I've come a long way since the raucous pots and pans and "2010" party hats from the last New Year.
In many ways I've stayed the same, but nobody really dwells on these aspects, do they? So let me detail the funny (and not-so-funny) advances/detractions that have shaped the girl sitting here, typing this.
1. High School --> College. College life has made me sassier and more inclined to stay up extremely late. It has also given me a new appreciation of elevators, and of food.
2. Vegetarianism. I don't really know when this happened, but it was surely some time after watching Food, Inc. and spending countless hours researching our disgusting meat industry. Not only do I feel much more awake because of this, but also more alive. I can't explain it, but vegetarianism had a profound impact on my personal choices, on my stomach (well I can explain that one), on my mindset.
3. Contacting Mr. Hurst. First time in...three years? I thought that, transitioning to college life, I needed closure. We spent a couple of hours on the phone asking and answering questions, catching up, etc. After I hung up, I went outside for a long run and felt like a huge weight had been lifted (even though it's cliche, this is totally the truth). This man has impacted my life in SO MANY WAYS, from my music choice to my handwriting. After talking to him, I was finally able to let go of a lot of regret, self-loathing and, yes, mild hatred.
4. Friends. I can say a lot about this. I have made friends whom I know will be my friends for a long time to come. The friendships that weren't going to survive, didn't. And those golden friends, the old ones, are the best friends I could hope for. Wow. I mean I know I'm introverted, and maybe I don't say it enough, but my friends mean the world to me. I've also recently made some new friends and am very excited to see where the world takes us.
5. Love. I thought I was in love. Perhaps I was, at the time. But looking back, I understand that the relationship I was in would not have survived. I wish that I didn't have to hurt anyone. But I don't want to be the girl who has second thoughts at her wedding. I don't want to be in a relationship just because of time, and because of other things that are beyond my control. It was the best choice, I am very confident in that, but led to a lot of bad choices on my part.
6. Boys. There are one, maybe two boys who I trust with my life and who I love dearly. The rest...eh. I don't think I am a good rebounder. Hence the bad choices comment above. First, there was half-Indian Nom Nom, who I'm ashamed to admit was nothing more than stupidity. Doesn't want to be in a committed relationship-- check! Drinks and smokes frequently-- check! He was a real winner. Honestly, he's a great friend though. And we had fun, I suppose. We wrestled, went on some dates, spent a lot of late nights watching King of the Hill, walked Ollie, played soccer. Then, there was J___ the Jalapeno on a stick. I'm still smarting from this wound, so we'll just say he's a player and leave it at that.
7. Living by myself. I have increased my independence tenfold. I cook for myself, I clean up after myself, I choose when I need to do homework, when I need to meditate, what I need to do next, etc. etc. I am very proud of my accomplishments in this area, and I can only hope that I continue to learn and grow.
8. The continuance of poetry. I'm SO GLAD I took creative writing class, because I admittedly stopped writing for a good while. I think it was because I was too comfortable. And you might say, there's no such thing as being too comfortable. But there is. I was so comfortable that I was unhappy. And so I just stopped writing, which sucks. Just like a soccer player getting his leg amputated (okay maybe not that drastic but it's the only way I can describe it. It hurt, like a lost limb. It was full of longing), I felt like I was missing such a huge part of myself and it was hindering me from expressing my emotions. I bottled up a lot of things, without my poetry. And now I have this fancy blog, I have my left-handed pen, I've got my favorite Miquelrius notebooks and I'm set for life.
9. Reuniting with my family. When I say family here, I mean my Aunt and my cousins. They came back from Florida, and I just wanted to cry. I hope that the New Year brings more opportunities for me to reunite with them. I miss them more than imaginable. For a while there, I was visiting Uncle Mike's grave and just crying, asking him why my family had to go through all of this. Now I understand that Uncle Mike's death created in me a huge passion for suicide prevention and awareness, has created a bond with my family that is stronger than ever, and has created obstacles that have overall made me a more open person.
10. Meditation. Other than getting caught by the police with Nigam in Holiday Park after hours meditating...umm...I think meditation has had an extremely positive effect on me. I have really embraced my spirituality. I know who I am, what I believe, and why I believe it. Generally, I have become an even more accepting person. I like being able to sit and appreciate the things around me. I also like sharing this time with others.
11. There are so many more parts of myself that have amplified, that have diminished, but I'll leave it at that :D
Happy New Year (almost) and hopefully you can go into 2011 with hope for wonderful things :)
Friday, December 31, 2010
Wednesday, December 8, 2010
Fiction
So I need to revise this to work out some kinks, but my professor really enjoyed it. Yes, it is based on a true story, and it may be difficult for some people to read. Know that I use my inspiration to honor the dead, to express feelings that I might otherwise suppress, to intertwine reality with fiction. In fact, I know that a lot of this is not reality, is nowhere near reality. Please do not be offended by the content-- it is merely a borrowed backbone.
His legs, sticky with sweat, are glued to the leather seat but he doesn’t care. The garage is dark and empty save the pasty flickering overhead light that always stays on due to a lightning storm about a year ago. He never got around to fixing it, and had forgotten about it until he came back today for the first time since the divorce. Something seems different about his old house; he feels like a stranger barging in on someone else’s life. It’s dead summer, but Mr. Brooks doesn’t notice because he’s falling asleep and his mind is far from thoughts of late nights and fireflies and cookouts. His minivan’s driver door is cracked open and the glint of a silver nozzle is almost unnoticeable, peeking into the car like an unwanted stranger.
Mr. Brooks dreams of cradling baby Joel in his arms when they first came home from the hospital (it seems like yesterday or an eternity ago), caressing the shock of blond peach fuzz so unlike his own dark brown curls. He dreams of God (hopes, but doubts He is real) sitting in the passenger seat, whispering words of encouragement and strength. He’s never been a religious man, but he yearns for the comfort of life after death. The smell of gasoline and oil permeates the dingy garage, and the hum of the engine lulls Mr. Brooks into a deep slumber. This time last year he was having a cookout with his family. He could still smell the blaze of hot dogs on the grill, Joel’s shampooed hair after a bath. His hands are grimy from his job repairing vehicles, with fingernails that are blackened and have been that way for decades. No headlights illuminate the garage, no friends or loved ones are thinking of Mr. Brooks tonight but are instead clearing the table after a filling dinner and reclining in their leather sofa-seats in preparation for Family Feud, or the Price Is Right. People are probably commenting on the nice weather, talking about vacations they will take and future plans. Inside the house, Mr. Brooks guesses Joel is probably fervently dreaming upstairs while Mrs. Brooks is on the loveseat, quite unaware (she’s always been a deep sleeper) that Mr. Brooks is in their garage despite a restraining order and a year of divorce. Mr. Brooks twitches, wipes his hands gingerly on his button-down, and prepares to die.
He remembers that the hospital was that egg-white sheen that glares like it wants to dissect and sanitize and absorb you into the deceivingly placid atmosphere. Jr. Brooks, four years old at the time, bounced past Mr. Brooks and jumped over to the kids section of the waiting room. Mr. Brooks didn’t want to watch his wife giving birth this time. He almost fainted when Jr. came. In fact, Brooks was perfectly content to sit in this little blue waiting room in his little blue chair, far away from the screaming and sweating Mrs. Brooks whose jaw was always clenched and whose dark eyes, though beautiful, were taunting and ready to fight. As a child, Mr. Brooks had learned to give space to women with mad eyes. A portly looking man in white glided over a few hours after Mr. Brooks’ arrival, smiling serenely.
“If you would follow me please, Mr. Brooks.” Brooks and Jr. swiftly follow him up the escalator, past the cafeteria and into Mrs. Brooks’ room, where she holds a bundle with peach- blond hair. Mr. Brooks is at first overjoyed because the baby’s light locks almost seem a miracle.
“Jr., you looked like a monkey when you were born. A monkey! Your black hair stuck out like a little fuzzball, all over the place. Out of control. ” Mr. Brooks gleams and tousles Jr.’s hair. Jr. giggles fiercely and peeks at his new brother.
“Must’ve been a blond gene somewhere in there,” coos Mrs. Brooks as she gazes adoringly at the baby bundle. For a second she tears her glance away from the baby and to Mr. Brooks, and looks uncomfortable because they both know but don’t vocalize the fact that a blond gene is almost impossible. Mr. Brooks has never met a relative without dark brown, curly hair, and Mrs. Brooks comes from a long, traceable line of Native Americans. Mr. Brooks pushes his discomfort to the very back folds of the mind where he can easily and happily forget about genes and probability.
Joel, his infant hands curling and uncurling, looks like an albino.
“Jr.! You’re too close, don’t scare him!” Mrs. Brooks whispers severely and Jr. backs away, looking ashamed. Mr. Brooks stays far from the hospital bed, knowing that he will hold his baby soon enough. He has plenty of time.
Mrs. and Mr. Brooks and Jr. drive home from the hospital with baby Joel. Six years of diaper changing, first steps, minor injuries and thank god no major injuries, Spongebob Squarepants, babbling, endless talking, eating, learning to read, and sleepless nights passed like a snapshot in a collage of yesterdays that want to be remembered. Mr. Brooks conveniently forgets Joel’s blond hair and light eyes and convinces himself (mostly) that somewhere deep within his family history was a blond-headed relative. He lives a comfortable, almost beautiful life with his wife and his children, despite the occasional furtive look or underhanded comment about light hair. Maybe the beauty of these years is only apparent because Mr. Brooks has so little time left. Maybe Mr. Brooks wishes Joel was never born, was never conceived.
On the day that he finds out, Mr. Brooks just returned from the garage. His blackened fingernails scrape in his one-size-too-tight jean pocket to fish out the ringing cellphone. Joel is six and a half years old, and Mr. Brooks lives in an ancient apartment a few towns away from his family.
“You know you haven’t paid child support this month! Why do you do this to me and the kids?! You’re a selfish son-of-a-bitch, I knew it from the beginning. Always thinking about yourself—“
“Now you wait one goddamned minute. When have I ever thought about myself? I’m living in a rat-infested apartment, for Christ’s sake! Where are you? In my house, on my furniture, living off of my money—“
“Your money?! You mean the money that I need to raise my kids! You don’t live with them, you don’t know what in the hell you’re talking about!”
“Your kids? Your kids? Are you that independent now that they’re no longer our kids?” Mr. Brooks’ palms are sweating and the phone slips for an instant and crashes against the cracked white linoleum kitchen floor. He gropes for the phone like a lifeline, wiping angry tears from his eyes that cloud his vision all too often now. It’s a shame he and his ex- wife can’t talk face-to-face anymore, but after she locked him out of his own home and slapped a restraining order on him, the relationship went downhill. She claimed he was a “threat to the children” because of his nightly beer, but Mr. Brooks just drinks as a man after a long day’s work; he needs to unwind. Anyway, the wife always gets custody of the children in a divorce, so the restraining order was just Ex-Mrs. Brooks’ way of laughing in his face. Oh well, it’s not like he can do anything about it anyway. He finally picks up the phone and dials his home number, emotionlessly listening to one ring, two, three…
“Why did you hang up on me?” Ex- Mrs. Brooks breathes furiously.
“The phone slipped—“ a pause.
“I can’t do this anymore. I can’t live like this.” She begins to jaggedly inhale like a dying camel.
“You can’t do what anymore? You have my house, my money, our kids. What more could you need?” Mr. Brooks speaks solemnly and slowly, like a business report.
“I mean, I can’t lie to you. He’s growing up and he’s starting to look less and less like you and I can’t lie anymore.” Ex- Mrs. Brooks rapidly and furiously breathes, quelling her mania. “When he was born, I thought it would be easy to cover it up, pass the hair color off on some distant branch of the family.”
Another pause.
“He’s not yours. He’s not your child.” She sucks in breath like a vacuum, waiting for an explosion. “He’s mine, but he’s not yours.”
The phone clicks off. Mr. Brooks doesn’t remember who hung up. They both saw this coming, but neither wanted to admit it.
Lining the grey-white apartment walls are tidbits of information—post-it note To-Do lists, pictures of Joel as an infant, potential email passwords. Mr. Brooks has spent months (he’s lost track of time) tracing every male correspondent of Mrs. Brooks. He sits at the kitchen table, remnants of last night’s Chinese takeout strewn across piles of notebook papers and pictures. Mr. Brooks rolls an empty bottle of Woodchuck Ale back and forth, back and forth, whistling jumpily and tapping his foot on the cracked linoleum. He re-checks his newest information (days old), looking ashamedly at his covert snapshots of Ex- Mrs. Brooks speaking animatedly in her driveway with a man. Mr. Brooks is tired of being that guy who lets all of the bad things happen to him; he needs to take action.
He’d had to borrow one of the vehicles from the garage in case she recognized the white minivan, but he’s been watching her come and go from the house for quite a while now, and she still hasn’t seen him. And this man in the snapshots he recognizes. Mr. Johnson, the family’s real estate agent. He is blond and thin, a few years older than Ex- Mrs. Brooks but in good enough physical condition to lie about his age and get away with it. He has one of those cheesy billboard smiles that consist of all teeth and no laugh lines. He is despicable, a rogue, a wife-stealing salesman with no morals. Mr. Brooks clenches the Ale so tightly that his knuckles turn white and his veins show bumpy blue against pale skin. Why would she want him? What does he have that Mr. Brooks doesn’t?
In the early evening, Mr. Brooks cruises down Main Street with his minivan window rolled down, checking for the wooden sign with “Johnson and Banhart Real Estate” neatly etched in bold red. There it is, right next to the failing beauty salon and the fire station. Mr. Brooks finds a place to park and walks inside the agency, knowing that Johnson is waving goodbye and getting ready to leave the building. All Mr. Brooks needs is a small talk, an affirmation of his wife’s infidelity, a key to understanding his own faults (why did she choose him?). Brooks corners Johnson just as his hand reaches the door handle.
“Excuse me, Mr. Johnson. You haven’t seen me since you sold us that house on Lewis Lane…no, no. I’m not looking for any real estate advice right now. I need to talk to you.” Mr. Brooks looks at Johnson with a mixture of anxiety and anger, because Johnson looks so composed and Brooks feels like a fluttering heartbeat or a pounding hammer or both.
“Mr. Brooks, it’s a pleasure. And I wondered about the real estate; that house was a real deal and I was sure you wouldn’t be dissatisfied. Let’s take this conversation outside, shall we?”
Mr. Brooks turns a deep shade of scarlet. Less than a few sentences into the conversation and he’s pushing his goddamn real estate agenda. He’s cracked. He slams the door forcefully and faces Mr. Johnson.
“Listen here, Mr. Johnson. I know what you did with my wife. I came here to tell you that if you come near Mrs. Brooks again, there will be consequences.” Mr. Brooks had rehearsed this line all night (he’d never said anything threatening to another person before), and knew that it sounded impressive and powerful. He waited, chest puffed out, for Johnson’s response.
“Mr. Brooks.” Johnson faltered for an instant, but looked squarely at Brooks. “Marty is not your wife. I clearly remember her filing for divorce. She doesn’t belong to you. She can talk to whomever she wants, including myself. You need to step off of this property before I call the police; I hope you understand that a threat is not tolerable. At the rate you’re going, you’ll never see your kids again.”
A pause. Mr. Brooks backs away, retreating to the minivan, knowing that he has lost.
My family. My family. The only family I know. I love them. Why? I spent fifteen years with her.
The night in the dim light of the dance hall she forced him to go to, she spun like a top and he asked to marry her.
My family. Her dad hated me, a blue-collar mechanic holding his middle-class daughter’s hand. Who was I to think she loved me, anyway? I had nothing to offer her.
He handed her the ring, looking bashfully at her clenched jawline, waiting for a smile that never came. Tears escaped her eyes, though, as she nodded her head.
My family. My sons. She was ready for a family, and so was I. They hardly know me now.
Jr. pedaled faster, faster on his bike until Brooks was able to let go and watch as his son gleefully rode down the street. Joel’s chubby fingers were pressed against the window, reaching for his daddy.
My family. My family. Who am I without my family? Nobody. I am a meaningless name. A forgotten face. A dark-haired man in a blond, happy family.
Mr. Brooks doesn’t know how he got to his home. He remembers driving, pulling into the garage, worrying that he would wake up the children, his ex-wife, even though their vehicle is gone and they must be enjoying a pleasant evening out.
The nozzle breathes release, whispering words of solace to Mr. Brooks who is sleeping. The pasty flickering overhead light clicks off, and Mr. Brooks heavily opens his eyes to darkness. For a moment, he sees Mrs. Brooks smiling, Jr. and Joel peeking out from behind her with giggles etched in their eyes. They fade.
His legs, sticky with sweat, are glued to the leather seat but he doesn’t care. The garage is dark and empty save the pasty flickering overhead light that always stays on due to a lightning storm about a year ago. He never got around to fixing it, and had forgotten about it until he came back today for the first time since the divorce. Something seems different about his old house; he feels like a stranger barging in on someone else’s life. It’s dead summer, but Mr. Brooks doesn’t notice because he’s falling asleep and his mind is far from thoughts of late nights and fireflies and cookouts. His minivan’s driver door is cracked open and the glint of a silver nozzle is almost unnoticeable, peeking into the car like an unwanted stranger.
Mr. Brooks dreams of cradling baby Joel in his arms when they first came home from the hospital (it seems like yesterday or an eternity ago), caressing the shock of blond peach fuzz so unlike his own dark brown curls. He dreams of God (hopes, but doubts He is real) sitting in the passenger seat, whispering words of encouragement and strength. He’s never been a religious man, but he yearns for the comfort of life after death. The smell of gasoline and oil permeates the dingy garage, and the hum of the engine lulls Mr. Brooks into a deep slumber. This time last year he was having a cookout with his family. He could still smell the blaze of hot dogs on the grill, Joel’s shampooed hair after a bath. His hands are grimy from his job repairing vehicles, with fingernails that are blackened and have been that way for decades. No headlights illuminate the garage, no friends or loved ones are thinking of Mr. Brooks tonight but are instead clearing the table after a filling dinner and reclining in their leather sofa-seats in preparation for Family Feud, or the Price Is Right. People are probably commenting on the nice weather, talking about vacations they will take and future plans. Inside the house, Mr. Brooks guesses Joel is probably fervently dreaming upstairs while Mrs. Brooks is on the loveseat, quite unaware (she’s always been a deep sleeper) that Mr. Brooks is in their garage despite a restraining order and a year of divorce. Mr. Brooks twitches, wipes his hands gingerly on his button-down, and prepares to die.
He remembers that the hospital was that egg-white sheen that glares like it wants to dissect and sanitize and absorb you into the deceivingly placid atmosphere. Jr. Brooks, four years old at the time, bounced past Mr. Brooks and jumped over to the kids section of the waiting room. Mr. Brooks didn’t want to watch his wife giving birth this time. He almost fainted when Jr. came. In fact, Brooks was perfectly content to sit in this little blue waiting room in his little blue chair, far away from the screaming and sweating Mrs. Brooks whose jaw was always clenched and whose dark eyes, though beautiful, were taunting and ready to fight. As a child, Mr. Brooks had learned to give space to women with mad eyes. A portly looking man in white glided over a few hours after Mr. Brooks’ arrival, smiling serenely.
“If you would follow me please, Mr. Brooks.” Brooks and Jr. swiftly follow him up the escalator, past the cafeteria and into Mrs. Brooks’ room, where she holds a bundle with peach- blond hair. Mr. Brooks is at first overjoyed because the baby’s light locks almost seem a miracle.
“Jr., you looked like a monkey when you were born. A monkey! Your black hair stuck out like a little fuzzball, all over the place. Out of control. ” Mr. Brooks gleams and tousles Jr.’s hair. Jr. giggles fiercely and peeks at his new brother.
“Must’ve been a blond gene somewhere in there,” coos Mrs. Brooks as she gazes adoringly at the baby bundle. For a second she tears her glance away from the baby and to Mr. Brooks, and looks uncomfortable because they both know but don’t vocalize the fact that a blond gene is almost impossible. Mr. Brooks has never met a relative without dark brown, curly hair, and Mrs. Brooks comes from a long, traceable line of Native Americans. Mr. Brooks pushes his discomfort to the very back folds of the mind where he can easily and happily forget about genes and probability.
Joel, his infant hands curling and uncurling, looks like an albino.
“Jr.! You’re too close, don’t scare him!” Mrs. Brooks whispers severely and Jr. backs away, looking ashamed. Mr. Brooks stays far from the hospital bed, knowing that he will hold his baby soon enough. He has plenty of time.
Mrs. and Mr. Brooks and Jr. drive home from the hospital with baby Joel. Six years of diaper changing, first steps, minor injuries and thank god no major injuries, Spongebob Squarepants, babbling, endless talking, eating, learning to read, and sleepless nights passed like a snapshot in a collage of yesterdays that want to be remembered. Mr. Brooks conveniently forgets Joel’s blond hair and light eyes and convinces himself (mostly) that somewhere deep within his family history was a blond-headed relative. He lives a comfortable, almost beautiful life with his wife and his children, despite the occasional furtive look or underhanded comment about light hair. Maybe the beauty of these years is only apparent because Mr. Brooks has so little time left. Maybe Mr. Brooks wishes Joel was never born, was never conceived.
On the day that he finds out, Mr. Brooks just returned from the garage. His blackened fingernails scrape in his one-size-too-tight jean pocket to fish out the ringing cellphone. Joel is six and a half years old, and Mr. Brooks lives in an ancient apartment a few towns away from his family.
“You know you haven’t paid child support this month! Why do you do this to me and the kids?! You’re a selfish son-of-a-bitch, I knew it from the beginning. Always thinking about yourself—“
“Now you wait one goddamned minute. When have I ever thought about myself? I’m living in a rat-infested apartment, for Christ’s sake! Where are you? In my house, on my furniture, living off of my money—“
“Your money?! You mean the money that I need to raise my kids! You don’t live with them, you don’t know what in the hell you’re talking about!”
“Your kids? Your kids? Are you that independent now that they’re no longer our kids?” Mr. Brooks’ palms are sweating and the phone slips for an instant and crashes against the cracked white linoleum kitchen floor. He gropes for the phone like a lifeline, wiping angry tears from his eyes that cloud his vision all too often now. It’s a shame he and his ex- wife can’t talk face-to-face anymore, but after she locked him out of his own home and slapped a restraining order on him, the relationship went downhill. She claimed he was a “threat to the children” because of his nightly beer, but Mr. Brooks just drinks as a man after a long day’s work; he needs to unwind. Anyway, the wife always gets custody of the children in a divorce, so the restraining order was just Ex-Mrs. Brooks’ way of laughing in his face. Oh well, it’s not like he can do anything about it anyway. He finally picks up the phone and dials his home number, emotionlessly listening to one ring, two, three…
“Why did you hang up on me?” Ex- Mrs. Brooks breathes furiously.
“The phone slipped—“ a pause.
“I can’t do this anymore. I can’t live like this.” She begins to jaggedly inhale like a dying camel.
“You can’t do what anymore? You have my house, my money, our kids. What more could you need?” Mr. Brooks speaks solemnly and slowly, like a business report.
“I mean, I can’t lie to you. He’s growing up and he’s starting to look less and less like you and I can’t lie anymore.” Ex- Mrs. Brooks rapidly and furiously breathes, quelling her mania. “When he was born, I thought it would be easy to cover it up, pass the hair color off on some distant branch of the family.”
Another pause.
“He’s not yours. He’s not your child.” She sucks in breath like a vacuum, waiting for an explosion. “He’s mine, but he’s not yours.”
The phone clicks off. Mr. Brooks doesn’t remember who hung up. They both saw this coming, but neither wanted to admit it.
Lining the grey-white apartment walls are tidbits of information—post-it note To-Do lists, pictures of Joel as an infant, potential email passwords. Mr. Brooks has spent months (he’s lost track of time) tracing every male correspondent of Mrs. Brooks. He sits at the kitchen table, remnants of last night’s Chinese takeout strewn across piles of notebook papers and pictures. Mr. Brooks rolls an empty bottle of Woodchuck Ale back and forth, back and forth, whistling jumpily and tapping his foot on the cracked linoleum. He re-checks his newest information (days old), looking ashamedly at his covert snapshots of Ex- Mrs. Brooks speaking animatedly in her driveway with a man. Mr. Brooks is tired of being that guy who lets all of the bad things happen to him; he needs to take action.
He’d had to borrow one of the vehicles from the garage in case she recognized the white minivan, but he’s been watching her come and go from the house for quite a while now, and she still hasn’t seen him. And this man in the snapshots he recognizes. Mr. Johnson, the family’s real estate agent. He is blond and thin, a few years older than Ex- Mrs. Brooks but in good enough physical condition to lie about his age and get away with it. He has one of those cheesy billboard smiles that consist of all teeth and no laugh lines. He is despicable, a rogue, a wife-stealing salesman with no morals. Mr. Brooks clenches the Ale so tightly that his knuckles turn white and his veins show bumpy blue against pale skin. Why would she want him? What does he have that Mr. Brooks doesn’t?
In the early evening, Mr. Brooks cruises down Main Street with his minivan window rolled down, checking for the wooden sign with “Johnson and Banhart Real Estate” neatly etched in bold red. There it is, right next to the failing beauty salon and the fire station. Mr. Brooks finds a place to park and walks inside the agency, knowing that Johnson is waving goodbye and getting ready to leave the building. All Mr. Brooks needs is a small talk, an affirmation of his wife’s infidelity, a key to understanding his own faults (why did she choose him?). Brooks corners Johnson just as his hand reaches the door handle.
“Excuse me, Mr. Johnson. You haven’t seen me since you sold us that house on Lewis Lane…no, no. I’m not looking for any real estate advice right now. I need to talk to you.” Mr. Brooks looks at Johnson with a mixture of anxiety and anger, because Johnson looks so composed and Brooks feels like a fluttering heartbeat or a pounding hammer or both.
“Mr. Brooks, it’s a pleasure. And I wondered about the real estate; that house was a real deal and I was sure you wouldn’t be dissatisfied. Let’s take this conversation outside, shall we?”
Mr. Brooks turns a deep shade of scarlet. Less than a few sentences into the conversation and he’s pushing his goddamn real estate agenda. He’s cracked. He slams the door forcefully and faces Mr. Johnson.
“Listen here, Mr. Johnson. I know what you did with my wife. I came here to tell you that if you come near Mrs. Brooks again, there will be consequences.” Mr. Brooks had rehearsed this line all night (he’d never said anything threatening to another person before), and knew that it sounded impressive and powerful. He waited, chest puffed out, for Johnson’s response.
“Mr. Brooks.” Johnson faltered for an instant, but looked squarely at Brooks. “Marty is not your wife. I clearly remember her filing for divorce. She doesn’t belong to you. She can talk to whomever she wants, including myself. You need to step off of this property before I call the police; I hope you understand that a threat is not tolerable. At the rate you’re going, you’ll never see your kids again.”
A pause. Mr. Brooks backs away, retreating to the minivan, knowing that he has lost.
My family. My family. The only family I know. I love them. Why? I spent fifteen years with her.
The night in the dim light of the dance hall she forced him to go to, she spun like a top and he asked to marry her.
My family. Her dad hated me, a blue-collar mechanic holding his middle-class daughter’s hand. Who was I to think she loved me, anyway? I had nothing to offer her.
He handed her the ring, looking bashfully at her clenched jawline, waiting for a smile that never came. Tears escaped her eyes, though, as she nodded her head.
My family. My sons. She was ready for a family, and so was I. They hardly know me now.
Jr. pedaled faster, faster on his bike until Brooks was able to let go and watch as his son gleefully rode down the street. Joel’s chubby fingers were pressed against the window, reaching for his daddy.
My family. My family. Who am I without my family? Nobody. I am a meaningless name. A forgotten face. A dark-haired man in a blond, happy family.
Mr. Brooks doesn’t know how he got to his home. He remembers driving, pulling into the garage, worrying that he would wake up the children, his ex-wife, even though their vehicle is gone and they must be enjoying a pleasant evening out.
The nozzle breathes release, whispering words of solace to Mr. Brooks who is sleeping. The pasty flickering overhead light clicks off, and Mr. Brooks heavily opens his eyes to darkness. For a moment, he sees Mrs. Brooks smiling, Jr. and Joel peeking out from behind her with giggles etched in their eyes. They fade.
Finished One Act
Here it is...YAY!!
Joy and Sorrow
Chastity- a young girl who thinks she is in love with a man who doesn’t love her back.
Todd- The object of the girl’s affection
Joy- A figure in white, representing joy in life.
Sorrow- A cloaked figure, representing sorrow in life.
Joy and Sorrow are sitting on a bed in a plain, feminine-looking bedroom.
Joy: Really, Sorrow, lighten up a bit!
Sorrow: Easy for you to say, when you can blind the world with just your smile (breaks into sobs).
Joy: Not this again…you know that I can’t help it. Those whitening strips really had
an effect. (laughs)
Sorrow: And all I can do is cry, cry, cry. (snivels)
Joy: Not if you dry your eyes. (holds out a handkerchief)
Sorrow: And then I’d moan and groan and cry some more. I’m pathetic, Joy, really (quietly crying).
Joy: Turn that frown upside-down! She’s coming soon and you want to make a good impression.
Sorrow: Do I really? She’ll just be looking for melancholy company, anyway. That’s why I’m here, isn’t it? Let her take another swig from the self-loathing bottle?
Joy: Well I’m going to make a good impression, anyway. How’s my dress?
Sorrow: Pristine, as always (snivels).
Joy: How’s my hair?
Sorrow: Sparkling with the light of a thousand suns, nothing new (begins to cry).
Joy: My smile? (Smiles widely)
Sorrow: (sobbing) You’re perfect, perfect!! I’ll never even come close. She’s going to think I’m despicable, I know it.
Joy: Don’t say that, Sorrow. Chastity has no idea what to think right now.
Sorrow: O woe is me! Once she sees you, she’ll know what to think.
Joy: We both know that this is an important time for her, and it’s our job to stay in this together, all right? We’re the Blues Brothers, on a mission from God! We’re the perfect balance, can’t have one without the other! Right? Am I right? (laughs heartily)
Sorrow: If you say so. It’s just that, every other time we’ve come she always picks you. And then I have to face the pain of rejection, again and again. It’s almost too much; I want her all to myself, sometimes.
Joy: Remember when her daddy died when she was ten? You had her for a good two years, and I only got to come around during the holidays.
Sorrow: Of course I remember. She looked good in mourning. Like a little heartbroken angel.
Joy: Well she’s eighteen now. Not so little anymore! (laughs)
Sorrow: No, not so little. And in love! (spits out the word, and begins to cry again)
Joy: Yes, in love! (laughs, gets up and skips around the room) Isn’t it marvelous?
Sorrow: Love, marvelous? Love? Love is the reason so many of these humans turn away from you and come to me.
Joy: (stops mid-skip) …Oh, you’re right. (shrugs and smiles) But it’s worth it, just to feel love for a second! To get those butterflies in your stomach, to never want to leave his arms, to look at him and see your world reflected in his eyes! It’s the most beautiful feeling in the world!
Sorrow: (muttering) Easy for you to say, you don’t see them when they’ve fallen, when they’re begging me to take the pain away, when they start to realize that he took a part of them when he left, and that he’s never coming back. You don’t see them when love tears them apart.
(from offstage you can hear giggling and talking)
Joy: They’re here!
Sorrow: Oh, blessed day, the two doomed lovers have arrived.
(enter Chastity and Todd, holding hands, Chastity is gazing at Todd adoringly. They cannot see or hear Joy and Sorrow)
Chastity: Can you imagine? Six months today. Todd, I had such a wonderful time with you this evening.
Todd: Well, yeah, me too Chastity. But I really need to talk to you.
Chastity: Wait just a second! I have a surprise. Close your eyes, now.
(Todd closes his eyes and Chastity quickly runs to the bed, lifts up her pillow, and picks up a shell necklace. She comes over to Todd)
Chastity: Okay, open your eyes! (Todd opens them and Chastity holds out the necklace) It’s my dad’s old shell necklace; he was always superstitious. He’d wear this when he was in the hospital; he thought it would protect him from the cancer.
Todd: Chastity, I can’t take this.
Chastity: Todd, I love you.
Sorrow: Oh, no.
Joy: Oh, yes!
(pause)
Todd: Chastity…I just can’t take it. I’m sorry.
Chastity: But I want you to have it, Todd. I’m in love with you. You make me laugh, and smile…you make me happy! I know it’s only been six months, but I’ve never been happier in my life!
Joy: See, Sorrow, this is why I love love!
Todd: How do I say this? (pause) I had a good time with you, Chastity. But I’m not ready for this. I mean, I’m not ready for a commitment. We’re only eighteen. You’ll be going off to a college that’s halfway across the country. I’ll be here.
Chastity: (almost pleading) We’ve talked about this, Todd. We can make it work.
Todd: No, we can’t. It won’t work. I’ve kept this together for too long, and we won’t work anymore. I have to go now, Chastity.
Sorrow: See, Joy, this is why I despise love.
Chastity: (clutching the necklace, looking at Todd’s retreating figure) No, no, no. (Sits on the bed with head in hands and begins to cry)
Joy: Cheer up, buttercup!
Sorrow: Joy, this is no time to give your little motivational speeches! Can’t you tell she’s heartbroken?
Joy: Chastity, think about it! Remember the moments you shared together!
Chastity: (looking up) Todd always took me to the park, and we’d walk for hours until the moon came out and we could see the stars. And our first date…
Joy: He took you ice-skating and you held hands,
Chastity: but I told him it didn’t count because we were both wearing gloves.
Sorrow: Don’t encourage her, Joy. Chastity, think about the first big fight.
Chastity: He never wanted to lose an argument. I told him that I believed in God. He wasn’t very religious.
Sorrow: And so he told you that your God was fake. Remember?
Joy: But he apologized! And you only got closer after that. It’s about embracing differences, about loving against the odds! Wasn’t that first kiss magical?
Chastity: He was too shy to just kiss me, so he asked first. I took him to visit my dad’s grave; it wasn’t very romantic, but it was important to me.
Joy: And his lips erased Sorrow from your mind.
Sorrow: But I came back, Joy. I always come back. Chastity, don’t forget the time you caught him cheating.
Chastity: Well, he wasn’t really cheating, but he started talking to Sarah. And they kissed. He told me they kissed.
Sorrow: That’s what love gives you. Jealousy. Betrayal.
Joy: But it also gives you thousands of moments of pure bliss!
Sorrow: Do you really think the Joy can take away the Sorrow? Do you really think the good times can take away the bad?
Chastity: I was lost without Daddy. He was gone, no matter how much fun we had together. And now Todd is gone, too. (gets up from the bed, and throws the shell necklace across the room)
Sorrow: And it’s only so long before everything you love leaves you.
Joy: But to live and to love, that’s all that matters! It makes no difference if you lose everything; you still have the memories!
Chastity: But he’s gone, he’s gone. They’re all gone. What do I have now? My memories? That’s a joke. (laughs bitterly)
Joy: Chastity, that’s not how you should be laughing.
Chastity: Six months, wasted.
Sorrow: Love isn’t real.
Joy: Love is everything!
Chastity: What was I thinking? That he loved me back? Who could love me?
Sorrow: I could love you, Chastity.
Joy: I do love you, Chastity!
Chastity: I am unlovable. (goes over to pick up the shell necklace and acts as though she’s going to break it)
Sorrow: I could love you, I could love you. Come to me. (Sorrow reaches out to Chastity and holds her in his arms. Chastity begins to sob)
Joy: She can’t be yours forever, Sorrow. Eventually she’ll come back to me. She’s just thinking irrationally right now. (Joy reaches out to touch Chastity’s hair, picks up the shell necklace and walks out of the room)
Sorrow: No more Joy. Nothing left to live for. Chastity, I can’t see you hurt again. I don’t want to see you crying anymore. Joy can’t know how much it hurts, to only be with you in the worst times. To never see you laugh, to never see you smile. I don’t want you to hurt anymore. I want to take the pain away. I want to bathe you in Sorrow until you can’t feel anything.
Chastity: I don’t want to hurt anymore. (Chastity lays down on the bed and Sorrow picks up a pillow)
Sorrow: I want you forever. Forget about Joy. The pain will only last for a minute longer. You can sleep in your memories.
(Sorrow smothers the girl with her pillow; fade to black)
Joy and Sorrow
Chastity- a young girl who thinks she is in love with a man who doesn’t love her back.
Todd- The object of the girl’s affection
Joy- A figure in white, representing joy in life.
Sorrow- A cloaked figure, representing sorrow in life.
Joy and Sorrow are sitting on a bed in a plain, feminine-looking bedroom.
Joy: Really, Sorrow, lighten up a bit!
Sorrow: Easy for you to say, when you can blind the world with just your smile (breaks into sobs).
Joy: Not this again…you know that I can’t help it. Those whitening strips really had
an effect. (laughs)
Sorrow: And all I can do is cry, cry, cry. (snivels)
Joy: Not if you dry your eyes. (holds out a handkerchief)
Sorrow: And then I’d moan and groan and cry some more. I’m pathetic, Joy, really (quietly crying).
Joy: Turn that frown upside-down! She’s coming soon and you want to make a good impression.
Sorrow: Do I really? She’ll just be looking for melancholy company, anyway. That’s why I’m here, isn’t it? Let her take another swig from the self-loathing bottle?
Joy: Well I’m going to make a good impression, anyway. How’s my dress?
Sorrow: Pristine, as always (snivels).
Joy: How’s my hair?
Sorrow: Sparkling with the light of a thousand suns, nothing new (begins to cry).
Joy: My smile? (Smiles widely)
Sorrow: (sobbing) You’re perfect, perfect!! I’ll never even come close. She’s going to think I’m despicable, I know it.
Joy: Don’t say that, Sorrow. Chastity has no idea what to think right now.
Sorrow: O woe is me! Once she sees you, she’ll know what to think.
Joy: We both know that this is an important time for her, and it’s our job to stay in this together, all right? We’re the Blues Brothers, on a mission from God! We’re the perfect balance, can’t have one without the other! Right? Am I right? (laughs heartily)
Sorrow: If you say so. It’s just that, every other time we’ve come she always picks you. And then I have to face the pain of rejection, again and again. It’s almost too much; I want her all to myself, sometimes.
Joy: Remember when her daddy died when she was ten? You had her for a good two years, and I only got to come around during the holidays.
Sorrow: Of course I remember. She looked good in mourning. Like a little heartbroken angel.
Joy: Well she’s eighteen now. Not so little anymore! (laughs)
Sorrow: No, not so little. And in love! (spits out the word, and begins to cry again)
Joy: Yes, in love! (laughs, gets up and skips around the room) Isn’t it marvelous?
Sorrow: Love, marvelous? Love? Love is the reason so many of these humans turn away from you and come to me.
Joy: (stops mid-skip) …Oh, you’re right. (shrugs and smiles) But it’s worth it, just to feel love for a second! To get those butterflies in your stomach, to never want to leave his arms, to look at him and see your world reflected in his eyes! It’s the most beautiful feeling in the world!
Sorrow: (muttering) Easy for you to say, you don’t see them when they’ve fallen, when they’re begging me to take the pain away, when they start to realize that he took a part of them when he left, and that he’s never coming back. You don’t see them when love tears them apart.
(from offstage you can hear giggling and talking)
Joy: They’re here!
Sorrow: Oh, blessed day, the two doomed lovers have arrived.
(enter Chastity and Todd, holding hands, Chastity is gazing at Todd adoringly. They cannot see or hear Joy and Sorrow)
Chastity: Can you imagine? Six months today. Todd, I had such a wonderful time with you this evening.
Todd: Well, yeah, me too Chastity. But I really need to talk to you.
Chastity: Wait just a second! I have a surprise. Close your eyes, now.
(Todd closes his eyes and Chastity quickly runs to the bed, lifts up her pillow, and picks up a shell necklace. She comes over to Todd)
Chastity: Okay, open your eyes! (Todd opens them and Chastity holds out the necklace) It’s my dad’s old shell necklace; he was always superstitious. He’d wear this when he was in the hospital; he thought it would protect him from the cancer.
Todd: Chastity, I can’t take this.
Chastity: Todd, I love you.
Sorrow: Oh, no.
Joy: Oh, yes!
(pause)
Todd: Chastity…I just can’t take it. I’m sorry.
Chastity: But I want you to have it, Todd. I’m in love with you. You make me laugh, and smile…you make me happy! I know it’s only been six months, but I’ve never been happier in my life!
Joy: See, Sorrow, this is why I love love!
Todd: How do I say this? (pause) I had a good time with you, Chastity. But I’m not ready for this. I mean, I’m not ready for a commitment. We’re only eighteen. You’ll be going off to a college that’s halfway across the country. I’ll be here.
Chastity: (almost pleading) We’ve talked about this, Todd. We can make it work.
Todd: No, we can’t. It won’t work. I’ve kept this together for too long, and we won’t work anymore. I have to go now, Chastity.
Sorrow: See, Joy, this is why I despise love.
Chastity: (clutching the necklace, looking at Todd’s retreating figure) No, no, no. (Sits on the bed with head in hands and begins to cry)
Joy: Cheer up, buttercup!
Sorrow: Joy, this is no time to give your little motivational speeches! Can’t you tell she’s heartbroken?
Joy: Chastity, think about it! Remember the moments you shared together!
Chastity: (looking up) Todd always took me to the park, and we’d walk for hours until the moon came out and we could see the stars. And our first date…
Joy: He took you ice-skating and you held hands,
Chastity: but I told him it didn’t count because we were both wearing gloves.
Sorrow: Don’t encourage her, Joy. Chastity, think about the first big fight.
Chastity: He never wanted to lose an argument. I told him that I believed in God. He wasn’t very religious.
Sorrow: And so he told you that your God was fake. Remember?
Joy: But he apologized! And you only got closer after that. It’s about embracing differences, about loving against the odds! Wasn’t that first kiss magical?
Chastity: He was too shy to just kiss me, so he asked first. I took him to visit my dad’s grave; it wasn’t very romantic, but it was important to me.
Joy: And his lips erased Sorrow from your mind.
Sorrow: But I came back, Joy. I always come back. Chastity, don’t forget the time you caught him cheating.
Chastity: Well, he wasn’t really cheating, but he started talking to Sarah. And they kissed. He told me they kissed.
Sorrow: That’s what love gives you. Jealousy. Betrayal.
Joy: But it also gives you thousands of moments of pure bliss!
Sorrow: Do you really think the Joy can take away the Sorrow? Do you really think the good times can take away the bad?
Chastity: I was lost without Daddy. He was gone, no matter how much fun we had together. And now Todd is gone, too. (gets up from the bed, and throws the shell necklace across the room)
Sorrow: And it’s only so long before everything you love leaves you.
Joy: But to live and to love, that’s all that matters! It makes no difference if you lose everything; you still have the memories!
Chastity: But he’s gone, he’s gone. They’re all gone. What do I have now? My memories? That’s a joke. (laughs bitterly)
Joy: Chastity, that’s not how you should be laughing.
Chastity: Six months, wasted.
Sorrow: Love isn’t real.
Joy: Love is everything!
Chastity: What was I thinking? That he loved me back? Who could love me?
Sorrow: I could love you, Chastity.
Joy: I do love you, Chastity!
Chastity: I am unlovable. (goes over to pick up the shell necklace and acts as though she’s going to break it)
Sorrow: I could love you, I could love you. Come to me. (Sorrow reaches out to Chastity and holds her in his arms. Chastity begins to sob)
Joy: She can’t be yours forever, Sorrow. Eventually she’ll come back to me. She’s just thinking irrationally right now. (Joy reaches out to touch Chastity’s hair, picks up the shell necklace and walks out of the room)
Sorrow: No more Joy. Nothing left to live for. Chastity, I can’t see you hurt again. I don’t want to see you crying anymore. Joy can’t know how much it hurts, to only be with you in the worst times. To never see you laugh, to never see you smile. I don’t want you to hurt anymore. I want to take the pain away. I want to bathe you in Sorrow until you can’t feel anything.
Chastity: I don’t want to hurt anymore. (Chastity lays down on the bed and Sorrow picks up a pillow)
Sorrow: I want you forever. Forget about Joy. The pain will only last for a minute longer. You can sleep in your memories.
(Sorrow smothers the girl with her pillow; fade to black)
Tuesday, December 7, 2010
NEW One Act
So I decided that I really don't like my old One Act. It was time to make a new one :)
Here's the beginning...what I have done so far. This is the first movement...I'll have two more and I'll post them as soon as I finish :)
Chastity- a young girl who thinks she is in love with a man who doesn’t love her back.
Todd- The object of the girl’s affection
Joy- A figure in white, representing joy in life.
Sorrow- A cloaked figure, representing sorrow in life.
Joy and Sorrow are sitting on a bed in a plain, feminine-looking bedroom.
Joy: Really, Sorrow, lighten up a bit!
Sorrow: Easy for you to say, when you can blind the world with just your smile (breaks into sobs).
Joy: Not this again…you know that I can’t help it. Those whitening strips really had
an effect. (laughs)
Sorrow: And all I can do is cry, cry, cry. (snivels)
Joy: Not if you dry your eyes. (holds out a handkerchief)
Sorrow: And then I’d moan and groan and cry some more. I’m pathetic, Joy, really (quietly crying).
Joy: Turn that frown upside-down! She’s coming soon and you want to make a good impression.
Sorrow: Do I really? She’ll just be looking for melancholy company, anyway. That’s why I’m here, isn’t it? Let her take another swig from the self-loathing bottle?
Joy: Well I’m going to make a good impression, anyway. How’s my dress?
Sorrow: Pristine, as always (snivels).
Joy: How’s my hair?
Sorrow: Sparkling with the light of a thousand suns, nothing new (begins to cry).
Joy: My smile? (Smiles widely)
Sorrow: (sobbing) You’re perfect, perfect!! I’ll never even come close. She’s going to think I’m despicable, I know it.
Joy: Don’t say that, Sorrow. Chastity has no idea what to think right now.
Sorrow: O woe is me! Once she sees you, she’ll know what to think.
Joy: We both know that this is an important time for her, and it’s our job to stay in this together, all right? We’re the Blues Brothers, on a mission from God! We’re the perfect balance, can’t have one without the other! Right? Am I right? (laughs heartily)
Sorrow: If you say so. It’s just that, every other time we’ve come she always picks you. And then I have to face the pain of rejection, again and again. It’s almost too much; I want her all to myself, sometimes.
Joy: Remember when her daddy died when she was ten? You had her for a good two years, and I only got to come around during the holidays.
Sorrow: Of course I remember. She looked good in mourning. Like a little heartbroken angel.
Joy: Well she’s eighteen now. Not so little anymore! (laughs)
Sorrow: No, not so little. And in love! (spits out the word, and begins to cry again)
Joy: Yes, in love! (laughs, gets up and skips around the room) Isn’t it marvelous?
Sorrow: Love, marvelous? Love? Love is the reason so many of these humans turn away from you and come to me.
Joy: (stops mid-skip) …Oh, you’re right. (shrugs and smiles) But it’s worth it, just to feel love for a second! To get those butterflies in your stomach, to never want to leave his arms, to look at him and see your world reflected in his eyes! It’s the most beautiful feeling in the world!
Sorrow: (muttering) Easy for you to say, you don’t see them when they’ve fallen, when they’re begging me to take the pain away, when they start to realize that he took a part of them when he left, and that he’s never coming back. You don’t see them when love tears them apart.
Here's the beginning...what I have done so far. This is the first movement...I'll have two more and I'll post them as soon as I finish :)
Chastity- a young girl who thinks she is in love with a man who doesn’t love her back.
Todd- The object of the girl’s affection
Joy- A figure in white, representing joy in life.
Sorrow- A cloaked figure, representing sorrow in life.
Joy and Sorrow are sitting on a bed in a plain, feminine-looking bedroom.
Joy: Really, Sorrow, lighten up a bit!
Sorrow: Easy for you to say, when you can blind the world with just your smile (breaks into sobs).
Joy: Not this again…you know that I can’t help it. Those whitening strips really had
an effect. (laughs)
Sorrow: And all I can do is cry, cry, cry. (snivels)
Joy: Not if you dry your eyes. (holds out a handkerchief)
Sorrow: And then I’d moan and groan and cry some more. I’m pathetic, Joy, really (quietly crying).
Joy: Turn that frown upside-down! She’s coming soon and you want to make a good impression.
Sorrow: Do I really? She’ll just be looking for melancholy company, anyway. That’s why I’m here, isn’t it? Let her take another swig from the self-loathing bottle?
Joy: Well I’m going to make a good impression, anyway. How’s my dress?
Sorrow: Pristine, as always (snivels).
Joy: How’s my hair?
Sorrow: Sparkling with the light of a thousand suns, nothing new (begins to cry).
Joy: My smile? (Smiles widely)
Sorrow: (sobbing) You’re perfect, perfect!! I’ll never even come close. She’s going to think I’m despicable, I know it.
Joy: Don’t say that, Sorrow. Chastity has no idea what to think right now.
Sorrow: O woe is me! Once she sees you, she’ll know what to think.
Joy: We both know that this is an important time for her, and it’s our job to stay in this together, all right? We’re the Blues Brothers, on a mission from God! We’re the perfect balance, can’t have one without the other! Right? Am I right? (laughs heartily)
Sorrow: If you say so. It’s just that, every other time we’ve come she always picks you. And then I have to face the pain of rejection, again and again. It’s almost too much; I want her all to myself, sometimes.
Joy: Remember when her daddy died when she was ten? You had her for a good two years, and I only got to come around during the holidays.
Sorrow: Of course I remember. She looked good in mourning. Like a little heartbroken angel.
Joy: Well she’s eighteen now. Not so little anymore! (laughs)
Sorrow: No, not so little. And in love! (spits out the word, and begins to cry again)
Joy: Yes, in love! (laughs, gets up and skips around the room) Isn’t it marvelous?
Sorrow: Love, marvelous? Love? Love is the reason so many of these humans turn away from you and come to me.
Joy: (stops mid-skip) …Oh, you’re right. (shrugs and smiles) But it’s worth it, just to feel love for a second! To get those butterflies in your stomach, to never want to leave his arms, to look at him and see your world reflected in his eyes! It’s the most beautiful feeling in the world!
Sorrow: (muttering) Easy for you to say, you don’t see them when they’ve fallen, when they’re begging me to take the pain away, when they start to realize that he took a part of them when he left, and that he’s never coming back. You don’t see them when love tears them apart.
Sunday, November 28, 2010
Optical Illusion
So I really should be writing my one-act play at the moment, but I suppose that any sort of inspiration will come to me in time. Hopefully. I had to write this because my life is feeling rather optical-illusion-y at the moment. So let me begin.
We are all characterized by the things we say and do on the outside. A hairstyle, a body type, a gesture, a greeting, a conversation. Now some might say that what we say directly correlates with how we are on the inside, but I beg to differ. Much of what I say has nothing to do with what I'm feeling on the inside. My mouth is definitely the filter between my thoughts and vocalized speech. When I'm writing, the thoughts simply explode from my fingertips. Anyway, it is necessity that we characterize people by their outside actions and make-up, because obviously we do not know what is inside and have no way of getting to know one another unless we characterize in this way. Now the question is, do we ever get to know the "inside" of a person? Can we every break that boundary of physical body and actually connect with the mind and soul of another? The answer is no. Yeah, right, Ashley the eternal optimist here, saying that it is impossible to get to know another's true inside self. But I've just come to the realization that we are all sort of optical illusions, that people perceive us in one way that probably differs greatly from reality (our self-reality). Let me explain.
Let us say that I have just met a guy. He casually introduces himself, I introduce myself. From his looks and his forward attitude, he seems very confident and charming. He asks for my number. Now-- what is his motivation? Do I really know? No, of course I don't. I simply know that an attractive guy asked for my number, so I give it to him. What is my motivation? He doesn't know either. Perhaps he's fallen in love, and I am just giving him my number because he looks nice (that would suck). Perhaps he's dating another girl and I look like the type to play the game. Perhaps he's simply interested in getting to know me. No matter what we're thinking, this exchange is going to amount to something and both of us will have preconceived notions of what it will amount to, and this shapes the relationship regardless of what we are thinking on the inside. And then a series of events unfold that make or break the relationship <-- Don't even get me started on the "relationship game". That is for another blog post :) But regardless of how close I get to this guy, I will never know his motivations, I will never know what he's thinking or feeling on the inside; I can only characterize him based on what he says or does to me.
Let's just say that I have known these people for my entire life. Just recently I've learned things that days ago I would have laughed off and said were untrue. However, what I've learned is true beyond a shadow of a doubt, and now I'm left to pick up the pieces of a shattered optical illusion. I've caught a glimpse of the objective reality and now I'm sitting here confused staring at a life that I thought was true with people I thought I knew very well. Did I really know these people? Yes and no. I know a conglomeration of events and words and actions that have taken place over the years; I know the emotions and memories of these people. But I do not know these people on the inside.
And that is what is so hard for me. To think that we spend our lives communicating, but that this communication is all just a facade in front of the real thing. I could spend my life lying and nobody would be the wiser. I could spend my life telling the truth and nobody would know the difference.
It's interesting. As you can probably tell I don't like petty relationships. All that, "hey what's up?" "how are you?" "good" stuff that goes on every day. Once I talk to a person, it's hit or miss. If I like you I love you, and if I don't like you then I'm not going to pursue anything. Problem is, not a lot of people feel this way, so I'm typically left reeling after throwing myself into the hesitant arms of another.
We are all characterized by the things we say and do on the outside. A hairstyle, a body type, a gesture, a greeting, a conversation. Now some might say that what we say directly correlates with how we are on the inside, but I beg to differ. Much of what I say has nothing to do with what I'm feeling on the inside. My mouth is definitely the filter between my thoughts and vocalized speech. When I'm writing, the thoughts simply explode from my fingertips. Anyway, it is necessity that we characterize people by their outside actions and make-up, because obviously we do not know what is inside and have no way of getting to know one another unless we characterize in this way. Now the question is, do we ever get to know the "inside" of a person? Can we every break that boundary of physical body and actually connect with the mind and soul of another? The answer is no. Yeah, right, Ashley the eternal optimist here, saying that it is impossible to get to know another's true inside self. But I've just come to the realization that we are all sort of optical illusions, that people perceive us in one way that probably differs greatly from reality (our self-reality). Let me explain.
Let us say that I have just met a guy. He casually introduces himself, I introduce myself. From his looks and his forward attitude, he seems very confident and charming. He asks for my number. Now-- what is his motivation? Do I really know? No, of course I don't. I simply know that an attractive guy asked for my number, so I give it to him. What is my motivation? He doesn't know either. Perhaps he's fallen in love, and I am just giving him my number because he looks nice (that would suck). Perhaps he's dating another girl and I look like the type to play the game. Perhaps he's simply interested in getting to know me. No matter what we're thinking, this exchange is going to amount to something and both of us will have preconceived notions of what it will amount to, and this shapes the relationship regardless of what we are thinking on the inside. And then a series of events unfold that make or break the relationship <-- Don't even get me started on the "relationship game". That is for another blog post :) But regardless of how close I get to this guy, I will never know his motivations, I will never know what he's thinking or feeling on the inside; I can only characterize him based on what he says or does to me.
Let's just say that I have known these people for my entire life. Just recently I've learned things that days ago I would have laughed off and said were untrue. However, what I've learned is true beyond a shadow of a doubt, and now I'm left to pick up the pieces of a shattered optical illusion. I've caught a glimpse of the objective reality and now I'm sitting here confused staring at a life that I thought was true with people I thought I knew very well. Did I really know these people? Yes and no. I know a conglomeration of events and words and actions that have taken place over the years; I know the emotions and memories of these people. But I do not know these people on the inside.
And that is what is so hard for me. To think that we spend our lives communicating, but that this communication is all just a facade in front of the real thing. I could spend my life lying and nobody would be the wiser. I could spend my life telling the truth and nobody would know the difference.
It's interesting. As you can probably tell I don't like petty relationships. All that, "hey what's up?" "how are you?" "good" stuff that goes on every day. Once I talk to a person, it's hit or miss. If I like you I love you, and if I don't like you then I'm not going to pursue anything. Problem is, not a lot of people feel this way, so I'm typically left reeling after throwing myself into the hesitant arms of another.
Monday, November 15, 2010
Fear Itself
Typically, I like to think deep. No, I don't sit around all day and ponder the philosophical meaning of life or spend my spare time (yeah, like I have a lot of that :D) staring into space considering that all-encompassing "why?" I don't do this at all, but I do like to think about things, especially when I'm walking. It was weird to have been walking with a guy who seems to be just as in touch with his feelings as I am. I was actually kind of shocked into silence (at least brain silence). He asked me "what do you fear most" and at the time I said "dolls" simply because that is the most irrational of my fears and something that was occupying my mind at the time since we had previously talked about ghosts and I was thinking about dolls being possessed and coming to life. No, it wasn't deep or thought-provoking or even close to philosophical. And then the jaw-dropping moment. The one thing men never want to admit. He told me that he was afraid of falling in love. Just like that, so naturally and simply. To add to this, he went on to tell me why he was afraid, and it was a fantastic conversation.
What? Men actually talk about this stuff? Don't get me wrong, I'm not stereotyping, but honestly I've never met a man so unabashed about what he fears most. I liked being surprised, though :)
So, it got me to thinking, what am I really afraid of? Sure, dolls. But there's more to it than that. So here's a list.
1. I'm afraid that I will not live up to my own standards. I was in the Challenge Class for gifted students in elementary school, I breezed through middle school (academically...socially is another story), I was in the top 25 of my graduating class, became a National Merit Scholar and a Herbert presidential scholar, and I continue to excel. I'm not bragging; in truth, this scares me. I know I'm intelligent, I know that I have some weird thirst for knowledge (and I don't mean getting an A in class) that others don't have, I know that I want to make a huge difference, somewhere. I just don't want to be a middle school English teacher who's bored with her job and dreams of being a writer. I don't want to be a counselor who listens to other's problems every day and forgets to take care of herself. I don't want to be stuck somewhere, with a clear set of boundaries and no room to expand. I want to travel, I want to be open-minded, I want to continue to learn, I want to be impactful, I want to do a lot of things :) I'm afraid that these grand schemes may come crashing down in the future, and I will be left broken.
2. Speaking of broken, I suppose that I am also afraid of falling in love, or not falling in love, or both. I jokingly told somebody that I would be the one who ends up as a hermit writer living in a cabin in the woods somewhere far away from civilization. And the scary part is, I think I would be all right with that for a few years. But I want to find the right person. I know it will come in time, and that I'll know when I do in time. But what if I don't? Like my friend said, he can't find the right one because they all "break his heart". Well, I'd rather have my heart broken knowing that someday I'll find a person who makes me truly truly happy. And it's not like I spend my time trying to find that perfect man, honestly I don't even really think about it, but after that conversation I have really been wondering. Hmmm...
3. I am truly afraid of the way that our technology is headed. Don't get me wrong, I love love love technology. But really, there's a point where we have gone too far. No longer is communication the personal, warm generation of feelings that it once was. And yes, I know, you are thinking "what a hypocrite, she's blogging about how communication sucks and she posted it on Facebook". If you're not thinking that, you should be :) Impersonal communication (okay, not entirely impersonal, but much less personal than in the past) is vital nowadays, and I'd much rather have my voice heard than not. Also, most of you who are reading this are likely good friends who care. And I would be ecstatic to have a conversation about all of this in person. You'd have to deal with my inability to express myself very well in words, though :) Back to the point...I am afraid of our progress in technology. But there's nothing I can do about it, and life has this funny way of circling in such a way that is so remarkable. In the future, humans will be back to square one. No technology. No computer. Just them and the earth. Or us and the earth, depending on how soon Father Time and Mother Nature want to restart. Heck, it could be 2012.
Ahhh. I'm glad that I was able to get that out. It was weird to listen to this guy who was so obviously more in touch with his feelings. When I saw weird I mean that it was a good weird...and I really hope that I am able to talk more with this excessively interesting person :D
I don't think I could be a hermit. Even if it sounds kind of appealing. I like people toooo much!
So those are my thoughts for the day.
I'd actually really like to hear some fears that you have, and you can email me or talk with me or get in contact with me and we can talk :)
What? Men actually talk about this stuff? Don't get me wrong, I'm not stereotyping, but honestly I've never met a man so unabashed about what he fears most. I liked being surprised, though :)
So, it got me to thinking, what am I really afraid of? Sure, dolls. But there's more to it than that. So here's a list.
1. I'm afraid that I will not live up to my own standards. I was in the Challenge Class for gifted students in elementary school, I breezed through middle school (academically...socially is another story), I was in the top 25 of my graduating class, became a National Merit Scholar and a Herbert presidential scholar, and I continue to excel. I'm not bragging; in truth, this scares me. I know I'm intelligent, I know that I have some weird thirst for knowledge (and I don't mean getting an A in class) that others don't have, I know that I want to make a huge difference, somewhere. I just don't want to be a middle school English teacher who's bored with her job and dreams of being a writer. I don't want to be a counselor who listens to other's problems every day and forgets to take care of herself. I don't want to be stuck somewhere, with a clear set of boundaries and no room to expand. I want to travel, I want to be open-minded, I want to continue to learn, I want to be impactful, I want to do a lot of things :) I'm afraid that these grand schemes may come crashing down in the future, and I will be left broken.
2. Speaking of broken, I suppose that I am also afraid of falling in love, or not falling in love, or both. I jokingly told somebody that I would be the one who ends up as a hermit writer living in a cabin in the woods somewhere far away from civilization. And the scary part is, I think I would be all right with that for a few years. But I want to find the right person. I know it will come in time, and that I'll know when I do in time. But what if I don't? Like my friend said, he can't find the right one because they all "break his heart". Well, I'd rather have my heart broken knowing that someday I'll find a person who makes me truly truly happy. And it's not like I spend my time trying to find that perfect man, honestly I don't even really think about it, but after that conversation I have really been wondering. Hmmm...
3. I am truly afraid of the way that our technology is headed. Don't get me wrong, I love love love technology. But really, there's a point where we have gone too far. No longer is communication the personal, warm generation of feelings that it once was. And yes, I know, you are thinking "what a hypocrite, she's blogging about how communication sucks and she posted it on Facebook". If you're not thinking that, you should be :) Impersonal communication (okay, not entirely impersonal, but much less personal than in the past) is vital nowadays, and I'd much rather have my voice heard than not. Also, most of you who are reading this are likely good friends who care. And I would be ecstatic to have a conversation about all of this in person. You'd have to deal with my inability to express myself very well in words, though :) Back to the point...I am afraid of our progress in technology. But there's nothing I can do about it, and life has this funny way of circling in such a way that is so remarkable. In the future, humans will be back to square one. No technology. No computer. Just them and the earth. Or us and the earth, depending on how soon Father Time and Mother Nature want to restart. Heck, it could be 2012.
Ahhh. I'm glad that I was able to get that out. It was weird to listen to this guy who was so obviously more in touch with his feelings. When I saw weird I mean that it was a good weird...and I really hope that I am able to talk more with this excessively interesting person :D
I don't think I could be a hermit. Even if it sounds kind of appealing. I like people toooo much!
So those are my thoughts for the day.
I'd actually really like to hear some fears that you have, and you can email me or talk with me or get in contact with me and we can talk :)
Tuesday, November 2, 2010
Fiction
I realized, after a half dozen desperate short story beginnings, that I would enjoy writing novels. I can't seem to characterize the way that I want to in just seven pages. I like creating :) Anywho, here is the beginning of a short story meant to focus on setting. It is one exercise that we began in class and had to finish at home. Don't know where I'm going to go with it...but I'll let the characters take me where they will! :)
Being Thrown In
The basement where the concerts are held is dark save the dusty red stage lighting that illuminates several mohawks, a drum set, and an electric guitar. The air is musty and damp with heat, and perspiring bodies wipe sweat onto their black loose t-shirts and plaid pants. Legs and arms flail and collide in the mosh pit, while a few muffled grunts and whelps of pain indicate a bruise or a black eye or a nosebleed or a twisted joint. Hardly-worn fruity perfume mixes with hair gel and humidity. Piercings gleam in the darkness while biting, wailing chords screech and cut through bodies packed like ants on a dropped breadcrumb. The music doesn’t matter, as its pulsating beat is simply a rhythm, a backdrop for the buildup of an orchestra of anger that has surfaced in the pit. Everywhere is black—hair and torn-down streamers and flimsy old chairs and clothes and eyeliner. In the corner, though, a girl with a yellow shirt stands alone gazing at the mosh pit with a mixture of fright and yearning.
Kira stands as far away from the pit as she can get. She doesn’t want to be here (maybe), and she straightens her long, flowered skirt as the drum solo ricochets off the walls and threatens a minor earthquake. It’s dark enough that no one will see her if she edges out of the room. Ryker and Alex are in the mosh, anyway, and they will probably be nursing bloody noses before they realize she’s gone. Problem is, she has no way to get home since she’s seventeen and let her permit expire; that means she has to wait another six months before driving on her own even becomes a possibility.
Kira abandons her corner and sidesteps until she reaches two decrepit door handles twisted and stuck at awkward angles. She pushes slightly and a crack of light appears, like Heaven (or the light at the end of the tunnel, she thinks, since I’m not religious). Footsteps clink on the tiled floor and Kira walks quickly but with composure (in case somebody sees her) into the nearest room, which happens to be a custodial closet. She closes the door behind her and turns on a small overhead light. She forgot this was once a school building, called Washington High or something generic like that. Kira slumps on an overturned bucket and tenderly touches her head because the drumbeats are still ear-splitting.
Why did she even come here? To prove something? Ryker is the kind of guy who has to initiate his female interests, and since he frequents the Underground basement music scene, this is where “initiation” takes place. If a girl joins the mosh pit, she is deemed worthy of his love. And he’s just so cute that it was hard not to agree to come, despite the fact that Kira is terrified of dark places and loud music and big groups and especially physical contact. He told her he’d take care of her, but once the music started and he saw that she wasn’t going anywhere near the pit he kind of left her alone. Alex, Ryker’s best friend, didn’t seem to approve of Kira anyway once he saw that she wasn’t wearing a scrap of black. She doesn’t like black. Why is she attracted to the brooding punk-rockers who seem to think that black is sacred and should make up at least one-fourth of every outfit? Oh yeah, Ryker is a brooding punk-rocker, and he’s attractive. She wanted to join him in the mosh pit, she really did, but to go in may have had severe physical consequences.
Sitting in the custodial closet is strangely comforting. Apart from the smell of several unknown cleaning solutions, it is actually pleasant. Kira stands up from her overturned bucket throne and opens the door a crack. The music has dulled dramatically in the few minutes since she’s been out here, and Kira wonders if perhaps the concert is over. The hallway is still empty, so unless a mass exodus has occurred and she didn’t hear the trampling of heels and platforms and boots past her refuge, Kira doubts anybody has left the building yet. She might be able to make it back to her original position in the corner with Ryker being none the wiser. She might even be able to say that she stood on the fringe of the mosh pit for a few minutes and he might take her in his arms and profess his certainty that he knows she is the one, she made it, she passed the test, she is worthy of his pouting, full lips and those teeth that flash like cameras. Her heels clink once again across the tiled floor as she prepares to return to the blackness of the Underground, to Ryker, and to (hopefully) an impassioned love confession.
TO BE CONTINUED………
Being Thrown In
The basement where the concerts are held is dark save the dusty red stage lighting that illuminates several mohawks, a drum set, and an electric guitar. The air is musty and damp with heat, and perspiring bodies wipe sweat onto their black loose t-shirts and plaid pants. Legs and arms flail and collide in the mosh pit, while a few muffled grunts and whelps of pain indicate a bruise or a black eye or a nosebleed or a twisted joint. Hardly-worn fruity perfume mixes with hair gel and humidity. Piercings gleam in the darkness while biting, wailing chords screech and cut through bodies packed like ants on a dropped breadcrumb. The music doesn’t matter, as its pulsating beat is simply a rhythm, a backdrop for the buildup of an orchestra of anger that has surfaced in the pit. Everywhere is black—hair and torn-down streamers and flimsy old chairs and clothes and eyeliner. In the corner, though, a girl with a yellow shirt stands alone gazing at the mosh pit with a mixture of fright and yearning.
Kira stands as far away from the pit as she can get. She doesn’t want to be here (maybe), and she straightens her long, flowered skirt as the drum solo ricochets off the walls and threatens a minor earthquake. It’s dark enough that no one will see her if she edges out of the room. Ryker and Alex are in the mosh, anyway, and they will probably be nursing bloody noses before they realize she’s gone. Problem is, she has no way to get home since she’s seventeen and let her permit expire; that means she has to wait another six months before driving on her own even becomes a possibility.
Kira abandons her corner and sidesteps until she reaches two decrepit door handles twisted and stuck at awkward angles. She pushes slightly and a crack of light appears, like Heaven (or the light at the end of the tunnel, she thinks, since I’m not religious). Footsteps clink on the tiled floor and Kira walks quickly but with composure (in case somebody sees her) into the nearest room, which happens to be a custodial closet. She closes the door behind her and turns on a small overhead light. She forgot this was once a school building, called Washington High or something generic like that. Kira slumps on an overturned bucket and tenderly touches her head because the drumbeats are still ear-splitting.
Why did she even come here? To prove something? Ryker is the kind of guy who has to initiate his female interests, and since he frequents the Underground basement music scene, this is where “initiation” takes place. If a girl joins the mosh pit, she is deemed worthy of his love. And he’s just so cute that it was hard not to agree to come, despite the fact that Kira is terrified of dark places and loud music and big groups and especially physical contact. He told her he’d take care of her, but once the music started and he saw that she wasn’t going anywhere near the pit he kind of left her alone. Alex, Ryker’s best friend, didn’t seem to approve of Kira anyway once he saw that she wasn’t wearing a scrap of black. She doesn’t like black. Why is she attracted to the brooding punk-rockers who seem to think that black is sacred and should make up at least one-fourth of every outfit? Oh yeah, Ryker is a brooding punk-rocker, and he’s attractive. She wanted to join him in the mosh pit, she really did, but to go in may have had severe physical consequences.
Sitting in the custodial closet is strangely comforting. Apart from the smell of several unknown cleaning solutions, it is actually pleasant. Kira stands up from her overturned bucket throne and opens the door a crack. The music has dulled dramatically in the few minutes since she’s been out here, and Kira wonders if perhaps the concert is over. The hallway is still empty, so unless a mass exodus has occurred and she didn’t hear the trampling of heels and platforms and boots past her refuge, Kira doubts anybody has left the building yet. She might be able to make it back to her original position in the corner with Ryker being none the wiser. She might even be able to say that she stood on the fringe of the mosh pit for a few minutes and he might take her in his arms and profess his certainty that he knows she is the one, she made it, she passed the test, she is worthy of his pouting, full lips and those teeth that flash like cameras. Her heels clink once again across the tiled floor as she prepares to return to the blackness of the Underground, to Ryker, and to (hopefully) an impassioned love confession.
TO BE CONTINUED………
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.
Wednesday, September 29, 2010
Procrastination
I am writing this post mainly because I'm putting off homework, but also because I felt like it would be a nice night to write and clear the cobwebs out of my brain.
I realized (I'm doing this "realization" thing quite often this week) that I really like to think about something before I say it. Writing, however, is a different story. Let me give you an example.
We had a simple task in speech class: tell a story about a personal example of miscommunication. Yeah, I knew it was easy, but I kept drawing blanks because I was over-analyzing. "I could tell this story, but..." or "Perhaps this wasn't miscommunication as much as it was..." etc., etc. until eventually I nearly drove myself mad and said whatever came to mind at the very last minute. I'm fairly sure this happens daily for me. Honestly, even when someone says "Hello, how are you", I say "Good, how are you?" but I'm thinking "Well, I'm not really good (well), but this is what most people say" and "How am I today? I have no idea, really. A little tired, ticked off at my teacher, happy because I can crunch leaves, thinking about the past (what do I even feel about that?), slightly worried about this or that" ... and the thoughts go on. I don't necessarily think this is a bad trait to have, but when I'm put on the spot I freeze.
Anywho, this interesting phenomenon makes me a slightly reckless writer. I can sit down and write and write and write and not care what I'm writing or why I'm writing. I just like to write :) Ironically, most of my deep thoughts come to me when I'm writing, not when I'm vocal. Weird.
Speaking of deep thoughts. This blows my mind. I was looking back at some old pictures and happened upon a sympathy card from Hurst freshman year. When I looked at the handwriting, I thought that it seemed a bit too familiar. I realized, with a bit of a start, that my current handwriting is very, very similar to his. When I say similar, I mean that my handwriting could perhaps be mistaken for his. Yet another ridiculous aspect of myself to add to the rather large pile of Hurst influence. I may forever be looking at my life critically, wondering what part of me Hurst hasn't affected. Last night I was talking about freshman year with a friend and realized that telling people about that time is embarrassing to me and tends to create notions that I don't want to create. So I lie. Nothing huge or scandalous, but I do lie. What can you do?
Admiration. Contemplation. Procrastination.
All right. Homework calls :)
I realized (I'm doing this "realization" thing quite often this week) that I really like to think about something before I say it. Writing, however, is a different story. Let me give you an example.
We had a simple task in speech class: tell a story about a personal example of miscommunication. Yeah, I knew it was easy, but I kept drawing blanks because I was over-analyzing. "I could tell this story, but..." or "Perhaps this wasn't miscommunication as much as it was..." etc., etc. until eventually I nearly drove myself mad and said whatever came to mind at the very last minute. I'm fairly sure this happens daily for me. Honestly, even when someone says "Hello, how are you", I say "Good, how are you?" but I'm thinking "Well, I'm not really good (well), but this is what most people say" and "How am I today? I have no idea, really. A little tired, ticked off at my teacher, happy because I can crunch leaves, thinking about the past (what do I even feel about that?), slightly worried about this or that" ... and the thoughts go on. I don't necessarily think this is a bad trait to have, but when I'm put on the spot I freeze.
Anywho, this interesting phenomenon makes me a slightly reckless writer. I can sit down and write and write and write and not care what I'm writing or why I'm writing. I just like to write :) Ironically, most of my deep thoughts come to me when I'm writing, not when I'm vocal. Weird.
Speaking of deep thoughts. This blows my mind. I was looking back at some old pictures and happened upon a sympathy card from Hurst freshman year. When I looked at the handwriting, I thought that it seemed a bit too familiar. I realized, with a bit of a start, that my current handwriting is very, very similar to his. When I say similar, I mean that my handwriting could perhaps be mistaken for his. Yet another ridiculous aspect of myself to add to the rather large pile of Hurst influence. I may forever be looking at my life critically, wondering what part of me Hurst hasn't affected. Last night I was talking about freshman year with a friend and realized that telling people about that time is embarrassing to me and tends to create notions that I don't want to create. So I lie. Nothing huge or scandalous, but I do lie. What can you do?
Admiration. Contemplation. Procrastination.
All right. Homework calls :)
Sunday, September 26, 2010
Place Essay
About the fabulous Arbuckle Acres...just the first paragraph of my essay :)
On a cold day, 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 throne. One of the only old ones left after the Parks Department decided to beautify Arbuckle Acres, my bench is 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. Here and there droppings have landed on my red bulls-eye bench, and I carefully find a spot that is not littered with gifts from the birds. 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, because this is my bench.
On a cold day, 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 throne. One of the only old ones left after the Parks Department decided to beautify Arbuckle Acres, my bench is 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. Here and there droppings have landed on my red bulls-eye bench, and I carefully find a spot that is not littered with gifts from the birds. 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, because this is my bench.
Monday, September 20, 2010
Fade
Did some hard-core revising all weekend...most of my poems have changed. This one seemed to be the favorite of a few of my classmates, it was the baby of one of my other poems, about an old friend (true story with quite a bit of fiction added in :D) Here it is, hope you like!
Fade
Curls, a snarled knot of sleep, and
shaky hands smoothing the tangles as
I watch from the frame of your bedroom.
Fading blaze of the stars and a
breath of frost as
hushed gruff voices order you to pack.
Drawers groaning, zippers and velcro,
my low moans.
Your boyish back,
swaddled in a white t-shirt, a hole at
the collar.
Badges gleaming from pockets,
I had no choice.
Ziploc bags from my kitchen,
white powder.
Stooped shoulders and you turn around,
their hands on your elbows.
Steps, the muffled heartbeat of
bare feet on carpet.
Your head down, I reach to
loosen a tangle you forgot;
my tears hit your hair.
Fingers beneath your chin, I
lift to see your pale eyes,
my pale eyes.
Sneering teeth rear back and
spit in my face.
Shrinking, cringing, as they
heave you into the night.
Red and blue cascade on the walls and
then black.
My son is gone.
Fade
Curls, a snarled knot of sleep, and
shaky hands smoothing the tangles as
I watch from the frame of your bedroom.
Fading blaze of the stars and a
breath of frost as
hushed gruff voices order you to pack.
Drawers groaning, zippers and velcro,
my low moans.
Your boyish back,
swaddled in a white t-shirt, a hole at
the collar.
Badges gleaming from pockets,
I had no choice.
Ziploc bags from my kitchen,
white powder.
Stooped shoulders and you turn around,
their hands on your elbows.
Steps, the muffled heartbeat of
bare feet on carpet.
Your head down, I reach to
loosen a tangle you forgot;
my tears hit your hair.
Fingers beneath your chin, I
lift to see your pale eyes,
my pale eyes.
Sneering teeth rear back and
spit in my face.
Shrinking, cringing, as they
heave you into the night.
Red and blue cascade on the walls and
then black.
My son is gone.
Monday, September 13, 2010
Revision Poem
Latest assignment: take a favorite line from one of your poems and create a new poem. Here's what I came up with...
Breath like vinegar and sweat and
crusty fingernails, clods of dirt hidden in crevices and
rouge like pools of blood.
A shadow, tall and erect hunched in the back,
beckoning.
Short nod, muted clink of heels across the dusty linoleum floor,
an arm outstretched (artificial gentleman) and
a car ride to a dark room.
My sister.
I remember slamming doors and the same heels
clinking on the sidewalk.
I remember tears, moans, a family who didn’t want
a stain.
My own ragged breaths, a rhythm of don’t be her, don’t be her,
don’t be her.
Torn shirts, patched jeans, cold feet in the morning,
it didn’t have to come to this.
She used to take me shopping, eyeing the
impossible.
I didn’t understand her new
clothes, new shoes.
Only fifteen, begging for
things.
Night, rhythms, short quick breaths,
sniveling, money.
Together we inhale, exhale, tears streaking our faces.
Breath like vinegar and sweat and
crusty fingernails, clods of dirt hidden in crevices and
rouge like pools of blood.
A shadow, tall and erect hunched in the back,
beckoning.
Short nod, muted clink of heels across the dusty linoleum floor,
an arm outstretched (artificial gentleman) and
a car ride to a dark room.
My sister.
I remember slamming doors and the same heels
clinking on the sidewalk.
I remember tears, moans, a family who didn’t want
a stain.
My own ragged breaths, a rhythm of don’t be her, don’t be her,
don’t be her.
Torn shirts, patched jeans, cold feet in the morning,
it didn’t have to come to this.
She used to take me shopping, eyeing the
impossible.
I didn’t understand her new
clothes, new shoes.
Only fifteen, begging for
things.
Night, rhythms, short quick breaths,
sniveling, money.
Together we inhale, exhale, tears streaking our faces.
Monday, September 6, 2010
No Sentences but in Things
Here is my latest poem...not allowed to write sentences, but instead make a list of things :)
One tattered copy of Slaughterhouse-Five
yelling "so it goes" in a muffled sort of way,
Piglet and Winnie-the-Pooh tossed in the corner,
How-to guides not yet creased,
A browned Bible holding up my new Harry Potters,
Some stray pens, forgotten and inkless,
Leftover journals carefully positioned behind children's books
because I don't want to be reminded of what is inside,
Carl Jung's Undiscovered Self lying open and highlighted,
One old paper of yours listing the classics that I should read,
Bolded names like Eugenides, Eco, Kierkegaard, Cicero--
books you gave me, hissing snakes,
not wanting to be remembered but wanting
to be opened.
One tattered copy of Slaughterhouse-Five
yelling "so it goes" in a muffled sort of way,
Piglet and Winnie-the-Pooh tossed in the corner,
How-to guides not yet creased,
A browned Bible holding up my new Harry Potters,
Some stray pens, forgotten and inkless,
Leftover journals carefully positioned behind children's books
because I don't want to be reminded of what is inside,
Carl Jung's Undiscovered Self lying open and highlighted,
One old paper of yours listing the classics that I should read,
Bolded names like Eugenides, Eco, Kierkegaard, Cicero--
books you gave me, hissing snakes,
not wanting to be remembered but wanting
to be opened.
Monday, August 30, 2010
Poetry ctd.
Yet another poetry assignment. This was inspired by my grandmother (although the characters are not supposed to be true portrayals of Grandma and Papaw), whose love for Elvis Presley must have been bordering on obsession. How I wish this story were true.
Leaving the Building
He was a god. A frequent hip-swaying,
smooth red velvet-tongued,
oil-black haired god.
Crisp ironing board ladies screamed his name
while clutching their bosoms with primly painted nails for fear of heart attack.
Elvis. Presley.
A blur of blond hair and blushing skin
my grandmother, twenty-something and in love
points her toes, straightens her skirt with a trembling tug and
reaches the plain gray, empty stairwell.
After so much color and conversation,
music and memory,
the steps leading out of the concert building are
an unwanted exit from a misplaced section of heaven.
She left someone at home,
a lover, a man who keeps his mouth shut when
“Surrender” echoes in their living room and
politely sings along without overpowering
the voice of a god.
My grandmother appreciates her man’s
careful block-letter love poems and
pictures of foreign buildings with little military men
smiling for the camera.
She appreciates his straight-line lips and weathered hands.
Any other night, she would be anticipating his fingertips.
Tonight, she is drunk and hypnotized
by the winged angel who sings rock and roll.
Her eyes follow the slight curve of the staircase
while adjusting to yellow hazy light.
A shadow boogies with no partner on the wall.
And then, collision, an explosion of light.
Like making love, those dark imitations of bodies
mix and intertwine as my grandmother glimpses her god.
A faltering smile on plump cherry lips,
a jagged intake of breath, hyperventilation.
He is a dream in person.
Elvis brushes past after a moment of awed silence.
Fingers reaching as if to hold on to an escaping memory,
my grandmother grazes the fabric that adorns a flawless being.
In a fog she somehow manages to make it home,
heart waltzing to every footstep.
For this night her body devours every second,
inhaling and exhaling a single moment.
He was a god. This is heaven.
Elvis. Presley.
Leaving the Building
He was a god. A frequent hip-swaying,
smooth red velvet-tongued,
oil-black haired god.
Crisp ironing board ladies screamed his name
while clutching their bosoms with primly painted nails for fear of heart attack.
Elvis. Presley.
A blur of blond hair and blushing skin
my grandmother, twenty-something and in love
points her toes, straightens her skirt with a trembling tug and
reaches the plain gray, empty stairwell.
After so much color and conversation,
music and memory,
the steps leading out of the concert building are
an unwanted exit from a misplaced section of heaven.
She left someone at home,
a lover, a man who keeps his mouth shut when
“Surrender” echoes in their living room and
politely sings along without overpowering
the voice of a god.
My grandmother appreciates her man’s
careful block-letter love poems and
pictures of foreign buildings with little military men
smiling for the camera.
She appreciates his straight-line lips and weathered hands.
Any other night, she would be anticipating his fingertips.
Tonight, she is drunk and hypnotized
by the winged angel who sings rock and roll.
Her eyes follow the slight curve of the staircase
while adjusting to yellow hazy light.
A shadow boogies with no partner on the wall.
And then, collision, an explosion of light.
Like making love, those dark imitations of bodies
mix and intertwine as my grandmother glimpses her god.
A faltering smile on plump cherry lips,
a jagged intake of breath, hyperventilation.
He is a dream in person.
Elvis brushes past after a moment of awed silence.
Fingers reaching as if to hold on to an escaping memory,
my grandmother grazes the fabric that adorns a flawless being.
In a fog she somehow manages to make it home,
heart waltzing to every footstep.
For this night her body devours every second,
inhaling and exhaling a single moment.
He was a god. This is heaven.
Elvis. Presley.
Being Downtown
After a week of socializing and spending no time with myself, I decided that I was finally in need of a break. I promptly walked out of my apartment and headed down the canal for a little alone time, just me and the city. A vivid description of the scenery would not do Indianapolis justice. Yes, the canal walk bursts with fountains and elaborate waterfalls and gardens and statues and picturesque views of a vibrant downtown. But landscaping is the least of it. I could get lost here and still feel at home. I devoured the faces of passersby, marveling at the fact that each person was experiencing a different emotion, heading in a different direction to a different place, walking just to walk or moving toward some destination. How beautiful--much more beautiful than some water or a scenic view-- to read the emotions of strangers. How enchanting to walk in a crowd of strangers and feel independent and alive. How incredible to share a smile and realize that I will probably never see that person again, yet he or she will continue to live life and so will I. I suppose what I'm saying is that I find a thrill in seeing the ironic beauty of our world. We are all connected as human beings, yet we are all so caught up in our own stories. And isn't it amazing to think that life will never change in that respect? No matter what great technology we devise, we can always walk through a crowded city and be surrounded by strangers. I love the feeling, the diversity, the aloneness and connectedness. This, the conglomeration of interesting strangers all packed into one city, is where the true beauty of Indianapolis lies. Sure, I like the scenery. But scenery doesn't show emotion. Scenery doesn't allow me to catch snippets of conversation as they trail away. Scenery doesn't allow me to feel the impossibility and inspiration of this yin and yang world.
So, I headed out for some alone time. Silly me. I forgot that I'm never going to be alone here :)
Saturday, August 28, 2010
Intro to Creative Writing Poems
Within the first week of class I have been assigned two poems...one called "Flipped Adage" and the other "Story of a Moment" :) Hope you enjoy!
"Flipped Adage" ... professor gave us five words to incorporate into the poem, and of course we had to flip an adage at the end :)
Standing on that rocky precipice between the
sickle and the rainbow,
my father, grey-bearded and sunken
extends trembling fingers to the
brass knob at the edge of his world.
We all know how the story ends—
And he died unhappily never after.
"Story of a Moment" ... focus on the sensory detail of a single moment in life :)
Colors of Silence
Wet black shoes reflect green blades of grass that are
trampled from standing.
Looking down, a sallow casket reflects the sunlight that
still shines from a sun that still rose today.
And my blue eyes reflect tears in the eyes of strangers.
A drab procession, we are the misplaced blackness
among the light of midday.
White oaks sway from the caress of velvety wind,
bluebirds glide overhead, blind to mourning.
And my uncle lies silent beneath an ivory box.
Pink laughter pierces deaf ears
of grey and black grief.
Sharp metallic chirping interrupts an artificial
silence.
And beneath my black shoes and the green brown earth
a fiery-red core ceaselessly burns
despite the stifling of a vibrant life.
Sunday, July 25, 2010
Hawaiian Firsts
I waited quite a while to create my "Hawaiian Firsts" blog simply because I had to digest my entire Hawaiian experience (that sounds like a sales-worthy statement..."Be engulfed in your entire Hawaiian Experience today!"). Now that I am settled back into my normal routine and am not constantly daydreaming about Kauai, I feel as though I can reflect more easily on the trip as a whole. Had I written earlier I probably would have been a tangential lunatic. So, here goes; I may miss a few firsts, but I can always use that handy "Edit" button if I forget any.
On my trip to Hawaii, I experienced the following "firsts":
1. Plane trip. Not surprising with a mother who called me on my trip to Holiday World and told me "not to drown". Flying over a vast ocean is living death to her.
2. First-class seating in a plane. Yeahhh...I used a hot towel!!!!
3. Airport visit. That goes without saying. If I've never flown I've most likely never been to an airport. I also missed my flight for the first time :)
4. Vacation without the immediate family. It was a nice relaxing break!
5. Snorkeling adventure. In the big big ocean (with a noodle, Robert, and Aunt Lori), and in a much less deep coral reef area at Hanalei Bay. Amazing. I got to see the Humuhumunukunukuapua'a :D
6. Zip Lining Experience. I never thought I would do that :D
7. Food Firsts: Pineapple pancakes, mahi-mahi, frites, and a whole lot more. There was some AWESOME food in Hawaii!
8. Real Hawaiin Luau. When I grow up, I want to be a fire dancer!!!!!!!
9. Catamaran trip. Holo Holo was awesome, until the next few days rolled around and I still felt like I was swaying :D
10. Monk Seal and Sea Turtle encounter! SO COOL!
11. Jet Lag. Not my favorite first in the world.
12. Time eating Dippin' Dots. This is not really Hawaiian but it had to be included since they were very yummy.
13. Stay in a house with no a/c. Honestly, I really kind of liked this. I could sleep without any covers and be cooled by the ocean winds. During the day, the condo was stuffy.
14. Wild CHICKEN sighting! They were everywhere! And I brought one home ;)
15. Peacock feeding! They are the most majestic animals on Earth. But they hurt when you hand feed them :)
16. Time seeing a real, live banana tree!
17. Time drinking true coconut milk. I "hand picked" the coconut and we labored ALL NIGHT to crack it and try the raw splendor of the coconut. When I say splendor I mean..."ewww....yuck..."
18. Pool jump to save my water-logged phone. Wearing the only clothes I had after missing a flight. Yeahhh....not a fantastic first.
19. Practicing assisted theft in a fancy restaurant :)
20. Holding a leeeezard :)
21. Most important first: getting to know, and I mean really getting to know Grammy, Aunt Lori and Holli :)
Friday, June 25, 2010
My Favorite Poem Ever.
The period in the title shows just how absolute that statement was. If I might guess, I wrote this poem freshman year, during the summer (?) Anywho, it might not be very elegant or fluent or even deep. But it is still my favorite poem. Circle of life-ish.
The sun greens the trees;
it's brilliance startles my infancy,
pomegranate lips and grape jelly limbs
kiss and touch the magic of life.
My innocence wanders through
profound forest.
The sun browns the grass;
an element of surprise no longer exists,
as I racket through an abysmal routine of
lies and life and washing my dishes.
The forest is but a mile wide,
leading nowhere.
The sun rots the trees;
and they fall, one by one.
I chop away at life
speaking in a trance of old age.
With pomegranate juice staining blued lips
I soar past the sun,
an infant.
What is life,
but endless seasons of blind souls
entering and leaving the light?
The Result Will Be Fiction
Today almost felt like a dream. I remember waking up, putting on my clothes, pulling out of the driveway and pulling into Bethesda Baptist Church. I remember quietly sitting, watching as mourners filed in wearing black and looking grim. I remember standing up to sing. From our tight vowel shapes to our body language, I could tell we were pushing it. We were trying our hardest to put on that celebratory demeanor that "Glory, Glory" so highly demands. I remember sitting down, hearing the momentary pause before the muted clap, and standing up again to move to a pew. I remember Clara holding my arm; I remember hearing a lot of crying and feeling my own face wet with tears. And I remember driving home.
To Katy: I hope beyond hope that somewhere in Heaven you were singing with us.
Thursday, June 24, 2010
To Jeremy and Shane:We are all connected
by experience.
In this mirage of life
we are alike.
My brothers see only hate
because this world thrives on
fear and tears and
love, brothers, love.
But our meanings differ
with age, each page
turned to a contrasting chapter;
We live to love when
love is nothing and everything-
an endless definition.
Ode to Arbuckle.I can't express my love for Arbuckle Park enough. If any physical place has a spot in my heart, it is Arbuckle, for several reasons.
1. When I was little, my sweaty little legs pumped on the swings, tumbled down the slides, and scuttled around the playground like there was no tomorrow.
2. My dog's first walk was at Arbuckle.
3. I've read many, many books while reclining in those little red wooden benches.
4. My first awkward, incredible, shocking date with Will was at Arbuckle.
5. Every year I would try to look cute for the boys at the 4th of July celebration :)
6. Many of my deep, meaningful conversations with people occur at Arbuckle.
7. I run in Arbuckle.
8. A shortcut through my neighborhood takes me into Arbuckle's depths.
9. When a non-Brownsburg friend traverses to Brownsburg, I almost always take him/her to Arbuckle.
10. When I have to cry, I know where to go.
11. My mock-sacrifice (as seen in picture) was held in Arbuckle.
12. Altogether, Arbuckle has always been there. No matter what. It is much like my little shelter on an island; when I go there, I feel like I'm as isolated as I can get. And I need isolation sometimes.
In short, I love you Arbuckle. Thanks for not getting ripped apart by a tornado or swallowed by the Flood. Love, Ashley.
Wednesday, June 23, 2010
I think, therefore I am
And so begins the first post...First, I would much rather be writing in a journal right now. But alas, typing on the computer is quicker and the world is getting a bit too fast-paced for me. If you can't beat 'em, join 'em! (?) Not my usual motto.
The most enlightening night I have spent this summer involved dining with Jeff Coffin and my boyfriend and talking for several hours about connectedness and education and photography. It is refreshing to know that there are still people out there who are willing to be friendly to complete strangers. No, not Stranger Danger. Wouldn't the world be much nicer if people spent time actually talking? Maybe a friendly hello, or a small gesture that shows respect. I would be all right with that. We need to take the time to be human again; mankind is turning into a machine. I've gotten off topic. Anyway, it was a great night and I want to give a nod to Jeff for keeping the love.
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