tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-61940312158266938162024-03-05T13:35:12.158-05:00Writing and EmotionsEmotions are some of the most powerful forces on earth and letting my pen be swayed by emotions creates a world I couldn't otherwise give life to.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12734267844931534675noreply@blogger.comBlogger104125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6194031215826693816.post-77125171267498875002013-08-31T22:04:00.000-04:002013-08-31T22:04:00.161-04:00Breaking Down<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Closed with cement the holes between the bricks disappear<br />
Fortifying a wall, closing out intruders and friends.<br />
I bought a sledgehammer and a wrecking ball, but I'm not strong enough<br />
I should've built a ladder just to see what was on the other side.<br />
Maybe it was terror, pain, or internal tumult - all hidden from view<br />
As cement hardens, closing the gaps between bricks in the wall.</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12734267844931534675noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6194031215826693816.post-34417720628859777562013-08-24T21:55:00.000-04:002013-08-24T21:55:00.667-04:00A Portrait of Wassaw<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Spanish moss on oak, palm, pine, palmetto my welcome sign<br />
My sea-legs buried in the soft white sand with coquina clams,<br />
Expected silence shattered by croaking toad, chirping cricket, crashing wave,<br />
Warbling painted bunting on the sun-bleached roof keep away the gnats<br />
That gnaw at the sensitive flesh behind my ears, scorch marks<br />
At the base of palm trees a whisper of fires past, fires and resilience<br />
Of ancient roots - a family buried in the sands for centuries with bonnets,<br />
Those sharks scouring the shallowest ocean water by tail-slapping dolphins<br />
With dorsal fins glistening in the moonlit night, starry skies dancing<br />
On wave crests unbroken until her dark heart of a carapace emerges<br />
And her fins collect sand as she hauls he body to the dunes, her primal purpose<br />
Propelling her to dig deeper at her ancient pace, year after year, clutch after clutch<br />
Buried in the sand, primordial sighs and leaving her tracks like a memory in the sand<br />
Before disappearing into the foam-crested waves.</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12734267844931534675noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6194031215826693816.post-69396488051163985832013-08-17T21:42:00.000-04:002013-08-17T21:42:00.152-04:00The Magic of Marinas<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Seagulls white as the hulls of sleeping sailboats<br />
Send out their cries joyous in the clear cerulean skies<br />
Moored to the floating docks the Southern Breeze tied<br />
To the Freedom of exploring horizons and shorelines<br />
And barnacles on mooring posts as low tide drags<br />
Away last night's skeletons and reveals today's promise<br />
White sails hoping for wind: paradise for wanderlust-stricken souls.</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12734267844931534675noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6194031215826693816.post-4633142441580765052013-08-12T21:54:00.001-04:002013-08-12T21:54:12.646-04:00Unleash My Soul<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="p1" style="font-family: Arial, 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; margin-bottom: 1em;">
<span class="s1">The desire to live, that’s what dance means in Sanskrit,</span></div>
<div class="p1" style="font-family: Arial, 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; margin-bottom: 1em;">
<span class="s1">What does it mean to you, my tiny dancer, to dance?</span></div>
<div class="p1" style="font-family: Arial, 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; margin-bottom: 1em;">
<span class="s1">Do you forget the little girl who fell in love with dance</span></div>
<div class="p1" style="font-family: Arial, 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; margin-bottom: 1em;">
<span class="s1">Or do you still embrace the blistered feet as milestones?</span></div>
<div class="p1" style="font-family: Arial, 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; margin-bottom: 1em;">
<span class="s1">Do you feel the floor beneath your feet when you plié,</span></div>
<div class="p1" style="font-family: Arial, 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; margin-bottom: 1em;">
<span class="s1">Bending your supple knees and bowing your arms,</span></div>
<div class="p1" style="font-family: Arial, 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; margin-bottom: 1em;">
<span class="s1">Fighting the friction against your bare feet, dirt-caked?</span></div>
<div class="p1" style="font-family: Arial, 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; margin-bottom: 1em;">
<span class="s1">I see your deep breath, stabilizing the supporting leg,</span></div>
<div class="p1" style="font-family: Arial, 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; margin-bottom: 1em;">
<span class="s1">Freeing yourself for the pirouette, surreal extension of the leg.</span></div>
<div class="p1" style="font-family: Arial, 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; margin-bottom: 1em;">
<span class="s1">Your relentless spirit flies as your skirt flutters, arabesque</span></div>
<div class="p1" style="font-family: Arial, 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; margin-bottom: 1em;">
<span class="s1">On pointe flowing effortlessly into a perfect grand changement de pieds,</span></div>
<div class="p1" style="font-family: Arial, 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; margin-bottom: 1em;">
<span class="s1">Or was that a pas de bourrée with some attitude?</span></div>
<div class="p1" style="font-family: Arial, 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; margin-bottom: 1em;">
<span class="s1">I saw a jump, feet fluttering, thighs kissing each other.</span></div>
<div class="p1" style="font-family: Arial, 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; margin-bottom: 1em;">
<span class="s1">I forget what your movements are called, you call me</span></div>
<div class="p1" style="font-family: Arial, 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; margin-bottom: 1em;">
<span class="s1">To join you. Breathless, I take your hand, staggering to plié.</span></div>
<div class="p1" style="font-family: Arial, 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; margin-bottom: 1em;">
<span class="s1">I’ve been waiting to join you all my life, tiny dancer.</span></div>
<div class="p1" style="font-family: Arial, 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; margin-bottom: 1em;">
<span class="s1">Your gift, your ethereal dance is a gift, permanent in my soul,</span></div>
<div class="p1" style="font-family: Arial, 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; margin-bottom: 1em;">
<span class="s1">Nourishing mind, body, and soul as you demand everything</span></div>
<div class="p1" style="font-family: Arial, 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; margin-bottom: 1em;">
<span class="s1">From me. You anchor yourself in my heart as you grand jeté</span></div>
<div class="p1" style="font-family: Arial, 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; margin-bottom: 1em;">
<span class="s1">Across the stage, stag leap ending in arabesque, not attitude.</span></div>
<div class="p1" style="font-family: Arial, 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; margin-bottom: 1em;">
<span class="s1">Supported on the toes of your right foot, left leg extended behind,</span></div>
<div class="p1" style="font-family: Arial, 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; margin-bottom: 1em;">
<span class="s1">Your arms graceful at 10 and 2, no knee bent behind you.</span></div>
<div class="p1" style="font-family: Arial, 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; margin-bottom: 1em;">
<span class="s1">I am relentless, fearless arabesque on flat feet. Afraid of pointe.</span></div>
<div class="p1" style="font-family: Arial, 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; margin-bottom: 1em;">
<span class="s1">But let me dance for you, be the audience and see the love,</span></div>
<div class="p1" style="font-family: Arial, 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; margin-bottom: 1em;">
<span class="s1">Passion, thirst bursting, radiating from my body, bare feet</span></div>
<div class="p1" style="font-family: Arial, 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; margin-bottom: 1em;">
<span class="s1">Fighting frustration and envy, long strides pas de bourrée</span></div>
<div class="p1" style="font-family: Arial, 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; margin-bottom: 1em;">
<span class="s1">Across the floor with no consideration for the barre.</span></div>
<div class="p1" style="font-family: Arial, 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; margin-bottom: 1em;">
<span class="s1">Crossing right foot behing, jumping up, crossing behind.</span></div>
<div class="p1" style="font-family: Arial, 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; margin-bottom: 1em;">
<span class="s1">Relevé, passé, ending in a pirouette. Again, again,</span></div>
<div class="p1" style="font-family: Arial, 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; margin-bottom: 1em;">
<span class="s1">Again, I can do it, never losing my focus, like you.</span></div>
<div class="p1" style="font-family: Arial, 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; margin-bottom: 1em;">
<span class="s1">Lifting myself onto my toes, caressing right calf</span></div>
<div class="p1" style="font-family: Arial, 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; margin-bottom: 1em;">
<span class="s1">With the lifting on my left leg towards me knee,</span></div>
<div class="p1" style="font-family: Arial, 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; margin-bottom: 1em;">
<span class="s1">Who am I spinning for? Who does your heart flutter for?</span></div>
<div class="p1" style="font-family: Arial, 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; margin-bottom: 1em;">
<span class="s1">Tiny dancer, do these propulsive rhythms propel your heart</span></div>
<div class="p1" style="font-family: Arial, 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; margin-bottom: 1em;">
<span class="s1">To flame and leap higher than your grand jetés?</span></div>
<div class="p1" style="font-family: Arial, 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; margin-bottom: 1em;">
<span class="s1">Piqué turns are astounding, difficult, enthralling.</span></div>
<div class="p1" style="font-family: Arial, 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; margin-bottom: 1em;">
<span class="s1">How your left foot rises passé while arms open and close,</span></div>
<div class="p1" style="font-family: Arial, 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; margin-bottom: 1em;">
<span class="s1">Open and close as you lift, lower, lift your lovely leg.</span></div>
<div class="p1" style="font-family: Arial, 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; margin-bottom: 1em;">
<span class="s1">Your développés are perfectly controlled, teach me?</span></div>
<div class="p1" style="font-family: Arial, 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; margin-bottom: 1em;">
<span class="s1">I praise your dance, for it frees you from life’s heaviness;</span></div>
<div class="p1" style="font-family: Arial, 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; margin-bottom: 1em;">
<span class="s1">You are lighter than air, buoyant soul that dancing transformed.</span></div>
<div class="p1" style="font-family: Arial, 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; margin-bottom: 1em;">
<span class="s1">I praise dance for its enchantment of my life, enriching</span></div>
<div class="p1" style="font-family: Arial, 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; margin-bottom: 1em;">
<span class="s1">My dreams of flight with rosin- caked ballet shoes.</span></div>
<div class="p1" style="font-family: Arial, 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; margin-bottom: 1em;">
<span class="s1">Sit, tiny dancer, don’t hold me my hand, let me fly</span></div>
<div class="p1" style="font-family: Arial, 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; margin-bottom: 1em;">
<span class="s1">Across the stage, this room, this life with effortless grace.</span></div>
<div class="p1" style="font-family: Arial, 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; margin-bottom: 1em;">
<span class="s1">Unleash the passion locked away in a music box cage,</span></div>
<div class="p1" style="font-family: Arial, 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; margin-bottom: 1em;">
<span class="s1">Teach my skirt to flutter in pirouettes,</span></div>
<div class="p1" style="font-family: Arial, 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; margin-bottom: 1em;">
<span class="s1">Unleash my desire to live.</span></div>
</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12734267844931534675noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6194031215826693816.post-29070289432782054472013-07-21T09:23:00.001-04:002013-07-21T09:23:05.655-04:00Stolen Cheesecake<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div style="font-family: Arial, 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; margin-bottom: 1em;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: Arial, 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; margin-bottom: 1em;">
The thought of watching you eat La idea de verte comer<br />- so gross and yet erotic - - tan burda y sin embargo erótica -<br />will not let me fall asleep. no me deja conciliar el sueño.</div>
<div style="font-family: Arial, 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; margin-bottom: 1em;">
I taste my cheesecake, a feat Me comí mi torta, una hazaña<br />you quickly turned chaotic: que tú rápidamente hiciste caótica:<br />the thought of watching you eat la idea de verte comer</div>
<div style="font-family: Arial, 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; margin-bottom: 1em;">
from my plate is some sick treat. de mi plato es una delicia enferma.<br />Empty fork and lips hypnotic Tenedor vacío y labios hipnóticos<br />will not let me fall asleep no me dejan conciliar el sueño<b id="internal-source-marker_0.6636646748520434"></b><br /><br />on the bed or the love-seat. en la cama o el sofá.<br />It’s become anti-narcotic, Se ha convertido en anti-narcótico,<br />the thought of watching you eat. la idea de verte comer.<br /><br />Wrapped lips around tender meat, Labios envueltos alrededor de carne tierna,<br />your theft from my plate, exotic, el robo de mi plato, exótico,<br />will not let me fall asleep. no me dejan conciliar el sueño.<br /><br />Hungry for food or other treat, Hambrienta por comida u otra invitación,<b id="internal-source-marker_0.6636646748520434"></b><br />I watch you smiling, idiotic. Te veo sonreír, idiota.<br />The thought of watching you eat La idea de ver que comes<br />will not let me fall asleep. no me deja conciliar el sueño.</div>
</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12734267844931534675noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6194031215826693816.post-36112681550741124302013-07-05T19:06:00.002-04:002013-07-05T19:06:16.514-04:00Food For Thought<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div style="font-family: Arial, 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; margin-bottom: 1em;">
I started to write a poem, hungry for substance.<br />I stewed my thoughts, mixed them, cooked them.<br /><br />So I laid the foundation with a meaty sauce.<br />Death, be not proud, though some have called thee<br />Mighty and dreadful, for thou are not so;</div>
<div style="font-family: Arial, 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; margin-bottom: 1em;">
Then I covered those thoughts with starchy rigidity.<br />Do not go gentle into that good night,<br />Old age should burn and rave at close of day;<br />Rage, rage against the dying of the light.</div>
<div style="font-family: Arial, 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; margin-bottom: 1em;">
A heaping spoonful of loving cheesiness to top it off:<br />Merged, you and I, my love, seal the silence<br />while the sea destroys its continual forms.<br /><br />Hands moving quickly, anxious,<br />salivating at the thought of more.<br /><br />More hearty, seasoned support:<br />Thou'art slave to fate, chance, kings, and desperate men,<br />And dost with poison, war, and sickness dwell,<br />And poppy'or charms can make us sleep as well<br />And better than thy stroke; why swell'st thou then?<br /><br />Layered over layers, wavy and yeasty:<br />Ah, broken is the golden bowl! the spirit flown forever!<br />Let the bell toll!- a saintly soul floats on the Stygian river;<br />And, Guy de Vere, hast thou no tear?- weep now or nevermore!<br />See! on yon drear and rigid bier low lies thy love, Lenore!<br /><br />All covered in cheese, flavorful and exotic:<br />I want to eat the sunbeam flaring in your lovely body,<br />the sovereign nose of your arrogant face,<br />I want to eat the fleeting shade of your lashes.<br /><br />Layers upon layers, condensing on paper,<br />labored over and left to bake for hours<br />in my brain and soon, the thoughts of<br />my sweet labor call me back,<br />hungry for more:<br /><br />Melted and crunchy crust of love metaphors,<br />the rigid, starchy rules softened under the heat,<br />the hearty base thickened, darkened, sweetened.</div>
</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12734267844931534675noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6194031215826693816.post-18384437841128891072013-05-15T12:37:00.003-04:002013-05-15T12:37:35.120-04:00Poetry of Love<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<br />
<div style="font-family: Arial, 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; margin-bottom: 1em;">
Entre encuentro y encuentro<br />te extraño y te deseo por dentro:<br />mis ojos no lo aguantan y cierran,<br />mis dientes a mis labios atacan.</div>
<div style="font-family: Arial, 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; margin-bottom: 1em;">
En una semana o en un mes te vere<br />y cómo añoraba te abrazare.</div>
<div style="font-family: Arial, 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; margin-bottom: 1em;">
Otra vez me recordaras de todo:<br />las risas, gestos, y palabras que amo.<br />Abriremos las piernas en el sofá,<br />nos sentaremos acurrucados. Acaricia<br />tus dedos suaves entre my cabello,<br />apaga la tele, y dime sobre tu anhelo.<br /><br />Déjame cocinar, déjame verte comer.<br />Déjame besar tus labios con el amor<br />de mis labios. Déjame desnuda,<br />abierta, viendo tu espalda encantada.<br /><br />Enséñame como amarte otra vez,<br />como la última vez, como antes,<br />como cada vez de nuevo.</div>
<div style="font-family: Arial, 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; margin-bottom: 1em;">
Enséñame que te amo.</div>
<div style="font-family: Arial, 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; margin-bottom: 1em;">
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ </div>
<div style="font-family: Arial, 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; margin-bottom: 1em;">
In English now:</div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: Arial, 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; margin-bottom: 1em;">
Between reunion and reunion<br />I miss you and I want you from within:<br />my eyes cannot endure it and close,<br />my teeth bite at my lips.<br /><br />In a week or in a month I will see you<br />and, how I yearned, I'll embrace you.<br /><br />Once again, you will remind me of everything:<br />the laughs, gestures, and words I love.<br />We'll entangle our legs on the sofa,<br />we'll sit wrapped in arms.<br /><br />Run your soft fingers through my hair,<br />turn off the tv, and tell me about your longing.<br /><br />Let me cook for you, let me watch you eat,<br />let me kiss your lips with the love<br />of my lips, leave me naked,<br />vulnerable, gazing at your back, enchanted.<br /><br />Teach me how to love you again<br />as the last time, as before,<br />as ever again.<br /><br />Teach me that I love you.</div>
</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12734267844931534675noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6194031215826693816.post-14846213890852445692013-04-28T10:27:00.002-04:002013-04-28T10:27:14.647-04:00Marble Sarcophagus<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: Arial, 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; margin-bottom: 1em;">
Intricately carved and shaped-<br />only to be hidden and shrouded<br />by death and grief,<br />hidden from a thief.<br /><br />But for such morbidity<br />comes delicate beauty.<br />Dionysus, in his grape-vines,<br />triumphant, with fans:</div>
<div style="font-family: Arial, 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; margin-bottom: 1em;">
Four Seasons - Spring and Summer,<br />youths not women, Fall and Winter.<br />Commissioned with meaning,<br />purpose or greed? Gleaming,<br /><br />in marble cast, is death<br />such a party? Triumphant path<br />of the God of madness<br />and the passing Seasons?<br /><br />Knowing our fates, have we built<br />or prepared for them? Guilt<br />or joy - in that pleasant morbidity.<br />We are nothing but frailty.<br /><br />Love, passion, indulgence,<br />anger textured with patience.<br />That is the fleeting life we fret away<br />fretting over death's eternal stay.</div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12734267844931534675noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6194031215826693816.post-15852147683928294882013-04-21T13:50:00.003-04:002013-04-21T18:33:24.474-04:00Mush<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<br />
<div class="p1" data-mce-style="text-align: center;" style="font-family: Arial, 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; margin-bottom: 1em; text-align: center;">
<span class="s1">Sitting in my high chair, I would stare longingly:</span></div>
<div class="p1" data-mce-style="text-align: center;" style="font-family: Arial, 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; margin-bottom: 1em; text-align: center;">
<span class="s1">toned and tanned arms moving quickly, </span></div>
<div class="p1" data-mce-style="text-align: center;" style="font-family: Arial, 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; margin-bottom: 1em; text-align: center;">
<span class="s1">cradling bright red apples and gripping gleaming sharpened steel. </span></div>
<div class="p1" data-mce-style="text-align: center;" style="font-family: Arial, 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; margin-bottom: 1em; text-align: center;">
<span class="s1">A blur of chops, slices, and dices all shoved in a black blender </span></div>
<div class="p1" data-mce-style="text-align: center;" style="font-family: Arial, 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; margin-bottom: 1em; text-align: center;">
<span class="s1">to whir around with cinnamon or bananas. </span>Pureed, poured in a bowl. </div>
<div class="p1" data-mce-style="text-align: center;" style="font-family: Arial, 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; margin-bottom: 1em; text-align: center;">
<span class="s1">Excited, greedy fingers grasped for it and giggling, I </span>shoveled my</div>
<div class="p1" data-mce-style="text-align: center;" style="font-family: Arial, 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; margin-bottom: 1em; text-align: center;">
baby food into my hungry mouth and missed, smearing the</div>
<div class="p1" data-mce-style="text-align: center;" style="font-family: Arial, 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; margin-bottom: 1em; text-align: center;">
fragrant mush across chubby cheeks and my high chair.</div>
<div class="p2" data-mce-style="text-align: center;" style="font-family: Arial, 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; margin-bottom: 1em; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="p1" data-mce-style="text-align: center;" style="font-family: Arial, 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; margin-bottom: 1em; text-align: center;">
<span class="s1">Sometimes, running short on time, </span></div>
<div class="p1" data-mce-style="text-align: center;" style="font-family: Arial, 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; margin-bottom: 1em; text-align: center;">
<span class="s1">a familiar “pop” preceded a can of Gerber. </span></div>
<div class="p1" data-mce-style="text-align: center;" style="font-family: Arial, 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; margin-bottom: 1em; text-align: center;">
<span class="s1">Apples and cinnamon, mixed fruit, or green stuff purees. </span></div>
<div class="p1" data-mce-style="text-align: center;" style="font-family: Arial, 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; margin-bottom: 1em; text-align: center;">
<span class="s1">Devoured gleefully, the Gerber baby food always a welcome snack. </span></div>
<div class="p1" data-mce-style="text-align: center;" style="font-family: Arial, 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; margin-bottom: 1em; text-align: center;">
<span class="s1">Glass containers were stashed: </span>I snuck apples and cinnamon</div>
<div class="p1" data-mce-style="text-align: center;" style="font-family: Arial, 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; margin-bottom: 1em; text-align: center;">
to school, mixed fruit was for church, green stuff eaten</div>
<div class="p1" data-mce-style="text-align: center;" style="font-family: Arial, 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; margin-bottom: 1em; text-align: center;">
furtively after swim practice.</div>
<div class="p2" data-mce-style="text-align: center;" style="font-family: Arial, 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; margin-bottom: 1em; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="p1" data-mce-style="text-align: center;" style="font-family: Arial, 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; margin-bottom: 1em; text-align: center;">
<span class="s1">Old enough to stop needing</span></div>
<div class="p1" data-mce-style="text-align: center;" style="font-family: Arial, 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; margin-bottom: 1em; text-align: center;">
<span class="s1">food for babies, </span>the cans began to disappear. </div>
<div class="p1" data-mce-style="text-align: center;" style="font-family: Arial, 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; margin-bottom: 1em; text-align: center;">
<span class="s1">The cans did not accompany me on the</span></div>
<div class="p1" data-mce-style="text-align: center;" style="font-family: Arial, 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; margin-bottom: 1em; text-align: center;">
<span class="s1">long plane ride to a strange new land </span></div>
<div class="p1" data-mce-style="text-align: center;" style="font-family: Arial, 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; margin-bottom: 1em; text-align: center;">
<span class="s1">I missed them.</span></div>
<div class="p2" data-mce-style="text-align: center;" style="font-family: Arial, 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; margin-bottom: 1em; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="p1" data-mce-style="text-align: center;" style="font-family: Arial, 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; margin-bottom: 1em; text-align: center;">
<span class="s1">I missed them</span></div>
<div class="p1" data-mce-style="text-align: center;" style="font-family: Arial, 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; margin-bottom: 1em; text-align: center;">
<span class="s1">when new faces spoke that strange language.</span></div>
<div class="p1" data-mce-style="text-align: center;" style="font-family: Arial, 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; margin-bottom: 1em; text-align: center;">
<span class="s1">I missed them when we moved again.</span></div>
<div class="p1" data-mce-style="text-align: center;" style="font-family: Arial, 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; margin-bottom: 1em; text-align: center;">
<span class="s1">I missed them until my brother was born.</span></div>
<div class="p2" data-mce-style="text-align: center;" style="font-family: Arial, 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; margin-bottom: 1em; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="p1" data-mce-style="text-align: center;" style="font-family: Arial, 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; margin-bottom: 1em; text-align: center;">
<span class="s1">A new baby meant a new chance to instill</span></div>
<div class="p1" data-mce-style="text-align: center;" style="font-family: Arial, 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; margin-bottom: 1em; text-align: center;">
<span class="s1">love for homemade mush and industrial mush.</span></div>
<div class="p2" data-mce-style="text-align: center;" style="font-family: Arial, 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; margin-bottom: 1em; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="p1" data-mce-style="text-align: center;" style="font-family: Arial, 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; margin-bottom: 1em; text-align: center;">
<span class="s1">He didn’t like apples and cinnamon.</span></div>
<div class="p1" data-mce-style="text-align: center;" style="font-family: Arial, 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; margin-bottom: 1em; text-align: center;">
<span class="s1">He didn’t like mixed fruit.</span></div>
<div class="p1" data-mce-style="text-align: center;" style="font-family: Arial, 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; margin-bottom: 1em; text-align: center;">
<span class="s1">He didn’t like the green stuff.</span></div>
<div class="p2" data-mce-style="text-align: center;" style="font-family: Arial, 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; margin-bottom: 1em; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="p1" data-mce-style="text-align: center;" style="font-family: Arial, 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; margin-bottom: 1em; text-align: center;">
<span class="s1">I snuck into the pantry, confused and eager,</span></div>
<div class="p1" data-mce-style="text-align: center;" style="font-family: Arial, 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; margin-bottom: 1em; text-align: center;">
I bit my lip with the anticipation.</div>
<div class="p1" data-mce-style="text-align: center;" style="font-family: Arial, 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; margin-bottom: 1em; text-align: center;">
<span class="s1">Pop.</span></div>
<div class="p1" data-mce-style="text-align: center;" style="font-family: Arial, 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; margin-bottom: 1em; text-align: center;">
<span class="s1">Apples and cinnamon - childhood manna at last!!!</span></div>
<div class="p1" data-mce-style="text-align: center;" style="font-family: Arial, 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; margin-bottom: 1em; text-align: center;">
<span class="s1">Gleefully cradling the can and spoon,</span></div>
<div class="p1" data-mce-style="text-align: center;" style="font-family: Arial, 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; margin-bottom: 1em; text-align: center;">
<span class="s1">I licked my lips and swallowed.</span></div>
<div class="p2" data-mce-style="text-align: center;" style="font-family: Arial, 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; margin-bottom: 1em; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="p1" data-mce-style="text-align: center;" style="font-family: Arial, 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; margin-bottom: 1em; text-align: center;">
<span class="s1">Eyebrows crinkled and lips pursed,</span></div>
<div class="p1" data-mce-style="text-align: center;" style="font-family: Arial, 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; margin-bottom: 1em; text-align: center;">
<span class="s1">I checked the expiration date.</span></div>
<div class="p1" data-mce-style="text-align: center;" style="font-family: Arial, 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; margin-bottom: 1em; text-align: center;">
<span class="s1">I re-read the label.</span></div>
<div class="p1" data-mce-style="text-align: center;" style="font-family: Arial, 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; margin-bottom: 1em; text-align: center;">
<span class="s1">I bought more at the super market,</span></div>
<div class="p1" data-mce-style="text-align: center;" style="font-family: Arial, 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; margin-bottom: 1em; text-align: center;">
<span class="s1">one in every flavor, and ... terrible.</span></div>
<div class="p2" data-mce-style="text-align: center;" style="font-family: Arial, 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; margin-bottom: 1em; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="p1" data-mce-style="text-align: center;" style="font-family: Arial, 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; margin-bottom: 1em; text-align: center;">
<span class="s1">They all tasted terrible.</span></div>
<div class="p1" data-mce-style="text-align: center;" style="font-family: Arial, 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; margin-bottom: 1em; text-align: center;">
<span class="s1">Was this my fault?</span></div>
<div class="p1" data-mce-style="text-align: center;" style="font-family: Arial, 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; margin-bottom: 1em; text-align: center;">
<span class="s1">Had I grown too old to enjoy mush?</span></div>
<div class="p2" data-mce-style="text-align: center;" style="font-family: Arial, 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; margin-bottom: 1em; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="p1" data-mce-style="text-align: center;" style="font-family: Arial, 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; margin-bottom: 1em; text-align: center;">
<span class="s1">Walking through aisles, I often wish to be back in my highchair</span></div>
<div class="p1" data-mce-style="text-align: center;" style="font-family: Arial, 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; margin-bottom: 1em; text-align: center;">
<span class="s1">in Venezuela - back when the baby food was made with </span></div>
<div class="p1" data-mce-style="text-align: center;" style="font-family: Arial, 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; margin-bottom: 1em; text-align: center;">
<span class="s1">love and even Gerber tasted heavenly.</span></div>
</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12734267844931534675noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6194031215826693816.post-33666971979733858012013-04-14T22:59:00.001-04:002013-04-21T18:35:32.627-04:00Ars Poetica - Defining What Defines Me<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<div style="font-family: Arial, 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; margin-bottom: 1em;">
Sitting in front of paper and pen, in front of my laptop,<br />My eyes blur out of focus as I try to think of defining poetry.<br />What does it mean to me? What use is it to anyone?<br />Las palabras bailan sensualmente, intricate and enticing.<br />I forget meanings and language barriers, but there's a deadline.<br />Will what I come up with be satisfactory or intelligible to anyone?<br />Will you like it? Will you accept me for whom I wish to be accepted as?</div>
<div style="font-family: Arial, 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; margin-bottom: 1em;">
Mixing words as the warmth of sun's rays play on my right arm,<br />while the moon sits atop the roof of Bush Science Center,<br />I type and retype, pausing to find a way to explain what I am - what poetry is. Rising further and further into the sky (or are we sinking and rotating?), the moon distances itself, taking part in a cosmic dance we are too small to understand but for thousands of years scientists and poets have tried to capture and understand it.</div>
<div style="font-family: Arial, 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; margin-bottom: 1em;">
The memories created, lived, seen, imagined, remembered, they nag, like a flame to a wick, begging to be recorded. I have been lit from the inside out and am still burning up in desperate ways - burning with the passion to take words and make sense and beauty of them. Brillando en la oscuridad, mi llama baila como las palabras elusivas, acariciada con el amor de un susurro. Will the candle or the flame be blown away with a whisper?</div>
<div style="font-family: Arial, 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; margin-bottom: 1em;">
That elusive detail<br />(feelings of love and inspiration,<br />creation and destruction,<br />bloomings of flowers and crescendos in sonatas,<br />the flight of a bird or the flight of passion,<br />el aroma de tu piel acariciando la mia,<br />kisses to soothe passionate bites on sensitive all too-human flesh -<br />real or imagined)<br />begs to be understood and immortalized -<br />can I do it justice?<br /><br />Poetry: a song that touches the deepest, most hidden parts of hearts with strains and ink-stains so melancholy or hauntingly beautiful that goosebumps spread across forearms and lives change. <br />Will it touch yours? <br />Will you let it?</div>
</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12734267844931534675noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6194031215826693816.post-13998932925164680462013-04-05T22:16:00.000-04:002013-04-08T19:07:07.984-04:00White Dress (Part 5)<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">Scared by the intensity of her budding feelings, she swims farther away and tries to get closer to the rest of the group. Loud and small, the black silhouettes on the horizon seem further away than they were mere minutes ago. She sees the outline of Tom, the percussionist, and his impossibly tall and lean physique as he jumps from the dock into the water, trying to impress a girl sitting on the rocks. A large monstrous figure turns out to be Addie and Michael trying to start a game of chicken. <i>Michael is quite the talented bassist, but he needs a new shoulder strap. </i>Bottles begin to litter the shore and their laughter echoes in the night. Janet is sitting on the hood of her car with the headlights on, smoking, and holding hands with the lead singer while she rests her head on his shoulder.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">Sometimes Elizabeth wishes that she could fit in with her new hall-mates or even with these new strangers. She isn’t usually this spontaneous, though, she wishes she could be. She normally wouldn’t be out here on the lake. She’d rather be reading, but based on how late it is getting, she would prefer to have been asleep in her soft bed hours ago. </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><i><br /></i></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><i>Well, maybe tonight I’d rather live out the stories in my books. Real life isn’t like books: the story isn’t already written out. I have to write my own story. Maybe I should take a chance and open up my heart.</i></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><i><br /></i></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">The spot on Elizabeth’s white dress where his rough hand was just resting is growing cold. Could she be wanting what she didn’t think she’d ever long for? She is becoming much too attached to his inviting eyes: They’re either grey or blue; she’s never close enough to say.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">“It’s funny to think the stars are so far away,” he muses as he draws nearer, softly treading water.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">“Yeah, funny, I saw a documentary that explained how, even though we see constellations as two-dimensional dots on paper, if you travel toward Orion’s Belt...” she pauses midsentence and swallows hard as his warm rugged hands tenderly snake around her waist, “then you might pass one of the stars on the belt, and the others would still be so far away.”</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">“Hmmm, why are you so smart? I like the contrast between the magnitude of moon and stars and the infinite smallness of the sand at the bottom of the lake and two bodies floating together in the middle.”</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><i>Romantic, isn’t he? I really do like it when he talks like that in my ear. I wonder... what it would feel like if his lips...</i></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><i><br /></i></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">She turns around to face him and looks deep into his eyes. <i>Blue, they’re definitely blue.</i></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><i><br /></i></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">“My, my, aren’t you poetic?”</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">“Not as poetic as you, my dear, the bright stars dull next to your sharp mind.” He tucks a strand of red hair behind her ear.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">His hand still cupping her cheek, Justin keeps musing out loud: “Your wit and beauty, your body next to mine, locked together in a great expanse of dark oblivion...”</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">“Now you’re being ridiculous.” She leans in, chuckling and nestling her hand further into his hand.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">“No, I’m being sincere.”</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">He leans in, and she closes her eyes.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">For the briefest of moments, two pairs of lips make sweet contact under the sparkling moon. Justin smiles into her lips; Elizabeth deepens the kiss. Elizabeth forgets all about holding her dress down and lets it float up around her as they pulled away from each other. He smiles, and she blushes.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">A shooting star crosses the sky as they hold each other at arm’s length.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">“Would you tell me more about Ireland?”</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">Justin holds her hands in his, smiling, and begins to paint a rustic picture of small counties, rolling hills, and a cottage surrounded by thin trees and fats cows. It seems to him that every neighbor has at least one cow. His mother taught him how to milk a cow; his sisters thought it was gross but he thought it was fascinating. Justin’s father was a traveling business man who never had time for his kids, but his mother more than made up for his absence with her vibrant personality. She taught him how to cook and how to hike the hills. Elizabeth sighs contentedly in his embrace as the lake ripples around them.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">The slight current tries to lift Elizabeth’s dress again and she smoothes it down.<i> I’m done with this dress and I’m done with being so insecure. </i>She takes in a deep breath, looks into his eyes, and takes the plunge.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">“Hey, Justin, do you remember when you asked if it wouldn’t be easier skinny dipping than swimming in this dress?”</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">“Yes, why?” </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">“Do you want to try?” Elizabeth stares into his blue eyes, grinning, and leaves a butterfly kiss on the corner of his mouth.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">“Believe it or not, I’ve never done that. I’m not … comfortable enough to-- ”</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">“I’ll dare if you are willing to take a chance.”</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">She holds onto his hand and they wade toward the group of rambunctious skinny-dippers. Elizabeth runs onto the shore and removes her dress without bothering to watch where it lands as she jumps off the dock. Justin follows her, taking off his boxers and jumping in after her.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">A nighthawk releases its courting call, a brief song akin to the whip-poor-will’s call. Flying out of the oak tree and across the moon, the nighthawk sings as it glides and dives over the water.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"> </span>The moon shines brightly; its reflection in the lake blurred as a pair of green boxers and a white dress lay half on the shore and half floating in the water, keeping their secrets hidden in their folds.</span></div>
</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12734267844931534675noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6194031215826693816.post-90580893455274391952013-03-29T22:13:00.001-04:002013-03-29T22:13:49.969-04:00White Dress (Part 4)<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">“Hey, love-birds, you guys want some?” The rowdy crowd is offering bottles, to which both Justin and Elizabeth quickly say no. “All right, more for us!!! You guys wanna come try skinny dipping?”</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">Elizabeth yells no back to the crowd, blushing and hiding behind Justin.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">“You don’t drink?” Justin asks, curious.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">“No, I don’t want to. You?” She asks, peeking out from behind his shoulder.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">“No, there’s no need, not tonight.”</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"> </span>She wonders what in his past would warrant surrendering to the clutches of alcohol on some nights. What makes tonight any different? <i>I probably shouldn’t ask,</i> she thought, looking away and searching for nighthawks.</span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">“A few years ago, my mom... She, em, she passed away, suddenly, and I didn’t quite know how to deal with it. My dad left when I was little; I didn’t really have anyone else to turn to. So I... I turned to alcohol, a lot. I’ve been sober for a year and half. Sometimes it’s really hard to be strong, especially when I’m lonely.”</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">“I’m so sorry,” Elizabeth said as she hugged him.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">“That was probably too much to share so soon, huh?”</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">“No, no, it’s okay. Do you want to talk about something else?” she says as she brushes his brown hair tenderly out of his eyes.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">“Well, you never did get around to telling me your favorite directors.”</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">“Easy, Joss Whedon, Charlie Chaplin, Michael Powell for <i>The Red Shoes</i>, Ashley Pearce of <i>Downton Abbey. </i>Let’s see, who else.<i>”</i></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><i><br /></i></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">“Wait. Joss Whedon? As in director of <i>The Avengers </i>and <i>Firefly?</i>” Justin asked, astonished.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">“Yes, why? Do I not seem like the type of girl to like those movies?”</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">“Not at all. You really are full of surprise, and, by the way, did you know Mike Newell is directing a new screen adaptation of <i>Great Expectations</i>?”</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">Elizabeth’s eyes light up and she bounces in excitement. Justin smiles at her reaction</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">“I had hoped that would make you happy. I had you picked out as a fellow Dickens fan.”</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">“Fellow? I take it you’re dying to see it too? Who’s playing Ms. Havisham?”</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">Lost in their conversation, Elizabeth tries to reconcile the image of Justin playing his guitar solos during the rock concert and the person whose eyes widen when talking about Charles Dickens. Maybe Janet is right about how great a guy Justin is.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">“Did you know the some of the girls wanted to take you guys clubbing tonight?” Elizabeth says.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">“But we’re having such a good time here on this amazing lake.”</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">“Do you really think it’s amazing, Justin?”</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">“Lakes back home in Ireland are usually in the valleys of mountains, fed by glaciers, so they’re usually unswimmable and frigid. Your lake is perfect. These trees and the stars? Perfect.”</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">Elizabeth takes a look around and realizes he notices the beauty of the Georgia lake she had been admiring. She sees a nighthawk leave its nest on the ground and fly over their heads, gliding through the starry sky. Smiling in spite of herself, she stares after the nighthawk and watches it glide into the massive branches of the largest oak. A branch hangs down low, and she imagines herself sitting on it to read; it looks like the perfect reading spot, just feet from the water’s edge and shaded by the higher branches. She turns back to him, catching a glimpse of a smile meant for the stars above.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">“Wouldn’t your bandmates have rather experienced American culture through the typical college bar?”</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">“There’s the key: typical. Nothing about tonight is typical, and I wouldn’t have it any other way. Otherwise, I wouldn’t be here, talking to a pretty girl.”</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">“You really think so?” Elizabeth’s eyes widen.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">“I really do.”</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">“Well, then, I guess you’re right. We couldn’t be having this conversation in a bar.”</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">“Mmhmm, it’s so peaceful out here,” he whispers with awe near the sensitive shell of her ear as the rowdy crowd intermittently explodes with laughter.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><i>Whether it is humor- or alcohol-related is irrelevant now, </i>she thinks as his intoxicating breath wraps her in a fog.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">“Mmmm, it really is. I could stay out here forever and just look at the stars. To think that after we leave tonight, you’ll be gone and I have to go to classes. Normal life...”</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">Justin sighs in her ear and begins to hum a tune. As soon as she recognizes the song, Elizabeth begins to sing along.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">“Somewhere beyond the sea, somewhere waiting for me, my lover...” she stops singing, all too aware of that word on her lips.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">Justin picks up the song in a deep baritone, holding her slender hands and attempting to slow dance in the chest-deep water.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">“...stands on golden sands and watches the ships that go sailin'.”</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">Elizabeth smiles in spite of herself and allows her limbs to be awkwardly twirled in the water, laughing at how foolish they must look dancing in the water- him in his green-striped boxers and her in her little white dress clinging to her wet body - as they slip around on the mossy rocks on the bottom of the lake. Cocooned by nature, she loses herself in his embrace.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">Resting her head on his chest, she discovers that it vibrates as he hums and that his heartbeat is comforting and reassuring. She begins to relish the warmth of his calloused hand on her hip and the feel on their hands interlaced as they dance. </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">“My mom used to sing this song to me when I was younger.”</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">Elizabeth smiles at his sweet confession and, together, they begin singing the second verse: “It's far beyond the star, it's near beyond the moon.”</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><i>I don’t behave like this. What’s happening? Why can’t I stop smiling?</i></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><i><br /></i></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">“You know, I love to stare at the stars,” she says suddenly, breaking the skin-to-skin contact and turning her back to him.</span></div>
</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12734267844931534675noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6194031215826693816.post-25156374572008604672012-12-07T20:16:00.001-05:002012-12-07T20:16:28.027-05:00White Dress (Part 3)<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<br />
<div class="FreeFormA" style="text-indent: 48.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times","serif"; font-size: 13.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">Carefully stepping out
of the car in her bare feet, Elizabeth watches as the silhouetted figures
scramble and stumble over to the water’s edge. It’s always darkest before the
dawn, she reminds herself and wonders how much of the stumbling is caused by
the roots and rocks hidden in the deep darkness of midnight and how much of it
is caused by the alcohol. Then again, walking on sandy roots and rocks can’t be
easy in heels, she thinks, suddenly feeling glad that she left her shoes in the
car.</span></div>
<div class="FreeFormA" style="text-indent: 48pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="FreeFormA" style="text-indent: 48.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times","serif"; font-size: 13.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">Passing between the
thick oak trunks, she smells the woody aroma of the rough bark and smiles, glad
to be away from the lights, smells, and sounds of Atlanta. A cool summer breeze
whispers through the trees, plays in her hair, and drags away the stagnant heat
of Georgia summers. Elizabeth takes a long look at the bright stars, grinning
as she finds Hercules and the Swan, usually hidden by the bright lights of
cities. She looks around her and feels at peace when she sees the lake is
surrounded by tall oaks like a mighty green wall protecting the lake from
outsiders. She is shaken out of her reverie by the loud hooting and hollering
of her companions.</span></div>
<div class="FreeFormA" style="text-indent: 48pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="FreeFormA">
<span style="font-family: "Times","serif"; font-size: 13.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The
crowd of spontaneous strangers begin stripping and ripping clothes off,
clinking bottles and stumbling their way into the rounded lake. In nothing but
their underwear, the five foreign strangers and Elizabeth's three new
hall-mates wade in the still-warm lake. She stands on the sandy shore, staring
down at her feet digging into the soft sand. Surrounded by the strong oaks and
the owls hooting midnight like grandfather clocks, Elizabeth keeps forgetting
the lake ebbing and flowing in front of her was made by man instead of nature.</span></div>
<div class="FreeFormA">
<br /></div>
<div class="FreeFormA" style="text-indent: 48.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times","serif"; font-size: 13.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“Aren’t you going to
come in?” Justin says, his words slurred together by an endearing Irish accent.</span></div>
<div class="FreeFormA" style="text-indent: 48pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="FreeFormA" style="text-indent: 48.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times","serif"; font-size: 13.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">He patiently waits for
her in the shallows while the rest wade further away from the shore. She nods
yes to his smile and begins to walk toward the lake. In the distance, a group
of nighthawks warble their songs into the quiet of the night.</span></div>
<div class="FreeFormA" style="text-indent: 48pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="FreeFormA" style="text-indent: 48.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times","serif"; font-size: 13.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“Aren’t you going to
undress?” he asks, gesturing to his green-striped boxers.</span></div>
<div class="FreeFormA" style="text-indent: 48pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="FreeFormA" style="text-indent: 48.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times","serif"; font-size: 13.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“No, it’s okay” she
says, one foot hovering over the water, not quite sure why she is here.</span></div>
<div class="FreeFormA" style="text-indent: 48pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="FreeFormA">
<span style="font-family: "Times","serif"; font-size: 13.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">This isn’t like me, I don’t know him. I
don’t know anyone here very well, and tomorrow he’ll be gone and...but it’s
okay, nothing’s going to happen because we’re just going to talk and swim. I
bet the water’s divine.</i></span></div>
<div class="FreeFormA">
<br /></div>
<div class="FreeFormA" style="text-indent: 48.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times","serif"; font-size: 13.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“Wait, what about your
dress?” he asks when she is already knee-deep and the water has begun to lap
alluringly at the hem of her little white dress.</span></div>
<div class="FreeFormA" style="text-indent: 48pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="FreeFormA" style="text-indent: 48.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times","serif"; font-size: 13.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“No, it’s okay; it’ll be
fine.” She flashes him a smile to soothe his worries.</span></div>
<div class="FreeFormA" style="text-indent: 48pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="FreeFormA" style="text-indent: 48.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times","serif"; font-size: 13.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“Are you sure?”</span></div>
<div class="FreeFormA" style="text-indent: 48pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="FreeFormA" style="text-indent: 48.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times","serif"; font-size: 13.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“It’s fine. It’s an old
hand-me-down, so it doesn’t really matter.”</span></div>
<div class="FreeFormA" style="text-indent: 48pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="FreeFormA" style="text-indent: 48.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times","serif"; font-size: 13.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“Are you sure you want
to swim in your dress? It might be uncomfortable.”</span></div>
<div class="FreeFormA" style="text-indent: 48pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="FreeFormA">
<span style="font-family: "Times","serif"; font-size: 13.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>She
runs past his wading body and dives headfirst into the chest-deep water. Under
the water, Elizabeth releases every stress and anxiety about this evening and
reverts to her childhood self for a second. Giggling and blowing bubbles, she
resurfaces a few meters away and stands on one of the moss-covered rocks that
litter the lakebed.</span></div>
<div class="FreeFormA">
<br /></div>
<div class="FreeFormA" style="margin-left: 48.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times","serif"; font-size: 13.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“How’s that for being
sure?” she challenges him and swims out further.</span></div>
<div class="FreeFormA" style="margin-left: 48pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="FreeFormA" style="text-indent: 48.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times","serif"; font-size: 13.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“No fair, wait for me,”
he says and grins, already swimming after her.</span></div>
<div class="FreeFormA" style="text-indent: 48pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="FreeFormA">
<span style="font-family: "Times","serif"; font-size: 13.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Elizabeth
swims past the others with their clinking bottles and slurring lips. She swims
past the little island with the fallen tree trunks and looks behind her, hoping
that she’s lost him and that he found a more interesting girl to chase. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Maybe he likes girls who drink.</i> Feeling
her heart dropping, she frowns and finds herself hoping that he has come after
her because everyone wants to be liked and sometimes chased. A late summer
breeze sends a chill down her spine, and she sinks a bit further into the
comforting water, holding her dress down around her.</span></div>
<div class="FreeFormA">
<br /></div>
<div class="FreeFormA" style="text-indent: 48.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times","serif"; font-size: 13.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“AAAAHHHHHHH!!!”</span></div>
<div class="FreeFormA" style="text-indent: 48pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="FreeFormA" style="text-indent: 48.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times","serif"; font-size: 13.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“I’ve got you,” he
jokes, his head suddenly emerging from the black depths, his hands still on her
calf.</span></div>
<div class="FreeFormA" style="text-indent: 48pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="FreeFormA" style="text-indent: 48.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times","serif"; font-size: 13.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“Justin!!! You... you...
scared me” she says, gasping for air, slapping at his arm playfully, and he
keeps laughing.</span></div>
<div class="FreeFormA" style="text-indent: 48pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="FreeFormA">
<span style="font-family: "Times","serif"; font-size: 13.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>She
notices the way he laughs so wholeheartedly, his head thrown back. The others
are too engrossed to even ask if she’s okay. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">For all they know, I could’ve been eaten by a gator, and they would’ve
been too busy drinking and talking about sex to notice. Justin would’ve saved
me... right? </i>Justin’s laughter quickly becomes infectious, and soon they’re
both laughing. She splashes him while he isn’t looking.</span></div>
<div class="FreeFormA">
<br /></div>
<div class="FreeFormA" style="margin-left: 48.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times","serif"; font-size: 13.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“Where did you learn to
swim like that?”</span></div>
<div class="FreeFormA" style="margin-left: 48pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="FreeFormA" style="text-indent: 48.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times","serif"; font-size: 13.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“Like what, Justin?”</span></div>
<div class="FreeFormA" style="text-indent: 48pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="FreeFormA" style="text-indent: 48.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times","serif"; font-size: 13.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“So fast, so well, under
water? I’ve never been able to swim well.”</span></div>
<div class="FreeFormA" style="text-indent: 48pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="FreeFormA" style="text-indent: 48pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times","serif"; font-size: 13pt;">“Oh. Well my parents
taught me when I was really young. They decided I
had no choice but to be a good swimmer.”</span></div>
<div class="FreeFormA" style="text-indent: 48.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times","serif"; font-size: 13.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“And you are.”</span></div>
<div class="FreeFormA" style="text-indent: 48pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="FreeFormA" style="text-indent: 48.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times","serif"; font-size: 13.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“Did you never learn to
swim?”</span></div>
<div class="FreeFormA" style="text-indent: 48pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="FreeFormA" style="text-indent: 48.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times","serif"; font-size: 13.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“Only well enough to
doggy-paddle. It’s one of my few regrets.”</span></div>
<div class="FreeFormA" style="text-indent: 48pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="FreeFormA" style="text-indent: 48.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times","serif"; font-size: 13.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“Oh...”</span></div>
<div class="FreeFormA" style="text-indent: 48pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="FreeFormA" style="text-indent: 48.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times","serif"; font-size: 13.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“So,” he says, “what’s
it like to swim in a dress?”</span></div>
<div class="FreeFormA" style="text-indent: 48pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="FreeFormA" style="text-indent: 48.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times","serif"; font-size: 13.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“I’m free,” she says,
smiling, and disappears below the surface, self-conscious of his near-nakedness
and her white dress clinging to her body while reveling in the rush of water
making its way between the fabric and flesh.</span></div>
<div class="FreeFormA" style="text-indent: 48pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="FreeFormA">
<span style="font-family: "Times","serif"; font-size: 13.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>She
surfaces, giggling, only to find her dress trapping air bubbles and rising
above her waist. Quickly, she smooths it down and allows the bubbles to escape,
hoping her lack of underwear hadn’t shown when she was swimming.</span></div>
<div class="FreeFormA">
<br /></div>
<div class="FreeFormA" style="text-indent: 48.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times","serif"; font-size: 13.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“Right, well, that was a
lot more of Elizabeth than I thought I’d see tonight,” he smiles and pretends
to cover his eyes.</span></div>
<div class="FreeFormA" style="text-indent: 48pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="FreeFormA" style="text-indent: 48.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times","serif"; font-size: 13.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“So, is that why you didn't want to take it off?”</span></div>
<div class="FreeFormA" style="text-indent: 48pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="FreeFormA">
<span style="font-family: "Times","serif"; font-size: 13.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>She
blushes sheepishly, and he smiles. </span></div>
<div class="FreeFormA">
<br /></div>
<div class="FreeFormA" style="text-indent: 48.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times","serif"; font-size: 13.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“Don’t you worry, you
have a lovely body and tan. I’m this pasty white everywhere all year.”</span></div>
<div class="FreeFormA" style="text-indent: 48pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="FreeFormA" style="text-indent: 48.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times","serif"; font-size: 13.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">He wades closer and
flashes a captivating smile. Panicking, Elizabeth looks away, forces a laugh,
and splashes him. He tries to dunk her, and she swims away, trying to catch him
off-guard to dunk him. If he’s noticed her shying away from intimacy, he hasn’t
let on.</span></div>
<div class="FreeFormA" style="text-indent: 48pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="FreeFormA">
<span style="font-family: "Times","serif"; font-size: 13.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Giggles
and laughs become inevitable as the splashing becomes more childish. </span></div>
<div class="FreeFormA">
<br /></div>
<div class="FreeFormA">
<span style="font-family: "Times","serif"; font-size: 13pt;"><i> Splashing and trying to dunk each other is
harmless play; maybe then you’ll stop thinking about how nice his lips are. Why
do I keep blushing? If you kiss him... well, just don’t. I have to remember to
keep this dress down... But his lips look so inviting...</i></span></div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12734267844931534675noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6194031215826693816.post-43042567815192982912012-12-01T13:47:00.002-05:002012-12-01T13:47:45.517-05:00White Dress (Part 2)<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<br />
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"> Speeding down I-75, Janet turns up the radio and blasts some pop song from the speakers. The band follows the girls in a van, and the Irish boys fist-pump to some song with too much bass. Elizabeth covers her ears as some whiny voice escaping from Janet’s stereo pleads for her to “Call me maybe.” She stares out the window at the passing cars and diminishing city lights, wondering at her inability to say no to the girls she was beginning to consider her friends. Maybe they are right. Maybe she does need to get out more, but what do they know about what she needs in life? Why on earth is Janet insisting that she “hook up” with Justin? </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"> She and Justin had gotten to know each other fairly well after the band finished their set, but that didn’t mean Elizabeth was looking for a relationship. She especially wasn’t looking for a relationship with a man who was leaving in the morning for another city and who was eventually returning to Ireland. She had honestly just been interested in learning how a rock band from Ireland ended up touring across the East Coast. </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"> Somehow, he never answered the question, but she remembers how his eyes lit up as they discussed favorite directors and authors. Elizabeth would have never thought a rock and rolling guitarist would know so much about Shakespeare, Yeats, Christopher Nolan, and Helena Bonham Carter. He is very talented and well-read; Elizabeth has never heard anyone call T.S. Eliot a “pretentious twat” while singing his praises.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"> “Elizabeth, girl, why are you so quiet?” Janet asks.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"> “I don’t know this song, Janet. You know I don’t really listen to this genre. Besides, why would I want to ‘call her maybe’?”</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"> “But it’s such a fun song, just give the music a chance. Also, you guys are going to get in the lake, right?”</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"> Addie and Katie’s blonde heads perk up, and they turn around with wide eyes. </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"> “You mean we’re going to get in, like in in?”</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"> “Addie, why would we go to the lake and not get in?”</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"> “You mean, like, skinny-dipping?” Katie asks excitedly.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"> “Oh no. No no no, take me back now, I’m not getting in that lake; no one is seeing me naked.”</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"> “Calm down, Elizabeth, you can keep your clothes on and still get in.”</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"> “But Janet, I’m wearing white.”</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"> Elizabeth groaned and let her head rest on the window. This did not sound like fun anymore. Oh, why didn’t she stay at the dorm and do homework like she wanted in the first place? She turns her head to look at the passing cars and the blurred lights of the highway.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"> As if the conversation had not taken place, Janet turns up the radio and flips her hair, singing something about “You don’t know you’re beautiful.” </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
“Janet, this song makes less and less sense the more I think about it. If the girl in the song is beautiful because she is unaware of her beauty, then isn’t the fact that they are singing to her and making her aware of her beauty contradictive?”</div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"> “Elizabeth, you’re doing it again.”</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"> The Mustang speeds toward exit 4 and turns left on Bells Ferry, slowing down once the cement roads turns to dirt. </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"> </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"> “You guys should know my parents are out of town, so no worries about being loud or anything. There are drinks in the fridge, if y’all want. Oh and towels - I’ve got lots of towels in the house for the ride back.”</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"> Janet eases the car down the dirt drive and signals for the band’s van to follow her slowly. The dirt crunches under the wheels, and the cars stop at the end of the drive, the front wheels sinking a little into the smooth sand. The headlights turn off, but they’re not needed; the full moon and its bright reflection in the lake illuminate the night.</span></div>
</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12734267844931534675noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6194031215826693816.post-30007058126642687002012-11-25T22:42:00.000-05:002012-11-25T22:42:28.302-05:00White Dress (Part 1)<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<br />
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"> Elizabeth Blys closes the door to her newly decorated dorm room and sighs in the aftermath of the night; she notices her roommate hasn’t returned from her date yet. She considers herself as open to new ideas and fun as much as the next person, but attending that rock show put on by the college is not exactly her idea of a good time. Hearing another door close, she presses her ear to the thick cinderblock wall she shares with the two girls next door. She wonders how the new girls have become so close in the two weeks since they moved in and feels a twinge of jealousy deep in her stomach because she is still the outsider, even after three years of attending this college. </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"> She looks around and notices her roommate has put up more pictures of her family and friends on the walls. Elizabeth reminds herself to put up her posters; the oppressively bare white walls can squeeze the life out of any creative muse. Paired with the white ceiling and floor tiles, the dorms could have been asylums in a past life. She swore the screaming girls dancing in the room above hers were practicing for the next rendition of STOMP.</span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"> “Mr. Darcy, you like me, right?” she says, bending over to see the beta fish in the small fishbowl. </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"> He swims out from under his plastic bridge and toward the glass. He flicks his tail hello. Mr. Darcy floats almost to the surface, waiting for food and nipping at her fingertips affectionately. </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">Elizabeth smiles at her blue companion with the red-tinged tail. One day, she hopes to have a romance like the ones Jane Austen writes about. Or, at least, she hopes to find someone who will like her as she is so she doesn’t have to confide in a fish.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"> </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"> “You’d never think me annoying or bookish or boring. If only you could talk back; it’s not the same if you don’t speak because then I look crazy. Oh, Mr. Darcy, what shall we do for the rest of the evening?”</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"> The little blue beta flicks his tail goodbye and swims under the plastic bridge in his fishbowl. Elizabeth straightens herself and walks back to the shared cinderblock wall. </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"> Overhearing the giggles next door getting louder and louder, Elizabeth feels glad that they convinced her to go to that rock concert. She had planned to stay in her dorm and reading her books. She had had a surprisingly good time, but it is nearing 11, and now it is time for the homework she put off in order to enjoy the concert.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"> Turning to sit at her neatly arranged desk, she catches a glimpse of herself in the mirror. She tucks her straight red hair behind her ears because it refuses to behave in this Georgia heat and humidity. She smoothes her white dress over her curves in the mirror and obsesses over the person she sees staring back.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span><i> Thick thunder thighs sit atop the calves of a postman or a streetwalker; “wide child-bearing hips,” as Grandmother Blys used to call them, leading to abs hidden somewhere underneath “that fat.” Too small breasts dwarfed by these man-like broad shoulders. I hate mirrors. But Mama said there was always one redeeming feature. She always said I had a “pretty little face” composed of two sparkling blue eyes, two full red lips, creamy skin freckled just right, all encased by flaming red hair resting on freckled shoulders. I don’t see it. Ugh, I hate mirrors.</i></span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"><i><br /></i></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><i> “</i>Girl, stop admiring yourself and come get in the car. Addie and Katie are waiting for us.”</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">The door slams shut, the loud bang resonating through her room. She should probably start locking that door.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"> “Janet, you scared me! Wait. Car? But we just got back.”</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"> “The band’s leaving tomorrow for the next city in their tour. We’re taking the hot ones to the lake behind my parents’ house. It’s party time, and you’re going to partay with the best of them,” Janet said, shimmying and shaking her hips for added effect.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"> “Well I’m sorry. I don’t ‘par-tay,’ and I need to do my chemistry homework.”</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"> “Girl, you need to get out. It’s Friday night, you’re already dressed, and that Justin guy was so into you.” Janet pauses to check her hair in the mirror and then turns to Elizabeth as if she had just thought up the most brilliant idea. “You could totally hook up with him.”</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"> “Oh, please, why would he ever notice a girl like me when he could have Addie’s busty little figure? He probably just felt sorry for me, I probably talked too much--”</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"> “We so don’t have time for this right now; girlie, come on!”</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"> Janet grabs Elizabeth by the hand and excitedly pulls her down the cinderblock-lined walls of the hallways, out the squeaky front doors, and into the idling Mustang.</span></div>
</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12734267844931534675noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6194031215826693816.post-61621024325857612572012-09-28T21:13:00.000-04:002012-09-28T21:13:04.202-04:00Fit to Run<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div style="text-align: left;">
Beeping alarms and rising suns are not enough to rouse a roommate, but pre-sunrise 7 am is the perfect time to join droopy-eyed friends still rubbing sleep from their eyes. They have already begun stretching and putting on their headphones, adjusting sports-bra straps and retying their shoe laces. Charlotte complains that it is much too early, but once we begin running she won't stop smiling.</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
The sun rises slowly over the buildings as we make our rounds around the trail, legs pounding the pavement into submission. Sarah's hair whips back and forth in the wind as she sprints past me, knowing full well that I must chase her until I win. </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
Turning the corner and finishing mile one, I gain speed and zoom my way past her. Flashing her a smile, I notice the grin spreading across her face as she tried to run past me.</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
Joyous in my victory, I remind myself that a month ago I couldn't have run this fast or this long. The knowledge of my progress excites me and I get my second wind - it's time to run past Sarah and the rest of the group. MyLeah and Charlotte have gotten ahead of us, but not fot long as we all strive to sprint to the end of mile two. Sometimes we make it through mile three, but..</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
Can I do it? </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
Am I in good enough shape yet?</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
Chests heaving and sweat dripping, we stop to refill our water bottles and catch out breath. Charlotte and Sarah are done for the morning; exhausted, they have dropped to the ground in mock-defeat. MyLeah and I, standing victorious, are already making our way towards breakfast. It's time for a breakfast fit for champions.</div>
</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12734267844931534675noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6194031215826693816.post-29865893648786589482012-07-18T22:28:00.001-04:002012-07-18T22:28:15.186-04:00Faith Restored<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
When you live in a world where people take you for granted, speak to you condescendingly, and more often than not simply forget you ... it's hard to have a little faith in humanity. Or at least, that's what Ms. Evelyn said when she offered me tea.<br />
<br />
Earlier that day, Ms. Evelyn had gone out on her daily walk to get the newspaper at the end of her very old and cracked driveway. She sweltered under the stifling Georgia heat and regretted donning her thick bathrobe; even if it is her favorite one because of the embroidered blue and green flowers.<br />
<br />
As she bent down to pick up her newspaper, her foot gave out from under her and she lost her shoe. Ms. Evelyn screamed as she fell and gasped, thinking she had broken her already fragile hip. She felt the familiar and embarrassing trickle down her legs. Her elbow scraped the ground, her glasses fell off her head, and her bathrobe slipped off her shoulder. A small gash on her elbow dripped blood onto the concrete and she stared as a car drove by her.<br />
<br />
<i>"Maybe he was going too fast... Maybe he didn't see me..."</i><br />
<br />
Ms. Evelyn despaired as the time passed and car after car passed her fallen form. Her bright blue robe was not hard to miss amidst the drab grey concrete. Minute by minute, more beads of sweat collected on her brow as the midday sun beat mercilessly on her aching body.<br /><br />She could see her neighbors sitting on their front porch but could not call out to them. Her voice would not come but she wondered if, just maybe, they were ignoring her.<br /><br />One car after another, the misery and pain began to set in. Despair and a headache set in as a white pick-up truck and a red mini-van passed her fallen form. Would no one stop for her?<br />
<br />
But... wait. Wasn't that the same pick-up truck and mini-van again? Relief washed over her when the cars pulled over and doors began to open.<br />
<br />
A man and his daughter.<br />
<br />
A woman and her son.<br />
<br />
<i>"They stopped for me... They're asking me if I'm ok... They're helping me up"</i><br />
<i><br /></i><br />
"I'm ok, I bent down to pick up my newspaper and my foot must have gone out from under me. No, no, nothing's broken. Oh no, nonononono I'd rather not call anyone. My daughter's busy at work, I don't want to bother her."<br />
<br />
Ms. Evelyn was so glad to have someone talk to her, notice her, and just touch her hand. She couldn't remember the last time any person had been so considerate. A registered nurse and her strong son. A sensitive man and his caring daughter.<br />
<br />
<i>"Such a lovely girl, is she stooping down to place my shoe back on my foot. She didn't have to do that. I feel so bad for getting blood on her hands. God must have sent these kind folks to me, what would have happened? Why did no one else stop for me?"</i><br />
<br />
"Do you know that I make this walk every day? Just to get the paper."<br />
<br />
The young ones helped her to the door; the strong man lifted her into her favorite chair; the nurse and the young girl cleaned up her bloodied elbow and hands. Could they tell she had soiled herself in her fear?<br />
<br />
Would they leave her so soon?<br />
<br />
"Young lady, would you like some tea? would you like to hear what happened before you found me? Would you like to know how you restored my faith in humanity?"</div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12734267844931534675noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6194031215826693816.post-30023067502987558472012-07-14T12:53:00.000-04:002012-07-14T12:53:19.824-04:00Magic Ruined<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
A child's first trip to Disney World should be a magical experience full of wonderful memories and new adventures. An adult's nth trip to Disney World should still be a magical experience that brings out the happiness and peace of the inner child. I'm sorry to say neither was the case for my Fourth of July Disney experience. I was hoping to see Magic Kingdom through the eyes of a 6 year-old girl on her first trip to the most magical place on earth, but was instead appalled at the entire experience.<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Waking up a dreaming Alexandra at 5 a.m. did not go as expected when she kicked my stomach and punched my arm in protest to being awakened. She grumbled and rolled over, trying desperately to go back to sleep as I tried to yank the bedsheets away from her vice-like grip. Desperate, I dressed her and brushed her hair while she was still asleep. I even put her shoes on and proceeded to get myself ready. When I accidentally dropped my toothbrush in the bathroom, I apparently made enough noise to wake up the sleepy Alexandra.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Once awake, she scarfed down her breakfast of choice: cookies and creme Pop Tarts and Sunny D. Was that a comment on her mother's parenting style? No, not at all, why would you think that?</div>
<div>
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As tough as it was to wake her up, it was even harder to get her into the car because she kept forgetting items. Alexandra cannot ride in the car without one specific pink blanket and three specific stuffed animals. She fell asleep almost immediately when the car started and did not fight me during the hour-long car ride to Magic Kingdom. </div>
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I wish her parents had slowed down the car so Alex could have seen the entrance gate to Magic Kingdom, but her sleepy eyes hadn't opened yet and she missed it. She did, however, catch the giant Donald Duck statue and wondered why he was there. I learned that morning that Alexandra had not only never been to Magic Kingdom but had not seen any Disney movies except for <i>Cars</i> and <i>Tangled</i>. The child had no clue what to expect or what the stories behind the park's attractions were or who half the characters trying to hug her were or why there was a giant castle and parades.</div>
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I thought that was enough and tried to give a rundown of what was happening so she could have more fun. I tried to slow down so she could look around at the buildings and parts of the park which were obviously grabbing her attention. The buildings in Adventureland are a cross between the bazaar in <i>Aladdin</i> and the pirate world of Jack Sparrow. I was entranced and Alex was so excited to take in all the details, but her mother and father kept walking faster and faster, pulling her along so she wouldn't get lost in the crowd. Why? </div>
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We had all day to explore the park and they were so paranoid about little Alexandra getting lost in the crowd - but she wouldn't have gotten lost if they hadn't been running from place to place without enjoying the experience of Magic Kingdom. Alexandra didn't even get to explore Fantasyland's replicated French architecture from <i>Beauty and the Beast</i> or the little cabin-like shops straight out of <i>Snow White</i>.</div>
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I'm glad I was there to take care of Alexandra because her parents refused to get on most rides and little Alexandra would have missed out on spinning teacups and racing cars and roller coasters and magic carpet riding and haunted mansions and jungle cruises and target practice with Buzz Lightyear. Standing in lines and eating mickey mouse waffles while Pooh and his friend hug you are part of the experience. An experience that Alexandra will probably never revisit as long as she lives with her family.</div>
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I only say this because after having a magical day with me and waiting in line for It's A Small World After All - it began to downpour and thunderstorm. The day was apparently ruined, at least according to Alexandra's easily upset mother who saw nothing but the negative in that day. But Alexandra and I were having a grand time in the rain and waiting inside a gift shop. I even bought her first pair of Minnie Mouse ears. She wore them for the rest of the week.</div>
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So with a "ruined" day, we went to wait in line for Space Mountain. Because of the thunderstorm, the Fast Pass machines were down and we had to wait in line for over three hours. Thankfully, Alexandra was asleep in my arms for most of it and her older brother was busy reading his book. Three hours of listening to Alexandra's parents complain and bumping into the couple making out in front of us. Three hours of aching feet and the dead weight of a six year-old child.</div>
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Snaking up to the front of the line, Alexandra woke up just in time to find out (yet again) she was tall enough for the ride and get inside her rocket. She is measured three or four times at every ride because she is exactly 44 inches tall but deceptively small. She was so happy to get going and throughout the entire ride I heard her excited screams and giggles of terrified delight. Whooshing and whipping around corners while the stars and constellations whizzed past us, Alexandra and I screamed in joy. Space Mountain is my favorite ride and I was ecstatic to share the magic of it with Alexandra. As the ride comes to a stop, she bounces in her seat and squeals "again! Again, Ana, again!!!"</div>
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Her mother put a stop to the "nonsense" by dragging Alexandra out of her seat and rushing to the exit of the park, mumbling and raving about never coming back to the park again because she had had such a horrible experience. Alexandra's mother sat through the incredibly spectacular Fourth of July fireworks begrudgingly, smoking cigarette after cigarette, nervous eyes darting around, impatient to get back in the car and leave the "horrible" place. I don't think we were in the same park at all.</div>
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For the next few days, Alexandra couldn't stop talking about Magic Kingdom to every person she met asked me to relive the memories, begged to look at the pictures on my camera, and pleaded to rent <i>The Little Mermaid</i> or <i>Cinderella</i>. Likewise, her mother couldn't stop complaining about Magic Kingdom to every person she met for the rest of the week. I do hope she changes her mind and doesn't ruin the rest of Alexandra's magical and innocent childhood or any more theme parks with her negative attitude and nicotine-induced paranoia.</div>
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Sometimes, I really wish I could take kids away from incompetent parents and fix their childhoods. If I could, I'd have a house filled with all the children from my neighborhood and many more that I meet in stores. Some people... should not be parents. And some people should not be allowed to ruin magic for children.</div>
</div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12734267844931534675noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6194031215826693816.post-75558557548713704822012-06-24T23:02:00.000-04:002012-06-25T15:08:55.443-04:00Climbing to the Top ... Well ... Almost<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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As the sun finished his climb up the sky and high noon heat hit my bared shoulders, I led my siblings and my over-excited dog into the car for a field trip to Kennesaw Mountain. While it took a while to herd my parents into the car, Phoebe rushed excitedly around the compact insides of our minivan and climbed all over my legs, leaving scratches and hair on every surface she touched. As the car started, she quieted down and sat patiently (whining) while trying to look through the window.<br />
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With ever passing car, Phoebe tried her hardest to "escape" and find new people to scratch her belly. She whined as if it was some malicious intent on our side that kept her from sniffing the blurring magnolias, oaks, birches, and pines. My mom tried to calm her, but Phoebe only took her kindness as a welcome to join my mom in the front seat.<br />
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Ignoring everything, my father kept driving and turned up the radio to drown out Phoebe's whining. Song after song, my sister and I belted the lyrics to the tunes on the radio; we shared funny faces and even cajoled our brother into an odd rendition of Carly Rae Jepsen's "Call Me Maybe," a rendition which garnered funny looks from our parents. Phoebe, on the other hand, did not care for singing as she was only trying to escape into the fields of grass just outside the parking lot of Kennesaw Mountain.<br />
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Phoebe leapt out of the car once the door opened and the leash nearly slipped out of my hands as she scrambled to sniff the feet of a toddler waddling by on the sidewalk. The toddler giggled in glee and allowed Phoebe to enthusiastically lick his face. Suddenly, both Phoebe and the toddler were shocked still as a cannon went off in the distance. It would appear that we had chosen the annual celebration of the Battle of Kennesaw as our family outing day.<br />
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Enthralled by the cannons and volunteers in Confederate uniforms, my brother veered off the trail and walked straight into a reenacted campsite where a lovely woman in a layered hoop-skirt and bonnet was washing clothes in a bucket and another hoop-skirted southern lady was cooking rice and salted pork in a big pot over a fire for the tired soldiers. Some women even offered us tea they had just brewed outside. My sister even let down her guard to enjoy looking at the lovely lace gloves and shawl a woman was wearing. My father and I were driven toward the muskets by our shared love of antique guns. My mother laughed and took pictures to commemorate the impromptu dive into history.<br />
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The Union soldiers also had a camp and showed my brother how to clean shoes properly. Their tents were cleaner and they had a small band. Two drums and a few unknown wind instruments played various songs for our enjoyment but were interrupted by their instinctive need to pet Phoebe. Soon after, the Union soldiers marched in formation and put on a brief show of marching and haphazardly throwing their muskets into the air. They needed more practice... or maybe they were trying to be historically accurate.<br />
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When the over-heated soldiers took a break from fawning over Phoebe, we finally took off in the direction of the trail to begin our much-awaited trek up to the top of the mountain. That is, we tried. Until my father's still-recovering knees began to give out, so he turned around and told us to keep walking. My mom and I walked ahead, deeper into the surrounding oaks and pines; we took comfort in the shadows of the canopy of leaves. Five minutes into our walk up to the top of the mountain, my mom's cell phone begins to ring and my father's voice booms and crackles from the little speakers. The Confederate soldiers are putting on a cannon show.<br />
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My brother had never seen cannon fire so we began to turn around in order to head to the Confederate camp. That is, we tried. Until my sister began throwing a temper tantrum about "this isn't hiking" and "exercise is supposed to be continuous and I just want to walk up the mountain" and "we never get to do what I want because no one asks for my opinion" and "we took so long to get in the car and all I want to do is hike."<br />
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So my mother offers to stay with her and hike. Which, of course, my sister defiantly turns down and decides to punish herself by saying she'll just go and watch the cannons. Having irritated every one of us with her tantrum, she huffs and tantrums her way over to the Confederate camp. Stomping on the dirt path, she created small puffy clouds around her feet and scared off a few chipmunks. We all sat on the soft grass to enjoy the history lesson and cannon show.<br />
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The Confederate soldiers line up behind their cannons and begin to prime the cannon and loading it with powder. The other soldier held the cannons to prevent some of the recoil, but, even with their help, the cannons would roll back at least six feet with every firing shot. When the "General" shouts "fire!" his soldier light their weapons and the cannons boom. The ground shakes and a cloud of smoke lingers over the air, the smell of ignited gunpowder mixes with the smell of burning coal back at the Confederate campsite. When the smoke cleared and the show was over, we all stood up to go hiking again. That is, we tried.<br />
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My sister does not want to. After her irritating tantrum, she has decided she does not feel like walking now. Of course, of course. My father talks her into walking for a little while. Smiles on every face, except for a scowl on my sister's face, we once again take comfort under a canopy shade and enjoy the beautiful trees ascending to touch the sky. My brother stomps through the woods, snickering as he breaks sticks with his feet and stopping to look at the interesting rock formations. I indulge in the simple pleasure of looking through the trees and searching for wildlife. Butterflies and chipmunks abound while a doe leaps over a fallen oak. The hole in the canopy is easy to spot as the bright blinding light shines through a large round opening.<br />
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After ten minutes of semi-peace, my brother begins to complain because his feet are tired and my sister chimes in about her aching legs. He's thirsty. She's hungry. My dad's knees aren't ready for this hike. This last one I can understand, so they begin the trek down the mountain for water and shade. My mother and I keep walking up the hill, passing tourist groups speaking a myriad of languages and serious hikers in their lycra, until we reach a beautiful lookout spot.</div>
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My camera did not do the view any justice. From this spot between the trees, we could see every building in the Atlanta skyline outlined against a clear blue sky. The King and Queen, the Bank of America Plaza and SunTrust Plaza, and the Westin Peachtree Plaza Hotel. All surrounded by lush green foliage. It's odd how man often forgets that nature was here before us and that it is all around us - even in a city like Atlanta. The city has lush green on every side and mountains are seen in the distance, but whilst in the city, one cannot help but feel that city is all there is to the world.</div>
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It had only been ten minutes and we had in no way reached the top of the mountain, but we resigned ourselves to joining the rest of the family. We didn't want to keep them waiting, so we began the trek down the path. We passed the same tourist groups, still speaking their myriad languages, and different hikers and runners, still in their tight lycra outfits. Two emperor butterflies later, we arrived at the bottom of the mountain to find that not only were the soldiers gone by so was our car.</div>
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One phone call revealed the family to be at KFC buying lunch for the hungry children. We waited for their return and I mourned the passing of a strange hiking day. My sister was in the car, in a jovial mood, and when pressed for a reason for her new mood... she replied simply and succinctly.</div>
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"Chicken."</div>
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So there we have it, folks. When your child gives you a hard time and throws at tantrum at age thirteen, all you have to do is give them some chicken.</div>
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<br /></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12734267844931534675noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6194031215826693816.post-71202370142528106762012-06-19T22:36:00.000-04:002012-06-19T22:36:02.123-04:00Special Eyes<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Eyes, in their mirror-like qualities and telling signals, are curious parts of the human body. Expanding or shrinking pupils in the presence or absence of light or stimuli. Widening or squinting eyelids in surprise and joy or suspicion and anger. Quickening or slowing blinks; a sudden clarification or a slow glazing over; eyes are truly amazing and curious parts of our bodies.<br />
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Some eyes are more special than others.<br />
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Some eyes are not simply brown: they are Dove dark chocolate brown. Once, they had flecks of golden honey or fool's gold. Without losing any of their sweetness, those dark chocolate eyes lost their honey flecks.<br />
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Those irises, dark and inviting, contrast the blinding white of the sclera and the creamy white skin of the eyelids and cheeks. Eyelids lined with delicate, long, ebony eyelashes that belong on a China doll.<br />
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These are the eyes of a boy.<br />
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These eyes peer inquisitively at me from behind corrective glasses, a little too early in the morning. Smiling, they ask me to play or they beg for breakfast.<br />
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Sometimes, they spy and track my movements from behind a book they should be reading. Reflected in a mirror, they squeal in joy at tickling hands or funny faces when they should be concentrating on brushing teeth.<br />
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Clear and attentive, they stare in fascination at new flora or fauna on a hike through the wilderness of our backyard. They light up when "Life Is A Highway" comes on the radio as we dance in the kitchen while making dinner.<br />
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Erratic and concentrated, they race across the screen as Mario struggles towards the finish line and (undoubtedly) fails to rescue Princess Peach yet again. They curse silently when Mario dies at the hands of a pesky red shell.<br />
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Glazed over and hazy like frosted glass, they vegetate in front of the tv and watch the black screen when it is much too early to be awake. The squint and pull a DS screen closer and closer, desperate to win.<br />
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Chocolate pebbles that sparkle and shine as they chase me around the front lawn and grin maliciously when they catch me around the back porch.<br />
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When sleepy, those usually vivacious eyes become dull. Eyelashes slow their butterfly kisses and the eyelids that seem to be perpetually widening squint as blood vessels become visible. Those tired eyes swell and close: pretending not to be sleepy, fighting their weariness. Darkened eyelids cover eyes that are finally still and doll-eyelashes finally rest motionless on smiling cheeks.<br />
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My doll, my brother - the little man.<br />
<br /></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12734267844931534675noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6194031215826693816.post-61006791033627454782012-06-10T06:15:00.001-04:002012-06-10T06:18:44.846-04:00Let's Go to the Mall (Adventures Part IV)<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span class="s1">***names changed, you know the drill*** </span></div>
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<span class="s1"> I rarely venture to the mall on my own because I do not have a car to drive to the mall. Because I generally do not need frivolous things that are not within walking-distance. Because it is exponentially more fun to have a friend with me. But sometimes, I venture to the mall on my own at the expense of a tired bus-driver who thinks it is dangerous for a young woman to be alone in Columbia buses.</span></div>
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<span class="s1"> I tend to enter through the food court, humming made-up songs with lyrics about the people I see. It is very interesting to people-watch in solidarity, as I am prone to do when alone, and I take mental notes of the hipster lumberjacks and the grandiose air of a stylish elderly woman carrying a chihuahua in the palm on her hand. I sit alone, eyes intensely focused on the young children riding the merry-go-round as I reminisce about my childhood and wonder what grandiose dreams these children will shatter in order to “make ends meet” in their future. A few cat calls and one “go on ahead with yo’ bad self, gurl” later, I get up and enter the book store. I am lonely in my need to have stimulating conversation so I reach for the companionship of a new friend with pages of secrets unopened. Settled down in a cozy corner of the floor, I laugh or cry appropriately as my new friend divulges new stories. This might be a fleeting fling or a life-long romance, I’m never sure until I’m torn from my friend by a need to leave the book store. </span></div>
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<span class="s1"> I admit that I walk around the mall distractedly, ambling from store to store, and try on every item of clothing that catches my eye. Every fancy dress and sparkly shirt I don’t need, every pair of shoes I can’t afford, every pair of pants or shorts that I would never wear, and every skirt short enough to be a belt. I do not buy anything and instead spend half an hour playing with a baby named Cody in the pet store. Eight-month-old Cody was looking to pet the same Fox Terrier I wanted to play with and became more interested in my hair than the dog, so I spent half an hour playing peek-a-boo and I-got-your-nosey with stranger’s baby on the floor of a pet store. </span></div>
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<span class="s1"> Once Cody’s over-protective mother decided to leave the store with the “dangerous” pet dander, I wandered into David’s Bridal where Courtney, an eager consultant, helped me pick between various gown styles for my imaginary June wedding. Courtney was eager to plan a wedding and needed to fill a quota, so we lied to the system and stuck it to the man by planning an extravagant June wedding to fulfill every princess’s fantasy. Apparently, I’m going to wear a empire-waisted gown and my bridesmaids will wear aquamarine blue dresses in various styles to fit their body-types; I will also have have white lilies and aquamarine blue tulips in my bouquet and as part of the centerpieces. David’s Bridal will e-mail me every day from now on. As I leave the store and a satisfied Courtney, I wander back to the food court for a chocolate ice-cream cone - my secret indulgence.</span></div>
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<span class="s1"> I wait for the bus, having bought nothing but lunch and ice-cream. I am satisfied with my day of people-watching and the new acquaintances I made, but I regret not buying the novel that was ultimately the highlight of my day because he provided better conversation than anyone I ran into at the mall. I return to my room and sit in nothing but the comfort of my robe, attempting productivity and homework until someone knocks on my door. “Who is it?” I half-yell to the shadow I see under my door. “It’s me, woman, let me in! And put some clothes on,” Elizabeth says. My robe does not count as clothes, but I open the door just the same. This is my room, my rules. No clothes.</span></div>
</div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12734267844931534675noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6194031215826693816.post-5694748864927803712012-06-10T06:12:00.001-04:002012-06-10T06:23:29.756-04:00Let's Go to the Mall (Adventures Part III)<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span class="s1">***names changed for the purposes of super secrecy***<br />
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When I go to the mall with Amber, my daddy drives me to meet her at the mall midway between our houses. Her mother drives her and we call each other on the phone to share the car ride with each other and our parents. My dad picks on us, calls us girly, and laughs knowing he’s glad we’re not doing something stupid or dangerous. Her mom smokes silently and sings Lady Gaga’s “Love Game” in a monotone with a straight face because she doesn’t know what the song means. Our parents drop us off by the food court because it is the most recognizable place to pick up children and perfectly responsible 19-year -olds. With cars out of sight, we give each other a kiss on each cheek, hug, and squeal in our excitement to be together.</span></div>
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<span class="s1"> Holding hands comfortably, we stroll leisurely through the mall. We don’t need anything in particular; Amber and I are here for time together and what better place for two non-girly girls to spend girly time together and reconnect? We stop in the accessory shops and try on funky oversized glasses, taking pictures of every moment. As we browse the “old southern lady church hat” collection, we recount our lives to each other: the play I missed, the steady boyfriend she’s never met, the various “sex-ventures” with girls (and a few boys) I never heard about, and school. While putting on elbow-length movie star white gloves, fake-pearls, and tiaras, we reminisce about our high school years: the swim meet where we met when she sat on my lap thinking I was a chair, exploring the deserted school at midnight after an all-day play rehearsal, and going to the museum of art during finals week where we met one of our teachers playing hookie. </span></div>
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<span class="s1"> As we leave the accessory shop, we drag and pull each other to the pet store, squealing at puppies and flirting with the handsome tattooed worker who thinks we’re dating. We just look<b><i> sooooo</i></b> much like a lesbian couple, we get that a lot when we go out together in public - but that doesn’t stop us from holding hands and skipping past the stereotypers. We find a photo-booth and squeeze into it; she sits on my lap as we display an array of funny faces followed by an ungraceful tumbling out of the booth. Amber looks at the strip of pictures and shakes her head.</span></div>
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<span class="s1"> “How does your chest manage to be the focus of every picture... it’s like a plumber’s butt-crack is on your chest!”</span></div>
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<span class="s1"> Holding hands and skipping, Amber and I head directly for the mattress section and pretend to be buying for our nonexistent apartment so the salesman leaves us alone. Having dismissed him and knowing we’re alone, we begin bouncing and jumping on the mattresses, giggling madly until I try to take a picture and Amber falls off of our mattress and onto the next one. Laughing as the salesman tries to reprimand us, we run away to the clothing section where glittery fashion mistakes await us. </span></div>
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<span class="s1"> Giggles and shouts of “you look so ridiculous” follow sequined shirt-dresses that jingle when we move. I get stuck in a shirt and, while trying to take it off, I flash Amber and she giggles in her attempts to help me. This isn’t the first time, but she still stares at her smaller bosom in feigned comical jealousy and giggles at our silliness while snapping pictures of me struggling like a flipped-over turtle. In sensible heels, we try on wedding gowns and prom dresses in a large dressing room, which to our delight has multiple mirrors. Amber and I are the same size so we share dresses, except for the ones that refuse to cover my chest. Those dresses are only for her and she looks like a model. Picture after picture, we strike poses like Madonna and Heidi Klum. A little bit after we begin to model Victoria’s Secret merchandise like Gisele, the pictures stop and the giggling intensifies as we realize our ridiculousness when we fail to properly put on said merchandise. Overstuffed cups and frills are not for us.</span></div>
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<span class="s1"> Our parents are summoned and we wait, holding hands and doing what we do best: singing Disney songs a capella and doing all the voices (and instruments). My dad arrives first and we wait for her mom to arrive before going our separate ways for the next 4 or 5 months. Amber kisses each cheek once and then holds me at arm’s-length as if to say something very important. She clears her throat and says solemnly: “Ana, please keep your clothes on.” I laugh at her hilarious attempt at reprimanding me for my supposed nudist-tendencies. “I wear them when necessary, isn’t that enough for you?”</span></div>
</div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12734267844931534675noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6194031215826693816.post-17690963436264132762012-06-10T06:07:00.001-04:002012-06-10T06:24:16.189-04:00Let's Go to the Mall (Adventures Part II)<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span class="s1">***names have been changed, you know the deal***</span></div>
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<span class="s1"> When Becky and I go to the mall, my small Caucasian friend lets out her inner mad black woman while she drives: incompetent drivers on the road beware her temper. I laugh as she curses at a small elderly man who forgot to signal his left turn. Country music softly crooning out of the speakers, we do not dance or converse but instead take turns monologuing about what ever may have recently vexed us: her boyfriend, her mother, her job, her teachers, her father, her assignments, and my Physics homework. Mostly, I listen and we never get to my Physics homework, it’s not like I really want to talk about Physics.</span></div>
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<span class="s1"> Becky parks at the nearest parking space to the entrance because she doesn’t like to walk too far. We always enter through the food court because she likes to preview her next possible meal even though she is going to order the same thing she always orders. Pizza and breadsticks with a Coke. We are here on a general quest for “something cute” because Becky’s tired of t-shirts and jeans. We browse every clothing store: JC Penney, Sears, Wet Seal, Rue 21, Forever 21, American Eagle, Aerospostale, Hollister, and Victoria’s Secret (because she’s tired of what she wears underneath her t-shirts and jeans). At the first store, Becky over-scrutinizes every shirt she comes across in her self-consciousness as I gather a stunningly large pile of possible, more mature, and stylish outfits for her - as well as outlandish glittery shirts and the prom dresses. ALL the prom dresses. We share a dressing room, past any kind of uncomfortable modesty, and try on everything, especially the things we should never buy.</span></div>
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<span class="s1"> Corsets and impossible heels lead to what are supposed to be burlesque shows in the dressing room, scaring small children who poke their head under the dressing room door. Constricting contraptions with straps, zippers, buttons, and way too much glitter lead to grumbles of “help me get into this thing” which eventually lead up to shouts of “get me out of this!!!” Prom dresses make for impromptu runway shows in the dressing room area, Becky twirling like a clumsy ballerina or princess. She’ll always pretend to be mad that something she likes doesn’t fit her body but fits me well. Becky’s not actually pretending. </span></div>
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<span class="s1"> We take pictures in the dressing room, posing individually in front of the mirror and make goofy faces in our serious formal gowns. After an hour or two, we leave the first store with two shirts for her and walk to more and more stores. Never touching and with a few steps between us, we carry her new wardrobe and my new shirt to the food court in comfortable silence as we are about to feast on food court delicacies. Pizza and breadsticks with a Coke for her and Chinese for me. As we recount the shenanigans of the day, she browses through the day’s pictures and deletes the unflattering ones of her.</span></div>
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<span class="s1"> As we leave the mall, we drive in near silence while country music croons softly out of the speakers, glad to not be pressured to hold up meaningless small-talk in our comfortable silence. Arriving back on campus, we walk up the stairs to her room. I’m ahead of Becky and carrying the heavy bags. She opens the door and we plop down on her bed as she rants once more about her vexing life. Thirty-minutes later, I leave her room to do homework with a brief awkward hug and a shy “bye, see you later.” Our friend Andrea has overheard the sound of doors and she flings open her door, yelling “put some clothes on!!!” I turn around in surprise and respond “I did put on clothes!”</span></div>
</div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12734267844931534675noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6194031215826693816.post-47513665630374393232012-06-10T06:04:00.000-04:002012-06-10T06:54:32.836-04:00Let's Go To The Mall (Adventures Part I)<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span class="s1"> *** All names have been changed for protection of my friend's dignities*** </span></div>
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<span class="s1"> When Elizabeth and I go to the mall, she speeds enthusiastically and we boom and bounce the music out of the speakers. We blast thumping beats and dance through the journey like the fools we are - until an attractive man drives by. Then, we stop and pretend to be normal, hoping to appear attractive. As soon as he drives off, we resume our shenanigans: fist pumping, singing the wrong lyrics, and bouncing in our seats. She likes to let me think that I’m allowed to control the music, but I let her choose because I know she likes to be in control. Besides, with our similar taste in music, she is hard-pressed to find a song I don’t like. We talk convivially on and off about relationships, music, school, and family.</span></div>
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<span class="s1"> Once we arrive at the mall, we park at the closest possible spot to a street light because she likes to be able to find her car and she is a stickler for safety. We stop in the food court at least once and always for Americanized Chinese cuisine. We are at the mall for one specific item, but we browse every store that catches our fleeting attention. We arrive at Barnes and Noble and browse every shelf for 43 minutes before arriving at our destination: the little black books. Our communal small black leather journal in hand, we walk through the abandoned mall making up stories for why stores went out of business. </span></div>
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<span class="s1"> We pass an abandoned pizza shop and make our way behind the counter: I climb awkwardly over the wide counter while Elizabeth finds the swinging door and lets herself in with ease and grace only to trip over her own foot. Tip-toeing and whispering too loudly to be in any way sneaky, we slither into the dark kitchen and use our cell phones as flashlights. Elizabeth whispers “do you think it was always this dirty back here?” I laugh and I walk ahead of her, ever the adventurous one, and she takes advantage of the moment to grasp my shoulder suddenly. Two blood-curling shrieks and a “Elizabeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeth!!!!!” later, we laugh our way out of the kitchen and over the counter, humming the <i>Mission Impossible</i> theme as we sneak past the security guard who is now on a wild goose chase after the “hooligans.”</span></div>
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<span class="s1"> Once we’re no longer at risk for being arrested for trespassing and forced into mall-jail, Elizabeth walks comfortably near me, arm brushing mine, talking excitedly and candidly. </span></div>
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<span class="s1"> We ride every elevator, pretending to get stuck and dying from loneliness and failed classes. </span></div>
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<span class="s1"> We come across a hurricane simulator and in a burst of immaturity, Elizabeth pays the $2 and we are subject to 100 mile per hour winds. Elizabeth takes a picture to commemorate the moment as our hair flails wildly and we make silly faces. Eliza</span>beth obsessively check to see if the picture is blurry and luckily the picture receives her approval.</div>
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<span class="s1"> “Wow, your breasts look fantastic. We are gonna crop those puppies out!”</span></div>
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<span class="s1"> We come across the abandoned Belk and try on adult-sized animal-themed hooded towels clearly meant for children. More pictures are taken to be approved by Elizabeth and we amble among the knick-knacks, pretending to showcase them like Vanna White and hiding from employees behind ominous black curtains clearly marked “employees only.” In coming out from behind the curtains, Elizabeth pretends she is a model bursting through onto a catwalk. I only let my head show, pretending to be Harry Potter from that scene where he first learns about his Invisibility Cloak. We laugh and leave Belk, heading toward the car.</span></div>
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<span class="s1"> We drive away, hours later, with the small black leather journal. We arrive in her room to do homework, buckling down to Organic Chemistry and Physics for me and Human Development for her. The Lion King for the both of us. I leave her room well past my bed-time, with a hug and the daily brief but friendly (read: loud) reminder: “Put some clothes on!!!” I laugh, wondering if what I’m wearing doesn’t count as clothes, and give my usual response as I skip down the hallway: “I put them on just for you!!”</span></div>
</div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12734267844931534675noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6194031215826693816.post-5816015145064871012012-06-10T05:57:00.003-04:002012-06-10T06:41:44.001-04:00Disrobed: Decoding a Ritual. An Inside Look Into What Happens Before You Knock on the Door.<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span class="s1"> The alarm rings at 6:30 a.m., an unwelcome disturbance into the brief respite that is my sleep. Slipping out of the warm comfort of my bed, goosebumps break out on my thighs when my bare feet hit the unexpectedly cold tile floor. I open the blinds to the first welcoming rays of a purple and orange sunrise and, as the warmth washes over my goosebump-y skin, I marvel at the joy of living alone in my room. Having slept in the nude for the past few years, I fear that a roommate who is more conservative than me would complicate matters and make me feel oddly uncomfortable for being comfortable with myself. </span><br />
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<span class="s1"> A roommate would turn the comfort and natural sensuality of nudity into the embarrassing and improper sexual side of nakedness. I am comfortable with my body, a feat that many humans never accomplish. I like my strong muscular thighs and I love my “ethnic” behind. I marvel at the strength and grace of my bare back, reminding me of a lion stalking her prey when I swim or crawl. I enjoy the way my abs look from a certain angle and it amuses me that my chest bounces when I use stairs. Is this a crime? Sometimes, society makes me think so.</span><br />
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<span class="s1"> Walking to my closet, I groan and resign myself to the necessary evil that is clothes. It isn’t that I think clothes are constricting or uncomfortable. Clothes do not make me sweaty. Nor do clothes limit my mobility. I am smart enough to buy comfortable clothes that look good on me. Clothes are also a definite symbol of status, ideals, economic status, level of conservativeness, etc. Take your pick. Indeed, clothes are a terrifying societal concept but those are not my reasons for preferring a more natural state. </span><br />
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<span class="s1"> You may ask, then, "why are you naked all the time?" Well, I’m glad you ask. I choose to not wear clothes because it reflects my inner personality and freedom. Because my skin is soft and feminine - with an appealing tan tone. Because each scar and “abnormality” tells a story of how I became who I am. Because the sporty broadness of my swimmer-shoulders contradicts the feminine fragility of a bare shoulder. Because although my body may not be perfect, it is mine and this is my freedom. I am not a perfect person, but I am free and a free-spirit.</span><br />
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<span class="s1"> Another groan and I choose my clothes. Red cotton underpants and a more red bra. The strap will dig into my left shoulder for the duration of the day like the strap of a heavy backpack, weighing me down with the knowledge I’m expected to retain. I love the color red because it complements my skin tone; because it is a passionate and stereotypically Latin-American color; because it makes me happy. Comfortable jeans that make my behind look better than usual and a figure-fitting red shirt. I am not uncomfortable, but I would prefer not to be wearing anything as I sojourn out of my room and traverse through a day of classes, lab, meetings, rehearsals, and meals. Walking from class to class, I shift uncomfortably under the weight of my clothes as I shift uncomfortably under the weight of the day’s responsibilities. I need to learn to say “no.” The hours crawl by and as the day passes from cool morning to sweltering afternoon of Columbia's freak weather, I lose items of clothing. Jeans become shorts and sneakers become flip flops. Baby-steps to inner comfort.</span><br />
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<span class="s1"> When the clock strikes 8 p.m., I walk back into my oasis for the first time since I left in the morning. I drop my backpack and textbooks onto my bed. Flip=slops are kicked off in glee. I drop my shorts and shirt onto the floor. Freedom. The freedom to be happy, healthy, active, productive, sane, social, bold, unashamed, and alive. Freedom to speak, think, act, sing, write, and move however I want. I am not a sex-crazed megalomaniac - I am not what society portrays “nudists” to be. I am just comfortable. Sitting in my windowsill (and on top of my desk), I bask in the glow and warmth of a red sunset while the left bra strap falls off my weary shoulder. A quick snap of the wrist and a flourish of the hand - I am free of this feminine confine. The stress of the day melts off my shoulders as the last red bra strap caresses the curve of my shoulder, past the telltale Hispanic scar from a tuberculosis vaccine.The pressure to be the responsible and intelligent woman I am expected to be washed away as the red cotton glides past the warm and sensitive flesh behind my knee, touching a small scar from a soccer game in my youth. Finally comfortable in my own skin, I lay my head upon my slightly scarred knees and hug myself, enjoying the pliable softness of my cheek against the roundness of my knees. Five minutes of calm and peace, indulging in the warm caress of the sun, before attempting the looming mountain of homework.</span><br />
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<span class="s1"> With the blare of a siren and the shot of a gun, I climb off my desk and settle into my seat. The soft blue cushion cradles my skin and the cotton fabric is a welcome hug. I open a textbook on my desk, feeling the sleek white pages on my forearms when I turn the page, and hold a pencil firmly in my hand as I plow through unchallenging problems. As I think, I trace my right collar bone with the tip of the pencil, enjoying the sensation of hard plastic gliding along the smooth bone towards the left collar bone. Moving on to writing in my journal, I repeat the same thinking-and-tracing movements unaware that I am marking myself with the dark blue ink that is staining my fingertips and wrists. The sun has dropped below the trees and has taken away the warmth and light. Before I shiver, I stand up to turn on the light, giggling at the unexpected cold tiles hitting my bare and sensitive feet. I walk across the floor, smiling as the silky bedsheets brush against the smooth skin of my thighs. Were I wearing clothes, I would never have felt them. </span><br />
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<span class="s1"> The light flickers on as the opening strains of a chord emanate from my computer. The initial vocalizations are lifted into the air and I snap my head toward the music. I find myself lost and twirling in small pirouettes and pas de bouree across the floor - unaware of my surroundings. I arch my back in a small chasse and turn to look at my slim left arm extending and stretching to an end - fragile and nimble fingers twirl slowly. Suddenly, as my pinky finishes that slow flicker, I twirl and extend both arms - leaning to my left with a sudden passion taking over me. Serenity in my face as I lean to my right arm, slowly, tenderly, with abandon. Until a knock is heard at the door. My peace has been breached and I am pulled back to reality. I’ve been dancing in the nude again.</span><br />
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<span class="s1"> Scrambling for my plush blue robe, I fasten it quickly and hastily cover myself as I ask “who is it?” Persistent knocking and a mumbled name reveal a friend, all too familiar with my nudity. She sits on my bed and asks homework questions, never once flinching at the sight of a bare curved shoulder when my robe slips because I did not do a good job of tying it ... again. The robe-to-skin contacts is like a lover’s tender caress and with every move, there is a new and soft sensation unknown to anyone but me. When I sit on the bed next to her, she does not move away when the warm flesh of my legs peeps through the slit in the robe and touches her own cotton-polyester blend covered leg. There is no disgust or shame. She accepts me for everything that I am and she has learned that there need not be a correlation between nudity and sex, but I am glad when she leaves and I can return my robe to the closet. Where all clothes belong.</span><br />
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<span class="s1"> As the stars rise and the lullaby of Columbia’s sirens sing me to sleep, I put away my school books and gladly climb into the cocoon of silk sheets. Enveloped in the ocean of blankets, I marvel at the freedom to feel the silk wrap around my legs and touch me so subtly it almost tickles. Were I wearing pajamas, this phenomenon would never occur. As I drift off to sleep in the sea of silk, I slowly extend my legs and then bring them to a fetal position. Purposefully searching for skin-to-sheet contact. My eyes close and I am happy to be free.</span><br />
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<span class="s1"> To be repeated again tomorrow.</span></div>
</div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12734267844931534675noreply@blogger.com0