Spinning Circles

The Social Network

2011-01-12T08:24:00.002-07:00

The other day I was meandering through the lists of people I should know on Facebook, and after about 20 minutes I was wondering why I wasn't done.

On one hand it was a fascinating experience--there were people on that list I hadn't thought about for roughly 10 years! I've had 10 years worth of acquaintances! Get out! Is that the guy who said--and did they really get married? Who--why? What is he doing? What happened to her??

Then I realized what I was doing and the enormity of all the people I do not consider, but at one time did in some way, mounted to the full height of what it really was. Hundreds, maybe thousands of people that I used to willingly give the time of day to that I now did not waited for me to consider them once more. And quite frankly that seemed like a very steep dive in my attempt to over come my now custom mode of social recluse.

I don't talk to anyone anymore, and I like it like that. Life consists of me, and my family, and a few friends...and that's all there needs to be. My grandmother lived 90 years and I'm sure she didn't care about what the girl who sat behind her on the school bus when she was...(I was going to say 7, but I don't think they had school busses then...). Even Facebook didn't begin with this enormity. It had about 30 people from the collective freshman dorms at BYU when it started. And while it's extremely small potatoes to post up a couple pictures and a post every now and again, I find it extremely exhausting to think of all the people Facebook is asking me to think about catching up with.

But I suppose overall I would deem Facebook's evolution and commandeering of our collective American society as a good thing with a few dark faces. But no wonder life get's so complicated. The wonder is plainly in the magnitude. There are just too many people for one person to try and connect to. Is it our mind's new way of organizing? Classifying people into groups, by work place, by school, by interest, by time period...is that really how we connect to people? Have we changed as people so much that our hellos need to be broadcast to all who subscribe? Are we really so inept to not be able to keep up with those we consider friends? Are we using Facebook as a replacement for real activities with real people and not pages of representation?

I don't know. That's when I logged out.

The King of Alabama Avenue

2009-10-21T10:18:00.003-06:00

"Jallow is from my country as well" Turay admitted as he went down his list of co-workers. Jallow looked up from his container of rice and smelly spinach and glared over his golden-rimmed glasses.

"Sierra Leone? Bah! I am not from Sierra Leone!" he dismissed over his shoulder in an angry sort of gesture. Turay continued on with his list then noticed his flight had landed and sprung out the door. "Sierra Leone" Jallow continued under his breath. "All they do is kill each other, fighting fighting all the time--who would ever go back there?"

"Jallow, where are you from?" I asked politely, piqued with interest. He sat down and arranged his pungent African dish in front of him.

"I was born right here in DC! Southeast! I am the king of Alabama Avenue!" he proclaimed, poking the table as if to show me on it's smooth landscape right where his kingdom was located. He shook his head. "Only yesterday I saw a girl who was pregnant and all these boys--they all just run around and do this and sleep there, and hit him, and for what??"

He spit disgust to the side of the board and slammed a piece into place.

"For what? I told them, they are fools! They know nothing! And as king I had to tell them so. You see?? I am king!"

I'm not sure he realized that Turay was gone and that the game was over by forfeit. Jallow crowned the piece himself then got up from his table. Without another word, he hunkered down the hallway.

My Work, My Story?

2009-08-31T21:59:00.005-06:00

The books pile around me, on the floor, propped open in organized structures to the pages I cannot highlight because I borrowed them from the library. The post-it notes correspond to the library I borrowed the books from, and the number on the ends indicate which interview their marked information corresponds to. My desk is covered in papers, notes, transcriptions.

"Are you going to clean this up?" my mother asks from the doorway. I look up at her with the most exasperated look in my repertoire, though not particularly exasperated about anything in particular. She glanced away from my expression. "Is this for your book?"

"Yeah," I admit. "I don't think Salieu has any idea how much work is actually going into this. And I wonder sometimes why I agreed to write a book about the Sierra Leone Civil War. You know, Festus is from Sierra Leone as well, and when I asked him to tell me what the Civil War was about, he waved it off and said he wasn't there, that it was over so there is nothing to tell."

"I don't know who Festus is" my mother replies in her pleasant voice, which means that she has lost interest in the subject. She wanders from my doorway, leaving me to the endless pile of research surrounding me.

When I gave Salieu the initial interview questions for him to prepare for the interview, he had been surprised at my preparation. "These are good questions" he observed with a smile.

"Well, it's an initial interview. They're vague. When we actually sit down to do the interview, I'll proabably deviate a little, or maybe ask more questions to clarify or make a comment to note for more research." I wasn't in a hurry to do the interview, so much as I didn't want to make Salieu uncomfortable if he wasn't fully aware of what I thought I had agreed to do. The look on his face when he pondered the questions again on the other side of the room told me that was exactly the case. Even though he had asked me to write his story, even though I had told him I was intending on doing a good job, the actual craft of writing had never presented itself to his thoughts. He thought he would dictate the story and I would simply write it down, make it a little coherent. Now he knew it was clearly something different.

I copy the reference to the quote I had found onto a makeshift bibliography I keep on pink paper, not to be confused with my notes and thoughts on the composition and theme of the story I keep on the yellow legal paper, or the notes on Sierra Leone culture I keep on white paper (in an ongoing outline format).

I'm afraid that though I have given all the rights to Turay to veto as he sees fit, he still will think that I have stolen his story. Every bit of it is his story. It is his name, his birthday, his family, his life that I'm telling. It is his culture, his heart, his soul. And yet it is my time and my education that is at stake. My name will be in the author slot and his will be in the title. Not willing to rescind the request, I see him hesitate as he realizes that even though it is his story, he has no idea how to tell it, or who he is talking to. He does not know why his story is being told.

"It's not about the money" I admit to DJ as he later peers over my shoulder at the pages and pages of notes. "It's about what Turay is trying to say."

"What is Turay trying to say?" DJ asks, his curiosity and confusion caught on his face.

"I don't think he knows quite yet" I answer with a sigh.

"So how will you know what to write?" DJ continues picking up one of the books that I had pushed aside into the ambiguous ready-to-return pile growing by the door.

"I'm going to write what I think he is trying to say, and he's going to say yes or no."

"So you're guessing what Turay is thinking?"

"No" I say with a dark expression of embarrassment. "I'm telling him what to think."

Someone Else's Story

2009-08-09T16:17:00.004-06:00

The thing about Salieu Turay is that he is a complete mystery, just waiting to be cracked open. Some people are open books, who have their entire life story written on the front of their t-shirt, white on black with some odd graphic in the middle. Some are a little more conservative than others. But the good stories, the ones that you really want to hear, are sometimes the ones that cost and arm and a leg to acquire and after that it becomes an very high-level security-invitation-only affair.

On the one hand, Turay claimed his story with a bullet to the head, which happens to be a price that most people aren't asked to pay. In all senses of reality, he has every right to keep his story as personal as he chooses. Yet I've discovered at the cost of my pen, he will gladly sell you pieces of his story for about $15 a piece--$25 if you want it in hard cover.

When Turay suggested teaming up to write his story over a game of checkers, which he won, I was taken back. It had taken me weeks for him to tell me what he had so far, and it was clearly something he wasn't going to express lightly. Why in the world would he let himself become subject to that?

"We'd make so much money--I'll make sure to show you what's going to sell it" he says, glancing around to see who was paying attention. Other than the people watching the checkers game itself, no one had heard, and those observers were less interested in our conversation and more interested in Turay's nonchalant style of draughts. ("That's what you call brutality" said Festus as Turay cleared five pieces from the board, a move that had also given him a king early in the game.)

Ah, I sensed, that was it. I was going to write what he had to say, which may be something, and it may be nothing at all. As I thought about the project I had agreed to I realized that while his goal was to make some money, he certainly wasn't about to let just anyone learn what he had learned without them also taking a bullet to the head. I shook my head, knowing that while they story may be a prime opportunity to make some money, the real reason for telling the story would remain a mystery. If Turay ever let me tell his story, I could win a Pulitzer Prize. But that's thing about telling other people's stories--it's not yours to tell.

They Could Be Kings

2009-04-07T17:07:00.003-06:00

There was a guy sitting right there on the bus, dressed in business-gone-casual. That means that it began as business and became casual as he rolled up his sleeves and adjusted his collar. He looked tired, and he sat like he was unemployed. Actually, he was holding an unemployment guide, and he had a hole in the bottom of his shoe, I noticed.

He probably had a rather decent job until recently, I gathered as I watched him. He reminded me of George.

George is tall and loud. He sleeps when he wants, and pokes and prods for fun. One of those people who naturally could put someone on edge by an unexpected glance. George isn't happy. When he sits and watches you, he is like the man on the bus--contemplative. Measuring.

People always say that eye contact is so important to communication, yet there is more to that. Eye contact is communication, from one soul to another. I've seen most people flush; embarrassed at what other people will see. There are a few who don't though, who gaze back steadily, opening themselves to you to gaze upon, hiding nothing. George did that today--as he does often to make people squirm.

I watched his eyes move behind his sunglasses. Lloyd and SB watched, waiting for me, the rookie, to bow to George's will as everyone else had; but I did not. Rookie, yes, but nothing less than George--what did I have to bow to?

George, I thought as I came to my conclusion, George in another life could be a king. He isn't--king of the rampers maybe. And the man on the bus--who knows what kind of life he has been dealt? What kind of situation put him on a bus with holes in the soles of his shoes, when he could be a king?

"George may pick on you, but in his heart, he's really got your back; if there is anyone who will look out for you--you especially--no matter what kind of trouble you've managed to get yourself into, George will take care of you" Kevin explained, as if I was afraid of George.

"I know that" I answered.

Bread and Butter With a Kick

2009-04-07T16:21:00.006-06:00

There is something fulfilling about coming home from a hard day's work. Nostalgic even, I suppose.

"How do you like it?" Jallow asked me that first week over my first game of draughts. Draughts, not to be confused with grade-school checkers, is a science. These old men and their games, I thought to myself, watching as Jallow quickly moved over the majority of the board, sweeping a full 75% of my white pieces from the board. "Did you see your mistake? You left yourself completely open. You need to pay attention! Protect yourself. Now, what was your move supposed to be?" he went on, as if he had heard my thoughts.

I pointed and he laughed at my blush.

"Don't worry, if you won me, you would be champion. Many, many people loose to me! Everyone looses, because I always win!" he crowed in his thick foreign accent.

"His name is carved on the board" Lavar pointed out.

"It's not a hard job" Jallow continued, returning to his previous question, absent-mindedly slapping at my hand making another foolish move. I stared at the board. I saw his move, but I didn't want to make it. "Gotta eat!" Jallow urged, taking the piece and slapping it into place, then slapping his own token down and sweeping another two of my tokens I had forgotten about into is palm, out of my play. I had three pieces left.

These old men insist on finishing the game, even after they essentially win in four moves.

I looked up at the monitor and hastily stood.

"You have to go? Go! I don't want you to get in trouble" he said, then just as quickly as his questions floated from subject to subject, his eyes came to rest on Lavar, who had been enjoying the exchange in appreciation of my being new.

I later played against Lavar, as he filled the spot of another newbie who was loosing badly who was called away to attend to a Boeing 737. He sat down, studying the board, then realizing that in one more move his army of black would be reduced to three tokens, he sighed and sat back in the chair, making the inevitable move to spark the bloodbath.

To be honest, he played well with his three pieces.

I cornered him, finally, when suddenly a weathered hand reached over his dreds and slammed the black king down a couple rows over. "Chance! Always take the chance!" he reprimanded Lavar, who was studying the placement of the king. I looked and realized Jallow had simply picked the piece up and slammed it down out of the way of my attack.

"How are you allowed to--" I began to ask.

"When in doubt--cheat!" Jallow pronounced, before pushing Lavar from his seat for another round. I sighed.

I was rescued that time by an airbus. Between you and me, I don't really like the airbusses, but I dislike the Embraeyer, period, so I wont complain. Work is work, a job is a job. Who can afford to not like their bread and butter--not matter how uncomfortable its cargo bin is? And since when was it ever acceptable to not be hungry?

Gotta eat, gotta eat--that's the name of the game. But the real punch on the clock isn't the checkers, it's the sweat. The sore muscles itching for more. Bread and butter with a kick, I decided. None of this bland stuff.

"Want some?" Kevin asked me, passing a spice bottle of some kind of seasoning. "It's got habanero--do you like hot stuff?"

"Not particularly" I admit. That was always John's forte--bread and butter with a kick. Like he couldn't taste it without that physical punch. I guess I see what he meant all those times. Kevin offered me a french fry covered in the mystery dust. I winced as it went down.

"How do you like it?" he asked, watching my facial expressions with withheld laughter.

"I like it" I admitted, punching back. He nodded as Jallow's loud laughter echoed through the room. I fully agreed; when in doubt, cheat.

Entering a Cucoon-Like State

2009-03-21T11:20:00.006-06:00

The hallways are always long, do you realize that? With the same tiles in the same pattern. They are always extremely long when you're nervous, though not so long when you're not--just long. Never short though. The room that holds the rest of your life is always the last room on your right.

"Why do you think I should give you this job?" the recruiter asked with a smile. He liked me, I could tell. He was a rather jovial person, this Tim, I had decided. Genuine charm, which is something more felt than learned. Sparked interest in people was his bread and butter, that was for certain.

Yet despite all this he has asked the inevitable question that always comes, like the last room on the right, at the end of job interview. This question is the gateway to the long hallway with your future being held captive in the last room on the right. The last pit of fire before reaching King Kupa, if you will.

Why do you think I want this job? I wanted to ask. A job is a job.

But instead I had smiled and shrugged. He waited, wanting to hear why it was I wanted this job. He knew what I thought. Some people actually say the first thing that comes to mind. But I thought about it. Was there more than just the want of an income and a way to spend my days that had brought me into Arlington's recruitment office?

Then I realized that wasn't the question. Why should he give me the job?

"Because I work" I said out loud, both to him and myself. His smile widened to a grin and he jotted down the answer, the grin tapping into laughter.

"That is the best answer I've ever heard" he admitted, offering his hand. "You're hired."

The beginning was really the fingerprinting though. I shed my life on those papers, documenting every apartment I had lived in, every job I had held in the last ten years. Apparently I move more than most people because I ran out of space and they had to add extra papers onto my background information packet for some contracted agency to go and check. Everything I had done.

"Here," the girl said as she traded me packet of paper for packet of paper. "You understand that having a conflicting job will subject you to possible termination?"

"Yes" I answered, stepping into the realization that I was signing my life into something new. From student, from office worker, from writer, into ramper.

I let everything happen around me as I sat and waited to clear. Every morning I got up, and every night I fell asleep, waiting. Memorizing city codes, and waiting. Doing push ups, and waiting. Watching the world pass me by, and waiting.

I stood in the mirror, watching as my mother trimmed my hair.

"How much should I cut?" she asked.

"Just chop it all off" I sighed.

"No, I wont. Rampers are rough people. It's a man's job. It's hard work that means having muscles, constantly moving. They don't sit around and think. They work. And the only thing feminine about you will be your hair."

I frowned but didn't answer, letting her cut six inches, leaving the other ten or so to hang just past my shoulders.

"I'm not going to be able to recognize you" John protested over the phone.

"It was only a trim" I reminded.

"But you had such long beautiful hair" he lamented.

"It's nothing; my hair is still relatively long" I shrugged.

"Are you sure this is what you want to do?" he asked hesitantly. "I mean, it's a good job and all, and the benefits are really good, but do you really want to be a ramper?"

Minor editor's note

2009-03-11T12:43:00.003-06:00

So because I think this story is absolutely hilarious, I'm posting it in the words of Miriam. I was thinking, as I write this, that this would make a hilarious comic strip. Maybe that's how I'll earn some extra cash...

One day, me and Missy caught a ride home with the whole McDonald family. Camden, age 7, was filling out an application to the LA Film School. He became quite puzzled when it asked him if he had been charged or convicted of violating any federal or state law, and aloud, asked what it meant. Missy's response: "It's asking if you've ever been to jail. Have you? Say no, or else they won't let you in." Heather (Camden's mom) then said: "Missy knows from personal experience." My input: "She believes in trial and error." End of the story is... Camden continued with his application until he reached the final essay portion. "What do I put in this box?" Jarom (Camden's dad) responds: "You write and tell them why they should pick you." Camden, disappointed, shocked, appalled, and completely blown says: "What?! I was just gonna draw a picture!"

From left: Camden, Easton, Heather, Jarom, and Brighton

A Glance at Home

2009-01-29T22:05:00.005-07:00

There is a woman in black over there, where she is every morning. Low lights flash at her feet to signal the arrival of the train, like they do. She carries a newspaper under her arm, bought on her way into the station. It's cold, and her breath colors the air in steady streams, in and out, in and out. It's cold but bright. It'll be a frigid morning, and even though everything is dead in the winter air, it's alive. Sleeping.

Hibernation happens when the body cools down. The higher temperature becomes, the more the particles move around. But when they stop, there is no heat. There is no energy given off. And things sleep.

Hibernating, that's what this is. Potential energy seeps out of everything, because even though you can't see it, you can feel it, the slow, relaxed breathing induced by sleep.

"This is the Red Line to Glenmont station; train boarding on your right" says the faceless man to the woman in black. She doesn't hear him; she simply steps through the open door, as if she were walking from room to room.

The comatose lifts, as if woken by the whistle of the slow breathing against the moving train. She opens her paper, eyes lighting from subject to subject. Men, women, police men, children, dead or alive in black print. They dance and talk ethics, they dance and talk politics, they dance and talk religion, to the sound of rumbling train wheels, bump bump bump, whiiiiiiiir.

"Now approaching Metro Center, this is a transfer stop for the Orange and Blue Lines. Doors open on your right, thank you for riding Metro Rail, have a nice day." The nameless man says, his voice crackling in the old speakers.

The woman stands, shaken into alertness, her eyes seeing nothing but light in the dark tunnels, deep underground.

"Excuse me" she says as she bumps into a man, who is hurrying the other way, feeding the crowd flowing in and out, like blood in vessels to the brain. He flashes a smile to say no harm is done and hurries, already gone in presence and thought.

She walks, they walk, we walk into buildings, down the streets, laughing, waiting, crying, alive, alive in the sleeping city, alive for the paradox of cities and nature.

Tomorrow she will stand in the cold, not seeing her breath, newspaper tucked in her armpit, maybe with a cup of coffee. "This is the Red Line to Glenmont Station. Doors opening on the right."

All I Wanted Was A Life of My Own, Part 2

2009-01-09T11:35:00.002-07:00

As a battered old man I sat there and waited. Death was coming, or it had come and gone, and I still sat here, by the window. Color flashed, and there was pain. Pain that reflected in the window. I smiled and laughed when the visitors came, but just like that they were gone, and I remained by the window pane.

And then one day, she came to me. She came and showed me pretty things, which I reached out for and she let me hold, sun-catchers, dream-holders, things I used to know, but had since forgotten, belonging to the life that wasn't mine to have. And the power in them, oh, the power. Something in me longed for it, for it to course through my being, like it had before.

And why not? If it had once been mine, why not?

So I, in my flannel and jeans, stood before my window and reached, with all my might. And it came, everything, all at once. The power coursed through me, beginning in my feet. I ran with the wind. Faster and faster, higher and higher, my old wings brought me to the heavens, where I ran out of air.

I grasped at nothing, burning more and more power to stay adrift, and with a final burst of everything I had, I reached again, just to stay, and I fell. Death became me as I burned, falling, falling, ever falling, until there was nowhere left to fall to. I burned and burned and from my ashes, I moved.

Here I am, new. I spread my wings and lifted. Here I am, again. New. New. Up, I knew. Up up.

And in my hands were my dream-holders. And in my eyes were my sun-catchers. I was the power I sought, and I was all the time.

"There'll be that crowd to make men wild through all the centuries,
And maybe there'll be some young belle walk out to make men wild
Who is my beauty's equal, though that my heart denies,
But not the likeness, the simplicity of a child,
And that proud look as though she had gazed into the burning sun,
And all the shapely body no tittle gone astray,
I mourn for that most lonely thing; and yet God's will be done,
I knew a phoenix in my youth, so let them have their day."

-from "His Phoenix" by W.B. Yeats, The Wild Swans at Coole, 1919.

All I Wanted Was A Life of My Own

2009-01-09T11:22:00.003-07:00

Consider the homeless man. No one wants him around, and so he sleeps wherever he wants, whenever he wants. He goes and comes as he feels. And is he miserable? Maybe.

It's the same as Huck Finn I would think. Someone who never had much to care for can never find themselves caring about more than that, even when it is handed to them. They appreciate the gesture, or so I would assume, but how often is it that they change to be something new?

And then consider the suburban housewife who runs around all day trying to make meaningless ends meet. Soccer practice, PTA meetings, groceries, and finding time for Ellen or Oprah (depending on preference of course). And she is probably just as miserable as the homeless man!

Which is why I went back. I stood outside in the cold, letting my hair freeze, waiting for that big, tall, insanely politically incorrect punk to open the door and smile and say "Welcome back." And the moment I picked up that pencil, facing my grey Stonehenge, I could simply smile and consider everything that I had just gotten back. And there is nothing else but me, right here, right now.

Consider the point, the line, the plane. Consider how in this space, there is really one true placement, one true gesture, one true size. From point a to point b, there are infinite possibilities, once you know the rules. And what are the rules? Would you know? Can you tell?

"It's just like riding a bike" Ryan said, looking over from his canvas. And I smiled and considered. Yes, yes it is.

On Family

2008-10-23T09:49:00.006-06:00

While I dearly love my brother, I have to admit he is at a loss being a boy and all. I think I already wrote on him, so I wont go on about him. I actually was going to talk about my sisters.

We came in pairs. First there was me and Camille. The two extremes that you could have using the same pairs of genes. I mean, really, there aren't two people more different than me and Camille. And I love her for it. But the age thing, that is really a big thing because it means we shared a) the same parents b) the same teachers c) the same schools d) the same groups of people (we managed to have different friends for the most part). And in talking to Makayla, I think it all comes down to an observation: comfortability doesn't mean close. Being around Camille isn't comfortable. Comforting sometimes, but hardly comfortable. And yet, Camille and I are close-because we came in a pair.

Then there was Miriam and Clarissa, who are also opposites, but not in extremes. They are a captivating pair actually. And if Camille and I are extremes, these two are the opposite of that. As liberal as I am, Clarissa is less so. As conservative as Camille is, she is matched by Miriam. Ironic, that they are the most mixed pair, the most intertwined.

Then there was Rae. And Rae, though part of a pair, is very very distinct. Her other is Ben, and obviously he doesn't really count as being part of the group of girls. Not only that, their pairing is as distant as the space between Camille and Miriam. So in actuality, they just coexist as separate factions. But Rae is the moderator. She sides with nobody and relates to everyone. She, in her being the youngest, has inherited the insight of both pairs of sisters. While she is attracted to my distinct eccentricity, she also is admires Camille's class. While she laughs with Miriam, she can run with Clarissa (or play ball as is normally the case). She not a fencesitter, but the point. The point that is both included in the group, but is not because she is alone. And it is that strength to be alone that I admire. While it takes strength to recognize your pairing and make it work, it is far harder to be alone. Far far harder.

But Rae will never be alone, because we will never leave her. None of us will, because she completes us. She is our center.

And the even more important thing to note, besides our differences, is the fact that we act as a family. We are a unit that exists to build and sustain the others. Is that not so? It is an empowering notion, when it works. And it is one that depends on our individuality. Because all our smiles are not the same.

To see what Camille said about the sisterhood, check out her blog, at http://cacacamille.blogspot.com/.

The lack of a brush

2008-10-14T07:57:00.003-06:00

At 3 in the morning, my cup of paintbrushes sit by the lamp, not being used. I knew they should be. That's exactly why I was up and I knew it. I wanted to paint. I wanted to paint so badly. Yet here I am, in front of a computer, typing away about Marvell.

Colin met me on the train. Just paint, right? he said. I laughed and took the can he was holding out to me. It's just paint. Colin shrugged and we passed into the burbs. I tucked the can gently into my bag, hoping it didn't make too much noise. It's just paint.

Carmen was in China that week. They didn't catch her, again. They never did, the dumb kids. Even I knew that the Nile was in Egypt. I sighed and picked up a book.

Camille's flute got stolen yesterday. Matt stole it and hid it in the lab. She loved him, or would, I knew. I knew the moment I met him. I hope he never meets her I told Javier in the workshop over diagrams of cardboard chairs. Javier laughed as he picked up a can. I looked at it. It's just paint, he said, handing it to me.

I looked at the canvas in front of me. You know, I said to Mully, all painting is is pushing chemicals around on a canvas. It's all about illusion. This isn't anything but cloth and chemical right here. Crazy huh?

She looked at me like I was stupid, but I was right. It's just paint.

But not at 3 in the morning. At 3 in the morning it is my heart's desire, and that is exactly why my paper is only a page and a half after five hours of doing absolutely nothing.

Stunning Blue Eyes

2008-10-07T19:39:00.004-06:00

You joke about exposing yourself and then you look at me. "I'm sorry, we're offending you."

"I'm from DC, I've heard worse" I answer. From Brad, Jack, Will, Colin, Josh. It's a life I left. But you don't know that. You don't know that you are just like them. Down to your gorgeous blue eyes and your two parent-less children and your long record of transgressions.

And when I say that I can't take a break and ignore the customer, you say "You work at McDonalds."

"Apparently you don't know me at all" I say to you. What does that even mean, other than I am getting paid by a corporate presence to take food orders from insomniacs like myself? No, Mr. Hyde, I do not work at McDonalds; you do. I stay awake at McDonalds, I wash dishes at McDonalds, I schmooze people under the name McDonalds. But I also leave McDonalds. I do homework. I paint pictures, I play the piano, I write papers, I sing songs, I hold meetings, I read. And you sleep. You don't even leave to sleep. You work at McDonalds and you sleep, and I do not presume to know anything about that life.

So, my blue eyed monster of a man, what now? It is far more offensive for you to apologize for your crudeness than it is for you to be crude at all. Because while you are foolish and rude to make such a response, you are arrogant to sum my individuality into a stereotype.

3:31 AM

2008-10-05T06:59:00.003-06:00

"Can I get a double cheeseburger, plain with mac sauce on it?"

"I' m sorry sir, we're only serving breakfast right now"

"Are you serious?"

"Yes"

"Ok, then can I have a medium chocolate milkshake?"

"I'm sorry, our milkshake machine goes into an automatic cleaning mode at 2:30"

"Are you serious?"

"Yes"

Explicitives. "I need a minute then"

"Ok, tell me when you're ready"

Pause. "Can I have two sausage burritos and a hash brown?"

"Do you want to make that a meal?"

"No, just the burritos and hash brown."

"Ok, your total is $3.22; please pull forward to the first window."

"Thanks."

10 minutes later. "Excuse me, sir, what was your order?"

"Two burritos and a hash brown."

"Oh, it'll be right out. Do you want any sauce?"

"Sweet and sour?"

"That costs 15 cents extra"

"Never mind. Hot sauce please." Pause. "How is your night going?"

"Same as usual."

"What time to you get off?"

"5"

"That's the graveyard alright. How long have you been a night owl?"

"All my life"

"Really? Is that why you work here?"

"I have nothing better to do." Shrug and smile. "Here you are, sir, sorry for the wait."

"It's all right. Have a good night."

"You too sir."

At least the burritos were hot.

To Serve a Higher Cause

2008-09-24T10:49:00.006-06:00

One would think after six months of intense mental, spiritual, and intellectual workouts the fat would all just fall off. All that strain, all that labor, pressured into a blade that just slices all the undesirable stuff right off.

And yet for some reason the enigmatic paper proposal goes half written. I waded through all of my collections of knowledge. I purged it forth, supporting my ideas purely with legitimate quotes and about seventeen opening lines later I come to the real Maleficent, enchantingly beautiful despite the green skin. Why in the world am I writing a paper proposal for a cause that can be answered with one drawing?

How, in the light of the Restored Gospel, do we portray the Divine? With respect, in its purest form. Points. Lines. Planes.

So give me something to believe 'cause I am living just to breathe. And I need something more than what I'm breathing for, so give me something to believe.*

While sitting here in my sweats, channeling Carrie Bradshaw with an unblocked writers block, one has to wonder: when will the believing really kick in.

Then I realize that it already has. And while I may not really care to finish the paper proposal, I do care to find out exactly what prompted me to begin one in the first place. The girl working the graveyard shift at the local McDonalds would not care to deal with a subject so obscure. Kandinsky. Human Bodies. Why would anyone care about one or the other?

But the girl who will not settle for the lesser attentions of a man, the girl who shows up to work five minutes early, the girl who will give anything for what real relationships she has created her entire life. That girl I shake my finger at, for she is trouble. Man-eater, heart-breaker, untouchable copy of what has been, will be, and simply is somewhere other than here. I sigh at her, at the notion of extreme cost. Breaking, broken, raw. Raw in its pinkness, bloodiness. Raw in an open wound gaping in expression of pain, joy, ecstasy.

She is waiting impatiently for me to retch my guts out and return, water bottles, Tylenol, blankets and all. More, more, always more. There will always be something more. Is it enough to breathe? Never did anything require such a high price. For what must give for a single shallow breath? How many people lie in beds selling their souls for just one more? How many hoarde it in anticipation, fear, selfishness?

In, out, one two three four, in, out, one two three four.

It will not be wasted, not yet. Not yet. Not yet.

*From "Believe" as performed by The Bravery

Housekeeping Notes

2008-09-22T10:35:00.002-06:00

There are now two blogs. This particular blog is for writing exercises. The other, found at http://jakofalltrades.wordpress.com, is for academic thoughts ranging from classes to other projects that make me seem entirely precocious, like paper proposals, etc. There will not be any posted assignments, such as papers...because I feel like that will do nothing good for me.

Happy reading. And better yet, happy thinking.

Thoughts to my Counter

2008-09-22T09:17:00.006-06:00

The new extension is the embodiment of the corporate world, and I have never felt more out of place. Which, if you think about it, is an odd sensation for me, since I usually love open space. But the granite. The geometric leather sofas. The mountings for plasma tv screens that haven't yet arrived and hung on the walls for NASDAQ scores. There is no paper.

And it is my world all the same. The part that I do not belong in. Because it is her space. Her chosen space.

We've been paired for so long, that hate of our own togetherness festered into all-out brawls. And yet, in my dismal hours, since I was five, I cried for her, for her company. And she came and rolled her eyes. What? What? Emma, I want to go play.

And I reluctantly let her go. And I harbored my pain, mooring it while the storm passed. Her and her gap toothed smile. Her good grades. Her charm, her work ethic, her good behavior. Everything I was not. And yet her space was my space. We were the same.

One birthday I remember the fights. At that point, all you want is for it to stop. We hid in our rooms, with the lights off, the doors closed, hoping that if we closed our eyes, if we held our ears, it would end. The pain washed over me, the embarrassment. Then it happened on hers.

Rage filled me for the first time at them, they who would dare mar her happy day. My happy day was gone, ruined. But hers, hers could be, couldn't it? Why would you have to hurt her too? Isn't my pain enough? I gave my day so that it would pass. I stripped myself of hopes for well wishing, the joy that a birthday should be. But why would she need to as well.

I remember her tears and my own bitter despair at seeing them.

I forgot them soon.

Years later I found myself in the granite space, staring at a row of flags and a stair case. Her granite space, that meant nothing else to me other than something that was not mine. And I thought of her and her black cardigans and her pearls. I thought of her goofy grin when she told a really dumb joke.

I thought of myself, displaced. My university hoodie and jeans, trainers that would be threadbare and showing sock before they were replaced. The books that lined my walls, the ink stains that appeared on everything I would ever own. Never would I walk these granite halls for an hour lunch break between meetings about numbers. I would probably never wear real pearls.

I smile and wonder, after all these years, are we really the same? I am bound for a university lifestyle, a profession to which calls to my ambition like a siren. But are you not as well? Everything I am, you are not, and everything you are not, I am. Were we not meant to be exactly as we are?

Saussure says that words only have meaning in the context of other words. One could then extend that idea to value, which is another definition of meaning. What then would be my meaning, without you? I am, because you are.

We will never be the same. We push apart from each other even as we cling to our sisterhood, our bond. And we will forever be a pair, as we always have been, as we always are, from one eternity to the other, eternally anti. Mirroring. Parallel. Opposites. Bonded.

Rivalry is a petty description for emulation.

Reconciliation

2008-09-10T09:02:00.004-06:00

I cried, and in my tears, he was there. In a red sweatshirt, and jeans. He wasn't smiling, not quite. It was a smirk. His warm brown eyes dancing with amusement. He sat back in his chair, his arms stretched and resting behind his head.

"You thought you said you loved him" he observed. I grimaced.

"I know."

His smile broke from his suppression. There was a hint of regret. Sadness.

"Did he feel like me?"

"Not in the least," I answered with an arched eyebrow. I sighed and mirrored his pose. Looking at him, his intelligent warm eyes, his chestnut hair that curled out from underneath this dirty, well-worn, used to be white hat, his cheekbones that were barely chiseled, his seemingly delicate mouth that was bold enough to say anything, all of him. The carelessness and ease that was Warren sat in front of me, content simply to be. I ignored the familiar stirring within my chest. No, if anyone felt like him, I knew to run.

"I suppose our sitting here means you aren't over me" he began. I laughed, interrupting him.

"Oh, I would never come back to you"

"You never left" he pointed out calmly.

"I left. Oh, Warren, I did leave. And I will never go back."

"What are you looking for, may I ask? What in the world were you using this boy for? You couldn't have been in love with him, since you're still in love with me."

"I'm not!" I protested. I scowled like a child at him. His smile was gone again, his face impassive. We sat like that, watching each other, until I sighed and gave in. "I loved the relationship. The closeness. The imitation of what I could not have with you."

"Ah" he said, nodding with understanding. "But?"

"But what? Why do you always have to know more? You pry too much in places you should never have been in the first place."

"You were the one who fell for their TA."

"Don't remind me please" I rolled my eyes in contempt. "The whole thing was a mistake."

"Yes," he agreed, "but was it unnecessary?"

"No" I admitted with another sigh. "No, I knew he wasn't you. I knew I wouldn't feel exactly the same way. He's not exactly Mr. Dreamy. But I suppose it is something of the same. I wasn't in love with him, but I was in love with something. It was so easy to forget you, when there was something else. Not someone, but something. I did feel this then though too. The need to not stay still. When you left, it hurt because I loved you so. And it hurts now. But the pain, it is not unfamiliar, and it is not unbearable. It is heartache to change. I only hope I can take it better than I did the last time."

"And not find yourself another boy to use you?" he supplied with a smirk.

"I used him just as much" I shot back. We glared again before I let it go and sighed. Silence fell between us, just as it had before. Unbearable silence that we both suffered through, stubbornly.

"Is this goodbye?" he asked the silence, looking away from me. He never could look me in the eye when he wanted me to leave.

"Is it ever?" I asked as I stood, shaking the hair from my face, an act of familiarity for him and for me. He chuckled and watched as I left, letting the door close behind me. I hoped I would not be back.

Inconstant ramblings to set a man on fire

2008-07-06T00:12:00.005-06:00

I hate you. I hate you, I hate you, I hate you.

And you know I don't.

But you want me to, so bad that I will leave. And so here we go again, around and around and around, all because you cannot seem to make up your mind.

Or am I wrong? Do you really want me to leave that badly? Will my presence be missed?

None the less, I am gone, bounding away because I can. And you grab at my hand. For free? Ha! Around and around we go.

We race and spin, predator and prey? Enemy to enemy? "You have too much potential to be wasting it on him." But we spin anyway. I dare you to go faster. Double dog dare you, triple dog dare you. Come on and follow if you must. Come on and follow if you can. Can you do it better? Can you beat me at my game? Can you stand on one foot, do you dare?

Catch me catch me if you can. Look, here I wait for you, grab my hand. And in the silence, hear me swear, hear me sing, offer a prayer. And do you know what happens to things that spin? Faster and faster, more movement than ever. Do you know what happens?

It all comes to a point, wild chaos and madness, it all burns with a fury. And with a final collapse of burning movement settling into stillness, a flame ignites and slowly kills. And all that is left is ash of a rotten corpse that used to be you and I.

A twelve-year-old tender mercy

2008-06-24T08:47:00.002-06:00

He's about 4'10" with brown hair and dark skin. He's a clear petite Filipino build with Camille's face and a nice big set of front teeth that I assume he will grow into. His voice is cracking even though it will probably not drop lower than it currently is. He gets his hair cut about every two weeks and likes to play video games and baseball. He's a catcher.

When he was about four years old I was packing for girls camp. I took a length of chain--the kind you wear dog tags on--and wrapped it around his wrist. I told him that if he took it off I would never come back. When I got back a week later, my mother scolded me and he presented his wrist, with the chain in the same condition as I had left it. I unwound it and never second guessed his love for me again.

When he was eleven he asked for a sketchbook for Christmas.

"I didn't know you liked to draw," I said.

"I do" he answered. And he isn't that good at it...yet. But he likes to do it and somehow I'm content with that.

Then on Sunday night he told me something odd. "What have you been up to?" I asked him. The usual answer to this question is 'nothing' or 'just hanging out.'

"I picked out my books for summer reading."

"Oh! What books?"

"Antony and Cleopatra and Much Ado About Nothing." The answer took me back. He was going into eighth grade. Did they actually assign those books? Are they nuts? "They gave me a list of books I couldn't read, so I chose these" he offhandedly answered. No, they weren't nuts, my brother was.

"Do you want help?" I asked him.

"Yes" he answered simply. So I volunteered to call him every night around midnight and we would read together. He used to like hearing the stories of the books I read. We would lay in his room late at night while the rest of the house was sleeping and I would tell him of my travels through literature while we both waited out our insomnia.

It still surprised me when he agreed. It surprised me more when I suggested we start then and his eagerness to read the entire first scene by himself.

He was never a good reader. In fifth grade we made fun of him for being stupid. He couldn't read well, and most of the time he didn't know what he had read. I was a freshman in college then, and it bothered me. Why didn't he read more? I wondered. When my mom pulled him out to do home school that year, I volunteered to teach him English. I looked back on the books I had to read as a fifth grader and assigned them to him, then I wrote comprehension questions for him and vocabulary lists. It took him a month to get them back to me because he had to do it through email and he is really bad about doing homework. I suppose the apple doesn't fall far from the tree, and I think it has something to with my Dad.

Since then, we would discuss the books he read. But Shakespeare at 12? That was pretty hefty. And it did prove to be a challenge for him. He stumbled through most of it, but then he would take a deep breath and keep plowing through it. Then he would stop and reread it silently to make sure he understood it, and ask if there was something he didn't understand, even with the footnotes on the bottom of the page. It surprised me a lot.

What surprised me the most was when he asked if I was still going to call again the next day.

"Do you still want me to?"

"Yes"

"Yeah, I'll call."

"Ok. I'll see you tomorrow. Well, I'll talk to you tomorrow."

"Ok."

"I love you" he said simply.

"I love you too" I answered before he said goodbye and hung up. I don't think I had thought about him loving me since he was four, but it felt good to hear it. And then I realized how to him, I wasn't his parent, or his teacher, I was his sister. His favorite sister. The one who baked cookies with him in the middle of the night and told him stories. The one who he could talk to when there was no one else willing to listen. The one who told him secrets, the one who asked what he had spent his day doing. The only one he openly loved. The only one he missed.

I am convinced that he is my brother for me.

A little bit of Theory

2008-06-19T09:35:00.007-06:00

Wulf Barsch von Benedict once told me to go read Kandinsky’s Point and Line to Plane. It was the hardest thing I think I have ever read because the concepts were so incredibly simple. I gave a copy to Dan Muhlestein and I think it made his head spin too. Wulf said that in the Bauhaus, where he went to school, everyone had to go through what they called the Fundamentals, and no one touched a pencil until they had. Wulf decided that since Kandinsky taught him the fundamentals, Kandinsky might as well do the same for me. He did let me touch a pencil during that period though, if only to make up for lost time.

Kandinsky says that a point does not exist, at least not a geometric point. I’ll explain why: any given point on a plane is bound within a plane. A line is composed of the moving, changing point, or a collection of points composed in a linear fashion. Thus the point has one set property. Except in this form it is not a point. A point actually appears at the intersection of two lines, or two planes, if we’re talking about using the third dimension. Because this is the only existence of the point—at the intersection of two lines—the point both exists within the planes, but at the same time does not exist at all.

To an English major a point (.) is a period. In itself it means silence in language. In context it acts as a barrier between thoughts, to signify the end of one, and at the same time allows for the beginning of another. Thus it is part of language even though it doesn’t actually say anything. Kandinsky says this is the inherent nature of the point. That within it’s boundaries it exists for and to itself, yet like being on the inside of a window, it can still play a part in it’s surroundings merely through existence.

Keeping that in mind, what if time was linear? What if the timeline my high school history teacher made me draw was actually how time works? What if there was another line that moved down that timeline, through the events, and that line was me? I then have two lines and at the intersection is the present moment. And it is completely independent either line. On the vertical—time—there is all that has happened and all that will happen on either side of “now” and on the horizontal—self—there is every decision I have ever made and every lesson I have ever learned and on the other side is every decision I will make and every lesson I will learn. And where “now” rests is dependent on time and where my mentality is at the moment.

And what if that is broken? What if time isn’t right and what if I’m not making decisions at all? What will I use to define my present? What if the past is missing? That is why constructing the narrative is important. Because without two lines, the point does not exist. And so when, in war, the time aspect is completely incomprehensible, soldiers like O’Brien and Jimmy Cross are grasping at the physical materials because they exist and use them to find a bearing place in that linear system. And from there they can find a place on their linear self to use to define that point, to create a present and therefore have truth and all that other stuff that postmodernism is constantly trying to find.

Transverse Line by Wassily Kandinsky, 1923.

In Arcadia by Wulf Barsch von Benedict

Meeting Mr. Dickens

2008-06-18T16:40:00.005-06:00

I remember when I first met Mr. Dickens. It was, in fact, dearest Pip who introduced us. My mother gave me a copy of Great Expectations when I was 15 years old. That was the beginning of my library. I collect books. I collect lots of books. They contain worlds that I will always escape to.

Gaithersburg, Maryland is a suburb of Washington D.C. It is not a ghetto. It is not inner city. But it wants to be. Because there is no money in it. Well, there is no clean money. Bethesda has money. Rockville has money. Silver Spring even has money. But Gaithersburg has no money. It had money, once upon a time, which is why it can never be a ghetto, but it wants to be, oh, so badly. I lived in a neighborhood called Laytonia. Laytonia was the essence of Gaithersburg—families who have lived in those houses since they were built never learned to upkeep them. The houses are old and junky, including the one my parents bought when I was eight.

I’ll admit, my parent’s house is in a better condition than some. But it is slowly being eaten away by the wear and tear six children tend to inflict on it. It wasn’t destined to be the war zone it became when it was built. But it was all the same. “Someday,” I told my sister’s ex-fiancé, Paul, “she is going to have to explain why there are holes in the walls the perfect size of chair legs and no locks—save the front door—actually work.”

“Why didn’t she tell me?” he asked.

“Acknowledgment wasn’t going to save your relationship,” I answered with a shrug. And who really knows why Camille doesn’t ever tell the men she dates that she is inviting them into the midst of a raging battle. I certainly don’t. It is better, I think, to not invite them home at all.

There was a boy I loved, and I loved that he had never seen his father hit his mother. I loved that he had never lost a classmate at the hands of another at the local McDonalds. I loved that he had never had to sacrifice a grade on a group project because his partner got expelled in the middle for drug possession (it wasn’t even his deal that time—he was framed). I loved that his closest friend since Primary did not have a restraining order from his daughter’s mother because of anger management issues. I loved that he went trick-or-treating every Halloween until he was 16 years-old because there was never a drive-by shooting to be afraid of. He had never even heard a real gunshot. I loved all of that, and I loved that when I was with him, I didn’t have to say I had experienced all of that. It wasn’t real and I didn’t have to say it was. I could simply read and play and go to school.

School is a safe-haven. It is removed, like books. It is an alternate world where Mr. Dickens tells me of people who have life way worse than I. A worn copy of Great Expectations rests on my shelf right now, offering the same escape I used as a girl. I have other escapes now. More escapes, a wide variety, like Thurber’s Walter Mitty or Allen’s Kugelmass.

But at night, when I would talk to my mother in the dark, none of that is real. Gangs are real. Fights are real. Holes in walls are real. And someday I too will have to explain their existence. But for now, isn’t it enough to merely say they exist?

When you say goodbye

2008-05-28T22:09:00.005-06:00

I said goodbye today. I said goodbye and they call me crazy. "Why did you do that?" they say. "Why did you do that?"

I did it because I had to. I've been trying to say goodbye for months. But how do you say goodbye to the man who saves you over and over and over? Who brings you back to reality, or reality back to you?

He's the kind of guy who can charm your mother and horrify her at the same time. He is also the kind of guy who will go with you to IHOP at 1 in the morning, and take your film to get developed while you're in class. He is the kind of guy who will come get you when you slept in and were really grumpy and didn't really want to talk to him but were late to work anyway, who will smile as you look at yourself in his dark business man glasses and say "have a good day" even when you growl at him.

And I said goodbye. I said goodbye because I had to. I love him. I do. But love is not static. It isn't archaic. And it isn't permanent. Once it exists, it stays, if only in a memory in passing. A hastily scribbled note holds more of a human heart than a cold rock on a ring. "Hang in there" he wrote, and I hung. I hung for a long long long time. I hung and my arms hurt.

I fell. I fell and skinned my knees. I fell and skinned my knees and it hurts to get up. It hurts, and I'm getting up anyway. I looked up and saw him sitting over there. He fell too. He smiled sympathetically and then I got up. I stood, looking up at the tree and started to climb. When I looked down he was still sitting there, watching me.

"Are you okay?" he asked.

"Fine" I answered. We looked at each other and I nodded. I could see in his hazel eyes and I could see it there. I knew. It was time. I needed to go. I needed to climb. I needed to climb and go. I reached and turned.

"Go ahead" he said. He sat back on his hands, idly crossing his ankles, resting. "Go ahead."

I nodded and looked up into the lofty branches. "Goodbye. Oh, and try and write some good poetry."

I could hear his laugh. It was the rich one that I loved. The real one. "Will do."

Goodbye.

Departure

2008-05-10T17:21:00.003-06:00

She said "I hope some day you feel you can talk to me again. I don't know what happened that there is this gulf in our communication."

Anger rises within me when I see that. She doesn't know? What does that mean? Was that someone else who sent me those hateful emails? Was it a joke? I bled tears for those words. I bled tears and bruised my knees. And now she comes to me to rip me open again.

Is it her fault? It is me who hasn't been answering the phone.

But it is also me who has been reading postmodern literature every waking moment, creating the most brilliant papers that I never knew I could produce. I am the one subdued and careful, who smiles sparingly. I am the one who never laughs anymore. It is my soul that is racked with grief and sorrow, who fights away apathy and indifference.

It is me who fell to my knees, calling for the angels. This broken corpse is me, who walks among the remnants of glory. Winds swirl around me, taking my story to add to its collection. This is where the fallen prince walked too, they hissed. He cut his feet on those mountains when he climbed. Here is where the fallen people lay camped for forty years. Here is where they were slain by their captives, strangers from the East. Here is where you kneel, dying, blood running from your veins, spilling into the sand which buries the dead for only some time.

She looks out the building facing the desert, searching for any sign of me. But I have left. She may follow, but she wont. She is afraid. She is lost, she says to herself, bitter resentment welling within her. Fool, that she may think to find salvation in a desert. She angrily threw her water after my trail, at the place where I had disappeared.

After a long absence

2008-05-03T19:40:00.003-06:00

I may take a moment to explain a few things. Just as Calvin may have crashed a golf cart into a tree last night.

"I'M TIRED AND I'M MAD THAT I HAVE TO DEAL WITH YOUR INAPPROPRIATE CHOICES EVEN NOW WHEN YOU ARE AN ADULT. IF YOU DON'T LIKE BEING LDS DONT CLAIM TO BE ONE BUT IF YOU DO, START BEING NICER, CONSIDERATE OF THE FAMILY AND RESPONSIBLE. I APPRECIATE YOU SERVING MIRIAM BUT YOU DO IT GRUDGINGLY SO IT'S NOT TO YOUR CREDIT, WHEN YOU FACE JESUS HE WILL ASK YOU WHY YOU DIDN'T DO BETTER AND I WILL BE THERE SAYING I TRIED TO RAISE HER BUT SHE MADE HER OWN CHOICES."

I may have copied and pasted this from an email my mother may have sent me last week. I may have cried because of it. I may have printed the whole thing out and may have handed it over to Dan Muhlestein in the hallway of the JFSB the next morning. I may have been angry and yelled and screamed. I may have vented to my brand new roommate on her second night.

I may have made Camille mad. I may have been rude. I may care less for her than I may about the roll of unprimed canvas leaning against my bed. I may know that it may make her cry, and I may feel that crying is good for a person. She may have caused me more tears than I may have her.

I may have taken an alcoholic to a grocery store to buy food where he may have bought beer. I may have gone to a coffee shop with him and may have let him smoke a cigarette while discussing religion, faith, agency, and reactivation efforts. I may have listened when he told me about going to counseling with a group of porn addicts. I may have invited him to church with me.

I may have texted Calvin the other day while I may have been sitting in a basement to give me an excuse to leave after I didn't leave when I may have had the opportunity. When I did leave, my friend may have been mad that I felt I may have had to make up an excuse. I may have not wanted to tell him it was because I might have known I shouldn't have been there.

Calvin may have told me something like "You gotta do this on your own" and he may have really meant it. I may have known he wouldn't bail me out, and I might have known all along why. I may have known I would do it myself even before I may have asked him.

I may have actively decided to fail Whalquist's class because it may have been a waste of time. It may be the most worthless class offered, and BYU may owe me tuition money back for it. I may be morally opposed to busy work, and I may not really have cared to go to class. I may have felt I had no other option but to go. I may have struggled to get out of bed every single morning, I may have pretended to care. I may have given each and every one of my teachers a fraction of an effort. I may have read a newspaper in the back of Tuttle's class. I may have learned absolutely nothing. Cronin may have told me that that was not an option for me anymore. She may have demanded that I retake her class in the Spring, and I may have taken that as an answer to prayer. I may have asked specifically where to start in my efforts of putting things right. I may have felt the Spirit.
.
I may have gone to see my bishop. I may have gotten a blessing. I may have scheduled my life as an attempt to fix it. I may have said I was sorry. I may have bruised my knees kneeling on tile when I prayed. I may have called on God to take care of my problems so that I didn't have to deal with them anymore, and I might have gotten a no. I may have gotten a trust me and you may get through them.

I may have spent my day working and reading and gaining my intelligence back. I may have written all over my copy of All The Pretty Horses as I read it, which Dr. Cronin may have told me to read instead of The Road. I may have spent the last couple hours at the library atoning for my lack of concern all of last semester.

I may have said I'm sorry, and I may know that for the most part it falls on deaf ears. I may be writing to a specific person knowing that I may have made them angry. I may be perfectly willing to face God for this post, and I may know that I might be better off if I leave it alone and let it be buried by silence. I may know this post unearths years of secrets that may all have been buried by silence.

I may just have needed to tell someone, and no one at the same time, because I may feel like I am betraying the trust of multiple people by yelling to the world "I HAVE A PROBLEM." I may be going in for counseling on Monday.

Or I may not.

Mike and me

2008-04-05T14:59:00.004-06:00

Suzanne had called me a month ago to extend the promotion to me. I accepted of course. I may as well, since the only real option was to go up. I knew it was coming for some time now, and really it wasn't a big deal.

Training for Stadium of Fire was my first training as a supervisor. East gates, in case anyone was wondering. That means I had taken Brian's spot. He was a weird kid. I never really knew what to think of him. He is one of those people who you feel like is nice because they want something from you. That is what happens when you work at the Marriott Center--everyone starts to want things from you. Then they get insanely angry when you can't accommodate them because they aren't really deaf or don't use a wheelchair, or were simply too late for those Hannah Montana tickets. Too bad, better luck next time. But how do you express all that at training? You don't. That's just one of those life lessons that you have to learn on your own.

It wasn't until after training that I heard about Mike.

"He had a brain aneurism and he really likes Brooks and Dunn. I originally had him in the south end, but I'm afraid he's one of those people who really isn't going to do anything. I shouldn't have hired him, but I'm not going to fire him the day before, so I'm putting him with you as security, and just try to...I don't know, keep him out of the way."

Sure, Suzanne. Piece of cake, right?

She scheduled him for security all right, but not at gate 6 like I expected. She stuck him between 6 and 7 to make sure people aren't passing things through the fence.

Mike was about 40, but had the mentality of an 8 or 9 year old. He smoked and was overweight, and was growing a mustache like Brooks...or Dunn. He had big blue eyes that seemed to take in everything and yet missed it at the same time. I bet that if I had given him a holographic sticker he would have been entertained for more than half of the 6 hour shift.

When he got to his spot, he knew he was being put out of the way. I faced him and his clear disappointment, suddenly regretting having accepted the responsibility. In a sudden move to salvage my own humanity, I moved him to gate 7, telling him that he was to periodically move between gates 7 through 10 and help out the security already stationed there.

Boy was he a whiner. He needed a cigarette break, he was hot, he was tired, he wanted to watch the show, but he never told me any of that unless I asked. But I had to ask because I had already asked everyone else. "How are you?" I asked them all.

"Tired." "Fine." "Hot--by the way, Corbin Bleu asked for extra security detail so he wouldn't get mobbed when he left."

"When is he leaving?"

"I don't know, but can we do it?"

"No, but I'll pass your request on to Suzanne." Easy. Easy easy. But when Mike came up to me to ask for his third break, what could I say other than "sure"?

Suzanne checked on me, pointing out that Mike wasn't where he was supposed to be. I told her he was, and that he never went anywhere without letting me know first in the form of a question. "Send him home when you cut your first round of security" she advised. I nodded. It was protocol. It happens every game. Besides, he was hot and tired. He should have wanted to go home.

But when I asked him to, he almost cried.

"Mike, did you not want to go home?"

He looked at me, fear and despair reeking in his posture and expression. "All my family is here watching the show."

"You can go watch it with them."

"I....I don't know where they are!" The tears were coming. It was like waiting for a dam to break. The pressure of being sent home was almost overwhelming for him. No, I told myself. Suzanne said to send him home. Send him home.

"The ticket office can tell you. Go ask Suzanne and she can help you."

"Okay" he agreed, turning to go. His shoulders were slumped and his head hung. He stopped after three steps and turned, timidly, almost like he was afraid. He kept his head down, looking at me in stolen glances. "Did I do something wrong?"

"No, you did everything I asked you to do" I answered. I tried to smile but I don't think it came out right. He was unconvinced, I knew. I could see it. "We have more people than we need. We do this every game, all the time. We just don't need you here anymore." The words made me bleed. I almost winced at the sound of them, hoping he took them as gently as he could. Whether he did or not, I don't really know. He straightened a little and I told him where he could find Suzanne, and he walked away with the elation of being free from his taskless bondage easing everything that told me he was upset.

I hoped he found his family. I hoped the rest of the shift, then the walk home. His despair at the notion of failing so entirely at his one day $9 per hour job pushed against me as I lay in bed. I finally picked up my phone and went to sit on my front porch, which was loaded with furniture that my roommates hadn't wanted in the living room. I sat down and called home.

"Hello" a deep, playful voice answered on the second ring, almost singing. Pink Floyd played in the background, and I detachedly wondered how my dad was getting away with his music so loud at 3 in the morning.

"Daddy!" I cried as I let everything go, my story and tears flowing freely from me.

My dad's usual thinking look...and civilian shirt...and sunglasses.

Post postings and humor less

2008-03-27T14:12:00.005-06:00

"I don't know, I may be wrong" she says.

You are wrong. Of course you are, you haven't said a single worthwhile thing all semester. Not that I'm really complaining--you're only wasting my time and tuition dollars.

While I'm at it, stop asking for my money. Talk about a lack of agency. I choose to give my money to me, and stop making me feel bad for not giving it to you. You waste it. Never, never. I began to pack up. I'm going to leave. I'm going to leave and my brilliance will fade into memory and you will wither from my absence. You will beg me to come back. You will cry at your loss, mourning the minutes in which you squandered what I offered.

How tripe can you be, you bug eyed brat? Is there really so little you understand? You poor poor girl. I stood, firing off a glare at her. She trembled in my wake as I made my way out of the room. She will quake from my leaving forever. My eyes will scorch her soul, and she will have no other choice but to mend her ways.

********

"I don't know, I may be wrong" she says.

Of course you are, but that's ok. Everyone in this circle is. Wrong, wrong.

Remember that time you misread the warning label that said 'do not use this product in the bathtub' so you immediately headed in, rose scented bath beads and all? You got lucky you know. Next time, Provo Power might have record of your paid bill and they will not have turned your power off.

I know it's a touchy subject--I'm just saying is all. You'll forget it until you look at the container of bath beads and shudder at the thought of your almost death. I know it really doesn't have anything to do with sexual connotations in Joyce, but you can pretend, I'm sure.

**********

"I don't know, I may be wrong" she said.

I know. I smile and close my eyes. I wonder if she knows her socks don't match and that the boy to her right has a crush on her. Poor girl. I also wonder if she knows her sentences don't make sense. Probably not. She is gone now though, without waiting for an answer, and I am on my way to peace.

************

"I don't know, I may be wrong" she said. I told you not drink and drive.

************

"I don't know, I may be wrong" she said.

Affair of Abandonment

2008-03-25T21:32:00.005-06:00

Author's note: I originally wrote this July 31, 2007. It's posted as a note on facebook titled "That Old Familiar Feeling" if anyone really wants to see the original. This has been drastically revised, so do not expect the same thing if you have already read it (ahem, Makayla). I supposed I would also note here that the names could be changed.

**************************

The day I fell in love was the same day I came to dread falling in love. Warren was a brat, and those are people best kept well away from. But it happened, and I fell hard, only to hit the ground and break. Eventually you get put back together. It was not necessarily a Humpty Dumpty case, you know what I mean? It sure wasn't a joyride on the way down from cloud nine though, let me tell you. But that story belongs in a different time, to a different man I refused to recall. He faded as the months passed into a shade that haunts those memories, which is a time I specifically do not think about.

One morning long after that, I forgot how to breathe. I was just walking on the sidewalk. But that's what happened. I was walking with my sister and I found myself unable to remember how to breathe.

The odd thing was it wasn't as nostalgic as it was supposed to be. I saw the man I was in love with at the moment and he glanced my way. I was planning on swooning right about then, at exactly the moment when his hazel eyes met mine; but B-4, boom, I was hit and my battleship was almost sunk, and there I was with no idea how to respond other than to gawk at him. Gawk at his plain, scruffy face, his Cheshire Cat grin hanging almost six full inches above me, which was only present because it was ten in the morning and not a minute before.

He was gone in less than ten seconds. Come back, come back, I cried, but he heard nothing, because I couldn't breathe. I forgot how.

The world could have been spinning, or it could have stopped. I wouldn't know until I had realized time had stopped and the sun hadn't moved, whenever that would be. Does time move if occupied space does not?

Anyway, I ended up looking at some old drawings that day. They were just lying there, so out of pity and boredom I picked them up. They were sketches of athletes. Faceless, flat athletes from the discarded pages of ESPN magazine the year of the Riddick-Morrison rivalry.

I found myself in awe that once upon a time, I did those drawings. I found myself, even at that very moment, transported into a dream world, where nothing tangeable seemed to exist, watching, waiting, wondering exactly what kind of person would find figures, movement, and life so fascinating that they would copy it on a dirty piece of paper.

"You did that" he said. My heart screamed with insanity. I knew that place because I chose to leave it so long ago.

I found myself sitting on the edge of my seat, reeling. There they lay, those tattered pieces of paper, right there in front of me. I faced a girl who gazed back at me, and I could feel within myself the sudden eagerness to discover the real reason for the disappearance of a once radiant self. I grabbed for her, catching the cold wisps of smoke, which almost felt like hanging on to a fairy tale, the one that I had exiled from remembrance.

I clung to the lines as they bent and curved. Swing batter batter, swing, I heard myself murmur as the pencil had wasted itself like a breath of song on a swell. Smudged fingerprints interrupted subtly, almost like the undertone chatter of background noise. Easily forgettable I noted.

Then there it was, like the sun breaking through in the middle of the chaotic thunderstorm. The warm, striking, yet isolated realization that they were never lost; but perhaps rudely pushed aside in the frantic rush that life's events tend to bring. With reverence to the all the forgotten things that make up my life, yet, overflowing eagerness to greet the found splice of my former self, I held out my hand in a practiced gesture of welcome.

It was almost like coming home, Warren told me. He was with me, talking to me, haunting me with smiles and brief outburst of joyous laughter. It was undeniably quite a settling feeling as the sound wrapped around me. One that is so easily forgotten, yet...so unforgettable. And how can it be? Dripping as it is with quintessential nostalgia. I easily forgot that it was him that I had banished and as the rest fell away into disregard, he came to possess them. Yet there they were, there he was, all of it as timeless as the the tire swing in the backyard or the dining room table that I'd eaten Christmas dinner at since my mother broke the glass one of my early childhood.

Warren was as handsome as ever.

My drawings became silent next to the scrapbooks and journals that told countless stories that I smile to remember, which Warren narrated to me, simply existing all the same. And that's all it was; that's all it had to be: just an old familiar feeling.

I smiled, but withdrew my hand. I kicked away, almost dreamily, as one would relaxing in a swimming pool on a hot July day. He stayed, saying nothing. He knew I would be back. Goodbye, I sang to him.

The air was hot, but I could breathe. I felt a pang of guilt as my eyes wandered the drawings once more. He was gone and they were simple sketches once more, and I was left knowing that if I never told, Warren would remain a shade and my tall, hazel-eyed tryst would never know. I laughed like a ten year old who had a secret.

Emma loves Warren forever.

A love letter for the embodiment of the Past

2008-03-17T01:51:00.005-06:00

All I can do sometimes is say that I wish you were here.

I watched you as a child. You were beautiful, and I was in awe. Tall, muscular, with bright blue eyes that reflected a world that I wanted so badly to understand. Never could I have realized that someday you would be gone, and I would be standing on a sidewalk wishing you were here.

You made me laugh with a smile. I wanted to be just like you. I was just like you. When you laughed, I laughed. When you thought, I thought. When you played, I played. When you cried, I cried. But you died, and I lived. I lived and learned and loved, and you died again and again.

Our entire lives we knew what was truth. We knew where is was, and how to find it. That mattered, though sometimes we just didn't care--but I blame that on youth. You knew better than I did. I knew. I saw it when we would sit in church and you would sit next to your dad every Sunday. You knew because you had to know. Because your dad needed you to know so that he could know too. And so did I. We followed you.

But now, my fallen hero, you are lost, and though you remain so, I cannot help you. When your mother left, what could I say? What could I do? When your girlfriend got pregnant, could I have done anything? When you went to jail, how could I speak? I stood against a wall waiting for my class to start while you sat in a cell, devoid of life and meaning. I stand now, the person you almost made, knowing that you, my friend, lay crumpled on a floor, in a room the size of my closet. And I can do nothing.

How can I say that the door is open, when you know already that it is? You knew where is was, because you showed me. How can I show you if you will not go? I cannot carry you, and you will not let me. What am I to do?

Leave him they say. He is gone, there is nothing you can do. And perhaps they are right. But tell me Josh. Tell me with everything that you know. Is there nothing I can do?

I tried to leave, but every couple steps I stop and wait. I wait for you. I've been waiting to tell you this; these words have been yours for years. "Write him" Bob said. And I wanted to. But what can I say? I've said all I can say: I wish you were here.

Pretty sweet sketch huh?

Siren with the long dark hair

2008-03-11T15:13:00.004-06:00

"This stuff," she said of a small silver case, "once you get it open, it will save your life."

It said 'Go Smile' on the top, and housed five small vials inside. She showed me once she got it open.

"On day, my teeth were green--I don't know how, but they were--and I just popped this out and this what is inside is a teeth cleaning solution. You just pinch the sides here until you hear it crack, and then the stuff will come out through this white end here, and then you use it to clean your teeth. Really. See? I wont crack it open, because one case is $30 each for 7 of these little things, but feel the end of it."

I touched my finger to the end lightly before she quickly moved it away.

"Hey hey hey" she said, scowling at me, "That's going to go in my mouth someday."

I wondered what part of the vial I was supposed to feel then. She sighed inwardly as she put the vial back in the case and proceeded to use the mirror on the inner part of the lid. Her makeup was fine, her long dark hair a little messy, she straightened it with a carefree air that would probably fade around noon. The truth about Miriam is that most days she is absolutely beautiful. Those are the days I am convinced that God put her in a wheelchair so that she would stay out of trouble.

Mully once told me that her heart ached whenever she saw Miriam. When she saw her in the mornings before school, going to her locker, Miriam did not use a wheelchair. Miriam didn't like to stick out. Mully would watch her as she made her way down the short hallway, her hand against the old, narrow lockers. That hallway was for the forgotten. The side that Miriam walked on was the side the photography room was on. It was too small and cluttered to really make the transition from classroom to studio.

Amy McBride did a show before Miriam's time at Magruder called "Censored." It was originally titled something else, but the administration of Dr. Steinberg had stifled the edge of her voice, for the communities sake. She wrote everything in red that year, except of course, for her name.

It was always just after 7 when Mully walked in with her thermos of special brew coffee that she never actually drank. Spaid and I were usually already in the studio across the hall, discussing our work for the day, and Miriam walked alone in the hall to her locker to wait. Her friends would come and get her bag, and then they would walk her to class, the same way they would do for the next couple of years when I left.

There was a kid who smoked a joint in the studio. He passed it around two whole tables before little old pinched-face Portugal asked if anyone smelled anything. Everyone laughed, but it was because they were high.

"It's empowering to see her, struggling like that every morning. Alone." Mully often sat with me to talk about why I hadn't done a drawing that was due two weeks ago. I was perpetually behind. I still am. "As empowering as it is though, you can't help but cry for her inside for having to live in that condition every single day."

"I suppose so" I shrugged. I never really thought about it, because I saw it every day too. Mully sat still, looking at my painting. "You should move that fish; and I don't know what this is, but it probably could be replaced."

"It's a sea worm" I told her. I wondered if Mully did cry for Miriam every morning.

This morning when I sat with her, she was improving an infomercial for Go Smile teeth care from Sephora.com. I got up and left, knowing that she would remain at that table for hours, studying for a math test that she would eventually take on the late day. She would sit alone in her chair, joined only by those studious fellows who needed a place to sit close to an outlet, so that they could log onto their laptops and check their Facebook. They would ask her if it was all right if they say there, and she would simply say yes, or nod, and they would continue on their business all the while wondering why she was in a wheelchair. But they will never ask. They will never ask because once they do, they have to care. Because it is a heartbreaking place to be, and cardiac arrest means death ninety percent of the time.

Letters B, C, and D

2008-03-09T18:56:00.007-06:00

Dear Reader,
None of these letters are written by me.

*************************

Dear Mary,
XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX. XXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXx XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

I yearn for you tragically.
A.T. Tappman
Chaplain, U.S. Army

Censoring Officer: Irving Washington

****************************

Dear Joe,
I wish that we could at least have said goodbye to each other before you left New York. I think I understand why you ran away. I am sure that you must blame me for what happened. If I had not sent you to Hermann Hoffman, then your brother would not have been on that ship. I don't know what would have become of him in that case. And neither do you. But I accept and understand that you might hold me responsible. I suppose that I might have run away, too. I know that you still love me. It's an article of faith for me that you do and that you always will. And it breaks my heart to think that we might never see or touch each other ever again. But what is even more painful to me is the thought--the certainty I have--that right now you are wishing that you and I had never met. If that is true, and I know it is, then I wish the same thing. Because knowing that you could feel that way about me makes all that we had seem like nothing at all. It was all wasted time. That is something I will never accept, even if it's true.
I don't know what is going to happen to you, to me, to the country or the world. And I don't expect you to answer this letter, because I can feel the door to you slamming in my face and I know that it's you slamming it shut. But I love you, Joe, with or without your consent. So that is how I plan to write to you--with or without your consent. If you don't want to hear from me, just throw away this and all the letters that follow it. For all I know these words themselves are lying at the bottom of the sea.

Rosa

*********************************

Betty Pointing, 64
Clerk

He asked me why I smile when I say “I love you.” I don’t know why I smile--I just do. He said I shouldn’t smile when I say it because then he don't think I’m serious. I’ve been with him forty-six years and I told him that should stand for something, but he still said I shouldn’t smile when I say I love him. So I got myself all tighted up and looked him right in his face and said “I love you,” but no sooner that the “I” was halfway out, I was smiling again. I just can’t help smiling when I say it. I truly can’t. I smiled the first time I ever seen that man standing in the back of the church trying to ease out before the service was over. Even when he ain’t around sometimes I find myself thinking on him and smiling. So now I’m standing in front of the mirror feeling like a fool saying “I love you” to myself for practices so when he comes home from the barbershop I can say it to him. And I know, same as I know my name, that when I open my mouth to say it to his face, I’m going to be smiling. Shoot, he know it, too.

************************

Dear Reader,
There are times when there is nothing left to say because everyone else took your words. That is all I have to say.

Over Burnham Park

2008-03-07T03:14:00.005-07:00

It was 3 in the morning. Someone's crew was walking down the street below; I could see them from the balcony of the rented apartment my dad had found. It was right across the street from the park my dad grew up playing in.

"This place has changed so much" I remembered him saying. "Dirtier, poorer." He had planned the trip for two and a half weeks, and was ready to go in four days. It just wasn't the same. He tagged along on our adventures anyway though.

For some reason, Camille really wanted her hair straightened while we were there. She spent a week trying to figure out who would do it for under $60, which was a couple thousand pesos. Not much, considering we were American. My dad asked if I wanted mine done too.

"Sure" I said, wondering if he was serious. He was though, because the day came and we followed him through and around Burnham Park, through a shopping center. There was a big sign for a recording studio just over the overhang bridge that was just about as busy as a metro station platform during rush hour. Filipinos like to sing. I could even hear someone performing just at the end of the bridge for the money I didn't really want to give them.

We wound through the run down shops and into an alley, then came out in front of a condemned building, which we cut through in the back stairway. At the top, we were approached by a security guard who spoke a few words in Tagalog to my dad that I didn't understand. He nodded and let us by and we found ourselves in what could have been the second story of a mall, except for the windows that were boarded up with cardboard.

They weren't all like that. There was a store that carried shoes, one carried bags, another carried fake Gap clothes. There were three salons, spaced between them, and my dad went straight to the one in the middle.

The receptionist was a very skinny, tall, feminine guy with bleached orange hair. That's what happens when a person with black hair bleaches it. It turns orange and looks damaged. He also was a shampoo boy I later realized. There was a man in a red t-shirt with the sleeves cut off who's English was better than the others. He did Camille's hair mostly, though he rinsed mine once. A girl did my hair. She had a low voice and when she spoke to me it was in broken English. She was tall, which is one of those things that makes people over there stand out. Filipinos are small naturally.

My hair isn't as thick as Camille's so I got to leave earlier. What I found was the main floor of the building was a market. There were tiny stalls set up with homemade goods, from shoes to rugs to some kind of battle ax my dad thought was cool and brought back to my mom as her present, claiming them as decorations to the customs official when we got back to the States.

Clarissa was particularly good at getting good prices on everything. That means she's a good liar...by Filipino standards anyway. Or it means that they were willing to play the game and pretend so she would come back more often and they could sell more things.

Camille showed up three hours after the rest of us had finished and gone back to the apartment. We were watching some Disney channel rerun when she walked in.

"When did you finish?" she asked me. She had fallen asleep while waiting for the chemicals in her hair to set the during the second cycle.

"A couple hours ago"

"Did you remember to give that guy a tip?"

"Dad tipped him, and I had a girl"

"No, it was a guy" she said, a smile creeping over her lips.

"No, it was a girl" I said. She shook her head and insisted that it was a guy. My dad chimed in an agreement.

"Lalakway" he laughed before heading up to take a nap. Transvestite, I translated in my head.

I wondered, as those boys passed on the street below me, if that had been one of those things that had changed too. There was one lone street light in the area. A taxi drove by, it's motor loud in the still summer air. I went inside and turned on the t.v.. I wouldn't fall asleep for another hour or so, I knew.

Burnham Park, Baguio, Philippines, 2006 in the daytime from the apartment balcony.

Bittersweet Ambition

2008-03-06T01:13:00.007-07:00

Ryan Brown was crazy. He wanted me to drop everything and go to Florence. That's in Italy. He's always been like that I suppose, but somewhere in our teacher-student relationship that quote just to the right by J Fettingist became more and more true, and I had stopped receiving all the things he was putting into my head and was blatantly objecting to them. I only did that because he was crazy. He wanted me to go to Florence.

I did learn from him though. He and Wulf Barsh von Benedict would give me theory articles to read. I was a good student then (a phrase which really 'means I read them'). One of the things Ryan harped on the most was taste. He would come in every morning with a liter of diet coke and crack something about how I was short (he's 6'2"), then he'd sit down for a couple minutes and give his lecture about whatever had pissed him off in the last 48 hours.

I have to make a side note here: you know how there are certain teachers you gravitate towards? Makayla knows, certainly, because she gravitates back to Dr. Cronin. Well, that was me and Ryan. I took Observational Drawing from him. Then the senior illustration course on gesture drawing. Then Intermediate Life Drawing. He pissed me off every single day, and yet at the beginning of every class, I was ready to face him again.

One day he sat down on the edge of the model stand with a stack of papers and handed them out. It was an article called "A Note on Taste." Actually, it was a section of a chapter, "Tone and Colour Design" in a book, Oil Painting, which I'm going to guess is by someone relatively old. Anyway, whoever wrote Ryan's inspiration of the day said that taste is determined by familiarity, and that good taste can be developed. What really seems to sum it up is the last sentence of the chapter, which says:

All good artistic work is new; but its newness is of the inevitable sort that naturally grows from sincerity; not the forced newness for the sake of difference, which characterises so much of the peculiarity that in theses days masquerades as originality.

His point in the whole thing was that it isn't so much about being as it is being while meaning something. And while someone can develop a taste for something, that doesn't mean the antithesis can't exist. It also means that on the individual scale, good and bad are entirely relative, but on the grander scale, they are definite. There is such a thing as skill, and whether one possesses it or not will determine if they are good or bad.

Ryan was huge on that because here's something of a little secret: art is not just about the idea. It has to have one, but there has to be a structure. I like to think of it as language. Movements change it, but it is rooted in a place that it draws upon for stability--for definition. The thing is, once you know what good art really is, crafted through study and reflection and skill, taste is redefined.

The hard part about writing this post is that I didn't drop everything and go to Florence. I stayed. I wont lie, there are days I sincerely wish I had gone. But what really sobers me is that Ryan taught me so much about life, art, humanity, God, and myself that it seems almost like I owe him something. It is a similar feeling towards Mully; but the fact is, Ryan shared what he felt and what he knew to be true on a daily basis. And some days he was completely off. I wont lie--he's an arrogant conceited jerk...but usually he was right. Ryan inspired me to be a great person. I studied every reference he gave me. I aimed as high as I could with every line until I stopped caring. And he said to me that June day in his studio, "Look at you! You're coagulating right in front of me! I don't know what happened to you, but pull yourself together. You don't even get dressed for the day."

I could hate him for that day. But the thing that I've realized as I sit with Makayla and discuss her relationships with Cronin and Muhlestein is that I miss every second of Ryan's influence in my life, and that I will always regret the day I walked out of his studio and never went back.

I didn't draw this. This is a photo of Ryan.

(My mother never knew what he looked like, but she hated him to the core.)

Matter of a Feline Nature

2008-03-04T16:55:00.006-07:00

I remember it like it was yesterday.

"Make sure as you skin your cat, if you have a female, which I think most of you do, to check for mamillary tissue!"

Casper rolled his eyes and picked up the scalpel to start cutting the horrid calico open. His name isn't really Casper. It's David. Weird kid. He was one of those kids who was just too smart to fit in. Plus he was relatively sadistic.

Our cat didn't have mamillary tissue, but it was pregnant anyway. We cut her open to find this monstrosity of a uterus...only we didn't really know it was the uterus right away. We couldn't figure out what it was, so we asked.

"Oh my goodness! Didn't your cat have any mamillary tissue?" Obviously Mrs. Schlossnagle was as perplexed as we were, especially when we all shook our heads and she checked for herself. But we were right. No mamillary tissue whatsoever.

So we performed a C-section. There were 5 kittens.

Actually they weren't kittens yet. But they were advanced enough to have claws (kinda like Juno...when that Asian girl tells her her baby has fingernails). They looked like little dogs actually. And they were pinkish white. They were also pretty small. They fit right in the palm of your hand. We passed them around then dropped them into a jar of formaldehyde, so they would be back in familiar surroundings, and stuck them on the shelf next to the almost ancient goat embryo. I'll bet you $5 they're still there.

The cat dissection turned into our final exam. We numbered a piece of paper to fifty and rotated from cat to cat, identifying the different parts and identifying what their uses were. There turned out to be only one male cat, so he was easy. He had all the parts the other cats didn't. I looked at my cat. It looked like a broken toy, especially with the way the uterus spilled out of it.

It looked like a leathery balloon, or a piece of one at least. The C-section didn't make it look very pretty. "Snowden's secret," I remember whispering to Casper. He laughed like I knew he would. I didn't laugh though. It wasn't funny. It was tragic. I told myself I should respect the dead more, but myself answered that if they were dead it shouldn't matter.

But it does matter.

Everyone dies--what is so special about that?

I don't know, it just does.

It matters because it is matter, and that's as common as a grain of sand on a beach. It is a grain of sand on a beach.

It should matter.

But it doesn't. Remember a couple months ago that crazy sniper kid went around shooting people? Life went on as usual. Remember that spine you did?

What about it?

You did that during the sniper attacks. It would have turned out the same if those people hadn't died. The anatomy is the same.

But it should have mattered.

It didn't.

Is that a vein or an artery?

Isn't it all the same?

No, I thought. It matters.

Why?

I had to stop for a moment before I figured out my answer. Because...

Because...?

Because then there is no God.

That's all I remember.

8:29 am. Monday

2008-03-03T07:57:00.004-07:00

The people I went to high school with were...completely insane. No, really, they were. But on top of that, they were insanely brilliant. Their minds worked in ways I am only beginning to comprehend. I was the dumb kid. No really, I was. I really should have been in remedial everything, but I kept passing those stupid standardized tests.

The reason I mention this is because they would write this amazing prose and the title of it would be a date and time, in numeric form. They were big on time/space binaries. And good writing in general. I digress though; I figured that since I am not writing my paper that is due at 9, I may as well describe the moment for lack of something better to do.

***

They tell me I'm crazy for thinking "The Yellow Wallpaper" is about a woman's need for use-value. But they're all crazy for thinking it isn't. What I really don't get though, is why they teach us to make huge stretches of the imagination only to invalidate it with some crap theory by someone named Fish. The whole school thing seems incredibly counterproductive. Which is why I will not write my paper.

Actually, that is a lie. I am perfectly willing to write my paper, if someone actually cared. What difference does it make, I wonder, if all that is ever going to happen to it is some perpetual student of book-learning gives it a grade? I'll tell you. Once a teacher gives a student a grade, he creates a hierarchy of intelligent people he feels he can support in order to reproduce himself. If anyone was wondering, that is how teachers like Muhlestein and Cronin create their lists of favorites. They choose the people most likely to carry on their own ideals of academia, scholarship, and sense of humor. Which means, that in reality, the education system is really the source of corruption and evil...and the downfall of humanity, which I personally don't support--therefore I refuse almost violently to write my paper.

Or, maybe I'm just above writing papers in general. I detest them. They are the gross wad of three month old gum stuck to the underside of my desk that makes me puke inside when I happen to accidentally touch it. They are the bane of my existence. They are a useless form of busy work. I will not write my paper.

The truth of the matter is there is no reason for me not writing it other than I just don't want to. The greater truth is that I will eventually do it because I am trapped in an undemocratic institution that dictates that I do so. I do so or I fail and leave school. I fail and leave school for a life poorer and joyless life than I previously had. I fail or type, fail or write, fail or die in some miserable state....and all at 8:29 on a Monday morning.

I will not write my paper...yet.

The Lame Introduction

2008-02-29T00:51:00.006-07:00

It is 12:52 in the early morning, though I'm certain the time stamp will say otherwise, and here I am, writing the opening entry to my forgotten blog. The truth of the matter is that I've had a blog for years--I just never wrote.

It all started with the most confusing man I've ever met. He was about 5'8" with this great wavy brown hair. That's pretty much all I'm willing to say about him, other than one day he showed me the blog he kept in order to keep in better touch with CIA-owned older brother. From that moment on, I wanted one...and within about a month and a half, I got one. As soon as I did though, I realized that I had very little interest in expressing what I had to say. After all, I am by no means a writer, and by every means a painter.

Aside from all that, did you know that the majority of bloggers and tech/internet savvy are teenage girls between the ages of 13 and 18? They like to create those glitter things that say cheesy things and blink and dance on myspace.com profiles.

Also, in case anyone was wondering, what had happened in Cronin's postmodern lit class was a classmate of mine picked his nose and ate the booger. It's really not a new concept. 5 year old kids do it all the time. I assume that booger is something of an acquired taste--why else would Bertie Bott make a bean that flavor?

The last thing I would like to mention is that I have a great appreciation for Aaron McGruder's The Boondocks, 1) because he is a Marylander, 2) sometimes he does actually have a point, and 3) I think he's kinda funny. Case in point:

It is relatively reminiscent of Provo, isn't it?