I'm on
leather, coals, plastic, grass
in the
office, dungeon, classroom, field
as you
brief, impale, instruct, push
me on
compromise, honesty, succeeding, loving.
I admit it.
21 hours ago
Thursday, October 15, 2009
Thursday, October 8, 2009
You
This poem is too cyclical,
free verse, and metaphorical.
They tell me to use Reader
Response and make my own meaning.
I have to understand my own way
and not rely on the author, they say.
Unless the meaning is expressly expressed
in the text, it’s all me.
But how can I trust that
I’ll be free from confusion when
I reach my own conclusion?
Maybe I should try
New Criticism for interpretation?
Or just ask for an explanation?
free verse, and metaphorical.
They tell me to use Reader
Response and make my own meaning.
I have to understand my own way
and not rely on the author, they say.
Unless the meaning is expressly expressed
in the text, it’s all me.
But how can I trust that
I’ll be free from confusion when
I reach my own conclusion?
Maybe I should try
New Criticism for interpretation?
Or just ask for an explanation?
Tuesday, September 15, 2009
Directions
It once was whole,
that green blackboard,
hanging in front.
Snowy-smooth arrows
crawled around, words
and graphs and curves.
The young us sat
and wrote,
attempting to absorb.
But before we saw It,
it lay in pieces
on the ground,
bone-white
on poison-green
on dirt-brown floor.
that green blackboard,
hanging in front.
Snowy-smooth arrows
crawled around, words
and graphs and curves.
The young us sat
and wrote,
attempting to absorb.
But before we saw It,
it lay in pieces
on the ground,
bone-white
on poison-green
on dirt-brown floor.
Wednesday, September 9, 2009
Worth the Risk
“Hey, Chris, what are you up to?”
“Nothing. Just a little homework that isn’t due until Friday. What’s up?”
“I’m restless. Up for something?”
“Sure. Give me ten minutes, I’ll be at your dorm to pick you up.”
“Chris, look out the window.”
A shadow appeared in the window of the last room on the second story of Pushli Hall, and I waved.
“Dang it, Kath. You shouldn’t have walked here by yourself! It’s dark out.”
“Well, get down here, and I won’t be by myself anymore,” I grinned, knowing he wouldn’t say no. “Hurry up, and do you have a spare hoodie? I forgot one.”
“Kathy, you’re going to kill yourself. Fine. I’ll be right down,” he sounded pissed, but I knew it was because I had traversed the back streets by myself to get on campus rather than having to spend time with me.
I snapped my phone shut, pocketed it, and waited. Within two minutes, the back door of the dorm opened, and Chris tromped down the stairs, still grumbling under his breath. “Here.” He tossed me a dark-colored sweatshirt. “So what are we doing?”
“I dunno,” I said cheerfully, pulling the worn material over my head. “We could drive to Pittsburgh and check out some of the bars. Or try to walk across the bridge on the handrail. Or anything else. But something crazy. I’m in the mood for a risk.”
“What?” He looked at me as if I had said that I was going to kidnap him, incredulous and not quite believing what he had heard.
“C’mon!” I called, running a few steps. “Let’s go!”
“Kath, what—”
But I was already ahead of him, running almost flat out, laughing. I heard his footfalls as he ran after me, and his much-longer legs covered the distance faster than I had. Before I expected it, he had reached me and grabbed my arm, pulling me sharply to a stop. Swinging me around to face him, he held my shoulders to keep me from flying off again.
“What in the world is wrong with you?” he demanded fiercely. “You’ve cracked or something. You’re not like this.”
Instantly, I dropped the smile from my face. “I…I…” I couldn’t place the words in the right order to make sense of what was going on inside me and just stood there panting and frowning.
“Do you even know what time it is? It’s, like, twelve-thirty. What the heck is going on? You never take risks like walking over here this late by yourself or anything.”
“You wanna know what’s up? You sure you wanna know?” Fury and frustration poured into my mouth, tasting sore, sour, and bitter on my tongue. “I’m so tired of this shit! I’m always freakin’ being ‘safe’.” My fingers sliced quotation marks in the night air, punching holes that matched the marks of my acid words. “Do you know what kind of a life that is? No, of course you don’t, because you have the sense to take effin’ risks! It’s no life, do you hear me? NO LIFE!”
By now, I was pacing around in a small space of road, throwing my arms around and turning as if I were acting out this scene on stage. “In everything, I sit down and think of all the things that could go wrong and everything that could be wrecked, and I don’t take that risk, and that is bull shit! And I’m not living like that anymore. See? I walked over here, even though I knew I could have been mugged or raped or something. I asked you to hang out, even though I knew you might have been asleep or talking to Lindsey. And I’m here flipping out, even though I know that there is a very large possibility that I’ll scare you so much that you’ll never speak to me again.”
Spinning to face Chris, I walked straight up to him. “And you know what else? I effin’ don’t care. I’ve finally realized that I’m going to have to risk my comfort and looking stupid and losing things if anything I want is ever going to happen. Nothing in this life drops straight into your lap, and I finally finally see that.” I abruptly stopped, my face barely six inches from Chris’ and my breathing still irregular. I waited for some kind of response.
He didn’t do anything.
“Fine. Whatever.” Steady and calm, my voice pulled only a little against my throat. I turned away and began walking up the street, trying to pretend that I didn’t feel the little cuts of hurt that came from the fact that he did, in fact, seem to have been sincerely scared.
“Aw, c’mon, Kath. Risks are all fine and dandy, but don’t take the ones that seriously put yourself in danger.” He stretched his steps to reach me, and I stopped, but still didn’t face him. “Surely you can think of some better ways to live than risking your life, girl.”
“Sure.” I glanced back at him, and slowly twisted my body around again. “Here’s one. I could go on living without doing this, but I’d probably wonder what would have happened. And I know that this, above all the other shit that I’ve done tonight, might break our friendship. But I’ve got to do it, and it so could be worth it.” I pause, searching his features, and he looked back at me, curious and waiting.
“Will you kiss me please?” I asked the question that I’d clutched in my heart for a long time, trying to never give a hint of it to anyone.
Under the streetlamp, I saw his face change.
“Nothing. Just a little homework that isn’t due until Friday. What’s up?”
“I’m restless. Up for something?”
“Sure. Give me ten minutes, I’ll be at your dorm to pick you up.”
“Chris, look out the window.”
A shadow appeared in the window of the last room on the second story of Pushli Hall, and I waved.
“Dang it, Kath. You shouldn’t have walked here by yourself! It’s dark out.”
“Well, get down here, and I won’t be by myself anymore,” I grinned, knowing he wouldn’t say no. “Hurry up, and do you have a spare hoodie? I forgot one.”
“Kathy, you’re going to kill yourself. Fine. I’ll be right down,” he sounded pissed, but I knew it was because I had traversed the back streets by myself to get on campus rather than having to spend time with me.
I snapped my phone shut, pocketed it, and waited. Within two minutes, the back door of the dorm opened, and Chris tromped down the stairs, still grumbling under his breath. “Here.” He tossed me a dark-colored sweatshirt. “So what are we doing?”
“I dunno,” I said cheerfully, pulling the worn material over my head. “We could drive to Pittsburgh and check out some of the bars. Or try to walk across the bridge on the handrail. Or anything else. But something crazy. I’m in the mood for a risk.”
“What?” He looked at me as if I had said that I was going to kidnap him, incredulous and not quite believing what he had heard.
“C’mon!” I called, running a few steps. “Let’s go!”
“Kath, what—”
But I was already ahead of him, running almost flat out, laughing. I heard his footfalls as he ran after me, and his much-longer legs covered the distance faster than I had. Before I expected it, he had reached me and grabbed my arm, pulling me sharply to a stop. Swinging me around to face him, he held my shoulders to keep me from flying off again.
“What in the world is wrong with you?” he demanded fiercely. “You’ve cracked or something. You’re not like this.”
Instantly, I dropped the smile from my face. “I…I…” I couldn’t place the words in the right order to make sense of what was going on inside me and just stood there panting and frowning.
“Do you even know what time it is? It’s, like, twelve-thirty. What the heck is going on? You never take risks like walking over here this late by yourself or anything.”
“You wanna know what’s up? You sure you wanna know?” Fury and frustration poured into my mouth, tasting sore, sour, and bitter on my tongue. “I’m so tired of this shit! I’m always freakin’ being ‘safe’.” My fingers sliced quotation marks in the night air, punching holes that matched the marks of my acid words. “Do you know what kind of a life that is? No, of course you don’t, because you have the sense to take effin’ risks! It’s no life, do you hear me? NO LIFE!”
By now, I was pacing around in a small space of road, throwing my arms around and turning as if I were acting out this scene on stage. “In everything, I sit down and think of all the things that could go wrong and everything that could be wrecked, and I don’t take that risk, and that is bull shit! And I’m not living like that anymore. See? I walked over here, even though I knew I could have been mugged or raped or something. I asked you to hang out, even though I knew you might have been asleep or talking to Lindsey. And I’m here flipping out, even though I know that there is a very large possibility that I’ll scare you so much that you’ll never speak to me again.”
Spinning to face Chris, I walked straight up to him. “And you know what else? I effin’ don’t care. I’ve finally realized that I’m going to have to risk my comfort and looking stupid and losing things if anything I want is ever going to happen. Nothing in this life drops straight into your lap, and I finally finally see that.” I abruptly stopped, my face barely six inches from Chris’ and my breathing still irregular. I waited for some kind of response.
He didn’t do anything.
“Fine. Whatever.” Steady and calm, my voice pulled only a little against my throat. I turned away and began walking up the street, trying to pretend that I didn’t feel the little cuts of hurt that came from the fact that he did, in fact, seem to have been sincerely scared.
“Aw, c’mon, Kath. Risks are all fine and dandy, but don’t take the ones that seriously put yourself in danger.” He stretched his steps to reach me, and I stopped, but still didn’t face him. “Surely you can think of some better ways to live than risking your life, girl.”
“Sure.” I glanced back at him, and slowly twisted my body around again. “Here’s one. I could go on living without doing this, but I’d probably wonder what would have happened. And I know that this, above all the other shit that I’ve done tonight, might break our friendship. But I’ve got to do it, and it so could be worth it.” I pause, searching his features, and he looked back at me, curious and waiting.
“Will you kiss me please?” I asked the question that I’d clutched in my heart for a long time, trying to never give a hint of it to anyone.
Under the streetlamp, I saw his face change.
Monday, July 20, 2009
Taxicabs and Airplanes
Some people would rather live unemployed for their whole lives rather than be a taxi driver, but me, I like it. You never do the same thing every day, and sometimes exciting stuff happens. One time, I dropped off a criminal straight into a group of policemen; they arrested him on the spot. Another time, two people got into my cab from opposites sides without realizing it. Ironically, they were both headed to the airport and agreed to share the taxi and fare. There are times when I really love my job.
For instance, I remember an experience that happened last week. I had just dropped off a passenger and was at a stoplight when a girl dashed up and practically pulled the yellow door off its hinges. Through short, labored breaths, she gasped, "Number 26, Joy Street, please. As fast as you can!"
I switched on my right turn signal and set off as soon as I could, shaking my head. When would teenage girls, or even girls in their late twenties as my rider appeared, learn that an argument, or ever a break-up, wasn't the end of the world. There were many fish in the sea, and with her looks, this girl could undoubtedly find a a Friday night date any time she wanted. I unobtrusively watched in the mirror as she pulled out her expensive cell and tried calling someone; I guessed it was the guy who had recently broken her heart. Receiving no answer, she swore more crudely than I expected from stylish, pretty girls.
She selected another number from her phone and got through this time. "Hi, it's me. I know you don't want to talk to me," her voice rose as if she were talking over someone. "But I've given up. I was wrong, but I want to fix it now. Just wait here for a few minutes," she said to me as we arrived on Joy Street. "Just come outside," she finished into the phone. Interested, I didn't mind staying on to the end of this intriguing story.
A minute later, a young man strode through the doorway of the apartment building we were resting in front of. The poor car door was again wrenched harshly as the girl flung it open. "Get in," she commanded. For a split second, I saw distrust solidify in his eyes. Obviously, the woman did too, because she barked, "You don't have time to doubt me!" at him. Instantly, he folded his long legs into the backseat beside her. Before the door was even fully closed, she ordered me to the airport across town.
"Wait, what's going on? How is flying somewhere going to help me?" her companion demanded.
"You idiot, it's not you that flying. She's going away, and if that happens, you'lll never get a chance to explain."
"Me?" his voice rose incredulously. "What about you? Anyway. I'll just call her," he concluded reasonably, and I agreed with him silently. While I didn't mind the money I was going to make from this adventure, it would be much easier for him to get ahold of her over the phone than trying to find her in the airport.
"I already tried explaining things to her, but she wouldn't listen. You know how she is. Do you really think she's going to answer your call after what happened?"
He paused, thinking.
"Would you?" she finished.
"No, I wouldn't," he admitted, defeated.
"Your only hope is to reach her before she makes it through security. If she gets through, there's no way we can reach her. We'd have to figure out which flight she was on, purchase tickets (if we could), and then wait for security ourselves. There really isn't any chance that way; she already has a good half an hour on us."
Anxiously, the young man leaned forward and urged me to go faster.
"Look, buddy," I couldn't help growling. Passengers trying to get me to drive faster than was humanly possible given the circumstances always ticked me off. "I'm doing everything I can to help you get to your lady love in time." Still, his dejected face touched me a little, and I felt a little ashamed of my outburst. After all, he was on tenterhooks.
After that, they sat silently staring out at the people, boutiques, and cafes we passed, clearly trying not to think about what would happen if they didn't find this girl. She was much more adapt at hiding it than the young man; she pulled out an emery board and pretended to file her already polished nails. He, on the other hand, alternated between bouncing his knee and tapping his fingers. Several times, he opened his mouth to speak, never quite got the words off his tongue.
After twenty minutes, we finally reached the airport. Determined to know what happened, I scanned for a parking place, and discovered one almost directly beside the door. Both of my passengers spilled out of the taxi before I had put the vehicle in park. "Here," the young woman said distractedly, shoving five twenties through my window. "Keep the change." As she chased after her companion, I threw open my door and pocketed the money as I followed them, unable to resist my curiosity.
Across the lobby, I saw two running figures tearing toward the security lines in front of the metal detectors and x-ray machines. By the time I reached the other side of the large room and stood back to observe, they were both searching the crowd for someone familiar. Even though I wasn't close to him, I could feel the waves of despair rippling off the boy as he began to lose hope.
He must have spotted a coat he knew, because he suddenly began yelling, "Heather!" and then louder, "Heather!" I saw a girl in her twenties close to the front of the line turn surprised with the same motion as the many spectators. The dumbfounded look on her face, completely devoid of any anger or resentment, told me immediately that she would forgive him, if only because he had come after her, trying to stop her. Out of millions of girls, she was getting her own fairytale or chick click, whichever she preferred.
He ran toward her and pulled her out of the queue. Too far away to hear over the noise, I inched closer, until I could hear her stammering.
"What is going on? What are you doing?"
"Heather," he cut her off, his words sure. "I made mistakes. I screwed up. But I love you, and I'll do anything to fix it and make it up to you." He tried to stare down into her eyes, but she looked at the faces of the people around instead. "Heather, please. Give me one last chance."
Finally, she gazed up at him, debating with herself. The moments seemed to take years as she searched his face, but soon slow tears began to form in her eyes. Suddenly, she flung her arms around his neck and kissed him hard. Ecstatic, he grabbed her around the waist and twirled her on the spot.
As they hugged, laughing with joy, I happily left the lobby to return to the bright yellow car that belonged to me. Waiting beside it was the first girl. She smiled a little ruefully, as I slid into the driver's seat and she climbed into the back. "Well, that was my good deed for the year," she sighed. "Now I need a few tequilas. The Golden on Ambridge Avenue, please."
For instance, I remember an experience that happened last week. I had just dropped off a passenger and was at a stoplight when a girl dashed up and practically pulled the yellow door off its hinges. Through short, labored breaths, she gasped, "Number 26, Joy Street, please. As fast as you can!"
I switched on my right turn signal and set off as soon as I could, shaking my head. When would teenage girls, or even girls in their late twenties as my rider appeared, learn that an argument, or ever a break-up, wasn't the end of the world. There were many fish in the sea, and with her looks, this girl could undoubtedly find a a Friday night date any time she wanted. I unobtrusively watched in the mirror as she pulled out her expensive cell and tried calling someone; I guessed it was the guy who had recently broken her heart. Receiving no answer, she swore more crudely than I expected from stylish, pretty girls.
She selected another number from her phone and got through this time. "Hi, it's me. I know you don't want to talk to me," her voice rose as if she were talking over someone. "But I've given up. I was wrong, but I want to fix it now. Just wait here for a few minutes," she said to me as we arrived on Joy Street. "Just come outside," she finished into the phone. Interested, I didn't mind staying on to the end of this intriguing story.
A minute later, a young man strode through the doorway of the apartment building we were resting in front of. The poor car door was again wrenched harshly as the girl flung it open. "Get in," she commanded. For a split second, I saw distrust solidify in his eyes. Obviously, the woman did too, because she barked, "You don't have time to doubt me!" at him. Instantly, he folded his long legs into the backseat beside her. Before the door was even fully closed, she ordered me to the airport across town.
"Wait, what's going on? How is flying somewhere going to help me?" her companion demanded.
"You idiot, it's not you that flying. She's going away, and if that happens, you'lll never get a chance to explain."
"Me?" his voice rose incredulously. "What about you? Anyway. I'll just call her," he concluded reasonably, and I agreed with him silently. While I didn't mind the money I was going to make from this adventure, it would be much easier for him to get ahold of her over the phone than trying to find her in the airport.
"I already tried explaining things to her, but she wouldn't listen. You know how she is. Do you really think she's going to answer your call after what happened?"
He paused, thinking.
"Would you?" she finished.
"No, I wouldn't," he admitted, defeated.
"Your only hope is to reach her before she makes it through security. If she gets through, there's no way we can reach her. We'd have to figure out which flight she was on, purchase tickets (if we could), and then wait for security ourselves. There really isn't any chance that way; she already has a good half an hour on us."
Anxiously, the young man leaned forward and urged me to go faster.
"Look, buddy," I couldn't help growling. Passengers trying to get me to drive faster than was humanly possible given the circumstances always ticked me off. "I'm doing everything I can to help you get to your lady love in time." Still, his dejected face touched me a little, and I felt a little ashamed of my outburst. After all, he was on tenterhooks.
After that, they sat silently staring out at the people, boutiques, and cafes we passed, clearly trying not to think about what would happen if they didn't find this girl. She was much more adapt at hiding it than the young man; she pulled out an emery board and pretended to file her already polished nails. He, on the other hand, alternated between bouncing his knee and tapping his fingers. Several times, he opened his mouth to speak, never quite got the words off his tongue.
After twenty minutes, we finally reached the airport. Determined to know what happened, I scanned for a parking place, and discovered one almost directly beside the door. Both of my passengers spilled out of the taxi before I had put the vehicle in park. "Here," the young woman said distractedly, shoving five twenties through my window. "Keep the change." As she chased after her companion, I threw open my door and pocketed the money as I followed them, unable to resist my curiosity.
Across the lobby, I saw two running figures tearing toward the security lines in front of the metal detectors and x-ray machines. By the time I reached the other side of the large room and stood back to observe, they were both searching the crowd for someone familiar. Even though I wasn't close to him, I could feel the waves of despair rippling off the boy as he began to lose hope.
He must have spotted a coat he knew, because he suddenly began yelling, "Heather!" and then louder, "Heather!" I saw a girl in her twenties close to the front of the line turn surprised with the same motion as the many spectators. The dumbfounded look on her face, completely devoid of any anger or resentment, told me immediately that she would forgive him, if only because he had come after her, trying to stop her. Out of millions of girls, she was getting her own fairytale or chick click, whichever she preferred.
He ran toward her and pulled her out of the queue. Too far away to hear over the noise, I inched closer, until I could hear her stammering.
"What is going on? What are you doing?"
"Heather," he cut her off, his words sure. "I made mistakes. I screwed up. But I love you, and I'll do anything to fix it and make it up to you." He tried to stare down into her eyes, but she looked at the faces of the people around instead. "Heather, please. Give me one last chance."
Finally, she gazed up at him, debating with herself. The moments seemed to take years as she searched his face, but soon slow tears began to form in her eyes. Suddenly, she flung her arms around his neck and kissed him hard. Ecstatic, he grabbed her around the waist and twirled her on the spot.
As they hugged, laughing with joy, I happily left the lobby to return to the bright yellow car that belonged to me. Waiting beside it was the first girl. She smiled a little ruefully, as I slid into the driver's seat and she climbed into the back. "Well, that was my good deed for the year," she sighed. "Now I need a few tequilas. The Golden on Ambridge Avenue, please."
Thursday, July 9, 2009
Just Because (part 1)
It was six-thirty in the morning, and already Zoe was having an awful day. Her alarm had jolted her out of sleep at six the way it always did, and she had snoozed it for twenty more minute as usual, but it seemed so much earlier this Monday because of a late Sunday night. Hanging out with friends after evening church, they had started watching Tristan and Isolde a little before twelve because no one had wanted to leave. While the activity had prolonged the weekend, it also made for an even worse first day of the work week than usual.
Stumbling around in the dark, Zoe growled quietly as she viciously stubbed her toe in her effort to open the closet door. Why she had not used her cell phone for a little light she could not remember. Putting down the lack of judgment to extreme-sleep-deprivation, she hobbled around the room, gathering clothes and trying not to wake her house mate who was still sleeping. Unfortunately, she could not stop the wham her forehead made on the bureau while she tried to peer into a drawer, but the sleeping form in the other bed did not move.
The sudden 100 watts of light from the bathroom lamp blinded her, but somehow she had no new accidents while preparing for her morning shower. Even without contacts in, she could tell that a bruise was beginning on the face from the wooden dresser. Sighing with frustration, she stepped into the hot water, hoping it would relax her.
But luck was not with her this morning. Her razor broke, but only after slicing her ankle three times. The shampoo slid into her eyes, and Zoe remembered halfway through washing her hair that she had forgotten to grab a new bottle of conditioner. When her foot slipped and she almost fell, Zoe could not decide between screaming or swearing and ended up not doing either, merely swallowing the emotion that came to her mouth. Maybe I'll just call in sick and go back to bed, she thought miserably. For a minute, she simply stood, letting the hot liquid stream over her head and onto her shoulders. With her eyes under small trickles of water, she could not tell if she had actually begun to cry or not. Was there anything that could make this day turn around?
And suddenly, she smiled. A memory had slipped into the forefront of Zoe's mind as easily as a piece of Dove chocolate on a tongue. Last night during the movie, Kevin had reached over and silently took her hand without warning. No one in the room had noticed. Even though they had been dating for a month, it was the first time Kev had held her hand, and it had felt incredible. Zoe could feel her face glowing from more than the warm water, and the day took on a whole new, wonderful, promising look, just because he had held her hand.
Stumbling around in the dark, Zoe growled quietly as she viciously stubbed her toe in her effort to open the closet door. Why she had not used her cell phone for a little light she could not remember. Putting down the lack of judgment to extreme-sleep-deprivation, she hobbled around the room, gathering clothes and trying not to wake her house mate who was still sleeping. Unfortunately, she could not stop the wham her forehead made on the bureau while she tried to peer into a drawer, but the sleeping form in the other bed did not move.
The sudden 100 watts of light from the bathroom lamp blinded her, but somehow she had no new accidents while preparing for her morning shower. Even without contacts in, she could tell that a bruise was beginning on the face from the wooden dresser. Sighing with frustration, she stepped into the hot water, hoping it would relax her.
But luck was not with her this morning. Her razor broke, but only after slicing her ankle three times. The shampoo slid into her eyes, and Zoe remembered halfway through washing her hair that she had forgotten to grab a new bottle of conditioner. When her foot slipped and she almost fell, Zoe could not decide between screaming or swearing and ended up not doing either, merely swallowing the emotion that came to her mouth. Maybe I'll just call in sick and go back to bed, she thought miserably. For a minute, she simply stood, letting the hot liquid stream over her head and onto her shoulders. With her eyes under small trickles of water, she could not tell if she had actually begun to cry or not. Was there anything that could make this day turn around?
And suddenly, she smiled. A memory had slipped into the forefront of Zoe's mind as easily as a piece of Dove chocolate on a tongue. Last night during the movie, Kevin had reached over and silently took her hand without warning. No one in the room had noticed. Even though they had been dating for a month, it was the first time Kev had held her hand, and it had felt incredible. Zoe could feel her face glowing from more than the warm water, and the day took on a whole new, wonderful, promising look, just because he had held her hand.
Sunday, June 7, 2009
Spiritual Ears
Today in church, we were singing praise to God, I think it was Psalm 25C, and I happened to notice something. Two pews in front of me, there sat a young boy, only four or five years old, I'm guessing, who was repeatedly pressing his hands over his ears and lifting them again. Smiling, I remembered the many times I had done this as a child, enjoying the changes in hearing and how funny the singing sounded. He certainly seemed to be amused by it.
But then I began wondering. This desire to play with how we hear things doesn't change over the years. Too often, I have gotten caught up in how something sounds, instead of what what it is saying. More time than I care to admit, I focus on the music, concentrating on how the harmony and melody blend instead of the words that we are singing to God. While appreciating the sounds is perfectly fine, it should never replace appreciating the message of the psalms.
Unfortunately, I can also fall prey to this when listening to the preacher, as well. I admit that sometimes I have been so amazed at a pastor's ability and passion that I have forgotten to listen to what he is passionate about. This young boy in the service today must have been sent by God to remind me to hear through the trappings of this world and listen to His spiritual message for me. So, thank you, Caleb, for playing with your ears.
But then I began wondering. This desire to play with how we hear things doesn't change over the years. Too often, I have gotten caught up in how something sounds, instead of what what it is saying. More time than I care to admit, I focus on the music, concentrating on how the harmony and melody blend instead of the words that we are singing to God. While appreciating the sounds is perfectly fine, it should never replace appreciating the message of the psalms.
Unfortunately, I can also fall prey to this when listening to the preacher, as well. I admit that sometimes I have been so amazed at a pastor's ability and passion that I have forgotten to listen to what he is passionate about. This young boy in the service today must have been sent by God to remind me to hear through the trappings of this world and listen to His spiritual message for me. So, thank you, Caleb, for playing with your ears.
Thursday, June 4, 2009
Nose Memories
It is a warm, tasty, cozy smell, usually surfaces about once a week, and is a part of my life. No matter which house we were currently living in, it was always one of our favorite odors. The scent would permeate the first floor of our dwelling and sometimes ever drift up the stairs, pulling me and my siblings irresistibly toward the kitchen. Before much longer, we knew, there would be fresh, hot bread popping out of the oven.
That was the preferred time to have a taste of Mom’s homemade bread. Between a potentially-burnt mouth and cold bread, the former was seemed the lesser of two evils to us. Choosing exactly the right time to sample the brown loaves was difficult. Unspoken rules required the bread to have sufficient heat to melt butter, but it was a waste if someone accidentally dropped their slice because of scorched fingertips. Eventually, we discovered that the perfect time was when the loaf was cool enough to touch, but still warm enough to steam when cut.
Throughout my childhood, Mom’s bread appeared in many different places and alongside countless dishes. Hamburger chowder would be incomplete without a basket of bread on the table. BLTs, grilled-cheese sandwiches, and Sunday morning toast were the most savory when cooked with bread from our oven. It was not just our family who was treated to this specialty. Visitors praised it, and a loaf was a regular Christmas gift to our Sunday school teachers.
For as long as I can remember, Mom’s bread routine has existed. When we kids were younger, I recall that she used to grind her own flour. More expensive, it was nevertheless healthier. After buying huge bags of wheat berries, my mother would bring the electric mill out of the cupboard and treat the kernels. The machine made so much noise, I remember, that you could not even hear anyone talk. Eventually, a change in location meant that the wheat were no longer available for purchase. Although I never said anything, this development suited me fine; I preferred the look and taste of the whiter bread made with store-bought flour.
When I am at college, living away from home, I do not notice the absence. Too many papers, tests, and events intrude into my mind, distracting me. I eat what the dining hall serves or, if nothing appeals to me, order a pizza with flex points. Combining odors of deep frying, grease, and dish soap, Alexander Dining Hall always smells the same, no matter what is cooking, and it is a slightly-less-than-appetizing mixture. But when I returned home for the summer, the first scent to reach me was of baking bread. So strong was it, I almost felt like I could see it, and my mouth anticipated a warm and buttery piece as soon as I finished unloading the car. That aroma signaled Home.
That was the preferred time to have a taste of Mom’s homemade bread. Between a potentially-burnt mouth and cold bread, the former was seemed the lesser of two evils to us. Choosing exactly the right time to sample the brown loaves was difficult. Unspoken rules required the bread to have sufficient heat to melt butter, but it was a waste if someone accidentally dropped their slice because of scorched fingertips. Eventually, we discovered that the perfect time was when the loaf was cool enough to touch, but still warm enough to steam when cut.
Throughout my childhood, Mom’s bread appeared in many different places and alongside countless dishes. Hamburger chowder would be incomplete without a basket of bread on the table. BLTs, grilled-cheese sandwiches, and Sunday morning toast were the most savory when cooked with bread from our oven. It was not just our family who was treated to this specialty. Visitors praised it, and a loaf was a regular Christmas gift to our Sunday school teachers.
For as long as I can remember, Mom’s bread routine has existed. When we kids were younger, I recall that she used to grind her own flour. More expensive, it was nevertheless healthier. After buying huge bags of wheat berries, my mother would bring the electric mill out of the cupboard and treat the kernels. The machine made so much noise, I remember, that you could not even hear anyone talk. Eventually, a change in location meant that the wheat were no longer available for purchase. Although I never said anything, this development suited me fine; I preferred the look and taste of the whiter bread made with store-bought flour.
When I am at college, living away from home, I do not notice the absence. Too many papers, tests, and events intrude into my mind, distracting me. I eat what the dining hall serves or, if nothing appeals to me, order a pizza with flex points. Combining odors of deep frying, grease, and dish soap, Alexander Dining Hall always smells the same, no matter what is cooking, and it is a slightly-less-than-appetizing mixture. But when I returned home for the summer, the first scent to reach me was of baking bread. So strong was it, I almost felt like I could see it, and my mouth anticipated a warm and buttery piece as soon as I finished unloading the car. That aroma signaled Home.
Sunday, May 17, 2009
What?
*Yeah, more poetry. Sorry*
Clueless
don't ask me
where I am
cause I can't
tell you
Baffled
don't ask me
where I'm going
cause I can't
see the signs
Perplexed
don't ask me
who's waiting
cause I can't
remember
Don't ask
cause
I don't know
Clueless
don't ask me
where I am
cause I can't
tell you
Baffled
don't ask me
where I'm going
cause I can't
see the signs
Perplexed
don't ask me
who's waiting
cause I can't
remember
Don't ask
cause
I don't know
Thursday, April 16, 2009
Happy Ending
I was useless, and I knew it. No one ever said it to me, but you all know how the feeling is impossible to mistake. I felt like the understudy in a production--one who has only been made the understudy because the lead will never give up their part. I could sympathize with the small salad fork at a fancy dinner that has been passed over in favor of the larger dinner fork by an ignorant guest. The mediocre first bass in a high school choir knows what I mean; he is always drowned out by the seconds and can never find his note against the tenors. If the understudy, fork, and miserable singer evaporated from their places, no one would notice or care.
And it was the same with me. I was merely something to be overlooked. Only her attention could serve as the rope that would rescue me from the pit of forgotteness. I saw her everyday, watched her walk by, and wished that she would notice me. Sometimes she looked my way, and my hopes shot to the ceiling. But nothing ever came of it.
I know that she used to like me. She used to spend hours and hours with me, some of the happiest times of her days. Why had she grown bored with me? I couldn't remember doing anything to upset her, and she hadn't said anything. Never once had she been angry with me. She was frustrated sometimes, but never because of me. And I had always been able to calm and relax her. No, I was sure that I hadn't done anything to make her leave me.
I wondered why I hadn't noticed her drifting away. To my oblivious eyes, it seemed that she was with me one day and gone the next. I suppose that is just my way, to be too caught up in the happiness of the moment, not bothering to think about or tend the future. Maybe I hadn't done enough? But how could that be? I had always devoted myself to her and given her all my attention. What else could I have done?
I missed her hand. It was smooth and soft and warm. I missed the her feel and the smell of her fruit shampoo and cinnamon gum. I missed being able to watch her face, missed being fascinated by the emotions that swirled across her features.
But most of all, I missed her words, It was that which first transfixed me. The way she strung sentences together to paint pictures in midair and to introduce me to people and places I had never seen. There was a pit with jagged edges, a place inside me the ached without her words; it was torn anew each day apart. I wished with all my heart to be filler with her thoughts again.
There she was now, walking past me without a glance like so many times before. For a couple of months, I had half-believed that she would suddenly turn and walk toward me smiling, but she never did. Distracted and hurried, she didn't even notice me anymore. I squashed the hopes that rose every time I saw her, determined not to damage myself more than I had to.
But, wait! She paused, thinking, and my hopes jumped out from under the ropes I had struggled to tie them down with. I watched breathlessly as she stood completely still, lost in her thoughts for three long minutes. A smile exploded onto her face, and I felt joy fill me because I was able to witness that beautiful look. She turned the full force of her lovable face on me for the first time in four months. I could not believe my eyes as she walked toward me, a dream coming true.
She walked straight up to me, practically glowing with excitement and sat down beside me. She had returned to me now, and that was all that mattered.Turning her gaze to me, she said, "It was not the cheese that killed Mrs. Thornpipe."
~~~
Chloe had been walking through the kitchen of her apartment when it had suddenly come to her. After four months of writer's block, the words to a perfect first sentence had simply fallen into place in her mind, bringing an entire story of deception, despair, and devotion with them. She could once again feel the thrill of word craft.
Although she had been headed to dinner at her favorite cafe, Chloe knew that eating was impossible now. She turned away from the door and saw, as if for the first time, her beloved writing table positioned right below the window. Her eyes traced over it. Pens and pencils rested in a cup with a gathering of erasers nearby. Three books, a dictionary, a thesaurus, and a Bible, lay stacked in a corner, and her ever-ready notebook lay open in the middle of the surface. How she'd missed them all!
Quickly, Chloe crossed the tiny room and eagerly sat down. One hand caressed the pure white paper as the other reached for a black pen. No need for pencil for this sentence; she knew it was perfect.
Just before setting pen to paper, Chloe spoke the words out loud, simply to savor their taste and ring. "'It was not the cheese that killed Mrs. Thornpipe." She hoped a story like this would help her writing notebook forgive her for her neglect. But she had returned to him now, and that was all that mattered.
And it was the same with me. I was merely something to be overlooked. Only her attention could serve as the rope that would rescue me from the pit of forgotteness. I saw her everyday, watched her walk by, and wished that she would notice me. Sometimes she looked my way, and my hopes shot to the ceiling. But nothing ever came of it.
I know that she used to like me. She used to spend hours and hours with me, some of the happiest times of her days. Why had she grown bored with me? I couldn't remember doing anything to upset her, and she hadn't said anything. Never once had she been angry with me. She was frustrated sometimes, but never because of me. And I had always been able to calm and relax her. No, I was sure that I hadn't done anything to make her leave me.
I wondered why I hadn't noticed her drifting away. To my oblivious eyes, it seemed that she was with me one day and gone the next. I suppose that is just my way, to be too caught up in the happiness of the moment, not bothering to think about or tend the future. Maybe I hadn't done enough? But how could that be? I had always devoted myself to her and given her all my attention. What else could I have done?
I missed her hand. It was smooth and soft and warm. I missed the her feel and the smell of her fruit shampoo and cinnamon gum. I missed being able to watch her face, missed being fascinated by the emotions that swirled across her features.
But most of all, I missed her words, It was that which first transfixed me. The way she strung sentences together to paint pictures in midair and to introduce me to people and places I had never seen. There was a pit with jagged edges, a place inside me the ached without her words; it was torn anew each day apart. I wished with all my heart to be filler with her thoughts again.
There she was now, walking past me without a glance like so many times before. For a couple of months, I had half-believed that she would suddenly turn and walk toward me smiling, but she never did. Distracted and hurried, she didn't even notice me anymore. I squashed the hopes that rose every time I saw her, determined not to damage myself more than I had to.
But, wait! She paused, thinking, and my hopes jumped out from under the ropes I had struggled to tie them down with. I watched breathlessly as she stood completely still, lost in her thoughts for three long minutes. A smile exploded onto her face, and I felt joy fill me because I was able to witness that beautiful look. She turned the full force of her lovable face on me for the first time in four months. I could not believe my eyes as she walked toward me, a dream coming true.
She walked straight up to me, practically glowing with excitement and sat down beside me. She had returned to me now, and that was all that mattered.Turning her gaze to me, she said, "It was not the cheese that killed Mrs. Thornpipe."
~~~
Chloe had been walking through the kitchen of her apartment when it had suddenly come to her. After four months of writer's block, the words to a perfect first sentence had simply fallen into place in her mind, bringing an entire story of deception, despair, and devotion with them. She could once again feel the thrill of word craft.
Although she had been headed to dinner at her favorite cafe, Chloe knew that eating was impossible now. She turned away from the door and saw, as if for the first time, her beloved writing table positioned right below the window. Her eyes traced over it. Pens and pencils rested in a cup with a gathering of erasers nearby. Three books, a dictionary, a thesaurus, and a Bible, lay stacked in a corner, and her ever-ready notebook lay open in the middle of the surface. How she'd missed them all!
Quickly, Chloe crossed the tiny room and eagerly sat down. One hand caressed the pure white paper as the other reached for a black pen. No need for pencil for this sentence; she knew it was perfect.
Just before setting pen to paper, Chloe spoke the words out loud, simply to savor their taste and ring. "'It was not the cheese that killed Mrs. Thornpipe." She hoped a story like this would help her writing notebook forgive her for her neglect. But she had returned to him now, and that was all that mattered.
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