I NEED to...

"Is it raining outside?," She asks and I pause. Is it raining. Couldn't she hear the rain? Couldn't she smell it saturate the dusty air? I can't respond for a minute, holding back the things I want to push past the end of my tounge. "I can't see the rain from this side of the house." Something colosal crunches in my mouth as I realize- it's true. If Moses had built a wall of water between her yard and the rest of the world, it wouldn't have made any difference in the long run. "Yeah mom, it's raining on this side of the house. Watering your tomatoes." There was no response...just the cool, wet beats keeping time with the ringing silence in my ears.

Spectrum

This summer has gone by like it wasn't meant to happen, and instead of crying to anyone who has ears about how fast it went by, I have been left in awe and wonder that summer even happened. There can be no regret for what never really was a part of my life. The world I live in has been flipped into a catalyst of a rainbow with each new scene appearing through a color appropriate for the emotion surrounding it. What began as a peachy keen warm situation in May evolved into a blacker shade of plum...I swear at one point I could taste the bitterness of my own breath when I came home to a place where my anger resonated louder than the aging dishwasher. Strangely enough, after two months of the plum-colored movement, the strings choking me cut off the air to my lungs long enough that I had an epiphany: I am not required to endure anything I have power over. I don't need to watch the hands of a digital clock move invisibly around my life until the only thing I can touch is the developing wrinkles around my eyes. Gradually the plum shifted lavender, and within two weeks from lavender (July-ish), the lens were budding into the same color found in strawberry soda. Like most amazing things in life, the high faded in the wash, but now I am finding peace in the graying pink. The only real question left to ask is whether or not I can handle a summer that was a brilliant color instead of an essay worthy event.

Election 101 (Piece of my final project for ENGL 4210)

Blow number three took the cake. His face hit the pavement with the same tender finality of a fish hitting air. Blood peaked between the slits of his swollen eyes. As the boys walked away from Jason McTeague, a certain satisfaction and brother bond filled the air of their crime. Taking note of the cold wind, Salvage Bitton smiled to himself at the touch of fall that swished the heat off of the brawl. It had been a good brawl. A good brawl even if Jason molded in his hands—putty really, smooth and soft from years of winning. The only thing that would have made it even better was Jason had had his buddies there to back him up. That hadn’t part of the deal though. Salvage felt the ever widening spaces in his pockets, searching for Jason’s loaded wallet. It wasn’t there. About half way down the block, Salvage threw his arms out like Moses parting the Red Sea, and instructed the boys that since they failed to remember to take Jason’s wallet, they were now obligated to take his shirt as well. Talbot was practically Salvage’s right hand. Reminding Jason he was going to hell a virgin, Talbot slipped the shirt off of him. Trying not to get the blood from Jason’s pulverized face onto his shirt as he removed it; he covered Jason’s face with a meaty hand. A thin line of slobber trailed from Jason’s slack mouth onto Talbot’s hand. Talbot ground Jason’s face back into the pavement. “You sick freak!” he shouted, kicking the boy once more in the gut.
Tearing open the victim’s wallet, Salvage leaned close the boy’s ear. “Tell your daddy my dad said ‘hi.’” The pack moved away. They didn’t see Salvage hang back. As he stared at the mutilated figure, his stomach rocked to a new rhythm. Puke flooded the space between the boy’s body and Salvage’s sneakers. Jason’s last conscious thought streamed somewhere between hoping his assailant would puke up guts- his heart and liver to be exact- and wishing he wouldn’t, because if Salvage died on the spot, he’d die with Jason. Catching up to his team, Salvage and the boys sauntered off with clear consciences, exchanging high fives, knowing they were happier than they had been less than an hour ago.
On Main Street they found the Bag Lady. They waved at her. She waved back, smiling and revealing toothless gums. Forking out the bills they found in Jason’s wallet, Salvage placed them into the Bag Lady’s hands. “We wanted to feed the birds extra today.” Her sunken eyes twinkled in surprise. “Well honey, I’d like that a lot. I bet they’d like it too,” she said as she handed them each three pieces of stale bread. Winking, she said, “Now I don’t have nearly enough bread for this money you give me, so you’ll have to take some change.” Salvage wouldn’t hear of it. “We wanted to give you the rest of it, Granny. We all got homes and coats and nice things. Keep it…and we got a shirt for you too. You can use it as a pillow or somethin’.” As he handed the Bag Lady her new shirt, her hands shook with hope and bits of electric gratitude. “Thank you, honey. You boys done me more good than a whole week’s worth of feeding these fat pigeons.” Salvage Bitton’s nervous twitch started.
At precisely 8:45 p.m. Jason McTeague died next to Salvage Bitton’s puke. The doctors said the untimely death was brought on by excessive internal bleeding and bruising on the brain. Harry McTeague called Susan McTeague at the country club, and then looked out the hospital window with a mean smile lurking behind his distinguished beard. Rubbing his hands together in a polite gesture of sorrow, he announced, “Sympathy wins all kinds of votes.”

Metaphor

The world can be a confusing and scary place through the eyes of a six-year-old. Sarah Jane is the youngest of our DeGraffenried clan and she, like most kids her age, is easily laden with metaphoric concepts. One Sunday after noon she was sitting on my dad's lap during church. Her arms were folded, and she was listening with unusual intensity to the speaker. This particular story the speaker was telling happened to be centered around a man who went into a series of massive seizures and ended up in a coma. Three weeks later after the seizures, the man's parents were told by the doctor that their son was a vegetable; they would either have to pull the plug on their son or risk months and years of financial expense due to the extended time spent in the hospital. Looking at my youngest sister a few minutes after the story was finished, my dad noticed that she had a particularly confused look on her face. As the meeting wore on, fat pools of moisture were gathering in Sarah's big, blue eyes and her hands were out, palms facing up in a gesture of utter helplessness at the situation. Whispering to my dad she said, "That's so sad. SO sad. He will just be...squash."

The Anti-Facebook Club's Constitution

OK. Take note- I did join Facebook but out of obligation more than choice. Yes, some people in this world have taken Facebook to the extreme and made it their only reliable form of communication.
The Constitution of Anti Facebook People
This is our declaration against Facebook. As stalwart warriors paddling upstream in a river of Facebook pollution, we refuse to make our friends into trophies, participate in cyber popularity contests, and define our world by how much money we make off of Mafia Wars. This federation is designed to take a stand against conformity in all its forms. Comparable to the HIV virus sweeping Africa and the obesity infecting America, Facebook has become the pathetic new excuse for claim on connection with the rest of the world. Our hearts go out to those few, floundering souls who feel as if they are alone- friendless in their lack of Facebook. This solitude could be due to the fact that they are not officially any one's friend. To be official, one needs the "friend status" of Facebook.

It really doesn't matter.

I admit to having the terrible habit of overdoing things. From my colossal pile of laundry that has been neglected for weeks, to the dishes spilling over from the sink onto the counter- its all irrelevent. It doesn't matter whether or not they are never done. In fact, it doesn't matter if I am in school or not or even if I am dating anyone. Empty Fridays or crazy nights- they don't matter. It's silly to think that they do. The fact of the matter is, the only thing that really matters is that I am trying.

The cooling...

I think one of the worst emotions to go through in life is a cooling. It's like going down the runway at moc speed, and as I try to put extra umph into the last lap and progress into the thick of the race, moving with the winning crowd, my car starts to slow down. There is really nothing I can do about the backwards force pulling at my bumper. Why is it the word "cool" has connotations of awesomeness, while if people are cold, they loose what affections they had towards another? Then there is the thing about being hot- if someone calls you hot, you are cool for being good looking. On the other hand, if your husband says you've been cooling over the years, its time to see a marriage counselor. It's an early frost on feeling ruining the crop of relationships that have taken so long to plant. Cooling could be the equivalent of disinterest, forgetfulness, loss of heart, loss of feeling- loss of blood. Its a life force being ripped out of the corners of my happiness. I can't stand the cooling.
"This is cooling faster than I can." -The Cooling by Tori Amos

The boy shoveling grass.

It snowed again. No surprize. I walk outside and instead of this boy shoveling snow off of his walk, he is shoveling it off of his grass. Apparently he can't wait for spring. The prospect is overwhelming for us all, but it was him who started shoveling his grass. You go, kid!

Have some corn chips...

I don't know if it was this way for you growing up, but in my day, the kid with the best snacks was the one whose house you wanted to go to. My mom didn't believe in spending money on snacks like Twinkies (too many preservatives), Cheetos (yellow grease all over your clothes), or fish sticks (who would eat something from a box that you could just as easily go catch yourself?). We would come crawling into the kitchen with our friends, begging mom for something sickly that would make our heads swim in a fit of sugar. Without fail, she would say, "Have some corn chips." I don't know what it was about corn chips but for some reason, they were the solution to our every hunger need. I am convinced that if the world was made of corn chips, the phrase, "There are starving children in China," would not exist.

Strippers and awkward moments...

Normally, possessing a desire to relive awkward moments could be classified as masochistic. This is an exception. Last semester two of my roomies left the nest to become "Mrs.____". One of the girls helping to plan the bridal shower, bless her heart, thought it would be a novelty to get a stripper for the occasion. Funny how none of us who enthusiastically agreed to this scheme had boyfriends/fiancées to worry about. Upon the arrival of the stripper, I was mortified not only to see that the guy was posing as an LDS missionary, but he also was the off spring of a very prominent family from my tiny home town. Needless to say, by the time he had finished the deed, I don't think I could have gotten to know him any better (or worse?). Avoiding any eye contact with me, he left and I prayed I wouldn't see him for at least twenty millennia. Strangely enough, when the fiancées found out about the rendezvous, they prayed this very same prayer-- but out of rage rather than embarrassment. I chuckled to think about what his mother would say if only she knew what her valedictorian son was accomplishing at college...
Fast forward a couple of months. I run into the library, and get into the elevator. I look across the cubical and it was just me and the stripper. He cleared his throat. “Um…it always smells like paint thinner in this elevator,” he said. I just smiled. This moment was too juicy to say anything much.
Fast forward another couple months. He is engaged to a beautiful girl. The kind that probably has never heard of a stripper. Let alone imagine she would marry one.

The Reeeek of the Riting Center

There are several things I could whine about several people. Thus far, in my career as a blogger, I have avoided such nasty entries due to the rude response they trigger. For my buddy Dallin, I will make an exception. Note: He is well aware of these criticisms...
Item 1: Wax apples- stick to the locally grown brands. The process they go through is much more pure. Take it from someone who worked in a plant.
Item 2: Who eats meat like it's going out of style? What kind of a person likes the flavor of bacon with their tuna?
Item 3: Captain America- Batman is better. He could kick Captain America's trash.
Item 4: Name tag ignorance. The real question is, does Dallin not wear his name tag to rebel against the Writing Center norms, or is it because he doesn't want the chics to know his name?
Item 5: Cynicism (as much as we all adore Dallin's humor). It went out of style with tweed and Heath Ledger.
Item 6: Oranges are nutritious, but what self respecting, lazy-to-their-guts college student takes the time and energy to peel them? Ok, on occasion this work is justified, however, on a daily basis...pushing it.

Katie, this one is for you:

So KT, I am very excited you have joined the blogging world, and I am even more excited we can be blogging buddies. Holy cow I remember those good old Moon Pie days. They used to be IT. What I want to know is who the heck got rid of those crunchy M&Ms? You know the kind with a crunchy center void of Peanut Butter?
I really shouldn't care but I feel like I need to explain my blog and justify it in it's absurditiy. Up until this very entry, my blog has been my place for writing poetry, thoughts, and just practicing writing in general. Well, if you feel reading bad poetry, this is the place;-)

Classy

Classic. Classy. She's black Sunday shoes, and white tights. Mona Lisa, black and red; black and white. Play the piano and sing broadway's best. Face- she's like a ghost. Pieces of blood on skin, it looks like she has been in the raspberries. Possibly cherries. Stuff those grapes into your heart and you'll start pumping wine into your arteries. Blink lemon juice and you will cry great drops of lemonade. Keep walking with a wall in front of you so the steps will be shorter.
What was classy before the fifties?

There's this guy...

I'm walking across the expanse of lawn between two tall buildings and from a distance, I see this guy leaning on the railing that puts a barrier between him and the air beneath him. As I walk closer, it looks like he is doing some serious contemplation. He's got this furrow between his eye brows and he's just looking at the ground. I start to wonder if it registers to him what it looks like he's about to do. One vault over the railing and he could be smashed. I want to tell this guy, "Hey, it won't work when you're so close to the ground. You'd just break your leg." Then it occurs to me...I didn't think about telling him not to jump- more like I was saying,"Hey don't try cause instead of loosing your life, like you meant to, you'll just break your leg." Funny, the closer I got, the more I noticed he was on the phone, leaning and looking. Not contemplating the space.

Loosing sleep together. Walking out to his car, he smiled at me and we would be loosing sleep together. How romantic.

Mad cow disease
drips off of the last brain you slerped
down your esophagus
and I missed my chance to tell you
not to eat cow brains
because of the mad cow disease.

Michigan

In the movie "Easter Parade", there is a song Judy Garland sings about wishing she could go back to Michigan and be on the farm again. Although a huge part of this is romanticized (I don't know anyone who would be happy being woken up at 4 a.m.), there is an element of truth in her song. I never thought I would say this, but I have a nostalgia for the different farms I have lived on- and more specifically, the soil that made them places for growing and cultivating.
My Grandpa's was dirty with dry, loose dust floating above my sneakers as I walked. And with every step, the dirt would linger on my ankles just a little longer than the step before. I hesitated to inhale too quickly for fear the whole top layer of dirt would get clogged in my lungs, and when I sneezed it out, I would cause the dust bowl to erupt all over the wide West. I At the end of the day who ever had been walking with me and I would sit on the lawn in back of the farm house and trail our fingers along the skin closest to the gap between where our pants ended and our socks began. The deeper the furrow our fingers made in the dust, the harder we had played.
The second farm had a sticky layer of clay that suffocated the rich soil under the plant life. After it rained, the clay was glorious. It was as if with every layer coated upon our bare feet was a bath of natures finest brownie mix fresh from Mother Earth's great bakery. Great chunks of the clay would sometimes ooze out of the barrier which prevented the weeds in mom's flower beds from overflowing onto our lawn. This pieces of earth were pies in the making- another gift mother earth gave us in exchange for a few tears or smiles.

My Mentor's Vest

To avoid being accusing and insulting on the part of someone who is my respected elder, I will simply refer to this person as my "Mentor".
My mentor wears the most atrociously offensive colors and fabrics in the manner they were least intended to be worn. For example:
Today, he wore a velvet vest of bright purple, complete with a pouch for the pocket watch and pinstripes running throughout. Accompanying this was a tie of the most blinding blue. It practically shouted out, "Take that Elton John!" What kills me is that under the facade of color, he is wearing blue jeans with a fat leather belt. There is a simple explanation behind all this: I am fairly certain his girlfriend left Utah for more amiable weather. It's crass of me to say, I know, but I truly believe that after years of submitting their wardrobe to the women in their lives, men have come to depend on them for their basic dressing needs.

Tiny Water Droplets

Tiny water droplets cling to the tips of the pine trees like children clinging to their mother. I can smell undertones of their aroma mixed in with wet dirt, and it makes me homesick for the mountains. A memory hurls into my forethought- brought on by the homesickness, I remember mother crying in the spring time. While most people were jubalent when the first crocus poked it's head through the soil, mother wept. I asked her why one fateful season and she said, "Spring is awful. Everything that died last winter has to come back and start it's life all over again. Would you want to do that year after year? I'd rather die and be done with it."

The HAIKU
I blink against sun.
We jump through the sand like crabs
fleeing for our lives.

Narcolepsy for the Agoraphobic Writer

Do you ever wonder if you are turning agoraphobic and narcoleptic at the same time? Sometimes I wonder if my writing is becoming more that way. Like lately, I have considered sending out some of my most prized work into the world of small publishers- such as those found on my small university campus, but I am seized by this sudden fear that it might be read. That's the point of publishing right? To have your work out there for the world to read. Maybe it is the fear that someone I know will read my work. They might associate me with my writing and by so doing, insult my writing because of the person who write the piece. Automatically, as the author, I wish I could kill the concept of the author so that whoever read what I wrote would disconnect me from it in all forms.
There is a secret fear possessed by many an author who has been rejected or judged for the things they create on a personal level. Where once I was OK to have my writing read in class, I now squeeze into a corner and Coward at the thought of having my story read silently, let alone read out loud with an audience. A co-writer friend of mine expressed she harbored this same contagious fear.
Wouldn't it be convenient if we could hand a person we loved a book and ask them to read it. After the fact, I might ask for their opinion, and after the opinion was revealed, peel off my skin and say, "Hey, I wrote this jim dandy of a book. Take it as it is."