Each week, you will need to post a small excerpt from your weekend writing so that the others in your writing group can give you some comment. Comments should be about the whole piece-- which they will have read in the packet-- but might focus on your excerpt or a question you pose about it. Feel free to comment on pieces outside your writing group as well.
What?I blink. No, I’m not staring at you.The smoky haze reverses in time, returning from sprawled, diffuse chaos back into tangible, solid objects.Huh? I don’t know why I’m sitting in the middle of the Pronto Room. I just am.I grab my face and rub the corners of my eyes with my middle and ring fingers, flattening and deforming my cheeks as my cold hands run harshly down my face.With contorted yawns I thrust my arms behind me, stretching my back, and stand up to greet the amused girl in front of me, my classmate once 4B starts in five minutes.What’s up?Nothing?That was enlightening and worthwhile, but I had expected no more. Well, then.
I don’t know where my backpack is.The same thing happens every day.I spin around looking for blue lining on black, and notice it sitting within five feet of me.Brilliant.Don’t judge me. I walk methodically.I climb the stairs two steps at a time, accelerating to a jog over the short stretch of stairs to ascend a half story, and stroll into the Writing Center, sweeping my attention over each sunlit face and each empty chair along the long table at the center of the room.I sit at its foot since Mr. Harris always claims the head, even though he hasn’t arrived yet.If it weren’t for arbitrary social customs, my side would be the head of the table, and I’d be in charge.Damn.
As I thrust my chopstick into the bowl, I capture a bunch of slimy noodles that are way too tempted to slide off of the stick. The juicy meat is a little more difficult to pick up—I either have to use two chopsticks to scoop up the piece, or stab the beef with the narrow end of my one stick. My whole table laughs and we are highly entertained by eating this meal in which we have a struggle to the finish to simply capture the smallest pieces of food. I move the chopstick covered with noodles to my mouth and slurp them all up. Eventually, my stick latches onto something that looks like a sea urchin or a tentacle of an octopus. I have no idea what this is. Scared because I’ve never seen something like it before, I place the tentacle noodle back on my napkin. I eat my noodles and converse with others at my table. But as much fun as it is eating it and as delicious the foreign Pho is, as soon as I’d ordered my meal I knew in my gut that I really shouldn’t be eating this.
“It’s a summer day in the year 1962. Myself and my sister, Wanda, are outside playing. We’re in a number 3 washtub. For those who know what is a number 3 washtub, that’s the closest thing we’d had to a swimming pool.” She just laughs and grins her wide grin with a little gap between the two front teeth and closes her eyes again.
“Wanda is 2 years old. I’m 4. We live on a plantation called Clifford’s place.” Debbie looks up towards the ceiling. I imagine the inside of her head resembles something as if she’s searching through her file cabinet of memories.
“We lived in the center of a cotton field.” She looks down and smacks her plump, chapped lips. “The house, mind you, was airy. And when I say airy, I mean airy.” Her voice’s volume increases as she says “airy.” “We had wallpaper to cover the holes in the walls, but even in the summer it was cold in the house. So it was a hot summer day outside, and we were playing in this number 3 washtub.”
The first step to recovery is admitting that you have a problem.
Start game with ace of spades.Double click on ace of spades and move to upper right corner.Move king of spades to empty space and queen of diamonds on top of him to reveal the eight of spades beneath her.There is no problem here.
The illuminated sign sent a stinging sensation through my eyes as I looked up to read it. The words “House of Blues” radiated in a white, red, and yellow blur through the piercing cold, Cleveland winter air. I chill made its way down my spine as I stood waiting for my group of friends to finish their cigarettes so that we could all enter the warm refuge of the venue. Kevin, the only other friend in our group who is not victim to cigarettes, turned to me, the tip of his nose and cheeks glowing almost as red and bright as the front-entrance sign. “Dude, never again will I be spending a winter here. No more of these cold shindigs.” I let out a little laugh, watching a stream of white flow out of my mouth. My conscious then returned to the misery of the situation. “Oh, I know. Trust me, I’m with you on that. It’s California for me.” He nodded in approval.
aw jeez, i forgot to post last week's. I'm posting both here so as not to spam the blag. feel free to do them separately.
last week: (#6)
The low, droning buzz of the ClearComm system in my right ear is omnipresent and extremely annoying. I remove the headset because I don’t get cues anyway, opting to control the goings-on backstage under my own power. The actors have already begun to annoy me. They have left plastic water bottles and costumes all over my scenery, like they always do. In vain have I demanded that they find other venues on which to store their sundries, so I toss their belongings into the back hallway with impunity. I need to clear the scenery off for the next shift, anyways. It’s the church. The benches are ready. I give my run crew the signal, and they begin rolling the choir loft into the wings. We direct it carefully so we don’t run into any other scenery. All of the scenery is under my control. Back here, my word is law. The humble scenery is my domain. The curtain falls.
This week: (#7)
In my 4th grade math class at Gilmour Academy, we would often boot up the antique Apple III computers in the back of the room to distract us from the evil Mrs. Pelot’s attempts to teach us our four mathematical operations. They were standard early-nineties fare—beige bodies, gray 76-key keyboards and 4-bit graphics with attached 5 ¼ inch floppy drives. We would sit in the back of the room, crowding around the 3 cathode-ray tube monitors, gleefully playing Number Munchers. Even as 9-year olds in 2001, it seemed ridiculous and comical to us to try and use these 16-color behemoths that went obsolete before we were even imagined. Even then, we mostly had access to computers that were 256 times as powerful. Windows XP Had just been released, a key moment in the computer industry, and walking into our math room was like taking a step back in time to the early 1980s.
The average person must have hundreds of scars on their body by the time they are a teenager, some of which, we probably aren’t aware of.They are small and round dots from a lost battle against the itch of Chicken Pox or hives or scars of puberty taking it’s toll, they are straight, perfect lines from encounters with metal, wire, and glass, or jagged from stepping on a pair of open scissors that had been left on the ground after cutting a happy Mother’s Day card out of construction paper.
We, as humans are susceptible to these sorts of injuries, even the most calloused flesh is unable to meet a sharpened object unharmed.Scars are our only way of fighting back, even if it is after the battle.And even when we heal, no matter how many flecks or outer layers of skin fall off, we are never rid of the proof that the wound was once there.
I have heard that average humans spend about 1/3 of their lives sleeping. In other words, that means that the average human is only 2/3 as successful as they could be with my superpower of not needing sleep. People like Albert Einstein and Pablo Picasso would have had a much bigger impact on humanity. Sleeping is an outlet for me, a way to recharge. But unlike most things that need recharging, sleeping does not require energy.
The piano stared at me when I opened the door. I looked to my right and saw that at the far end of the room sat the judges, members of the orchestra, at a long fold-out table. I walked up to them, introduced myself and handed them my music. I walked the long walk back to the piano at the other side of the room and sat. A middle-aged woman with brown hair put in a bun and a sweet, melodious voice told me to start whenever I was ready. I took a deep breath, thought for a moment about the things my teacher had told me at my last lesson, and set my hands on the keys.
As soon as I started playing I knew what my mom had been talking about. The keys had an awful feel – difficult to press down and slippery, a sign of real ivory. It didn’t matter though, because I played the piece without fault.
Walking on a path beside the road, covered by a canopy of outstretched evergreen branches the yellow scooter zooms by. My mom and I wave at him, but he races past us in a blur without even glancing in our direction. Turns out, the seventy year old was racing away from the police. In an attempt to help a woman with a flat tire on her bike, he tied the bike on a long rope to tow behind his scooter. She fell, hit the pavement with a crash and broke her arm. Debate ensued over which police department should handle this situation as the woman fell right on a county border. Police also soon discovered that the illustrious scooter man didn’t have legal license plates. When he zoomed past us without thought, without any other goal but to get home, he was fleeing from the scene. Goggles strapped tight, white helmet shoved over his round head, leather jacket and all he raced at top speed. The milk crate hanging off the back, bounced against its supportive bungee cords, jostled its belongings before hitting the home stretch.
Ecstatic at the sight of the campground, we quickly jumped out of our car the moment it stopped. A full day of driving, and our destination had finally been met. As we made our way down the entrance pathway, we realized the abrupt transition from driving for miles and miles, surrounded by dull, dirt-roads, with the occasional trailer park along the side, to walking through a sandy paradise, complete with hundreds of brightly colored tents and stands, accompanied with thousands of people adorned in tie-dye. We had finally made it. Squinting in order to make out the words on the vibrant red and yellow entrance sign, I read aloud “Franklin Lakes Music Festival, July 6-9, 1970.” Our excitement renewed from just saying the words, John and I hurried into the main venue, sand kicking up behind our feet as we made our way towards the main three stages. Tapestries displaying the festival’s main attractions- the Grateful Dead, Arlo Guthrie, and Janis Joplin- along with spatters of eclectic artwork encompassed the stage area.
Unwillingly wandering through the woods with a group of strangers is a strange thing. “Wilderness.” The program named itself for inambiguity, clearly. Intended to help troubled and/or drug-addicted teens, the program holds true to its name. By thrusting said teen into the real, unforgiving natural world, they truly learn the truth in every interpretation of the word. Tommy arrived early one April morning. Taken by force from his house at 4:00 am, as a “surprise intervention,” he was little short of tossed into a van and sent on his way. Accompanied only by the few belongings he managed to grab on his way out and a counselor who would soon be labeled as cause for his demise, the long drive commenced. That was back in Ohio, though. He was in Utah now. He had to keep reminding himself.
The moment I stepped into the main entrance of The Cloud Water Zendo Center, a small Buddhist worship center located in Cleveland, I instantly felt a serene sense of calm surround me. The walls were painted deep colors of yellow and red, decorated with many framed pictures and paintings of bamboo, monks, lilies- just about anything to do with nature. I looked down and noticed small stands that held figurines and sculptures of the lotus flower and meditating Buddha. There were two rectangular tables in the center of the room, surrounded by chairs, and in the corner a small, round table held an assortment of teas. Incense poured freely through the air, its scent filling the entire building, as the greeting from the monks broke the silence in the room. After introducing ourselves, the head monk proceeded to escort me into the meditation room to begin the morning service.
As we entered the room, I saw three of the center’s members meditating on one side of the room. On the opposite side, there was a group of visitors sitting in chairs, whom I joined. Directly in the center was the head monk, and at either side of him sat two other monks. In front of the them rested an enormous, elaborate, gold rupa of a Buddha in the lotus meditation position, surrounded by offerings and additional rupas. The service began with one long chant that proclaimed the general Buddhist beliefs on how to live life, and then proceeded into the Sanskrit mantras. These were led by the head monk and chanted by each follower and monk. These chants rang through the room, accompanied with drums, gongs, and bells being hit by the monks to the rhythmic tempo pulsing through the room. The long Sanskrit mantras carried on for about twenty minutes. Once they had finished these four main mantras, they began a chant, which was created specifically for Cloud Water Zendo, written in English, but chopped up into broken-sounding syllables.Five minutes of silence, and then a thirty-minute meditation session followed this. During this session, we all moved into the back of the room where there was another altar-like setup with the Buddha rupas, and cushions for meditation lined up on the floor. This thirty minutes of silent meditation took me aback at first. How was I supposed to feel comfortable sitting cross-legged, staring at the back of my eyelids in a room full of people I have never met before?I reluctantly took my place on the floor and forced my legs to form the shape of a pretzel. I looked up and saw that everyone around me had already assumed their “silence” modes. It comforted that no one else had their eyes open, which would allow them to gawk at me without my knowing. So I closed my eyes, felt the creases in my forehead cease, and joined the blinded silence.
This span of silence proved to be very calming, and even interesting. There was only one interruption during this entire session. After we were about three-fourths of the way through the thirty minutes, the head monk steadily stood up, holding a large, solid wooden paddle in hand. He began to walk around with the paddle, reached the end of the line of monks, and then turned back around to face the way he came. He started back down the aisle, hitting each monk and center member on the back along the way. Any speculation to how hard he was hitting was put to rest by the loud thud it made against each practicing Buddhists’ shoulder blades.
Once the meditation ended, we all went back into the main room, found a place at one of the tables, and helped ourselves to some tea, if desired. The head monk then proceeded to teach their weekly lesson. After he finished, we had time for conversation. I started off by asking one of the female monks what made her choose Buddhism as her religion. With no hesitation, she replied, “I came to it gradually over time. It was something that just made sense. Looking back, I was raised with Buddhist principles without even knowing it.” This related to, and well defined the basic beliefs about Buddhism. Not only is Buddhism a religion, but also a philosophy; a way of life, in which one can freely express his or herself. It was not necessary to alter any other beliefs that one may have had in life prior to coming to Buddhism, because it is believed that Buddhism can be “added on” to your ways of life, and did not even conflict with or restrict you from other religions. She continued, “It’s like a process of improving yourself. It doesn’t shut you off from anything else.”
I thought back on my experience with other religions, namely Catholicism. Out of all the masses I had been forced to attend at church, had I ever seen someone get hit over the back with a wooden paddle? No. But had I seen everyone in the parish accept wine and bread as literal blood and flesh? Yes. Had I seen perfectly respectable people get rejected from the parish because of their personalities or appearances? Yes. Had I seen other religions and alternative ways of life be openly ridiculed in front of the entire audience of five hundred people? Yes. Was the church seemingly wealthier and of a better reputation and social standing than the Buddhist center? Yes. Would I ever want to go back to the Buddhist center? Possibly. Would I ever want to attend a Catholic mass again? No.
I do remember being afraid of the large windows of their house after once seeing a coyote pass by one of the bedrooms.My grandma had built up a real fear of coyotes in us, telling us never to play outside past dark.My brother had told me that it was because coyotes liked to eat little girls, ones about my age.I wouldn’t go outside without him or someone else until I was eight or nine from fear of being dragged into the woods and eaten.
There was never a real fear of people, however. My grandparents rarely lock their doors and never had any sort of alarm system or protection against people breaking in other than the false-advising ‘Beware of Dog’ sign.And the sign didn’t even work.
Around six months ago, my grandparent’s house was robbed.The robbers took very little, a handful of my grandma’s jewelry, a pillowcase, random, semi-valuable trinkets, and a safe with held copies of their birth certificates and the birth certificates of all of their nine kids as well as the deeds to their pieces of land but no money.Among the things left were the flat screen TV, the numerous carefully crafted WWII plane models and watercolor paintings, and the unloaded rifle that my grandpa keeps in their closet. By all accounts, it was obvious that the robbers didn’t spend too much time in their home and probably didn’t really know too much about what they were doing.My grandpa told me that the police thought it might have been a group of young people, just getting started in the robbing business.It could have been a lot worse, he says.
But my grandma still brings the incident up in regular conversation, declaring it to be an intrusion of privacy and a moment that made her question their safety living in a largely Hispanic town in rural Illinois.My grandpa only complains about the mess the robbers had made.He usually just sits and comforts my grandma as she talks about the event, rubbing her back with his hand, up and then down, with his leathery, liver-spotted hands.
The family sits around the white dinner table enjoying the dry chicken without sauce, the noodle casserole with the hard noodles, and the strawberry rhubarb pie filling served in a bowl for its juices would slosh off a plate. The boy is still swinging his feet back and forth, brushing his toes against the underside of the table. He grabs the steak knife off of the plate to his right and hurls it towards his grandfather. His mom sees the knife fly across the table and begins to crack up, laughing so hard that her eyes water.
That is, unless they were talking about the clearly Italian man with a twirled mustache, sitting on a bench alone and pretending to read a newspaper, which was upside down and had English headlines. Yes, he kept giving them very inconspicuous glances as they hurried past. When they turned the corner, his eyes roamed the crowd as mine had a moment before, searching for a new object of interest. Naturally.
Ali and I prayed to Idina, the stuffed rabbit that sits on the rail that controls the curtains from offstage right. “Idina, give me strength. Amen.” We said. The previous year, our junior year, Ali and I both had starting places offstage right in the musical “RENT: School Edition,” and for some reason we started praying to the bunny who sat condescendingly on the rail above our heads. We named this seemingly god-like figure after Idina Menzel, the god-like actress who shaped the role of “Maureen” into what thousands of people perceive it as today in “RENT.” This year, as a member of the teen dance ensemble, I didn’t start the show onstage with Ali, an adult lead. Even though we were at opposite spectrums of the cast, we still bonded over this new tradition.
Oh, silly Asian dorks at Case, why must you always be in such a hurry? I witnessed your kind at the very first day of the school year, charging across the Quad ten minutes before classes began to get to your advanced science classes in the Rockefeller physics building. My wonder was compounded by the fact that the first week of the semester is the shopping period, when students are not bound to stay in the classes they attend, and when most professors give cursory information about the course and don’t even expect consistent attendance. I watched you run alongside the Circle Link buses—which come every ten minutes—to catch rides to dorms that are a mere five minute walk away. I saw you jog up the stairs of the library only to sit at a table, pant heavily, and, reddened, sigh and fixate on your untranslated manga. Perhaps I will never understand you, for you are a black box: impenetrable, contextless, and socially isolated.
The entrance of the church is on the far side from our point of view. I know I have it in the bag. I slow to a leisurely jog as I round the final corner, exulting in my success. I turn and look, and he hasn’t even made it around yet. I let out a joyful whoop and trot into the yard of the church. He is standing there. Knuckles collide with mouth, teeth fly, saliva mixes with blood in a cacophony of noise that would have made Bizet proud. My fingers form a lasting depression in his cheek, dislodging tendons and muscles and forming a new crater in his face. I open my eyes.
