Wilderness (WW6, Group Uno)

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.

Should Religion Restrict the Way You Live? (WW5, Group Uno)

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.

The Most Trusting People You Will Ever Meet (Group UNO)

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.

Clockwork (Joe, Linus, Margo, Sammy)

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.

Run Away: WW 7 - Jessie Eric TJ

Again, and maybe I'm just doing it wrong, I cannot paste into this box.

Mines the one called "Run Away."

My United Kindgom (Joe, Linus, Margo, Sammy)

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.

Weekend Writing 6 Group UNO

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.

Cutting Through - Writing 7, Marmot Gladiators

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.

WW7 group 1

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.

Weekend Writing 6 - Jessie, Eric, TJ, Lauren

For some reason, it wont let my paste anything into this box. I don't want to re-type an entire section, so my piece is the one called "The Incredible Sam I Am"

About the ending, I cut off a couple paragraphs about whats happend with riding since Sam died. I don't know if its stronger without them or if I should have some follow up.

Weekend 6 (actually project writing)- Marmot Gladiators

We had made it, our fellow travelers nowhere in sight, and saw now that the island’s painted white appearance had nothing to do with it being burned down. In fact, the island probably would have preferred a fate that saw it charred to a cinder, but its trees suffered a more humiliating fate.

Were we still getting out? Hell yeah, hell yeah we were.
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Comment on the writing for what it is: half of a larger piece that I haven't finished yet. How is the setup working? I have a fear that the setup for these pieces where we are paddling to wherever and I narrate about our troubles is boring or otherwise un-necessary.

Weekend Writing 6- group uno

I have my hands crossed against my stomach, close my eyes and feel the cool almost winter breeze against my face. Just as I begin to talk to some of my other friends waiting for their rides, Kaylynn’s dad’s car pulls into the school parking lot. Dr. Ruf has a large robust figure, has a shiny bald head, and wears wire glasses that are too small for his face. His personality shines through every time we get into the car—it makes the ride interesting at least. He asked my 11-year old sister the other week, “You seem like you’re afraid of me. Why is that?” to which my sister didn’t know how to reply other than an awkward, mouse-like, “No I’m not…” He is a doctor, and knows you have to be somewhat smart to be one. So with that, combined with the fact that he is an older man who is well off and controls the money in the house, he enjoys revealing his opinions.

Rest Stop (WW6)- Jessie, Lauren, Eric, T.J.

I emerged, with the urge to take a shower as soon as we arrived at our destination, to find my mother wedged in between two hillbillies in the McDonalds line. It would be another three hours before we got to any decent food, so we figured another Diet Coke and chicken sandwich could hold us over. The woman working at the register was the largest woman I’ve seen. There was no way if my mom and I linked our hands together that we would have been able to reach all the way around this woman. She wore a skirt with an elastic waistband (obviously it was the only thing that would fit her) with some supportive shoes and thick glasses. On one leg was a bandage, I told my mother that I thought it was for support because what else would be able to fit around her leg? My mother leaned over and whispered to me, “She looks like a turtle.” Shaking her head she continued, “No, actually, just the inside of a turtle.”

Telescope Eyes (Linus, Margo, Joe, Sammy)

It was almost a calm summer’s day. Through the open window I could hear those especially noisy neighbors racing down the street on their bright pink and green bikes, their towels draped around their shoulders and their swim suits still dripping wet. A few minutes later I could hear the slapping of bare feet on the street as their little brother raced to catch up, yelling louder than the rest combined. “Kelsey, come on, I. Am. Coming!” He repeated it over and over until it became a bizarre sort of motto encouraging him to keep going. As if the already tangible, edible scent of his upcoming cookout weren’t enticing enough on its own.

Experience [WW#6, Marmot Gladiators]

Traffic cameras watched my SUV crawl ten miles per hour under the speed limit down Chester Avenue, lit intermittently by streetlights and the colored tint of traffic lights. I pulled into the gas station, a square just large enough to house four gas pumps and a convenience store, hanging at the edge of a precipice into I-90, surrounded by conifers, grass, and tar.

After twisting the knob to turn off the headlights, I hastily donned my hoodie and my heavy coat, making sure the doors remain locked until I was ready to get out. Hurriedly, I slipped the credit card into the pump and deftly shoved it back into my wallet, which I tucked beneath my layers, and immediately started pumping. I rested my back against the white car door, my feet pivoted on the raised concrete of the pump.

Two gallons. The air evaporated out of my mouth like exhaust. Hearing a squeak, my arms tensed, and I jerked my head aside. A man with a black hood lifted from the down puffs of his red coat scrubbed my windshield using the bright red squeegee affixed to the side of each gas pump. Lit by the streetlights looming above the gas station, his six-foot frame seemed faceless.

Weekend Writing #5...I don't even know which group I'm in (Evan M is in it)...

My gas light blinks. Pale and yellow. Pathetic. There’s a BP about five hundred yards down the road, so I shouldn’t be worried about running dry. But I am. I’m always worried about running dry.

SOM Center Road at 7:50 AM. Mothers sit all high and holy in the thrones of their SUVS, which are even less sexy when caked in thin layers of sidewalk salt residue. I generalize. They are eager to drop off the kids. Ready to get rid of them. Hair appointments, private workouts, and coffee with friends add volume to their schedules, and everything’s unavoidable when it’s written in a planner. Suburban congestion is a byproduct of mom’s obligations. I’m all too familiar.