Monday, October 11, 2010
Finished Essay I Didn't Want to Write
My memoir is slightly personal, and something that would make me uncomfortable sharing online. Therefore, if you want to read it, email me and I will happily send you a copy :)
Finished Place Essay
Finally! I was trying to develop a universal ending, and had a bit of trouble. With a few more revisions, I should be all right :)
On an uncommonly warm day in September, the brown-tinged muck of a river is silent, droopily reclining in a bed littered with glass and cigarettes and crawdads. The trees around my bench are forlorn and still, housing twittering birds and perhaps rabid squirrels gnawing away at acorns. Brown grass freckles the dirt, limply bent from little feet. My bench, however, is a sanctuary. One of the only old ones left after the Indiana Parks Department decided to beautify Arbuckle Acres, a little dingy park in my hometown (not much progress, in my eyes), my bench is still spattered in blood-red paint. The sections that have been chipped away are deep brown, reliable, stained with age and rain. Pens, sharpies, pencils and knives have scratched away to my bench’s core, leaving remnants of teenage romances, remembrances of happier days when Sheila loved Tom and Sara loved Bobby. Spewed around the hearts are words that rebellious adolescents have etched on my bench while giggling and sneering, pointing out the deed to their impressed friends. Securely bolted to a square cement foundation, I know my bench is going nowhere. Why would it be moved, anyway? The view is a picture. The trees are a fortress to my left and right, thick white oaks rooted deep. Below me winds the river that continues to exist despite decades of careless men who throw their beer cans into the copper water. Across the river stand leftovers of a once enormous forest, paved for foot trails and a neighborhood further back. Most days I see the marathon runners and the frustrated wives toting hyperactive children who are always several yards ahead, old couples who attempt to enjoy the scenery and one another, angsty pubescent boys and girls whose anxious faux-confident voices carry across the river to my bench, a lone walker with her dog, a tired man in a suit who needs a vacation. Above me the clouds loll against a smoky blue sky. I sit, listening to the voices of strangers and the scamper of rabid squirrels, feeling the chilled planks of my bench even with a coat on, tasting the copper water in the air, smelling the earthy greenness of the park.
I sit here almost every day. Sometimes to meditate, sometimes to force myself to enjoy what is around me, sometimes to cry. Today I’m sitting at my bench because I’ve had one of those universally annoying experiences of feeling trapped, like there’s so much world but I am stuck to my daily routine and I have no chance of ever getting away. As twilight begins to envelope the park and the river turns a deep shade of blue, I hear little feet splashing and the tinkle of giggles. I lean forward from my bench and see a family blanketed in the copper river water. The kids, little blonde fairies who could care less about cigarettes and crawdads and glass, snort as they stomp and roar and stick their hands in the muck to make ripples. It’s like a holy restoration, these little angels waist-deep in grime, cleansing the river with a gentle touch. Smog in the night caresses their faces, and the park around us seems to spit fumes from the pit of a dump, but they play on and they don’t see me.
I’m eighteen and I’ve never been on a plane, I don’t know the world, but I know what’s here in this park. I have seen my bench in the glow of a September moon. Small, white bodies reflect in the black water and for a second Arbuckle Acres is beautiful and the river is clean and my bench is perfect. The laughter eventually dies away as little feet climb out of the water and skip down the road to the van that will take them home, and I realize that I am alone in the park, sitting on a bench tinged with age overlooking a river of muck. But this is my bench, and I am satisfied.
On an uncommonly warm day in September, the brown-tinged muck of a river is silent, droopily reclining in a bed littered with glass and cigarettes and crawdads. The trees around my bench are forlorn and still, housing twittering birds and perhaps rabid squirrels gnawing away at acorns. Brown grass freckles the dirt, limply bent from little feet. My bench, however, is a sanctuary. One of the only old ones left after the Indiana Parks Department decided to beautify Arbuckle Acres, a little dingy park in my hometown (not much progress, in my eyes), my bench is still spattered in blood-red paint. The sections that have been chipped away are deep brown, reliable, stained with age and rain. Pens, sharpies, pencils and knives have scratched away to my bench’s core, leaving remnants of teenage romances, remembrances of happier days when Sheila loved Tom and Sara loved Bobby. Spewed around the hearts are words that rebellious adolescents have etched on my bench while giggling and sneering, pointing out the deed to their impressed friends. Securely bolted to a square cement foundation, I know my bench is going nowhere. Why would it be moved, anyway? The view is a picture. The trees are a fortress to my left and right, thick white oaks rooted deep. Below me winds the river that continues to exist despite decades of careless men who throw their beer cans into the copper water. Across the river stand leftovers of a once enormous forest, paved for foot trails and a neighborhood further back. Most days I see the marathon runners and the frustrated wives toting hyperactive children who are always several yards ahead, old couples who attempt to enjoy the scenery and one another, angsty pubescent boys and girls whose anxious faux-confident voices carry across the river to my bench, a lone walker with her dog, a tired man in a suit who needs a vacation. Above me the clouds loll against a smoky blue sky. I sit, listening to the voices of strangers and the scamper of rabid squirrels, feeling the chilled planks of my bench even with a coat on, tasting the copper water in the air, smelling the earthy greenness of the park.
I sit here almost every day. Sometimes to meditate, sometimes to force myself to enjoy what is around me, sometimes to cry. Today I’m sitting at my bench because I’ve had one of those universally annoying experiences of feeling trapped, like there’s so much world but I am stuck to my daily routine and I have no chance of ever getting away. As twilight begins to envelope the park and the river turns a deep shade of blue, I hear little feet splashing and the tinkle of giggles. I lean forward from my bench and see a family blanketed in the copper river water. The kids, little blonde fairies who could care less about cigarettes and crawdads and glass, snort as they stomp and roar and stick their hands in the muck to make ripples. It’s like a holy restoration, these little angels waist-deep in grime, cleansing the river with a gentle touch. Smog in the night caresses their faces, and the park around us seems to spit fumes from the pit of a dump, but they play on and they don’t see me.
I’m eighteen and I’ve never been on a plane, I don’t know the world, but I know what’s here in this park. I have seen my bench in the glow of a September moon. Small, white bodies reflect in the black water and for a second Arbuckle Acres is beautiful and the river is clean and my bench is perfect. The laughter eventually dies away as little feet climb out of the water and skip down the road to the van that will take them home, and I realize that I am alone in the park, sitting on a bench tinged with age overlooking a river of muck. But this is my bench, and I am satisfied.
Tuesday, October 5, 2010
Intro to the Essay I Don't Want to Write
I can NOT write this memoir. I have written and re-written and used the delete key much more than I ever have before. The thing is...I really want to write about this, but I don't know where to start, or where to end for that matter.
Anyway, here is the very rough intro...:)
“Trust, Shuff, you just have to trust,” mumbled Mr. Hurst as I ambled out of his classroom, clutching my analysis of some Latin philosopher’s work and feeling deflated because once again Hurst had trumped my carefully worded argument. This was our tradition—a discussion of philosophy per week. I was getting more confident after every day that we spent analyzing Cicero or Socrates, sometimes Eco or Kierkegaard or Jung. I walked out to 16th street in downtown Indianapolis and waited for my mother to pick me up. The surroundings were now familiar, but very different from my rural hometown. I suppose I was trying to rebel when I came to Herron High School, mostly because I was tired of being the nerdy, unathletic honor roll student that had only seen her hometown and nothing more. And this was a change, for sure. Now I had a clean slate socially and a new landscape to enjoy, but learned quickly that I was very academically bored. Mr. Hurst, my Latin teacher, recognized this and so began our weekly philosophic meetings. And I did trust him, but at a price that I’m still paying.
Anyway, here is the very rough intro...:)
“Trust, Shuff, you just have to trust,” mumbled Mr. Hurst as I ambled out of his classroom, clutching my analysis of some Latin philosopher’s work and feeling deflated because once again Hurst had trumped my carefully worded argument. This was our tradition—a discussion of philosophy per week. I was getting more confident after every day that we spent analyzing Cicero or Socrates, sometimes Eco or Kierkegaard or Jung. I walked out to 16th street in downtown Indianapolis and waited for my mother to pick me up. The surroundings were now familiar, but very different from my rural hometown. I suppose I was trying to rebel when I came to Herron High School, mostly because I was tired of being the nerdy, unathletic honor roll student that had only seen her hometown and nothing more. And this was a change, for sure. Now I had a clean slate socially and a new landscape to enjoy, but learned quickly that I was very academically bored. Mr. Hurst, my Latin teacher, recognized this and so began our weekly philosophic meetings. And I did trust him, but at a price that I’m still paying.
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