Wednesday, December 5, 2007
Starting a Prophesy
It was dark outside as I stumbled down the empty road. I was tired. It was wet, and I wanted to go home. A cat strayed across my path, kicking leaves into the wind. "...going to be cold for October," the newscaster had said. My breath hit the air weaving tiny whisps of frost into the night. I glanced up. Mrs. Porter's house swayed at me, weak on it's hinges. I was afraid of her green hair, her bulging stomach, her scary yippy dogs- the way she leaned on her cane in such a menacing fashion. She scared me. The side walk took an ominous dip in its path as I came closer to the shack. her fence looked centuries old. I licked my lips for some kind of reassurance but none came. Her door stood ajar slightly and I pushed it. Prs. Porter stared at me, "You rude little boy. How dare you come into my house without knocking!"
Bently Engaged
At the start of each semester looms the required task beginning our new courses by stating our names, our majors, and something exotic about ourselves. I nearly fell out of my chair when the first guy stands up and says, "My name is Bently. I'm majoring in economics and my exotic thing is..." He pauses to build the already mounting suspense. "I'm engaged." In my head I am thinking that this is the least exotic thing I have encountered thus far in my experience at SUU. Most people on this rock get engaged at least once and go through with one marriage per proposal. So if people are getting engaged every day, is it honestly and truly an exotic trait? I think not. The next time you are asked to share something exotic with the class so the professor can remember your name, tell them you are not engaged or married. Now that is exotic.
Talking to Stars
There have been times in my early teenage years where I felt so amazingly wretched and alone I could not stand to look at myself. Instead of chancing to see the reflection in the lighted window at night or through the mirror I would walk outside and down the rutted dirt road.
Our home was a small one in the middle of green, blossoming alfalfa fields, surrounded by nothing but expanse. It was at this time I would sniff the fragrant air and gaze at the stars in awe. They speckled the sky like a million dollars and looking back on that view I bet I could have sold it for something outrageous. But who needs to buy incredible? Simply go back to the troubled teens and find one experiencing peace.
Our home was a small one in the middle of green, blossoming alfalfa fields, surrounded by nothing but expanse. It was at this time I would sniff the fragrant air and gaze at the stars in awe. They speckled the sky like a million dollars and looking back on that view I bet I could have sold it for something outrageous. But who needs to buy incredible? Simply go back to the troubled teens and find one experiencing peace.
Standing Alone
Standing alone, I have a sudden surge to wrap my arms around her affectionately and tell her "its ok". Her hand is limp and I think about how much better off it would be if I placed my hand inside hers. Without an object of flirtation, she is odd and unnatural looking. Katie not flirting was a bird swimming on the brink of coming undone. And how helpless she is. "Where did they all go?," she wonders. Then I laugh deep inside at my knowledge that she is alone. We can breathe safely.
The Orange One
My cats are my friends. They always have been and always will be. In fact, despite having gone through about a hundred farm cats, I remember them all. One in particular.
It was orange with white tipped ears and jumped from the tire it lived in like it was born to fly. At only six weeks, it was a spry thing with more guts to it's name than John Wayne. I was most fond of it because it was most fond of me. After spending my summer morning petting its downy fir, I would start back to the house from the farm road and look behind me. As I anticipated, the orange ball of fluff was right behind me, mewing like I was its mamma. We became the best of buddies that summer of my eighth grade year until one fateful day.
Mom and Dad surprised my sister and I by sending us to Florida to visit family. Ecstatic as I was for the upcoming event, I felt a sense of doom for my pumpkin colored kitten. What if I never saw her again? The trip came and went happily but I still wondered about my kitten. She was the first thing I asked mom about as we drove back from the airport. Mom looked real sad for a minute and told me about my kitten. It's mother had gotten annoyed at my constant pestering of her babies and so she moved them to under the porch. It was under the porch she cared for them until eventually both her and all of her kittens left one day...all of her kittens but little orange. Little orange hadn't come out and all the food in the world wouldn't tempt it to come out. Chances are, it had died already.
I refused to believe her cruel joke and when we got home I abandoned all thoughts of unpacking my luggage but went straight to the hole under the porch. There I called to my kitten in a desperate, needy way, hating the world for letting such a beautiful creature as mine die. My voice cracked and I shook uncontrollably as every bit of motivation I used to get my kitten out was rejected. My tears were futile.
It was orange with white tipped ears and jumped from the tire it lived in like it was born to fly. At only six weeks, it was a spry thing with more guts to it's name than John Wayne. I was most fond of it because it was most fond of me. After spending my summer morning petting its downy fir, I would start back to the house from the farm road and look behind me. As I anticipated, the orange ball of fluff was right behind me, mewing like I was its mamma. We became the best of buddies that summer of my eighth grade year until one fateful day.
Mom and Dad surprised my sister and I by sending us to Florida to visit family. Ecstatic as I was for the upcoming event, I felt a sense of doom for my pumpkin colored kitten. What if I never saw her again? The trip came and went happily but I still wondered about my kitten. She was the first thing I asked mom about as we drove back from the airport. Mom looked real sad for a minute and told me about my kitten. It's mother had gotten annoyed at my constant pestering of her babies and so she moved them to under the porch. It was under the porch she cared for them until eventually both her and all of her kittens left one day...all of her kittens but little orange. Little orange hadn't come out and all the food in the world wouldn't tempt it to come out. Chances are, it had died already.
I refused to believe her cruel joke and when we got home I abandoned all thoughts of unpacking my luggage but went straight to the hole under the porch. There I called to my kitten in a desperate, needy way, hating the world for letting such a beautiful creature as mine die. My voice cracked and I shook uncontrollably as every bit of motivation I used to get my kitten out was rejected. My tears were futile.
Gumball machine
Grandma had a gumball machine. It was heavy and looked real expensive with it's little knobs, like something you would see of an old Sears Roebucks catalogue from the '20s. As kids we adored this gumball machine which spat out brightly colored sour balls because it was so different from the other quarter-a-cavity works found at gas stations. No, this wonder did not need money. Simply twist the dial and a sour ball would roll down and land in your hand. We thought we were on top of the world when Grandma would let us twist the machine's shiny knobs. Sadly, when Grandma died, so did the sour ball machine. Now when I see a kid with red syrup running out of a mouth stuffed with candy, I think about sour balls and that gum ball machine.
Tuesday, December 4, 2007
As I cleaned the blinds.
Through the window of a two story building I see trees. Beyond those trees is a world I'm not comfortable in. There are wolves and giants and humans more ferocious than any colony of vampires. If I went out there into the great beyond, I might be swallowed up in the abyss of Dorothy's tornado. Some poor wretch smelling reality said there was a new world to to conquer which was better than any front porch with old folks. This same wretch gave into the fantasy of creating fantasy.
Black castles of metal and iron tower in front of me and guardians of children wander with fear etched along their brows. A weak sun struggles, choking on storm clouds. A collaborative tune of despair is being hummed and I can feel it's low vibrations hitting the windows of buildings, rocking their foundations. Gigantic streams of gray coat the underbelly of every straggler in the street who weren't looking hard enough when their ship came in. I am as scared as the next person to be alone. A once respected old man sits in the gutter, smelling strongly of rubbish. He averts his eyes as his hands beckon for money but I am suddenly preoccupied with a statue a couple of yards ahead of me. It was dedicated as the remarkable symbol of the anti-established peace our valley had established. I have no money. Dead fish pollute the canal and flavor the air.
Hurting at this world I have sojourned to, I realize.
That night, I move the keyboard in time to my pulse- a kid at recess. I need to build on wolves and giants and humans more ferocious than any colony of vampires. I salivate at the fantasy of creating fantasy.
Black castles of metal and iron tower in front of me and guardians of children wander with fear etched along their brows. A weak sun struggles, choking on storm clouds. A collaborative tune of despair is being hummed and I can feel it's low vibrations hitting the windows of buildings, rocking their foundations. Gigantic streams of gray coat the underbelly of every straggler in the street who weren't looking hard enough when their ship came in. I am as scared as the next person to be alone. A once respected old man sits in the gutter, smelling strongly of rubbish. He averts his eyes as his hands beckon for money but I am suddenly preoccupied with a statue a couple of yards ahead of me. It was dedicated as the remarkable symbol of the anti-established peace our valley had established. I have no money. Dead fish pollute the canal and flavor the air.
Hurting at this world I have sojourned to, I realize.
That night, I move the keyboard in time to my pulse- a kid at recess. I need to build on wolves and giants and humans more ferocious than any colony of vampires. I salivate at the fantasy of creating fantasy.
Monday, December 3, 2007
A Children's Love Story
(romanticized version)
Once upon a time, in a land far far away lived the beautiful daughter of a farmer. She was the milker of the cows Bessy and Lill on their little farm, and whistled while she worked.
One fateful summer evening a handsome young town boy came trotting down the worn dirt road leading to the farm on his white steed Pinto. He was eager for a drink of water, for he was parched from his long days journey and there was no other well for miles.
As the town boy came closer to the farm he could hear the sweet melody of a whistle throughout the farm air. All thoughts of his thirst were abandoned as he searched for the source of the tune.
Finding the Farmer's daughter milking old Bessy, the town boy was smitten with love. He said, "Hello." And so did she. Looking into his big brown eyes the farmer's daughter knew there was more to life than milking cows. She was smitten as well.
Every Tuesday for three years following his episode of thirst the boy came to the farm for fresh eggs until he could stand it no longer. Instead of buying eggs, he hopped off Pinto in a brusque fashion and gave the farmer's daughter a smackeroo.
Picking her up by her muscly arms, he threw her on the back on Pinto and they rode off into the sunset to be married the next morning in town by Preacher Ben.
Once upon a time, in a land far far away lived the beautiful daughter of a farmer. She was the milker of the cows Bessy and Lill on their little farm, and whistled while she worked.
One fateful summer evening a handsome young town boy came trotting down the worn dirt road leading to the farm on his white steed Pinto. He was eager for a drink of water, for he was parched from his long days journey and there was no other well for miles.
As the town boy came closer to the farm he could hear the sweet melody of a whistle throughout the farm air. All thoughts of his thirst were abandoned as he searched for the source of the tune.
Finding the Farmer's daughter milking old Bessy, the town boy was smitten with love. He said, "Hello." And so did she. Looking into his big brown eyes the farmer's daughter knew there was more to life than milking cows. She was smitten as well.
Every Tuesday for three years following his episode of thirst the boy came to the farm for fresh eggs until he could stand it no longer. Instead of buying eggs, he hopped off Pinto in a brusque fashion and gave the farmer's daughter a smackeroo.
Picking her up by her muscly arms, he threw her on the back on Pinto and they rode off into the sunset to be married the next morning in town by Preacher Ben.
An Older Place
A piece of wall lay crumbling in dust;
I smile thinking about it.
And how
even though it is broken
the wall continues to exist.
Collecting the rust of ages
Just the same.
I smile thinking about it.
And how
even though it is broken
the wall continues to exist.
Collecting the rust of ages
Just the same.
Saturday, November 17, 2007
I'd Rather Not- Draft #4
I’D RATHER NOT
Jim had his favorite girls. Most of them were the younger unmarried ones who flirted with him by giving him either a transparent smile or a piece of their mind. I was one of these girls. As a favorite, I was blessed with the opportunity to have Jim peck at me about my social life like it was his own. He would tell me how a girl my age should be dating someone or even thinking about marriage (only in Utah). “Now take my nephew Nic…top of the line cowboy, hard workin’, good lookin’ kid and just the shyest thing you ever saw. You n’ him could balance each other out. If you’d just let me set you up, I know there’d be fireworks,” he’d say. I would shake my head hopelessly and say, “I’d rather not. I hate guys.”
Having broken up with my high school boyfriend I was like a leaf of lettuce stuffed inside a mango when it came to the dating scene. I was dysfunctional. Dark circles hung under my eyes, I was thinner than I’d been in months, and my mind was a black hole sucking in fragments of space and putting them into empty storage. College was a tapestry hanging limply on my wall; it was there but not something I was putting forth much effort into. After telling my mother about the pains of my existence, she very tactfully said it was my own fault I was this way and that I should date even if I didn’t want to. Dating would be the best kind of therapy. Taking her advice, I agreed to a blind date with the notorious Nic Walker from Piute County and for the first time since in I don’t know how long, I discovered my mom was…amazingly wrong.
A couple of weeks later at seven-thirty my buddy Joy and I were wringing our hands by the front door of my house. Our dates were a half hour late and the clock was steadily ticking forward. Deep inside both of us were crossing our fingers. Perhaps Nic and company spotted a bar on the way here and couldn’t resist the temptation. What if they ran into a deer? The very best we dared wished for was to be stood up—we might have a chance at salvaging what was left of our Friday night.
My doorbell rang ferociously. Nic was what most girls would consider “hot” with his saggy blonde hair and blue eyes but something about his skin tight Wranglers and belt buckle big enough for me to eat off of made me want to throw up in my own mouth. His buddy could be summed up with the image of a gang-banger-hick. Not enough bling to be real and he wore the Piute accent on his sleeve like his momma gave it to him.
Getting into the jacked up truck Gang-banger drove was a feat I still wonder how we ever accomplished without a step ladder. With girls in the back and boys in the front we were moderately comfortable- one of many precautions we took to prevent the dreaded cross county contamination. My ears shriveled from the time they fired up the engine till the time the fiasco was over in an effort to save themselves from the continual chorus of “Chain Hang Low”- a classy remix of “Do Your Ears Hang Low.” Watching my house disappear down the dirt road that night I was overcome with the grievous thought of it being the last time I would see my home again.
About twenty miles away from civilization, Nic turned to me and yelled his first and last words for the night over then din of “Chain Hang Low.”
“What’d ya wanna do?”
“WHAT,” I yelled back.
“I said, WHAT DO YOU WANT TO DO?”
Looking at Joy I could see her trying to restrain her fists from punching the phony accent out of his mouth. The next fifteen minutes were the equivalent of the vulture scene from The Jungle Book where they sit on the limb of a tree and go back and forth with the dreaded phrase, “What you wanna do?” For some reason I had assumed when we decided to go on a date, our dates would have some idea in mind of what we were going to do. The bowling alley was taken by a tournament and the movie in the local theatre had already started. The next showing would not be for two more hours. Time stretched before Joy and I like a torture device moving ever slower with its dirty work.
I’d given up carrying on a decent conversation with Nic and resorted to discussing the dynamics of Pink Floyd with Gang-banger. When Nic was not immersed in his phone’s text messaging he was talking to his ex-girlfriend, his potential girlfriend, and his drunk buddy. We were caught off guard a bit when Nic looked up from his phone to say he needed a drink. Looking back, its funny how it took us a half hour to find a gas station, five minutes to convince the boys to forgo the beer, and then another ten minutes to clean up the mess Joy made(nerves) by spilling juice all over the floor. One hour and fifteen minutes left before the sanctuary of a movie theatre.
Twenty drops of sweat and 1200 seconds later we were in town again. The Wall-Mart parking lot to be exact, making bets on whose red neck truck would win in the race on Main Street. Lucky for the other guy we were racing, he saw the cop first. Gang banger didn’t until it was a little too late. Joy and I were frantically scrambling to find the slot to the seat belt when the official knuckles rapped on our window signaling it was time to fess up. Folding my hands over my lap firmly I managed to look like I had my seat belt on. When the cop left, Gang-banger looked over his shoulder at us and said, “See, I never get in trouble. People know me.” I chose not to break it to him that it was a cop who knew him…not always the best sort of folks to know you in a small town.
Evidently there was something Nic wanted Gang-banger to know without us hearing. Not that it would have made much difference whether they had said it out loud or not; the bass from “Chain Hang Low” was going strong. The next thing I remember was being outside of a random town and Gang-banger saying, “Don’t look out there. Nic’s takin’ a leak,” as Nic jumped out of the truck. From the look on my poor, devoted friend Joy’s face I could tell she was in just as much shock as I was. She was also wishing she’d never agreed to come along and at the same time happy to save me from facing atrocities such as these by myself.
To this day I don’t understand why we couldn’t have stopped at a gas station in town for Nic to take a leak. I still don’t know why they picked the movie Happy Feet, or even why I chose to spend four hours of my life with such works of nature. However, I know with a surety what it the difference is between saying, “I’d rather not” and “NO.” “I’d rather not” leaves room open for hesitation, for deliberation. By saying, “I’d rather not” you are really saying, “If you pressure me enough to do this, I’ll bend and give in eventually.” I know now to leave no room for second guessing. If you mean “no,” mean it. Don’t change your mind because some friendly stranger says he has your best interests at heart. And unless you are one in a hundred thousand, your better off waiting to meet a happy distraction than having one set up for you. You are the one who defines what a happy distraction is. Finger painting could be your safest bet.
Jim had his favorite girls. Most of them were the younger unmarried ones who flirted with him by giving him either a transparent smile or a piece of their mind. I was one of these girls. As a favorite, I was blessed with the opportunity to have Jim peck at me about my social life like it was his own. He would tell me how a girl my age should be dating someone or even thinking about marriage (only in Utah). “Now take my nephew Nic…top of the line cowboy, hard workin’, good lookin’ kid and just the shyest thing you ever saw. You n’ him could balance each other out. If you’d just let me set you up, I know there’d be fireworks,” he’d say. I would shake my head hopelessly and say, “I’d rather not. I hate guys.”
Having broken up with my high school boyfriend I was like a leaf of lettuce stuffed inside a mango when it came to the dating scene. I was dysfunctional. Dark circles hung under my eyes, I was thinner than I’d been in months, and my mind was a black hole sucking in fragments of space and putting them into empty storage. College was a tapestry hanging limply on my wall; it was there but not something I was putting forth much effort into. After telling my mother about the pains of my existence, she very tactfully said it was my own fault I was this way and that I should date even if I didn’t want to. Dating would be the best kind of therapy. Taking her advice, I agreed to a blind date with the notorious Nic Walker from Piute County and for the first time since in I don’t know how long, I discovered my mom was…amazingly wrong.
A couple of weeks later at seven-thirty my buddy Joy and I were wringing our hands by the front door of my house. Our dates were a half hour late and the clock was steadily ticking forward. Deep inside both of us were crossing our fingers. Perhaps Nic and company spotted a bar on the way here and couldn’t resist the temptation. What if they ran into a deer? The very best we dared wished for was to be stood up—we might have a chance at salvaging what was left of our Friday night.
My doorbell rang ferociously. Nic was what most girls would consider “hot” with his saggy blonde hair and blue eyes but something about his skin tight Wranglers and belt buckle big enough for me to eat off of made me want to throw up in my own mouth. His buddy could be summed up with the image of a gang-banger-hick. Not enough bling to be real and he wore the Piute accent on his sleeve like his momma gave it to him.
Getting into the jacked up truck Gang-banger drove was a feat I still wonder how we ever accomplished without a step ladder. With girls in the back and boys in the front we were moderately comfortable- one of many precautions we took to prevent the dreaded cross county contamination. My ears shriveled from the time they fired up the engine till the time the fiasco was over in an effort to save themselves from the continual chorus of “Chain Hang Low”- a classy remix of “Do Your Ears Hang Low.” Watching my house disappear down the dirt road that night I was overcome with the grievous thought of it being the last time I would see my home again.
About twenty miles away from civilization, Nic turned to me and yelled his first and last words for the night over then din of “Chain Hang Low.”
“What’d ya wanna do?”
“WHAT,” I yelled back.
“I said, WHAT DO YOU WANT TO DO?”
Looking at Joy I could see her trying to restrain her fists from punching the phony accent out of his mouth. The next fifteen minutes were the equivalent of the vulture scene from The Jungle Book where they sit on the limb of a tree and go back and forth with the dreaded phrase, “What you wanna do?” For some reason I had assumed when we decided to go on a date, our dates would have some idea in mind of what we were going to do. The bowling alley was taken by a tournament and the movie in the local theatre had already started. The next showing would not be for two more hours. Time stretched before Joy and I like a torture device moving ever slower with its dirty work.
I’d given up carrying on a decent conversation with Nic and resorted to discussing the dynamics of Pink Floyd with Gang-banger. When Nic was not immersed in his phone’s text messaging he was talking to his ex-girlfriend, his potential girlfriend, and his drunk buddy. We were caught off guard a bit when Nic looked up from his phone to say he needed a drink. Looking back, its funny how it took us a half hour to find a gas station, five minutes to convince the boys to forgo the beer, and then another ten minutes to clean up the mess Joy made(nerves) by spilling juice all over the floor. One hour and fifteen minutes left before the sanctuary of a movie theatre.
Twenty drops of sweat and 1200 seconds later we were in town again. The Wall-Mart parking lot to be exact, making bets on whose red neck truck would win in the race on Main Street. Lucky for the other guy we were racing, he saw the cop first. Gang banger didn’t until it was a little too late. Joy and I were frantically scrambling to find the slot to the seat belt when the official knuckles rapped on our window signaling it was time to fess up. Folding my hands over my lap firmly I managed to look like I had my seat belt on. When the cop left, Gang-banger looked over his shoulder at us and said, “See, I never get in trouble. People know me.” I chose not to break it to him that it was a cop who knew him…not always the best sort of folks to know you in a small town.
Evidently there was something Nic wanted Gang-banger to know without us hearing. Not that it would have made much difference whether they had said it out loud or not; the bass from “Chain Hang Low” was going strong. The next thing I remember was being outside of a random town and Gang-banger saying, “Don’t look out there. Nic’s takin’ a leak,” as Nic jumped out of the truck. From the look on my poor, devoted friend Joy’s face I could tell she was in just as much shock as I was. She was also wishing she’d never agreed to come along and at the same time happy to save me from facing atrocities such as these by myself.
To this day I don’t understand why we couldn’t have stopped at a gas station in town for Nic to take a leak. I still don’t know why they picked the movie Happy Feet, or even why I chose to spend four hours of my life with such works of nature. However, I know with a surety what it the difference is between saying, “I’d rather not” and “NO.” “I’d rather not” leaves room open for hesitation, for deliberation. By saying, “I’d rather not” you are really saying, “If you pressure me enough to do this, I’ll bend and give in eventually.” I know now to leave no room for second guessing. If you mean “no,” mean it. Don’t change your mind because some friendly stranger says he has your best interests at heart. And unless you are one in a hundred thousand, your better off waiting to meet a happy distraction than having one set up for you. You are the one who defines what a happy distraction is. Finger painting could be your safest bet.
Monday, November 12, 2007
Snow
Snow, he thought,
must be what these pieces of cloud
falling from the sky are.
Touching the tender flakes and watching them melt on his skin made him think about this month they called November. They had said November was time for the snow to start, but what would he know? He'd never seen it's light before.
must be what these pieces of cloud
falling from the sky are.
Touching the tender flakes and watching them melt on his skin made him think about this month they called November. They had said November was time for the snow to start, but what would he know? He'd never seen it's light before.
Saturday, November 10, 2007
A Gray Day
The thunder outside the white farm house rumbled again, shaking the windows in their loose frames. Jaqu's window was the only one open in a welcome gesture for the threatening rain. A fresh gust rushed in from the great outdoors moving her white lace curtains with it's whisperings and Jaqu shivered savoring her discomfort. A girl of fourteen at the age of guilt and shame, Jaqu detested herself and yearned for a bit of self punishment.
Down a stretching dirt road the rusty barn groaned as a torrent of rain spilled down in sheets from the gray sky. Bessy lowed in unison with the worn timbers and Tim touched her side with his free
hand, milking at a steady pace with the other. He looked up at the sky he could not see and shook his head. One more watering like this for the fields and they might not have to worry about the dying sprinkler system.
Cassie hitched her skirts higher up her scrawny, scab speckled legs, and waded further into the pond, attempting to blow her rain sodden hair out of her face. A croak from Cassie's right resulted in a crooked grin from her seven-year-old mouth and she giggled, "You ain't got to hide no more, froggies. Cassie's got a nice new bed for you at home." A second, lower croak joined the first and before Cassie knew it, a choir of gug-ar-ums were singing to her.
Down a stretching dirt road the rusty barn groaned as a torrent of rain spilled down in sheets from the gray sky. Bessy lowed in unison with the worn timbers and Tim touched her side with his free
hand, milking at a steady pace with the other. He looked up at the sky he could not see and shook his head. One more watering like this for the fields and they might not have to worry about the dying sprinkler system.Cassie hitched her skirts higher up her scrawny, scab speckled legs, and waded further into the pond, attempting to blow her rain sodden hair out of her face. A croak from Cassie's right resulted in a crooked grin from her seven-year-old mouth and she giggled, "You ain't got to hide no more, froggies. Cassie's got a nice new bed for you at home." A second, lower croak joined the first and before Cassie knew it, a choir of gug-ar-ums were singing to her.
Wednesday, November 7, 2007
Deciding
The alarm clock didn't go off that morning. She had failed a test in her best subject the day before getting a phone call announcing Ruth had miscarried again. Jimmy said some thing about things growing uneasy and awkward between them. Mario's leg was broken the following day by a speeding vehicle unaware of the little Terrier tripping across the road. Mr.Hunds informed her the internship was a no-go.
Midnight and she needed a snack. Cereal. Pulling her bowl out from under the teetering pile of dishes, she tried to be gentle. It stumbled and dropped to the floor, remaining in tact. She looked at it and had one of those once in a great while opportunities. She decided. Cry. Laugh. Be angry. But rather than do anything, Judith watched.
Midnight and she needed a snack. Cereal. Pulling her bowl out from under the teetering pile of dishes, she tried to be gentle. It stumbled and dropped to the floor, remaining in tact. She looked at it and had one of those once in a great while opportunities. She decided. Cry. Laugh. Be angry. But rather than do anything, Judith watched.
Tuesday, October 30, 2007
Egg Shells- Draft #3
ACT I
SCENE 1
SETTING
A man sits on a stool facing his kitchen in a small, run down New York apartment in the Bronx. His knuckles rap the surface of the counter in front of him impatiently. A coo coo clock chirps the hour. His hand tightens around a beautiful crystal egg as he looks at the clock.
TIME
Seven thirty p.m. Winter of 1995.
CHARACTERS
SUSAN A young woman in her mid twenties. Wife of Ham. Nervous and jerky in her movements like a dog who has been beaten. Plain in appearance.
HAM Thirty years old, suspicious, Ham is angry and tired. Purple circles under eyes. Drawn handsome face but tall, overbearing, and strong.
Door unlocks and Susan enters, her arms laden with
grocery bags.
HAM
(angrily)
Where have you been?
SUSAN
(setting groceries on counter and hanging coat on rickety peg)
Out.
HAM
Out where? Be specific. The things that
happen to you will be a lot worse coming
from some punk than from me if you get lost.
SUSAN
(her back always towards him)
I was shopping, Ham. For groceries. But
don’t be angry…Please.
HAM
(his words are slow and deliberate)
We’ve gone over this. You’re not to spend
money without my say so.
SUSAN
(quieter)
There was nothing to make you dinner in the
house.
HAM
(standing up from his stool, fist clenched
around the egg his voice raising)
You could’ve asked me to pick some up for
you on my way back from work. And don’t
pretend you care if I have anything to eat.
SUSAN
How was work? Did you have any buyers?
Susan drops cans of soup clumsily and begins
picking them up.
HAM
(voice raising louder still)
Why you ask how work was? Have you
been talking to Benny? He sold today. I
didn’t. DON’T try to change the subject.
SUSAN
(trying to be calm, taking a deep breath)
I haven’t seen Benny.
HAM
I didn’t ask if you’d seen Benny. I asked
if you’d talked to him.
SUSAN
(picking up groceries with shaky hands)
I haven’t talked to Benny.
HAM
(walking toward Susan, her back still toward
him)
Susan, look at me when I am saying some thing to you. That way I know you hear me.
SUSAN
(glancing over her shoulder)
Where did you get that egg? It’s pretty.
Beat.
HAM
Why do you want to know where I got this? You wanna sell it for groceries or something?
SUSAN
No. I was just wondering.
HAM
(holding the egg up to the light)
Well stop wondering. It’s from Dooney. He got it off a foreign guy for five ounces and mailed it to me. Paying up for last month.
SUSAN
(glancing at egg again)
Does tomato soup sound ok?
HAM
(throwing up arms)
Who eats tomato soup? I won’t keep this thing, Sue. It’s got no use.
Ham tosses the egg into the air catching it casually as Susan’s jaw hangs slack.
Beat.
SUSAN
Couldn’t we keep it for decoration?
HAM
People like us don’t have (sarcastically) ‘decorations’ That’s for money people. I don’t got money. You don’t make beans and I make more than you.
Beat.
SUSAN
(looking at the ground)
Money people are happy, aren’t they?
HAM
I used to be happy when you didn’t…
Ham reaches over and scratches at the peeling wall paper broodingly.
SUSAN
(looking at him for the first time)
Say it Ham. When I didn’t what?
A convulsive shiver shakes Susan.
HAM
When you didn’t run scared of me.
Susan looks toward the door shaking her head, reaching for keys.
HAM
You’d better not leave me here. I haven’t got my dinner.
SUSAN
Who eats tomato soup anyway? A dog knows the difference between when it’s been stumbled on and kicked. So do I.
Walks moves quickly toward door, leaving fast.
HAM
(to himself in outrage, glaring at crystal egg glimmering in light)
WHY?
Throwing egg on kitchen floor it shatters. He grabs a bottle from the cupboard and goes into the bedroom slamming the door.
SCENE 2
The same coo coo clock chimes eleven p.m. The door of the shabby apartment is unlocked and Susan walks in. Her eyes are red and swollen from crying. After kicking off her shoes, she stumbles into the kitchen and walks to the sink in her socks. We hear a CRUNCH.
SUSAN
OUCH!
She looks at her feet to see her socks are now turning red with her blood. She smiles to herself.
SUSAN
(picking up a piece of crystal)
An egg shell. I stepped on his egg shell.
CURTAIN
SCENE 1
SETTING
A man sits on a stool facing his kitchen in a small, run down New York apartment in the Bronx. His knuckles rap the surface of the counter in front of him impatiently. A coo coo clock chirps the hour. His hand tightens around a beautiful crystal egg as he looks at the clock.
TIME
Seven thirty p.m. Winter of 1995.
CHARACTERS
SUSAN A young woman in her mid twenties. Wife of Ham. Nervous and jerky in her movements like a dog who has been beaten. Plain in appearance.
HAM Thirty years old, suspicious, Ham is angry and tired. Purple circles under eyes. Drawn handsome face but tall, overbearing, and strong.
Door unlocks and Susan enters, her arms laden with
grocery bags.
HAM
(angrily)
Where have you been?
SUSAN
(setting groceries on counter and hanging coat on rickety peg)
Out.
HAM
Out where? Be specific. The things that
happen to you will be a lot worse coming
from some punk than from me if you get lost.
SUSAN
(her back always towards him)
I was shopping, Ham. For groceries. But
don’t be angry…Please.
HAM
(his words are slow and deliberate)
We’ve gone over this. You’re not to spend
money without my say so.
SUSAN
(quieter)
There was nothing to make you dinner in the
house.
HAM
(standing up from his stool, fist clenched
around the egg his voice raising)
You could’ve asked me to pick some up for
you on my way back from work. And don’t
pretend you care if I have anything to eat.
SUSAN
How was work? Did you have any buyers?
Susan drops cans of soup clumsily and begins
picking them up.
HAM
(voice raising louder still)
Why you ask how work was? Have you
been talking to Benny? He sold today. I
didn’t. DON’T try to change the subject.
SUSAN
(trying to be calm, taking a deep breath)
I haven’t seen Benny.
HAM
I didn’t ask if you’d seen Benny. I asked
if you’d talked to him.
SUSAN
(picking up groceries with shaky hands)
I haven’t talked to Benny.
HAM
(walking toward Susan, her back still toward
him)
Susan, look at me when I am saying some thing to you. That way I know you hear me.
SUSAN
(glancing over her shoulder)
Where did you get that egg? It’s pretty.
Beat.
HAM
Why do you want to know where I got this? You wanna sell it for groceries or something?
SUSAN
No. I was just wondering.
HAM
(holding the egg up to the light)
Well stop wondering. It’s from Dooney. He got it off a foreign guy for five ounces and mailed it to me. Paying up for last month.
SUSAN
(glancing at egg again)
Does tomato soup sound ok?
HAM
(throwing up arms)
Who eats tomato soup? I won’t keep this thing, Sue. It’s got no use.
Ham tosses the egg into the air catching it casually as Susan’s jaw hangs slack.
Beat.
SUSAN
Couldn’t we keep it for decoration?
HAM
People like us don’t have (sarcastically) ‘decorations’ That’s for money people. I don’t got money. You don’t make beans and I make more than you.
Beat.
SUSAN
(looking at the ground)
Money people are happy, aren’t they?
HAM
I used to be happy when you didn’t…
Ham reaches over and scratches at the peeling wall paper broodingly.
SUSAN
(looking at him for the first time)
Say it Ham. When I didn’t what?
A convulsive shiver shakes Susan.
HAM
When you didn’t run scared of me.
Susan looks toward the door shaking her head, reaching for keys.
HAM
You’d better not leave me here. I haven’t got my dinner.
SUSAN
Who eats tomato soup anyway? A dog knows the difference between when it’s been stumbled on and kicked. So do I.
Walks moves quickly toward door, leaving fast.
HAM
(to himself in outrage, glaring at crystal egg glimmering in light)
WHY?
Throwing egg on kitchen floor it shatters. He grabs a bottle from the cupboard and goes into the bedroom slamming the door.
SCENE 2
The same coo coo clock chimes eleven p.m. The door of the shabby apartment is unlocked and Susan walks in. Her eyes are red and swollen from crying. After kicking off her shoes, she stumbles into the kitchen and walks to the sink in her socks. We hear a CRUNCH.
SUSAN
OUCH!
She looks at her feet to see her socks are now turning red with her blood. She smiles to herself.
SUSAN
(picking up a piece of crystal)
An egg shell. I stepped on his egg shell.
CURTAIN
Monday, October 29, 2007
Phone Pause
It's amazing to me where the pauses in our conversations go. Face to face, the pauses go to our feet scuffing the dirt in an awkward manner trying to find a way to escape the lagging conversation. Sometimes we will laugh nervously and crack our knuckles when all else fails. A sure-fire way to end it is to look at your watch and acted shocked to see what the time is. Out of the blue you have appointments and deadlines to make. And so, the conversation ends. Instant messaging the only necessary element needed to end the weak conversation is the nack for telling believable lies.
Pretend you are chatting on the phone with your best friend. He has never been one for talking on the phone in the first place and you are gradually running out of things to ramble on about. However, the conversation must go on since it is the only viable form of communication you posses between you and the boy. Like a car heading towards a stop sign, you can sense the dreaded pause. Things decelerate until they stop. It is quiet. "Are you there?," he asks. You respond by telling him you are before the silence sinks in again. "Was it something I said?," he wonders. You tell him he said nothing wrong. He then asks the favored question of all questions: "Are you mad at me?" Once again you say no...you just don't feel like talking. This is his cue to panic. If she doesn't feel like talking, his world must be coming to a swift end. (Although this assumption is sometimes justifiable, believe it or not, men, women run out of air at one point and they might need a few days to re-fill.) The panic in his voice escalates to annoyance on your part.
Snide remarks are exchanged and before either of you know what has happened, you are in a spat. A spat because of the interpretation of a pause.
The moral of the story? Either keep the pauses to yourself, hang up before they come, or fill the silence by humming the newest Alanis Morrisette song.
Pretend you are chatting on the phone with your best friend. He has never been one for talking on the phone in the first place and you are gradually running out of things to ramble on about. However, the conversation must go on since it is the only viable form of communication you posses between you and the boy. Like a car heading towards a stop sign, you can sense the dreaded pause. Things decelerate until they stop. It is quiet. "Are you there?," he asks. You respond by telling him you are before the silence sinks in again. "Was it something I said?," he wonders. You tell him he said nothing wrong. He then asks the favored question of all questions: "Are you mad at me?" Once again you say no...you just don't feel like talking. This is his cue to panic. If she doesn't feel like talking, his world must be coming to a swift end. (Although this assumption is sometimes justifiable, believe it or not, men, women run out of air at one point and they might need a few days to re-fill.) The panic in his voice escalates to annoyance on your part.
Snide remarks are exchanged and before either of you know what has happened, you are in a spat. A spat because of the interpretation of a pause.
The moral of the story? Either keep the pauses to yourself, hang up before they come, or fill the silence by humming the newest Alanis Morrisette song.
Thursday, October 25, 2007
Imagine the Universe
Scientists have said there is neither end nor beginning to the universe. To us, our little world is huge. I could not spend five days of my life in every town in the United States, let alone the world. My world is a small thing dwelling in po-dunk Utah, wondering if my life is ever going to start and if the truth were told Small SUU is the beginning and the end.
Now imagine the universe. It starts with Cedar City, expanding to Iron County. Iron County gives way to the state of Utah. Utah is drowned by the United States of America. Zoom your vision out further and you will find our North American Continent. Past that we get a view of the world. It is a grain of sand on a zillion mile beach with
no end. We strain our vision and find an expanse of sand as far as the eye can see. We run in a straight line for years wondering if our earth really is so small only to discover...its true. We are a speck, if even that.
Grab a string and stretch it until it is a football field-width long. Now tie a knot in the middle of this string. The knot is our earth and on either side is the expanse of black punctuated by tiny lights of terrestrial beauty. Take the string and bring it around the world. Even then we are not touching base with the dream of forever.
Massive, endless, forever, eternally our universe extends. Try imagining forever. Try to see the string with no beginning. Now see it with no stopping point.
Go take some aspirin.
Now imagine the universe. It starts with Cedar City, expanding to Iron County. Iron County gives way to the state of Utah. Utah is drowned by the United States of America. Zoom your vision out further and you will find our North American Continent. Past that we get a view of the world. It is a grain of sand on a zillion mile beach with
no end. We strain our vision and find an expanse of sand as far as the eye can see. We run in a straight line for years wondering if our earth really is so small only to discover...its true. We are a speck, if even that.Grab a string and stretch it until it is a football field-width long. Now tie a knot in the middle of this string. The knot is our earth and on either side is the expanse of black punctuated by tiny lights of terrestrial beauty. Take the string and bring it around the world. Even then we are not touching base with the dream of forever.
Massive, endless, forever, eternally our universe extends. Try imagining forever. Try to see the string with no beginning. Now see it with no stopping point.
Go take some aspirin.
Wednesday, October 24, 2007
Soundtrack of My Summer
My summer would have to have been the most boring movie in the history of film making. Luckily, it is not viewed by the general public but stayed carefully filed away in my own head.
Despite the movie of my summer being a flop, the soundtrack was amazing. It was full of sounds people didn't even know existed. I heard the deafening moan of a tremendous machine every Monday through Friday, from 7a.m. to 3p.m. working at warp speed for the public to get their daily servings of milk and cheese. I never comprehended the language of Chinese, Japanese, Loa, and Spanish I listened to all in the same hour but I heard them just the same. At dusk I waited until the world moved and then I would hear a million parts of nature singing in their beautiful chorus. The birds chimed in with the crickets and for a fraction of a second the butterflies wings would whisper past my cheek. I heard a baby with blonde hair and blue eyes laugh at my silly face and then burst into tears shaking her whole body. During wild nights I heard the wind try to come into my deserted basement and kill me. Then I listened hard and heard it laugh long and deep. My favorite sound was the thunder rolling over the hills and rocking the prairie. It reverberated over my head and toes and sunk into my skin with such magnitude, I forgot I was alive. Then the lightening would strike and the kids would scream from upstairs. In the evenings my ears tingled every time I made the fire alarms echo throughout the house and then a silence would fall as the fan over the oven shut itself off. Hours of such sounds were unforgettable.
Despite the movie of my summer being a flop, the soundtrack was amazing. It was full of sounds people didn't even know existed. I heard the deafening moan of a tremendous machine every Monday through Friday, from 7a.m. to 3p.m. working at warp speed for the public to get their daily servings of milk and cheese. I never comprehended the language of Chinese, Japanese, Loa, and Spanish I listened to all in the same hour but I heard them just the same. At dusk I waited until the world moved and then I would hear a million parts of nature singing in their beautiful chorus. The birds chimed in with the crickets and for a fraction of a second the butterflies wings would whisper past my cheek. I heard a baby with blonde hair and blue eyes laugh at my silly face and then burst into tears shaking her whole body. During wild nights I heard the wind try to come into my deserted basement and kill me. Then I listened hard and heard it laugh long and deep. My favorite sound was the thunder rolling over the hills and rocking the prairie. It reverberated over my head and toes and sunk into my skin with such magnitude, I forgot I was alive. Then the lightening would strike and the kids would scream from upstairs. In the evenings my ears tingled every time I made the fire alarms echo throughout the house and then a silence would fall as the fan over the oven shut itself off. Hours of such sounds were unforgettable.
Saturday, October 13, 2007
Thin, Pale Sunshine
Great big tears flood my eyes when I think about my little sister Maria. She is the essence of sweetness and grace. Only nine years old, and on top of the world, Mia does not understand why her body hurts her so when she does nothing to provoke it. Children love my sister. Like a thin ray of sunshine she permeates the rooms she enters with smiles, singing out, “Whoever wants to be in my new game of Bunnies and Puppies can come and play.” The play is rambunctious and happy but it does not last longer than an hour before Mia has to leave. Her heart tells her it is time to quit…time to slow down.
This last week Mia had another surgery on her weak heart. She came home from the hospital thinner than her sheets, pale with the exhaustion of breathing without the machine. Flecks of blood were stained to her neck and I am ashamed to say I shrank at them. Maybe someday when my little star has a new, stronger heart I can look at her and say, “Let’s play Bunnies and Puppies.” And we will play for hours.
This last week Mia had another surgery on her weak heart. She came home from the hospital thinner than her sheets, pale with the exhaustion of breathing without the machine. Flecks of blood were stained to her neck and I am ashamed to say I shrank at them. Maybe someday when my little star has a new, stronger heart I can look at her and say, “Let’s play Bunnies and Puppies.” And we will play for hours.
Outrage
For three summers I have worked with the migrant people of this country, the majority of whom are Hispanic speaking Spanish. For the most part I have dealt effectively with having to have my instructions given to me through Spanish to English interpreters, but this last summer topped the cake. I was standing in my assembly line thinking about nothing in particular when I ask a woman near me when it was she learned English. She told me it was while she was learning to be a maid and that her skills were so-so. Then she said, “We all learn little English or none. We make it. Why your people don’t learn more Spanish?” I bit my tongue before it could strike her.
If this woman went to China, she would be expected to learn Chinese. If she went to Switzerland, she would have to learn Swiss. In America, she needs no more than a couple words and the rest is taken care of. An interpreter will be there for her. Our instructions are written in three languages on all of our packages. Clothes labels are Spanish/English. We baby the immigrants who come here so badly, a lot of them see know need to adapt their language to the country they live in.
If this woman went to China, she would be expected to learn Chinese. If she went to Switzerland, she would have to learn Swiss. In America, she needs no more than a couple words and the rest is taken care of. An interpreter will be there for her. Our instructions are written in three languages on all of our packages. Clothes labels are Spanish/English. We baby the immigrants who come here so badly, a lot of them see know need to adapt their language to the country they live in.
Grandma's Cats
My father’s mother is a fiery red-head with ice blue eyes. She has a temper to match her hair, but for the most part it has remained dormant in the presence of her grandchildren. I don’t like to see grandma loose her cool anymore than the next person, so when possible, I keep cats out of her walkway. I love cats. They are my favorite animal. Chances are in my previous life I was a cat. My grandma on the other hand, was a dog. A couple of years ago grandma was given two felines of the best quality with tender personalities to match their thin skin. Three months after she received the pets I came to visit grandma again, but her cats were gone. In their place were two snarling, spitting, possessed-of-the-devil tigers, with paws flexed for the kill. Grandma had wanted two farm cats, and so she made them into such within a three month time frame of kicking them when they wanted to be petted, spraying water on them when they were starving and throwing them by various body parts when they were within lawn boundaries. I still haven’t forgiven her.
Colors of High School
As a freshman the idea of high school with guys four years older than me was enough to make me pee my pants. Senior girls were the terror of my life with their big chests, big hair, and big voices. If they spoke to me, it could be fatal. My looks were no where to close to the Barbie dolls they were imitating. My friends were few, but we were a close knit group, traveling the halls with our heads hung low in fear of retribution or separation from the group. We were the essence of paranoid, in our dart-y eyes and scuttling walks.
Sophomore came and went and I relaxed, but it wasn’t until my junior year I began to explore the word, “eclectic.” A contest sprang up between a few of my now many friends and I in our weirdness to see who could become the supreme eccentric one. It was a novelty to look around our lunch table and see who was wearing the most bizarre shirt, who had the oddest eye shadow/hair color, who had the best lofty air about them. In the mornings we would sit in a corner of the cafeteria and discuss our philosophies on life and love, interpret dreams, and poor over our psychology books. During breaks in between classes other kids would avoid eye contact with the “new age children” and when they did talk to us it was in a sarcastic tone saying things like, “Nice, um…what is that thing you are wearing?” Looking back, I realize we came off as strange more than stuck up, and depressed more than distant.
Eventually the leaders of our gang had to graduate and the upcoming seniors were left to take over. We were much more sensible and cost efficient when it came to the brand of our gang resulting in us becoming the, “be yourself idiots.” It went over beautifully.
Sophomore came and went and I relaxed, but it wasn’t until my junior year I began to explore the word, “eclectic.” A contest sprang up between a few of my now many friends and I in our weirdness to see who could become the supreme eccentric one. It was a novelty to look around our lunch table and see who was wearing the most bizarre shirt, who had the oddest eye shadow/hair color, who had the best lofty air about them. In the mornings we would sit in a corner of the cafeteria and discuss our philosophies on life and love, interpret dreams, and poor over our psychology books. During breaks in between classes other kids would avoid eye contact with the “new age children” and when they did talk to us it was in a sarcastic tone saying things like, “Nice, um…what is that thing you are wearing?” Looking back, I realize we came off as strange more than stuck up, and depressed more than distant.
Eventually the leaders of our gang had to graduate and the upcoming seniors were left to take over. We were much more sensible and cost efficient when it came to the brand of our gang resulting in us becoming the, “be yourself idiots.” It went over beautifully.
Thursday, October 11, 2007
I LOOK I WAIT
I don't know how long I have been looking and waiting, but the look is always a day longer than the wait. This is given. I know it through the cracked condition of my bloody hands. They have been looking almost as long as I have. I wonder how long it takes for hands to crack white and bleed red. My mind is not cracked and bloody. I yearn to touch what I am waiting for so immensely I can see it, but no matter how hard and long I search for what I am looking for it never comes to my eyes. No matter how long I sniff it out, it doesn't hit my nostrils like she does. I had a daughter once. She is what I wait for. She is what I see and touch and breathe. She is beneath my skin, but she is not what I look for. My little girl was pretty and they knew it. With one giant swipe of their clean, white papers they took her away. Where, I do not know. But I am not looking for her. I am waiting for her, overturning her in my head. My pretty white thing will come.
I overturn the singular piece of furniture in my small house and look under it fifty two times a day, then I open the drain pipe and poke my eye ball down it twice in case I see what I am looking for before I start to howl strong and loud and ferocious. On one of the less painful desperate days my neighbor came over and said in her calm tone, "Stop screaming, Cherlie. It won't make things better." And then she left like she hadn't come at all. The walls of my house were so white after her colored skin went, I didn't howl. I lay on the floor and looked up at the ceiling. My white ceiling with one florescent light bulb makes me sick. Maybe it was up there purposefully and they want me to be sick. This way I cannot look for it anymore. Forces beyond my control call me back to waiting.
I call the neighbor Mrs. Lank but she doesn't answer to it. My daughter- my pretty white daughter- had a name once but when they took her, her pretty name went with them. It was a pretty name, and I wait for it to come back. If her name came back she would come back with smiles. The last time I saw her, she had pretty white tears on her cheeks sparking like bits of river falling from the mountains. My girl called me “Mommy” in the fresh mornings when it was still cold. Climbing upon my small lap she looked wonderfully sleepy and ready for breakfast. Maybe if it were cold she would clamor upon me again and say “Mommy” but here, in my house, the feel is always the same: 72 degrees until the moon glows yellow. For now it stays white under the crying face of the moon man until… forever. I can wait forever. I think. Something stirs my weary senses with that word: “Mommy.” Maybe it is the wind I haven’t tasted in forever. Is this what forever feels like?!
I feel the walls under my cut nails. Perhaps I will touch what I lost before I see or hear it. The walls are solid under my short fingernails bending and contracting with no woman’s touch. If the walls could tell me what they remember, things would be beautifully different. I would remember with their memories what went missing from my white world and sing about it with such joy and spirit these walls would not recognize me. A man asked me once what I do all day to make my house a mess. I said, “I look.” When he asked me what I looked for, my head hurt and I choked on my air. A stupid question. I knocked the air out of the man for asking his questions and now, I knock the air out of the silent walls. They forget who they answer to in her time of repose and the knocks I blow to their surface are ineffective. Someone wails. Maybe it is me.
I hear a knock upon my door but do not answer. Mrs. Lank enters with her hands in her pockets followed by that man—the one with the stupid questions. I back up into the wall, hoping I will melt with it into the other side of space. Mrs. Lank says, “Cherlie, it is time for you to take your medicine. Let me see your arm dear.” Her hands come out of their pockets with a syringe of clear liquid taking aim at the proper spot on my arm. I hear the sounds stop letting themselves out of me when the liquid is through magicing itself into my arm. “Cherlie, will you talk to Mr. Harvey for me?” Lank asks and I nod peacefully. Mr. Harvey smiles just as an insane person would, gesturing towards my couch, my one piece of furniture. “Please sit next to me on your bed Cherlie and tell me how you are doing today,” he sneers. I spit at his indignation and tell him about my waiting and my search. No Progress. Then my world reels.
“Cherlie, will you try to listen to me today?” he asks.
I nod, dimming.
“Cherlie, I will tell you again like I did yesterday and everyday for five years, Jill will visit you when she is older and can handle seeing this place. If you work towards giving up your search she might see you sooner than that.”
I look at my red, cracking hands and tell him I need to find.
“Mr. Roberts and I have deduced you are looking for the one thing you will never find. Is it your husband?”
I lean over the couch and watch my lunch come out of my mouth onto the floor. Then I lay and scratch at my hands. They hurt. I hurt all over. Another pain day comes at me again.
“That’s what I thought,” he shrinks at my pain. “Cherlie, he is dead. Try to understand. Tomorrow we will see if you have started to accept that you will not find him.”
Mrs. Lank leans forward to clean the orange pile. I lean forward lifting up the couch pillow. Time to overturn my singular piece of furniture for the twenty-sixth time today. I know I will find it. Its here somewhere.
I don't know how long I have been looking and waiting, but the look is always a day longer than the wait.
I overturn the singular piece of furniture in my small house and look under it fifty two times a day, then I open the drain pipe and poke my eye ball down it twice in case I see what I am looking for before I start to howl strong and loud and ferocious. On one of the less painful desperate days my neighbor came over and said in her calm tone, "Stop screaming, Cherlie. It won't make things better." And then she left like she hadn't come at all. The walls of my house were so white after her colored skin went, I didn't howl. I lay on the floor and looked up at the ceiling. My white ceiling with one florescent light bulb makes me sick. Maybe it was up there purposefully and they want me to be sick. This way I cannot look for it anymore. Forces beyond my control call me back to waiting.
I call the neighbor Mrs. Lank but she doesn't answer to it. My daughter- my pretty white daughter- had a name once but when they took her, her pretty name went with them. It was a pretty name, and I wait for it to come back. If her name came back she would come back with smiles. The last time I saw her, she had pretty white tears on her cheeks sparking like bits of river falling from the mountains. My girl called me “Mommy” in the fresh mornings when it was still cold. Climbing upon my small lap she looked wonderfully sleepy and ready for breakfast. Maybe if it were cold she would clamor upon me again and say “Mommy” but here, in my house, the feel is always the same: 72 degrees until the moon glows yellow. For now it stays white under the crying face of the moon man until… forever. I can wait forever. I think. Something stirs my weary senses with that word: “Mommy.” Maybe it is the wind I haven’t tasted in forever. Is this what forever feels like?!
I feel the walls under my cut nails. Perhaps I will touch what I lost before I see or hear it. The walls are solid under my short fingernails bending and contracting with no woman’s touch. If the walls could tell me what they remember, things would be beautifully different. I would remember with their memories what went missing from my white world and sing about it with such joy and spirit these walls would not recognize me. A man asked me once what I do all day to make my house a mess. I said, “I look.” When he asked me what I looked for, my head hurt and I choked on my air. A stupid question. I knocked the air out of the man for asking his questions and now, I knock the air out of the silent walls. They forget who they answer to in her time of repose and the knocks I blow to their surface are ineffective. Someone wails. Maybe it is me.
I hear a knock upon my door but do not answer. Mrs. Lank enters with her hands in her pockets followed by that man—the one with the stupid questions. I back up into the wall, hoping I will melt with it into the other side of space. Mrs. Lank says, “Cherlie, it is time for you to take your medicine. Let me see your arm dear.” Her hands come out of their pockets with a syringe of clear liquid taking aim at the proper spot on my arm. I hear the sounds stop letting themselves out of me when the liquid is through magicing itself into my arm. “Cherlie, will you talk to Mr. Harvey for me?” Lank asks and I nod peacefully. Mr. Harvey smiles just as an insane person would, gesturing towards my couch, my one piece of furniture. “Please sit next to me on your bed Cherlie and tell me how you are doing today,” he sneers. I spit at his indignation and tell him about my waiting and my search. No Progress. Then my world reels.
“Cherlie, will you try to listen to me today?” he asks.
I nod, dimming.
“Cherlie, I will tell you again like I did yesterday and everyday for five years, Jill will visit you when she is older and can handle seeing this place. If you work towards giving up your search she might see you sooner than that.”
I look at my red, cracking hands and tell him I need to find.
“Mr. Roberts and I have deduced you are looking for the one thing you will never find. Is it your husband?”
I lean over the couch and watch my lunch come out of my mouth onto the floor. Then I lay and scratch at my hands. They hurt. I hurt all over. Another pain day comes at me again.
“That’s what I thought,” he shrinks at my pain. “Cherlie, he is dead. Try to understand. Tomorrow we will see if you have started to accept that you will not find him.”
Mrs. Lank leans forward to clean the orange pile. I lean forward lifting up the couch pillow. Time to overturn my singular piece of furniture for the twenty-sixth time today. I know I will find it. Its here somewhere.
I don't know how long I have been looking and waiting, but the look is always a day longer than the wait.
Monday, September 24, 2007
Assumption
I am a jerky, college student. The kind that doesn't call her mom except on Sundays- if even that. For some reason, it never really crosses my mind to call, and apparently the same goes for her. This weekend, however, I got an unexpected phone call from home. Who would have thought they would call on a Friday of all things! Fridays are the busiest days of the week- or year for that matter. There are always deals to make people to haggle with...not to mention the never ending line of sleepover applications, pizza deliveries, and taxi services. I looked at the caller id on my phone. "Mom" it said. She was probably calling to remind me of a bill I forgot to pay or my wavering status with the nosey extended family.
"Hey," I answer, prepared for the worst.
"Hey," I answer, prepared for the worst.
Mom says in an unusually excited voice, "The kids have something they want to tell you..."
My breath catches as she takes her time handing the phone over to the privileged child who gets to share the news.
Meanwhile, on the other end I am thinking, "YES!" and "NOOOO!" at the same time. I have always had a ball being the eldest of all the many children, smiling with their triumphs, and crying when their day at school brought on tears. In a strong sense of the word, I am their second mother. So when my mom says, "The kids have something they want to tell you...," in that tone of voice, I can suppose it is one of two things: either my dad has had an accident transporting oil, or Mom is pregnant. My logic tells me she would not be talking about Dad having an accident so exuberantly.
Naturally, I am left to suppose the second option.
I would love a new, little, squirming piece of love to play with. Babies are the best thing in the world (chocolate following soon after). A baby would bring my family closer. My littlest troll, Sarah, would have a playmate until she starts Kindergarten next fall. Mom would quit her new adversiting-business-woman lifestyle.
On the other hand, Mom having a baby at 40 is rather risky, not to mention the extra load of worry it would put on her. I would not know this baby! This baby would not know me! The horror of the idea left me reeling. My brothers and sisters have always been the best of friends, but with me out of the house, how could the new one possibly be my friend?
The battle raged in my head for about 30 seconds before I heard a squeaky voice on the other end say, "Delli, we have a surprise! Mommy had..."
Wait a sec! Did I just hear 'had'? I've been gone a while but not THAT long.
"...kittens!"
Kittens. Kittens. My mother could not possibly have kittens. She is fond of the Tom that hangs around our house, but not fond enough for this.
"What do you mean, KITTENS?!"
"Mommy cat had kittens. Three of them. There's a black, a pink, and a blue. I named the mean one Delli. Dallin says the ugly is yours, but I said 'no the mean one' and I lost a tooth. And we are going to have a hike. Outside. You can come. My preschool teacher is Mrs. Beans. She is nice some times. I hit Micley in Sunbeams on Sunday. When are you coming to visit? I miss you. I miss the candy you give me..."
When she had stopped for a breath, I shook of the ultimate silliness of it all. Kittens. Good grief.
Thursday, September 13, 2007
This Man
There was once a man who suffered from the absence of most of his teeth. His gums were the last bit of evidence the man ever had the tools to shape a smile, but were seldom used.
This man with no smile put all he owns in two plastic grocery bags balanced on either handle bar of his car/family/home- his bike.
Scary Jerry was what they called the man. I was not certain what his birth name was or if he even had one. I assume Jerry was a piece of his lost identity considering most parents are not so cruel as to christen a child "Scary." "Scary" was a title bestowed upon the man for lack of imagination by those less fortunate than himself. You see, they were not granted the privilege to ride a bike around the shady areas of town, but were forced to join the rest of the gas sucking population.
In my mind's eye, Jerry was decrepit shriveled as an apple with age. He was the timeless symbol of the crushed hopes and dreams keeping the majority of the world young and thriving. According to an experienced doctor, Jerry might have been a mere 35 or 40 years of age. In the prime of life!
Then I wonder, do people like Jerry have a prime of life or did they pass it up ages ago when they were 16 and just beginning to feel the euphoria purchased in a needle?
This man with no smile put all he owns in two plastic grocery bags balanced on either handle bar of his car/family/home- his bike.
Scary Jerry was what they called the man. I was not certain what his birth name was or if he even had one. I assume Jerry was a piece of his lost identity considering most parents are not so cruel as to christen a child "Scary." "Scary" was a title bestowed upon the man for lack of imagination by those less fortunate than himself. You see, they were not granted the privilege to ride a bike around the shady areas of town, but were forced to join the rest of the gas sucking population.
In my mind's eye, Jerry was decrepit shriveled as an apple with age. He was the timeless symbol of the crushed hopes and dreams keeping the majority of the world young and thriving. According to an experienced doctor, Jerry might have been a mere 35 or 40 years of age. In the prime of life!
Then I wonder, do people like Jerry have a prime of life or did they pass it up ages ago when they were 16 and just beginning to feel the euphoria purchased in a needle?
Wednesday, September 12, 2007
Forever Adult | Venture #2
A beautiful baby,
my mother says.
Fresh and pink
in ugly sunlight,
she said I was a beautiful baby.
I was
never
a baby.
A brilliant toddler,
my father says.
Tripping and content
in stupid frills,
he said I was a brilliant toddler.
I was
never
a toddler.
A confident schoolgirl,
my grandma says.
Sure and purposeful
in awkward braces,
she said I was a confident schoolgirl.
I was
never
a schoolgirl.
A supporting lifeline,
my best friend says.
Constant and solid
in my manic tears,
she said I was a supporting lifeline.
I was
never
a lifeline.
A tender angel,
my lover says.
Graceful and light
in my demonic hate,
He said I was a tender angel.
I was
never
an angel.
I have been forever an adult,
I say.
Scared to death
at the prospect
of being looked to.
Eldest of eight
role model
of seven.
I will forever be
the cringing
adult.
my mother says.
Fresh and pink
in ugly sunlight,
she said I was a beautiful baby.
I was
never
a baby.
A brilliant toddler,
my father says.
Tripping and content
in stupid frills,
he said I was a brilliant toddler.
I was
never
a toddler.
A confident schoolgirl,
my grandma says.
Sure and purposeful
in awkward braces,
she said I was a confident schoolgirl.
I was
never
a schoolgirl.
A supporting lifeline,
my best friend says.
Constant and solid
in my manic tears,
she said I was a supporting lifeline.
I was
never
a lifeline.
A tender angel,
my lover says.
Graceful and light
in my demonic hate,
He said I was a tender angel.
I was
never
an angel.
I have been forever an adult,
I say.
Scared to death
at the prospect
of being looked to.
Eldest of eight
role model
of seven.
I will forever be
the cringing
adult.
Tuesday, September 11, 2007
A Carpet Strewn
What hides this room I live in? Is it some seductive secret about my life as a Queen of my own planet, or simply the long awaited truth I have been looking for? Clothes are strewn over the carpet giving it the beauty of a thing unkept. However, my wardrobe is the simplest form of the clutter. Matters become more complicated as I melt into the books and paper smiling up at me from under the bed. Who knows what sort of criminal acts they could reveal?! Most prominent in this disarray is thumping of something enormously false. Could it be the normalcy I am trying so desperately to convey?
Typical to have a bedspread groaning under the stress of makeup, straighteners, and unmatched shoes, but what of the ticking smell of gun powder oozing from under the rug? How can I go back and explain the artistic display of blood spots? Much can belong to the room of the cluttered stranger. It could be a cave of secrets- discoveries I wish I'd never made. It this, perhaps, the reason a bedroom is claimed to be such a personal space- because it hides the stories I never told or is my bedroom really my own?
Typical to have a bedspread groaning under the stress of makeup, straighteners, and unmatched shoes, but what of the ticking smell of gun powder oozing from under the rug? How can I go back and explain the artistic display of blood spots? Much can belong to the room of the cluttered stranger. It could be a cave of secrets- discoveries I wish I'd never made. It this, perhaps, the reason a bedroom is claimed to be such a personal space- because it hides the stories I never told or is my bedroom really my own?
Joy
I am a photographer. Not with film or battery, but with my mind's eye. Some pictures I have are old with the forces of time taking their toll while other pictures are as fresh as the first day of Kindergarten. In a recent photograph, I focused in on one of those unlikely characters you hope you don't run into some time within the next millennia. Her name is Joy.
Joy is the oxymoron of her name. She is neither Joyous nor happy in any sense of the word, but she is one of my best friends just the same. I can't say I remember the day I stumbled across Joy to be completely honest, but I will say I remember the first impression she branded on me. Having raised herself from childhood- her father was a War Veteran and her mother died while she was still impressionable- Joy was not the product of some one else's ambitions, but solely her own.
As the years flew by, Joy became mine, and most everyone's peace of exoticness. She would tackle you without warning if you had a sullen look on your countenance or just looked particularly juicy. Joy was known for her vegetarian, flower child views, but never poked fun at as most people of her sorts would be. Clothes were a particular comfort to look at on Joy. Not because she was a monster underneath them, but simply because she sewed them herself in the manner best fitting her mood.
Our Senior Year of high school was the time we look back on as Japanese Anime time. It was the Friday nights after being out later than we should have, where Joy, the poorly drawn cartoon figure, and all of our acquaintances, or strangers for that matter, became one with story line and life.
Once, after a particularly daring night of trespassing on property and violating it, we were walking as quietly as we could back to our vehicles. Our skin turned cold as we listened to Joy whisper to herself, "I think I will scream." And I have not heard a more compelling scream in my life. We ran as though our lives depended on it, sweating bullets, while the porch lit up with the lights of awakened sleepers of whose property we had trespassed.
I was always aware as to who was calling me on the phone when Joy's voice rang clear on the other line, "Hey idiot." Strangely enough, this pet name of her's for me has become a part of me. I answer immediately.
When I hear the word Joy, I cringe and smile inside for the photo she has engrained in me. Joy is just...Joy.
Joy is the oxymoron of her name. She is neither Joyous nor happy in any sense of the word, but she is one of my best friends just the same. I can't say I remember the day I stumbled across Joy to be completely honest, but I will say I remember the first impression she branded on me. Having raised herself from childhood- her father was a War Veteran and her mother died while she was still impressionable- Joy was not the product of some one else's ambitions, but solely her own.
As the years flew by, Joy became mine, and most everyone's peace of exoticness. She would tackle you without warning if you had a sullen look on your countenance or just looked particularly juicy. Joy was known for her vegetarian, flower child views, but never poked fun at as most people of her sorts would be. Clothes were a particular comfort to look at on Joy. Not because she was a monster underneath them, but simply because she sewed them herself in the manner best fitting her mood.
Our Senior Year of high school was the time we look back on as Japanese Anime time. It was the Friday nights after being out later than we should have, where Joy, the poorly drawn cartoon figure, and all of our acquaintances, or strangers for that matter, became one with story line and life.
Once, after a particularly daring night of trespassing on property and violating it, we were walking as quietly as we could back to our vehicles. Our skin turned cold as we listened to Joy whisper to herself, "I think I will scream." And I have not heard a more compelling scream in my life. We ran as though our lives depended on it, sweating bullets, while the porch lit up with the lights of awakened sleepers of whose property we had trespassed.
I was always aware as to who was calling me on the phone when Joy's voice rang clear on the other line, "Hey idiot." Strangely enough, this pet name of her's for me has become a part of me. I answer immediately.
When I hear the word Joy, I cringe and smile inside for the photo she has engrained in me. Joy is just...Joy.
Tuesday, September 4, 2007
Adell DeGraffenried | Introduction
To be precise, I was never at your Great-Aunt-Bertha's wedding, I do not have "one of those faces", and NO- I was not a part of the crusade to find King Tut. I am, however, an earwiggler.
My ears are my greatest asset and have been since that fateful day in 7th grade Algebra. I was playing with my rather juicy pencil, wondering what it would be like to be a beaver. This thought lead me to another thought (as thoughts often do). What if I were that stupid Disney elephant who could wiggle his ears? What would my Father and Uncle's reaction be? Most likely they would give me a ceremony of sorts, congratulating me on becoming a true DeGraffenried, and then initiate me into the clan. You see, we are prominate ear-wigglers in whatever part of the world we choose to occupy. I don't mean the grab-your-ear-with-your-finger wiggler. I mean a true, blue blooded, no touching your head, ear wiggler.
Anyway as I sat there in Algebra, wondering if I should get plugs to stop my brains from leaking out of my ears, it hit me like a manna from Moses: I was WIGGLING MY EARS!
It was my finest hour. I wiggled and wiggled. Subconciously I wiggled. Consciously I wiggled. I wiggled until I had the strongest ear muscles in the nation- (some day the world).
My dad looked at me with the expression of a moose seeing its calf grow antlers when I showed him at dinner that night. It was then I knew...I was the modern equivilant of that stupid Disney elephant.
My ears are my greatest asset and have been since that fateful day in 7th grade Algebra. I was playing with my rather juicy pencil, wondering what it would be like to be a beaver. This thought lead me to another thought (as thoughts often do). What if I were that stupid Disney elephant who could wiggle his ears? What would my Father and Uncle's reaction be? Most likely they would give me a ceremony of sorts, congratulating me on becoming a true DeGraffenried, and then initiate me into the clan. You see, we are prominate ear-wigglers in whatever part of the world we choose to occupy. I don't mean the grab-your-ear-with-your-finger wiggler. I mean a true, blue blooded, no touching your head, ear wiggler.
Anyway as I sat there in Algebra, wondering if I should get plugs to stop my brains from leaking out of my ears, it hit me like a manna from Moses: I was WIGGLING MY EARS!
It was my finest hour. I wiggled and wiggled. Subconciously I wiggled. Consciously I wiggled. I wiggled until I had the strongest ear muscles in the nation- (some day the world).
My dad looked at me with the expression of a moose seeing its calf grow antlers when I showed him at dinner that night. It was then I knew...I was the modern equivilant of that stupid Disney elephant.
Friday, August 31, 2007
First Joy
Joy hates everyone. She hates everything. Once Joy broke a boy's leg for getting on her sensitive nerves. Have you ever lived off of spinach? Joy has.
Joy is a piece of hell put in the palm of your hand. You can either squish her into oblivion or you can take her and make her your own demon to torment you forever and always.
I wish I could explain Joy to every stranger in the world, so as to avoid unnecessary broken limbs or torn hearts. Joy is honest to the worst extreme. She will tell you if you are fat, ugly, beautiful, or simply a bore.
Once, Joy told me she was going to learn to throw knives. She learned fast, and soon the community we share spent more real time looking over their shoulders than sleeping at night.
Joy is an artist. She paints the walls in her home, and then moves on to greater things. From the play's backdrop to the mural of senes throughout Utah splotted on the outside of her house, Joy is a creator.
Joy is a piece of hell put in the palm of your hand. You can either squish her into oblivion or you can take her and make her your own demon to torment you forever and always.
I wish I could explain Joy to every stranger in the world, so as to avoid unnecessary broken limbs or torn hearts. Joy is honest to the worst extreme. She will tell you if you are fat, ugly, beautiful, or simply a bore.
Once, Joy told me she was going to learn to throw knives. She learned fast, and soon the community we share spent more real time looking over their shoulders than sleeping at night.
Joy is an artist. She paints the walls in her home, and then moves on to greater things. From the play's backdrop to the mural of senes throughout Utah splotted on the outside of her house, Joy is a creator.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
