Nine to Five

Nine to Five

YOUTH

When she was young, she taught herself a trick. If she placed her dainty fingers on top of her eyelids and pressed, she could see kaleidoscopes. They weren’t the kind of colorful, hypnotizing kaleidoscopes she received in her stocking on Christmas morning; these kaleidoscopes did not have small plastic pieces that created intricate patterns. These self-made kaleidoscopes were simply black and white, like the movies her father would sometimes watch.
If she added enough pressure, white blotches and swirls would slowly materialize against a black background, which she guessed were the insides of her eyelids. It never hurt. She first discovered this method of distraction on a night where her mother and father were having another one of their arguments. They didn’t know she was observing from the top of the stairs; at the exact moment she saw her father’s fist tighten, the little girl slapped her hands over her eyes and pressed hard. She tried to press the scene away from the instant play-back in her mind, but it had already stuck. However, instead of watching her father’s knuckles turn pale, she saw white flourishes and geometric shapes.
The little girl didn’t know much about marriage, and what she did know was what her parents showed her. They were constantly tense—her father had permanent forehead wrinkles. She could faintly remember times when her mother’s face wasn’t twisted into the unpleasant frown that she now wore frequently.
Most of their fights were about money. When the little girl listened from the top of the stairs, she heard things like:
“Well, if YOU didn’t piss away all of your paychecks,” and:
“I’m not the one who spends all of our money on pointless things,” and sometimes, when it was really bad:
“Maybe you can find another husband who will be able to buy you all the things you need.”
She never understood why money was the source of her parent's aggression. When she watched game shows on TV, people cried with happiness because of money they had won. Why did it make her parents yell? She remembered a time not too long ago, the last time she could clearly remember the three of them being happy together. Her father charged through the front door in the evening time, announcing it was pay day. She and her mother cheered, although she had little to no idea how pay days worked. They all went out to ice cream, “my treat”, her father said, smiling.
The little girl sat on the floor of her dark bedroom, listening to the dull hum of her parent’s raised voices. She let out a deep exhale and closed her eyes. Her hands moved to her eyes and applied pressure until she saw fuzzy white circles. She breathed. Her mind searched for ways to make them stop shouting. She thought of riding her bike to the grocery store and talking to one of the people wearing a black apron. She imagined scrubbing the floors and taking out the garbage, she considered an inevitable achy back and raw fingers. But she swelled at the vision of a crisp, green bill at the end of the day. She would fold it up small and stick it in her sock, and then ride home faster than she had ever pedaled before. She would burst through the front door like her father had done on the night he had been happy, she would say: “Pay day!” She’d give her parents her earnings and they would kiss her on the head. More importantly, they would kiss each other. Thanks to her, they would be able to pay the bills and maybe even see a movie. They wouldn’t fight any more. They would smile.
There, in her dim room, eyelids twitching under the intentional force, ears ringing louder than the fire alarm at school, she said to herself:
“I need a job.”

RHYTHM

Sweat formed little beaded piles on her bare skin as she made her way out of the stage lights and down the stairs that led to the dressing rooms. She swung open the rusted door and entered a lively room with low lighting. She heard the chitter chatter of the other dancers—her coworkers—and scanned the room as some of them put up their hair, wiped off their makeup, and lit cigarettes. She plopped down in her chair and fiddled with her belly button ring.
“How much you make tonight?” Jenny asked. She was one of the new ones, fresh-faced and too friendly.
“Uh, one-eighty,” answered Nicole, her eyes not leaving her silver belly button hoop. Jenny took the hint and didn't answer any further questions. She began to hum and she removed her fake eyelashes in the mirror next to Nicole's. Nicole watched her curiously; she wondered how this girl could possibly be upbeat after their show. Each one left Nicole feeling exhausted and filthy. She could feel the sweat of the men's hands on her bare thighs, she could faintly pick up the scent of damp money at her waist and on her fingertips. Every night at this time (save for Sundays and Mondays, which she had off), all she wanted to do was to get home and shower, to rinse the human dirt off of her. She couldn't tolerate feeling so soiled. And so she slipped on her dark, heavy clothes and escaped out the back door, into the night.
Rhythm was a requirement for the job. She remembered this very clearly—it was the only thing they asked her when she went into the club hesitantly, yet desperate. Do you have rhythm?
“Of course I have rhythm,” She said. And the next night, she was on the floor learning the ropes.
Realistically, she had no clue if she possessed any form of “rhythm”, but rent checks were piling up on her counter and looming over her head. There was no other choice. However, since she started her job at the club, she had noticed different rhythms everywhere... the rhythm of the subway train, the rhythm of the sun rising and setting, the rhythm of the sleazy music that echoed after her as she walked down the sidewalk. But her favorite rhythm was one she could only hear at the exact moment that was this one—a Friday night, right outside of the classy bar at the bottom of the Hilton hotel. It was the rhythm of women's high heels.
All different sounds. Light, airy clicking coming from the heels of women in expensive dresses rushing to meet a date. Heavy, hollow clicking coming from pumps on a woman that may have had one-too-many Cosmopolitans. And her favorite, the assertive, fierce clicking coming from women in snazzy boots and business suits. These were the kind of women she watched filter in and out of the hotel, arm-in-arm with a well-groomed man, or on the phone with an important client. Nicole sat on a bench facing the front of the bar with her hot coffee and observed them as they went about their night. She took notes on the rhetoric they practiced, on the jokes they cracked, and the gestures they used. Her eyes were wide and hungry with the vision of her in their place. She thought of her thin hair suddenly voluptuous, her small body filling one of those business suits, and her toes poking out from the end of those power pumps. What did these women do? Were they lawyers? Professors? Real estate agents?
She created their lives for them. She imagined the blonde one having a rich, foreign husband and a luxurious home. She pictured the brunette woman having three kids she raised on her own, a true example of the powerful female. A deep ache developed in her stomach as she watched them smile and laugh, their manicured hands delicately cradling wine glasses as suited men gave them undivided attention. Those men didn't look at those women like they were pieces of meat. None of those men dared to touch any of those women without asking, at the very least. Those men believed in respect. Those women demanded it.
The night grew more still; steam no longer flowed from the top of Nicole's cup. She sighed, stood up, and began to meander home. Her eyes remained fixed on the glass doors leading to the bar. Some of the women caught her eyes, but looked away out of disinterest. From behind her, she could hear their clicks, but they were soon muffled by the shuffle of her own feet that were cramped into white sneakers. She wondered how much a pair of those power pumps cost.
“I want a real job,” she thought to herself, her eyes slightly stinging with tears. But she was not one of those women.




HORMONES

Her name is April. She is five feet tall, maybe seven or eight inches. She has unruly black hair and piercing green eyes. Her lips are a rosy shade of pink, and her fingers are womanly. They move fluidly when she pours coffee. Her laugh is more of an obnoxious guffaw, and her movements are quick and scattered. She spills things a lot. She smokes Camels on her ten minute break. She works at the coffee shop at the corner of his street, and he is pretty sure he is in love with her.
He stops in every day, usually toting a book or some homework so he will appear occupied. But while he is hunched over his notebooks, he steals glances at April as she fiddles with cups and syrups behind the bar. Sometimes, she will catch his eye. But more often than not, he is completely invisible. It takes him some time to work up the nerve to walk up to her and order a drink, but she is always polite and unthreatening. He chooses his words carefully, using polite phrases like “yes, please” and “no, thank you”.
He isn't a bad guy. He is a third year, majoring in biology. He dresses nice, he isn't very messy. And he works hard. This is his downfall. He is taking twenty units this semester; “You graduate in four years, and we'll pay every dime”, that's what his father said. That was the deal. So, he buries himself in homework and reading. He realizes that it's nice to not have to worry about money like some of his friends do. But this binding deal takes a toll on his social life. He regrets the times when he has to turn down a night of drinking with the boys and the nice days he had to pass by because of homework that required him to stay inside. Most of all, he hates the fact that his poor availability exempts him from ever being able to hold a job.
To him, there are many perks to having a job. He could get out, experience the town. His job could make him cross paths with new people, potential friends. A job would give him something to put on a resume. But most of all, a job would bring him money. Sure, his parents are rich. They pay for everything he needs at school, but he could never ask them for extra money.
“Why do you need money, Son? We've already paid the expenses this month,” he could hear his father saying. There is no way he'd divulge that it was meant to be spent on a dinner date with April. He resisted this because he already knew what his father would say.
“A date? With a girl? Son, you have no time for that. Not with your studies,” accompanied by a disapproving head shake.
He sighs and sits back in his chair, fiddling with the handle of his mug. His eyes scan the homework on the table, then up to the bar. April is making a latte, humming. He picks up his pencil and sits his chin on his hand. The other hand is poised at the top of his lined paper. He doesn't feel like answering question one yet. Instead, he slowly scrawls:
I wish I had a job.

RETIREMENT

The golden dawn light pried through the blinds, and Mr. Andrews rises from his slumber. His bones cracked as he stood from his bed. His knees were sore—it would probably rain today. He hobbled to the blinds and pulled them open. His early-morning eyes didn't stand a chance against the fierce light of the sun, but he yawned and looked out the window anyways. He pulled his robe tight, pulled on his slippers, and walked out to the driveway to begin his day. He picked up the paper.
And this is the beginning of his daily schedule. The morning cup of coffee is for the front page—all the important, juicy stuff is on the front page. He savors his cup and the words on the page, sometimes reading an article twice. At around 10 o'clock, he sits in his garden, where he reads the gardening section. He stops at times to watch the car go by, or to say hello to a neighbor. When noon strikes, he is usually done with the gardening section and is ready to move onto the dining section, just in time for lunch. He fixes his meal and sits down at the table. He eats while he reads. Sometimes after this period, Mr. Andrews will take a nap. Other times, he stays up and reads in his chair. On these kinds of days, he'll read the Classifieds or look through the advertisements. When dinner time rolls around, he sits down with another meal and reads the editorial section. Sometimes when he reads these, he laughs. Other times he gets mad.
The day rolls around to darkness again, and he sits on his porch, entertainment section in hand. He remembers Mrs. Andrews fondly, remembers his agile 20-year-old body fondly, remembers the workforce fondly. He feels like a salt-and-pepper-haired cast off from society—hidden away from the rest of the world under the title: “Old”. To himself, he says:
“I miss my job”. Out loud he says it, but no one is around to hear him. He opens the entertainment section and crosses his legs; his knees ache as a lazy rain begins to fall. He reads until it gets too dark to do so.

Submerged

Submerged

A cobalt wave washes over her, fills her lungs, and blurs her eyes. Her arms flail hopelessly, trying to remember how to tread. Her legs are non-compliant anchors. As gulps of salty water charge down her throat, she watches two bubbles from her nostrils float past her face, and she thinks: I am going to die. But when she opens her eyes, nothing has changed. She isn’t submerged in a violent sea; she is still herself, a lonely housewife sitting at the kitchen table, drowning in solitude.
She is an image of perfection, from head to toe. Her manicured feet sit gracefully in her sandals, and her clean shaven legs are crossed under the table cloth, under her dress, which is ironed faultlessly, paralyzed with brutal starch. Her husband likes the color, so she makes sure to wear it on a regular basis; the lavender tone compliments her eyes that stare heavily into the glass of ice water sitting before her. She takes a dainty finger and smoothes the condensation from the sides of the glass, fiddling. Passing time.
Its 1:33 pm. The kids are at school, her husband at work. The floor is swept, mopped. Laundry is done, folded in neat, geometric stacks. Delicates. Dinner is marinating, she is marinating in the truth that there isn’t a thing left for her to do. No more domestic duties and this makes her feel useless.
Is this what I have chosen?
What happened to the surreal college-student aspirations of traveling the world, of writing books? Of tasting wine with exotic foreign men and viewing art with pretentious company? Instead she is on a short leash, with no chance to fulfill the pipe dreams she conjured as a young, unattached woman. Now, she is nothing but attached. She is a piece of double-sided tape, sticking to everything around her, but never getting the chance to hold together something of her own.
A glass of water because it’s too early to drink. The condensation has formed once again, and for lack of anything better to do, she raises her finger to the frigid surface a second time, erases the dew. Delicate.
Kids come home, husband comes home. Each arrival is greeted with a kiss and a “how was your day?” Like clockwork, she operates on a timer. She fills their stomachs, fills their ears with questions, nagging, detached thoughts.
Bath time for the children and he’ll take a whiskey on ice, it’s been a long day. She cleans the plates—it’s something to keep her hands busy and when they’re busy, boredom doesn’t inhabit her, doesn’t seep into her brain and eyes and push her down. Bubbles cling to her fingers, to that ring, and he comes up behind her. She can faintly smell the amber of his whiskey as he runs his large hands over her shoulders, through a sea of purple. The cotton scratches her skin and she slightly winces, but not so he can see. She remains focused on her dishes.
His whispers tickle her ear, something about “the way you look”, something about “taking off this dress”, and she smiles, for his sake. She tells him to put the kids to bed. I’ll wait for you, she says. And like an obedient puppy, he trudges up the stairs; the only incentive for him to put his children to bed comes from a wife’s promise of gratification. She felt a welling ache in her throat, a hybrid of anger and guilt.
She hastily finishes the dishes, jogs up the stairs and puts an ear to the bathroom door. Brushing teeth, they’re almost done with the routine. She continues to their bedroom, heart racing, and throws off her dress. Her docile lavender costume lay crumpled on the floor as she frantically puts on the frumpiest pair of sweats she owns. With a flick of the light switch, she is already in bed with the covers pulled past her neck, eyes squeezed shut. She listens to him lead the children to their beds, hears him quickly read a bedtime story—rushed, with no special voices or dramatic pauses. Their doors gently close, followed by the slow creak of the door to the bedroom they share. Soft hall light spills onto the bed, over her face, across her closed eyelids, dancing over her lashes. She lay still, feigning sleep with all the strength she has. He stands in the doorway, hands on his hips, waiting for her to rouse.
It was a silent stand-off. She tries to keep her breath even, and when she hears him let out an exasperated sigh, she knew she had won. He slogs back down the stairs to refresh his drink, maybe read the paper. She sighs too, noiselessly. Off the hook for another night.

All her life, people told her she looked pretty when she cried. She never understood this odd observation, but her countless ex-lovers and friends saw it. Somehow, the green of her eyes grew deeper and richer with the sting of tears, and her long eyelashes clumped together with moisture as the drops fell.
Months had passed since the evening of the lavender dress—months characterized by increasing instability and more avoidance of making love with her husband. Now she stood, face to face, inches away from her curer, the one who pulled her from the crashing tide.
“You're beautiful when you cry,” and there it was again. Madison said this with the kindest intentions, to try to bring comfort to Alice's aching heart, but it worked adversely.
“I can't do this anymore,” Alice muttered, looking past the light hazel eyes that pierced her chest.
Madison's face was stricken with grief and desperation. She dropped her arms from Alice's shoulders and lowered her head. Her voice softened, and tears fell to her toes as she said: “don't leave me.” Barely a whisper, but it shook the room.
Alice stared at Madison's small frame, at the legs she danced with the first night they met, at the stomach she'd kissed during passionate nights, at the arms that cradled her when she slept. She loved this woman. She loved this woman more than she had loved any other man. And now they stood at opposite ends of Madison's room,. Alice's arms hung at her sides, her fingers tingling, screaming “TOUCH HER, TOUCH HER!” but all she could do was look, in horror, at the woman she was wounding.
Madison lifted her head and held both of her graceful, womanly hands over her mouth, muffling her heaving sobs. Tears slid between the cracks of her fingers, and Alice traced them as they crept down her wrists, disappearing under her sleeves.
“Please, Alice,” was all she could muster. Her chest quickly rose and fell as she gasped for air, the rhythm of her lungs pleading: “Don'tleaveDon'tleaveDon'tleave...”
“It hurts me to lie,” She continued, “I feel heavy.”
“Don't hide it anymore, Al. Liberate yourself,” Madison begged, lunging forward and grabbing Alice's face in her palms. Her eyes danced between Alice's left and right, eyebrows high and raised, drenched in vulnerability.
Alice's eyes released a flood of tears as she saw snapshots of her family—a little blonde girl running in the sprinklers, a light-haired boy speeding around the bases. Her husband, her poor husband--the man she fell in love with so long ago, the lapse in time feeling like centuries had passed. She looked up at Madison, and her heart felt whole again. Whole, but pained, like it had just been sewn back together. No anesthesia.
Alice stepped down from Madison’s doorway after giving her a: “I need to think”, and got into the car. Madison’s porch light flicked off, and Alice let out an exasperated sigh. She looked at her tear-streaked face in the rear view mirror and wondered how her life had taken such an unexpected turn. Her mind flashed back to the night she met Madison; each time she re-lived the memory, the recollection was flawless.
It was a dark bar, darker than the wine in her glass and darker than her emerald dress that hung loosely off of her shoulders. An old friend had taken her there; she told her she needed a night out, and after about fifteen minutes of hesitation, Alice caved in. It was supposed to be “just a few drinks”, but after about an hour at their table for two, she found that her speech was slurring, and her head was feeling dizzy. Her slow, drunken eyes carried her to the dance floor, where she saw a tall, brown-haired woman dancing slowly, but with rhythm. And she was alone.
Alice envied her for having the bravery to dance with no partner—her insecurities would never allow her to have that amount of gallantry. The way this woman moved was mesmerizing, for reasons Alice couldn’t quite place. Her arms moved as gracefully as a ballerina’s would, and as her eyes turned to meet Alice’s, she smiled the most natural, hypnotizing smile Alice had ever witnessed. Alice shyly turned her eyes away, for she was embarrassed after their awkward accidental encounter. She turned her attention back to her glass of wine and held the stem between her fingers, her chin on her other hand.
“I’m gonna use the ladies room. Do you need to go?” Her friend asked.
“No, I’m good. Thanks, though,” Alice replied. Her friend left the table, and Alice swallowed the rest of her glass. As she was setting it down, she felt a gentle hand on the middle of her back. With a start, she whipped around and found the dancer there, smiling and tugging on her earlobe with her free hand.
“Hello,” she said in a soft voice.
“Hi,” was all Alice could think to say. Why was this woman talking to her?
“I’m Madison.”
“Oh, nice to meet you,” Alice’s shyness often came off as rudeness, but Madison paid no mind to this, even when Alice didn’t offer her name.
“And your name is?” She said, finally removing her hand from the silky green fabric of Alice’s dress.
“Alice. Sorry, I didn’t realize…” She chuckled, realizing the intensity of her awkwardness. She was taken aback by the debilitating nervousness she felt simply from this woman’s presence. What was it about her? Did she know her from somewhere? As her mind searched for answers, Madison took her friend’s seat.
“Do you dance?”
“Oh! No, no. I can’t,” she laughed, vehemently shaking her head.
“You can’t?” Madison made a great show of seeming appalled by the statement. She placed a hand on her chest and sighed, “Everyone can dance.”
“Not me,” Alice insisted.
“Dance with me,” she said, suddenly becoming serious. Her dark eyes narrowed at her as she placed her elbows on the table and leaned over the table.
“Dance with you?”
“Yes, with me. What’s the harm?”
Alice pondered for a moment. Dancing with another woman? The thought seemed absurd to her; it would look out-of-place and unnatural. Plus, the only people dancing at this bar were male and female couples. Madison noticed her deep contemplation.
“Don’t think,” she said.
Alice stared at her, and realized that this woman wouldn’t take no for an answer. She looked from her piercing eyes, to the dance floor, and back to her eyes. It was as if there was a magnetic field within her; the negative-charged tongue playfully forced the positive-charged “no” back down her throat endlessly, until she forfeited and swallowed it. With a tentative nod, Madison led her from her seat, into the music.
They spent the rest of the night there, apprehensively dancing at first, then gradually moving closer after the end of each song. Alice couldn’t decipher the freedom she felt as Madison led her body through the night. When it was time to go home, Madison stared at Alice, then leaned into her ear and whispered: “thank you”. Before Alice stepped into the cab that her friend paid for (she left shortly after she saw that Alice was preoccupied on the dance floor), Madison gave her a small napkin, with seven numbers printed neatly on it. Not another word was said. Alice exited the bar, got into the cab, and spent the ride in silence, wondering what to think about the evening she had had.
By the time Alice had relived this story, she was pulling into the driveway of her home. She looked in the mirror again, and noticed that the swelling of her eyes had gone down. Good, she thought. She gingerly shut the car door and unlocked the front door of her dark house with care. She made her way up the stairs, deciding to bypass her children’s rooms; for fear that checking on them might send a surge of guilt up her spine. She slowly opened the bedroom door, and found a large, snoring mass under the sheets of their king-size bed. The moon illuminated the curves of his silhouette under the blankets, and she stood there watching his chest rise and fall peacefully. She sighed sadly, her breath shaking, and got into bed.
It had been about a week since Alice had seen Madison last. She tried with all of her might to continue her normal life, washing dishes, running errands, cooking meals, but nothing could distract her mind from wandering to the delicate face of her lover. She watered the plants and she thought of the time they had walked along the beach, a nighttime blanket of indigo shrouding them, hiding them. She packed her children’s lunches, and she thought of the first time Madison made her dinner. How she wouldn't let her help, how her wrists bent in the most womanly way as she poured two glasses of wine. Madison inhabited her thoughts constantly; there was no way she could go on like this.
Still, she tried. During the period of that week, she tried to snuggle her children extra tight when they watched a movie on the couch. She tried to feel something when her husband's lips met hers, she tried to enjoy when they made love. But his hands felt like carnivorous, beastly claws compared to Madison's; Madison's hands were slightly heavier than air, and when they landed on Alice's skin, she saw colors, felt dizzy, lost her breath. Still, nothing cured her of her numbness. Nothing throughout the course of her normal days could send electricity through her veins like one minute with Madison could.
On days when all of her tasks were completed, she took to sitting on the foot of her bed, glass of ice water in hand. She sat before an open closet door, gaze fixed on her empty suitcase on the top shelf. She thought about how many outfits she could pack into its contents; she imagined her toothbrush and nail clippers and lotion in the small outer pocket. How many pairs of shoes would she have to leave behind?
She left rings on the hardwood floor from setting her glass next to her feet. Now, there were six. They stacked on top of each other, all in the same relative area, perfect damp circles. Her minutes spent contemplating were measured this way.
I could go. I could leave here and Madison and I could run away. Her gaze upon the suitcase thickened; she stared at the worn zippers, black paint chipping off. She studied the dirt caked on the plastic wheels. The last time she used it was on a family vacation to the Grand Canyon. The kids complained about the heat and her husband griped about the “shitty motel” she chose for them.
Madison would do that for me. We could go to the city, we could make a whole new life. But what about the kids? They would grow up; they would understand when they hit their college years. They would see that she was suffocating, that she had the same dreams they would have, except she never got to live them. They would forgive her, they would correspond in letters. They would meet for lunch in some time, when their anger would subside, replaced with genuine curiosity.
I have money saved. We can find an apartment and get crappy jobs. It wouldn't matter, we would be together. Living without Madison was torture; at this point of her internal monologue, there was no other option but to flee. All her life, she had settled for stability. This was her chance to taste risk. She sprung up from the edge of the bed and knocked over her glass of ice water, but was too frantic and fueled with adrenaline to worry about picking it up. She yanked the suitcase from the shelf and threw it open, revealing its emptiness; it looked like a monster, mouth gaping, stomach aching, saying:
“Feed me, I'm hungry. Fill me with your clothes. Leave.”
In a near-psychotic craze, she threw handfuls of underwear and socks into the monster's belly. She emptied bathroom drawers, she decided which shoes to bid adieu. When the suitcase was plump, fat and happy, she stood back, hands on her hips, and looked at the void in the closet. All that was left were mens suits, jackets, loafers, and old shirts with holes in them (which she hated). The zipper screamed under pressure as her knuckles went white from forcing it closed. In one last glance around the room, she rolled the suitcase out the door and left it sitting against the wall. She half-jogged back into the room, to the bed, where her pillow lay. She slid the gold wedding ring off of her finger and placed it on the white pillowcase. She imagined her husband sleeping next to that display in mere hours—would he cry?
She bypassed her children's rooms again, this time even more fearful of the wave of guilt that would undoubtedly sweep over her. The roaring of the suitcase's wheels behind her beckoned her to hurry, and she opened the front door in a fit. Before she closed the door, she took a deep breath. Am I really doing this? It felt as though the Alice who was making this choice wasn't the usual Alice that inhabited her body. This was an impulsive, stupid Alice. But she let her stay. She closed the door.
Madison didn't know she was coming, but she knew she'd be okay with the sight of her at her door, suitcase in hand, ready to run. This was what they needed. Alice turned on the car and backed out of her driveway, not looking back. Goodbye, Suburbia. Goodbye, little boxes made of ticky tacky.
As she traveled down the road, she thought of her destination: a beautiful, loving, genuine woman waited for her. Perhaps she was reading a book, or maybe she was taking an afternoon nap. The fifteen minutes on the freeway it took to reach Madison's house seemed like an eternity; she pressed her gas pedal to the floorboards as she merged onto the highway. Not once did she think of her husband, ignorant as he was in that moment, answering e-mails at work. She didn't think about her little boy, who, at that instant, was sweating over a math problem in class. She didn't think about her young girl, on the swings at school, a gentle breeze flowing through her hair, closing her eyes because she felt like a bird when she was up that high. Instead, she thought of Madison.
And when the driver of the car in the opposite lane stopped paying attention, she thought of Madison. When her focus met the front of the vehicle that was speeding towards her, skipping over lanes and out of control, when she saw the horrified expression of the driver seconds before the impact, she thought of Madison. Metal collided with metal, and the fronts of their cars had become one. The crunch of the steel was loud and effortless, like the crumpling of lined paper in a classroom—math problems. Alice's vision went white as she heard, from another place, the honking of horns and the screeching of tires. She felt her body spinning, her bones cracking, her skin bruising. She felt heat, warmth traveling down her face and arms. When the scene slowed to a halt, Alice slowly opened her eyes. Glass shards fell from her eyelashes onto her cheeks. And when she looked through the blood in her vision at the sun beating through the spider-web cracks in her windshield, she thought of Madison. She wanted to apologize, to tell her she was going to be late.
Ten minutes away, in the house that Alice left behind, sat her overturned glass of water. The ice cubes were slowly melting into the floorboards, leaving nothing but a dark stain marking where she had once sat.
 

there are power lines in our blood lines

The dim light of a vehicle passing washed over his tired eyes--it was his nineteenth hour awake. He yawned again, scratched his cracked palm over the jagged hair that had begun growing from his chin.
Can't get tired now, he thought, three hours to go.
With this meek attempt at personal motivation, he drank a gulp of coffee, rolled down his window, and lit his seventh cigarette of the night.
I really ought to quit, he thought, the habit gets worse when I'm on route.
The tiny orange tip of his cigarette traveled with him down the desolate country road, leaving a microscopic trail of ash ever time he flicked. The only evidence of his body being in this place at that time, evidence no one would ever see. Barely evidence at all.
Every so often, a car will pass his rig; He watches the two white eyes approach, then adjusts his gaze to the rear-view mirror as they continue on, two red eyes warning: watch the road.
Another yawn as he tosses the butt out the window. He wonders odd things like: If I gathered up all the cigarette butts from this road, I wonder if it would fill this truck.
With the cool night air dusting his face, he looks over to the seat next to him. Reclined, swallowed in blankets, sleeps his son, barely eight. His heart fills with love and guilt, both paralytic in their own way.
He notices that the power lines, looking like dark giants in the night, keep rhythm with his breath. He passes three poles on every inhale, he passes three poles on every exhale. He keeps this time as he rolls up the window, takes another swig of coffee.
Two hours and fifty minutes till we can stop, he thinks.
And his phantom machine travels through the darkness, gears shifting and hinges creaking, but with no one around to hear it.

distraction at its finest

(We took a field trip to Bidwell Park during my creative writing class last week and sat by the river. We were supposed to be inspired by nature and describe what we saw, but I got sidetracked. Anyways... voila.)


She says my name and it makes me feel like I'm worth something as she keeps her balance on the bridge, arms outstretched at her sides, a little girl in a grown woman's body.
Each word I say, each phrase I think, drenched in cynicism. I guess this will be a prose? Less rules but we humans expect rules for everything. Classmates asking "well, what am I supposed to write?" Isn't that up to you? People you expect all things handed to you and shame on you for comparing this water to piss, giving the excuse that it's a metaphor, shame on you foolish boy don't you ever look around you? It feels as if this hardly exists anymore, even as I try to listen to the thick gurgling of the river before me putrid voices and whispers creep in from behind me, can't you look around? See that water this free still exists in the world and not all of it lives in plastic bottles and there are leaves caught in the rocks, held captive by the current but do they really feel imprisoned? I know I'd feel more free than ever if a river pinned me, the most beautiful demise, a graceful drowning.
And she sees it all as she sticks her feet in, two earths as eyes watch the ripples expand from her toes and she creates this. She chooses to sit close to me, and we don't have to talk and I admire this.
Stop reading so loud, fool you are hurting my mind. How come I can't hear anything but the sound of my own thoughts she hums and i gladly listen to that but we lose something when we get old and that is the ability to listen to silence contentedly without pollution of air, pollution of thoughts suffocating the paths of our brains and how come I can't write pretty anymore, only ugly but it fits me so does that mean I'm ugly? Because the more filth I write the more beautiful I feel its like I expel those demons I expel whatever it is that gets worked out when someone rubs a knot in my back it is what hurts me but I feel myself force myself keep going. What if I become the character I am creating and what will her demise be? Laying still in this body of pristine water touched only by a curious poet's foot? Why go to college when all I do is write through all my classes and what will I look like when I die? Will I be a discarded tree branch stroked by the fingers of the river ever so slightly, enough to give me chills, the ebb and flow not feeling much like death at all?

I closed my eyes

Particles of sand, particles of something sting my face and wind whips through my hair the most powerful wind I have ever felt--it sways me, blows straight through me through my veins, my bones. A constant, deafening whoosh inhabits my ears and I can't shake it, can't soften it.
Where is the eye of this storm?
All I know is I can barely open mine, the gusts force them shut and I swear the sand caught on my eyelashes is now mud, caked, encasing my vision. Nature does not want me to see. No matter how furious the wind gets, my feet are cemented like an unfortunate miracle. Maybe it would be better if I could move, get out of this place because this doesn't feel like a saving grace but rather imprisonment. But this is what I wanted, is it not? An internal tornado, the storm of all storms and it sweeps away all I know of myself and there are no trees to cling to, no lamp posts. Its barren out here (in here?) nothing but ground and wind, so where is my substance? And I know I can't flee. So I pry my arms from my sides, hold them straight out, either side of my body, and it feels like the force is blowing my skin right off. My fingers flexed, I extend my arms further further further, maybe I'm trying to produce wings to fly away but I know I can't so I should just try to fly anyways. Fly into the storm because I can't outrun it now. The eye should be here any time and then I'll have a second to breathe, a second to realize that its not even over and you have put yourself here so ride this out as gracefully as you can with the wind pulling you a thousand ways, like being trapped in a strong ocean current, helpless and flailing. The wind tortures me, so strong it almost tickles my ears, but will not lift me. And the scream of it's inhuman power almost sounds like laughter.

I haven't thought of a title to do him justice yet...

Behind the 80 year old ears of the grandfather,
ears that have served him well for decades,
ears that are beginning to fail him,
sit a canyon on each side of his head
amongst hair whiter than the salt
we used to sprinkle on homegrown tomatoes,
eating them like apples, walking barefoot
through their garden.
Watermelons bigger than my skull.
Zucchinis bigger than my legs
of which my grandma would use to make bread
the best you've ever tasted
I ate it for each meal.
Wire-rimmed bifocals fit like puzzle pieces
in the craters alongside his brain
his brain that holds endless stories
about places he's been
people he's beat up
his brain, that is starting to forget
the tall tales he would spitfire to me,
sitting on the lawn, knees green with stains
toes caked with mud from the irrigation canal
once, I went in all the way.
Mud hugged my shoulders and my family lost me.
But I smiled the whole time
it was he who found me,
"Sunuvabitch, here she is!"
And I smiled still, as I got a shower from the garden hose
it angrily spewed water on me like a green snake
the sting of the cold water like venom on my skin
right there on that same lawn
we talked for hours
the natural slur of his words showered me both in
wisdom and spit
"When you came out, you fit right in the palm of my hand."
How I wish my infant eyes were old enough to open
and study him
remember the awed expression on his face
as my little body, my entire being, fit perfectly in his wrinkled palm.
Like a puzzle piece.

Ode to Sufjan

I love you because no one else would,
given the circumstances...
2 weeks into our life together, your tail began to fray
and float away
in the small bowl that houses you.
Soon it was a nub.
My poor little fish had lost his dignity
like when a boy drops the pop-fly
or a student fails a test--
drenched in shame.
But I didn't flush you
I nursed you, loved you,
I ask you about your day
and even though you don't ask me,
thats okay. I know you would,
if you could.
Now its growing back, slowly and surely
your stream of graceful indigo
that follows you as you swim
is reappearing
a symbol of not giving up
no matter how small a life,
you are my tiny aquatic triumph.

Oh, the woes of a college student.

You never told me being a grown up meant feeling tired everywhere I go, carrying anchors on my feet, letting my car drive me instead of my drive it--I am on cruise control, my pinkie barely touching the wheel. Autopilot.
You never told me growing up meant getting a shitty job, one that doesn't care about you as a human being, but rather a human, as long as the work gets done.
You never told me that one could consider themselves lucky if one likes their job. Or that paychecks, a silly little paper, represents other silly little papers (this time, silly little green papers), and that with those representations, crumpled in my pockets, you can trade them for a need, a want... it would be so much better if we just used pebbles.
You never told me the government would take away half of my hard earned silly green papers and you never told me to wear comfortable shoes.
You never told me you must pay to live, and live to pay the bills that accumulate, pinned down with magnets on my refrigerator, as if crucified, a constant reminder: to use this, you must pay for it with your hard work, fatigue, and poor attitude!
You never really told me that I must pay to learn, and that some people can't pay, so some people don't learn.
You never told me to be careful while cooking, because I may burn myself--It was always one of those childhood things, a trial-and-error lesson. "Don't touch that!" "Why?" "You'll see."
You never told me that there were other rules to life other than wait 30 minutes after eating a meal before going swimming and don't talk to strangers. No, there are more rules every day. Don't drive during red lights and don't write checks for money you don't have and don't have a dog, you'll have to pay a fine.

listen to you

Suburban War- Arcade Fire




The other night, I was sitting outside on my front porch. It was about 2:30 am, and not a soul was awake.
Air always seems cleaner at night; there is something fresh about oxygen that isn't tainted by the sunlight. Instead, the stars and moon give it a faint white glow, which makes it all the more enjoyable to breathe in. Not that we have a choice.
As I was taking in the air and stillness around me, my neighbors suddenly shut their side door and turned off their porch light. It made me jump, even though it was a whole house and front yard away. The slamming of the door--the violent meeting of the wood from the door meeting the metal frame--shook my brain. The positioning and re-positioning of molecules as they collided with each other was epic enough to make a noise to startle my whole body, leaving my heart racing. The stillness of the night was disturbed; now my pond was full of ripples.
Of course, I dwelled. As I often do on my front porch at odd hours... (I once spent a good 20 minutes imagining life from the viewpoint of a snail, as I watched him creep across my sidewalk). This is probably really abstract and weird...
But, I imagined what it would be like if our minds made noises to correspond with the situations we place ourselves in/the emotions we are subject to. What if when we were bored or tired, our minds snored, and only we could hear it? Or if we were angry, our minds would scream at us. When we feel closure, our internal mind-doors would slam. When we felt happy, birds would sing to us. If we were sad, we could hear our mind crying.
I think that if our brains worked this way, people would be better at living for themselves. We would know what we need... what we need to shut up our relentless heads and do what will make us better. I think that people get self-awareness and selfishness mixed up. If only our minds could tell us... maybe we would all be healthier, happier, and well. Maybe, maybe, maybe.

And maybe when a song is stuck in our head, that's our mind providing a perfect soundtrack for the moment. And maybe we're supposed to listen.

sensory overload &^#@*($^@

Don't have the mental or physical capacity to pick up a pen and flip to a page and make markings on a piece of paper, so I decided to cave into the technological epidemic that is slowly choking our nation and our world.

I remember my Speech and Debate class in Humboldt. I hated it, but I loved it. Well I guess I loved the people...they were characters. There was this big, Seth Rogen-ish guy who was always sweaty and wore big shoes. He shuffled his feet a lot and had a lack of saliva when he talked. He always cleared his throat and had a shaky voice when he spoke, but he still had a lot of confidence because he loved his subject. He spoke about windmills.

There was another boy—you could tell his life hadn't been easy up to this point. He had thin hair, he was frail and sickly looking, and always wore a hat. He rode a BMX bike, and dressed in baggy clothes, but he looked everyone in the eye when he talked to them. His gestures were graceful and he did a good job at pacing, but not frantically. He appealed to all of us; he was our generation's “every man”. His best friend had died in a drunk driving accident, which made his voice rich in emotion and warning. He spoke of unjust death.

The class brown-noser was this small asian girl. Not a strand of her hair was ever out of place, she sat with perfect posture, and wrote in flawless scrawl. Her presentations were over-educational, and she was the kind of student who went over the top, making us all look like assholes because our power points didn't have depressing YouTube videos or impressing graphics. Still, through all of this, she stared at many of the students with otherworldly understanding. Like she understood you, and admired you, no matter who you were. She spoke of dolphins.

I loved this boy. He was extremely tall and lanky, all arms and legs. He brewed his own beer, and wore blue jeans with legs that seemed to have to be custom-lengthened. His shirts hung on him funny, and they were mostly odd-colored polos, and one Vanilla Ice shirt he donned a few times. Giant coke bottle glasses hung on his nose, and under the lenses sat giant brown eyes. His tousled brown hair lay messily atop his head, and he spoke with an almost-lisp. He had a rich, friendly voice, and when he moved, each limb followed at its own leisure. He showed us a map of where he was from, a little island off of Alaska, where technology wasn't a huge part of life; their entertainment was mostly the spoken word, and now he is slowly watching it die in today's world. He spoke of radio.

What I see when I think of this boy is the memory of when he first spoke. He was in front of the class, clutching onto his note-cards, and he was violently shaking. From his shoulders, especially to his fingers, even down to his legs and knees. When he walked, he had to make sure his foot landed on the ground correctly, that's how bad his shakes were. We all watched him in well-masked horror, afraid that he would pass out. But he still cracked jokes, and smiled. He was small in stature, his smiles were hidden in a furry beard and had a head full of black curls, usually hidden under a fedora. His voice was soft, but commanding. He spoke of honeybees.

I remember these people most.

It's chance encounters like these that make me think about how long I will remember things. How your mind prioritizes things. I can't remember what I wore YESTERDAY, but I still remember minute details about people I haven't even had conversations with. Maybe there are things these perfect strangers have taught me that I haven't realized yet, and that's why my memory is keeping them around. I wonder if they remember me.

And I wonder if I am like that to anyone. I have come to believe that we are all here not to live for ourselves, but to live for each other. In the way that our actions and decisions and personalities teach others things, which is more important than learning for ourselves. And in the way that meeting new people is opening yourself up to another possible lesson, to some sort of insight that you will in turn duplicate, teaching it to someone else. And so forth.

I have come to believe that having a conversation with someone will teach me more than a textbook ever will.

I'm yawning.

Currently listening: Flume, Bon Iver.


The life of a working woman has given me a tangible kind of purpose, an income, but all that previously existed in me spiritually feels as though it has floated elsewhere. Get up, go to work, eat my meals, go to sleep. Try to squeeze in some communication with other people, but find it far too exhausting. Try to create something...write...but what is there? My words have felt so empty and light lately--what could I possibly say that will move anyone? Will move myself, even?
I feel that something is missing. There is a personal void.

This is my first post in a bit of time. I feel like I always have to have something EPIC to say, some sort of new epiphany for the 3 people that probably read this. But to be completely honest, the wishy washy person I am by nature is resurfacing again. My fire that ignites the wick that runs through my hand to my pencil has been doused in water. I need it to catch a spark but I've got nothing.

I will go to bed with my familiar pile of journals, screaming: WRITEINME, but I'll follow with a "not tonight, I will only disappoint you." Everyday... the promise is becoming a challenge. Lacking inspiration, even drive, to find some sort of beauty in anything. Walt Whitman would find me a disgrace.
I need something, anything, to shock me back to life.

thanks, Nourtney Cunes.

Escuchar: Stop the Dams- The Gorillaz

A dear, dear friend of mine posted a new blog called "Old Writing" and it inspired me to flip back through one of my old journals to find something I liked... a throwback, if you will.
This is for one of two reasons; for nostalgia's sake, and for lack of anything good to throw in here lately. My streak of being uninspired continues. So, here's some writing time travel.


This is from December 17, 2005 [Freshman year...]

"I'm beginning to realize the importance of what I have. I have family and friends that love me, a house, food, education... I'm living, I'm healthy... I'm lucky to have what I have. Of course, you're going to run into the occasional problem or two, but what doesn't kill you makes you stronger. Everything that has happened to me negatively has had an impact on the way I live today. I'm taking advantage of the fact that I'm only fourteen--I have so much life left! I want to really live it to it's fullest potential and have an amazing high school career and eventually, an amazing life!"

This is from August 2, 2006 [Sophomore year...]
(mini epiphany following a Jason Mraz song)

"Life is way too short to spend each day worrying about the next one.
And even though me and the majority of the angst filled teenage population are in a hectic hurry to grow up, I've realized that I need to soak up those carefree summer nights, those late night phone calls, Friday night football games, random and even pointless teenage things we have fun with... I need to soak up every second.
Because when I'm 40, none of my friends will be interested in blasting "Tell Me When to Go" and participating in Chinese fire drills. Do it now.
Note to self: Live, please. Because pretty soon you'll have to find a job and pay taxes and apply to colleges. Scary? Yes. But part of life? Also, yes.
In the end, we all die. It's true. We're not invincible. But you only live once, so we have no choice but to really make the best of each day. I'm sure it will be great when I'm 70 years old talking to my grandchildren about the good ole' days...
'You've never heard "Tell Me When to Go"?! Man, do I have stories for you...'"

This is from November 12, 2007 [Junior year... when I started loving my journals and stopped being embarrassed of them.]

"There's a boy in my first period that plays the drums. I've never actually heard him play, but people say he's really talented. Anyway, I watch him in class and he is the most applied person I have ever seen. He's an awesome student. I was talking to him one day, about his hair...which is shoulder length and always spills over his eyes whenever he takes notes. He has to constantly fix it in order to see. He told me that if he gets good grades, his mom won't make him cut it, so that's why he's so disciplined and focused at school.
I reminded him (like an asshole) that hair can always grow back, but he told me that he is convinced that he plays drums better with long hair. He can shake his head around like a bad ass, and, like he says, "look soooo much sicker playing" than he would with short hair.
That made me smile. He loves the drums that much...it's his passion. And he will work as hard as he has to in order to keep his passion alive, in the way that he wants it.
I want to learn why people do things. Because everyone does the things they do for a reason. If AP English 3 has taught me anything, it's that."

[I unfortunately cannot find my journal from senior year...which is breaking my heart. I'll continue the search. But until then, here is an entry from November, 2009...one of my favorite poems I've ever written. Wrote it when I was still at HSU.]

The spirit of a bird
she soars over cities and skyscrapers
she looks onto the busy people
wise, yet curious eyes
hungry for experience.

She is soft.
Her feathers fluid through air
like fingers treading milky skin

She flies
over mountains and untouched land
gracing the ground below with her fleeting shadow

She lands, ever so quickly
never one to settle
only hoping to see everything she can see
taste everything she can taste
breathing in life, one tiny bird lung at a time.

Such a shame
for me to clip her wings
to watch her struggle underneath my weight
to take away her grace
strip her of her mobility
only lifting inches off the ground
looking towards an open sky

a blue and white canvas of yearning
behind the bars of my inadvertent cage.

And lastly, this is from my newest journal... I only had a handful of pages to choose from.
[May 27, 2010]

"My joints in my hands have been tight and aching from writing essays and filling in bubbles but right now, as I write this, my hand feels fine. No strain, maybe a slight presence of a distant cousin of 'pain', but not hurtful. Pleasure, if anything, breathing in cool breaths of air, the air of creativity and fulfillment, for once. Nothing factual, or structured. Or structured, but on my terms. Hence my current belief that school is disintegrating my mind rather than improving it. Its just work. But that is what I suppose adulthood is. And I believe that the era I am entering now is just that--adulthood. Genuine adulthood, not the romantic era of "adulthood" that follows getting your drivers license or graduating high school. The ugly, raw adulthood that happens to people. People I know are joining the army and getting pregnant and getting married. I have to pay an electricity bill now.
It will be so interesting to explore this."

try this out for size

Current Jamskieee: Digital Love-Daft Punk


I have found a coffee shop here in Chico that has stolen my heart. They play all the music I like and the people that work there call me "Dear" and "Love". My affection is easily won over, I suppose. I suppose.
I just want to type, is all. I don't know what my aim is here, what I'm going to come up with... but I will use the Rule of Right Now.

Right now, I just finished picking out my class schedule for Butte. It is as follows:
Environmental Economics
Art Appreciation
Creative Writing
Eastern Psychology through Yoga
Introduction to Weather

I'd have to say that I'm pretty excited...they're not too horribly conventional, which makes me like college for a fleeting moment.

Right now...
Right now, I am hot. It is muggy here. Three hours away and the weather is still quite different.
I have been dwelling on movement...travel...settling, lately. I never want to live somewhere as long as I have lived in Brentwood. I want to experience as many places as I can. I want to move every year. I don't ever want to feel too comfortable, too bored somewhere. I think that moving around will be my way of studying and observing. And I want to keep my head fresh, I don't want to become stagnant or uninspired.
Plus, I am changing all the time. I think my setting should change accordingly. My ripples will soon reach far--one day people will know me as casual acquaintances from all over the place. Look at my list already; Brentwood, Humboldt, Chico... I will continue to spread myself thin, because in a weird way I like feeling unstable.

I have discussed this multiple times with someone who shares a similar soul as me. She and I agree that there are masochistic fibers of ourselves that crave to be sad, that ache for things to be a struggle. We love to cry. Isn't that weird?
Yes it is. But we like weird stuff, too. It works out.
Out of my sadnesses and tragedies come the best of my ideas, my purest words, my strongest inner risings. I could be happy all the time, but what is the learning in that?
You can only talk about happiness so much... But one could go on about their strife forever. And maybe, in going on about it, you may discover the light at the end of the tunnel. Because there always is one. Always.

R A M B L I N G S !

I wrote this the other day. It's a little snippet I'd like to share.

"Bars of soap. Barber shops. Coffee stops...cafe, that day. City air and building tops. Traffic heat, my faded green seats. Through the tunnel, our heads spun--high with infinity--we will live forever.
...Fistfulls of sand as you pulled me to the ground, the ocean reeds hugged us, as if it were seaweed. As if we were on the bottom of the ocean. gravity defying, curious eyes of little fish darting away from us. Let them look.
Comfort...in the millions of grains of sand that enveloped us, caught in my fingers as they made contact with your thousands of strands of hair. We were so large in a sea of something so tiny, talking about how we felt miniature. A constant contradiction, beauty in the hesitation."

You know when you are just so overwhelmed by something, so many emotions and words piling on top of you, you don't know where to start? That's how writing that was... or attempting, rather. Quite difficult. So much to stay. So many ideas, metaphors, so many monumental moments that will slowly slip from my memory if I don't record them.
So. Much. Pressure! But I suppose that's what shitty first drafts are for? Consider that one.

Hi, hello, welcome to today. Welcome to Right Now.

Kind of like the mall scene in Mean Girls

Audiblezzzz: "When Did Your Heart Go Missing"-Rooney

I'm one of those people I feel bad for when I see them, and I think this is the first time I've ever done this. I am at at a restaurant, eating alone. I suppose it is not entirely alone; I have my homework to accompany me, but nonetheless, I am here, eating a bread bowl in solitude. Without a second thought.
Admittedly, the thought of being alone and desolate is appealing to me lately. I have been entertaining the thought of moving up to our apartment in Chico earlier than planned, to make my job hunt more practical, and to just spend some time... with myself. Human contact and communication has proven to be exhausting and I either want to sleep or live in some silence for awhile.
Because in the end...we're all truly alone, aren't we? I have amazing people in my life, but I am all I have at the same time. And I want to make peace with the constant loneliness I have felt. I want to get on its good side.'

Enough of that. There's a specific moment I'd like to write about, because in witnessing it, I was completely overtaken by the comedy of the situation.
Setting: Starbucks, about 8:30 pm. But instead of Baristas behind the counter, it was a bunch of Grizzly Bears with green aprons on. As I was waiting for my coffee, this delicious piece of man comes in. And I'm not typically one to judge these kinds of situations, but even I knew that this guy was beautiful. He was wearing a charming grandpa sweater, but with white Toms. What a perfect mix of generations, right? His face was scruffy with golden blond hair to match the tousled hair on his head, and he had piercing blue eyes.
WOW, anyways. Hi.
What was funny was how the animals behind the counter acted when they laid their hungry eyes on him. The certain carnivore at the register seemed to be in a trance as she politely asked him what his order was. She practiced flawless customer service, down to the last dreamy smile she gave him as she told him to "have a good day". As her eyes followed him to the bathroom, as soon as he drifted out of sight, she exclaimed to her two other co-workers:

"OH. MY. GOD. DidyouseehimhewasSOOOOcuteholyshityouhavetolookathimwhenhegetsback!!"
The other Grizzlies=giggles and frantic stares towards the bathroom... "Okay, okay we'll look!"
Cashier Grizzly: "SHH! He's coming back RIGHT NOW!"

They "went back to work", but now each one of them had their eyes fastened tightly on the restroom door. As they hustled and bustled getting dishes done and fixing drinks, they bumped into each other and fumbled with iced coffee as their eyeballs remained glued to the same spot.

As he re-entered the room, they kept their cool. Like they weren't waiting for him...
He silently took his coffee as all three women told him to have a FABULOUS day and smiled intensely at his golden face. He turned his back to fix his coffee, and when he did so, all of the smitten Bears made eyes at each other, weak at the knees, but fierce with instant lust. Had there not been a tall counter separating the employees from the customer, I would've been concerned for his safety.
He left the shop and they exhaled sighs of composure and began to excitedly chatter about how GORGEOUS he was, and suggested ideas of activities they would include him in, if given the chance.

It was hilarious. And so entertaining to watch. You know why?
Because throughout the day, we are constantly faced with the complexities of being human; the complications of everyday life. We have to make big decisions, face our emotions and sort out our feelings, we must balance responsibility with our own personal journeys towards Happiness... we must do a lot throughout our day. Our brains are constantly working in complicated ways, constantly moving and thinking and feeling and speaking and breathing.

This brief scenario was actually pretty inspiring to watch because it reminded me that even though we are human beings, the most complicated organisms known to live to this day (there are probably smarter aliens somewhere else), we are still quite animalistic. Raw. We are still ultimately guided by instincts. And watching these three women drool over an incredibly attractive man like he was a juicy steak was enough to ensure my belief that no matter how much influence society has on us, we are still animals.
Its comforting to know that even in times of such complication, we will still always have our animal instincts. They will still fuel us to be passionate, even if it is over something as simple as physical attraction. I don't want to ever be too human.



"Yeah, when I was only 17,
I could hear the angels whispering
So I droned into the woods and wandered aimlessly about
Until I heard my mother shouting through the fog
It turned out to be the howling of a dog
Or a wolf to be exact, the sound sent shivers down my back
But I was drawn into the pack and before long
They allowed me to join in and sing their song
So from the cliffs and highest hill, yeah
We would gladly get our fill
Howling endlessly and shrilly at the dawn
And I lost the taste for judging right from wrong
For my flesh had turned to fur, yeah
And my thoughts, they surely were
Turned to instinct
and obedience to God.

You can wear your fur
like a river on fire
But you better be sure
if you're makin God a liar
I'm a rattlesnake, Babe,
I'm like fuel on fire
So if you're gonna get made,
Don't be afraid of what you've learned."

-"Furr": Blitzen Trapper

attack of the teenage hormone-infested 80 ft octopus

Currently listening to: "Basique"- Little People
issssaJAM.

My least favorite time of the week is on Mondays and Wednesdays, from 11:50 am-12:30 pm. It is the idle 40 minutes I have to kill between my Anthropology and Psychology classes. 40 minutes is the perfect amount of time to do absolutely nothing.

The following is an inner monologue that I have decided to document.

...So I drive aimlessly through the blue-grey, trying to find music to propel me, to be my engine, until I have to return to LMC's bland, white, windowless classrooms and toilets that flush when you're not ready for them to... and when it does this you make a Jim Halpert face but no one is watching you because you're enclosed in a stall that's kind of like your mind.
Small and cramped and stuffy.
Occasionally smells of excrement.
Sometimes deafening with the shuffles of zippers (the opening and closing of new and old thoughts), sinks (washing myself of something...cleansing), and crumpling paper towels (disposable things, thoughts that are underdeveloped, thoughts that I dismiss).
Other times, incredibly silent. Like you're the only person on campus who has ever had to go pee in the history of urination. Like you're the only person who thinks in the history of brains.

YES. IT'S BACK.

Maybe for this fleeting moment, but it's here. Run with it. Sail with it. Open the masts of your mind, self, and let small breezes of interaction and tangents lead you every which way until your mind-your hand-cramps. Yes, it may become still again. But PATIENCE, it is a virtue. Sure, it's frustrating. Cry. Go ahead. Let your best friend paint your nails Christmas colors in May and eat some waffles and scream and contemplate cutting off all your hair that hangs heavy on your head, suffocating your neck like a python. And sleep. Write about how you hate to write sometimes and how you're shitty at it most of the time, but how you must keep the promise you have made to yourself.
Remind yourself.
Tell yourself that you are a silly girl and that you're not going to die if you have a fleeting thought that what you do, what you feel, has no direction.
Direction is self-created. W R I T E
Soon your words will turn into something. Usable, or not. You will spin straw into gold eventually. And the birds will sing and your ink will run out and you will soon feel whole again.

Reeeeeeeach

Starting the day off with a visual for a change.
I'm a picture thief. But this is just so cool to me.
Thanks Abalaba. :)

Casper

3-11-10--Proof that I am going loony.

There is a ghost that haunts me. She sits with me in the car and I show her songs I think she might like.
She whispers in my ear when I cook in the kitchen... "this needs more salt." "Stir that, it's gonna burn."
She lays with me in bed, and I can almost feel her arms around me, her heavy breathing against my hair as she drifts to sleep. Slightly, very slightly, I can feel her pull me closer late into the night; maybe as a result of a bad dream, maybe as a result of the warmth that comes not from blankets, but only from another human's body.
I can feel her everywhere, see her everywhere.
She watches me as I talk to others, as I kiss another. She laughs, "You don't kiss them like you kissed me." She torments any ideas I have of progression.

This morning, I was laying in the sun in my backyard. It was a nice change from yesterday--rain and dark looming clouds. She came out of the sliding glass doors as I took a sip of my tea. She chuckled.
"What are you doing?"
"Enjoying the sun," I say. She laughs again as she walks over to me.
"Good morning," says the ghost. And I kiss her on the cheek.

300,000 beats

Currently listening to: "Fearless" by Low.



What... a day.

I can do so little lately and still feel exhausted. But I woke up to see the morning today, and I am thoroughly convinced that when I pull myself out of bed early enough to see the world awaken, my day will be better. Better? I don't know, actually. But more fulfilling, to say the least. It feels so nice to wake with the Earth, and then watch the it fall dark as it's time to lay to rest again. Bearing witness to the cycle of a day is a beautiful privilege. So now that the sky is black again, it is time for me to lay my head and let my subconscious go into its natural rise and fall, just like breath. However, the subconscious is an intimidating entity. You never know what it will throw at you. And you can't argue it.

Despite my contentedness this morning, I now lay in bed somewhat cynical. I am thinking of growing old, and this makes my heart feel funny.
I don't want to get old. I don't want to get gray hair and arthritis... And I just have this funny feeling that I'm totally going to get arthritis when I'm old. My great grandma had it, and she used to sit at the kitchen table and pound on her hand until it would lie flat. She would curse at it, call her cramped hands "sons uh bitches", and scold my grandpa when he would catch her in her frustration.


When I look back at the last 19 years of my life... What have I done? 19 years is a long time. Is there anything of significance that I have created? I suppose with the majority of the population, no one has. Or, it depends on the definition of significance we are choosing to use.

In this case, I am choosing to define significance as "the ripples that we create through life's course... the way we affect people, whether positively or negatively, through our actions, beliefs, and overall being." Something like that.
My ripples are microscopic in the grand scheme of...anything and everything. And thinking about the people we encounter throughout our journeys, most of them eventually become tiny specks on the time lines of our lives.
Just like in TV shows, people make guest appearances, stay awhile, make their impact, and then they just vanish...almost into thin air. Just like Cleveland in Family Guy. He is nothing but a memory to Peter and the gang, yet he is off living his own life with his family, having crazy, politically incorrect adventures elsewhere, with different people.
Does he ever think of Peter, Joe, or Quagmire? Or is he content with bidding them farewell, dismissing them as just a segment in his life; They are a chapter of his life's story that needs no editing or revisiting that will now sit on the shelf of his mind, collecting dust. He can take it down whenever he needs to, if he wants to. If he will ever allow himself to need to or want to.

Family Guy? Really?
Bye credibility. ANYWAY.

I don't want to end this on a raincloud of a note. I suppose the way I can turn this and make it positive is to look at what I can do to make my ripples reach farther. I will dwell upon this for a few days. Until then...

"What people somehow forgot to mention when we were children was that we need to make messes in order to find out who we are and why we're here." -Anne Lamott

I hope my words don't bore you.

currently listening to: Let Your Love Grow Tall-Passion Pit





Alright, confession. I've been putting off starting this thing for a couple days now. It's not because I haven't had time, or that I've been tired. It's because... I have a fear of technology, to an extent. When it comes to writing. Allow me to elaborate.

I'm a pencil and paper kind of girl. As soon as I sit in front of a blank screen, with the cursor blinking at me, I feel like I lose all creativity. There's some kind of connection I feel when I'm physically writing, a connection that I don't get when my fingers hit keys. I don't get inspired by a blank word processor document, but give me an old ratty notebook and we're golden.

However, a recent realization made me give into technology and give blogging a try. It's not a huge risk or anything... but it is breaking a personal convention of mine. Among this lost semester of soul searching, I've discovered that the career I have prepared myself for throughout my entire time in high school is not exactly what I want to do anymore. I've realized that if I'm going to go to college at all, I might as well be pursuing what I've always loved and had a passion for, not just settle for something I know I'll make a living with. Something safe. Who wants to be safe? How boring.

My passion is the written word. Writing, literature, language.... all of it. And most people who get anywhere in this field don't really sit down and hand-write all of their drafts anymore. They're all computer savvy. So, I suppose this is my feeble attempt at getting myself comfortable with technology; I need to learn to trust it, and not let it intimidate me or kill my creative flow (which is not as constant as I'd like anyways).

Here goes nothing.


Among the previously mentioned realization, (the one about everything I planned on for 4 years suddenly not feeling right anymore? Yeah, that's the one), I have made another. This one was a product of a period of hopelessness, loneliness, and hormones. I sat down one night, and all I could think of was this single line. It repeated over and over in my head, and I still haven't really dissected it enough to fully understand it's meaning yet. But I wrote it down.

Writing is going to save my life.

And that was it. I stayed up for hours that night, writing about that single line. I made a schedule of all the writing I wanted to do; what time of day I wanted to do it, what projects would coincide well with that point in my day, etc. I made lists, I sat and stared at the wall, chewed on my pencil, but I felt good. Like a million dollars, actually. Because for the first time in my life, I felt my purpose. It wasn't just something I was searching for, or trying to create.


It's been right in front of me for years!

Jeez.


People can be good at things. I'm sure I would make an adequate garbage woman, or restaurant manager, or TEACHER. But after that late night, I realized I don't want to just be good at something. I want to excel at something, and I want to feel it. I want my heart to be connected to it, and I want it to change my life. I want to live my life with passion, not practicality. For fulfillment, and not a paycheck. I can live off Top Ramen for months, and it's SO cheap. And Starbucks gives out free water, so I'm set. Who needs to eat when you're in love with what you do. I don't want to be in love with anything, or anyone for that matter, except writing. I'm marrying myself to it from this moment on.


Here's the part where I integrate something I hand-wrote last night/this morning. Because I'm old fashioned like that. Along the same lines as the subject ^above^. Just expanding upon this very LOUD idea in my head.
Forgive me if it becomes rant-like. But I think it will be the perfect closing.


"I'm writing this to save my life. If I put down my pencil, I will die. If the lead does so much as make contact with the wood of this table on which I write upon, my heart would stop the second the two materials meet. My lungs would stop expanding and contracting, my blood would run cold. My eyes would stop seeing, my nose would stop smelling, my ears would stop hearing. I will die.

Or at least that's what if feels like.
And I don't want to take that chance, so... I'm going to keep scribbling.

I suppose I've always been good at crafting a story out of nothing. I can finish a PB & J sandwich, throw down the crusts, and stare at them for awhile... sooner or later I could probably come up with some kind of meaning or symbol to go along with the sandwich's remains. Abandoned ideas? A symbol of the people we leave behind as we travel our life's course? Usually complete bullshit, but sometimes I get lucky and it sounds good.

That's kind of what writing is to me, creating significance to coincide with normal events. Events that may not have any meaning at all, but making them extraordinary. Like they've never happened to anyone else before, when usually people experience these kinds of things every day. I guess that's what I try to do on a daily basis. I take my thoughts and I run with them--see where they take me. Sometimes that leap of faith will turn into pages and pages of pride, word-vomit that I want to share with everyone...

"Look what I did! Do you want a copy for your fridge?...No? Ahh... come on."

More often than not, it leads me to a brick wall, a dead end. It will leave me sitting at my table with a boring, half-baked idea and crumpled masses all around me. Defeat.

But that's what writing is. Or life, huh? It's even comparable to sex. Most of the time, you leave unsatisfied. But then there's that one time, where everything is just right, the universe is in line and the stars are arranged perfectly, and your brain explodes with impatient lines bouncing off the walls of your mind, begging, screaming to be recorded.

"Okay, okay! Shut the fuck up. Let me get a pen."

And when it's all written, your mind finally calm again, your soul is at peace with what is down on paper... You recline. Sigh, contentedly. Sometimes you even produce a euphoric half-smile.

"Daaaaaayum. I need a cigarette."

I could live as a celibate nun if all of my writing days were like that. If I was always bursting with things to say, always inspired. But the fact of the matter is, that majority of days are not those kind of days. The majority of days are the brick wall, blue-ball, dead-end days, where I usually say to myself: "Man. This sucks," and vow that I'm never going to write a single word down again.

My journal will sit, untouched, under my bed for a few days. A week, tops. And by the slow creeping end of that week, I come bursting through my bedroom door, tearing the sheets off my bed, throwing around my belongings and clothes and cat if he's in the way, until I finally remember where I hid that little black book in the first place. Panting, fiending like a meth addict, I flip open to the next blank page and let my brain spill out onto the paper. And then I'm better. Renewed, and at peace.
The little composition book piece of my heart has been reunited with the rest of my body, and now I can breathe right again. My vision is not blurred, my hearing is not muffled, my blood is warm and alive. My lungs take big, greedy gulps of air, and my heart, finally as a whole, beats deafening tribal rhythms in my chest."


And to think this was just going to be my hobby.