A&E
How to upgrade your home-crafting experience with resin
Being home around the clock means being bored out of your mind. There is nothing to do, and nothing seems to entertain you as much as it used to do. You’ve watched all the Snapchat stories and refreshed your Twitter timeline until there were no more new tweets. What to do now? Learn to make resin! 
Resin is a liquid compound that when mixed with a hardener will form into a solid. Once mixed, you can add alcohol dyes, glitter, dried flowers (my personal favorite) and pour the mixture into molds, where it ends up drying into a sturdy solid material. The process is sort of like baking — sorting out ingredients, making sure the ratios are on point (who wants a gooey cookie or a gooey resin project?) and waiting 24 hours to see the final result. Resin is used for cool arts and crafts, household items, furniture and more. But when it comes out gooey and deformed, it doesn’t look super pretty. 
Dealing with liquid resin isn’t the most pleasant experience. The resin and hardener give off a strong smell that can get to your head if the area isn’t well ventilated. The liquid is sticky and hard to get off your hands and the work environment you’re using. And, if you mess up the ratio of 1:1 of resin and hardener, or it's not properly mixed, it won’t harden. Trust me, I’ve been there. 
To complete a resin project, you must have: 
-- Resin (I use epoxy resin from ArtResin)
-- A paper cup or bowl
-- Measuring utensils, wooden or plastic to stir
-- Fillers (glitter, flowers, charms, whatever solids that you want in the final art piece) 
-- Gloves, because sticky hands aren’t it
-- Molds! You need to put the mixture in somewhere to harden
-- Tweezers or  toothpicks. You can use these to pick up the fillers and place them in the mixture. 
Once you have all of your materials, you can get started on your resin project! With your measuring utensils, pour a 1:1 ratio of hardener and resin into the paper cup. Then take your stirrer and slowly mix it. If you mix it too fast and aggressively it will get bubbles, but if you don’t mix it well enough then the resin will not cure. 
After mixing the resin mixture for five to 10 minutes, place it down on the table and grab your fillers. I usually use fine glitter and pressed flowers. Take the fine glitter and slowly mix it into the cup with the mixture. 
With the glitter resin mixture, get your mold and pour the resin into it. Then, take your larger fillers and with the tweezers, place them into the resin inside the mold. This is when I put my dried flowers in. 
Once you're done pouring your resin and adding the fillers, take your mold and place it in a leveled location that won’t collect too much dust. Wait 24 hours for it to cure and then tada! 
Resin is difficult to get the hang of, so don’t worry if it comes out deformed, bubbly, uncured or ugly looking the first time around. Practicing means that you’ll get better at it. Resin can be used for small crafts like charms and earrings, or bigger projects such as trinket dishes or filling in wood crafts. Taking time to learn a new hobby, or investing more time into the ones you usually practice gives us a sense of accomplishment. Happy crafting! 
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Marc Ignasio
My candlelight grows,
Urging me forth,
Infusing
My weakening desires
with purpose,
with strength.

My candlelight flickers,
Yet stands tall
Against the approaching
Storms.
They bow down
To the endless strength
That my candlelight
Holds.

When clouds
Encase me
In their
Harsh grip,
My candlelight
shines through,
growing brighter
with each
Harsher moment,
Until
I’m free.

Without
My candlelight
I would fade,
Unrecognizably torn,
Until
I disappear,
A wandering soul,
without a guide.

I need you here,
My candlelight.
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Free Write
Everyone's a Loser
Nobody likes losing. Whether it’s an 8-year-old playing in a game of town soccer or a professional basketball player in the NBA Finals, everyone can agree that nothing is worse than coming up short. In the long term, however, nothing is better. The fire that failure ignites burns brighter than that of any success or victory. We are motivated by the emotions that we associate with our past deficiencies and are determined to avoid them. Defeat is like getting a shot—temporarily painful, ultimately necessary. The lessons that I’ve learned from defeat have been better than those I’ve ever learned from any mentor or coach. In fact, almost all of my achievements have been the result of previous failures.
I’ve played sports for as long as I can remember. Since both of my parents are from Germany, it’s only natural that I started playing “Fußball” almost as soon as I could walk. Some of my earliest memories are from J.P. Youth Soccer, either stumbling around with the ball or waiting until practice was over so I could finally go to the candy store on the way home, a request which my dad rarely denied. 
As one of the better players on my town soccer team, I expected to be among the top of the BLS boys soccer team. Within the first 10 minutes of the junior varsity tryouts, however, I could sense that my chances of making the team were extremely slim. My 5’2” scrawny build and basic footwork simply couldn’t compare to the seemingly massive sophomores and juniors contesting my spot. Accordingly, I was hardly even held in consideration during the candidate selection, and barely secured a spot on the freshman team. I was crushed. My world was flipped upside down. But I took the indifferent words of coach Jason Miller and I used them as motivation. Now, 4 years later, a BLS JV soccer captain, I’m glad I failed. 
Aside from soccer, I was also an avid young tennis player. I attended the Brookline Tennis Camp every summer with my brother, where my love for the sport first blossomed. The first tournament I ever participated in went quite poorly for me. Not even placing in the top 3, I was given a medal for my participation rather than the much more attractive trophy. “I don’t want a stupid medal”, I said indignantly as we drove away from the courts. I couldn’t believe that I, the Roger Federer of 6-year-old tennis players, had been bested by random children. That medal, however, has been my motivation for the last 10 years, not for its intended purpose, but rather to serve to remind me of what arrogance and a lack of preparation brought me: nothing. Now, a BLS varsity tennis player and a proud member of the United States Tennis Association, I’m glad I failed. 
Although it definitely is important to lose, there’s no doubt that failure hurts. Because of this, we’ve tried to take away some of the pain by declaring everyone a winner and giving people an award just for taking part. These participation awards are more detrimental than beneficial; while they may lessen the blow of a loss, they take away from the lesson that comes with failure. Children need to learn that defeat is a part of life, that once they grow up, there won’t be anyone to give them a trophy for trying or even to pick them up if they fall. 
As gratifying as it is to win, it’s important to face the occasional defeat. If knowledge and experience are the goals, then the constant winner is also a loser.
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8
March 8
8th of March shines brightly—
my day of redemption,
of repentance,
baptized into joy and hope.
The epistle to the Romans
pumps purpose and promises
into me.
I wish to make them possible.
 
But 16
March 16
16th of March burns strongly—
possibilities crush,
bust and fall
and fall 
like 11th-of-September debris.
The gold of my tassel greys,
glitter and polished shoes fade,
dreams and destinies are delayed...
Senior year will never end the way
I want it to.
 
Within 8 days,
an infectious thief
snatches my breath
and steals my final stretch
of grade school.
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Free Write
I Don't Ride Bikes Anymore
When we moved into our beige apartment on the border of Boston and Dedham five years ago, I remember missing the green of our old home. I didn’t like being cooped up inside and didn’t like the thought that our bikes were sitting in the basement. I just kept thinking about those bikes, how they were feeling about as hopeless as a figure skater with legs that didn’t work and yet all I could do was sit around and dream about using them once again. I wished that there was somewhere I could ride around. 
That somewhere was the empty parking lot of lonely Dr. Brown’s pediatric office next door. I sound certain but I think I’m remembering wrong because maybe lonely Dr. Brown isn’t all that lonely and Dr. Brown isn’t even Dr. Brown and I know he isn’t even a pediatric doctor, he’s--
I was wearing jeans that day. 
It was a smart idea looking back because somewhere in my dream-poisoned mind I think I knew something bad was going to happen and even though I didn’t have knee pads or elbow pads, I was pathetically paranoid enough to wish for something small to make me feel safe. 
I was riding my dad’s mountain bike. Blue, nothing special about it--except, it was special because it wasn’t my dad’s, it was someone else’s and--
I hit a curve. 
My sister was behind me, squealing in excitement because she was outside and she felt free and apparently that’s what people sound like when they’re free, finally. 
I was your typical pretentious older sister. I desired nothing more in that moment than to show her what I’d learned in my biking class the previous year: How to signal a turn. 
Step 1: Take your left hand off the handle. 
Step 2: Don’t fall and plunge to your untimely death. 
Step 3: Bend your arm upwards to signal a right turn, hold it out straight to signal a left. 
Step 4: Repeat Step 2. 
I would like to note to you now, dear reader, that concept of actually teaching her these steps was merely for the sake of fulfilling my role as the Smarter and More Epic Sister. It was nothing that she could ever use, since our mother had a livid fear of us riding amidst traffic. 
At this point in my life, or as I like to call it, A Series of Bad Choices, I’d somehow decided to take my left hand off the handlebar, holding it out proudly in a left signal. 
If the slipping of my grip was any indication to go by, the signal was blaring in neon red font dusted in bold and italics that everything was about to take not just a left turn, but a downward one. 
Time slowed down just like in the movies when there’s a couple crossing the street right after their first date and there’s a car coming and the girl isn’t paying attention and the guy has his heart pounding in his ears and he’s running and jumping and tackling her out of the way as the driver slams on his brakes. Suddenly I wasn’t sure exactly who I was playing, the girl or the boy, but I found myself on the concrete, breathing hard. My leg was twisted awkwardly beneath the still spinning wheels of my dad’s bike, the sensitive skin of my palms sliced by jagged concrete where I’d planted them to stop the momentum from pulling my face straight into the ground. 
(It’s still funny to me that in that split second moment when I was flying off the bike like some angelic monkey, my first instinct was still to save my face.) 
The world keeps turning, that’s what I kept thinking to myself as I lay there for a second, watching the wheels turn. I closed my eyes as the dizziness hit, waiting for the inevitable end as the world spun sporadically about me.
When my mom came rushing over, I tried to push myself up, wincing when my arm throbbed. 
This wasn’t nearly as romantic as the movies made it seem. 
My mom quickly untangled the bike from my limbs and clutched my face in her palms. 
We were both breathing hard, but I was crying because my leg hurt so badly and I was certain I’d never walk again and how could I be a figure skater if I couldn’t use my legs? 
It was funny how desperate I became in that situation. I didn’t think about the hard life my mom would live if she had to help me out of bed every morning, assist me when I had to use the restroom, hold me tightly as we trudged up two flights of stairs to get into our apartment. I was just thinking about that figure skating career of mine. 
Selfish. 
I was crying. 
My mom was yelling. 
There were a whole lot of arms wrapped around me, hauling me up. 
We were trudging back to our apartment and I was wiping my eyes. 
It wasn’t okay.
Except it was. 
Okay, I mean.  
I suppose sooner rather than later I should come clean with my story the same way the past me was coming clean, wiping her tears as she peeled off her jeans and stared at the dark bruises marring her skin and the cuts stinging her palms. 
I didn’t miss the green of our old home. Sure, we had a backyard and it was nice, but I’ve always had terrible allergies. Truly, I wouldn’t mind spending the rest of my life indoors if I could. 
The parking lot wasn’t that of a pediatric doctor. It was a dermatologist's, I remember because we went there once a few years down the road when my skin was acting up and extremely unamicable. The office was rather drab. A pediatric doctor makes the story more interesting because then you’re thinking about pastels and adorable baby animal stickers plastered on the walls and it’s cute. You don’t think of what I think of, brown walls, peeling wallpaper, and of course, the legendary before and after treatment pictures of his clients’ skin problems.  
My dad’s mountain bike was not blue, it was pink. It was pink because it used to be mine, but of course, I didn’t want you to know that because I wanted you to think that it was the unfamiliarity of the bike that made me lose my grip and fall. Surely you understand that I was trying to make a dignified impression. That said, I do understand that in the process of writing all of this to you, much of my dignity has already been lost and whatever remains will most likely be thrown down the drain no matter how hard I try to salvage it. 
This last truth is not one I would like to share as it further proves my previous theory of a drained dignity, but for you to truly understand exactly what was going on in my brain, it is something you must know. 
After my fall, I was not crying because the fall hurt me or shocked me I had seen it coming. The fear as soon as my grip slipped from the bar, the light brush of air as the wheel jerked sideways, the freezing of the moment in time, all crashing and colliding...The adrenaline was what kept me numb. My heart was beating fast, that much I remember, but I did not cry because of the pain. I was crying because of the stricken look on my mother’s face. I was crying because her harsh words scared me. I don’t even remember exactly what she was saying, but it was rapid-fire and I remember clearly the shake of her voice, the way her eyes widened as soon as I made contact with the concrete. 
I was...
It was her fear that made me cry. 
I was...
Surely you understand why.
I was selfish. 
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