I wonder what it says about me that 23.5 years into my life, this is the first story where "I" haven't been the focus.
Anywho.
Here is a little story I've been working on for fiction. I'm not entirely dissatisfied with it, but I AM dissatisfied that it isn't ten pages yet and it is due tomorrow at noon. Also dissatisfied that I'm closing the cafe tonight. Ugh.
Comments welcome and encouraged as I'll be furiously attempting to be creative in the library all day today finishing this thing.
Also, if you steal any of this story (because we all know the best writers are thieves) I won't sue you because I don't have that kind of money. But karma will get you. So just don't do it.
On February thirteenth, 1920, Betty Parsons stepped off the curb and into the southbound lane of Dearborn Avenue in Chicago, Illinois. Taken by the grandiosity of the gray, metallic towers, Betty noticed only the massive bumbling crowds surrounding her and the promise of big city life. She did not see the panicked face of the driver of the passenger bus barreling toward her, and she did not see the angel that pulled her out of his way.
Just one week earlier, Betty had quit her job as a soda girl at the only fountain joint in Muscatine, Iowa. She had put on her best dusty-blue dress and boarded a bus heading to the city, much to the chagrin of her mother, Esther, who chased after the vehicle for at least four minutes shouting profanities into the cloud of fumes and dust that it left behind. Betty’s decision to run away was reinforced by the pained look of anguish that crossed the old lady’s sour face and she smiled anticipatorily for the entirety of the bumpy ride to Chicago.
Now, there were many things in Betty’s life for which she was ashamed, not least of all the occurrences of each and every Friday night for the previous year. Betty enjoyed the kind of fun one needed a password in which to partake. However, she prided herself on the fact that no matter what condition she found herself in on Sunday morning, she would straighten herself out in time for a morning service. Each Friday, Betty was a sinner. By Monday morning, a saint. February thirteenth was a Tuesday.
It was by this logic that Betty, as she felt the violent breeze of the trolley and smelled the fumes from its tailpipe, did not consider any other circumstances besides divine intervention in her rescue. She was certain that God had delivered her on this path to redemption as surely as he had delivered her onto that cement curb.
Tuesday, February 9, 2010
Thursday, February 4, 2010
How I'm Feeling (Today)
I hate when it is so obviously a Sylvia Plath kind of day, yet the weather refuses cooperate.
The tulips are too excitable, it is winter here.
Look how white everything is, how quiet, how snowed-in.
I am learning peacefulness, lying by myself quietly
As the light lies on these white walls, this bed, these hands.
I am nobody; I have nothing to do with explosions.
I have given my name and my day-clothes up to the nurses
And my history to the anesthetist and my body to surgeons.
They have propped my head between the pillow and the sheet-cuff
Like an eye between two white lids that will not shut.
Stupid pupil, it has to take everything in.
The nurses pass and pass, they are no trouble,
They pass the way gulls pass inland in their white caps,
Doing things with their hands, one just the same as another,
So it is impossible to tell how many there are.
My body is a pebble to them, they tend it as water
Tends to the pebbles it must run over, smoothing them gently.
They bring me numbness in their bright needles, they bring me sleep
Now I have lost myself I am sick of baggage
My patent leather overnight case like a black pillbox,
My husband and child smiling out of the family photo;
Their smiles catch onto my skin, little smiling hooks.
I have let things slip, a thirty-year~old cargo boat
Stubbornly hanging on to my name and address.
They have swabbed me clear of my loving associations.
Scared and bare on the green plastic-pillowed trolley
I watched my teaset, my bureaus of linen, my books
Sink out of sight, and the water went over my head.
I am a nun now, I have never been so pure.
I didn't want any flowers, I only wanted
To lie with my hands turned up and be utterly empty.
How free it is, you have no idea how free -
The peacefulness is so big it dazes you,
And it asks nothing, a name tag, a few trinkets.
It is what the dead close on, finally; I imagine them
Shutting their mouths on it, like a Communion tablet.
The tulips are too red in the first place, they hurt me.
Even through the gift paper I could hear them breathe
Lightly, through their white swaddlings, like an awful baby.
Their redness talks to my wound, it corresponds.
They are subtle: they seem to float, though they weigh me down
Upsetting me with their sudden tongues and their color,
A dozen red lead sinkers round my neck.
Nobody watched me before, now I am watched.
The tulips turn to me, and the window behind me
Where once a day the light slowly widens and slowly thins,
And I see myself, flat, ridiculous, a cut-paper shadow
Between the eye of the sun and the eyes of the tulips,
And I have no face, I have wanted to efface myself
The vivid tulips eat my oxygen.
Before they came the air was calm enough,
Coming and going, breath by breath, without any fuss.
Then the tulips filled it up like a loud noise.
Now the air snags and eddies round them the way a river
Snags and eddies round a sunken rust-red engine.
They concentrate my attention, that was happy
Playing and resting without committing itself.
The walls, also, seem to be warming themselves.
The tulips should be behind bars like dangerous animals;
They are opening like the mouth of some great African cat,
And I am aware of my heart: it opens and closes
Its bowl of red blooms out of sheer love of me.
The water I taste is warm and salt, like the sea,
And comes from a country far away as health.
-Tulips, Sylvia Plath
The tulips are too excitable, it is winter here.
Look how white everything is, how quiet, how snowed-in.
I am learning peacefulness, lying by myself quietly
As the light lies on these white walls, this bed, these hands.
I am nobody; I have nothing to do with explosions.
I have given my name and my day-clothes up to the nurses
And my history to the anesthetist and my body to surgeons.
They have propped my head between the pillow and the sheet-cuff
Like an eye between two white lids that will not shut.
Stupid pupil, it has to take everything in.
The nurses pass and pass, they are no trouble,
They pass the way gulls pass inland in their white caps,
Doing things with their hands, one just the same as another,
So it is impossible to tell how many there are.
My body is a pebble to them, they tend it as water
Tends to the pebbles it must run over, smoothing them gently.
They bring me numbness in their bright needles, they bring me sleep
Now I have lost myself I am sick of baggage
My patent leather overnight case like a black pillbox,
My husband and child smiling out of the family photo;
Their smiles catch onto my skin, little smiling hooks.
I have let things slip, a thirty-year~old cargo boat
Stubbornly hanging on to my name and address.
They have swabbed me clear of my loving associations.
Scared and bare on the green plastic-pillowed trolley
I watched my teaset, my bureaus of linen, my books
Sink out of sight, and the water went over my head.
I am a nun now, I have never been so pure.
I didn't want any flowers, I only wanted
To lie with my hands turned up and be utterly empty.
How free it is, you have no idea how free -
The peacefulness is so big it dazes you,
And it asks nothing, a name tag, a few trinkets.
It is what the dead close on, finally; I imagine them
Shutting their mouths on it, like a Communion tablet.
The tulips are too red in the first place, they hurt me.
Even through the gift paper I could hear them breathe
Lightly, through their white swaddlings, like an awful baby.
Their redness talks to my wound, it corresponds.
They are subtle: they seem to float, though they weigh me down
Upsetting me with their sudden tongues and their color,
A dozen red lead sinkers round my neck.
Nobody watched me before, now I am watched.
The tulips turn to me, and the window behind me
Where once a day the light slowly widens and slowly thins,
And I see myself, flat, ridiculous, a cut-paper shadow
Between the eye of the sun and the eyes of the tulips,
And I have no face, I have wanted to efface myself
The vivid tulips eat my oxygen.
Before they came the air was calm enough,
Coming and going, breath by breath, without any fuss.
Then the tulips filled it up like a loud noise.
Now the air snags and eddies round them the way a river
Snags and eddies round a sunken rust-red engine.
They concentrate my attention, that was happy
Playing and resting without committing itself.
The walls, also, seem to be warming themselves.
The tulips should be behind bars like dangerous animals;
They are opening like the mouth of some great African cat,
And I am aware of my heart: it opens and closes
Its bowl of red blooms out of sheer love of me.
The water I taste is warm and salt, like the sea,
And comes from a country far away as health.
-Tulips, Sylvia Plath
Monday, February 1, 2010
What If I'm Not What You Think (I Am)?
Andrew thinks I'm confident and smart and funny. He thinks I've got my life together. He thinks I can handle anything. He thinks I'm the type of person who can face down a senile old lady in the Barnes and Noble Cafe with a smile and have-a-nice-day-Ma'am when she accuses the both of us of being incompetent idiots. He thinks I'm the kind of person who lets it go and doesn't spend the rest of her shift stewing in silence and pondering looking that bitch up by her credit card receipt and telling her how I really feel. He thinks I'm the kind of girl who says she's great and always means it. He thinks I'm a Gryffindor, for Christ's sakes. And I'm starting to wonder who the heck he thinks he's been hanging out with.
I'm so obviously a Slytherin.
Sure, I look all tiny and cute and innocent, and sometimes I am. If it pleases me. Mostly, though, I'm manipulative, unreliable, vengeful and maddening. I'm insecure and wary. I'm a perfectionist, so I'll judge you. Harshly. I'll lie. To your face. Behind your back. And probably not feel bad about it.
What I'm trying to say is: I'm probably both of these people. Not in a schizophrenic sort of way, but I think he sees the best in me that maybe I can't or won't or have been told by some people I'm not. He sees me as the best possible me; the me I want so desperately to be and the me that I think I was years ago.
So why am I still not sure about him?
I'm so obviously a Slytherin.
Sure, I look all tiny and cute and innocent, and sometimes I am. If it pleases me. Mostly, though, I'm manipulative, unreliable, vengeful and maddening. I'm insecure and wary. I'm a perfectionist, so I'll judge you. Harshly. I'll lie. To your face. Behind your back. And probably not feel bad about it.
What I'm trying to say is: I'm probably both of these people. Not in a schizophrenic sort of way, but I think he sees the best in me that maybe I can't or won't or have been told by some people I'm not. He sees me as the best possible me; the me I want so desperately to be and the me that I think I was years ago.
So why am I still not sure about him?
Tuesday, January 12, 2010
Fear
I've been reminded several times this week that I am a failure at blogging. But are you a failure if you've meant to fail? Each morning, my homepage explodes open on my screen and Blogger stares back at me. "Today?" it asks, and I quickly "x" out of it, opening a new window to the Weather, or Facebook, or anything that requires less thought or effort.
You see, I've been busy.
I'm taking eighteen hours this semester in a last, desperate, and hopefully successful attempt to graduate in the Fall like I'd expected I would without doubt until I slid my "plans" across the balsam desk of my adviser yesterday morning and she placed one shiny fingernail and slid it back towards me, her eyes conveying a look of pity that almost no one wishes be directed toward them. Twelve additional hours. Twelve. Not one that can be added in the summer, but an entire semester's worth of classes. Needless to say, yesterday was a day.
So, for all eight of you who read this, I'll try my best to keep this up to date for you and be clever and entertaining and all of that, but I'm not making any promises.
"Nearly every morning, a certain woman in our community comes running out of her house with her face white and her overcoat flapping wildly. She cries out, "Emergency, emergency," and one of us runs to her and holds her until her fears are calmed. We know she is making it up; nothing has really happened to her. But we understand, because there is hardly one of us who has not been moved at some time to do just what she has done, and every time it has taken all our strength, and even the strength of our friends and families, too, to quiet us."
-Lydia Davis, Fear
You see, I've been busy.
I'm taking eighteen hours this semester in a last, desperate, and hopefully successful attempt to graduate in the Fall like I'd expected I would without doubt until I slid my "plans" across the balsam desk of my adviser yesterday morning and she placed one shiny fingernail and slid it back towards me, her eyes conveying a look of pity that almost no one wishes be directed toward them. Twelve additional hours. Twelve. Not one that can be added in the summer, but an entire semester's worth of classes. Needless to say, yesterday was a day.
So, for all eight of you who read this, I'll try my best to keep this up to date for you and be clever and entertaining and all of that, but I'm not making any promises.
"Nearly every morning, a certain woman in our community comes running out of her house with her face white and her overcoat flapping wildly. She cries out, "Emergency, emergency," and one of us runs to her and holds her until her fears are calmed. We know she is making it up; nothing has really happened to her. But we understand, because there is hardly one of us who has not been moved at some time to do just what she has done, and every time it has taken all our strength, and even the strength of our friends and families, too, to quiet us."
-Lydia Davis, Fear
Saturday, December 5, 2009
The Baby Monster
So, no offense to anyone, but my dog is pretty much the greatest dog that has ever lived. She's a black Cocker Spaniel with little ringlets that dangle off her floppy ears and little patches of gray and white under her chin which make her look very distinguished. She's also a genius, as I have over thirty names I like to call her by and she answers to all of them, no matter how horrible distorted they have become from her actual name, Molly. For example, sometimes she is "MollyBoo" or "Da Boo" which then became "Baby Boo" or "Monster" when she bites or eats things she shouldn't. But she's so cute, I had to make it "The Baby Monster" "BabyMon" or "Mon." Seriously, she answers to all of these! Which is even more impressive when you consider the fact that she is both blind and deaf. She is really the Helen Keller of the dog world, only she communicates via noggin-touching and paw-placing and not... well whatever you want to call the language of Helen Keller (I'm not interested in being politically correct tonight).
Yes, Molly and I have lengthy conversations. She will sit staring at me until I lay on the floor next to her. She sidles up and places her forehead against mine and holds it there for a few moments as if trying to send me her thoughts telepathically. Usually, her thoughts are limited to "I could use a belly scratch" or "Did you guys eat all that turkey or is there some still in the fridge?" But sometimes it's like in The Giver where the old guy puts his hands on the boy's back and tranfers memories. She'll be like "Hey, remember the first year you got me? And I ate all the pizza at your eleventh birthday party? And then I stole Christopher's superman undies? Man, those was good times." And then she'll put her paw on my face as if to say, "Got any pizza?"
Yeah, Mols and I used to have a lot of fun; what with her biting people's ears (thus her middle name, "Tyson") ((yeah, my dog has a middle name)) and viciously attacking Fluffy on a daily basis, there was plenty of amusement to be had. But, now she's gotten older and I guess we still have fun, but I imagine it's the kind of fun a sheepdog has while trying to rein the herd into their corral; me tapping her nose to let her know I'm going to another room, or circling her to try to guide her into her crate when I leave. Sometimes I will forget she can't see or hear me and I'll find her curled in a corner somewhere because when she feels the walls she knows she safe. But now that she's calmer and older, she loves to be cuddled which is the most fun you can have with your dog (I'm right, right?). She's like play-doh, this one, the way she molds into you and then leans her head backwards and gives you a little nose-lickin. That's all she wants in the world, is a good cuddle and nose to lick and if you throw in a little "ooosis so cute" she is golden.
Anyway, there's no point to this post (is there ever?). I just love my freaking dog.
Yes, Molly and I have lengthy conversations. She will sit staring at me until I lay on the floor next to her. She sidles up and places her forehead against mine and holds it there for a few moments as if trying to send me her thoughts telepathically. Usually, her thoughts are limited to "I could use a belly scratch" or "Did you guys eat all that turkey or is there some still in the fridge?" But sometimes it's like in The Giver where the old guy puts his hands on the boy's back and tranfers memories. She'll be like "Hey, remember the first year you got me? And I ate all the pizza at your eleventh birthday party? And then I stole Christopher's superman undies? Man, those was good times." And then she'll put her paw on my face as if to say, "Got any pizza?"
Yeah, Mols and I used to have a lot of fun; what with her biting people's ears (thus her middle name, "Tyson") ((yeah, my dog has a middle name)) and viciously attacking Fluffy on a daily basis, there was plenty of amusement to be had. But, now she's gotten older and I guess we still have fun, but I imagine it's the kind of fun a sheepdog has while trying to rein the herd into their corral; me tapping her nose to let her know I'm going to another room, or circling her to try to guide her into her crate when I leave. Sometimes I will forget she can't see or hear me and I'll find her curled in a corner somewhere because when she feels the walls she knows she safe. But now that she's calmer and older, she loves to be cuddled which is the most fun you can have with your dog (I'm right, right?). She's like play-doh, this one, the way she molds into you and then leans her head backwards and gives you a little nose-lickin. That's all she wants in the world, is a good cuddle and nose to lick and if you throw in a little "ooosis so cute" she is golden.
Anyway, there's no point to this post (is there ever?). I just love my freaking dog.
Tuesday, December 1, 2009
So Sorry
I truly intended to write a post today. And it was going to be good; all Fight-Club parallelly and awesome. Seriously, it was going to be awesome.
But, I haven't finished either of my final projects yet. And they're due in... 23 hours. And I'll be sleeping for several of those. So, I'm smack-dab in the middle of the "Oh, God, I'm dying" phase of writing where my eyes go all blurry and I think about rolling up into a comforter burrito, babbling nonsense, and sleeping through class because I suddenly don't care what my grades are (Full disclosure: this actually happened one semester).
But I'm going home in 48 hours. 48 hours!
If I don't die before then.
But, I haven't finished either of my final projects yet. And they're due in... 23 hours. And I'll be sleeping for several of those. So, I'm smack-dab in the middle of the "Oh, God, I'm dying" phase of writing where my eyes go all blurry and I think about rolling up into a comforter burrito, babbling nonsense, and sleeping through class because I suddenly don't care what my grades are (Full disclosure: this actually happened one semester).
But I'm going home in 48 hours. 48 hours!
If I don't die before then.
Wednesday, November 25, 2009
Conferences and Other Happenings
Has it been awhile? I've lost track of which day it is. Anywho.
I had conferences yesterday for my finals in Literature and Nature Writing. Confession: these were optional conferences. But, you say "optional conference" and I hear "professor is held captive by me for twenty minutes and is forced to say all kinds of glorious things about my writing." Um, like I would opt out of that.
The conversations generally go a little like so:
Professor: Do you have any questions about your porfolio?
Me: No. (smiles and blinks expectantly several times)
Professor: Well, I have to say, I am very impressed by your work...
Perhaps this is a bit narcissistic. But, let me remind you this is the one thing I'm good at. The one thing, people! I'd say forty minutes of shameless solicitation for applause is only mildly self-indulgent.
After the conferences, I had to run to CVS for something and was stopped behind a pick-up truck at a stop-light. However, this particular pick-up truck had a bed that was occupied by a young burly bearded book-reading man. The passenger seat in the actual cab of the truck was vacant, so clearly this young scholar was there by choice and not necessity. I looked at him for several moments, and he looked back at me as if to say, "Yep." It seemed sufficient explanation to me and then the light changed. So, that was that.
For the entirety of the year, I rip pictures of various objects I might want for Christmas out of magazines and stick them into an envelope that I then magnet to the fridge (yep, I just made magnet into a verb)((holy complete lack of topic transition, Batman!)). Around Thanksgiving, I like to open said envelope and get a good little laugh over the things that captured my heart for long enough that I am willing to put out the effort of cutting and placing. The packet was small this year, consisting of a list of books I'd like, a bright orange blazer, and a small cut out of a UV toothbrush sanitizer. Mmhmm. A UV toothbrush sanitizer. I was a little amused for awhile and laughed at how nondiscriminatory I'd become with my gift-wanting. And then I realized... I totally still want this. So, Mom, if you're reading this...
I had conferences yesterday for my finals in Literature and Nature Writing. Confession: these were optional conferences. But, you say "optional conference" and I hear "professor is held captive by me for twenty minutes and is forced to say all kinds of glorious things about my writing." Um, like I would opt out of that.
The conversations generally go a little like so:
Professor: Do you have any questions about your porfolio?
Me: No. (smiles and blinks expectantly several times)
Professor: Well, I have to say, I am very impressed by your work...
Perhaps this is a bit narcissistic. But, let me remind you this is the one thing I'm good at. The one thing, people! I'd say forty minutes of shameless solicitation for applause is only mildly self-indulgent.
After the conferences, I had to run to CVS for something and was stopped behind a pick-up truck at a stop-light. However, this particular pick-up truck had a bed that was occupied by a young burly bearded book-reading man. The passenger seat in the actual cab of the truck was vacant, so clearly this young scholar was there by choice and not necessity. I looked at him for several moments, and he looked back at me as if to say, "Yep." It seemed sufficient explanation to me and then the light changed. So, that was that.
For the entirety of the year, I rip pictures of various objects I might want for Christmas out of magazines and stick them into an envelope that I then magnet to the fridge (yep, I just made magnet into a verb)((holy complete lack of topic transition, Batman!)). Around Thanksgiving, I like to open said envelope and get a good little laugh over the things that captured my heart for long enough that I am willing to put out the effort of cutting and placing. The packet was small this year, consisting of a list of books I'd like, a bright orange blazer, and a small cut out of a UV toothbrush sanitizer. Mmhmm. A UV toothbrush sanitizer. I was a little amused for awhile and laughed at how nondiscriminatory I'd become with my gift-wanting. And then I realized... I totally still want this. So, Mom, if you're reading this...
Sunday, November 22, 2009
Hodgepodge
I have to be creative for the next eleven days. Which is like saying to yourself that you can't eat milk and cereal for dinner and bedtime snack anymore. As soon as you say it, it just isn't going to happen. Especially when I've been feeling funny lately. Not weird funny, mind you. But, I-almost-started-spontanously-tap-dancing-in-my-kitchen-last-night funny because I thought it might make my roommates laugh (and distract them from the fact that I haven't changed Katie's cat's litter box yet and it's a wee bit smelly). I miss being the girl who is so funny it makes other people funny via osmosis (like Annie, who credits me for making her funny in the seventh grade. You're welcome.). Anyway, it's kind of hard to write a serious, well worded essay when you're tap dancing. I'm just saying.
I have this creative presentation for my final Nature Writing project and I have a meeting with Professor Allen on Tuesday to show her the progress I've made on it. Which should be interesting considering I can't think of anything creative to do for it, thus have no progress to show whatsoever.
In a completely unrelated note, I am going to marry Joel McHale. Oh, it's happening.
I have this creative presentation for my final Nature Writing project and I have a meeting with Professor Allen on Tuesday to show her the progress I've made on it. Which should be interesting considering I can't think of anything creative to do for it, thus have no progress to show whatsoever.
In a completely unrelated note, I am going to marry Joel McHale. Oh, it's happening.
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