Dream was onstage. They were beautiful and their voices were amazing and I wanted to be one of them. They were famous. And it was almost like I was famous, because we'd won the lottery; the public had voted for the best school, and North Andover Middle School won, and Dream was ours.

They're a four-person one-album-hit wonder. You might remember their song, "He Loves U Not." Or you might not. They sang pop, and just announced earlier this year that they're getting back together. Although they created two albums, only one resulted in success--the other seems to have flopped. Maybe the issue was its title: Reality. Reality sucks.

What caught my attention most about them, though, wasn't the music or the fame: it was their pants. Glittery, pretty, all different colors. They shimmered onstage, impossible to look away from. I wanted those pants.

I never felt like I belonged at N.A.M.S. It was a place where the wealthy went. All of my friends dressed well, and it seemed that most didn't wear hand-me-downs like I did, and they all acted so much older. Gabby and her twin sister had smooth dark skin and crimped hair. They were gorgeous and they knew it. They sneered whenever I dared to ask them a question, like, "What's for homework?"

Then there was popular, hott hott hott Radys (like "Radish" I joked with my friends) who was hispanic and maybe the only crush I've had on someone I've gone to school with.

At the time, I think I knew that I was at the bottom of the food chain, but that didn't hamper my self-confidence much--I just told myself that everyone who hated me was an idiot.

One year, there were tryouts for a band or singer or dancers to perform at the school dance. I knew I could sing, and I wanted to try. My mom has been singing all my life, and she has a wonderful voice. It's genetic. Tryouts happened in the cafeteria. It was empty except for a few kids, sitting at a lunch table, watching each group or person try out one at a time. I was terrified. But I reminded myself, I can sing, I'm good. I can do this. If they don't choose me, it's okay.

I sang my cute version of Merril Bainbridge's "Mouth," in my sweet, singsongy voice that was made for pop music (and later, country and blues) combined with my stand-there-and-don't-move dance routine. I didn't win. But I don't remember that knowledge bothering me much. I was too electrified by the anticipation and terror of performing acapella to be letdown. And I knew without doubt that I was brave to have tried.

At the dance where I did not win to perform, I asked Radys to dance. I thought he denied me, and I ran to the bathroom in tears. When I came out, my mom was at the door, waiting to pick me up, but Radys came right up to me and we started dancing. I found out that another girl had asked him to dance just before me. Dancing together meant moving your body while standing in close proximity to your partner. At least that's what we did. Mom waved me on at the door, but I ignored her as I danced the one dance I'd wanted all night long.

Watching Dream made me hope for things I never expected to have or even to want to have. That's how it's always been when I watch a famous band or hear a truly remarkable voice. I don't know how my mom can stand to watch American Idol. When a voice sends chills down my arms, I sense great power and happiness, and then this disolves into desolute need, like being near a hot guy with kissable lips, and I want it, and I know I'll never have it. And then I remind myself that I want the voice, not the lifestyle, so why should I carry so much envy? But do I tell myself that just because I know I can't have it?

It's an interesting conundrum. And maybe one without answer. But one thing I do know? I'm not a famous singer. I'm not even a great singer. But I'm not terrible, and I make my own money, and I have many other passions. And? I can buy those damn sparkly pants if I want to.

I'm hiking through Coyote Ridge, on my way back to the car. The Beatles or 30 Seconds to Mars are playing in my headphones while I think about class. When I'm almost to the bottom of the incline, I see, out of the corner of my eye, a snake just barely on the path. Its long gray-scaled body is curled up tight, and there's a thin rattle on the end of its tail. I am parallel to the snake when I notice it, and my foot is barely inches away.

I am a real believer that powerful concentration can be dangerous. I'm so good at noticing dusty blue butterflies in the grass, that I often don't realize the gray-scaled rattler by my feet. Twice now, I have almost stepped on a rattlesnake, barely noticing before it's too late. Luckily it was never due to examining a beautiful butterfly, but always I was elsewhere--in my head thinking thoughts or speaking them aloud to a friend. 

In nature, I can observe and remain quiet for hours. But sometimes, my mind goes on hamster-wheel, and my brain doesn't shut off. I go into deep thought about too many things at once and I can't parce out the one idea that would help me figure out what I actually want to say. For instance, for a large part of the writing of this essay, I thought it was about distractions. I was distracted by the very idea of distraction. I have great talent for connecting the jagged hogbacks in the distance with the rise and fall of my own emotions, the constant hesitation, the inability to step firmly in one place and stay there. The thoughts in my head are often debates: I am debating what I should say, how I should react, Who I should be, who I AM.

Obsession has always come easily to me. You know how, when a cat sees the flick of a feather, he can't resist the crouch and leap? Or when you come home, and the dog greets you, and her paws are on your chest, tongue trying to slobber you up because she missed you so much? That's what I have: zeroing in capababilities, the need to find a single object and research the hell out of it, so much, in fact, that I never want to think about it again. And currently, my living situation is like that: a constant concentration on copywriting and a mandatory two-hour block of writing every day (which doesn't happen every day). These are rules that I create for myself in an attempt to avoid getting too involved in just one area of my life and forgetting about the rest. 

If I don't make rules then I'll fall into the trap of over-concentration, where I focus on one supposedly brilliant idea and turn it over and over, searching for more brilliance. Eventually I realize I need to step outside of this magnified focus in order to see what I'm really looking for. (This is much how, if you are trying to remember a person's name and you just close your eyes and stop trying so hard, it sometimes comes to you.) Do you have a dangerous habit of over-concentration? It seems strange to consider it a bad thing, but if you think about it, the most passionate people are often the ones to get themselves killed. The guy from Into the Wild, the American poet Anne Sexton, and Marie Curie who died from her experiments with radiation, just to name a few. Passion is such a powerful emotion that logic seems to just disappear in its midst. Some people get stuck and are never capable of seeing any of the hundreds of other possibilities. 

When I saw the snake and recognized the rattle, I walked ten feet away, took some pictures, and started throwing rocks to scare it off. I didn't want another person, concentrating on their own ideas or music or conversation, to get bit just for thinking.