(Special recognition for my two girls who have put up with me, twice. Here you go.)
First, listen to this (a newer, hipper version):
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DHkmLEhFq44
I've an idea in my head, but no way to begin. Ever go through that? Oh, yeah. That doesn't stop after the cap and gown day, kiddos.
Rough transition it is then. I have another blog that I write that is not as difficult, mainly because I do not have to consistently pause and ask myself things, like "is this academic enough?" "is this inappropriate?" "what are my intended learning outcomes?" "will I offend that sweet kid?"
No, no. The other blog has my cultural fingerprints all over it: my religion, my Southern-ness, my rebellious nature, my sentimentality. Of course, it's a truer voice. Less manipulative. More raw. More important? I doubt it. But decidedly more therapuetic to write. (And yes, Zeke. I am real :)
This is not to say that a blog written for a class called "Topics in Writing" isn't pertinent, or real, or fun. Quite the contrary. I believe that some of you will go on to get a graduate degree and will need to get much more philosophical in your writing in order to excel. Others of you will go on to be teachers of writing and will need to ask more of your students than the smooth production of the five paragraph essay. But . . . how can I help you, really? If this were the last class I ever taught, what do I need to share about writing? No pressure, right?
And so, I think I am snagged on a qualitative issue, one that I have been trying to solve by weighing out writing skills against things like paychecks, career advancements, and accolades. So snagged, in fact, that I am prepared to ditch all of that for something, well, more "real."
I have read thousands of books, written several published articles, and have even slogged my way through some neatly composed essays that I personally abhorred for an A. And yet? A piece of writing from my youth continually haunts me.
"You become. . . That's why it doesn't happen often to people who break easily, or have sharp edges, or who have to be carefully kept. Generally, by the time you are Real, most of your hair has been loved off, and your eyes drop out and you get loose in the joints and very shabby. But these things don't matter at all, because once you are Real you can't be ugly, except to people who don't understand." The Velveteen Rabbit
Real. What does that mean to writing? Should we even care, for when we can craft elegantly posed thesis statements and perfectly cited essays, all in hopes of that elusive A, is that all? Is nothing more required of us? Of course, I want you all to hone your craft. Become "skillful." But, if in the journey you do not find yourself, if on the way you forget why you fancy words and books so very much, if at the end all you have is a decent job but have lost the joy of making magic with a pen, then . . . well, then your hair has not been loved decently off.
It is Friday, and we have talked of warrants, voice, writing tools like dashes, and have peer reviewed and shown up to class on time. But, today, this time, just once . . .
Let's write something for the sheer joy of it. Push ourselves to create something real. Here's a bit from me, your very real teacher.
I was the granddaughter of a Cherokee medicine woman and only ten years old, swathed in my mother's white organza scarves and twirling in the pines. "Dancing in the Moonlight" swelled from my am/fm radio and drove golden sparks of fireflies over my fingers as if I had called them into being, called their little bodies into a dance with summer and sweat and innocence. It was 1976, and my feet were stained red by Alabama clay, my heart broken by divorce, and my voice was still unscarred by thirty years of smoking. And I danced, and dreamed, and twirled under a burnished dusk sky. Part of me is still there, orchestrating fireflies and believing that summer will never end and that daddies never leave. Somewhere, I dance.
I'm not going to go back over and revise this. Because it's real.
Your turn.
Mmmm, the smell of sugar cookie-snowmen and candy canes radiates from the oven. “How the Grinch Stole Christmas” plays on the living room TV, though hardly audible above the holiday classics sounding from the kitchen radio. Snow-covered jackets and mittens decorate the coat rack, puddles forming underneath. The clock strikes six, signaling the candles in the windows to light. A nativity scene rests on every coffee table, and the mantle is littered with nutcrackers and four stockings. I’m content to sit on the dining room floor watching the lights on the tree flicker, the ornaments underneath playing hide-and-seek before my eyes.
ReplyDeleteHome.
A year of exciting and overwhelming change behind me - yet, home remains the same. Christmas at the Poole house, unchanged. Baby’s First Christmas, Hollywood Barbie, Lacrosse-Playing Santa, Our First Christmas in Our New Home – they’re all there. “Choo-choo” – the train makes its way around the foot of the tree, carrying a heavy load of Hershey hugs and kisses once again. The windows are adorned with the same giant wreaths and golden bows. The presents are wrapped and positioned aesthetically underneath the tree, set in their usual corners, grouped by recipient. The traditional Christmas treats overflow from the fridge to the kitchen counters to the pantry – not a staple left unbaked.
The smells. The sights. The indescribable joy, the excitement. Still there.
My cup runneth over.
awesome.
ReplyDeleteI see the crow feet at the corner of his brown eyes. Eyes that have scolded me so many times for not cleaning up my room, sassying back , and just being a boy. His bruised and wrinkled fingers navigate the top button and tie my tie with care. He always wants me to look presentable not only for church but for my potential girlfriend. These fingers are the hands of a floor installer who spends countless hours piecing together hard wood floors like a thousand piece jig-saw puzzle. Draping fresh new carpet, or vinyl, or tile on worn out floors too tired to talk. He takes so much pride in his work. I forget that sometimes because I am so consumed in the college lifestyle.
ReplyDelete“ Hey dad can I get some more money. I’m spent all my money.”
“I can’t get, ‘a good evening or how was your day, Daddy?’ .All you do is call me when you need money.”
He is right. His bruised and wrinkled fingers and sore knees have not only paved many floors, but have paved me with opportunities to be who I want to be. I definitely need to call him to check up him and let him I know appreciate him for just being my Daddy. He has watched my yellow butt grown up into a twenty-two year old. I always cherish our rides on a Saturday morning driving down the road listening to the Soul/Motown station or watching him sit on the porch in deep contemplation.
He has been mine chauffeur as long as I can remember. Always waiting as I said good bye to everybody and their grandma in the band room after practice in high school. I’m sure I traumatized him when I was attempting to Parallel Park the first time. Even though I am still a work in progress when it comes to driving, I hope Big Zeke is proud of the man I am becoming.
The campfire flames were flickering. Cicadas calling to one another. Laughter coming from some of my closest friends and family. Homemade ice cream and the smell of hour-old charcoal. There is nothing better than sitting around a campfire at Guntersville State Park in the middle of an 80 degree summer night. Yeah, I realize it is summer and a fire is blazing. But I wouldn’t have a summer night any other way. My shirt sticks to my back when I rise from my chair. Sweat mats up my hair at the back of my neck. Mosquitos don’t stand a chance. OFF bug spray works wonders to fight off those pesky, blood sucking creatures. Fold-up arm chairs of every color enclose the yellow and orange wood hungry flames. Other campers come by to say “Hi” and visit for a while. You visit with them like you’ve known them your entire life. Bicycle tires meeting pavement is a constant sound in the campground. It’s the main mode of transportation. In the distance, the red and green glow of a fisherman’s boat light leads him back to the boat launch. We sit around the fire feeding it for hours. Someone finally asks to make smores. One of the guys whittles the end of thin branches for sticks. The white marshmallows eventually get a tan and some get burned. Chocolate meets marshmallow and graham cracker to make a delicious snack. My cousin will bring out her fiddle, and my brother will bring out his banjo. We have our own version of the Grand Ole Opry except with fewer instruments and the singing is off key at times. No one really cares—we are just here to have fun. Soon, lights are going out at surrounding campers. It’s a night that I never want to end. It’s a night of doing much of nothing yet having the time of my life. Summers in the South—love ‘em!
ReplyDeleteKristin’s description of Christmas was great. It painted a very vivid picture in my mind of such a busy holiday. Sometimes we get so caught up in the hustle and bustle of the Christmas season that we forget to take a minute to appreciate what is before our eyes.
A chance encounter at a show he’d just played, one I only went to in order to catch up with an old high school friend, and I’m was his house with a decently sized group of people. We spoke, I mean had a real conversation, complete with tears and drunken embraces. And we were suddenly as close as friends could be. I eluded his invitations to hang out for the next couple days with the excuse of tiredness from my job as a hostess at Outback Steakhouse. Before long, I was finding myself over at his house every single night, with some oddball assortment of friends. Each night, though, I’d end up being the last remaining visitor, and we’d sit out by his pool or lying on his bedroom floor smoking cigarettes in endless conversation. I’d tell my mom that we were just really good friends; at this point I thought I was telling the whole truth. I got off after my closing shift at outback for the usual wine and fellowship. His parents always welcomed me with open arms; his mother referred to me as a butterfly once when I came in through the garage entrance. I spoke to his parents as uninhibited as I did with him. They were surprised when I told them that I am generally quite shy. I knew I could trust them. I’d sit in a high-top chair next to his mother where we would ramble on about every topic under the sun. We both have strong family ties in El Paso, Texas, so we were basically spirit sisters (or spirit mother/daughter). I’d sit on the counter and speak with his Dad, oblivious to the concept of time. One day I came in after work and was having such a conversation with the Mr. He gleefully told me that his son had confessed that I was the one he would marry (wine was the common drink of the house). I beamed and said that I’d be ok with that; I would have married the boy in an instant, and we hadn’t ever even kissed. His dad said he’d pay for that wedding, and we laughed and hugged. There were several other guests over at the time, and the group consensus was to go for a night swim. I didn’t have a suit with me, but after some persuading I jumped in the pool in my camisole and work skirt. He (clarification: not his dad) picked me up and held me in the water. He looked at me, and I looked at him. We looked inside each other and shared our first kiss. Our first kiss felt like the thousandth, and I believed a thousand more would follow. I had encountered love. Real-life love. And nothing else mattered (at least until I returned to Auburn to resume my diving training).
ReplyDeleteO.M.G. Laura M. - that was so adorable.
ReplyDeleteFor Christmas that year I got the coolest Karaoke machine and I was dying to try it out. A week later I invited 10 of my closest friends over for what I hoped would be the best birthday party ever (see, I was often disappointed considering my birthday is four days after Christmas and most everyone is usually out of town). At first we were having a great time, belting out Britney Spears, Christina Aguilera, and Faith Hill like we were the stars themselves.
ReplyDeleteThen my dad came down during an intermission in the performances. He wanted to give it a try, so he grabbed the microphone and selected his song. Hesitantly I sat back in the middle of a group of giggling girls, wishing my life was over. The music started. It was the unmistakable Latin beat of Ricky Martin’s one (and only) hit “Livin the Vida Loca”. It all went downhill from there. He shook his bon bon and, surprisingly, did not need to follow along with the lyrics on the screen. He knew them all already. My friends thought it was hilarious; I wanted to die, right then and there. That evening would haunt me into my high school years. Every once in a while, one of the 10 girls that were at that party would randomly come up to me and say, “Hey, remember that one time your dad sang Ricky Martin at your birthday party?”
Yes, I remember...
After my grandfather had his stroke he was bedridden. I was young, and he had never been all that warm toward his grandchildren, more like he was putting up with us, the opposite of our loving grandmother. But then he became weakened; he became a little bit softer. This once ominous man, who had to watch tv at 6:30 to watch the evening news, despite any pleas from the grandkids; this man who used to take us hunting for squirrels and other such small game; this man was now not so much a man. He could not do for himself anymore; his muscles had turned against him and he did not have the strength at his age to fight back. He was wheelchair ridden, then bed ridden; my grandmother did all for him. I remember once being asked if I ‘wanted to go talk to Pa?’ and I dreaded nothing more, but sensed the obligation behind the request. I walked into the darkened room and saw Pa sitting up in his bed, not doing much. He asked me how I was doing, Wart, the name he deemed me from my infancy. I tried to talk, he tried to talk back. I remember a long silence where I started to back away but also realized the redicoulousness of trying to back out of such a situation. He realized and told me I could leave. I ran away from that dark, frightening room having learned my first lesson of humanity. That it is ultimately frail and weak, and all of our posturing leads us little place else than our own death-bed. There was far too much reality laying in that bed for my ten year old self to handle.
ReplyDeleteAn ordinary day in Auburn, Alabama where I don't expect anything magical to happen. Blue sky, the sound of those annoying birds outside my window talking really loudly to each other, the television playing in the background...I scour the fridge for something to make for lunch. My eyes settle and decide on grilled cheese, something I've been eating since I was born. So many memories associated with just one sandwich - just a smell. I turn on the stove feeling my skin react to the building heat. The sizzle as the bread and butter hits the skillet is a stark contrast to the normal background noises. It's then that the smell hits me and I feel her. I was there in the kitchen with her ten years ago as she whipped up a grilled cheese for me and my brother every day for many summers. She became my grandmother, even though she wasn't mine to claim. And now she's here with me. As if to remind me that there is nothing to fear - I will never forget her. I FEEL her. There is no other way to describe it. And I see her clearly for the first time in a long time. I cry, which shocks me. All this emotion for no reason other than the smell of grilled cheese. She's real and back with me if only for the smallest length of time. And I realize that all those stories about memories and death and spirits are real. And I was a fool to think otherwise.
ReplyDeleteThis comment has been removed by the author.
ReplyDeleteI’m sitting at the edge of the clear-cut, a stand of trees at my back like a wall. My horse, Bourbon, shifts under me, cocking one of her back hooves up on its edge. We’ve been sitting here a while and she huffs out a breath to make her displeasure known, but I can’t move yet. The huntsman told me to watch this area and I know why – game often cuts through this clear-cut in an attempt to run out of our hunting territory.
ReplyDeleteNo sight of anything. No hounds, no game, no other riders… I’m alone. I kick my feet out of the stirrups and let my legs stretch down, my knees creaking and popping with the shift. Even as I relax my seat and posture, I keep my eyes scanning the clear-cut. The quarry that we hunt (fox, coyote and bobcat) are all quick, silent and very hard to spot.
Suddenly I hear a sharp yip begin the swamp that is back behind me. I gather up my reins and turn my horse to face it, trying to distinguish if it is just a young hound getting overzealous or if it is something that the other hounds will pick up on. Bourbon’s ears prick towards the sound. Then, voice after voice joining in, the rest of the hounds honor the first hound’s solo, until the whole pack is singing in harmony. There is nothing like the song of the pack. You get the older hounds’ deep timbre paired with the younger hounds’ higher pitch (both from age and excitement), and it all mixes to make a beautiful chorus that echoes through the woods. Almost getting lost in the music that the pack is making, I realized where there are headed. Directly towards me.
I shove my feet into the stirrups and gather up my reins even more, all the while scanning the area for the game that set off the pack. The radio I wear strapped around my chest crackles into life, my huntsman’s voice coming through. “Stay with the pack, I got stuck on the other side of the swamp.”
Uh oh, that means he has to work his way all the way around… he’s not going to get here in time, I thought. “Crap.” I murmur out loud, causing Bourbon’s ears to flick back at me for a second before jerking back to the hounds. I turn my own attention back to the hounds, trying to decipher from their voices where they are going, while also shuffling through my memory of past hunts on this land to guess where the game might be headed. My eyes shoot to my right – the road.
“Crap-ity, crap, crap, crap!” I snarl as I knee Bourbon into a canter. She takes off. She’s been ready to go since the moment she heard the hounds open up into full cry and was just waiting for my signal. They game will head for the road in an attempt to lose its scent on the hot pavement, thus losing the hounds. I open Bourbon up, asking for more speed, as the hounds tear out of the stand of trees not far from where I was just positioned. Bourbon and I gallop past the hounds and push even farther ahead of the pack.
And then I see it. A beautiful, and large, black fox. She is running full tilt towards the road and I know I need to get between her and my hounds. American foxhunting is not about the kill, it is about the chase, and I will do everything in my power to keep our hounds from getting to her. Pushing Bourbon even more, I reach the road right as the fox crosses it and pull Bourbon up into an abrupt halt. As much as I want to watch that fox, I’ve got to stop those hounds. It takes everything I have, horn, whip and voice, but I get the pack stopped.
They look up at me, soulful eyes and whining voices asking me why I stopped them, but as we trot away from the road, the pack following at Bourbon’s heels, a large truck comes barreling down the road easily going 20 over the speed limit. I glance back, making sure I have my whole pack, to see a pair of yellow eyes watching me from across the road. The black fox seems to grin at me and with a flick of her tail disappears into the trees.
“Another day, Lady, another day,” I murmur.
The seeds are spread out in the fleshy palms of my hands. So tiny, so insubstantial and inconsequential. I could chuck them over my shoulder and not give them another thought... but I don't. I carefully spade out the tough chunks of Georgia clay and pile them up next to the neat little holes I've dug in a row. The sweet scent of upturned earth floats me to a euphoric level. The grasshoppers and tumbling bumblebees sing out in the spring air ripe with promise. Life is all around me, from the worms and beetles scurrying away from the spade, to the cardinals and bluejays darting through the spears of sunlight between the trees. I drop the seeds into their little graves of hope one by one. Covering them ignites something primal inside me, a deep, inexplicable satisfaction. I soak the earth with rain from a watering can. It turns dark and rich, did I add too much? Did I drown them before they ever got the chance to live? Am I giving life or taking it away? They need extra water, the suffocating Georgia heat will suck all the moisture out within a few hours tomorrow. I go inside the glowing house and forget about the tiny seeds.
ReplyDeleteBlades shoot out of the earth at a mind blowing rate. One day they reach my knees, the next my hips. Their big brown faces explode up towards the sun, and yellow petals as big as my pinkies unfurl. They stand like giants, some towering over my head; others I can look at face to face. They start each day expectantly gazing towards the East and end it sleepily watching the sun slide behind the trees in the West. It's incredible that these gargantuans that adore the sun sprouted from the dark hole of uncertainty.
Inspiration did not lend itself to accompany me on Friday – or Saturday – night. So here I sit. Driving back from home to Auburn, trying to drum up some beautiful, inspirational couple of paragraphs to write on the blog two days late. I tell myself I will not write about you. But you’re the one thing I seem to be able to think about clearly on this ride and nearly every other time I make the trip. The only thing.
ReplyDeleteI can see you. Dancing in the car all crazy to T.I.’s “What You Know About That” like you knew something about rap songs. And Lord knows you don’t. You always were funny like that. I remember you standing on my cousin’s front lawn displaying the heart made of tea-light candles enclosing a vase filled with an assortment of flowers. My body rhythms slow to a pace just quick enough to keep me alive in the memory. It took me months to get all the wax off my war. And I didn’t care.
I can hear you chasing your little brother around the yard just as fall creeps in. The leaves crunch like fresh thyme on a cutting board. He giggles, and you growl as you pretend to slowly catch up to his speed. He adores you. And he’s not the only one. I recall the way you bent over with laughter when I got caught on that fence by my coveralls way out in the woods somewhere trying to follow the coon dogs. You smiled innocently like you’d never seen it before – my blue thong hanging out of my camouflage. But you had.
I can still smell you. The scent of your cologne as you “dressed up” to go out to eat (in your Lynyrd Skynyrd shirt, holy jeans, and riding boots). You looked more handsome than you’ll ever know and smelled so manly, so protective, I’ll never forget. On days I pass a working crew, I think of you. The way you smelled when you got home from work – like sweat and honest work. Like a man aching for me to hold him like the child he wanted to be, like a man wanting me to cure not just the calluses on his hands, but the blisters on his heart.
I sometimes taste you. Soap and toothpaste and heat after a hot shower. Sweet and salty after you ate a fried bologna and cheese sandwich I made to help ease the stress of work. Like barbeque and corn and lemon and lime after your favorite drink and chip combo from the local gas station. Sweet as sugar every time you kissed me goodnight, long and gentle, avoiding the words.
If I close my eyes hard enough, I can feel you. Your hands helping mine remove your shirt when you came home in the evening. The hair on your chest. The bulkiness of your body. Your hands wrapped around me and laid on the small of back. Your arms lifting to carry me to the shower. Your lips pressed so hard against mine I think It may be permanent. Your fingers in my hair.
It’s all I can think about on this ride. And I have two and half hours with nothing to do but want you. Want you so bad it hurts, so bad I cry. Long just to hear your voice say my name, and wonder if it ever does in passing. Wonder if I’ll ever hear it again. I left because you consumed my life, my everything. And I was told it isn’t healthy. But you still consume my life, though not physically, you appear everywhere else. My thoughts, my prayers, my journals, my songs. My dreams. My soul can’t shake you – my aura stained with yours. Your pains, your wishes, your thoughts, your memories, your goals. Our desire. So many things we did were wrong on so many levels, but I loved you. [LOVE] you. And that will always be so, so right.
Our sibling rivalry, sparked by the divorce of our parents, was truly brutal. We had a passion for hating one another and on that spring night of 2001 I would exact my revenge. Okay, earlier that day my sister stole a promise ring that I had saved up for to give my girlfriend. She wouldn't tell me where she'd hid it. Why did she do this you might ask, well the answer is easy, she was nuts. I searched for it all day but never found it and only heard her laugh when my mom would say "Leave her alone Tyler!".
ReplyDeleteI found the ring hidden in her sock drawer and that wasn't the only thing I found in her room, she had also taken my guitar, broke the neck of it and hid it in her closet. This only added fuel to the fire. As my sister dressed to go to the prom I devised a way of getting even. She fixed her hair in an almost beehiveish way, stacked above her head with curls coming down beside her ears. I grabbed a ladder and worked my way on top of the roof carrying a fully loaded Super-Soaker. As she came out of the house I took careful aim and unleashed a jet of water that soaked the monstrosity that sat upon her head! My mother screamed as my sisters hair almost seemed to melt slide off one side of her head.
Victory!
At that moment I had been vindicated. The look of horror in her eyes said it all as her hair-do piled on the side of her face. They say revenge never solves anything but that was the last time she ever took anything else from my room.
Heartbroken, bitter, cynical, bitch. Those were the words I and others used to describe me. There I was, burned by love, or what I thought was love, ready to fuck it all and only do what I wanted. Period. It had been a year and a half... I got so good at being single and just doing me. Part of me still longed for someone, and another part was scared to death to be with another person; to fall in love again. You came out of nowhere. We had known each other before, but this time it was different. Something changed. You stole my heart before I even had the chance to say "No". I had always said I would never do long distance, but with you.. it feels too damn right. You're everything I have ever wanted... funny, smart, handsome, charming, determined, kind. You're the perfect guy for me.
ReplyDeleteThat weekend at the beach house with your family.... I saw something in you that made me go weak in the knees. I fell in love with your family and the way you were with them. One week later... it hit me. I remember the exact day.... I fell completely and totally in love with you. It was so hard to keep it in. What was I thinking? It hasn't been that long yet... what if I scared you away? So I held it all in.
I was so glad to see you when you came to visit. Your strong arms holding me so tightly against you as you kissed me. Our chemistry is euphoric. Everything was perfect that night. Out having fun with our friends... holding hands and stealing kisses. Laying next to you that night... looking into your eyes I wanted so badly to tell you. I whispered that I was holding something in that I shouldn't say.... you told me you knew what it was. How could he possibly know, I thought. "Do you mean it?", you asked me. Yes. I do mean it... but I'm not saying it first. You looked at me for a moment... and said... "I love you, baby."
I asked if you meant it and when you knew... you said it was the weekend we spent with your family. You said, "I knew you were the girl I want to spend the rest of my life with." "I love you too", I whispered back. That next kiss was unforgettable.
Now I sit here... missing you like crazy... our song running through my mind. One day it won't be long distance. One day you'll be by my side always. I miss you.
I love you like crazy.
The church was dressed in the usual Christmas attire: poinsettias ranging in various sizes, green and red trim dripping off tables and doorways, gold nativity scenes awaiting the birth of our Lord, and a plethora of white and gold ornaments upon a twenty-foot tree. A couple of new decorations adorned the sanctuary this Saturday afternoon: family-tied gold bows upon every other pew and a white runner. Visitors and members anxiously waited for the service to begin. Thomas, the organist, signals the procession with a classical number that, as important as it was at the time, I cannot remember. I see the bridal party walk away one by one until my father and I are all that’s left. The sweet sadness on his face resembles that of many other crowning moments like graduations and recognitions, but not the same. I’m his little girl. And I’m going to be a wife now.
ReplyDeleteThe walk down the aisle wasn’t nearly as important as the arrival in front of James. He exuded calm excitement in his gold-green eyes and his firm stance. He had been waiting for me. His hands were steady, and they held mine with a familiar comfort. The time came, and he said his vows without the slightest hesitation or dramatics while staring straight into my eyes. Something forever changed inside of me.
Love
I want to be as good of a writer as Morgan Birdsong...wow.
ReplyDeleteI also love Katy Perry's post because it reminds me of the long distance my husband and I went through the first three years we dated. And I had sworn to loathe him for all eternity after we "dated" the time before that. I get it.
The bright lights. My make up... sloughing away, as quickly as I can get it on. My hands are shaking. My knees are trembling...and my feet, well, they kill.
ReplyDeleteMy dress is too big, so let's pray it stays on.
I had done it. My dreams came true...
Shattered. Heartbroken. Disappointed.
That bitch of a giant in the blue dress, stole it from me. She laughs carelessly. Acting so surprised. Don't tell me you're surprised. You knew all along, that your thin frame and 20 feet tall stature had just won it. I should have known, barely over 5 feet tall wasn't going to cut it.
All of this hard work. For nothing. Eating chicken, broccoli, and eggs for months- all for nothing. Working out 3 hours a day. Nothing.
IT WAS ALL FOR NOTHING.
4 years later, I can look back and smile. Because it was for nothing. Nothing important. Nothing worthwhile. Nothing that would mean anything years down the road.
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ReplyDeleteA new house. I've always had a fear of closed-in spaces, and that first night I was almost choking from the feeling of closed in walls as the ceiling seemed to come down on my chest in realization that this was the place I had to call home now. I was drowning in the sheets. Those new sheets my mother bought me as a bribe to make me feel better about the move.
ReplyDeleteI had only known one home, and those yellow walls just shined light on the reality that my new home was just a sad reminder of the all those things lost in the house on Bankston Street.
I didn't matter that I had my own room. I missed climbing up to the top bunk while my sister sat below me and complained over not being allowed to have the remote. I missed swinging my head just to the right to dodge the ceiling fan from knocking me out. I missed being able to hear everything that was moving in the garage which was only a drywall away from my ear. I missed the bay window with shades that doubled as curtains revealing the nights live entertainment courtesy of our imaginary playwright. I missed everything, and it was all on my chest that first night in the new house.
I couldn't move in my bed. Motionless, I kept my eyes closed only to keep myself from seeing all the unpacked boxes around me.
That night hurt as much as the reason we moved in the first place.
To get away.
The house was haunted with memories, and my mom was a ghost of her former self. She had to get out, start over. I couldn't tell her I didn't feel the same way. It was torture for me, but the necessary washing away of sadness for her.
I felt selfish for my own reasons.
So there I sat in my new bed, tears staining the new new sheets.
And I fell asleep. The next morning didn't feel any different.
I really like your post, Ferrell. Btw, is that your first or last name? Either way, I love it! I can really relate to those confusing feelings of a new home - exciting, scary, depressing. It's so strange that a place filled to the brim with boxes and new furniture can feel....so empty.
ReplyDeleteAfter weeks of proclaiming that “I couldn’t wait to see you” and that “I missed you” and after hours on the phone discussing plans and weaving the details, and after crossing off so many days on the calendar I finally got to see you. After being alone for so long, and then still sitting alone on the plane for the last two and a half hours. All worth it for the way it felt to slide my hand in to yours and walk out of the airport like we owned the world. I saw people watching us out of the corner of their eye, struggling with the weight of their bags and the emotions that they were all trying to conceal. They saw us embrace. They saw us latch on to each other like it was the most natural thing we could possibly do. They saw my eyes light up when I looked into your face and I felt your lips meet mine. I know that everybody around us had to be jealous of us in that moment, had to wonder why they too weren’t encased in the embrace of the person that they loved most. I know that they were feeling jealous because I had felt jealous so many times before while watching a similar scene, someone else’s love story. I handed you my bag and grabbed your hand and headed towards those revolving doors, thankful that I had to fit two people into that tiny space, thankful that the door spun so fast that you had to stand so close to me.
ReplyDeleteSo, first I need to get some things out on the table—let’s call it a confession—and I realize this is probably not the place or time, but I’m doing it because apparently there aren’t any rules. I started blogging over a year ago now, and it’s become a place where I go when I’m feeling troubled, or just need some quiet time (writing is the only thing that sorts my thoughts). Last February, I was scanning through some of my fellow blog friend’s profiles in search of some new blogs to read and follow, and I came across “Writing Out Loud.” I was having a quiet night alone in my room. A thinking night. I had some things on my mind that only the silence could comfort. I started reading, but everything written on there was so good that it was almost as if my eyes couldn’t read and comprehend fast enough. It didn’t take me long to figure out it was for a class at Auburn, and the jealousy and lust set it. I did everything I could to figure out whose class it was, and most of all, every single part of me yearned for the opportunity to share a classroom and a semester with other writers like that. All of my reading that night inspired a blog post on my own, and every once in a while I revisit “Writing Out Loud” just to read back over some of it’s beauty.
ReplyDeleteThis “Velveteen Writer” post has made me realize two things: 1) I’m exactly where I am supposed to be. Writing makes my heart beat faster, and slows it at the same time. It’s a peaceful excitement that touches me like dance used to. 2) Our time together is nearly over, and I wish so badly this class could have been a full-length semester instead of a 5-week minimester. Saying I’m emotionally attached to a college course is a little ridiculous, but I’m going to say it anyway…I have a love crush on this class and it’s worse when I know the break-up is coming.
As I mentioned in a previous post, a good friend of mine challenged me to write something with no edits. Well I guess this is challenge #2 (and an annoying reminder that I still haven’t done so) so I’m going to have to “man up” and finally do it. Here goes…
Nothing…But really. I wrote the first part of this as soon as the blog was posted, and got stuck when it came to writing something real again (much like every other time we’ve had to write in class the past week or so). I left it alone for a few days thinking about it every once in a while, and now as I sit here when I know I have to write SOMETHING, there still isn’t anything coming out. I think this is a lesson to myself about how I write. I can’t think of only one instance where something completely and totally real came out, and you could say I just got lost in the moment. Something had touched me…brought me back to “my glory days” and the memory was so vivid I could smell it and it all rushed over the dam before I could salvage any last bit of retention. It was all unexpected and I didn’t have to force it. Sometimes when I sit down to respond to things, I feel like I have to prove something. Something profound and inspirational has to come out, and I forget that being real isn’t supposed to be hard, but natural. And I forget where I am—a class that cares more about the art rather than how “smart” you are.
I guess this ended up pretty real after all…
You break my heart, Valerie. You are so very, very, REAL.
ReplyDeleteJuly 27, 2006. Parents, brother, grandparents, aunts, uncles, cousins, and friends all gather around the dining room table. There was something different about the table that night. I was at the head of it. I was celebrating my sixteenth birthday. My day had been centered around going to the courthouse and taking my driver’s test (with a rather terrifying woman). After proudly receiving my driver’s license, I sported a smile for the rest of the day. The day that I had been in anticipation of for as long as I could remember was finally here. With my driver’s license in hand, I was ready to conquer the world. My focus had solely been on getting that license. It is only looking back at that night, and those smiling faces that surrounded me on that night that I can see how truly blessed I am. Not only was this day a huge milestone in my life, but I had the people I loved the most there to share that memorable day with. Why am I so lucky? Why am I so blessed to have so many in my people in my life that genuinely care? The answer I will never know, but I will never cease to be thankful.
ReplyDeleteI really like Kristen’s description of her family Christmas. It reminds me so much of Christmas at my house, and I love that. The descriptions made me feel as if I was also a part of her family Christmas. It is memories such as these that remind us of the simple joys in life.
I have spent the last twenty minutes of my life on the second floor computer lab of the Ralph Brown Draughon Library in one of the dark gray plastic chairs about twenty meters from the reference desk with books like USCA: Taxpayer Relief Act of 1997 at my back –and- with the perfect view of a boy’s scrolling computer screen at the parallel island. He loves Nirvana.
ReplyDelete{Youtube.com}Come as You Are/Smells Like Teen Spirit/Lithium/Heart-Shaped Box/A bunch more songs. He didn’t watch the directed music videos or the live performances. He watched those youtube music videos you come upon which are slideshows composed of pictures and, in this instance, every picture was of Kurt Cobain’s smiling face. I want to spend twenty minutes and more listening to music but I don’t know if I can be entranced by a singer’s face for that duration. He’s gotta love Nirvana.
Shoot back to seventh grade. I was a sloppy guitar player (I still am). My power chords were composed of my index finger and my ring with my pinky hiding behind the neck. In fact, most of my moveable major chords using strings A-D-G-B-E were also played this way. The reason this is relevant is a man named Kurt Cobain.
Kurt Cobain was a sloppy guitar player. His power chords were composed of his index finger and his ring finger crushing strings to fretboard on his Fender Mustang. His pinky finger would slink behind the neck for added support. My pinky would too.
My friend Keegan pointed out the similarity to me during Algebra/Trigonometry or whatever Math class we were wasting our time in; I quickly forced myself to learn how to place my fingers in an approved manner.
Back to the Future: The kid watching the Nirvana videos just left. You’ll be happy to hear he was wearing a Nirvana shirt as well. I couldn’t believe it. Then I could. Then I made eye contact. Then I looked away.
Return to the not so past: I learned in time that Cobain wasn’t such a bad guitar player. The chord shape was a choice he made, consciously or unconsciously, and it shaped his music. It was part of his voice. What would Rape Me have sounded like with Diminished 7ths, Sustained 4ths, and Augmented anythings in the place of his naturally fretted power chords? I don’t want to know.
Real? This was my reality:
ReplyDeleteSummer 2010. Hit me like a hurricane off the shore of a vast ocean. I was in my prime. 21 and ready for whatever comes my way. Most of it consisted of: $3 dollar Wells at Quixotes, Long FPS nights (Front Porch Sittin’), and endless afternoons at Creekside pool.
The drink was Dirty Shirley. Couldn’t drink anything else on a Wednesday night. Usually it took about two to get me back home and passed out in the bed, but this night surprised me.
There he was, standing by one of my best friends. Tall, tan, brown eyes, brown hair, and cute smile. Sold for 10 million dollars! Perfection. After a couple of shirley’s, I made my way to my friend. (Side note: This is the point in the drunkenness where my confidence is through the ceiling.) Not even my own conservative mother could stop me.
Eased my way carefully, trying not to spill the new beer I had so confidently purchased, I grabbed my friend in that embarrassing stooper and asked to be introduced. This introduction would surely score me points in the “No She’s Not Absolutely Hammered and Embarassingly Drunk” Department. Stumbling to shake his hand, he told me his name and chuckled a bit. Knew what this guy was thinking. Well, on to the next one.
Next option: Dance floor. I head out there, head held high, friends by my side, and drink in hand. BAM! My bony ass, legs, and well, whole body slams down on the alcohol soaked, wooden floor. Damn it! Why why why? Head spinning from the nightmare that had occurred once in previous dreams, I stood.
“Abs! You never cease to amaze me!” Drunken friend. Her face turned from glee to horror in seconds. Slowly I looked down at my feet. There it was, the moment I was waiting for. Time to go, or better yet, time to puke my guts up at the sight of my big toe gushing blood with my toe nail hanging by a small, threadlike string of flesh.
Here we go again. BAM. Let’s hit the floor one more time. As I start to realize my nausea has set in, I look up at my knight in shining armor.
“Are you okay? Here, let me help you up to the bar and I’ll see if Aaron has some napkins or gauze to wrap that thing. Geez girl, hard hit.” Grinning from ear to ear, even through the pain in my toe, I couldn’t help but wonder how perfect we would be for each other.
He doctored the horrific toe, managed to keep his cool swagger, and made sure I had a safe ride home. The Knight eventually turned into the boyfriend, which then turned into the douche bag. Let’s just say I keep this fresh in my memory bank so I won’t fall for the “prince” again in the Drink Specials Kingdom.
Lesson officially learned. A special thanks to all those a part of this drunken night.
Forgot to mention. Song on the dance floor: Drop it Low.
Who’s to say that a truer voice isn’t more important? I believe on contrary that it is. Therapeutic, absolutely—important most definitely. If you leave out the facts and falsify what you say, its not doing the job you as a writer need it to do. You need to feel when you write. You need to go back to the meaning of those words that you put down on paper and FEEL the words. You need to embrace them in order for them to be REAL.
ReplyDeleteI feel as our instructor, our mentor, our leader you can help guide us to feel the words. After all, words are just words until you put meaning and emotion behind them. I think I personally struggle with facing the feeling. I don’t want to remember a lot of the feeling. It becomes difficult to express through words if you don’t feel. That’s what I want to get out of all of this. Its easy to scrape the surface and pretend like you’re delving into the mystic, but its reeeeeeeally difficult to get there. I need your help. It’s taken me so long to respond to this blog because I’m struggling to even find the words. I think its scary to write “real” stuff because you don’t want anyone to judge you from the words. They shape/reshape who you are and you don’t want to give the wrong impression—or any impression to a regular ole stranger without them getting to know you first—but actually, after typing that maybe it’s the only way they CAN get to know you first. I just finished reading Virginia Woolf “The Lady in the Looking Glass” for another class and its very similar to this thinking. You can see a person on the surface, but you can’t really gain a true impression of them until you spend time to understand their consciousness and impressions. By reading real words about a person you can become their “friend” and capture their essence and understand what they’re all about. Kinda scary, but it makes sense.
I’m struggling thinking of my essence, it’s hard to be real because I feel like there are so many facets to people. We’re very complex creatures and I feel like being able to capture all sides is challenging. I feel like I don’t know where to begin and it’s going to take some time for me to ponder this exercise. The letter to me is going to be difficult, because I’m going to want to candy coat everything to myself to make it seem like its all going to be ok ... maybe try and justify some actions in my past to my current self? Being real is hard. It’s hard being real with other people as much as it is, if not more with yourself.
It was April 27th 2011. I hadnt started my term paper yet which was due that Friday. My mind was muddled in a haze all day; my girlfriend had just broken up with me, exams were starting to roll around, I was still two classes short of graduating but couldnt find a place to take those classes, and I still hadnt started my term paper. It was cloudy outside and just starting to drizzle when I walked to the library with my head being tossed in hundreds of different directions. After sitting down and knocking out a few awful sentences to start the paper I heard the tornado sirens start up. More annoyed than anything, I trudged forward with the assignment. Damn those tornado sirens were bothering me. This was the second straight day that they had gone off while I was in the middle of something, couldnt they give me a break? Then, they did. It was pure silence. The power went out in the library at the exact same time that I was starting my 3rd page. The noise had stopped to. Why did the sirens stop? I didnt care, I was pissed that my paper wasnt saved and that I would have to start over from scratch. Ten minutes passed, twenty minutes passed, thirty minutes. About thirty minutes after the power went out I left the library wondering what in the hell was going on. I began calling people asking what was up with Alabama Power. The responses were very unhelpful, some parts of campus still had power, and the people who lived a good bit from campus werent answering their phones. Finally, my mom called me and asked me if I was ok. Of course I was, I answered the phone didnt I? She then proceeded to tell me that an EF-4 tornado had just torn apart 15th Street and most of the city of Tuscaloosa. I didnt believe her, I knew that we were expecting bad weather, but she has a way of over-exaggerating things. At the conclusion of that conversation, I decided to head over to my buddy Hank's place to see if I could write my paper over there, and to see if my mom was telling the truth. Roads were jam packed with cars. Slowly moving towards Hank's I started to notice the damage. A tree down in the road was causing the backup. Everything was clear up ahead. What I didnt notice was the police blockade that had been set up to prevent people from driving on 15th. So I, like hundreds of others, parked my car to have a look around. Rubble was everywhere. Buildings had been completely floored. The pond across from the Wendy's was filled with full grown trees and bodies. Yes human bodies. I was absolutely horrified. I wanted to throw up, cry, and help out all at the same time. I wandered over to Lennys where a few of my friends worked. The place was still standing but part of the wall was caved in and the front window was missing. As I walked inside waiting for someone, anyone that I knew, to walk out I noticed a large pool of blood running from the bathroom. I busted through the door expecting the worst. No one was there. Where was everyone? Where is 15th street? Hank called a little later telling me that part of his house had been blown away with his truck and that Michael was taken from Lennys to the hospital after being struck with the front window. His finger was severed while he was holding the bathroom door for one of his coworkers (As it turns out chivalry isnt dead, it's just missing a finger). Chris and Mikey were both already treated for a concussion and a horribly broken arm respectively. Michael's finger was reattched and is now functional. Even with their injuries, Michael Chris and Mikey would be the first to tell you that they were lucky to be alive. Hundreds of people died in Tuscaloosa on April 27th 2011. The city was destroyed and will take years to bring it back to what it once was. The scene on 15th Street and Hackberry was chilling at best. I will never, ever forget what I witnessed on that day. Never forget the thoughts that were racing through my head. One sticking out more than the others: What in God's name happened to my city?
ReplyDeleteThe smell of apple pie fills the kitchen air. I'm half asleep upstairs, but can hear my mother roll out of bed at 5AM to put the turkey in for Thanksgiving. In seven hours our house will become filled with cousins, girlfriends, and grandmothers. I try to sleep just a little longer to avoid my duties in the kitchen. It's no use, my dad pulls me out of bed as I pled for 5 more minutes. I enter the kitchen to find my mother making bacon-wrapped green bean bundles.
ReplyDeleteI have to admit Thanksgiving is my favorite holiday, but can get a little overwhelming at times with all the company present in one place. For one day it's a zone free of judgement and fighting, one day where the family gives thanks to God and can enjoy each other's company. I organize the dinning room table and make sure everything is in its proper place. Forks, knives, plates, name tags so everyone knows where to sit. The dinning room table is our place to catch up and tell stories about time lost together. We share stories of good memories we shared with the family. My grandmother says her traditional Thanksgiving prayer and afterwards we dive into the food and begin an all out feast of food. Afterwards we are sleepy and lay down on the couch to watch the Dallas Cowboys play their traditional Thanksgiving day game. There is nothing like this feeling of being together.
Family.
I ate lunch at outback yesterday with a shell. It was a man I have referred to as "pawpaw" since I was able to utter the words. As I sat acroos from this 88 year old man quietly ingesting his well done sirloin and baked potato and taken over by dimensia I found myself asking questions that made me feel guilt or ashamed. But questions need answers.
ReplyDeleteAs I looked at him silently ingesting his over done waste of a cow he seemed to be in a world that was part this and part else. I realized something. I am the grandson to a farmer turned door to door salesman. A man whose only hobby has been work, either business or yard related.
His son, my father, Chuck, also suffers from the same affliction, one no doctor can diagnose. Not dimensia, but a life that at time appears void of pleasure, or dreams. I say this not to scorn them or speak negatively of their character. They are men of character. The type who, no matter the cost, work, put food on the table, sleep, and repeat.
That being said I am a fearful individual. Fearful that I may transform (or already am transforming) into these two amiable, upstanding citizens.
Genetics does not neccesarilly tie us down to what we will become but it damn sure can guide us their without us ever knowing.
These two hard working men, have made sacrifices, and grand ones at that. specifically my father, who, for the sacrifices he has made, to simply say thank you would do him a grand injustice. This is the part where I know I should elaborate on how dearly I love my father, this working class hero. Dont get my wrong I most certainly do.
In some ways though I resent this man, my father. I have seen the pictures, hair down to his back wailing on a drum set like Animal from the Muppets and it makes me wonder. What happened to that guy? When did he start clocking in and out without question? Did he give up on some dream? did he ever even have one? Did something go wrong? Do you suffer for complacency or are the responsibilities of parenthood and providing so grand that trying to explain it is not even possible?
I have based my life on crossing those "lines in the sand" and asking why, or why not, on dreaming big. I just want a heads up, if he ever did the same and whether I could possibly be doomed to his same fate.
I have avoided commenting on this post for a very long time. I visit our class blog and I get swept away by the beauty of writing. We are all trying to navigate through and we all accomplish it in our own ways. This one blog post has been a tricky one. I have read and re-read valerie's post many times which, is actually quite embarassing because we are "study friends." Reading this blog has become almost an extention of my thoughts. What I can't say y'all do and many times, the way I feel is written so eloquently by others. This concept of fake and real seems to plauge everyone. We all know when we offer fake smiles or laugh to be nice. But I want to write what is real not just a fake thought of what may or may not be me. So here goes. If you read this little comment you're going to know more about me than you wanted. This is me. This is real:
ReplyDeletePerfection. We all strive toward it (or pretend to) but very rarely is it achieved. The sheer weight of this idealistic burden weighs down on me every single day. I am hardly perfect. I know that. And, quite frankly, you aren't even close. But I couldn't help but compare myself to you every day growing up. There were things I was better at, things you were better at, yet I always felt like I was in your shadow. You made great grades, you rarely got in trouble, you had too many friends to name, and you were the first born. Our parents clearly loved us equally, and I know these things are built up in my head. We were never compared, never questioned as to why I couldn't be more like you, and always acknowleged for our individual talents. Yet there it was. Hovering right beneath the layer of love:sibling rivalry. An unspoken competition between two sisters. I used your life as an example to live mine, when in reality, I want to be nothing like you. I mean that as the biggest compliment I could ever give. Your analytical mind, your flair for the dramatic, and your love of panda bears. A pretentious desire for wine and a head of frizzy brown hair that looks like an afro when you wake up. That is you. Acting before thinking, talking too much, loving the foam on a poorly poured beer. Enjoying activity over complacency. That is me. I have learned that I can't be you and be me at the same time. We can still be best friends without being the same person. 12 year old me didn't get that. 22 year old me thrives on it. We always joke you are the golden child and I was the prankster. Only last Christmas did you confess that you were always jealous of my ability to create lasting friendships, make people laugh and create a 4 course meal out of pasta and canned corn. At first it warmed my heart, brought tears to my eyes, and then suddenly, I realized... I win this round.