Taking Inspiration

I can see you.
Yeah, you.

But I can't hear you
from way over there.

You should come closer.

I know why you're here.
Oh, yeah, I know alright.
So, get started.
Hop to it.
Don't just stand over there,
all alone,
waiting for me to come
and bring you here
myself.

I can't do it
by myself.
I can't do this
by myself.

You should come closer.

This isn't the first time,
yours,
or mine.
We've both been here
before,
and it's turned out alright.
Right?
It'll all be okay.

You can come closer.

I've been so patient,
waiting for you
to return.
You're such a quiet,
indecisive,
self-conscious thing,
you,
rarely speaking above
a whisper.

You must come closer.

That's it.
Just a little further.
You're almost there.

Now,
was that so hard?

Actually, Alicia is on break

While off at the ever-lovely Knox, I have severely neglected this blog. Mostly, this can be attributed to the fact that I have been neglecting my creative writing as well. Also, I am lazy.

Anyhoo, my infinitely adorable suitemate (but not friend) Maddie and I have decided to join forces over the course of our six week-long winter break and joint-blog about it. I'll be baking the heck out of every cookbook I can get my hands on, and she'll be trying on a boat-ton of clothes and perusing the internets for her fashionable pleasure. I'll also attempt to get back into my creative writing, but I've picked up the habit of knitting recently, and, well, typing is pretty difficult when your fingers are clutching a bunch of yarn.

So, join me over at the aptly-named Six Weeks of Break. It'll definitely be worth your while.

Shallow

So poetry is passion,
Right?
But storytelling takes practice.
(Or so I'm told.)
Storytelling is an art form,
A craft,
A way to entertain,
Or to make a living.
Poetry,
On the other hand,
Is
Instinctual,
Primal,
A basic
Need.
Storytelling is in words
Always.
Poetry is words, too,
And also pictures-drawings-sketches,
And movement-music-masquerade,
And expression-emotion-feeling,
But never
Always-something-anything-please.
Storytelling is history-moral-reason,
Yes,
But storytelling can be
Synopsized-summarized,
And really only ever taken at
Face
Value.

Coupla Haiku (Haikus? Haiki? Hike High in the Mountains?)

Prairie
Bobbing in the breeze,
Majestic sea of long grass,
Midwestern glory

(untitled)
Timpanis build up,
Strings and brass in harmony,
Sound epiphany.

Flakes

At 7:28 on Thursday morning, Agnes had already showered, dressed, and was halfway through her daily bowl of cornflakes with skim milk in the cafeteria two blocks down. Rereading the assigned chapter for her 8 a.m. History of Ancient Civilizations class (to which she always arrived at exactly 7:54), Agnes and her bleak breakfast kept to themselves amidst the shuffling hoards of semiconscious students mumbling their omelet orders with borderline coherency.

Agnes’ cornflakes were quite fed up with being just one of many pillars of constancy and routine in her life. They longed for the freedom to mingle with banana slices, or to be smothered in sugar, or, at the very least, to soak in two-percent until they were barely solid. But, alas, having no way to communicate their desires, the cornflakes settled for leaping from the bowl to one of Agnes’ many textbooks, or falling from Agnes’ spoon about 1 inch too soon. These little occurrences were misinterpreted by Agnes to be simple accidents, and she never thought much of them.

After finishing the last of the unruly cornflakes, Agnes made her way to her class, and took her usual seat two rows from the door and three seats back. She placed her practical backpack on the floor, and removed a red notebook, identical pens in black, blue, and green ink, and a large Nalgene bottle filled with water. She arranged these supplies on her desk with the mindless precision of someone who has made this particular display on a daily basis for quite some time. As the clock struck 8, a breathless boy came tearing into the room, planting himself in the seat next to Agnes, in the row closest to the door. The professor gave the boy a reproving look, resigned to letting him enter in this manner for every class, and began his lecture.

The boy did, in fact, appear to all of his classes just as they were beginning, and he left them as soon as they ended. Agnes, however, was subtly disrupted from her chronic normalcy by the fact that, today, Astin had not seated himself in his usual spot, the very last desk in the row he presently occupied. Though this was but a small change, Agnes was totally shaken by the fact that he was sitting next to her, and it showed. Not only did she use the black pen to write all the dates in her notes instead of the green one, but towards the end of the class, she knocked her abnormally half-open water bottle onto the floor, where it landed at the feet of the subject of her agitation.

As the professor signaled the end of class, Agnes rushed to pick up the bottle, murmuring quiet apologies about water damage. With an odd smile, as if he were suppressing laughter, Astin assured her that his shoes were fine and that his bag had accrued no permanent damage, and sauntered out the door. Still quite flustered and embarrassed, Agnes quickly gathered her things, left the classroom, and found a seat outside to organize her belongings into their places in her backpack.

The next week, following an otherwise identical Wednesday morning for Agnes, class was interrupted by the half-hour tardiness of a new transfer student. She whirled into the room in a cloud of cloying perfume, clunked her overlarge tote bag onto the professor’s desk, and introduced herself to the class as Vyra-from-Louisiana, just like that, as if it were all one word. She then took her bag and gracefully fell into a position resembling someone giving their utmost attention, in the desk right in front of Agnes: two rows in from the door, two seats back, and right next to the seat which Astin was using that day.

When the professor ended class, Vyra instantly turned and, placing her hand on Astin’s arm, made a personal introduction, to which Astin responded with a captivatingly simple, “Astin.” The two shook hands for a beat longer than was strictly necessary, their eyes boring into one another’s. Vyra invited him to the welcoming party she was throwing “to get to know my new peers” that night at the Kappa Delta sorority house, where she was a new resident. Saying he’d “think about it” in a tone which suggested he already planned on attending, Astin collected his bag and left.

Noticing the way Agnes stared with unconscious longing after Astin, Vyra turned to her next, offering her hand and saying with an ooze of southern charm, “I’m Vyra. I’m so sorry, honey, is he yours? I had no idea! You’re welcome to come, too.”

Confused, Agnes cleared her throat and asked, “My name is Agnes, and what do you mean, is he mine? Like a boyfriend?”

“Whatever you wanna call it,” said Vyra, “but in that boy’s case, I’d say ‘man-friend’ would be a bit more accurate, right?” With a tinkling little laugh, she swung her giant bag onto her tiny shoulder and sashayed out of the room.

Blinking, Agnes stayed seated for a few minutes, until the professor asked if she had a question. With a quiet “no” and umpteen softly spoken apologies, she quickly shoved her things into her bag, and went home to plan her party outfit.

*          *          *

The party was in full swing when Agnes arrived, so no one, save for the person she body-checked when she opened the door, was aware of it. Music with a strong base line thumped through the house, out onto the lawn, and into the backyard, where fully-clothed men and barely-covered women splashed around the pool. She spotted Vyra holding court on the couch in the living room, entertaining at least thirty people with stories about her life in Baton Rouge and her trip from there to here. Vyra apparently spotted her as well, and she waved her over, introducing her to the throng of people as “my new friend, Aggie,” a nickname Agnes had never really liked. As Vyra continued to recount her many anecdotes, “Aggie” moved through the house, grabbing a red cup of putrid punch on her way.

Agnes downed the entire glass in three nervous gulps, and then saw Astin standing among a group of people who were talking with unnecessary volume, to attract the attention of others. Astin said something to the guy who appeared to be the leader of the group, then slowly made his way to the kitchen. Having just come from the opposite direction in the circular house, Agnes quickly backtracked into the kitchen as well, under the pretense of refilling her cup with more of that dreadful drink.

Astin was grabbing a beer from the fridge when Agnes finally reentered the kitchen. She moved to the punch bowl, but as she picked up the ladle, Astin lightly grabbed her wrist.

“You don’t want any of that,” he said, “trust me. You’d be better off with one of these.” He handed her a freshly opened bottle of beer. Agnes accepted the drink, and took a long, slow swallow, followed by a little hiccup.

He chuckled. “Sounds like you need a bit of fresh air. May I escort you outside?” He twirled his hand as he dipped into a sarcastic bow, bringing his face to the same level as Agnes’ chest.

Agnes was absolutely oblivious to this and, nodding demurely, allowed him to lead her out a side door onto the one patio that was completely unoccupied. They sat on the ground, leaned against the wall, and drank in silence. When a few minutes had passed, she turned to tell Astin that he could go back to the party if he wanted, but found she couldn’t say anything when saw him staring into her eyes.

His mouth suddenly covered hers in a sloppy, drunken kiss. Stunned, Agnes sat stock-still for a moment, then relaxed into the kiss. She only made him stop when she felt his hand start creeping up her shirt. With some struggle, she managed to shove him away from her. Mumbling that she really wasn’t “that kind of girl”, Agnes left her drink on the ground as she ran back into the house. Not knowing what else to do, Agnes sought the one person she knew could help her, Vyra.

Following her discoveries that Vyra was no longer on her pleather throne in the living room, nor was she in the kitchen, the dining room, or out by the pool, Agnes decided to look on the upper level of the house, even though she was quite sure that she was not supposed to go upstairs. She crept past entangled couples on the staircase and all down the hallway, not to mention open bedrooms containing other couples in even more interlocked embraces. Though Agnes tried asking, none of the couples could be bothered to say if they knew where Vyra had gone.

At the end of the hallway, there were three closed rooms. The first door was found to be locked. When Agnes opened the second door, she saw a group of people lying altogether like sardines on the bed, passing a joint down the line in silence. Agnes was coughing too hard from the smoke to ask if they had seen Vyra, but she had a feeling they wouldn’t have given her a real answer anyway.

Agnes paused outside the third door. She didn’t need to press her ear up to the door to hear the excited moans coming from behind it. Filled with an awful perception that she really didn’t want to see what was inside this room, she opened the door little by little, to keep from startling the room’s inhabitants. The door entirely open, Agnes stood utterly shell-shocked by the scene she had revealed. She couldn’t make out much with the light that spilled in from the hallway, but she could see well enough to know that she had finally found Vyra. Nonetheless she could also see well enough to tell that the source of all Vyra’s excitement was none other than Astin.

Her eyes involuntarily brimming with tears, Agnes tore down the hallway, forgetting all about shutting the door behind her. She thrust couples out of her way as she nearly fell down the stairs, rushed through the house, and ended up in the backyard. Unable to see through the tears streaming down her face, she separately but accidently knocked five people into the pool as she fought her way to the back gate. She wretched open the gate without stopping, and ran until her legs could no longer carry her. After puking in a bush with no one to hold her hair, Agnes slowly made her way home, where she stripped down, took a shower, and fell into bed.

That morning, another Thursday, Agnes sat down in her usual spot in the cafeteria, running five minutes late. Instead of her usual wholesome breakfast, she drowned her cornflakes in whole milk and smothered them with five heaping tablespoons of sugar. Her cornflakes were overjoyed at this unexpected occasion, so overjoyed they did not notice that Agnes was not reading any of her textbooks. In fact, they were so over the moon with this turn of events that they stayed on Agnes’ spoon all the way to her mouth with every bite, not that Agnes would have cared if they did. For the very first time, she was not impeccably dressed one of her conservative, professional outfits. Alternatively, she was wearing the sweatpants she had slept in the night before.

Agnes arrived to class breathless, just as her surprised professor was moving to shut the door. Neither Astin nor Vyra were present.

Mini-Vacation: Just What the Little Voice In My Head Ordered

I just need somewhere to rant about things. Like, for example, what I ate for dinner tonight.

Sounds boring, yes, but stay with me here. There's a story bit to open the whole thing, so bear with me until the mouth-wateringly fantastic description of Chicken Kildare works its way in here. A little background information would probably be a good idea right about no:. My parents are getting our bathroom redone this week, so they decided we'd just stay in a hotel downtown since we've got no running water for the next couple of nights.

I'm sitting in the...well, I'm not sure what it's called. I can see the actually lobby from here, so I guess this is like a garden or something. There's a waterfall in the middle of it, a pretty big one, too. And there's actual ducks in the water, at least seven of 'em. The ceiling is all glass, and this place is about 9 stories tall, so no matter what time of day it is, it seems like you're outside. It's fabulous. There's streetlamp-esque things to light up the garden; it's absolutely gorgeous.

For dinner, we ate at the pub in the hotel. There's a restaurant and a pub, but the restaurant's slightly pricey, and the pub has a little terrace into the indoor garden, so obviously that sounded like more fun. Given that it's a pub, it had a stereotypical Irish theme, so a lot of the items on the menu were of the play-on-Irish-words nature (example: Bangers and Mac, which is just mac & cheese with sausages on it, which "I can make at home thank-you-very-much so why would you waste money eating it here?").

Now, I have no idea whether the 'Kildare' part of Chicken Kildare is Irish or not (nor do I know its correct pronunciation, but that is beside the point), but I do have a first-hand (or, as I like to call it, a "fork-hand") idea of how utterly delectable it is. Picture it with me: a lovely, not-too-large, herb roasted chicken breast, surrounded by a mixture of asparagus, halved grape tomatoes, and artichoke hearts, as well as roasted "fingerling" potatoes (Does anyone know if this is a kind of potato? Or a way of preparing potatoes? Or a potato religion? I really don't know...it said "fingerling potatoes" on the menu, no clarification for those who do not speak potato.), with two little slices of a slightly chewy, subtly sweet bread which was excellent for soaking up the liquid whatnot left behind by the artichokes and other veggies.

Sounds really good, right? Well, let me tell you, it tastes even better. Hard to believe? Not once you've had a taste...

What I Did During the AP Stats Test

Dear College Board,

How can you take my signature for it that I'm taking this test on this date, but you can't take my word for it that my abridged version of Jean de Florette in the original French contains nothing that will help me with this test? Really, College Board? I know we've been kind of off-and-on for the past three years, but I thought we were closer than that.

I remember when we first met, that very first AP test: chemistry, sophomore year. I was sick with anxiety, but somehow we pulled through it. Then, we fell off that summer... Have you noticed how we're only together from mid-April until July? Maybe this is all just spring fever, but I thought we were closer than that.

Can I take a guess? It's because I chose the ACT over your SAT this fall, isn't it? I can't believe you'd hold a grudge over something like this. I'm really disappointed in you, College Board: I thought we were closer than that.

Will you at least listen to my side? We were on another break. It was right after you gave me that 3 for my work on the French Language exam...I still can't believe you did that. Sure, the oral caught me a bit off guard, but I thought I covered it pretty well. I thought I deserved at least a 4, but I guess we weren't on the same page. I thought we knew each other better than that.

Well, ten minutes left now. I suppose I'll just see you later, then, College Board, at the late AP Chemistry exam.

Forever Yours (Sometimes),
Alicia

Artist Boobs, yes, but nothing original on my part

So, I haven't posted anything in a pretty long time. However, when I was looking for whatnot to do over spring break, I discovered a few blogs I deem to be "of note" and would like to share them with you all.

==>Blog Numero Un: Constantly Risking Absurdity by Mariah Irvin

Quote from More Reasons to Say "Yay!" and Another Tease:

“Look,” I gestured at myself, “I have artist boobs. There’s no way I could wear that.”

“What?” Izzy’s eyebrows rose curiously.

“It’s like,” I broke off, embarrassed I had actually said what I was thinking. “My boobs are the size an artist would use, for like a painting or sculpture. They’re big enough to know the person that has them is female, but small enough not to be vulgar.”

Mariah Irvin "loves writing, reading, and sharing random thoughts with complete strangers in hopes that they won't label her absurd." I definitely do not label her absurd, and I love how every entry on her blog is just a scrape on the surface of the randomness past, the randomness at hand, and the randomness to come. My personal favorites the ones involving Barbie and Godzilla, or her psychotic laptop. All in all, an excellent way to chill out after a long day of whatever it is you do.

==>Blog Numero Deux: Blog Title. by :]

Although the postings are rather sporadic, the ones that do exist on this anonymous blog are very entertaining. This may, however, be due to their voice's remarkable resemblance to my dear friend and bestest pally, Wendy. Not much else to say...except that the blog is quite funny, and you really should go read it.

==>Blog Numero Trois: breadxbread by aw and JoJoJoJo

Just two dudes blogging about sandwiches. Any sandwiches, but mostly good ones, with pictures of every single one. It was something utterly random at the time I found it, but now I check for new posts on a regular basis. Yes, I don't live in the same area, so I can't go find any of the particularly mouth-watering specimen I'm reading about, but the posts are so descriptive, I could probably make them myself.

Well, there you have it. Three blogs, each enticingly random in their own hit-or-miss way. So, go check 'em out. Get to it. I won't mind if you leave. Really. Just come back evenutally, alright?

Alright??

More random questions answered: "Germaphobes! Ha!" and "Damn Ankles"

To Whomever May Actually Be Reading This:

I promise I'll have more posts that are not random-question related, but in the meantime, these both have pretty short answers, so I'll give you two of them.

Random Question #2: You laughed so hard you can't catch your breath. Stick out your tongue and show us what's funny:

There are over 300 different kinds of bacteria on my tongue, and everyone else’s tongue for that matter, but silly germ phobics won’t eat anything they think is dirty, even though they’ve already got a bacteria-covered tongue. Hahahahahahahahahahaha!!!!!!

Random Question #3: How is an ankle unlike a consequence?

Whereas a consequence comes as an effect of an action, an ankle can be the cause of an action, usually resulting in self-injury on the part of the ankle in question.

Random answer #1: "The bald frog and his Lilly"

This all started when I was editing my profile when I first joined Blogger (about 7 months before Creative Writing). I've since killed that blog, since it only had three posts when I forgot about it. I noticed the random question at the very bottom and, next to an answer box, instructions to check the small box below the answer bit and then save the profile to generate a new question. Curious, I checked the box and saved my profile, even though I hadn't changed anything. I scrolled anxiously back to the bottom of the screen, where, lo and behold, a new question had appeared. With childlike ecstasy, I repeated the process: check the box, save the profile, scroll down. Another new question materialized. When I did it all again, the first question reappeared. Slightly disappointed, but eager to discover how many questions there actually were, I decided to copy and paste each question into a Word document, just for the sake of collecting them. So far, I've got 84 of these different takes on random, and they just keep on coming.

Now, I have officially decided to answer each and every one of them. As I work my way down the list, I'll post my answers in this blog, instead of on my profile, for three reasons: 1)because it would take a really long time to bring the question I've answered back around on the profile bit; B) because apparently there's a word limit on the little answer box that no one told me about; and III) because I said so.

So there you have it. Official titles of each answer (if there are titles) are in the post title. Original questions will be in the post, right before their answer.

Random Question #1: The children are waiting! Please tell them the story about the bald frog with the wig:

So there's this frog, Freddy, and he's trying to find a lady frog. He's about to start over to a lady frog that he's had his eye on, Lilly, when he looks down at his reflection in the pond and realizes that he's bald! Freddy had heard stories about how undesirable baldness was, so he makes himself a wig using a grassy plant near the shore of the pond. He gets the wig on, takes a look at himself, and decides right there and then that he is the finest little frog he's ever seen or heard about in his entire froggy life. Finally ready to introduce himself, Freddy hops across the pond, from lily pad to lily pad, over to Lilly. Just as he's hopping onto the lily pad right next to hers, Brad, who’s had it out for Freddy ever since they were tadpoles, jumps onto the lily pad himself! Finding himself mid-jump with no alternative landing spot, Freddy falls into the pond, and his wig away. Too sad for words, he gets himself back to his own lily pad, and sits in solitude for the rest of his poor froggy life.

Inciting the Wrath of a Poet

I realize that this goes against my philosophy of "Let your poetry speak for itself: no intros," but I've already started. So there. I included this poem in my rough draft packet of personal poetry, but forgot to type it up in time for the final project. Therefore, I decided to post it here. The title of this post is the title of the poem as well. Enjoy.

anger pulsing,
taking over,
Controlling,
even those most stable
can be
pushed
over
the
edge
of their
sanity, reality
redefined
as Unreasonable,
but not anymore.

Egotistical,
Selfish,
and
Lazy:
three Sins
rolled into
one.
never cross those
who can
Manipulate,
aren't afraid to
do what they have to,
to get
what they want,
what they need.

respect
denies
attributes of the
self,
morals and values
(dis)IN(te)GRATE
under
the Watchful eye
of
Idle hands.
the beholder is
no longer
what matters
once
a Soul
is set
on
Fire.

What I Did in English Class Today

*NOTE: Each title indicates a new line of thought, meaning that a new stanza is not a new poem. The French one (actually written in French class, which is right after English) is followed by an approximate translation.*

This is embarrassing
I know you know it:
Poetry embarrasses.
Showing your bare soul,
your views on life, and your dreams,
takes more guts than you'd believe.

Three Important Questions
If I string haikus
on a thread of emotion,
and add some tankas
to embellish on my thoughts,
can I still call it haiku?

If there are no breaks
between each of the stanzas,
or if I allow
sentences to cross over,
let the punctuation extend
beyond barriers
set down by Japan's poets,
so long as I keep
the syllables in their lines,
will my work be recognized?

If I give you but
another question, not the
answers that you seek,
will my poems you admire
for the beauty they create?

The (Un)Answer
There are no answers,
so don't waste your time on truths.
Let your questions flow.

Biodegradable
Please conserve paper.
Print your poems in columns.
Put them in your blog.
Maybe you could just read them.
It's better for them and Earth.

Juice
I'm having a draught
in my mind's creative depths.
I know that poets
write, but also read daily.
Think they just run out of juice?

En Français
Qu'est-ce que c'est le mot
pour dire "tanka" en français?
Peut-être c'est la même,
mais il faut être "difficile."
Je ne les vois pas partout.

Translation:
In French
What is the word
to say "tanka" in French?
Maybe it's the same,
but it should be "difficult."
I don't see them everywhere.

Can a Poet Lie? Judge for Yourself...

"Poetry is lame."
"Poetry is for losers."
"You're still in that class?"
This blog has low readership,
since many friends don't get it.

Revel in romance.
Love is good for fairy tales,
but to last the night
just give me a romancer,
a guy who speaks my language.

Haikus aren't poems?
I'd like to see you write some
that show your spirit.

Tankas are cheating
because haikus can't contain
what I need to say?
Sometimes, fourteen syllables
really makes all the difference.

If the Jetsons had one, why shouldn't you?

Why not? You're already in the market for a new car, right? Something better for the environment than that rainforest deathtrap of an SUV you're no longer very proud to own? What could be better than a car that gets 500 miles per gallon of regular unleaded gas, not to mention one that flies? The Jetsons had a flying car, you know.

What's that? Yes, theirs was a bit more compact than this. But can you imagine what kind of cargo space they must've had? Besides, this car morphs between car and plane, depending on whether you're driving or flying. This car flies and drives! None of this hovering nonsense. If you're stuck in traffic, morph into the car, and everything is normal. Roadtrip? Let those wings extend and you'll be there in no time. If getting there is half the fun for you, you can drive, knowing that flying is always an option if you change your mind halfway or become extremely impatient.

Oh, the price? Well, as they are still in the developing stage, the price will vary from our current figures, but...no, you can't really be walking away now! There's at least a year until you can physically receive your car, so payment plans can be worked to meet nearly all needs! No, you haven't heard the best part yet!! It comes with free lessons, a full how-to on operating your vehicular miracle. Yes, free! Not included in the price of purchase at all, absolutely free. Not all dealer offer this, you know. Some charge extra for the classes, by the hour. Plus, if you buy your flying car here, every member of you family with a valid driver's license or permit can take part in the lessons, for no extra fee!

Honestly, what have you got to lose? Place the first down payment on your very own flying car today!

Typewriters shall rule once more

I really miss typewriters. When I was younger, I would always beg my great-aunt to let me use her typewriter for no reason other than that typewriters are awesome.

There is really something unique and special about putting a piece of paper in a typewriter, centering it, and letting your thoughts to be poked into inky permanency. I feel this surge of unidentifiable emotion knowing that I cannot simply press "Backspace" to erase my mistakes, that every letter is eternally present once I press its respective key. Sitting at a computer, jabbing at a keyboard as virtual script appears backlit in front of you, quite easily destroyed with the wrong sequence of keystrokes, feels impersonal and fake, like a faceless anyone could be writing this memoir to a fantastic science teacher, or recounting that one stormy night at camp. The non-electric typewriter is also a mechanical wonder, metal bits and pieces all screwed together to work in glorious technical harmony: press a button and a bar immediately flies up to smack language onto your piece of paper. There is no need for specification of font or font size on a typewriter; everything is uniform, allowing a reader to judge the literature for its composition, not its presentation. Society needs to bring back the typewriter, if not for everyone then at least for those appreciative souls who forever pine for the simplicity and classic beauty of the original industrial thought translator.

You can call me...

Reads a Lot and Eats Good Chocolate While She Bakes All Day

An Ode to What I've Been Trying to Say

I need
a
reaction.
Don't
just
let me go,
let me flow
into the
hard and
unforgiving
currents and
undertows
of a vast
and endless ocean
unknown.

Don't get me wrong.
I don't want you
to protect me
from what you think
I don't know.
I just want
a
reaction,
something
to remember
you by when
I'm gone
and
alone.

I don't want
your anger,
your sympathy,
your pity,
your regrets.
I don't want you
to worry,
to obsess,
to go crazy.
No one
likes their mother
when she clings
and Pampers,
especially when
all they really want is
a
reaction.

So
let this,
my ode to
eagles losing
their first-born fledglings,
and
to the eldest daughters
of alpha males,
reach
your ears
untainted
by what
you want me
to say
to think
to feel
so you will hear me
say
what I truly think
and
what I truly feel.
And
maybe,
just
maybe,
they'll be the same.

Weather: What a Character

All was calm and dark. After a long day of lab experiments and flight simulation, followed by an even longer night of gossip, peanut butter M&M’s, and severely burnt popcorn, sleep was welcomed with open, if drooping, arms.

A young girl lay in a dormitory bed, an odd combination of simultaneously stretched and coiled limbs beneath a single sheet and a homemade fleece blanket. A small electric fan blew at the center of this gently breathing mass from its perch on a chair dragged nearly to the edge of the bed.

Outside, dark billowing clouds, heavy with rain and giving off an aura of trouble, gathered around the tops of academic buildings, as if waiting for their cue to strike. The air zipped with electric energy, and the indescribably delicious smell that only comes before a good soaking rain drifted to the ground, into windows opened to ward off the stifling summer heat, and permeated the silent and soon-to-be-forgotten dreams of many piles of blankets steadily rising and falling with unconscious life.

Without warning, a single drop of water fell from an impatient cloud, riding a powerful gust of air through a window to land smack onto the young girl’s nose. As if it were a sudden bursting snore from her nasally-impaired father, she brushed at her face even as she rolled onto her other side and pulled her coverings tighter around her, oblivious to the chaos-toting Pandora’s Box that she had unlocked along with her windows earlier that night.

Another few drops fell, each blown by the forceful wind into the side of a building, like particularly stupid birds into a really clean window. The storm began this way, hesitantly, building up its courage and confidence in preparation for the real thing.

As a drizzling level of rainfall was reached, a flash of lightning zigzagged its way from the clouds to the ground and back, like a cautious swimmer would use their toe to test the water temperature. A few short seconds later, a resounding crack of thunder split open the sky, and let loose torrents of cold, unrelenting rain, which the wind directed right at the young girl’s window.

However, in combination with the girl’s conveniently wall-facing position as she slept on, the arrangement of the bed into the corner of the room allowed the majority of the nocturnal shower to pour itself onto the carpeted floor, just short of the small fan. Her roommate was not so lucky. With her identical dorm bed pressed right below her open window’s ledge, rain bucketed down and quickly began to soak her blankets through to the person underneath them.

Being an uneasy sleeper to begin with, the young girl’s roommate chose this moment to roll onto her other side, where she had run out of mattress to catch her cataleptic chassis, and thus landed with a blanket-muffled thud. Her grunt upon impact was as drawn out as her fall was abrupt. Gathering the avalanche of comforter around her, with eyes still closed in fatigued denial of consciousness, she stood up and climbed back into bed in one fluid motion, completely unaware of the icy cold lake of rainwater that had formed in the crater she’d left in the old, sagging mattress.

With a shrill squeak stifled by her sleepiness, she leapt out of the waterlogged bed, still clutching all her coverings, to land with surprising feline grace on her feet. She spent quite a few moments blinking uncomprehendingly at the storm streaming with an unparalleled intensity in the window, unable to do anything but cradle her impossibly huge bundle of bedspread, as one brusquely woken in the middle of the night is prone to do. She finally regained enough of her senses to wake the young girl before crossing their bathroom to an adjoining room, where two other girls slept, unaware of the meteorological mayhem teeming in their wide-open windows.

In a flurry of chaotic yet coordinated choreography, the four girls flitted from window to open window, closing them as quickly as they could manage in their inebriating exhaustion. After laying down towels underneath the nearly flooded bathroom window, they quickly formed a makeshift bed for the young girl’s roommate from her plethora of bedcovering, as her actual bed was beyond the capacity of their sleepy cerebella. All of the girls then returned to their respective places of rest, and as the young girl replaced her sheets around her tired body, she thought to herself what a storm survival story this would eventually make.

First Memory

My earliest memory is blocked by fingers, like when someone takes a picture with their fingertip over the lens. Everything is taller than I am, and everything is an earthy tone of emerald green. I stare down a seemingly endless path, flanked on both sides by dark brown wooden benches. I know they must be full of people, but I cannot see them.

I feel someone tap my shoulder, but I don't look to see them. I feel them nudge me forward, but I don't move an inch. Movement is no longer a voluntary choice, it seems.

Suddenly, off in the distance, a familiar face appears. Though it is green as well, it is distinctly different from the emerald forest that surrounds me. Its slightly neon quality clashes with the majestic sea of uniform color just enough that I am able to identify it from the distance that separates us. The characteristic diadem shape of the green silhouette that makes up its head stirs up something inside me that wipes away all my fears.

I unstick one foot from the floor, then the other, as I begin my stiff walk towards the comfort and security before me. The face grows ever clearer, I come ever closer, and then the memory fades, and disappears.

Weather: What a Character (unfinished)

All was calm and dark. After a long day of lab experiments and flight simulation, followed by an even longer night of gossip, peanut butter M&M’s, and severely burnt popcorn, sleep was welcomed with open, if drooping, arms.

A young girl lay in a dormitory bed, an odd combination of simultaneously stretched and coiled limbs beneath a single sheet and a homemade fleece blanket. A small electric fan blew at the center of this gently breathing mass from its perch on a chair dragged nearly to the edge of the bed.

Outside, dark billowing clouds, heavy with rain and giving off an aura of trouble, gathered around the tops of academic buildings, as if waiting for their cue to strike. The air zipped with electric energy, and the indescribably delicious smell that only comes before a good soaking rain drifted to the ground, into windows opened to ward off the stifling summer heat, and permeated the silent and soon-to-be-forgotten dreams of many piles of blankets steadily rising and falling with unconscious life.

Without warning, a single drop of water fell from an impatient cloud, riding a powerful gust of air through a window to land smack onto the young girl’s nose. As if it were a sudden bursting snore from her nasally-impaired father, she brushed at her face even as she rolled onto her other side and pulled her coverings tighter around her, oblivious to the chaos-toting Pandora’s Box that she had unlocked along with her windows earlier that night.

Another few drops fell, each blown by the forceful wind into the side of a building, like particularly stupid birds into a really clean window. The storm began this way, hesitantly, building up its courage and confidence in preparation for the real thing.

As a drizzling level of rainfall was reached, a flash of lightning zigzagged its way from the clouds to the ground and back, like a cautious swimmer would use their toe to test the water temperature. A few short seconds later, a resounding crack of thunder split open the sky, and let loose torrents of cold, unrelenting rain, which the wind directed right at the young girl’s window.

Second Response to The Child That Books Built

"For me, such words demonstrated the autonomy of stories. In stories, words you never heard spoken nonetheless existed. They had another kind of existence. They acted---upon objects likewise made of words" (Spufford 76).

This phrase really stuck out for me while reading more of this memoir. Spufford's narration jumps between being a kid who has just begun reading, and the man he is today whose life revolves around books. In some cases, though, like this one, the line between the two is quite fuzzy. In stories, everyone is a kid again, no matter what book is being read. New vocabulary is discovered, sometimes made-up vocabulary, but either way one's view of the world is expanded a bit more with every book read. Not only do words never before spoken have "another kind of existence," but they also draw the reader into this alternate state of being. The reader experiences the action of these unknown words in a breakthrough unparallel by anything else, especially by anything of a non-literary nature.

Spufford, Francis. The Child That Books Built. New York: Metropolitan Books, 2002.

First Response to The Child That Books Built by Francis Spufford

In reading the first two of the five sections of this memoir, I found Spufford's narrative to be almost clinical, but at the same time engagingly descriptive. As he talks about growing up with a kid sister who suffers from cystinosis, the vivid mental pictures the auther creates really drew me in and got me to pay more attention. When he moves on the topic of the Puffin publishing company's monopoly on children's literature "and their astonishingly precise recommendation to 'girls of eleven and above, and sensitive boys'" (pg. 20), I loved how Spufford could move seamlessly between stories in his descriptions of their underlying elements.

My Favorite Place: Childhood

My grandma's house is flat, safe, and predictable. There's always cookies, or bars, or pie, less than three days old. There's the rumble of my grandpa's deep, slow voice, unless you hear him snoring away in his favorite reclining chair.

When we arrive, and when we leave, my grandma's hugs always feel the same, always smell the same, and she always says the same kinds of things: "You guys be careful driving home, now!" or "D'you think you could take this trash out with you? If it's no trouble, I mean..."

The yard and the town are the same every time we visit, with slight adjustments made with changes in the season. Snow is always white and untouched before our arrival, and full of footprints and muck by the time we leave. In the summer, dandelions litter every yard within view, no matter how well cared for the lawn might be.

There's always something going on, usually instigated by my grandma. She rarely sits, flitting about like a hummingbird in a box. She rushes from room to room, maknig sure everyone is comfortable. My mom always tells her to take it easy, but this regularly backfires.

Response to The Names: A Memoir by N. Scott Momaday

"In the white light a whirlwind moves far out in the plain, and afterwards there is something like a shadow on the grass, a tremor, nothing. There seems a stillness at noon, but that is an illusion: the landscape rises and falls, ringing."

I liked this phrase because it describes a setting in an extremely detailed manner, then strips it all away, as if the author is trying to convince himself of the wonders of this place, not the reader. The line "...there is something like a shadow...a tremor, nothing" is almost contradictory as it illustrates a feeling of self-doubt on the part of the author, displaying the emotions brought up by the scene instead of the emotions of the scene itself. The following line, however, is contrastingly redundant: "There seems a stillness at noon, but that is an illusion..." This emphasizes the unknown quality of the plain, the mystery of the effects of the whirlwind.