Fin

The end of the semester is here. Already. I am ecstatic that I will no longer be following the same schedule and reside in the same place (I think I may be a nomad as I never remain happy being in one place for too long of a time...perhaps this comes from living in the same state, same town, in the same house, going to the same church, and doing the same things since I was three before I entered college?) Anyway, I'm really depending on the change for my own sanity, but I can't help but feel a small sense of loss. Like...even if I take another writing course, it will never be the exact writing course with the exact people in the Spring of 2009. Once you leave something behind, it's never the same when you go back. I've really enjoyed my writing courses this semester, but I fear that with the hustle and bustle of beginning a summer job my writing will eventually dwindle to nothing. I hope this doesn't happen, but like a New Year's Resolution or a weddings vow promises and dedications always start out strong until someone gets discouraged.

The Messenger

Yesterday I took a ride
On a robin’s back

The autumn weather was growing dark
And a sweater was required

I held the feathers on his back
As we took off into the brisk air.

Then something magical happened—
People shrunk!

And someone must have spit
Where the old pond used to be.

Below us littered colors of fall,
Golds, browns, and reds.

We followed the curve of the earth
Chasing the sun

I whispered, could sit on a cloud for a bit?
But he said we had no time.

For winter was at his tail
And summer was towards the sun.

A decaying leaf bitterly kissed my face
A jealous attempt to disrupt our mission.

We swooped near the ground,
And a little worm danced an invitation for breakfast.

What a friend, I thought,
To dance for your devourer.

The air became warmer,
And I shed my sweater.

Below us brighter colors now claimed the earth
And I thought I saw a daisy wave.

I asked why we had come this far
And he said it was his job.

To live on earth
As a symbol of change.

Creative Non-Fiction

Some had vacation plans to visit beautiful beaches, or even sit in front of a television for a week, but my spring break did not prove adequate in supplying me with my much needed escape from an already long semester. I had worked at the daycare every day since I left school for my spring break, and although I was completely broke, I began to regret making the commitment to work everyday. Instead of the children being tiny little imitations of larger runny-nosed people from when I had last seen them, they now marked tiny little imitations of runny-nosed people who talked too much.
I was supposed to be changing diapers, but had to instead work on getting Cameron’s temperature. He had complained of not feeling well, and there was a stomach virus going around the daycare. Dante, a two year old with large brown eyes and soft, curly, unruly, dark hair that stuck up everywhere giving him an afro, was learning to be potty trained. I asked him if he wanted to use the bathroom…a mistake on my part. He replied that he did, which meant that he really just wanted to sit on the toilet for about 10 minutes before realizing that he already peed in his diaper. I called in another worker to help him while he waited in the bathroom since his height was equal to that of the toilet, and he would probably need assistance. After about 30 seconds, however, the incompetent moron left him in there alone. I tried keeping Cameron still on the changing table while I held the thermometer under his right arm. Meanwhile I tried keeping an eye on the other children to ensure they didn’t kill each other. They were climbing on the shelves, pulling each other’s hair, and probably running around with sharp objects. I don’t really know. I didn’t think Dante would be too long, and I didn’t think…well, after a long day of screaming children, I just didn’t think.
I was focused on taking Cameron’s temperature with a broken thermometer when I suddenly heard Dante’s chipmunk-like voice echo a loud, “Ohhhh ma-a-a-an!!” from within the bathroom. I immediately pictured the worst. I could see myself walking into the bathroom with Dante standing in two inches of water as an entire box of Legos remained in the toilet which had caused it to overflow. I could’ve killed him, even though I didn’t know what the problem was yet. My tired mind raced as I glared at the other brats running around screaming in tiny circles and throwing every last possible toy off the shelves. A headless Barbie flew past my head; her poor naked body was no where to be found. Several page-less books littered the floor, and amongst all of the other mess, someone had thrown up in the corner. Maybe I could just close the door and pretend that I had forgotten about him. In fact, maybe I could put the other kids in there too. What was I thinking? People get arrested for things like that, and I would probably cause the poor kid unknown emotional disasters. Years down the line I would probably read about a young boy who erupted with many psychological problems, and no one would know where his emotional distress evolved from; but I would. By the way, kids make you crazy and cause you to go on random tangents like the above.
After I heard Dante’s cry for help, I immediately snapped.
“Dante, I’ve had it! Get out of the bathroom now! You’ve been in there for too long!” I yelled.
I took the thermometer out from underneath Cameron’s arm who up until this point had just stared at me with uncertainty through the tops of his eyes like I didn’t know what I was doing. I carried him off of the table and as I turned around, Dante waddled through the bathroom door. His gray sweatpants were down around his ankles, and he was holding his arms out rigidly. His eyes were wide and held a look of shock, and his little jaw was chattering.
“I cold!” he squeaked.
“Dante! What in the world did you do?” I asked confused, but trying not to laugh.
“I-I c-cold! I w-wet and I cold!” he replied as he looked at me with wide eyes, and as his rigid body shook.
“You’re wet? Why are you wet?” I asked as he stood there nodding at me. I turned him around and glanced at his back. His pants down at his ankles revealed a bare bottom which had water dripping down it. The back of his shirt was soaked and had turned from a bright red to a darker shade.
“I-I falled in da toilet!” he stuttered wide-eyed.
I turned my face away so that he couldn’t see me laugh. He wasn’t crying or upset as I later thought he might especially after facing what he probably saw as a near death experience. After all, wouldn’t you be terrified if you were only about two feet tall and almost fell into the seemingly endless abyss of the toilet? He was a tough little kid, and I was happy he wasn’t upset over the incident because although I was ready to get my tubes tied after that week, tears would have broken my heart. I cleaned him off and got him a fresh change of clothes. I took a sip of water from my water bottle and silently wished it contained alcohol when the next teacher came to take over my group. My shift was over, and I practically threw kids out of my way as I ran out of the building to my car.

Today's Class Critique

As I mentioned in class I was really frustrated with my story after I wrote it. I think I had certain expectations and ideas and NOTHING came out on the paper. I really just wanted to rip it up but the deadline was near and so I turned it in anyway. The comments in class were VERY helpful however. I got a lot of really helpful tips from everyone in class and I feel a little better about where my story may go. It made me realize how much I truly value the workshops that we do in class. It not only greatly helps me with my individual pieces, but also helps me with my writing when I can evaluate and critique others' work as well. I can't believe how quickly the semester has gone and I'm really going to miss this class. I think it idea of having writing workshops is a vital aspect of the writing experience.

Another Attempt at a Poem

Waves

The ocean’s rhythmic waves are like a dance.
The art of making love;
Deep sighing in and out.

The push and pull of both the earth and sea;
Two body’s give and take;
Most powerful release.

A pulsing in the air that burns the throat and nose.
It is the sweat of sea,
And saltiness of skin.

A small blue tear that blocks what is my sight;
Bright sun that does reflect,
Green ocean of your eyes.

Roused moaning and soft crying of the sea;
Its hum which give the night
Sweet rhythmic sounds of waves.

Story for Monday 4/20

That’s What Friends Are For
“Everyone is meeting at my house at six,” Doreen had said. “Everyone” referred to a small group of us who had remained close friends since high school. January 2nd was a brutally cold and windy night. I pulled onto Doreen’s small dead end street a few minutes late, and to my surprise I was the first one there. With my teal-colored low-cut cocktail dress and red leather wallet in hand, I walked up to her door and rang the bell. My bare arms immediately erupted with millions of little goose bumps, and I regretted the decision to leave my jacket in the car.

After several minutes, when no one came to the door, I started to become very frustrated. I was tired, cold, hungry, and had the worst migraine but I knew these dinner plans were really important to Doreen. I walked back to my car and turned the heat on as I pressed the speed dial on my phone to reach Doreen. Before I could bring the phone to my ear, a knock at my car window startled me. Louisa stood outside with a cheesy smile and waved frantically as she pointed to the inside of my car. Her father dropped her off as her car was in the shop, and she asked to wait in my car. She was wearing blue jeans and a stylish scoop-neck t-shirt with a pair of yellow heels that seemed a little too big for her. Louisa always had a unique sense of style and it matched her unique personality.

Doreen finally picked up on the other end of the phone, and I placed my index finger to my mouth and asked Louisa to hold on a moment.

“Hello?” I answered.

“Hey babe! I’m on my way home from dinner right now, I’ll be there in about five minutes. Sorry I’m late! I’ll see you in a little bit?” She spoke so fast I didn’t realize until after she hung up that she had said “on my way home from dinner.” Frustration began to fill my car as the smooth jazz over the radio attempted to sooth my temper.

We both agreed that we were starving, and that the last we heard we were all going out to dinner…although now it sounded as if plans had changed. I wasn’t too surprised due to the common knowledge that plans often changed at the last minute with Doreen; however it was cold, and we were hungry, and I wasn’t thrilled about going out in the first place. Several minutes later, Louisa and I watched the rest of our friends as well as Doreen pull onto the street outside Doreen’s house. They were all dressed in cute pants and tops, and I glanced down at my classy cocktail dress and the high heels on my already sore and suffocating feet.

We all got out of our cars and began to meet in the middle of the road. Apparently Louisa and I were the only ones who were not aware of the change of plans, and everyone else filled us in that we were not going out to eat at a nice restaurant, but to a club instead. Normally I would have enjoyed going to a club, but I knew that clubbing meant we wouldn’t be back home until very late and I had to be at work at 6:45 the following morning. I was so hungry stomach was beginning to eat itself, and when I realized I didn’t have the proper attire for a club, I really began to wish I stayed at home. When she mentioned that the club was about an hour away-in Pennsylvania I almost turned around and got into my car to drive home. I’m fairly certain in a few years that will be the new typical ironic and sarcastic saying. Conversations will begin:

“I really am going to start going to the gym more often this year.”

“Oh yeah right…when there’s a good club in Pennsylvania”.

I put my frustrations aside, and followed everyone into Doreen’s house where we all prepared to get ready. I borrowed some of Doreen’s clothes, and they promised Louisa and I that we could make a stop at a McDonalds or something. McDonalds certainly wasn’t the fine dining I was hoping for, but it would keep my stomach from growling at me. They also promised that we would be back by one o’clock. I reminded myself that it was Doreen’s birthday and she was a good friend, and that it was important to her that I was present.

After about an hour of playing with our hair, makeup, and wardrobe all seven of us crammed into two cars, and made our way to the club pitifully known as Montana West. The outside was surrounded my cornfields and the smell of cow manure, and I knew this was going to be a long night no matter how early they promised to leave. We walked into the door, paid the cover charge, and got our hands stamped. Some of us were still under 21, including myself, which meant that the stamps on our hands signified humiliation and a miserable night to come.

We walked into the club and I glanced around. It was still early, and the place was pretty empty. The walls were decorated with cowboy hats, beer labels, old country records, bull horns, and various other items that I didn’t look at long enough to notice. There was a dull lingering smell of old cigarette smoke and booze. The bar was roped off from the rest of the club, and it was impossible to get in unless your hand bore the right mark. In one corner was a mechanical bull which greatly added to the country “in-the-middle-of-nowhere” feel.

The time seemed to drag on, but an hour or so later, the club began to fill up with what looked like a bunch of kids who recently turned 18 and were overjoyed at the prospect that they could now go to a club. The typical girl had bleach blonde hair, a mini skirt, and a little tight top with love-handles hanging out as an added accessory. The typical guy was skinny and wore Abercrombie or American Eagle gear. One of the skinniest of them all assumed that he could come up behind me and dance with me. Although I moved away from him, he continued to follow me, dancing like a dumb slug that hasn’t used the bathroom in a while. I finally managed to get rid of him. I realized I was in some farmer’s land daycare, and I couldn’t even escape to the “big kid’s side” because I was a few months short of being twenty-one.

Those of my friends who were twenty-one escaped to the bar, and had been there for a while when I went to sit down at a little table on the side, along with Louisa and another friend of ours who also both bore the confining mark on their hand. We sat at the tiny table for almost an hour and a half before we finally saw the rest of the group. They clearly all had fun drinking, and came back laughing, some of them with random guys hanging on their shoulders. We tried being nice, but I’m fairly certain everyone wanted to start throwing punches. At least I did.

“Aww…are you miserable and sober?” The question came from another girl who slurred her words, whose eyes were glassy, and she had to lean on the table to hold herself up.
The much desired drive home wasn’t any better. We had to pull over several times so another friend could throw up. She sat in the front passenger side and moaned and complained the whole ride home. By this point I was majorly PMS-ing and was not only bloated, and extremely moody, but also feeling extremely sick myself. I didn’t have a single drink in my system, but every time I heard her choke on her vomit, my hand fumbled for the door handle in fear of my own stomach revealing its insides of the McDonalds I had eaten earlier. I tightly closed my eyes and tried to block out everything that was going on around me. When we finally reached the familiar bumps in Doreen’s dead end street, I opened the car door, and without so much of a good-bye, got into my car and cursed the night and Pennsylvania in the silence of my car.

Attempt at an Off-Rhyme Poem

Music

David and Solomon;
Their sonnets are a song.

Songs that come from your lips,
Spill like the lit night’s light.

The rose wraps the bud like
A robe. I wrote it down.

A script marked in strong stone;
Once a stone in the storm.

The whining of the wind
Played the whim of my words.

This show drops its curtain
Like a shawl that falls short.

This music hits my heart
Like hot running water.

The Psalms sing the many
Songs I wish I could write.

To Write or not to Write...but What?

I've been realizing more and more that every time I sit down to write something, I have a million different thoughts, ideas, emotions, and even genres that I want to explore. For example sometimes I don't even know if I want to write poetry, non-fiction, fiction, or try a play or children's story. I think that this stops me a lot of times simply from writing at all. Rather than just writing out the mess that is in my head, I let it all sit in there (in my head) and rot. I feel like all of my writing this semester and lately in general has been dry and bland.

Writing use to be something that was so engaging and intoxicating that I couldn't stop. Then one day I did for some reason. Maybe I got a really time-consuming job or something, I don't really remember. The point is that I stopped writing and now I have an overload of ideas that are all rather dull and can't really find a direction once I set them on paper. (If I even get that far.) I keep telling myself that this winter break, or this spring break, or this summer, etc...I will really buckle down and start writing again; however I never seem to get to that point. Therefore I think I just need to start writing right now. I feel anxious but excited. Maybe once I clean out the clutter in the attic of my mind (cliche, I know) and weed through all the junk, I might be able to find something in there that is worth saving.