When I was little, everyone had them, especially the adults. My mom had them, my grandma had them, my teachers had lots of them. My dad didn't have them, but that's because he liked his computer better. But everyone else seemed to have them, and when you are a kid, they all want you to love them as much as they apparently did. People were practically shoving them down my throat at every turn, but I didn't mind at all. If they were a candy, they would be chocolate, and I began to crave them.
My favorite place became the library. This place had lots of them. Shelves of them. I could go there and dive into them like a swimming pool, only this sensation was much more satisfying. It wasn't long before it felt like my soul consisted of pages, just like the pages in my favorite things in the world.
Are you kidding me? I can just open one and start reading and live in a completely different world? This is too good to be true. And if this wasn't good enough, my little imaginative brain could allow me to actually be my favorite characters. This was a dream come true. My family practically forgot I existed, because I was always in my room buried in my latest adventure. Only a few years passed before I began to be jealous of those who got to participate in the production of such wonderful things. I wanted in. The reading continued, but suddenly I was producing my own little works of art and passing my ideas by the eyes of anyone I could drag into reading them.
Even now, as I have ventured into the world of college, I haven't yet been able to separate myself from the world I have joined, and this separation is nowhere in the foreseeable future. My major in college is Secondary Education with an emphasis on English, so me and my trusty inanimate friends will be great companions throughout my education and future career as I share them with my future students. They may not feel as strong a draw to them as I have, in fact they may reject them, skim through them, or even throw them at a wall a time or two. But at least I can say that I tried! And my opinions of these wonderful word-filled creations will never change.
Wednesday, April 20, 2011
Monday, April 18, 2011
All Conquers Love (Prompt #50)
Twelve months had passed. This had been a year of harmony for him, an eternity of emotional turbulence for me. I had, since before the twelve months of our relationship began, had the weight of a huge decision on my shoulders, although it weighed heavier on my mind than anywhere else. Borderline insanity was creeping in slowly as I tried to pick between my love and my religion.
"I love you."
"And I love you."
He always said it first. I always said it second. Behind his words were truth, while behind mine were lies. I didn't know it at the time, but I couldn't love him completely while I was still struggling with the fact that we were so different in our core beliefs. I thought I meant it when I said I loved him, so I continued to say it. But dissonance was setting in harder every time.
"I love you."
"And I love you."
See? It sounds a little different now. A little more shallow. I started to tell him how I felt. How I doubted that we could pull this relationship off, no matter how much we loved each other. But he was persistent. We could do it.
"We'll be together always."
"Forever and a half."
I wanted so bad to be convinced. Could this be more than temporary? But what is more temporary than a marriage that ends in the tragedy of divorce. What is it that they say? Something along the lines of 65% of marriages between two people of different religions ended in divorce. He was Catholic, and I was not. But we also weren't 65% of people. We were us.
"You two are so cute!"
"When's the wedding date?"
Everybody else believed it. He believed it.
"We'll have a huge backyard, with a miniature train that our kids can play with."
"We'll decorate their little rooms together."
He believed it. Now I believed it. We could do this. He was more important than my religion. Love was about sacrifice. But as believing as I would be by Saturday, Sunday came afterward and reality hit again.
"Will you come to church with me?"
"Church just isn't my thing, babe."
The wedge was being driven slowly between us, until one day I finally snapped.
"Why are you crying?"
"I can't do this."
And so our love came to this. Hateful words ensued as both of our broken hearts tried to heal themselves. Walls were being built at the speed of light, and I walked away from his house and back into my faith. Love isn't always as strong in the long run as it seems to be in the here and now, and is apparently easily conquered.
"Please delete my number."
"Don't ever talk to me again."
"I love you."
"And I love you."
He always said it first. I always said it second. Behind his words were truth, while behind mine were lies. I didn't know it at the time, but I couldn't love him completely while I was still struggling with the fact that we were so different in our core beliefs. I thought I meant it when I said I loved him, so I continued to say it. But dissonance was setting in harder every time.
"I love you."
"And I love you."
See? It sounds a little different now. A little more shallow. I started to tell him how I felt. How I doubted that we could pull this relationship off, no matter how much we loved each other. But he was persistent. We could do it.
"We'll be together always."
"Forever and a half."
I wanted so bad to be convinced. Could this be more than temporary? But what is more temporary than a marriage that ends in the tragedy of divorce. What is it that they say? Something along the lines of 65% of marriages between two people of different religions ended in divorce. He was Catholic, and I was not. But we also weren't 65% of people. We were us.
"You two are so cute!"
"When's the wedding date?"
Everybody else believed it. He believed it.
"We'll have a huge backyard, with a miniature train that our kids can play with."
"We'll decorate their little rooms together."
He believed it. Now I believed it. We could do this. He was more important than my religion. Love was about sacrifice. But as believing as I would be by Saturday, Sunday came afterward and reality hit again.
"Will you come to church with me?"
"Church just isn't my thing, babe."
The wedge was being driven slowly between us, until one day I finally snapped.
"Why are you crying?"
"I can't do this."
And so our love came to this. Hateful words ensued as both of our broken hearts tried to heal themselves. Walls were being built at the speed of light, and I walked away from his house and back into my faith. Love isn't always as strong in the long run as it seems to be in the here and now, and is apparently easily conquered.
"Please delete my number."
"Don't ever talk to me again."
Thursday, April 14, 2011
The Graphic Novel and Memoirs (Prompt #49)
Memoirs, being an expression of a personal story or adventure, could probably be told in any format at least to some degree of success. It is simply a matter of opinion on whether or not the graphic novel style works for your story and the personality of your writing. I think they are particularly useful because you can rely on pictures to supplement the writing. Pictures have a great way of showing emotion that would otherwise take a lot of explaining through words to get across. They can also easily establish setting. I think the addition of pictures is better able to describe some things that simply can't be put into words, at least not without a tiresome effort. For example, I particularly enjoyed the part in "Cancer Made Me a Shallower Person" where she is laying in bed watching the word "cancer" jump over a fence over and over like sheep. This conveys a message that she is being tormented by thoughts of cancer even in her efforts to sleep, but it does so in a way that would not be done justice through words. The use of broken up segments in a graphic novel also allows for flawless transitions without even having to transition at all with words. It is expected to be a bit choppy in this way.
However, I think there are a few downfalls to the graphic novel approach. When you rely too much on pictures, it can result in a loss of linguistic creativity. Drawings can overrun a story, and you lose credibility as an author to some degree because the eloquent use of metaphors, alliteration, hyperboles, and even simple sentence fluency are replaced by short, choppy, use-only-when-needed phrases and statements. Also, the tendency to use pictures to show emotions that are not conveyed in words can come across as lazy if not done carefully. Another criticism I see is that breaking the story up into frames can disrupt the flow of the story and make it harder to follow.
What it boils down to is that the use of the graphic novel effectively really depends on the type of story you want to tell. In "Cancer Made Me a Shallower Person" it almost seems to have a negative effect by adding a comedic effect to a story that deserves a serious approach. However, this may be how the author intended it. The chunky, casual tone that is typically adopted through this medium may be exactly what a story needs to be brought to the reader in its perfect form. Even better, one might show their genius by presenting a fantastically flowing, very serious story in the form of a graphic novel. Overall, I feel as though it is a good approach because it allows for many different views of the story to be seen at once through dialogue, narrative, and pictures.
However, I think there are a few downfalls to the graphic novel approach. When you rely too much on pictures, it can result in a loss of linguistic creativity. Drawings can overrun a story, and you lose credibility as an author to some degree because the eloquent use of metaphors, alliteration, hyperboles, and even simple sentence fluency are replaced by short, choppy, use-only-when-needed phrases and statements. Also, the tendency to use pictures to show emotions that are not conveyed in words can come across as lazy if not done carefully. Another criticism I see is that breaking the story up into frames can disrupt the flow of the story and make it harder to follow.
What it boils down to is that the use of the graphic novel effectively really depends on the type of story you want to tell. In "Cancer Made Me a Shallower Person" it almost seems to have a negative effect by adding a comedic effect to a story that deserves a serious approach. However, this may be how the author intended it. The chunky, casual tone that is typically adopted through this medium may be exactly what a story needs to be brought to the reader in its perfect form. Even better, one might show their genius by presenting a fantastically flowing, very serious story in the form of a graphic novel. Overall, I feel as though it is a good approach because it allows for many different views of the story to be seen at once through dialogue, narrative, and pictures.
Tuesday, April 12, 2011
Orange Baseball (Prompt #45)
How do you pick oranges off of a tree that is at least three times as tall as you and twenty times as wide? Very slowly, painfully, and monotonously. And when there are two trees you are in for a long, sun-kissed day. All the oranges have to come off so the blossoms can have room to grow. If the blossoms don't grow, we won't get oranges next year. At this point, early in the picking day with no end in sight, that isn't looking like such a bad thing.
Cue the action. Orange picking day has become a family event, and my family does not tolerate boredom. Dad has his baseball glove on and Taylor, my brother, is standing on the roof of the house on one side of the tree. I'm standing on the roof of a lower shed behind the tree. Everybody is in position; let the games begin.
I'm picking oranges off the back of the tree and Taylor has a long wire picker so he can reach the ones on the top from the roof. We are haphazardly throwing oranges as fast as we can down to my dad, who is managing to catch every one and neatly bag them. But he could only keep up his master baseball skills for so long. Soon, with oranges raining down on him from every direction he became overwhelmed. "Calling in backup!" Next thing I knew Taylor had hurled himself off the roof and was tag-teaming with my dad.
"Hey, Kayla!" he yelled. "What's the hold up?" Snotty 15-year-old. I'll show him. I began chucking oranges at him as fast as I could until he begged for mercy, at which point I climbed down from the shed and walked around to find a front yard littered with oranges.
"While you guys get caught up on bagging those, I'll check on the juicing inside," I said half mocking, and I grabbed two bags of oranges to make the delivery to the next station: the kitchen. Inside I found my sister Tori hacking oranges in half with a giant butcher knife at a hazardous speed and my mom juicing the oranges like the world was ending. They had an incredibly efficient assembly line going to the rhythm of Tori's upbeat playlist that was blasting over the speakers. I tried yelling over the loud juicer but it was no use so I added my two bags of oranges to the other ominous twelve bags sitting on the ground and headed outside to another riveting round of sticky orange baseball.
Cue the action. Orange picking day has become a family event, and my family does not tolerate boredom. Dad has his baseball glove on and Taylor, my brother, is standing on the roof of the house on one side of the tree. I'm standing on the roof of a lower shed behind the tree. Everybody is in position; let the games begin.
I'm picking oranges off the back of the tree and Taylor has a long wire picker so he can reach the ones on the top from the roof. We are haphazardly throwing oranges as fast as we can down to my dad, who is managing to catch every one and neatly bag them. But he could only keep up his master baseball skills for so long. Soon, with oranges raining down on him from every direction he became overwhelmed. "Calling in backup!" Next thing I knew Taylor had hurled himself off the roof and was tag-teaming with my dad.
"Hey, Kayla!" he yelled. "What's the hold up?" Snotty 15-year-old. I'll show him. I began chucking oranges at him as fast as I could until he begged for mercy, at which point I climbed down from the shed and walked around to find a front yard littered with oranges.
"While you guys get caught up on bagging those, I'll check on the juicing inside," I said half mocking, and I grabbed two bags of oranges to make the delivery to the next station: the kitchen. Inside I found my sister Tori hacking oranges in half with a giant butcher knife at a hazardous speed and my mom juicing the oranges like the world was ending. They had an incredibly efficient assembly line going to the rhythm of Tori's upbeat playlist that was blasting over the speakers. I tried yelling over the loud juicer but it was no use so I added my two bags of oranges to the other ominous twelve bags sitting on the ground and headed outside to another riveting round of sticky orange baseball.
Thursday, April 7, 2011
Invisible Gag (Prompt #43)
Burger King. Who knew? Apparently this is the place to spill secrets. This was, at least, our place to spill secrets. But my childhood friend Kenny was having such a hard time today.
"You can't tell anyone if I tell you. And I mean anybody." He was whispering, even though nobody was around.
"Of course not. I promise. You can tell me anything," I said, looking him straight in the eyes. "You know that."
"Yeah, I know, but this is different. This is . . . harder."
"Well then don't tell me! Don't feel pressured."
"No. I need to." Silence. "I have to tell someone." Silence. I could see the internal struggle in the way he was squirming in his chair. He looked as though he was in physical pain. Whatever the secret was had filled him to the brim and was about to overflow, but it seemed his speech was being impaired by an invisible gag. Silence. I kept smiling my comforting smile at him.
"My dad is . . . not a good dad. He hurts my mom." The gag was gone, but the release was just as painful as the withholding had been.
I hadn't been expecting this kind of secret. I was expecting some teenage problem, not a detrimental problem like this. My fallback smile fell from my face as I took his hand. "Does he hurt you too?"
Kenny cringed. "Yeah. And my brother."
"No! Aw Kenny." What is the correct response to that?
"He's only four! It would be okay if he just hit me. But a four year old. And my mom!"
"No, Kenny. It's not okay to hit you either. None of it is okay. Have you told anyone?"
"Absolutely not! And you can't tell anyone either! You promised!" He was standing now, a crazed look in his eye driven by fear.
"I know I promised, but--"
"But nothing. You, you can't, can't tell. If he ever found out, if he ever, ever found out . . ." He sat back down and got quiet.
"I won't tell, but only because I promised." Clearly the wrong decision.
"Thanks." He looked up and smiled a half smile of relief. "I'm so happy you know. I just needed someone to talk to. I'll be fine."
"You can't tell anyone if I tell you. And I mean anybody." He was whispering, even though nobody was around.
"Of course not. I promise. You can tell me anything," I said, looking him straight in the eyes. "You know that."
"Yeah, I know, but this is different. This is . . . harder."
"Well then don't tell me! Don't feel pressured."
"No. I need to." Silence. "I have to tell someone." Silence. I could see the internal struggle in the way he was squirming in his chair. He looked as though he was in physical pain. Whatever the secret was had filled him to the brim and was about to overflow, but it seemed his speech was being impaired by an invisible gag. Silence. I kept smiling my comforting smile at him.
"My dad is . . . not a good dad. He hurts my mom." The gag was gone, but the release was just as painful as the withholding had been.
I hadn't been expecting this kind of secret. I was expecting some teenage problem, not a detrimental problem like this. My fallback smile fell from my face as I took his hand. "Does he hurt you too?"
Kenny cringed. "Yeah. And my brother."
"No! Aw Kenny." What is the correct response to that?
"He's only four! It would be okay if he just hit me. But a four year old. And my mom!"
"No, Kenny. It's not okay to hit you either. None of it is okay. Have you told anyone?"
"Absolutely not! And you can't tell anyone either! You promised!" He was standing now, a crazed look in his eye driven by fear.
"I know I promised, but--"
"But nothing. You, you can't, can't tell. If he ever found out, if he ever, ever found out . . ." He sat back down and got quiet.
"I won't tell, but only because I promised." Clearly the wrong decision.
"Thanks." He looked up and smiled a half smile of relief. "I'm so happy you know. I just needed someone to talk to. I'll be fine."
* * *
I had just talked to him yesterday, and everything was fine. Now I was listening to silence on the other end of the line, a silence I had become too familiar with.
"Kenny, are you okay? Do you want to tell me what's wrong?" I was terrified at what he might say.
"I don't know what to do."
I could hear the tears running off his tone. "Did something happen?"
"I jinxed it! Yesterday I told you he hadn't done anything for a while. But today he hit my mom again. So I hit him! I've had it! But I shouldn't have hit him--"
"You were defending yourself."
"That doesn't matter. I shouldn't have done it. It's all my fault. I hate this. I hate it. I hate him."
I paused. "There has to be someone who can help you. Someone out there can stop him."
"But what will we do without him?"
"Kenny, you can't let this keep happening. Let me tell someone."
"No."
"Kenny . . ."
"Kayla. Don't. We'll be fine, I just needed to talk to someone. I almost didn't call you. I'm sure you don't want to deal with this. I'm sorry."
"Don't be! Don't ever hesitate to call me. I'm glad you called."
"I'm okay now. Thanks! I'll talk to you later."
"Wait, Kenny." Nothing had been solved. We had to fix this. I couldn't watch him hurt anymore.
"Sorry I have to go. I'll call you back. Remember: just, just don't tell." And then he hung up on me.
I stared helplessly at the phone, willing it to give me a solution. Kenny's determined nature was going to get him in trouble. A person can only decide they are fine for so long. Both of us held a secret, but only he had the right to share it. Overwhelmed at my helplessness in this friendship, I started to cry and curse my invisible gag.
Tuesday, April 5, 2011
Pure Intelligence (Prompt #42)
Cognitive dissonance, the topic for today's lecture in Social Psychology is, according to our professor, "the hardest concept to grasp in this class." I totally understand the ideas behind the cognitive dissonance theory (which I learned already in Psychology 101) so it wasn't hard for me to follow this lecture at all. I sat tight and watched as the class attempted to reach the same level of comprehension on this "insanely complex" topic.
Cognitive dissonance is the idea that when your actions and your beliefs are not in line with each other, you feel uncomfortable. For example: if you are giving a speech on pro choice ideas but you are really pro life, you will feel uncomfortable. Under the idea of cognitive dissonance is what is called the Balance Theory. In short, this theory says that if this imbalance is present, you will try to do something to fix it. In the above example, if you preach pro-choice, you may start acting on that belief, to convince yourself in a way that you were not just being a hypocrite. If you don't understand the theory, you aren't alone. You just need to understand that it claims that people take action to make sure their actions and beliefs line up.
This theory, to put it lightly, did not go over with my . . . analytical classmates. While the class is conducted in a way that is conducive to discussion, this particular argument took an unreasonable amount of time and seemed to go in circles. My professor believes the theory is truthful, while there were two particularly obnoxious girls in the class who completely opposed it and were determined to disprove it.
The professor stepped up to the plate. "For example. Let's say for argument's purpose that I am against abortion and my buddy Ben is pro-choice. We have been friends since we were born, but this disagreement makes me uncomfortable. My instinct is to change his mind, so we won't have this wedge in our friendship. It makes me uncomfortable to be friends with him when he has such a strong opposing view from me."
Opponent #1: "My best friend is in favor of the war and I am against it, but that doesn't mean I'm going to stop being her friend. Does friendship mean nothing to you?"
Professor: "Friendship is very important. What do you do when you guys talk about that conflict?"
Opponent #1: "We don't talk about it. We try to avoid it."
Professor: "Why?"
Opponent #1: "Because it makes us mad when we fight, duh."
Professor: "Exactly. It strains your friendship because somewhere inside of your brain you know it makes you uncomfortable that your friend has such an opposing view to yours. So your avoidance of the subject proves that you are doing what you can to balance this by pretending that the difference doesn't exist."
Opponent #2: "I'd just like to say that I agree with that girl. She's totally right to say that you wouldn't just ditch your friend because you have a differing opinion on one thing."
The professor came up with several more solid arguments to counter attack these girls, even when the girls' arguments were weak enough to fall apart on their own. The girls rallied more support from the class while the professor just stood there and offered smug answers to their protests. Finally, after forty five minutes of grueling banter, the professor asked a powerful question.
"Why are you trying so hard to convince me that you are correct?"
Silence.
"Anyone?"
Silence.
"Might I suggest that you are feeling a sense of dissonance between your beliefs and my ideas I am providing, and are therefore trying to convince me to bring my ideas to your level of belief?"
Silence. The argument itself that the Balance Theory was flawed had in fact proved its accuracy. And the smug grin on the professor's face remained as he dismissed the class.
Cognitive dissonance is the idea that when your actions and your beliefs are not in line with each other, you feel uncomfortable. For example: if you are giving a speech on pro choice ideas but you are really pro life, you will feel uncomfortable. Under the idea of cognitive dissonance is what is called the Balance Theory. In short, this theory says that if this imbalance is present, you will try to do something to fix it. In the above example, if you preach pro-choice, you may start acting on that belief, to convince yourself in a way that you were not just being a hypocrite. If you don't understand the theory, you aren't alone. You just need to understand that it claims that people take action to make sure their actions and beliefs line up.
This theory, to put it lightly, did not go over with my . . . analytical classmates. While the class is conducted in a way that is conducive to discussion, this particular argument took an unreasonable amount of time and seemed to go in circles. My professor believes the theory is truthful, while there were two particularly obnoxious girls in the class who completely opposed it and were determined to disprove it.
The professor stepped up to the plate. "For example. Let's say for argument's purpose that I am against abortion and my buddy Ben is pro-choice. We have been friends since we were born, but this disagreement makes me uncomfortable. My instinct is to change his mind, so we won't have this wedge in our friendship. It makes me uncomfortable to be friends with him when he has such a strong opposing view from me."
Opponent #1: "My best friend is in favor of the war and I am against it, but that doesn't mean I'm going to stop being her friend. Does friendship mean nothing to you?"
Professor: "Friendship is very important. What do you do when you guys talk about that conflict?"
Opponent #1: "We don't talk about it. We try to avoid it."
Professor: "Why?"
Opponent #1: "Because it makes us mad when we fight, duh."
Professor: "Exactly. It strains your friendship because somewhere inside of your brain you know it makes you uncomfortable that your friend has such an opposing view to yours. So your avoidance of the subject proves that you are doing what you can to balance this by pretending that the difference doesn't exist."
Opponent #2: "I'd just like to say that I agree with that girl. She's totally right to say that you wouldn't just ditch your friend because you have a differing opinion on one thing."
The professor came up with several more solid arguments to counter attack these girls, even when the girls' arguments were weak enough to fall apart on their own. The girls rallied more support from the class while the professor just stood there and offered smug answers to their protests. Finally, after forty five minutes of grueling banter, the professor asked a powerful question.
"Why are you trying so hard to convince me that you are correct?"
Silence.
"Anyone?"
Silence.
"Might I suggest that you are feeling a sense of dissonance between your beliefs and my ideas I am providing, and are therefore trying to convince me to bring my ideas to your level of belief?"
Silence. The argument itself that the Balance Theory was flawed had in fact proved its accuracy. And the smug grin on the professor's face remained as he dismissed the class.
Thursday, March 31, 2011
Borrowed Passion (Prompt #37-Variation)
I don't know if it's the same for everyone, but at the base of almost every passion I have is a person who first introduced me to that subject. In the case of my passion for writing, there is an author who particularly inspired me. "Writing allows me to feel deeper than I'd ever imagined was possible before I chose this career." Great right? For the sake of anonymity, I'll give her the pseudonym of Jane Doe. Jane was my idol, and before I started writing every new idea that came to me, I would visit her website and hear what she had to say to her readers.
May 12, 2009: "So stoked to finally publish the third book in my series! You guys will love it. Every character was carefully designed after those that are closest to me, with a little revision of course. :) I find that this makes it so I can be more invested in my story." This sparked my creativity. Evolving characters from strong characteristics in people I know was brilliant! With this solid foundation I began work on my first novel.
August 31, 2009: "Just started work on the fourth book in the series. You just can't have a slow paced life when you are a writer! Love what you do. Put everything you are into your work. It will lead to excellent success!" Advice taken! Summer had slowed me down but there would be no more slacking! I revisited my document and continued my work where I left off: chapter 3.
April 2, 2010: "Sorry I haven't updated my blog in a while; life's been crazy. I haven't really been motivated to blog...or write for that matter. Have any of you lost motivation in the middle of a story? It's not much fun. I hope I can beat this." Um...no. Jane doesn't say things like this. Why would she publicly announce such a bummer attitude toward writing? Not cool, even if it was temporary.
It wasn't. June 5, 2010: "Still unable to get past chapter 2! I wonder if writing is the career choice I should have picked. Maybe something like accounting would have been more appropriate. Once you run out of ideas, then what do you do?" Run out of ideas? Really Jane? That's not something that happens. Ever.
July 1, 2010: "Yep, still nothin'. Sorry to disappoint," was all she wrote. No, Jane, no. It's called writer's block. You get over it. Doesn't every writer know that? We all go through it, but we don't go complaining to our readers.
Months went by without a word from Jane. The blog was as silent as the grave, appropriate for the grave descriptions we had been left with after the recent posts. I, while disappointed, had still trudged along in my writing, and had managed to fill a few hundred pages with what I thought were creatively told tales of betrayal, adventure, and romance. I found myself a less frequent visitor of janedoe.blogspot.com, finding in myself reservoirs of inspiration and strength that I had previously relied on Jane for. As I successfully concluded the last page of my first draft with the beautiful words, "The End" my thoughts returned to that long forgotten blog, and I hesitantly typed in the web address.
February 14, 2011: "I hope all your guys' Valentine's Days are going great! I'm not sure I'm loving it, like I'm not sure I'm loving the book I just finished drafting. Oh well, I guess it'll do." I stopped reading and vowed not to ever compromise the integrity of anything I wrote like that. If I'm not satisfied, I'll rewrite, not cry about it on a blog that fans look to for advice. Idol's teach you lots of things about what you are passionate about, including the fact that the passion comes from inside you, not from borrowed inspiration.
May 12, 2009: "So stoked to finally publish the third book in my series! You guys will love it. Every character was carefully designed after those that are closest to me, with a little revision of course. :) I find that this makes it so I can be more invested in my story." This sparked my creativity. Evolving characters from strong characteristics in people I know was brilliant! With this solid foundation I began work on my first novel.
August 31, 2009: "Just started work on the fourth book in the series. You just can't have a slow paced life when you are a writer! Love what you do. Put everything you are into your work. It will lead to excellent success!" Advice taken! Summer had slowed me down but there would be no more slacking! I revisited my document and continued my work where I left off: chapter 3.
April 2, 2010: "Sorry I haven't updated my blog in a while; life's been crazy. I haven't really been motivated to blog...or write for that matter. Have any of you lost motivation in the middle of a story? It's not much fun. I hope I can beat this." Um...no. Jane doesn't say things like this. Why would she publicly announce such a bummer attitude toward writing? Not cool, even if it was temporary.
It wasn't. June 5, 2010: "Still unable to get past chapter 2! I wonder if writing is the career choice I should have picked. Maybe something like accounting would have been more appropriate. Once you run out of ideas, then what do you do?" Run out of ideas? Really Jane? That's not something that happens. Ever.
July 1, 2010: "Yep, still nothin'. Sorry to disappoint," was all she wrote. No, Jane, no. It's called writer's block. You get over it. Doesn't every writer know that? We all go through it, but we don't go complaining to our readers.
Months went by without a word from Jane. The blog was as silent as the grave, appropriate for the grave descriptions we had been left with after the recent posts. I, while disappointed, had still trudged along in my writing, and had managed to fill a few hundred pages with what I thought were creatively told tales of betrayal, adventure, and romance. I found myself a less frequent visitor of janedoe.blogspot.com, finding in myself reservoirs of inspiration and strength that I had previously relied on Jane for. As I successfully concluded the last page of my first draft with the beautiful words, "The End" my thoughts returned to that long forgotten blog, and I hesitantly typed in the web address.
February 14, 2011: "I hope all your guys' Valentine's Days are going great! I'm not sure I'm loving it, like I'm not sure I'm loving the book I just finished drafting. Oh well, I guess it'll do." I stopped reading and vowed not to ever compromise the integrity of anything I wrote like that. If I'm not satisfied, I'll rewrite, not cry about it on a blog that fans look to for advice. Idol's teach you lots of things about what you are passionate about, including the fact that the passion comes from inside you, not from borrowed inspiration.
Tuesday, March 29, 2011
Memory Cognition Expert (Prompt #34)
Kids are really good at coming up with arguments for anything, especially if they are in a battle of wits with their parents. I am hesitant to admit that this important skill has never really been one of my gifts, but it sure is one of my little sister's. She can argue her way out of everything, very eloquently, I might add. The best I can do is listen for the latest debate to start and make sure I get a front row seat. On tonight's episode: Tori tries to convince her parents that she is indeed capable of watching television while working diligently on her homework. Can the master on memory cognition accomplish her goal before she has her television privileges revoked?
Mom was giving her the look. The look that says, "start talking, you know I'm going to win this." The gauntlet has been thrown down and Tori begins her monologue.
"We've all had that experience where we are listening to a song when something happens, so that song will forever remind us of that experience." I nodded my consent from the audience. She was off to a good start. Mom just continued to stare. "When I watch TV the same effect occurs. I can remember what I was studying when I was watching a certain show." Excellent conclusion.
"I'm not convinced that giving something half of your attention could be better than giving it your full attention," Mom said, crossing her arms in disapproval.
"Let me explain it from a different angle. You like when I play the piano, right? I'm developing a talent. Well, they say that the knowledge of a musical instrument makes us smarter and helps us to be able to learn quicker. When I'm stuck on a math problem I go play the piano and let my brain process the information while I'm lost in the music."
Mom's countenance was lightening...the argument was taking hold in her brain. I was hanging on my sister's every word.
"Approaching a problem, working on it for a while, and then letting the information sit in our brains for a time while we are participating in a different activity, one such activity could be watching our favorite sitcom, can actually help us to be able to solve the problem more effectively and with greater understanding."
Bam! She was whipping out the "if A equals B and B equals C then A equals C" technique. I'd seen it done successfully only a few times. Those were big kid arguments, but she could handle them.
Mom paused for a second before sighing. "Fine. You can watch TV, but make sure all your homework gets done, understand?" With that she was gone. Tori had won the impossible argument. Another tally on the score board for the memory cognition expert.
Mom was giving her the look. The look that says, "start talking, you know I'm going to win this." The gauntlet has been thrown down and Tori begins her monologue.
"We've all had that experience where we are listening to a song when something happens, so that song will forever remind us of that experience." I nodded my consent from the audience. She was off to a good start. Mom just continued to stare. "When I watch TV the same effect occurs. I can remember what I was studying when I was watching a certain show." Excellent conclusion.
"I'm not convinced that giving something half of your attention could be better than giving it your full attention," Mom said, crossing her arms in disapproval.
"Let me explain it from a different angle. You like when I play the piano, right? I'm developing a talent. Well, they say that the knowledge of a musical instrument makes us smarter and helps us to be able to learn quicker. When I'm stuck on a math problem I go play the piano and let my brain process the information while I'm lost in the music."
Mom's countenance was lightening...the argument was taking hold in her brain. I was hanging on my sister's every word.
"Approaching a problem, working on it for a while, and then letting the information sit in our brains for a time while we are participating in a different activity, one such activity could be watching our favorite sitcom, can actually help us to be able to solve the problem more effectively and with greater understanding."
Bam! She was whipping out the "if A equals B and B equals C then A equals C" technique. I'd seen it done successfully only a few times. Those were big kid arguments, but she could handle them.
Mom paused for a second before sighing. "Fine. You can watch TV, but make sure all your homework gets done, understand?" With that she was gone. Tori had won the impossible argument. Another tally on the score board for the memory cognition expert.
Wednesday, March 23, 2011
Lunch Time and the Anxious Consumer (Prompt #33)
The Doorway
Every time? Must this happen every single time you walk into a restaurant? It all starts at the door. It's that feeling you get when you are laughing loudly with a friend when you enter a silent library. It's that feeling you get when you walk onto a brightly lit stage and suddenly can't see the judgmental audience. It's that feeling you get when you are the last one laughing after a stupid joke. That's the feeling you get when you enter a restaurant. Every time.
It isn't quiet inside, like a library. The spotlight isn't on you, like it would be on a stage. Nobody told a joke, and nobody is laughing. So why on earth does it feel so uncomfortable?
The Decisions
This time it's one of those restaurants where you walk down a line and order food as you go. You don't sit down first and carefully examine a menu. You didn't even see the menu until two seconds ago. Now suddenly the overly peppy woman behind the counter is trying to ask you what you want on your sandwich. She isn't having much success, because you haven't even decided what kind of bread you want. Words stumble out of your mouth, she throws a sandwich together, and then pushes your tray down to the next station. You wonder what you told her to put on your sandwich, and resign to the fact that you will find out when you eat it.
Salads? But there's so many to chose from! They want to know now? "Give me just a second," you say, but the server is smiling with a hint of impatience behind her eyes. The person behind you in line is tapping their foot. Looking back you'll probably realize that they weren't, but in the moment it feels like you are holding up the process. Even though they would have probably been happy to have a moment more to decide, you break under the pressure and blurt out: "Macaroni salad sounds nice."
Exhausted now, you tell the man in charge of the cookies that chocolate chip is your choice, because it is the first one you see. This same man is running the cash register, and before he even tells you how much you owe you have shoved your credit card into his hand.
The Consumption Process
You have chosen the table in the middle of the room and take a seat. It isn't the most favorable place to sit, but most other tables are full. You pick up the sandwich on your plate and think "oh, I ordered a BLT." Good thing you like those. You begin eating, and as you chew you look around the room at the other people. Some call it people watching, but really you are just making sure you aren't the victim of others' people watching habits. Even if nobody is watching, you start to realize what it feels like to be a fish in a fish tank who just wants to eat in peace, but rarely gets the chance. You pick up the pace.
Across the room is a group of teenagers, laughing loudly every once in a while. Eating alone is always so awkward, because you feel like you are the loser with nobody to talk and laugh with. This loneliness increases your pace and before you know it you find yourself headed back out the door that started this all. All sensations of anxiety disappear as you enter the real world. This doesn't happen anywhere else. Ever. This is only in restaurants. You'll never understand why you, the extrovert, get so uncomfortable in this one situation. You are the anxious consumer--I understand. Every lunch time, I'm right there with you.
Every time? Must this happen every single time you walk into a restaurant? It all starts at the door. It's that feeling you get when you are laughing loudly with a friend when you enter a silent library. It's that feeling you get when you walk onto a brightly lit stage and suddenly can't see the judgmental audience. It's that feeling you get when you are the last one laughing after a stupid joke. That's the feeling you get when you enter a restaurant. Every time.
It isn't quiet inside, like a library. The spotlight isn't on you, like it would be on a stage. Nobody told a joke, and nobody is laughing. So why on earth does it feel so uncomfortable?
The Decisions
This time it's one of those restaurants where you walk down a line and order food as you go. You don't sit down first and carefully examine a menu. You didn't even see the menu until two seconds ago. Now suddenly the overly peppy woman behind the counter is trying to ask you what you want on your sandwich. She isn't having much success, because you haven't even decided what kind of bread you want. Words stumble out of your mouth, she throws a sandwich together, and then pushes your tray down to the next station. You wonder what you told her to put on your sandwich, and resign to the fact that you will find out when you eat it.
Salads? But there's so many to chose from! They want to know now? "Give me just a second," you say, but the server is smiling with a hint of impatience behind her eyes. The person behind you in line is tapping their foot. Looking back you'll probably realize that they weren't, but in the moment it feels like you are holding up the process. Even though they would have probably been happy to have a moment more to decide, you break under the pressure and blurt out: "Macaroni salad sounds nice."
Exhausted now, you tell the man in charge of the cookies that chocolate chip is your choice, because it is the first one you see. This same man is running the cash register, and before he even tells you how much you owe you have shoved your credit card into his hand.
The Consumption Process
You have chosen the table in the middle of the room and take a seat. It isn't the most favorable place to sit, but most other tables are full. You pick up the sandwich on your plate and think "oh, I ordered a BLT." Good thing you like those. You begin eating, and as you chew you look around the room at the other people. Some call it people watching, but really you are just making sure you aren't the victim of others' people watching habits. Even if nobody is watching, you start to realize what it feels like to be a fish in a fish tank who just wants to eat in peace, but rarely gets the chance. You pick up the pace.
Across the room is a group of teenagers, laughing loudly every once in a while. Eating alone is always so awkward, because you feel like you are the loser with nobody to talk and laugh with. This loneliness increases your pace and before you know it you find yourself headed back out the door that started this all. All sensations of anxiety disappear as you enter the real world. This doesn't happen anywhere else. Ever. This is only in restaurants. You'll never understand why you, the extrovert, get so uncomfortable in this one situation. You are the anxious consumer--I understand. Every lunch time, I'm right there with you.
Tuesday, March 22, 2011
A Thousand Words (Prompt #29-Third Person)
The tiny room that had been dedicated to the display of the new art exhibit had never seen so many people. It wasn't that it was packed, it was just that not many people could usually find the time in their day to come look at paintings. Even those who could didn't think it would be worth it. So this crowd, twenty or so people, was breathtaking in itself.
The paintings were placed around the room with about two feet of space in between them. There were at least twenty five paintings, so rarely were there more than two people at one painting at any given time. The group bustled around the room, glancing at subtitles whose phrases were often relied on to explain what was happening in the picture above. Motion was constant, and no one person stayed in one place for very long. That is, except, for one girl, who's large maroon hoodie, ripped jeans and worn vans wouldn't have suggested that she was an art scholar. However, her actions showed otherwise. At first she circled the room, still slower than the rest, and observed the pictures. But it wasn't long until she found one that she apparently liked and stopped. There she stood. People milled around her, exchanging trivial conversation in passing, but she didn't budge for the longest time.
"Hey, crazy! What up in yo head?" a boy asked, sneaking up behind her. She jumped a little, as if she had fallen asleep on her feet.
"Well, I was looking at this painting..."
"I noticed! You've been standing there for like, half an hour."
"There's a reason for that."
"Yeah? Which is?"
Like a kindergarten teacher showing her student how to write, she began teaching him about the painting, explaining that they should elicit emotions from their viewers. The boy was looking at the girl as if she was to him the same type of complex mystery that the painting was to the girl. Finally she let out a defeated laugh and gave up on him.
"Everyone's leaving soon to go to that pizza place down the street, you in?" he asked. She was obviously hard pressed to leave the painting that she so revered.
"Yeah sure, just give me a minute. I'll meet you out front."
After the boy left, she turned to find that the whole room had cleared out and she and the painting were alone. Looking back at the painting with a pleading look in her eye, she stood there for a few precious moments more before hesitantly leaving the room.
The paintings were placed around the room with about two feet of space in between them. There were at least twenty five paintings, so rarely were there more than two people at one painting at any given time. The group bustled around the room, glancing at subtitles whose phrases were often relied on to explain what was happening in the picture above. Motion was constant, and no one person stayed in one place for very long. That is, except, for one girl, who's large maroon hoodie, ripped jeans and worn vans wouldn't have suggested that she was an art scholar. However, her actions showed otherwise. At first she circled the room, still slower than the rest, and observed the pictures. But it wasn't long until she found one that she apparently liked and stopped. There she stood. People milled around her, exchanging trivial conversation in passing, but she didn't budge for the longest time.
"Hey, crazy! What up in yo head?" a boy asked, sneaking up behind her. She jumped a little, as if she had fallen asleep on her feet.
"Well, I was looking at this painting..."
"I noticed! You've been standing there for like, half an hour."
"There's a reason for that."
"Yeah? Which is?"
Like a kindergarten teacher showing her student how to write, she began teaching him about the painting, explaining that they should elicit emotions from their viewers. The boy was looking at the girl as if she was to him the same type of complex mystery that the painting was to the girl. Finally she let out a defeated laugh and gave up on him.
"Everyone's leaving soon to go to that pizza place down the street, you in?" he asked. She was obviously hard pressed to leave the painting that she so revered.
"Yeah sure, just give me a minute. I'll meet you out front."
After the boy left, she turned to find that the whole room had cleared out and she and the painting were alone. Looking back at the painting with a pleading look in her eye, she stood there for a few precious moments more before hesitantly leaving the room.
A Thousand Words (Prompt #29-First Person)
I've always been a word person. Writing is a hobby, reading is a pastime. Even the architecture itself of a simple letter is beautiful. They say a picture is worth a thousand words, and interestingly enough, I have come to realize that by extension I have a deep love of paintings for this very reason. I didn't know they would have such a great impact on me until recently when i had the chance to experience some really beautiful paintings. I say "experience" because I'm not one to just look at paintings, the same way that I don't just read a book. I go all in. Breath the words, embrace the brush strokes. Intense? Perhaps. But for all the exhaustive effort provided by the artist, shouldn't the viewer contribute a part of them self as well?
I've looked at paintings before, and they have been beautiful, breathtaking, and skillfully done. But this, this display was spectacular. Never mind the setting, or even the subjects of the paintings. I myself wasn't even aware of the small room full of people that surrounded me. It was one to one, painting to observer. Finding myself entranced by every brush stroke, I could no longer hear the quiet whisperings around me, only the gentle hum of the colors spotlighted by the faintly glowing light above me and the portrait. People have stood motionless for hours in front of just one painting and I never understood how this could happen. Now, as my streams of thought were directed by the unexpected colors in unexpected places, I knew I was powerless to turn away. A painting's concepts can teach you about yourself, about life's ups and downs, about change. Clear up problems. Introduce questions. There is so much to learn, so much to explore. It is simply beautiful how the--
"Hey, crazy! What up in yo head?"
I turned. It was Levi, my pretend "gangsta" friend. "Well, I was looking at this painting..." I responded, slightly annoyed that he had torn me out of such a delicate moment.
"I noticed! You've been standing there for like, half an hour."
"There's a reason for that," I said, glancing back at the painting.
"Yeah? Which is?" He was talking so loud. It felt like yelling in a church meeting to be so irreverent.
I put my hands on my shoulders and angled him toward the painting, as if he couldn't do it himself. He was looking at my like I was crazy, so I pushed his chin and turned his head toward the painting. "Just look at it. Tell me what you see."
"Okay. The guy is looking at the kid in the front, and the two girls in the back are crying."
"Alright, now what do you feel?"
"Kayla, you are crazy."
"Come on! People feel things when they look at pictures. What do you feel?"
"Confused. Why are the girls crying when the kid looks so happy?"
I giggled a little. "It wouldn't be beautiful if we knew all the answers, would it?"
He looked at me, his eyebrow raised. I could see that he and I were definitely on different pages. Probably different books even. I smiled. "Forget it. It's not for everyone I guess!"
"Definitely not," he responded, sounding positively relieved to not have to enjoy sitting still and staring at a picture. "But you know what is for everyone? Pizza. Everyone's leaving soon to go to that pizza place down the street, you in?"
"Yeah sure, just give me a minute. I'll meet you out front."
"Cool." Levi walked away and I turned back to the painting. I scanned it, looking for the truth I had touched moments before I was interrupted, but it was like trying to reenter a dream that I had woken up from early. The art was still stunning, but the intensity of past moments would have to be attempted later when I had more time.
I've looked at paintings before, and they have been beautiful, breathtaking, and skillfully done. But this, this display was spectacular. Never mind the setting, or even the subjects of the paintings. I myself wasn't even aware of the small room full of people that surrounded me. It was one to one, painting to observer. Finding myself entranced by every brush stroke, I could no longer hear the quiet whisperings around me, only the gentle hum of the colors spotlighted by the faintly glowing light above me and the portrait. People have stood motionless for hours in front of just one painting and I never understood how this could happen. Now, as my streams of thought were directed by the unexpected colors in unexpected places, I knew I was powerless to turn away. A painting's concepts can teach you about yourself, about life's ups and downs, about change. Clear up problems. Introduce questions. There is so much to learn, so much to explore. It is simply beautiful how the--
"Hey, crazy! What up in yo head?"
I turned. It was Levi, my pretend "gangsta" friend. "Well, I was looking at this painting..." I responded, slightly annoyed that he had torn me out of such a delicate moment.
"I noticed! You've been standing there for like, half an hour."
"There's a reason for that," I said, glancing back at the painting.
"Yeah? Which is?" He was talking so loud. It felt like yelling in a church meeting to be so irreverent.
I put my hands on my shoulders and angled him toward the painting, as if he couldn't do it himself. He was looking at my like I was crazy, so I pushed his chin and turned his head toward the painting. "Just look at it. Tell me what you see."
"Okay. The guy is looking at the kid in the front, and the two girls in the back are crying."
"Alright, now what do you feel?"
"Kayla, you are crazy."
"Come on! People feel things when they look at pictures. What do you feel?"
"Confused. Why are the girls crying when the kid looks so happy?"
I giggled a little. "It wouldn't be beautiful if we knew all the answers, would it?"
He looked at me, his eyebrow raised. I could see that he and I were definitely on different pages. Probably different books even. I smiled. "Forget it. It's not for everyone I guess!"
"Definitely not," he responded, sounding positively relieved to not have to enjoy sitting still and staring at a picture. "But you know what is for everyone? Pizza. Everyone's leaving soon to go to that pizza place down the street, you in?"
"Yeah sure, just give me a minute. I'll meet you out front."
"Cool." Levi walked away and I turned back to the painting. I scanned it, looking for the truth I had touched moments before I was interrupted, but it was like trying to reenter a dream that I had woken up from early. The art was still stunning, but the intensity of past moments would have to be attempted later when I had more time.
Wednesday, March 9, 2011
Procrastination: The Art for You (Prompt #27)
No one would dare attack the arts of music composition, poetry, drawing, and painting. Why, then, is there such a vendetta against the art of procrastination? Although it is in a category unlike the previous forms, it should still be considered an art that is essential to our culture and life.
I'd like to thank those who oppose procrastination for the horrifying look I just had into their ideal world where it does not exist. You've seen those movies, I'm sure, where all the people are just droning on through their lives like robots, methodically fulfilling duties. Okay, maybe you haven't, but imagine that! Make sure everything you are thinking is in black and white, as all dull, monotonous things are. Slow down the pace of, well, everything. With no procrastination, there would be no hustle and bustle that our holiday songs sing joyfully about. There would be no purpose in the action of running, skipping, or talking really fast. These things are not just a happy addition to life, but crucial and healthy. If everything was done on time, if planning ahead was the only thing anyone knew how to do, there would be no thrill to be experienced in that last minute frantic rush to finish a term paper or report.
Not convinced? Maybe you are one of those people who dreams in slow motion and someday aspires to turn the world black and white. Understandable. I know a few of your kind. But before you root yourself in the campaign against procrastination, let me appeal to the weaknesses I know you have. You hate the sound of your alarm clock because it means you have to begin your tedious day all over again. Procrastination is your friend! You can't tell me you've never hit the snooze button before. In all honesty, you are that person that hits it three or four times every day and then rushes to get to school on time. There you go! You are already an expert procrastinator. That unpredictable rush, the thrill of, "will I make it on time?!" is just what you need to turn your day from tedious and depressing to upbeat and spunky.
"Now that I'm a more upbeat and spunky person, I have lots of friends. I want to spend time with them. Can procrastination help me do that?" That's what procrastination is best for! In fact, without procrastination, there would hardly be time for that at all. Put off those public speaking speeches and literary analysis papers and go socialize. I know it may be hard, after all, the anti-procrastination-ites have thoroughly brainwashed you to think that this is bad. But in the long run you will learn that this allows for the development of stronger relationships with people you will probably need for the rest of your life. Where do your priorities lie?
"But--" you argue, "If I procrastinate my homework, I won't be able to go do all the crazy things I want to over the weekend. My buddies and I wanted to go sky diving, and I can't miss that!" Sky diving, eh? Have you ever been cliff jumping? Driven too fast just to feel the rush? Oh, I know. On the weekends you like to watch action movies and get really into them. When the main character is running from the villain your heart pounds. Forget tragedy, action is your catharsis. I am labeling you: adrenaline junkie. So you of all people should like procrastination! Next time you come upon a red light, procrastinate braking until the last moment. See where that gets you, and then tell me you aren't an advocate of free exercise-procrastination.
Put off what you are doing and join us in the fight! Meetings will probably be held sometime next week at a location to be announced at a later date.
I'd like to thank those who oppose procrastination for the horrifying look I just had into their ideal world where it does not exist. You've seen those movies, I'm sure, where all the people are just droning on through their lives like robots, methodically fulfilling duties. Okay, maybe you haven't, but imagine that! Make sure everything you are thinking is in black and white, as all dull, monotonous things are. Slow down the pace of, well, everything. With no procrastination, there would be no hustle and bustle that our holiday songs sing joyfully about. There would be no purpose in the action of running, skipping, or talking really fast. These things are not just a happy addition to life, but crucial and healthy. If everything was done on time, if planning ahead was the only thing anyone knew how to do, there would be no thrill to be experienced in that last minute frantic rush to finish a term paper or report.
Not convinced? Maybe you are one of those people who dreams in slow motion and someday aspires to turn the world black and white. Understandable. I know a few of your kind. But before you root yourself in the campaign against procrastination, let me appeal to the weaknesses I know you have. You hate the sound of your alarm clock because it means you have to begin your tedious day all over again. Procrastination is your friend! You can't tell me you've never hit the snooze button before. In all honesty, you are that person that hits it three or four times every day and then rushes to get to school on time. There you go! You are already an expert procrastinator. That unpredictable rush, the thrill of, "will I make it on time?!" is just what you need to turn your day from tedious and depressing to upbeat and spunky.
"Now that I'm a more upbeat and spunky person, I have lots of friends. I want to spend time with them. Can procrastination help me do that?" That's what procrastination is best for! In fact, without procrastination, there would hardly be time for that at all. Put off those public speaking speeches and literary analysis papers and go socialize. I know it may be hard, after all, the anti-procrastination-ites have thoroughly brainwashed you to think that this is bad. But in the long run you will learn that this allows for the development of stronger relationships with people you will probably need for the rest of your life. Where do your priorities lie?
"But--" you argue, "If I procrastinate my homework, I won't be able to go do all the crazy things I want to over the weekend. My buddies and I wanted to go sky diving, and I can't miss that!" Sky diving, eh? Have you ever been cliff jumping? Driven too fast just to feel the rush? Oh, I know. On the weekends you like to watch action movies and get really into them. When the main character is running from the villain your heart pounds. Forget tragedy, action is your catharsis. I am labeling you: adrenaline junkie. So you of all people should like procrastination! Next time you come upon a red light, procrastinate braking until the last moment. See where that gets you, and then tell me you aren't an advocate of free exercise-procrastination.
Put off what you are doing and join us in the fight! Meetings will probably be held sometime next week at a location to be announced at a later date.
Tuesday, March 8, 2011
Mother Knows Best (Prompt #25)
"I hate her. I just hate her so much." Abby's cheeks were turning red with fury as she stared at the computer screen, a blank Facebook message up and ready to be written.
"She can't hurt you if you don't let her." Her mother sat across the room coolly working on a crossword puzzle and spouting out just the advice that she didn't want to hear.
"Mother, it's not that simple. All Katie ever does is say stupid things to tick me off."
"Looks like it's working."
"Duh it's working! She's the meanest most wretched girl in the ninth grade! She's skilled in her evil ways!"
"I'm telling you, if you just ignore her, she'll go away."
"Oh no she won't. That's not how she works. She'll annoy you until you die. She'll shred you into a million pieces until you do something about it!"
"What are you going to do about?"
"I'll rip her hair out!"
"Yeah?"
"Of course not. But I de-friended her on Facebook."
"Isn't that what started this whole fight?"
"No! Haven't you been listening? I only de-friended her because of the fight. One day she just turned into this total brat and decided to start a vendetta against me. Then of course it only got worse when I de-friended her--"
"Maybe that wasn't such a good idea..."
"--But I don't see why it matters because if she hates my guts, why does she still want to be friends on Facebook?"
"Has this conversation turned completely rhetorical?"
"No! Tell me what to write in this message! It needs to be mean and brutal. It needs to end Katie."
"I say you shouldn't write the message at all. Just let the situation blow over."
"That will never work! She'll just keep insulting me every time my back is turned."
"And if you send the message? How is that going to help?"
"I'm not sure yet, because I don't know what it is going to say. But if it's brutal enough..."
"It'll miraculously make her stop."
"Exactly."
"Teenagers."
"Excuse me?"
"It always has to be so complicated with you. Once you get to be my age--"
"Old?"
"Do you want my help or not?"
"Sorry."
"Once you get to be my age, you realize that retaliating on someone's spiteful actions never solves anything. You just need to ignore her and wait it out. Once she sees you aren't hurt by what she is doing, she'll stop."
"Whatever, I guess you are right. At least, I hope you are right. I won't send the message." Abby minimized the window on her computer and walked out of the room muttering under her breath as she passed her mom: "unless I think of something great to say."
Walking over to the computer and sitting down, Abby's mom opened the Facebook message and then closed it out completely. "Teenagers."
"She can't hurt you if you don't let her." Her mother sat across the room coolly working on a crossword puzzle and spouting out just the advice that she didn't want to hear.
"Mother, it's not that simple. All Katie ever does is say stupid things to tick me off."
"Looks like it's working."
"Duh it's working! She's the meanest most wretched girl in the ninth grade! She's skilled in her evil ways!"
"I'm telling you, if you just ignore her, she'll go away."
"Oh no she won't. That's not how she works. She'll annoy you until you die. She'll shred you into a million pieces until you do something about it!"
"What are you going to do about?"
"I'll rip her hair out!"
"Yeah?"
"Of course not. But I de-friended her on Facebook."
"Isn't that what started this whole fight?"
"No! Haven't you been listening? I only de-friended her because of the fight. One day she just turned into this total brat and decided to start a vendetta against me. Then of course it only got worse when I de-friended her--"
"Maybe that wasn't such a good idea..."
"--But I don't see why it matters because if she hates my guts, why does she still want to be friends on Facebook?"
"Has this conversation turned completely rhetorical?"
"No! Tell me what to write in this message! It needs to be mean and brutal. It needs to end Katie."
"I say you shouldn't write the message at all. Just let the situation blow over."
"That will never work! She'll just keep insulting me every time my back is turned."
"And if you send the message? How is that going to help?"
"I'm not sure yet, because I don't know what it is going to say. But if it's brutal enough..."
"It'll miraculously make her stop."
"Exactly."
"Teenagers."
"Excuse me?"
"It always has to be so complicated with you. Once you get to be my age--"
"Old?"
"Do you want my help or not?"
"Sorry."
"Once you get to be my age, you realize that retaliating on someone's spiteful actions never solves anything. You just need to ignore her and wait it out. Once she sees you aren't hurt by what she is doing, she'll stop."
"Whatever, I guess you are right. At least, I hope you are right. I won't send the message." Abby minimized the window on her computer and walked out of the room muttering under her breath as she passed her mom: "unless I think of something great to say."
Walking over to the computer and sitting down, Abby's mom opened the Facebook message and then closed it out completely. "Teenagers."
Internet "Love" (Prompt #22)
When she left for college, I knew we would grow apart a little, but this was too much. I knew I'd change, and I knew she'd change, but this was too much. I knew I wouldn't always be the one she turned to for advice, but I hadn't even seen this coming; this was too much. Wasn't it against that unwritten girl code we had sworn on over chocolate ice cream to have kept such a huge secret from me?
Maybe I should chill for a second. Breathe in, and let's back it up. I was now on the phone with Zoey, who had finally decided to tell me about her secret boyfriend. I was listening intently as she slowly approached the subject.
"I was scared to tell you," she said. "I was afraid you wouldn't approve..."
"I'm your friend, Zoey. I'm going to support you in whatever you decide. Tell me about him!"
That seemed to be what she needed to hear, because on the other end of the line I could hear her start to giggle. Then came the most startling explanation, one I could not have prepared for even if I had been given more than a few seconds to respond.
"I met him online!"
That wasn't my preference, but to each his own. "That's nice, have you met up in person yet?"
"No, but he says he wants to someday..."
Someday. What a non-commital word. "Well, how long have you been...dating?" Is it even called that?
"Six months."
Shock made me incapable of responding. I had spoken too soon. I was not prepared to be supportive of this. Six months and they hadn't even met yet.
"He's really sweet! He tells me every day that he misses me--"
How can someone miss someone they've technically never met?
"--And he's always so funny and charming--"
As far as you can tell through email.
"--And even though sometimes he doesn't talk to me for a while--"
Red flag.
"--He still really cares. He always makes me feel so special."
"Zoey...I don't think this is healthy for you."
"What do you mean?"
"I think you need a good, stable relationship with real interaction."
"But we do interact!"
"Through email."
"Hey, don't be rude." Her tone was changing quickly. She was hurt now.
"I don't mean to be mean, I just have to wonder: what if he's a jerk? What if someday you do meet him and he is a horrible, ugly, lying, cheating--"
"SHUT UP!" I was silent. "He's none of those things! He's a good person!"
Quietly I asked, "Have you ever talked to him on the phone or through skype or anything?"
"No." Her voice was short and low.
"I guess it hasn't been too long..."
"No."
"And he hasn't given you any reason to believe he is a bad guy?"
"No."
"Maybe you two will find a way to make it work."
Silence.
"I wish you two the best."
"Thanks. I'll talk to you later, to keep you posted."
"I'd appreciate that. Good luck Zoey."
She hung up. That could have gone better, but at least now I knew what was going on. As hard as it was going to be to carry on being supportive, that's what friends do, and I could do that. Maybe they can be happy with a relationship like that...
Maybe I should chill for a second. Breathe in, and let's back it up. I was now on the phone with Zoey, who had finally decided to tell me about her secret boyfriend. I was listening intently as she slowly approached the subject.
"I was scared to tell you," she said. "I was afraid you wouldn't approve..."
"I'm your friend, Zoey. I'm going to support you in whatever you decide. Tell me about him!"
That seemed to be what she needed to hear, because on the other end of the line I could hear her start to giggle. Then came the most startling explanation, one I could not have prepared for even if I had been given more than a few seconds to respond.
"I met him online!"
That wasn't my preference, but to each his own. "That's nice, have you met up in person yet?"
"No, but he says he wants to someday..."
Someday. What a non-commital word. "Well, how long have you been...dating?" Is it even called that?
"Six months."
Shock made me incapable of responding. I had spoken too soon. I was not prepared to be supportive of this. Six months and they hadn't even met yet.
"He's really sweet! He tells me every day that he misses me--"
How can someone miss someone they've technically never met?
"--And he's always so funny and charming--"
As far as you can tell through email.
"--And even though sometimes he doesn't talk to me for a while--"
Red flag.
"--He still really cares. He always makes me feel so special."
"Zoey...I don't think this is healthy for you."
"What do you mean?"
"I think you need a good, stable relationship with real interaction."
"But we do interact!"
"Through email."
"Hey, don't be rude." Her tone was changing quickly. She was hurt now.
"I don't mean to be mean, I just have to wonder: what if he's a jerk? What if someday you do meet him and he is a horrible, ugly, lying, cheating--"
"SHUT UP!" I was silent. "He's none of those things! He's a good person!"
Quietly I asked, "Have you ever talked to him on the phone or through skype or anything?"
"No." Her voice was short and low.
"I guess it hasn't been too long..."
"No."
"And he hasn't given you any reason to believe he is a bad guy?"
"No."
"Maybe you two will find a way to make it work."
Silence.
"I wish you two the best."
"Thanks. I'll talk to you later, to keep you posted."
"I'd appreciate that. Good luck Zoey."
She hung up. That could have gone better, but at least now I knew what was going on. As hard as it was going to be to carry on being supportive, that's what friends do, and I could do that. Maybe they can be happy with a relationship like that...
Thursday, March 3, 2011
Tangible Awkwardness (Prompt #21)
I held DJ's hand a lot tighter, just to counteract the tangible awkwardness flowing from the couple across the table from us at In-n-Out Burger. I couldn't decide if I sympathized more with Mike or Kaci, but it didn't matter either way. Whoever's fault it was, it was awkward. After all, it was their first date, and Mike had been trying to put his arm around Kaci the whole night. She was obviously not interested, but he obviously couldn't tell.
DJ held my hand a lot tighter, just to stop himself from laughing. We had just come from mini-golfing, and Mike had proven to us all that baseball wasn't the only sport you can strike out in. Strike one: trying to hold Kaci's hand on the way from hole 8 to hole 9. Strike two: throwing out pick up lines one after another, consequently failing every time. Strike three: trying to "count shoulders" (put his arm around her) after the game. Yes, that just happened. And DJ and I stood as horrified bystanders, helpless.
As Kaci struggled to cram herself into the corner of the booth farthest away from Mike, everyone but Mike could see that the date was spiraling downhill quickly. As a last ditch attempt to save his friend, DJ suggested we go to a party he knew of at a "pretty sick mansion." Kaci jumped up in agreement before any of us could answer and was practically out the door before we stood. Mike trailed after her, and all we could do was follow.
We arrived just after Mike and Kaci, and realized instantly that the party was the worst thing that could have happened to their date. Mike was awkwardly moving around the dance floor while Kaci sat on the couch in the living room talking to another boy. We rushed to Mike's aid.
"It's okay, man," DJ said. "It's a party. There are tons of other girls."
"Yeah no worries!" Mike said. "I'm not even torn up about it. If she's not interested, she's not interested."
I got the feeling that he was probably feeling a little worse than he was letting on, but I didn't know Mike very well. There wasn't much I could have added to this pep talk, even if Mike had stuck around long enough for the conversation to continue. But he bailed on the party really quickly after Kaci told him brutally: "Don't worry about me, I got another ride home."
We sat down on the couch, feeling like we had just been hit by a truck or thrown out of a tornado. Tonight we had watched, horrified, as our friends fell off a cliff, our hands tied behind our back so we couldn't save them. After the pitiful, shocked silence wore off, all we could do was laugh.
DJ held my hand a lot tighter, just to stop himself from laughing. We had just come from mini-golfing, and Mike had proven to us all that baseball wasn't the only sport you can strike out in. Strike one: trying to hold Kaci's hand on the way from hole 8 to hole 9. Strike two: throwing out pick up lines one after another, consequently failing every time. Strike three: trying to "count shoulders" (put his arm around her) after the game. Yes, that just happened. And DJ and I stood as horrified bystanders, helpless.
As Kaci struggled to cram herself into the corner of the booth farthest away from Mike, everyone but Mike could see that the date was spiraling downhill quickly. As a last ditch attempt to save his friend, DJ suggested we go to a party he knew of at a "pretty sick mansion." Kaci jumped up in agreement before any of us could answer and was practically out the door before we stood. Mike trailed after her, and all we could do was follow.
We arrived just after Mike and Kaci, and realized instantly that the party was the worst thing that could have happened to their date. Mike was awkwardly moving around the dance floor while Kaci sat on the couch in the living room talking to another boy. We rushed to Mike's aid.
"It's okay, man," DJ said. "It's a party. There are tons of other girls."
"Yeah no worries!" Mike said. "I'm not even torn up about it. If she's not interested, she's not interested."
I got the feeling that he was probably feeling a little worse than he was letting on, but I didn't know Mike very well. There wasn't much I could have added to this pep talk, even if Mike had stuck around long enough for the conversation to continue. But he bailed on the party really quickly after Kaci told him brutally: "Don't worry about me, I got another ride home."
We sat down on the couch, feeling like we had just been hit by a truck or thrown out of a tornado. Tonight we had watched, horrified, as our friends fell off a cliff, our hands tied behind our back so we couldn't save them. After the pitiful, shocked silence wore off, all we could do was laugh.
Wednesday, February 16, 2011
The "Grabber" Grabber (Prompt #15)
"My dad's in prison," the boy said. It was going to be one of those years. I watched with fear in my eyes as the boy sitting next to me in my fifth grade class methodically sketched his daily car on the paper that was supposed to be used for homework. Every few minutes he would spout things off trying to look bad or impressive, and they usually led back to the fact that his dad was in prison. I shouldn't say fact, because for all we knew it was just a faked claim to fame for this guy, to make him seem scary. But my classmates and I were willing to accept it, because he was just that: scary. It was undeniable. This boy would be the end of us all, in one way or another. We all just thought it would be a bloody end, not the type of end we met.
One of the most important things to us as elementary schoolers was our economic currency. That is to say: the "Grabber". These small pieces of card-stock were what we lived for. They were the reward that drove us to be civil to each other on the playground, decent to our teachers in the classroom. Their very existence was the reason that we hadn't yet overthrown the principal in her unruly dictatorship. We had each saved up since the beginning of the year to have enough to get the big prizes, the loot, the treasure, at the end of the year grabber auction. They were what little power we had...
Gone. All because of one evil act, they were gone.
That car-drawing, prison-daddy's little boy had seized his ability to bring us all down in the lowest of all ways. Like I said, we had seen our demise coming, and had planned carefully. We had assembled an army so that had he launched a physical attack we would have been ready. But instead we watched as something more tragic took place. On the top shelf of a bookshelf in our teacher's classroom was the stash of un-rewarded Grabbers. At some point when all of us and the teacher were out of the room, the devil child had enacted a plan of his to climb to the top and steal the Grabbers for himself. He successfully mounted a precarious stack of textbooks, stole the packs, and hid them in his backpack. When everyone returned, nobody would have noticed the absence of the grabbers had it not been for his careless failure to remove the stack of books he had used for a ladder.
The teacher was furious when he found out what had happened. "Where are the Grabbers?" he demanded, distributing the worst of all death glares. The culprit, obviously as good at getting caught as his dad was, hid his face in his hands. The teacher walked over to the boy's backpack, opened it, and pulled out the missing currency.
We were horrified as we realized what had happened. This boy's act of stealing these Grabbers had invalidated all the Grabbers we had previously earned. For all the teacher knew, he had already distributed some of the stolen goods to the rest of us. It was only fair...horrifyingly fair...
"As punishment, Grabbers will not be accepted for the rest of the year."
Forlorn and broken, we marched out to recess that afternoon and conducted a burial service. We dug a hole big enough to bury our big dreams. We carefully tossed in the carefully earned Grabbers. We closed up the ditch as the worst day in childhood history came to a close.
One of the most important things to us as elementary schoolers was our economic currency. That is to say: the "Grabber". These small pieces of card-stock were what we lived for. They were the reward that drove us to be civil to each other on the playground, decent to our teachers in the classroom. Their very existence was the reason that we hadn't yet overthrown the principal in her unruly dictatorship. We had each saved up since the beginning of the year to have enough to get the big prizes, the loot, the treasure, at the end of the year grabber auction. They were what little power we had...
Gone. All because of one evil act, they were gone.
That car-drawing, prison-daddy's little boy had seized his ability to bring us all down in the lowest of all ways. Like I said, we had seen our demise coming, and had planned carefully. We had assembled an army so that had he launched a physical attack we would have been ready. But instead we watched as something more tragic took place. On the top shelf of a bookshelf in our teacher's classroom was the stash of un-rewarded Grabbers. At some point when all of us and the teacher were out of the room, the devil child had enacted a plan of his to climb to the top and steal the Grabbers for himself. He successfully mounted a precarious stack of textbooks, stole the packs, and hid them in his backpack. When everyone returned, nobody would have noticed the absence of the grabbers had it not been for his careless failure to remove the stack of books he had used for a ladder.
The teacher was furious when he found out what had happened. "Where are the Grabbers?" he demanded, distributing the worst of all death glares. The culprit, obviously as good at getting caught as his dad was, hid his face in his hands. The teacher walked over to the boy's backpack, opened it, and pulled out the missing currency.
We were horrified as we realized what had happened. This boy's act of stealing these Grabbers had invalidated all the Grabbers we had previously earned. For all the teacher knew, he had already distributed some of the stolen goods to the rest of us. It was only fair...horrifyingly fair...
"As punishment, Grabbers will not be accepted for the rest of the year."
Forlorn and broken, we marched out to recess that afternoon and conducted a burial service. We dug a hole big enough to bury our big dreams. We carefully tossed in the carefully earned Grabbers. We closed up the ditch as the worst day in childhood history came to a close.
Tuesday, February 15, 2011
If Heaven Could Be Served on a Plate (Prompt #14)
What I love about restaurants is that with every different one you walk into you are overwhelmed with a new culture. It just so happens that my favorite food is served in one of my favorite cultural settings. Moki's Hawaiian Grill combines every color and splash of Hawaii with all of my taste buds' favorite flavors. You walk in and are instantly greeted with shouts of "Aloha!" from the workers in the kitchen. When I shout "Aloha!" back, am not only returning the welcome, but also greeting the exciting aroma and soon to be amazing tastes.
The Dinner Menu
Teriyaki Beef
Teriyaki Chicken
Pulled Pork
Ribs
Tossed Salad
Macaroni Salad
Garden Salad
There are plenty of other options, but these are in my opinion the best, and seem to show the wide variety of options that you are presented with. Of course, if you aren't a meat lover, there is always the other side of the menu, but I've never paid much attention to that. Each plate is supplied with the sticky white rice, the kind you begin eating with chopsticks at the start of the night, and finish off with a fork at the impatient end. I had never realized that the Hawaiian culture engaged in the ancient art of chopstick torture...
If this food is a reflection on Hawaii, I must say this culture has to be one of my favorites. Just like the variety of island designs painted on the walls and hung in the windows, the variety in one dinner plate is endless. Having accumulated one salad, one main dish, and rice, every bite is packed with sweet, tangy, or tart flavor. Can it get better?
The Desert Menu
Pineapple Ice Cream
Coconut Ice Cream
Giri Giri
Grandma's Cake
The island theme even carried into the ice cream screams joy to the customer's appetite. And while these first two ice creams are good, the Giri Giri (whatever it is) is my favorite of the ice creams by far! Despite the fact that pink is usually my deterring color, this valentine colored treat is a perfect balance between fruity and sweet. The only downfall is that it fills you up fast, so the enjoyment is limited! And if I'm craving chocolate, as is usually the case, there is always Grandma's cake to turn to. How do you improve on a cake that is already on the brink of being the richest chocolate sensation in the world? You drizzle it with a light topping of carmel and add a pinch of toffee. We must conclude that Hawaiian culture has managed to capture heaven in the form of food!
The Dinner Menu
Teriyaki Beef
Teriyaki Chicken
Pulled Pork
Ribs
Tossed Salad
Macaroni Salad
Garden Salad
There are plenty of other options, but these are in my opinion the best, and seem to show the wide variety of options that you are presented with. Of course, if you aren't a meat lover, there is always the other side of the menu, but I've never paid much attention to that. Each plate is supplied with the sticky white rice, the kind you begin eating with chopsticks at the start of the night, and finish off with a fork at the impatient end. I had never realized that the Hawaiian culture engaged in the ancient art of chopstick torture...
If this food is a reflection on Hawaii, I must say this culture has to be one of my favorites. Just like the variety of island designs painted on the walls and hung in the windows, the variety in one dinner plate is endless. Having accumulated one salad, one main dish, and rice, every bite is packed with sweet, tangy, or tart flavor. Can it get better?
The Desert Menu
Pineapple Ice Cream
Coconut Ice Cream
Giri Giri
Grandma's Cake
The island theme even carried into the ice cream screams joy to the customer's appetite. And while these first two ice creams are good, the Giri Giri (whatever it is) is my favorite of the ice creams by far! Despite the fact that pink is usually my deterring color, this valentine colored treat is a perfect balance between fruity and sweet. The only downfall is that it fills you up fast, so the enjoyment is limited! And if I'm craving chocolate, as is usually the case, there is always Grandma's cake to turn to. How do you improve on a cake that is already on the brink of being the richest chocolate sensation in the world? You drizzle it with a light topping of carmel and add a pinch of toffee. We must conclude that Hawaiian culture has managed to capture heaven in the form of food!
Wednesday, February 9, 2011
Rush Hour (Prompt #13)
Miles of curvy road lay ahead, each of us in our separate cars but sharing a common goal: to get off the freeway. Slowly but surely we are all beginning to regret not taking the sides streets to get home. Now there's no way out but forward, a direction that nobody is moving as traffic comes to a stop. This is not a healthy way to end a stressful day.
"I'll die of old age on this freeway," I mutter to myself. "It's comforting to know that I'll leave this world to a serenade of honking horns and yelling." What I find funny is that every day around 5:00 pm the freeway begins to pack itself with cars whose drivers want nothing but to be home in the quiet of their living room. And every day those who have been attracted by the freeway's absence of stop lights and presence of luxurious speed limit signs of "65 mph" find that they have been lied to. Tricked by false pretenses of speed. Yet every day around 5:00 pm we all voluntarily choose the freeway. Insanity is said to be "trying the same thing over and over again and expecting a different result." We are like little robot drivers, void of agency, bowing to the will of the freeway. Insanity our only defining quality.
Maybe it is the social scene that drives us to the freeway. We as robot drivers cannot resist this chance to meet new people. I know I sure get to know the people next to me when I'm stuck in bumper to bumper traffic. The situation forces you to. For example: today I'm finding out that the youth in the car to my left, poor soul, is deaf. Or at least mostly deaf. Or at least, that is what I assume from the inhumane volume of his music. I can't be angry that all I will hear until my untimely death on this stretch of road is a reverberating bass from some song I never wanted to hear. I certainly won't blame him for adding to my headache, because it must be horrible for him to be so deaf. I should count my blessings.
I don't pity the man to my right, for he is obviously content with life. He is either rehearsing for a play in which he plays a character such as a wicked stepfather or a murderous lunatic, or he is learning to dance. As foreign as it may seem to me to rehearse either of these activities in a car, I figure: what the heck. If he wants to flail his arms around and project his lines to other drivers during rush hour, to each his own.
I have nothing useful to do to pass the time I have left on this perpetual journey home, so I'll inch forward quietly and continue to meet new people, as I probably will again tomorrow, and the next day, and the next...
"I'll die of old age on this freeway," I mutter to myself. "It's comforting to know that I'll leave this world to a serenade of honking horns and yelling." What I find funny is that every day around 5:00 pm the freeway begins to pack itself with cars whose drivers want nothing but to be home in the quiet of their living room. And every day those who have been attracted by the freeway's absence of stop lights and presence of luxurious speed limit signs of "65 mph" find that they have been lied to. Tricked by false pretenses of speed. Yet every day around 5:00 pm we all voluntarily choose the freeway. Insanity is said to be "trying the same thing over and over again and expecting a different result." We are like little robot drivers, void of agency, bowing to the will of the freeway. Insanity our only defining quality.
Maybe it is the social scene that drives us to the freeway. We as robot drivers cannot resist this chance to meet new people. I know I sure get to know the people next to me when I'm stuck in bumper to bumper traffic. The situation forces you to. For example: today I'm finding out that the youth in the car to my left, poor soul, is deaf. Or at least mostly deaf. Or at least, that is what I assume from the inhumane volume of his music. I can't be angry that all I will hear until my untimely death on this stretch of road is a reverberating bass from some song I never wanted to hear. I certainly won't blame him for adding to my headache, because it must be horrible for him to be so deaf. I should count my blessings.
I don't pity the man to my right, for he is obviously content with life. He is either rehearsing for a play in which he plays a character such as a wicked stepfather or a murderous lunatic, or he is learning to dance. As foreign as it may seem to me to rehearse either of these activities in a car, I figure: what the heck. If he wants to flail his arms around and project his lines to other drivers during rush hour, to each his own.
I have nothing useful to do to pass the time I have left on this perpetual journey home, so I'll inch forward quietly and continue to meet new people, as I probably will again tomorrow, and the next day, and the next...
Tuesday, February 8, 2011
Less Than Forever Away (Prompt #11)
Forever Away
My friend and I are in the middle of a race to see who can get to Seattle, Washington first. She says she'll win, but I beg to differ. I don't know what her reasons are for wanting to go there so badly, but I sure know mine. This is not a dream that I will sacrifice, even though it seems to be forever away.
The Chick Flick Scene
Not my most prominent reason for wanting to go, but a reason nonetheless, can be traced back to many chick flicks. I've watched several perfect couples fall in love in Seattle, and I always imagined myself testing this out for myself. Let's take "Sleepless In Seattle" for example. This is a great movie with an equally great plot, and how does it end? Happily ever after, naturally. And all in Seattle. As flawed as my logic may be, I've always dreamed that my happily ever after exists in my imaginary Seattle, if only I could get there to claim it. With my limited 18-year-old's funds, any destination, even this one, seems forever away.
Rain, Rain, Go Away?
I am constantly annoyed by song artists' tendencies to relate bad experiences with "rainy days." If something goes wrong it may be "a rainy ending to a perfect day," as Taylor Swift says. As a child, one of the most appalling things I ever heard was the children's song that goes "Rain, rain, go away, come again some other day." Never in my life have I seen any reason to wish away one of the most beautiful things in the world. A good rain storm is healthy for the body and soul. It contains in its simplicity the power to serenade the ears, please the nose, mesmerize the eyes, captivate the mind, even freshen the air we breathe. While most claim to become depressed when the sun never shines, I would be more content if I never saw its blinding, headache inducing rays again and could forever live under a blanket of silver-lined clouds. Here in Arizona, just a few states south of my ideal destination, I am so close, but still forever away.
Sunburned Artist
Let me expound a bit on what I mean by giving the power of "captivating the mind" to this inanimate, seemingly insignificant natural event. Even most of those who are depressed by rainy days can admit that they find some amount of peace in the occasional drizzle of rain. I could watch it for hours. As it washes the dirt out of the sky it seems to purge every problem from my brain, drawing my full attention into a new world behind each rain drop. I don't claim to know how the simple patter of the tiny drops and the occasional crash of thunder somehow manage to open such worlds, all I know is that it happens. Creativity is alive in these hidden worlds, alive and flowing like the rivers of water that flood down the rain gutters. I can hardly imagine the types of thoughtful and powerful lyrics I could dream up if this setting of tranquil creativity was open to me so frequently as it is to those in Seattle where rain is no stranger. Here, in this place--in a gazebo in a remote field somewhere in Seattle--I would be able to arrange words naturally, as clearly as placing my actual soul on the paper. For the stories I write, I could supply them with deeper characters than ever before, if only I had the focus available to me that this quiet water from heaven would allow. Stuck here, in my sunburned state, I just keep telling myself that this dream is less than forever away.
My friend and I are in the middle of a race to see who can get to Seattle, Washington first. She says she'll win, but I beg to differ. I don't know what her reasons are for wanting to go there so badly, but I sure know mine. This is not a dream that I will sacrifice, even though it seems to be forever away.
The Chick Flick Scene
Not my most prominent reason for wanting to go, but a reason nonetheless, can be traced back to many chick flicks. I've watched several perfect couples fall in love in Seattle, and I always imagined myself testing this out for myself. Let's take "Sleepless In Seattle" for example. This is a great movie with an equally great plot, and how does it end? Happily ever after, naturally. And all in Seattle. As flawed as my logic may be, I've always dreamed that my happily ever after exists in my imaginary Seattle, if only I could get there to claim it. With my limited 18-year-old's funds, any destination, even this one, seems forever away.
Rain, Rain, Go Away?
I am constantly annoyed by song artists' tendencies to relate bad experiences with "rainy days." If something goes wrong it may be "a rainy ending to a perfect day," as Taylor Swift says. As a child, one of the most appalling things I ever heard was the children's song that goes "Rain, rain, go away, come again some other day." Never in my life have I seen any reason to wish away one of the most beautiful things in the world. A good rain storm is healthy for the body and soul. It contains in its simplicity the power to serenade the ears, please the nose, mesmerize the eyes, captivate the mind, even freshen the air we breathe. While most claim to become depressed when the sun never shines, I would be more content if I never saw its blinding, headache inducing rays again and could forever live under a blanket of silver-lined clouds. Here in Arizona, just a few states south of my ideal destination, I am so close, but still forever away.
Sunburned Artist
Let me expound a bit on what I mean by giving the power of "captivating the mind" to this inanimate, seemingly insignificant natural event. Even most of those who are depressed by rainy days can admit that they find some amount of peace in the occasional drizzle of rain. I could watch it for hours. As it washes the dirt out of the sky it seems to purge every problem from my brain, drawing my full attention into a new world behind each rain drop. I don't claim to know how the simple patter of the tiny drops and the occasional crash of thunder somehow manage to open such worlds, all I know is that it happens. Creativity is alive in these hidden worlds, alive and flowing like the rivers of water that flood down the rain gutters. I can hardly imagine the types of thoughtful and powerful lyrics I could dream up if this setting of tranquil creativity was open to me so frequently as it is to those in Seattle where rain is no stranger. Here, in this place--in a gazebo in a remote field somewhere in Seattle--I would be able to arrange words naturally, as clearly as placing my actual soul on the paper. For the stories I write, I could supply them with deeper characters than ever before, if only I had the focus available to me that this quiet water from heaven would allow. Stuck here, in my sunburned state, I just keep telling myself that this dream is less than forever away.
Thursday, February 3, 2011
"Brand New Day" by Ryan Star (Prompt #8)
"I stayed in one place for too long,
Gotta get on the run again."
Swinging like a pendulum wears on a person after days of going from tears, to smiles. Tears. Smiles. Tears. Smiles. Monotonous trends are hard to break. How do you motivate yourself to change something so drastically in order to break cycles caused by the same relationships, the same daily routines, the same habits? I may not have, except that I wasn't the one doing the changing. All in an instant every relationship I had was broken or strained, daily routines were shattered, and habits were broken. Interestingly enough, I found that you don't notice how annoying the droning of a swinging pendulum is until it stops and the ensuing silence is beautiful.
"Send me a sign,
Turn back the clock,
Give me some time.
I need to break out, and make a new name."
When this change occurred, just as the new year rung itself in, I found myself temporarily lost without my previous grandfather-clock shell of a life. Knowing I was on the verge of a complete personality change, I was excited to get started on making a new name for myself. The main explosion that had caused this change had been a particularly bad break up, so I settled on the tag "friend" and began.
"I'm throwing rocks at your window
We're leaving this place together.
They say that we're flying too high
Get used to looking up."
I quickly made friends with a million different people, one of which was constantly waiting for the next adventure. Tonight's agenda: flying paper airplanes off of something tall, and he needed someone to help him. I needed someone to help me learn how to enjoy the simple things in life. Logically, we were happy to trade favors.
Off we went to our chosen jungle gym of great heights: the Mesa Arts Center, which was littered with endless stairwells, tall buildings, and adventurous balconies. We had twelve of our most carefully crafted flight machines and began testing their skills from the top of a two-story staircase.
"We'll call this one, 'The Experiment'. I've been developing it for six years. The success of this flight now lies in your hands." It plummeted to the ground. Experiment failed. He blamed me, I blamed him. The real world had left, only leaving behind the world in which paper airplane crashes were detrimental to human existence. This was good enough for us! In fact, we were thrilled. Pilots and controllers of everything, if only for a few hours. We made them count.
"They say that we're dreaming too big
I say this town's too small."
The name "Toucan Sam" was given to our most successful airplane. It flew in perfect loops around a tree that looked like a construction cone when you stood on your head fifty feet away and crossed your eyes. It flew like this every time until its tragic crash in the Nile River (manmade decorative stream) which instantly dampened its ability to fly. We cleaned up the airplanes, making sure we had all of them by using base-8 number systems to count to twelve....Obviously we had created a topsy turvy world. It seems crazy. It seems insane even. Admittedly, it was insane. But we held almost reverently the twelve pieces of paper in our frozen hands as we walked away in the dark, conquerers of the monotonous world.
"Let's open our eyes to the brand new day."
Gotta get on the run again."
Swinging like a pendulum wears on a person after days of going from tears, to smiles. Tears. Smiles. Tears. Smiles. Monotonous trends are hard to break. How do you motivate yourself to change something so drastically in order to break cycles caused by the same relationships, the same daily routines, the same habits? I may not have, except that I wasn't the one doing the changing. All in an instant every relationship I had was broken or strained, daily routines were shattered, and habits were broken. Interestingly enough, I found that you don't notice how annoying the droning of a swinging pendulum is until it stops and the ensuing silence is beautiful.
"Send me a sign,
Turn back the clock,
Give me some time.
I need to break out, and make a new name."
When this change occurred, just as the new year rung itself in, I found myself temporarily lost without my previous grandfather-clock shell of a life. Knowing I was on the verge of a complete personality change, I was excited to get started on making a new name for myself. The main explosion that had caused this change had been a particularly bad break up, so I settled on the tag "friend" and began.
"I'm throwing rocks at your window
We're leaving this place together.
They say that we're flying too high
Get used to looking up."
I quickly made friends with a million different people, one of which was constantly waiting for the next adventure. Tonight's agenda: flying paper airplanes off of something tall, and he needed someone to help him. I needed someone to help me learn how to enjoy the simple things in life. Logically, we were happy to trade favors.
Off we went to our chosen jungle gym of great heights: the Mesa Arts Center, which was littered with endless stairwells, tall buildings, and adventurous balconies. We had twelve of our most carefully crafted flight machines and began testing their skills from the top of a two-story staircase.
"We'll call this one, 'The Experiment'. I've been developing it for six years. The success of this flight now lies in your hands." It plummeted to the ground. Experiment failed. He blamed me, I blamed him. The real world had left, only leaving behind the world in which paper airplane crashes were detrimental to human existence. This was good enough for us! In fact, we were thrilled. Pilots and controllers of everything, if only for a few hours. We made them count.
"They say that we're dreaming too big
I say this town's too small."
The name "Toucan Sam" was given to our most successful airplane. It flew in perfect loops around a tree that looked like a construction cone when you stood on your head fifty feet away and crossed your eyes. It flew like this every time until its tragic crash in the Nile River (manmade decorative stream) which instantly dampened its ability to fly. We cleaned up the airplanes, making sure we had all of them by using base-8 number systems to count to twelve....Obviously we had created a topsy turvy world. It seems crazy. It seems insane even. Admittedly, it was insane. But we held almost reverently the twelve pieces of paper in our frozen hands as we walked away in the dark, conquerers of the monotonous world.
"Let's open our eyes to the brand new day."
Tuesday, February 1, 2011
Zodiac Panic Attack (Prompt #9)
(A satyrical approach to the news of the changing of the zodiac signs.)
Curse the radio for ruining my life! All I was doing was listening to the news on the way to school when they started a commentary on the change in the zodiac signs. Pardon me...what? They changed the zodiac signs? Surely this had to be a joke. But as I listened further I realized, to my horror, that this was the real deal. They really were deviating from what the stars tell us after all this time.
Soon enough I heard the full story. "They" (whoever it was that determined astrological things) weren't actually disregarding the stars. They were in fact realizing that somehow the moon's gravitational pull had messed with the stars' alignment with the earth and now we were off by about a month. As a natural result, everyone's signs were changing. I couldn't decide if I was thankful that they had caught the change, or if I was upset that I wasn't going to be a Pisces anymore. On the one hand, what if I had been living my life according to the Pisces horoscope until I died, not realizing that the whole reason I was failing at everything was because I was relying on false advice, while in fact I was an Aries? On the other hand, how does one change loyalties from one sign to another? This was all too much. I turned up the radio to drown out my own confusion.
"Yes...Joshua from Tennessee. You are on the air."
"WHAT ARE THEY THINKING?"
"I'm gathering you are upset about the change?"
"YES! I just got my zodiac sign tattooed on my arm a week ago. Now they are telling me that the signs are changing? What am I supposed to do?!"
I shook my head. How tragic for that poor man. I would be upset too! His tattoo was the very embodiment of how permanent and reliable we all thought the signs were!
"Melanie, from Florida. Talk to us."
"Hi, yes, I was shocked by the change at first. But I'd like to say to all those out there who are complaining about the change, that it will be for the better! This is how I know. My whole life I felt like an alien trapped in my own body. I would wake up in the morning with barely any motivation at all because I didn't ever know who I was. Every once in a while I would read my horoscope when I couldn't find any guidance through anything else and I would just feel even more disconnected and confused about my identity and purpose. Now, with this new change, I read my horoscope and felt alive! It exactly described me and for the first time ever I know who I am! Thanks to this change, I can finally live my life to the fullest!"
I was stopped at a red light when she finished her monologue, but it felt I was at a major mental crossroad in my life. Could this change make my life better? But what of loyalty? What of all the pathways I had chosen simply because my horoscope told me to? If I started following another horoscope now, would I somehow work myself in a pitiful circle of misconstrued decisions? I thought for a moment before avidly proclaiming to myself: "I have been, and forever will be, a Pisces!"
Curse the radio for ruining my life! All I was doing was listening to the news on the way to school when they started a commentary on the change in the zodiac signs. Pardon me...what? They changed the zodiac signs? Surely this had to be a joke. But as I listened further I realized, to my horror, that this was the real deal. They really were deviating from what the stars tell us after all this time.
Soon enough I heard the full story. "They" (whoever it was that determined astrological things) weren't actually disregarding the stars. They were in fact realizing that somehow the moon's gravitational pull had messed with the stars' alignment with the earth and now we were off by about a month. As a natural result, everyone's signs were changing. I couldn't decide if I was thankful that they had caught the change, or if I was upset that I wasn't going to be a Pisces anymore. On the one hand, what if I had been living my life according to the Pisces horoscope until I died, not realizing that the whole reason I was failing at everything was because I was relying on false advice, while in fact I was an Aries? On the other hand, how does one change loyalties from one sign to another? This was all too much. I turned up the radio to drown out my own confusion.
"Yes...Joshua from Tennessee. You are on the air."
"WHAT ARE THEY THINKING?"
"I'm gathering you are upset about the change?"
"YES! I just got my zodiac sign tattooed on my arm a week ago. Now they are telling me that the signs are changing? What am I supposed to do?!"
I shook my head. How tragic for that poor man. I would be upset too! His tattoo was the very embodiment of how permanent and reliable we all thought the signs were!
"Melanie, from Florida. Talk to us."
"Hi, yes, I was shocked by the change at first. But I'd like to say to all those out there who are complaining about the change, that it will be for the better! This is how I know. My whole life I felt like an alien trapped in my own body. I would wake up in the morning with barely any motivation at all because I didn't ever know who I was. Every once in a while I would read my horoscope when I couldn't find any guidance through anything else and I would just feel even more disconnected and confused about my identity and purpose. Now, with this new change, I read my horoscope and felt alive! It exactly described me and for the first time ever I know who I am! Thanks to this change, I can finally live my life to the fullest!"
I was stopped at a red light when she finished her monologue, but it felt I was at a major mental crossroad in my life. Could this change make my life better? But what of loyalty? What of all the pathways I had chosen simply because my horoscope told me to? If I started following another horoscope now, would I somehow work myself in a pitiful circle of misconstrued decisions? I thought for a moment before avidly proclaiming to myself: "I have been, and forever will be, a Pisces!"
Thursday, January 27, 2011
Autobiography of Jillian Hannah
People tend to make plans for themselves. It usually goes something like this: “When I grow up, I want to be fireman,” or “five years from now I would like to be graduated from college and starting a family.” What differs between all us dreamers is the way we react when these plans fall through and we are forced to adjust. Despite my emotional strength, I was one of those people who took a while to adjust.
From that day forward I began living my life. I actually consider myself very fortunate, because I have been given many opportunities that young people like me don’t usually get! When you are trying to cram seventy-five or eighty years of life into each day, uncertain that you will have any more, it is crazy how many adventures you have, and even how many opportunities you open up for your self. I came to realize religion’s impact on my life stronger than ever before. I spent time with my family and found a love for them more profound than I had ever had previously. Most prominently, I grew as a person because my perspective changed almost completely. The petty concerns that would normally afflict a nineteen-year-old girl weren’t there anymore. There was no: “oh my gosh! Allison was totally talking behind my back!” I only had time for the important things, so I really learned how to determine what is important. One of those important things being showing the doctors who is boss. Here I am, months after they said I would die, alive and “well” and having the time of my life.
I was a self-motivated athlete who did it all. I was one of the only girls who would join the guys who played basketball at the park. I climbed rock walls and real mountains, ran, and played every sport with a board or a ball. This is why it was strange when I blacked out in aerobics class my sophomore year in high school.
Waking up in the nurse’s office was a horror story, and I didn’t remember anything that had happened. The story has been told to me several times by people with many variations on the skill of exaggeration.
“You just started seizing and fell over!”
“It wasn’t a big deal, in fact most people didn’t even notice.”
“We thought you were going to die.”
The general consensus seems to be that first I had sat down on the gym floor, complaining that I couldn’t see. My friends had thought I was joking, but they quickly realized that wasn’t the case when I went limp and collapsed. They called the nurse and she took me out in a wheel chair. In front of the whole class. What a horror story.
I am the type of personality that firmly believes in personal space. If you don’t break into my bubble, we can be friends! But over the next few months I learned to adjust that attitude as classmates had to help carry me to the nurse every other day, and eventually doctors probed at me trying to figure out what was wrong with me. This new mind set wasn’t the only thing that had to change about me. When I was forced to drop out of high school a month or so later and take the GED route, I started to realize that my life wasn’t going to be average. Thoughts like “I’m too smart to be a high school drop out! I wanted to be valedictorian and graduate with my friends!” had to be expelled from my mind.
But soon I found myself writing off every opportunity I thought I would ever have as “impossible.” I had to try really hard to get out of bed in the morning and sustain the idea that life had a purpose when I knew that by the end of the day I could likely be at another hospital or doctor’s office. I hate doctors. What a horror story.
It was a couple years into my sickness, with the doctors still clueless as to what was causing my seizures, when I decided to step back and reevaluate my life. Doctors were trying to tell me that I might only have a few months or years to live, and rather than being bitter I decided to make the best of the time I was given, and even, if I could, prove the doctors wrong.
Tuesday, January 25, 2011
The Flour Blizzard (Prompt #7)
Mom would be home soon from a long day of shopping at that place she goes every Monday. What was it called? Oh yeah, the groshy store; something like that. But I was going to surprise her! She would be so excited to come home and find dinner already cooked and ready to eat! I knew she hated the macaroni and cheese out of the box, so I’d cook her the real stuff, the homemade stuff. It’d be great. I had made the box stuff before, so this can’t be that much harder right?
She had left the recipe book on the table, perfect! I flipped quickly to the right page, the one with the big picture of perfect golden cheesy noodles. My stomach growled and I grinned.
I began scampering around the kitchen quickly to find all the ingredients. Every once in a while I would glance over at the garage door, begging it not to make a noise and open up to reveal my mom. If she got home before I finished, the surprise would be ruined!
There was only one more ingredient to be retrieved: flour. I knew where it was, but unfortunately it was in the highest cabinet in the kitchen. Its height mocked me; I had always been a short child. But I wasn’t deterred! I pulled a chair from the kitchen table up next to the cabinet and slid the sliding door open. Stretching as far as I could, I reached the flour bucket and pulled it forward. Grabbing it by the lid I pulled it victoriously out of the cabinet.
Horrified I looked over at the garage door, for I could hear my mom’s van pulling into the garage. Just as I turned to curse her untimely return, I learned a very valuable lesson. Holding containers by their lid is not the most secure way to go about things. In slow motion the rubber lid lost its grip on the container. My mom entered the room to find that it had snowed cooking ingredients all over her spotless kitchen. She gaped at her daughter, who was standing an a chair holding a lid and looking terrified.
Mom Was a Teenager Once (Prompt #5)
It’s earlier than expected! My flight wasn’t supposed to get in for another hour. I called Jenny first. “Jenny! I’m back in town for spring break!”
Jenny, my cousin, screamed on the other end of the line. “I’ll be there in ten minutes!” she said excitedly, and hung up on me. I laughed and sat down in one of the terminal chairs. Even their uncomfortable hardness couldn’t keep my mind off of all the exciting things we were going to do over the next week. Of course, in the back of my mind there was always the thought of why I had really come home, and that was to break up with my boyfriend. People don’t really do that over the phone, at least not decent people. That was my opinion. But it was time for the relationship to end, so I figured it would go smooth enough, and Jenny and I could get back to painting the town.
Soon enough Jenny had picked me up and we went out to lunch. We took our time, giggling as we caught each other up on our lives. It was once I got home that I realized spring break was going to blow.
When I walked in, my mom dropped the dishes she was washing and rushed up to me. “Ryan is in the living room. He’s been sitting there for forty-five minutes just dying to see you.” This was before the days of cell phones, so she had had no way of getting in touch with me to tell me to come home.
I sighed. That certainly wasn’t good. I walked into the living room, ready to burst his bubble.
“Laura!” he said, jumping up.
“Hey, Ryan,” I said, faking a half-smile.
He knew at once what was coming. “Let’s go talk.”
I followed him outside and we talked in his car for like ten minutes. Way too short for a conversation like that, right? I told him I wasn’t feeling it anymore, to which he replied, “You have great timing.” I asked him what he meant but he just shook his head. After an awkward goodbye I got out of the car and went back inside, immediately calling Jenny.
“Hey, Jen,” I said. “So, I just broke up with Ryan.”
On her end Jenny was silent for a moment, before saying, “You didn’t. He was going to propose to you tonight!”
Like I said, spring break pretty much blew after that realization hit me like a ton of bricks. But even to this day, I still haven’t mustered up enough emotion to actually feel all that bad. He and I are both happily married to different people now, so we can say all is well and leave it at that! And hey, it’s a great story to tell my dating age kids.
Friday, January 21, 2011
Observations of a Seemingly Simple Building
Walk in and it's like you get hit with a ton of bricks. The first time I was at the LDS Institute of Religion on campus at ASU it was like I had set foot on an alien planet. Although, I suppose most of us feel like an outsider when we first find ourselves thrown into a new place.
This was different from any building I had ever been in on campus. There were people buzzing around like happy bees in every room you enter. I found myself sitting down on a balcony that overlooked the main entrance hall just to catch my breath.
At first all my senses could take in were the visual cues that surrounded me. There were many alcove-like places in the building where there were chairs and benches to sit. These seemed slightly ironic in my opinion, as it seemed that the fluctuation of people who populated the building at any given time seemed to have too much energy to sit. The decorations consisted of religious paintings that explained the purpose of the building, and lots of plants to give the place a very comforting and welcoming feel.
I noticed quickly that the building had an air of peacefulness about it that was strangely out of place at first. How, with so much commotion present, could a building be peaceful? So I stopped focusing on the visual so much and began to listen. As a group of girls approached, ascending the stairs directly below me, I honed in on their conversation.
"I'm engaged!" one exclaimed, and the others, obviously friends of the girl, began to giggle.
The conversation continued, full of lighthearted comments, and eventually led to the declaration from another girl in the group: "I'm pregnant!" Following this she was congratulated and a friend proclaimed that the pregnant girl was so lucky to have an amazing husband like Andrew, and the group was on their way.
I walked back down stairs to the main entrance area and was surrounded by many more joyful conversations such as this one. Boys commented on "the great game Johnny played the other night" and I even witnessed a blushing brunette getting asked on a date by a handsome boy she had probably had her eye on for weeks. As I walked past an open set of double doors I saw a gym where a group of boys were playing basketball. I proceeded down a maze of hallways, each lined with doors each pouring light out of the door frames. Once I had made a full circle through the building, passing a game room filled with social people with big smiles, I paused. Not once while I was here did I feel the weight of my worries. Nobody around me was frowning. What was it that made everyone here so giddy?
I am now a regular visitor of this place, and I am becoming more and more convinced that it is not only the building that makes the people happy, but the happy people that make the building such an enjoyable, peaceful place to explore.
This was different from any building I had ever been in on campus. There were people buzzing around like happy bees in every room you enter. I found myself sitting down on a balcony that overlooked the main entrance hall just to catch my breath.
At first all my senses could take in were the visual cues that surrounded me. There were many alcove-like places in the building where there were chairs and benches to sit. These seemed slightly ironic in my opinion, as it seemed that the fluctuation of people who populated the building at any given time seemed to have too much energy to sit. The decorations consisted of religious paintings that explained the purpose of the building, and lots of plants to give the place a very comforting and welcoming feel.
I noticed quickly that the building had an air of peacefulness about it that was strangely out of place at first. How, with so much commotion present, could a building be peaceful? So I stopped focusing on the visual so much and began to listen. As a group of girls approached, ascending the stairs directly below me, I honed in on their conversation.
"I'm engaged!" one exclaimed, and the others, obviously friends of the girl, began to giggle.
The conversation continued, full of lighthearted comments, and eventually led to the declaration from another girl in the group: "I'm pregnant!" Following this she was congratulated and a friend proclaimed that the pregnant girl was so lucky to have an amazing husband like Andrew, and the group was on their way.
I walked back down stairs to the main entrance area and was surrounded by many more joyful conversations such as this one. Boys commented on "the great game Johnny played the other night" and I even witnessed a blushing brunette getting asked on a date by a handsome boy she had probably had her eye on for weeks. As I walked past an open set of double doors I saw a gym where a group of boys were playing basketball. I proceeded down a maze of hallways, each lined with doors each pouring light out of the door frames. Once I had made a full circle through the building, passing a game room filled with social people with big smiles, I paused. Not once while I was here did I feel the weight of my worries. Nobody around me was frowning. What was it that made everyone here so giddy?
I am now a regular visitor of this place, and I am becoming more and more convinced that it is not only the building that makes the people happy, but the happy people that make the building such an enjoyable, peaceful place to explore.
Describing an Individual
There is a reason she is my best friend. There are several actually. She is the epitome of friendship, if it could be packaged in the form of a person. A phone call, a text, a cry for attention, none are ever wasted on her. With an original and honest voice she will answer any questions or statements with a cheerful and sincere reassurance that she is on your side.
Boys love her. She has beautiful long hair that changes colors every other week, based on her mood. When something changes about her life, so does her hair dye preference. She is always wearing a charm bracelet or necklace that holds a charm that represents her or something that is close to her heart. I am proud to say that she has passed that tradition on to me, starting me off about a year ago with a charm bracelet she gave me.
If I had to pick a place that I predicted that she spends most of her time at, I would die trying. It's as simple as that. She is rarely holding still, and will paint the world with her colors before she leaves it. Every new experience is hers for the taking, and she would never dream of passing anything up. Climb a mountain and she will be waiting at the top to help you up. Go to a recording studio to record a demo and start your musical career and she will have populated the walls with her albums. This is her way: always busy, never disappointed.
With a personality like this, you would assume that she has left everyone she knows in the dust; perhaps she won't have meant to, but it would have happened naturally. But this is not the case. She collects friends along the way as if they were her most precious possessions, and no relationship is a light matter in her brown, thoughtful eyes. Quirky as ever, yet inspirational in every way, this is my friend Desirae.
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