 5 feet up off the ground had recently been slicked down with a rag and a jar of petroleum jelly. Each attempt to climb the pole in this state by either him or one of the other squirrels had resulted in a humiliating slide back down and often even a sore rump from hitting the ground with such force.
While they would normally turn dejectedly from this scene and settle for food foraging the good old-fashioned way, there is a new challenge for him to set his sights on this morning. A rather appetizing-looking fresh ear of corn is now hanging from a bungee cord, which has been tied to the top of a recently placed wrought iron pole a few yards to the side of the bird feeders.
It always takes a bit of trial and error before they can fully master any new contraption and figure out how to overcome all of its obstacles to obtain the tantalizing morsels of food set out there, as if solely for the purpose of taunting them.
This ear of corn seems simple enough to obtain. It is merely hanging there with no apparent other obstacles in the way. From a higher vantage point one could easily take a jump to land directly on the corn. But just as this thought came to his head, so too, it came to another one of the squirrel’s heads.
The race was on.
In a flash he took off to around the other side of the house, scaling a small tree that was oh-so-conveniently placed along one of the walls of the back shed with seemingly no effort.
The perusing squirrel caught up with him as they both tumbled onto the thin metal roof of the shed, but, startled by the sudden loud clashing noises upon the roof, this squirrel fell behind and came to a halt on the edge as the other squirrel leaped gracefully off and landed right on target.
The squirrel quickly realized that it had been a trap as he sunk down to the ground with his claws grasping tightly into the corn kernels holding on for dear life. In an instant the bungee cord snapped back and he was catapulted into the air at a sharp upward angle; landing about 8 feet away, stunned.
Thursday, February 26, 2009
Creative Writing 1
Creative writing essay:
Life Story, 1 page, no sentence can be longer than 3 words.
Mother may I touch the blind man's cane? No, you can't.
I just stared. Bravery left me. Just like you, I was young. I was scared.
So uninspired. He missed home. He missed safety. Working 3 jobs. Mom was angry, he just drank. They kept fighting.
Always yelled. We watched ruins crumbling. It hurt my ears.
It sucked. Then I changed. Took a while, but I changed, va bene!?! It's good here.
Now I'm punch-out banjo singing beatboxing. It's nice. Can I stay?
Away I went. The cats stayed home.
It's cold here. I am freezing.
African herdsmen played in the snow, froze their feet.
I kept quiet.
Please, don't worry.
Life Story, 1 page, no sentence can be longer than 3 words.
It’s dark here. Out I came. Light, thump, cough. Born in May. Parents both teach. Their fourth child. Siblings crowd. House is loud. Go.
I am Rachael.
It’s hot here. A border town. Don’t know Spanish. Don’t really care. No que voy. I am alone. School is rough. I am tough. That is all.
I grew up. I got taller. Away I went.
Off to RISD! Crank it out. Art is crazy. Whirling, swirling paintings. Rainbow colors mix. School is rougher. I am tougher. That’s not all.
I grew older. I got wiser. Away I went.
Rome is home. Ruins are nice. By the slice. Nero’s cats stayed. It’s good here. I speak Italian. Va bene! Gelato means yummm. Ruins crumbling. Can I stay? Mother may I? No, you can’t. Away I went.
It’s cold here. I am freezing. Longing for sunshine. Seeing only rain. Where are you? I cannot see. It’s dark here. Who am I? Blind man’s cane. Punch-out Braille. Touch the world.
God is great. Bright, shining light. Lead me forth. Until the end.
Love.
Mother may I touch the blind man's cane? No, you can't.
I just stared. Bravery left me. Just like you, I was young. I was scared.
So uninspired. He missed home. He missed safety. Working 3 jobs. Mom was angry, he just drank. They kept fighting.
Always yelled. We watched ruins crumbling. It hurt my ears.
It sucked. Then I changed. Took a while, but I changed, va bene!?! It's good here.
Now I'm punch-out banjo singing beatboxing. It's nice. Can I stay?
Away I went. The cats stayed home.
It's cold here. I am freezing.
African herdsmen played in the snow, froze their feet.
I kept quiet.
Please, don't worry.
Tuesday, January 27, 2009
A Story of My Heart
I finally managed to get myself to enter the shiny new Case Center building today to see the new location of the RISDworks store and see if I couldn't find myself some cool new Fred products. What I found instead was a book by David Macaulay called "Rome Antics." Now I know that Macaulay was an EHP'er himself during his time here at RISD, so I was interested to see how his own experiences in EHP would play out in the book. Following a homing pigeon flying through Rome to deliver a message, It book is full of the usual suspects of sites and scenes from famous landmarks around Rome, plus a few lesser-known, more intimate Roman sites. Now where would this homing pigeon's final destination be for the author/illustrator? Why it was unmistakably the beloved Cenci, of course. It was neither named nor labelled, but I know the place like the back of my hand from the door to the rooftops, and for me, as for David Macaulay, it is the place where my "inner homing pigeon" will fly. The final scene of the book is where the pigeon finally reaches his recipient, the author himself working at his studio in the top floor of the Cenci, who opens the message which simply, and aptly reads "yes." You should have seen how my smile just spread across my face and my eyes neary brimming with tears of joy as I felt the final connection with Macaulay and the true meaning behind this story like very few people in this world can. For me it was more than just a childrens book about a bird, or a book about places around Rome, but rather it was the story of my own heart, going back to the place that I will forever call home.
Sunday, January 25, 2009
Moving On
I seem to have disappeared for the past 2 months, I know, but so much has happened within that time frame that I couldn't possiably go back and explain it all. So I must to to the furture instead! Or at the least the here and now.
I'm back in Providence, where I brave the cold winds and slushy, icy sidewalks every day. Things are pretty good. Though I seem to have a lot of time on my hands lately which is rather disconcerting. I am trying to fill my time with other stuff such as jobs ( I now have 3 of them), extra-curricular stuff and what not. Yesterday I went with about 3 or 4 other RISD students and volunteered at a Soup Kitchen downtown for a good 3 or 4 hours. It was fun, but sad at the same time, because I know that the 100 and more people that we served were having to live out in the cold and could hardly afford to feed themselves while I have always had the good fortune to have a warm bed to sleep in at night, as much food as I want, and more. Poverty affects all kinds of people, from old war veterans to the well-educated, the disabled, and even young children I saw come in for a hot meal. Hopefully I will be able to go volunteer there more often, because they could really use more help.
A couple days ago I got a banjo in the mail from my grandpa and have been practicing it as much as I can. I'm actually kinda amazed by how much I've learned about it already. Hopefully someday I will be good enough to play a song for people.
Well, the new group of EHPers arrived in Rome about a week ago and I am totally jealous. I miss it a lot. A LOT a lot. But, I hope the new group is settling in nicely and having as much of a good time as they can considering how much it has been raining there lately. Someday I will go back, this I am sure of.
This morning I took a Cappoeria class, which was fun. I had never done that kind of martial art before. Of course, since it's been so long sense I've really worked out like that, I am now quite sore and my poor feet have formed huge blisters. Next week I tackle fencing. Wish me luck!
I'm back in Providence, where I brave the cold winds and slushy, icy sidewalks every day. Things are pretty good. Though I seem to have a lot of time on my hands lately which is rather disconcerting. I am trying to fill my time with other stuff such as jobs ( I now have 3 of them), extra-curricular stuff and what not. Yesterday I went with about 3 or 4 other RISD students and volunteered at a Soup Kitchen downtown for a good 3 or 4 hours. It was fun, but sad at the same time, because I know that the 100 and more people that we served were having to live out in the cold and could hardly afford to feed themselves while I have always had the good fortune to have a warm bed to sleep in at night, as much food as I want, and more. Poverty affects all kinds of people, from old war veterans to the well-educated, the disabled, and even young children I saw come in for a hot meal. Hopefully I will be able to go volunteer there more often, because they could really use more help.
A couple days ago I got a banjo in the mail from my grandpa and have been practicing it as much as I can. I'm actually kinda amazed by how much I've learned about it already. Hopefully someday I will be good enough to play a song for people.
Well, the new group of EHPers arrived in Rome about a week ago and I am totally jealous. I miss it a lot. A LOT a lot. But, I hope the new group is settling in nicely and having as much of a good time as they can considering how much it has been raining there lately. Someday I will go back, this I am sure of.
This morning I took a Cappoeria class, which was fun. I had never done that kind of martial art before. Of course, since it's been so long sense I've really worked out like that, I am now quite sore and my poor feet have formed huge blisters. Next week I tackle fencing. Wish me luck!
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