Her spectre-steps linger and prolong her arrival to whoknowswhere. She clutches stacks of papers and books in a desperate hug. The scrunched brow and thin-lipped expression damn up a reservoir of emotion. And her eyes see things beyond sight. Those hollow orbs view a memory; an unholy vision played out on an ethereal stage. The sun does not exist for her, simply a waning moon this afternoon. And she'll never be like the women she spends her savings trying to imitate. Now her concrete cracks and saline lines collect in the open space of her lids. They don't fall. A testament to pure numbing steel of will. But the pressure is patient. Pressure to be, to do, to love, to resolve. In this moment she learns to live. She must spend this night outside and learn to sleep in spite of it; to make the most of dawn. She doesn't know the flaming star will rise to burn out those dewey drops. This, like all good times, will pass.
[Keep following, and you too can get your very own free limited edition signed t-shirt.]
30 September 2010
21 September 2010
I Hate Being Sick
Like you really needed to hear that. No one enjoys being sick. Well, I'm sure there is some weird Finnish guy sitting in his basement somewhere wearing a traffic cone on his head and gloves on his feet with a garlic-clove necklace on just trying to get sick. But I'm not that guy.
I got food poisoning. Don't ask me how. I eat pretty much the same types of food everyday. Miles also eats those same foods with me, so don't ask me how I got sick and he didn't. Don't ask me what it's like throwing up in the JKB bathroom in the middle of class. And even though it was the middle of class, all of the stalls were staked out when I walked in there like some kind of cruel joke. So I leaned pale-faced over the sink and practiced Lamaze childbirth breathing patterns until one opened up.
I would do almost anything to not throw up. It is number one on my least favorite things. If an evil genie showed up and offered different kinds of torture in exchange for barfing, there aren't a whole lot of options I would turn down. I don't blow chunks very often, but when I do, it's always bad news. I won't go into details, but I'm just a mess afterwards. I look like I've been crying for weeks and I go so pale I make dead bodies look rosy-cheeked. I always feel like I need to apologize to anyone who has to listen to my harrowing trial. Yesterday, that awkward apology went something like this, "Sorry you had to listen to that, guys."
To which I received the reply, "You don't have to apologize, it must really suck to throw up pieces of your femur."
I would have laughed if I hadn't felt so sick.
[Keep following. I know it was gross, but at least I didn't post pictures.]
I got food poisoning. Don't ask me how. I eat pretty much the same types of food everyday. Miles also eats those same foods with me, so don't ask me how I got sick and he didn't. Don't ask me what it's like throwing up in the JKB bathroom in the middle of class. And even though it was the middle of class, all of the stalls were staked out when I walked in there like some kind of cruel joke. So I leaned pale-faced over the sink and practiced Lamaze childbirth breathing patterns until one opened up.
I would do almost anything to not throw up. It is number one on my least favorite things. If an evil genie showed up and offered different kinds of torture in exchange for barfing, there aren't a whole lot of options I would turn down. I don't blow chunks very often, but when I do, it's always bad news. I won't go into details, but I'm just a mess afterwards. I look like I've been crying for weeks and I go so pale I make dead bodies look rosy-cheeked. I always feel like I need to apologize to anyone who has to listen to my harrowing trial. Yesterday, that awkward apology went something like this, "Sorry you had to listen to that, guys."
To which I received the reply, "You don't have to apologize, it must really suck to throw up pieces of your femur."
I would have laughed if I hadn't felt so sick.
[Keep following. I know it was gross, but at least I didn't post pictures.]
11 September 2010
God Wore Black
Bozeman, MT - 6:30 AM
DJ rolled out of bed and groggily shuffled to his noisy alarm clock and slammed hard on the top to shut it off. The radio announcer babbled on... something about a special offer... slam! Again he slapped down hard on the buttons. "I hate that stupid thing..." he muttered on his way to the bathroom.
6:51 AM
Lower Manhattan, NY 8:45 AM Eastern
Jonathan Briley sat in his cubicle on the same chair that he had sat in for the past three years. He sat unblinking, staring at the cursor blinking at him from an empty spreadsheet. He sat, thinking of Molly. She would be riding her bike through heavy traffic, courier pack full of legalese. He hoped she was riding safe. He sat on floor 106 with a hundred others. A regular day.
Without warning, a chilling shriek made him explode to his feet out of his old chair. He rose only to be knocked full force into his cubicle wall. He was deafened by a crushing, fiery noise. The squealing ring of his ears blocked out the yells of pain from those on the floor below. He lifted his bruised face up from his now horizontal cubicle in time to see a few bloody and blackened staff from floor 105 stumble with a plume of smoke out of the stairwell. They were shaking and dazed. So was Jonathan. He shifted a cubicle wall off of his leg, got to his feet and limped calmly over to the stairwell. As he opened the door, a pillow of heat pressed against his body. Fire was already making its way up. He thought of resting there, but the smoke made it hard to breathe. His head was pounding.
After awhile someone came running around the corner and almost ran straight into Jonathan, "...elevators don't work... and dat staiwell on da uder side already went up. You alright pal?" asked the man.
"I dunno..." said Jonathan.
"Yeah well, seems like we're trapped for the time bein'," said the man.
Trapped. The thought closed hard like vault doors around Jonathan's mind. No way out. No way out. No way out. I'm going to burn to death if I don't move, he thought. He walked slowly over to his old chair and picked it up. No way out. He stepped over debris and paper and headed towards the nearest heavily cracked window. One way out. "Hello Molly," Jonathan said as he threw his chair hard and followed it down.
Bozeman High School 8:32 AM Mountain
A class full of kids stared open-mouthed at the glowing T.V. screen. The morning's have-you-heards and rumor exchanges had died out, and there was only the news. Mr. Andriolo stood, dry-erase marker in hand, gaping along with the kids at what he was seeing. The algebra lesson was long forgotten. It was like a movie--a sickening thought. Then he realized that all that debris falling from tower one wasn't all debris. A closer shot of a falling man confirmed his horror and drew gasps from the girls. Is this real? This is real.
Cairo, Egypt 3:46 PM Local Time
Umayma Atta held a pot full of simmering Ful Mudammas, her wrinkled hands straining with the weight. Her head bowed with age, she leaned further over the pot and smelled the Fava bean mixture. It needs garlic. Seshafi could fetch me some. Though she gives me endless pain about going to market.
As quickly as the smell had filled her nose, all breath left her. She felt her heart begin to pound as if she had been running for days. Finally her grip on the pot failed and her meal splattered to the ground. She sank slowly to her knees, tears filling her eyes. Seshafi, drawn by the sound of the clanging pot, rushed into the room. "What have you done now Umay... Umayma?" The scared look in Seshafi's eyes made the old woman begin to weep. "What is it?" asked Seshafi.
"My son is dead," said Umayma simply.
He was there that day. He was among the wreckage, among the husks of buildings, among the bodies. He was there to receive them that passed. He was there with the new widows and new orphans. He was there with the armed and angry men. He was with Jonathan and Umayma and her son Mohamed. He was with ladder 11. And He wept with his children.
[These are all real people.]
DJ rolled out of bed and groggily shuffled to his noisy alarm clock and slammed hard on the top to shut it off. The radio announcer babbled on... something about a special offer... slam! Again he slapped down hard on the buttons. "I hate that stupid thing..." he muttered on his way to the bathroom.
6:51 AM
He walked swiftly back to his room. He must have only hit the snooze button the first time because the radio was still blaring. "All we know at this point is that a plane has crashed in Lower..." This time, instead of sleepily mashing the buttons, he gently clicked off the alarm switch. DJ had never accidentally set his alarm to radio mode before.
Lower Manhattan, NY 8:45 AM Eastern
Jonathan Briley sat in his cubicle on the same chair that he had sat in for the past three years. He sat unblinking, staring at the cursor blinking at him from an empty spreadsheet. He sat, thinking of Molly. She would be riding her bike through heavy traffic, courier pack full of legalese. He hoped she was riding safe. He sat on floor 106 with a hundred others. A regular day.
Without warning, a chilling shriek made him explode to his feet out of his old chair. He rose only to be knocked full force into his cubicle wall. He was deafened by a crushing, fiery noise. The squealing ring of his ears blocked out the yells of pain from those on the floor below. He lifted his bruised face up from his now horizontal cubicle in time to see a few bloody and blackened staff from floor 105 stumble with a plume of smoke out of the stairwell. They were shaking and dazed. So was Jonathan. He shifted a cubicle wall off of his leg, got to his feet and limped calmly over to the stairwell. As he opened the door, a pillow of heat pressed against his body. Fire was already making its way up. He thought of resting there, but the smoke made it hard to breathe. His head was pounding.
After awhile someone came running around the corner and almost ran straight into Jonathan, "...elevators don't work... and dat staiwell on da uder side already went up. You alright pal?" asked the man.
"I dunno..." said Jonathan.
"Yeah well, seems like we're trapped for the time bein'," said the man.
Trapped. The thought closed hard like vault doors around Jonathan's mind. No way out. No way out. No way out. I'm going to burn to death if I don't move, he thought. He walked slowly over to his old chair and picked it up. No way out. He stepped over debris and paper and headed towards the nearest heavily cracked window. One way out. "Hello Molly," Jonathan said as he threw his chair hard and followed it down.
Bozeman High School 8:32 AM Mountain
A class full of kids stared open-mouthed at the glowing T.V. screen. The morning's have-you-heards and rumor exchanges had died out, and there was only the news. Mr. Andriolo stood, dry-erase marker in hand, gaping along with the kids at what he was seeing. The algebra lesson was long forgotten. It was like a movie--a sickening thought. Then he realized that all that debris falling from tower one wasn't all debris. A closer shot of a falling man confirmed his horror and drew gasps from the girls. Is this real? This is real.
Cairo, Egypt 3:46 PM Local Time
Umayma Atta held a pot full of simmering Ful Mudammas, her wrinkled hands straining with the weight. Her head bowed with age, she leaned further over the pot and smelled the Fava bean mixture. It needs garlic. Seshafi could fetch me some. Though she gives me endless pain about going to market.
As quickly as the smell had filled her nose, all breath left her. She felt her heart begin to pound as if she had been running for days. Finally her grip on the pot failed and her meal splattered to the ground. She sank slowly to her knees, tears filling her eyes. Seshafi, drawn by the sound of the clanging pot, rushed into the room. "What have you done now Umay... Umayma?" The scared look in Seshafi's eyes made the old woman begin to weep. "What is it?" asked Seshafi.
"My son is dead," said Umayma simply.
He was there that day. He was among the wreckage, among the husks of buildings, among the bodies. He was there to receive them that passed. He was there with the new widows and new orphans. He was there with the armed and angry men. He was with Jonathan and Umayma and her son Mohamed. He was with ladder 11. And He wept with his children.
[These are all real people.]
05 September 2010
I'm Going to Do This
There is a moment. Emotions and thoughts try to push their way simultaneously through subway doors of conscious. They push and jostle and cram. There is a slow-motion pause when nothing can get past the too-small opening. This dooming pressure builds and steals the breath from already panting lungs. The vessels scream and greedily reach for the non-existent oxygen. There is no coping mechanism. No fail-safe for this scheduled event. The passengers on this ghost train have no protest but presence. They'll ride patiently until you address them. But the slamming rhythm of wheels on tracks deafens until there is nothing but the sound. We all but forget the creeping spiders of numbness that prickle their way down clammy palms. The heat drains from chest to heels to shag carpet to nothingness. We'd all like to do something dramatic like throw our phone or scream or feel hot tears stream down our cheeks but in real life that doesn't happen. In the Hollywood version there is an outlet-- the shared experience with all the ticketed onlookers. In this moment, this real life moment, we feel so damn sorry for ourselves that we can't even do something so basic as weep.
I'm going to do this: National Novel Writing Month
For those that don't want to read the website or didn't know that was a link, here's the Reader's Digest version. You sign up, you write a novel of at least 50,000 words(read: novella)in one month (November). You upload your novel and it will count the words. What you get: 1. The satisfaction of having accomplished a crazy thing. 2. A novella, written by you. 3. The possibility of having it published in one of two ways. Either, like last year, they make a deal with a publishing company to print your manuscript for free if you completed it in time, OR you will revise and edit, revise and edit, revise and edit, revise and edit and get it published for real and make millions.
The reason I am doing this is because I can. Plus, it will be exhausting and fun and I will finally do something with my best idea.
Until then, November, I'll work on polishing my outline.
PS. I know it is in the middle of the semester. But I have nothing better to do. Who needs homework?
[Keep following all you second-rate hacks. Join my club.]
I'm going to do this: National Novel Writing Month
For those that don't want to read the website or didn't know that was a link, here's the Reader's Digest version. You sign up, you write a novel of at least 50,000 words(read: novella)in one month (November). You upload your novel and it will count the words. What you get: 1. The satisfaction of having accomplished a crazy thing. 2. A novella, written by you. 3. The possibility of having it published in one of two ways. Either, like last year, they make a deal with a publishing company to print your manuscript for free if you completed it in time, OR you will revise and edit, revise and edit, revise and edit, revise and edit and get it published for real and make millions.
The reason I am doing this is because I can. Plus, it will be exhausting and fun and I will finally do something with my best idea.
Until then, November, I'll work on polishing my outline.
PS. I know it is in the middle of the semester. But I have nothing better to do. Who needs homework?
[Keep following all you second-rate hacks. Join my club.]
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