Octobre:
Golden crisp, orange-yellow, and brown leaves not falling from the sky.
The sun still watching over like a white disk,
stuck in the summertime weather.
The fog moves in later,
and it feels like summer,
a day with no obligations,
nowhere to go,
no one to see.
October baseball,
very much alive,
the San Francisco streets filled with orange and black --
strangers who couldn't be happier,
sharing their hopes,
investing them in the boys of summer.
But the summer air is long forgotten,
left behind the tangles of September.
Start counting down the days until thanksgiving,
Christmas, Hanukkah, winter break.
Halloween just around the corner,
summer's long gone.
It's October,
but it feels like July,
and illusion that we can not be overtaken by.
But yet we hang on still,
to early August, and mid-June,
back to months basked in lemonade,
freedom, baseball, summer-love,
it's October,
and we cling to these days with all we've got.
Sunday, October 10, 2010
Monday, June 7, 2010
twisted truths
twisted truths
--
People are who you think they are.
It's the truth behind the lie behind the truth.
--
The first time that I met him, he was complaining about not having ESPN at home. He wasn't complaining to anybody in particular, but he was complaining nevertheless. It was one of those days where my only goal was to push through until the sun set; then I would wake up the next morning and do it all over again. I was in line at Costco when he turned around and said to me, "how does one own a television set, but can't watch ESPN?"
"I don't know." I said.
"Then you'd better figure it out." He replied. I wanted to say something back, but I decided that he was just another crazy wandering around at Costco, eating all the free samples, and then returning back with his cap on backwards or his hood on or his sunglass on his face to get more. Finally, he had felt guilty about taking all the food and settled to buy some gum up at the counter, but that was the first time I met him. The second time, I realized that our judgement sucks.
--
The second time I met him was roughly a month and half later. I didn't "meet" him, per se; we never really went through the introduction process. The second time I saw him was at Fenway Park. Fenway was the oldest baseball park on the east coast. I remember the hazy summer days where I sat far from the field, my back pressed against the splintery wooden seats when we were losing and my butt on the edge of the seat when we were winning. Fenway, yes, always the reminder that summer was here.
Anyway, that was where I encountered the man for the second time. Over the years, I had upgraded seats. From the rows all the way at the top and in the back to a pair of seats smack behind home, and occasionally, behind the dugout. I was the only one at the park, save for a few venders and kids who had arrived early at the park with their fathers'. I didn't recognize him at first glance, it took a moment of studying, a moment of squinting my eyes through the glaring sun to make out his facial features. Only then did I realize that I had seen him somewhere; his dark eyes were nearly invisible underneath his navy blue baseball cap. His tan features looked even darker as the summer sun cast a shadow across his face. I tried, for a moment, to place him in my mind. I moved closer towards the dugout and squinted harder. It was only when he spoke that I remembered him. His course, deep voice saying something about throwing sliders.
Then I remembered that he was the man from Costco who did not have ESPN. He was the man I had hypothesized was just another crazy "stealing" free samples. Except for now, his raggedy clothes were gone, the lid of his baseball cap was facing the right direction and he was tugging at a ruby red tie tied too tight around his neck. My brain doubted itself for a moment, wondering if this man in a pinstriped suit was, indeed, the crazy from Costco who did not have ESPN. I thought that it was not possible that an insane man could be standing in Fenway Park at this very moment discussing sliders with Tito Francona, the pitching coach of the Boston Red Sox, but there he was, the sample moocher from Costco talking to Francona.
In my mind he had gone from a slacking, unemployed man living off welfare to a rich manager, or friend of a manager of a major league baseball team. I watched that game from behind the dugout, trying to figure this guy out. It was a hobby of mine, figuring people out. I would make up a life story for them, where they lived, their relationship status, and their friends. I called it a hobby and my parents called it a bad habit. This man, I had decided, lived a double life. During the season he was a friend of Francona, advising him how to deal with his pitchers. He had a wife and maybe a kid, but he definitely had a dog -- he wasn't a cat person. I decided he was burdened.
I glanced over at him between innings. He went from scowling at the umpire and talking to his pitchers in the bullpen while regulating their throws.
"Take it easy, man. That was only 25. " He was saying, I instantly looked over at the sound of his voice. It was no longer course, and heavy. He was standing, arms crossed in the bullpen.
"I'm fucking trying." The pitcher responded. He rested a calloused hand on his lower back and winced ever so subtly.
"You don't wanna throw your back out again." The Costco man nearly growled.
"That wasn't me, that was the motherfucking Yankees stadium."
"'Beckett. Breathe, relax, throw a couple pitches and sit back down!!" This time, it was Francona who was screaming. He shouted a couple of obscenities through his smacking, or chewing. At this point in time, Lester had returned back from the mound, sending out a relief pitcher. He pulled Beckett away from the situation and the two walked off, leaving the Costco man shaking his head.
By the end of the game I had invented a life for this guy. He lived in a suburban home just a little outside Boston, he drove a Sudan. His kid played in the little league, but he never went to the games because he could go to games in the majors. He was a high school drop out who had wanted to go pro, but something had stopped him. I had decided, ultimately, that he was not crazy.
--
The third time I encountered him was quite the eye-opener. The third time was at another game, this time at the new Yankees Stadium. The plastic seats were filled and the Yankees fans took to booing and cussing at the Boston Red Sox. Ah, the familiar feeling of rivalry. I didn't have good seats at the Yankee stadium because my dead father hadn't left me seats to a rival team. That night, I had to cough up half my wallet for seats behind the Sox dugout where I was would watch the game.
I saw the Costco man. He was conversing lightly with Pedroia and Youkilis, saying something that I couldn't quite hear over the vendors selling churros and corn dogs. He split from the conversation rather abruptly though, vanishing into the visitors' club house. He brushed by Beckett and Lester rather rudely and the two scowled a familiar scowl and readjusted their matching hemp necklaces rather arrogantly. That's the last I saw of him that night, up until the seventh inning.
The Yankees stadium was packed with Yankees fans. The stands full of blue and white, contrary to the red and blue and white I was used to seeing at Fenway. It was the opener to the three game series and Boston fans were still stuck at work until the weekend tomorrow. The game began and the Red Sox players were introduced, receiving an endless howl of 'boos' from the stands.
I saw him again during the seventh inning. I eyed him through binoculars I had brought to the game. He was standing of the edge of the bleacher section in left-field, his suit gone and his baseball cap on backwards; he looked like a stranger to me now. He looked right at me, and then pointed to the exit sign. I tilted my head confused. He shook his head, never mind, and I returned my attention back to the game.
Late in the seventh inning, the Yankees were catching up on the lead that Youkilis had provided them in the fourth. I heard someone from the far left shout, "He's gotta bomb! He's a terrorist! He'll blow us all up!" Suddenly all the park went quite, everybody listening to the ladies hysterics. People in the stands began to panic, looking at one another and wishing they had paid attention to the emergency procedures that were given before the national anthem was sung.
People were swarming everywhere, mobs formed in front of the neon green exit signs, the players on the field had returned to their club houses for safety and security guards had engulfed the place. I sat there in a daze. I thought about who would set a bomb on the place, and thought, must be someone truly insane.
There I was, sitting there sipping my diet coke and knawing into a pretzel. "Hey, lady, get your ass in the clubhouse!" I realized the voice had come from the Costco man, his cap on the right direction and his suit on again. I listened, leaving my food on the seat and following him into the visitor's club house.
The club house was crowded, the players all seated on the benches and leaning against lockers teasing each other, but also seriously discussing the scenario. I waited for something to happen, I waited to hear a loud boom, for the glass on the windows the shatter and to hear the girlish screams of all the players who seemed to be taking this very, very lightly. The Costco man smiled at me, his teeth were crooked and a few were missing. He noticed me staring and went to the corner, then he returned with a pair shiny white new dentures.
Suddenly, the clubhouse fell silent. The players had stopped talking and the managers had stopped discussing. Security stood at the doorway, a pair of handcuffs ready, and the failed device in their hands.
"We have surveillance footage of you planting this." One burly man said to the Costco man. The Costco man did not deny it. The security guard preceded to hand cuff the Costco man while muttering his rights to him.
"I would have them. All of them damn Yankees woulda killed them all, gone in a second, to another planet, another galaxy, another universe!" I could see that an awkward silence had gathered over the clubhouse. I could see some of the players pride expand just a little, knowing someone was crazy enough to build a device to send Yankees fans to another universe for them.
--
That was time I saw him, other than on the news. It turned out he was a crazy after all. He just wasn't the type of crazy I had expected; not the kind who "stole" free samples from Costco, but the kind who tried to send Yankees fans to other planets and galaxies.
People are who you think they are.
It's the twisted truth behind the lie behind the truth.
--
People are who you think they are.
It's the truth behind the lie behind the truth.
--
The first time that I met him, he was complaining about not having ESPN at home. He wasn't complaining to anybody in particular, but he was complaining nevertheless. It was one of those days where my only goal was to push through until the sun set; then I would wake up the next morning and do it all over again. I was in line at Costco when he turned around and said to me, "how does one own a television set, but can't watch ESPN?"
"I don't know." I said.
"Then you'd better figure it out." He replied. I wanted to say something back, but I decided that he was just another crazy wandering around at Costco, eating all the free samples, and then returning back with his cap on backwards or his hood on or his sunglass on his face to get more. Finally, he had felt guilty about taking all the food and settled to buy some gum up at the counter, but that was the first time I met him. The second time, I realized that our judgement sucks.
--
The second time I met him was roughly a month and half later. I didn't "meet" him, per se; we never really went through the introduction process. The second time I saw him was at Fenway Park. Fenway was the oldest baseball park on the east coast. I remember the hazy summer days where I sat far from the field, my back pressed against the splintery wooden seats when we were losing and my butt on the edge of the seat when we were winning. Fenway, yes, always the reminder that summer was here.
Anyway, that was where I encountered the man for the second time. Over the years, I had upgraded seats. From the rows all the way at the top and in the back to a pair of seats smack behind home, and occasionally, behind the dugout. I was the only one at the park, save for a few venders and kids who had arrived early at the park with their fathers'. I didn't recognize him at first glance, it took a moment of studying, a moment of squinting my eyes through the glaring sun to make out his facial features. Only then did I realize that I had seen him somewhere; his dark eyes were nearly invisible underneath his navy blue baseball cap. His tan features looked even darker as the summer sun cast a shadow across his face. I tried, for a moment, to place him in my mind. I moved closer towards the dugout and squinted harder. It was only when he spoke that I remembered him. His course, deep voice saying something about throwing sliders.
Then I remembered that he was the man from Costco who did not have ESPN. He was the man I had hypothesized was just another crazy "stealing" free samples. Except for now, his raggedy clothes were gone, the lid of his baseball cap was facing the right direction and he was tugging at a ruby red tie tied too tight around his neck. My brain doubted itself for a moment, wondering if this man in a pinstriped suit was, indeed, the crazy from Costco who did not have ESPN. I thought that it was not possible that an insane man could be standing in Fenway Park at this very moment discussing sliders with Tito Francona, the pitching coach of the Boston Red Sox, but there he was, the sample moocher from Costco talking to Francona.
In my mind he had gone from a slacking, unemployed man living off welfare to a rich manager, or friend of a manager of a major league baseball team. I watched that game from behind the dugout, trying to figure this guy out. It was a hobby of mine, figuring people out. I would make up a life story for them, where they lived, their relationship status, and their friends. I called it a hobby and my parents called it a bad habit. This man, I had decided, lived a double life. During the season he was a friend of Francona, advising him how to deal with his pitchers. He had a wife and maybe a kid, but he definitely had a dog -- he wasn't a cat person. I decided he was burdened.
I glanced over at him between innings. He went from scowling at the umpire and talking to his pitchers in the bullpen while regulating their throws.
"Take it easy, man. That was only 25. " He was saying, I instantly looked over at the sound of his voice. It was no longer course, and heavy. He was standing, arms crossed in the bullpen.
"I'm fucking trying." The pitcher responded. He rested a calloused hand on his lower back and winced ever so subtly.
"You don't wanna throw your back out again." The Costco man nearly growled.
"That wasn't me, that was the motherfucking Yankees stadium."
"'Beckett. Breathe, relax, throw a couple pitches and sit back down!!" This time, it was Francona who was screaming. He shouted a couple of obscenities through his smacking, or chewing. At this point in time, Lester had returned back from the mound, sending out a relief pitcher. He pulled Beckett away from the situation and the two walked off, leaving the Costco man shaking his head.
By the end of the game I had invented a life for this guy. He lived in a suburban home just a little outside Boston, he drove a Sudan. His kid played in the little league, but he never went to the games because he could go to games in the majors. He was a high school drop out who had wanted to go pro, but something had stopped him. I had decided, ultimately, that he was not crazy.
--
The third time I encountered him was quite the eye-opener. The third time was at another game, this time at the new Yankees Stadium. The plastic seats were filled and the Yankees fans took to booing and cussing at the Boston Red Sox. Ah, the familiar feeling of rivalry. I didn't have good seats at the Yankee stadium because my dead father hadn't left me seats to a rival team. That night, I had to cough up half my wallet for seats behind the Sox dugout where I was would watch the game.
I saw the Costco man. He was conversing lightly with Pedroia and Youkilis, saying something that I couldn't quite hear over the vendors selling churros and corn dogs. He split from the conversation rather abruptly though, vanishing into the visitors' club house. He brushed by Beckett and Lester rather rudely and the two scowled a familiar scowl and readjusted their matching hemp necklaces rather arrogantly. That's the last I saw of him that night, up until the seventh inning.
The Yankees stadium was packed with Yankees fans. The stands full of blue and white, contrary to the red and blue and white I was used to seeing at Fenway. It was the opener to the three game series and Boston fans were still stuck at work until the weekend tomorrow. The game began and the Red Sox players were introduced, receiving an endless howl of 'boos' from the stands.
I saw him again during the seventh inning. I eyed him through binoculars I had brought to the game. He was standing of the edge of the bleacher section in left-field, his suit gone and his baseball cap on backwards; he looked like a stranger to me now. He looked right at me, and then pointed to the exit sign. I tilted my head confused. He shook his head, never mind, and I returned my attention back to the game.
Late in the seventh inning, the Yankees were catching up on the lead that Youkilis had provided them in the fourth. I heard someone from the far left shout, "He's gotta bomb! He's a terrorist! He'll blow us all up!" Suddenly all the park went quite, everybody listening to the ladies hysterics. People in the stands began to panic, looking at one another and wishing they had paid attention to the emergency procedures that were given before the national anthem was sung.
People were swarming everywhere, mobs formed in front of the neon green exit signs, the players on the field had returned to their club houses for safety and security guards had engulfed the place. I sat there in a daze. I thought about who would set a bomb on the place, and thought, must be someone truly insane.
There I was, sitting there sipping my diet coke and knawing into a pretzel. "Hey, lady, get your ass in the clubhouse!" I realized the voice had come from the Costco man, his cap on the right direction and his suit on again. I listened, leaving my food on the seat and following him into the visitor's club house.
The club house was crowded, the players all seated on the benches and leaning against lockers teasing each other, but also seriously discussing the scenario. I waited for something to happen, I waited to hear a loud boom, for the glass on the windows the shatter and to hear the girlish screams of all the players who seemed to be taking this very, very lightly. The Costco man smiled at me, his teeth were crooked and a few were missing. He noticed me staring and went to the corner, then he returned with a pair shiny white new dentures.
Suddenly, the clubhouse fell silent. The players had stopped talking and the managers had stopped discussing. Security stood at the doorway, a pair of handcuffs ready, and the failed device in their hands.
"We have surveillance footage of you planting this." One burly man said to the Costco man. The Costco man did not deny it. The security guard preceded to hand cuff the Costco man while muttering his rights to him.
"I would have them. All of them damn Yankees woulda killed them all, gone in a second, to another planet, another galaxy, another universe!" I could see that an awkward silence had gathered over the clubhouse. I could see some of the players pride expand just a little, knowing someone was crazy enough to build a device to send Yankees fans to another universe for them.
--
That was time I saw him, other than on the news. It turned out he was a crazy after all. He just wasn't the type of crazy I had expected; not the kind who "stole" free samples from Costco, but the kind who tried to send Yankees fans to other planets and galaxies.
People are who you think they are.
It's the twisted truth behind the lie behind the truth.
Wednesday, May 12, 2010
In a Nutshell
So, for those of you who know me (and for those of you who don't, listen up) (Yes, Doc, if you've reached this page you're in the right place), I'm really not one for emotions. You know why? Because they get in the way of everything. I enjoy avoiding the drama (thought it NEVER seems to work), and making sure other people's problems do not become my own. As for expressing my emotions, my therapist says that it is important that I try to verbally express my feelings. I'm pretty sure after he said that I laughed. I still don't take his job seriously.
Anywho, here's all the "emotional crap" you will EVER need to know about me.
I hate letting people or things put a damper in my day, so the solution, I don't let people or things put a damper in my day. Most the time I'm not a shining star in the sky, or an incredibly happy person who wants to share rainbows in the world, but I don't want to shrivel up in the corner and cry.
Of course, there was one point in my life when everything was emotional. Every damn thing. I guess I just woke up one day and decided that I wouldn't let people in my life (cough, namely my father, cough) tell me first thing in the morning that I was going to fail in life...when i was only nine years old. My therapist says that it didn't happen over night, and frankly, I agree, but there is no way that I was charting my evolutionary behavior when I was nine years old.
From doing what I did, yeah, you loose "valuable" relationships, but you gain things too. You gain the ability to win verbal spiels with your family, and also avoid them really, really well. All in all, I'm not a family girl. I don't eat dinner with them every night while laughing at a family joke. I'm the kind of person who gets take out, and sits in front of her desk and does her homework while watching House, or Fringe, or Bones, or Castle.
Another up side is that I will never really feel homesick because I don't really feel at home at "home."
Honestly, I don't feel like I've lost anything because there was nothing there to loose. All i lost was a weight...or an annoying, and hate-able monster who was telling me that my fate was failure.
What I've learned from all this? I've learned that I have a crap load of self esteem and that NO ONE should EVER let anyone tell them that they're doomed from the start. I've learned that there are sacrifices that you should make for your own benefit; don't let anyone TELL you who you are, or who you will be because chances are, the more they tell you that, the more likely they're going to be wrong.
Anywho, here's all the "emotional crap" you will EVER need to know about me.
I hate letting people or things put a damper in my day, so the solution, I don't let people or things put a damper in my day. Most the time I'm not a shining star in the sky, or an incredibly happy person who wants to share rainbows in the world, but I don't want to shrivel up in the corner and cry.
Of course, there was one point in my life when everything was emotional. Every damn thing. I guess I just woke up one day and decided that I wouldn't let people in my life (cough, namely my father, cough) tell me first thing in the morning that I was going to fail in life...when i was only nine years old. My therapist says that it didn't happen over night, and frankly, I agree, but there is no way that I was charting my evolutionary behavior when I was nine years old.
From doing what I did, yeah, you loose "valuable" relationships, but you gain things too. You gain the ability to win verbal spiels with your family, and also avoid them really, really well. All in all, I'm not a family girl. I don't eat dinner with them every night while laughing at a family joke. I'm the kind of person who gets take out, and sits in front of her desk and does her homework while watching House, or Fringe, or Bones, or Castle.
Another up side is that I will never really feel homesick because I don't really feel at home at "home."
Honestly, I don't feel like I've lost anything because there was nothing there to loose. All i lost was a weight...or an annoying, and hate-able monster who was telling me that my fate was failure.
What I've learned from all this? I've learned that I have a crap load of self esteem and that NO ONE should EVER let anyone tell them that they're doomed from the start. I've learned that there are sacrifices that you should make for your own benefit; don't let anyone TELL you who you are, or who you will be because chances are, the more they tell you that, the more likely they're going to be wrong.
Saturday, May 1, 2010
Daisy Memoir
it's not my memoir, but it made my creative juices flow, flow, flowing.
Daisy Memoir
She came home with a daisy yesterday, crushed; it sat wilted and flattened beneath her weekly newsletter and her reading log that I’d forgotten to sign the previous night. The wet imprints of a once much alive flower remained on both the weekly newsletter and the reading log; it was weeping.
“I bringed you a flower.” She’d exclaimed excitedly and ditched her peanut butter and jelly sandwich on the stool and bounced over to her oversized aquamarine nap sack to look for it. I opened my mouth to tell her it was ‘brought’ not ‘bringed,’ but was interrupted when she found what was left of the daisy.
She held the flower up, and waved it around, the sad crushed petals void of all moisture, and the color faded to a light brown. She asked if we could put it up on the fridge, and pouted when I told her it probably wouldn’t stay.
After a long ten minutes of watching her pout, I sighed, and decided it’d be best to compromise with her; in smaller words of course. I suggested that we tape the flower on the wall, on top of the fireplace mantel above the pictures. She smiled; she must have gone to great lengths to pick this daisy.
“Martha’s going to teach me to make a daisy crown so I can be the princess of the meadows.” She’d announced as I rummaged through the drawers looking for scotch tape. I had inquired on why she wanted to be the princess and not the queen.
She looked at me as I was from Mars.
I followed up by asking the problem with being a queen. The look finally washed off her face as she explained to me word by word that queens were old, and already married, and she hadn’t met her prince charming yet.
The mind of a child is much more complex than that of an adult. Children expect you to know everything.
Afterwards, I sent her to wash up and take a bath before dinner because we had guests tonight. She quietly obeyed, but not without saying goodbye to her flower first.
In the middle of a rerun of ’Bones’ while chopping tomatoes, I was interrupted by a shrill scream for my name.
“MOMMY!” The little voice came for the bathroom down the hall. Brushing away the annoyance that suddenly rushed over me, I wiped my hands dry and jogged down the hallway to the bathroom where she was still screaming ‘mommy.’
“Yes?” I’d asked, peering through a small crack in the door.
“The towels are all wet.” She complained standing naked with her arms wrapped around her small frail body. I quickly shed my apron and handed it to her as a makeshift towel.
“What happened to all the towels?” I asked, and she deliberately pointed into the bathtub. Over the layer of steaming bubbly water sat all the colorful towels that some distant uncle had gotten the family last Christmas.
“Princess, why are all the towels in the bathtub?” I eyed her, and walked over to grab a clean, dry one from the closet.
“I dropped mine in,” she stopped and pointed to ‘The Little Mermaid,’ towel floating on the surface. “And it looked real pretty, and it floated! So then I put the others in and it all looked real pretty, but I couldn’t see it, so I stood on top of the toilet, then I got cold, but I saw that I had no more towels left!” She shrugged as I wrapped a fluffy blue towel around her, it coated her whole body from her shoulders to her toes and the bottom was swishing against the tile floor.
I sent her to get dressed, and gathered all the towels from the bathtub into a laundry hamper. I’d already forgiven her because I knew by now that children almost never mean to be malicious.
When I was returning from the laundry room, I passed by the front door and saw a small family of four huddled on the doorstep. A man and a woman and two children. The kids each held small red boxes with pink ribbon while the man was gripping a wrapped bottle of what I presumed to be wine or champagne.
The guests.
I quickly ran my hand through my hair and speed walked to the door. Surprised that I wasn’t behind the door, the family was silent for a moment before they began to loosen up.
As soon as I had invited them inside and seated them in the living room with some kind of English tea, I went about the house to find my daughter. I found her quickly enough; she sat in front of the fireplace mantel, admiring her daisy again.
“Baby, we have guests.” I whispered and she glanced over her shoulder at me.
“I was talking to my flower.” She said, and pushed herself to her feet. “It told me that it wanted to look more like a daisy again.”
When she walked through the living room, everyone awed and tugged at her braids, and asked her to twirl so they could see her dress. She stood there flattered, but always looked back towards her lonely flower a few feet away.
Then she saw it. The hat shaped like a monkey. The pom-poms dangling cheerfully off the edges and the ears perking out on top of the person’s head.
“Why are you wearing a hat?” She asked, tugging at the pom-pom’s dangling from the side of the young boy’s accessory.
“It’s my sisters.” He blushed. “I’m sick.”
“So? When I’m sick, I don’t wear hats.” She raised a thin eyebrow.
Children’s attempts are never malicious.
“Sweetie…” I ushered and moved closer to her.
“Except I’m really sick.”
“Once I was really sick. I was in bed for two whole days and all I ate was chicken soup. Euch!” She stuck out her tongue.
“Sweetie…” I tried again.
“I know what will make you feel better!” She ran towards the fireplace, and I knew just what she was getting. She reappeared seconds later, her dress a little more ruffled and her hair a little more out of place, but in her hands she held her crushed daisy. “Here.”
“I couldn’t.” The boy smiled.
“Yes you could, all you have to do is hold out your hand, and don’t forget to say thank you.”
The boy did as he was told and held out his hand, I imagined that the moment he touched the dead daisy that it would bloom into a bouquet full of white and yellow, but it never happened.
The daisy sat in the palm of his hand as he said ‘thank you’ and it still looked as dead as it was crushed between the reading log and the weekly newsletter.
I could see that Lira was looking really hard. She was squinting, her eyes focusing all the light into one spot, and she could see the life in the daisy begin to take place. I concentrated with her and imagined that I could see the stem begin to emerge and the white petals encircle the yellow center.
When she blinked, she looked disappointed back down at the boy’s hand, and without another word she walked away. Her daisy didn’t come back to life. It would never be the same.
I blinked, and the petals all disappeared, leaving just the dried out flower. The young boy smiled, but he didn’t glow like he used to. His pale skin no longer trapped the light and one day he would be as pale as the daisy’s petals and as equally alive. The boy was still sick; for once I understood how she felt more than ever. He would never be the same.
I looked into her eyes, so alive and innocent; she looked at me and she said, “I’m hungry,” and the daisy was forgotten.
Daisy Memoir
She came home with a daisy yesterday, crushed; it sat wilted and flattened beneath her weekly newsletter and her reading log that I’d forgotten to sign the previous night. The wet imprints of a once much alive flower remained on both the weekly newsletter and the reading log; it was weeping.
“I bringed you a flower.” She’d exclaimed excitedly and ditched her peanut butter and jelly sandwich on the stool and bounced over to her oversized aquamarine nap sack to look for it. I opened my mouth to tell her it was ‘brought’ not ‘bringed,’ but was interrupted when she found what was left of the daisy.
She held the flower up, and waved it around, the sad crushed petals void of all moisture, and the color faded to a light brown. She asked if we could put it up on the fridge, and pouted when I told her it probably wouldn’t stay.
After a long ten minutes of watching her pout, I sighed, and decided it’d be best to compromise with her; in smaller words of course. I suggested that we tape the flower on the wall, on top of the fireplace mantel above the pictures. She smiled; she must have gone to great lengths to pick this daisy.
“Martha’s going to teach me to make a daisy crown so I can be the princess of the meadows.” She’d announced as I rummaged through the drawers looking for scotch tape. I had inquired on why she wanted to be the princess and not the queen.
She looked at me as I was from Mars.
I followed up by asking the problem with being a queen. The look finally washed off her face as she explained to me word by word that queens were old, and already married, and she hadn’t met her prince charming yet.
The mind of a child is much more complex than that of an adult. Children expect you to know everything.
Afterwards, I sent her to wash up and take a bath before dinner because we had guests tonight. She quietly obeyed, but not without saying goodbye to her flower first.
In the middle of a rerun of ’Bones’ while chopping tomatoes, I was interrupted by a shrill scream for my name.
“MOMMY!” The little voice came for the bathroom down the hall. Brushing away the annoyance that suddenly rushed over me, I wiped my hands dry and jogged down the hallway to the bathroom where she was still screaming ‘mommy.’
“Yes?” I’d asked, peering through a small crack in the door.
“The towels are all wet.” She complained standing naked with her arms wrapped around her small frail body. I quickly shed my apron and handed it to her as a makeshift towel.
“What happened to all the towels?” I asked, and she deliberately pointed into the bathtub. Over the layer of steaming bubbly water sat all the colorful towels that some distant uncle had gotten the family last Christmas.
“Princess, why are all the towels in the bathtub?” I eyed her, and walked over to grab a clean, dry one from the closet.
“I dropped mine in,” she stopped and pointed to ‘The Little Mermaid,’ towel floating on the surface. “And it looked real pretty, and it floated! So then I put the others in and it all looked real pretty, but I couldn’t see it, so I stood on top of the toilet, then I got cold, but I saw that I had no more towels left!” She shrugged as I wrapped a fluffy blue towel around her, it coated her whole body from her shoulders to her toes and the bottom was swishing against the tile floor.
I sent her to get dressed, and gathered all the towels from the bathtub into a laundry hamper. I’d already forgiven her because I knew by now that children almost never mean to be malicious.
When I was returning from the laundry room, I passed by the front door and saw a small family of four huddled on the doorstep. A man and a woman and two children. The kids each held small red boxes with pink ribbon while the man was gripping a wrapped bottle of what I presumed to be wine or champagne.
The guests.
I quickly ran my hand through my hair and speed walked to the door. Surprised that I wasn’t behind the door, the family was silent for a moment before they began to loosen up.
As soon as I had invited them inside and seated them in the living room with some kind of English tea, I went about the house to find my daughter. I found her quickly enough; she sat in front of the fireplace mantel, admiring her daisy again.
“Baby, we have guests.” I whispered and she glanced over her shoulder at me.
“I was talking to my flower.” She said, and pushed herself to her feet. “It told me that it wanted to look more like a daisy again.”
When she walked through the living room, everyone awed and tugged at her braids, and asked her to twirl so they could see her dress. She stood there flattered, but always looked back towards her lonely flower a few feet away.
Then she saw it. The hat shaped like a monkey. The pom-poms dangling cheerfully off the edges and the ears perking out on top of the person’s head.
“Why are you wearing a hat?” She asked, tugging at the pom-pom’s dangling from the side of the young boy’s accessory.
“It’s my sisters.” He blushed. “I’m sick.”
“So? When I’m sick, I don’t wear hats.” She raised a thin eyebrow.
Children’s attempts are never malicious.
“Sweetie…” I ushered and moved closer to her.
“Except I’m really sick.”
“Once I was really sick. I was in bed for two whole days and all I ate was chicken soup. Euch!” She stuck out her tongue.
“Sweetie…” I tried again.
“I know what will make you feel better!” She ran towards the fireplace, and I knew just what she was getting. She reappeared seconds later, her dress a little more ruffled and her hair a little more out of place, but in her hands she held her crushed daisy. “Here.”
“I couldn’t.” The boy smiled.
“Yes you could, all you have to do is hold out your hand, and don’t forget to say thank you.”
The boy did as he was told and held out his hand, I imagined that the moment he touched the dead daisy that it would bloom into a bouquet full of white and yellow, but it never happened.
The daisy sat in the palm of his hand as he said ‘thank you’ and it still looked as dead as it was crushed between the reading log and the weekly newsletter.
I could see that Lira was looking really hard. She was squinting, her eyes focusing all the light into one spot, and she could see the life in the daisy begin to take place. I concentrated with her and imagined that I could see the stem begin to emerge and the white petals encircle the yellow center.
When she blinked, she looked disappointed back down at the boy’s hand, and without another word she walked away. Her daisy didn’t come back to life. It would never be the same.
I blinked, and the petals all disappeared, leaving just the dried out flower. The young boy smiled, but he didn’t glow like he used to. His pale skin no longer trapped the light and one day he would be as pale as the daisy’s petals and as equally alive. The boy was still sick; for once I understood how she felt more than ever. He would never be the same.
I looked into her eyes, so alive and innocent; she looked at me and she said, “I’m hungry,” and the daisy was forgotten.
Wednesday, March 17, 2010
creative writing in math class
So i have this teacher who used to struggle with our class a lot. He's cool now, but for awhile, I could see him struggling to connect with us, to just find a way to make us all stop being crazy, sex-crazed, loud, obnoxious, annoyingly-clever, sadistic, sarcastic, sardonic high school students. Here's the story I wrote for him:
Inhale Exhale (a.k.a: what I shouldn't be doing because I'm in math right now)
I could see it in his eyes; in the way he walkd, talked, shook his head in sheer frustration. I could see his mind reeling back to old, forgotten memories. They were never really forgotton were they? They were buried back in his sub-conscious and his chosen profession had just brought them back to life.
He must have been the second grader who the big kids picked on because his backpack was taller than he was, because his hair covered too much of his face and plastered to his sweaty forehead when he ran for PE; because he couldn't quite reach the doorknob and constantly forgot his lunch money.
"Where's your lunch money?" The teacher asked and he shrugged. Mom was away in Ohio and dad was cutting into decomposing bodies. The kind teacher pulled out her wallet, "you can buy lunch with this today," she offered.
He reached out to take it, a thought crossed his mind,
'rotting flesh and organs in shiny, clear jars.'
"I'll just have crackers." He retracts his hand back slowly and rns out forgetting the crackers all together. He was always picked last, he couldn't kick a ball, he couldn't jump and he couldn't run fast wihtout stopping to take a number of large breaths.
He inhales.
He's running from his own thoughts chasing him as he provides us with notorious directions.
He exhales.
His thoughts have caught up with him now and they're scolding and taunting him.
"Wouldn't you rather be somewhere else?"
He inhales.
"No." he looks at his students, eager to one day lead lives of their own. "No, I want to be here." He argues against himself.
He exhales.
He would rather be in a field reading a book.
He inhales
His mind, like his classroom, is slowly morphing into a battlefield and all the soldiers are taking this places.
He exhales.
His goals seemed to be rotting away with the old, mangled corpses labeld 'John Doe 67215.'
He inhales
Suddenly his studnets are looking down at him, laughing at him. They snicker and sneer and all of sudden he finds himself back at a familar place; a place where he stands in the outfield waiting for the ball. He hears the crack of the bat and he's running again -- faster than ever, but he's not going anywhere. He stops to breathe -- inhale, exhale, stop. He repeats the pattern.
Inhale, exhale, stop.
He looks at us with fear and vulnerability.
Inhale, exhale, stop...
He holds his breath.
Inhale Exhale (a.k.a: what I shouldn't be doing because I'm in math right now)
I could see it in his eyes; in the way he walkd, talked, shook his head in sheer frustration. I could see his mind reeling back to old, forgotten memories. They were never really forgotton were they? They were buried back in his sub-conscious and his chosen profession had just brought them back to life.
He must have been the second grader who the big kids picked on because his backpack was taller than he was, because his hair covered too much of his face and plastered to his sweaty forehead when he ran for PE; because he couldn't quite reach the doorknob and constantly forgot his lunch money.
"Where's your lunch money?" The teacher asked and he shrugged. Mom was away in Ohio and dad was cutting into decomposing bodies. The kind teacher pulled out her wallet, "you can buy lunch with this today," she offered.
He reached out to take it, a thought crossed his mind,
'rotting flesh and organs in shiny, clear jars.'
"I'll just have crackers." He retracts his hand back slowly and rns out forgetting the crackers all together. He was always picked last, he couldn't kick a ball, he couldn't jump and he couldn't run fast wihtout stopping to take a number of large breaths.
He inhales.
He's running from his own thoughts chasing him as he provides us with notorious directions.
He exhales.
His thoughts have caught up with him now and they're scolding and taunting him.
"Wouldn't you rather be somewhere else?"
He inhales.
"No." he looks at his students, eager to one day lead lives of their own. "No, I want to be here." He argues against himself.
He exhales.
He would rather be in a field reading a book.
He inhales
His mind, like his classroom, is slowly morphing into a battlefield and all the soldiers are taking this places.
He exhales.
His goals seemed to be rotting away with the old, mangled corpses labeld 'John Doe 67215.'
He inhales
Suddenly his studnets are looking down at him, laughing at him. They snicker and sneer and all of sudden he finds himself back at a familar place; a place where he stands in the outfield waiting for the ball. He hears the crack of the bat and he's running again -- faster than ever, but he's not going anywhere. He stops to breathe -- inhale, exhale, stop. He repeats the pattern.
Inhale, exhale, stop.
He looks at us with fear and vulnerability.
Inhale, exhale, stop...
He holds his breath.
Friday, March 12, 2010
Make Me Skinny
They say that Paris is finally embracing the reality of the world of diversity, but are they really? The argument over whether or not models should take on a little more shape has been in a contraversal state for quite sometime now. While people around the world are clearly realizing that body shapes vary, how much is the fashion world acknowledging it?
A lot of this contraversy was brought on by the pressure in young girls to be thin. Articles claim that there are even online sites that you can find that will give you advice on how to hid your eating-habits from your parents and those around you. In my opinion, this is wrong. There is no reason why these girls shouldn't accept their bodies! By bringing more shapely models to the runway, maybe the pressure to be thin will go down, but what about designers like Karl Lagerfeld who isn't so satisfied with this comprimise? Maybe they should just cope through this one, embrace the new and diverse.
Much of Europe and especially France pride themselves on fashion. A home to the houses of couture. Paris is a city of arts; more than in the sense of on a canvas, but the fabric and the textiles become the canvas and your design an artistic masterpiece. Perhaps they have a point, who tells an artist how big his/her canvas should be? Some may argue that high-fashion isn't meant to be worn on the street -- it is an art.
However, maybe it is a time for change. It is a good time for these artists/designers to bring new shapes onto the runway. Paris Fashion Week maybe a good time to begin; the runway this year occupied by women of many sizes. There is a chance that these new figures will provoke more inspiration, a new genre of the art, a new sight and a new perspective to the observers.
A lot of this contraversy was brought on by the pressure in young girls to be thin. Articles claim that there are even online sites that you can find that will give you advice on how to hid your eating-habits from your parents and those around you. In my opinion, this is wrong. There is no reason why these girls shouldn't accept their bodies! By bringing more shapely models to the runway, maybe the pressure to be thin will go down, but what about designers like Karl Lagerfeld who isn't so satisfied with this comprimise? Maybe they should just cope through this one, embrace the new and diverse.
Much of Europe and especially France pride themselves on fashion. A home to the houses of couture. Paris is a city of arts; more than in the sense of on a canvas, but the fabric and the textiles become the canvas and your design an artistic masterpiece. Perhaps they have a point, who tells an artist how big his/her canvas should be? Some may argue that high-fashion isn't meant to be worn on the street -- it is an art.
However, maybe it is a time for change. It is a good time for these artists/designers to bring new shapes onto the runway. Paris Fashion Week maybe a good time to begin; the runway this year occupied by women of many sizes. There is a chance that these new figures will provoke more inspiration, a new genre of the art, a new sight and a new perspective to the observers.
Thursday, March 11, 2010
Gum
There are a lot of reasons to chew gum. For example...to cure bad breath, or (apparently it) helps you to think better in school. That's only two, but I'm sure I could list more, but here's the thing, there's probably a million reasons why you shouldn't chew gum as well.
For example, if you chew it unconsciously, sometimes you smack it loudly, it gets in your hair (I've had a friend fall alseep with gum in her hair), also it looks awful during interviews.
So your interviewer says: what makes you think you are qualified for this position?
and the interviewee will say: *smack* *smack* well, *bright green wad being tossed around mouth, smack* I think...
and the interviewer will look at you like this:
word of advice, just don't do it.
Another this is gum at school and in class. Okay, do teachers really, really, really care? (Maybe some language teachers do, it's incredibly hard to pronounce some things in russian and croatian or even french with that wad of gum stuck behind your gums!) Most likely, they don't. The only reason they do care, is because gum ends up all over the bottom of desks, and on the floor and like in other miscellaneous places. Students and teachers step on it, and when they're moving desks grab it and it's just plain gross.
NOBODY LIKES THAT.
So that's why they take away our gum chewing privlages. The real question is why can't the gum chewers just take their damn wads of gum and throw them out in the trashcan like civilized beings? It's hardly close to difficult. Honestly, by spitting your gum out on the floor or sticking it under your chair or your desk, on your chair or in the vent of the heater, you make it so that the rest of us can't chew gum in class.
For example, if you chew it unconsciously, sometimes you smack it loudly, it gets in your hair (I've had a friend fall alseep with gum in her hair), also it looks awful during interviews.
So your interviewer says: what makes you think you are qualified for this position?
and the interviewee will say: *smack* *smack* well, *bright green wad being tossed around mouth, smack* I think...
and the interviewer will look at you like this:
word of advice, just don't do it.
Another this is gum at school and in class. Okay, do teachers really, really, really care? (Maybe some language teachers do, it's incredibly hard to pronounce some things in russian and croatian or even french with that wad of gum stuck behind your gums!) Most likely, they don't. The only reason they do care, is because gum ends up all over the bottom of desks, and on the floor and like in other miscellaneous places. Students and teachers step on it, and when they're moving desks grab it and it's just plain gross.
NOBODY LIKES THAT.
So that's why they take away our gum chewing privlages. The real question is why can't the gum chewers just take their damn wads of gum and throw them out in the trashcan like civilized beings? It's hardly close to difficult. Honestly, by spitting your gum out on the floor or sticking it under your chair or your desk, on your chair or in the vent of the heater, you make it so that the rest of us can't chew gum in class.
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