Observation #10, 10/30: All Hallows Up North

It’s a gusting, blustering day in the Pacific Northwest with plenty of threat of rain: here we worry about hooligans and druggies, kidnappers and thieves, punk rock kids in punk rock bands smashing pumpkins in homage. But somewhere up North, with a far-off cousin on a far-off frontier, the only worry is the wandering suburban moose, who stops for a squash-like snack at every door.

Trick or Treat.

Observation #9, 10/25: Refract

(Theme: Fairy Tales)

Once upon a time there was a girl who lived and breathed for fantasy. Everything un-real was a delight and everything impossible brought with it a sense of joy inherent in that the thing or person or place was just that: impossible. She whiled away hours and days reading, inventing, dreaming, sculpting herself until she could look into the mirror and see something impossible. And that brought joy to her. She so loved being impossible that she buried all of the possible parts of her far, far within herself, so far that they were lost.

But one day this girl began to change. Her hips swelled and stretch marks splintered her sides like trails left by snails in the dust.

She ran to her mother, “Mommy, mommy, I’m puffing up like a balloon! What is happening to me?”

But her mother did not look up from her book, and said only “It’s nothing, dear.”

And the girl went back to her impossibilities.

But then small hairs began to appear under her arms, on her legs, and in the most embarrassing of places.

She ran to her mother, “Mommy, mommy, I’m sprouting fur! What is happening to me?”

But her mother did not look up from her cooking, and said only “It’s nothing, dear.”

And the girl went back to her un-reality.

But then her chest began to inflate and jiggle when she moved.

She ran to her mother, more hysterical than ever, “Mommy, mommy my skin is sagging and falling off! What is happening to me?”

Her mother looked up from her painting and looked through her calmly. “My dear,” she took her by the shoulders, “You are growing up. Soon you will need new clothes and a new room and new kinds of books to read. You will want different things and spend time with different kinds of people. You will change and grow and learn so much.” Her mother embraced her.

“But mommy,” said the girl, “I have already changed myself in the mirror.”

“No, sweetheart,” said the mother. “You have to leave that behind.”

And the little girl ran back to her mirror and all she could see were those possible parts she had buried rising up again. She tried and tried to shape herself back the way she used to be. She tried once, and the stretch marks burned brighter. She tried again and the hairs grew darker. She tried a third time and her chest grew heavier than ever! She tried a final time and she burst wide open, and was standing there the way she was supposed to be: impossible. And that brought her joy.

Observation #8, 10/23

(Theme: Vacancy)

Today the dust
motes
rattle between
my ears as
they drift lazily
in
nothing
in
white
noise

-

There are times when I should be doing so many things, but all I have the strength to think is
I want to sleep for a year.

-

There used to be Old Gods. We used to revere the motions of the Sun and Moon and the Shadows they cast. We used to fear the forces of nature. We used to bribe the fair folk nightly. We used to build great pyres and mounds for mighty kings. The wonder is gone out of the world.

Observation #7, 10/18: Illuminate

(Theme: Vacancy)

The light went out of her eyes a long time ago. There wasn’t much we could do – that we could ever do – except hope that the ‘no’ would someday go out of her ‘vacancy’ sign. After a year passed we wondered every night if she would have wanted this, vegetating, little more than the reason for several machines to exist. After two years dad started drinking. He would go into rages, maybe because this was his fault in the first place and he knew it. He would scream about pulling the plug. It was around then that mom left us. I went to live with a friend. He never did pull the plug after I told him he didn’t know anything about what she wanted (she never was one to talk about sad things, even if I knew now it was all a façade) and that furthermore, if anyone was going to do it, it would be me. He stopped coming to the hospital after that. On the night of the third year I brought her her usual bouquet, lavender and jasmine from the park, and held her hand, and she sat up and looked at me. She said my name, and

“How long was I asleep?”

Observation #6, 10/16: Flight 7336, Auckland to London

(Theme: Patience)

There’s a young man waiting at the airport. I can’t help but watch him, he’s so beautiful. He has pleasant light brown skin and his hair pulled back away from his face in well-kept dredlocks. Some of them are yellow, some are clementine orange, some are burnt red. Not a single root shows. Not many people show that kind of dedication with their hair. His hands are pressed palm to palm, flat, and trapped between his knees like Harding in Cuckoo’s Nest. He keeps glancing at the clock with the brightest hazel eyes I’ve ever seen.

The clock strikes the hour and his back straightens. Whatever he’s waiting for – departure, arrival – must be on its way. Five minutes pass. He fidgets with his hands and fixes the sleeves of his well-worn military jacket.

Ten minutes pass and he resists bouncing his leg. I can tell because one ankle and boot-toe twitch erratically without ever moving fully.

Fifteen minutes pass. By then he’s chewing on the backs of his snakebite piercings. It pulls them into his lip, creating small dimples in his skin.

Twenty minutes pass and he stands, running his hands down his thighs as though to smooth his jeans. A lady in uniform appears behind the stewardess' podium and he moves toward her. He asks in a quiet south-end accent:

“Excuse me, ma’am, is this the gate for flight 7336?”

“Yes,” she says gently. It seems as though she’s spoken to him before. “I’m sorry, sir, it’s been delayed again.”

His mouth breaks into a fragile smile and he looks down for a moment to compose or control himself as she continues,

“The storm off the coast of New Zealand has not yet let up.” She pauses, lips pressed together as though holding something in. The sympathy in her eyes builds for a moment and comes loose, “I’m so sorry, Diggs. I thought someone would have told you. I'm sure he's fine.”

He looks back up, the fracture of that smile gone again. “Yeah. I’ll see you tomorrow, Anne.”

“See you tomorrow.”

He buries his hands in his pockets and moves away down the strip, shoulders shrugged high near his ears as he goes out into the cold of a London night.

I wonder who he’s waiting for.

An Exercise in Collage: Margaret and the Highwayman

So we worked in collage for our latest exercise. At first I was having a hard time figuring out how to go about it. Luckily, I remembered doing a found poetry prompt in high school Literary Arts with a good friend, and decided to start over, this time with scissors and glue. Points to anyone who can identify my sources. (Click to enlarge.)

Observation #5, 10/11/12: Words of Wisdom, parts I and II

(Theme: Patience)

Every time
someone tells me
"Patience is a virtue"
I have to contain
the urge to answer:
"NOT RIGHT NOW IT ISN'T!"

or,

Patience may be a virtue,
but it is not one of mine.

Observation #4, 10/9: Disappear

(Theme: Erasure)

We used to go down to the river all the time, the bend where the water goes still and quiet but the current is too fast to breed mosquitoes. To the low and crooked tree, the one that spills its branches out over the water, the motion of it shivering the leaves like mute windchimes.  The bank is populated only with smooth, round stones ground down by thousands of years of lazy water. Nestled against those cool stones, in the shadow of the crooked tree, used to be our Kingdom.

You departed for other shores, and I grew a full foot and a half, and you only came back when your hair was long and wild again, like before your mother lopped it off with kitchen shears.

You came back and I went to the river, knowing I would find you there. I waited for hours. Only when the light turned October orange against the river and set the crooked tree on fire did you appear.

“Still down by the water?”

“I’ve been waiting.”

“After all this time?”

“I knew you would come.”

It was easy, talking to you again. You were smiling the way I remembered, but something was strange in it. You had the same freckles, the same glass-colored eyes, the same unkempt mane. You were barefoot, and you set your toes just at the edge of the water. Your difference eluded me.

“It’s different,” you tell me, watching the water move by your feet. “The city.”

“But you like it, don’t you?”

“Yes.” You pluck a yellowing leaf from our tree and turn it back and forth over your long fingers.

“You like going to School.”

“Yes,” you smile then. “But School isn’t the City. The City never sleeps. The noise and grit of it works under your skin and lodges there.”

You have destroyed the yellow leaf by accident and it slips through your hands, landing on the surface of the river and vanishing downstream. And that is the difference. I say your name.

“You’re disappearing.”

“Yes,” you hold up a hand, an arm, in front of your face and I can see the bend in the river through its transparency. “Yes,” you turn it slowly, a piece of glass distorting the world. But then you raise your arms over your head and the October sun hits you and you are –

“But I am full of light.”

Observation #3, 10/4:

Catcher

(Theme: Erasure)

Sometimes I think that I can erase myself. That by burying me the space that is me will cease to be but no one will notice that they are only seeing an echo, remembering the places where I once was and the things that I once did.

Sometimes I bury myself in sound. I plug my headphones into my skull so hard that my ears pop and develop impact wax to deaden the blows of electric instruments and sweet noxious noise, or I turn up my car stereo so loud the speakers rattle their casings and by the time the engine turns over all I feel is the ringing in my head where the sound just was.

Sometimes I bury myself in clothes. I make layers of armor or exoskeleton – I am a moth, but I look like an owl! – and I change that exoskeleton daily, male to female, fem to butch, androgynous, delicate flower to badass motherfucker, my favorite shirt says ‘Fictional Character’ across the back for a reason.

Sometimes I bury myself in stories. They are all of them places and times which have never existed and will never exist and they are more wonderful and narcotic for their impossibility because of it I am more invested in their lives than I will ever be in mine.

Sometimes, when I go to cross the street, I get to thinking I will disappear.

Observation #2, 10/3: Latitude

(Theme: Travel)

I would like to own a pair of shoes which have walked the world. They would have helped build homes in the wake of a hurricane. Gone ziplining over jungle canopies. Climbed the length and breadth of Hadrian's wall. Waited in line at the Egyptian Museum of Antiquities. Trod carefully  through the Empire of the Dead. Hurried over the Bridge of Sighs. Paused at the base of a Baobab tree. Worked orchards for only meal and bed in Thailand. Felt the thrum of the Taiga. Faltered on the Road of Bones. Nearly vanished for thirty days of night. Frozen against Antarctic winds. And, finally, broke on the front porch as I knocked three times for home.

Survey: Music, in Your Experience...

http://www.zastavki.com/pictures/1280x800/2010/Creative_Wallpaper_Music_024117_.jpg

This is a survey for a group project presentation in English 347: Young Adult Literature. My group and I are presenting on Music and the effects/impact is has on people from their middle school years to college (and beyond, if you like). Names, if provided, will be kept private, but please keep in mind this is for a presentation. Please explain your answers/give examples as much as you feel necessary. Thank you for participating! If you would like to respond without leaving it in a comment, please email me at whitmam2@students.wwu.edu with "Survey" in the subject.

1. In general, what kind of effect does music have on you?
2. In middle or high school, what were some of the genres, bands, or artists you listened to? 
3. Did you ever feel any pressure about the kind of music you liked in middle and high school? Does that pressure still exist now?
4. Was music ever a key factor in how you spent your free time?
5. Did music ever dictate the people you surrounded yourself with? If yes, what kind of atmosphere did this generate?
6. Did your musical tastes align with that of your parent, guardian, or someone outside of your age group? If so, did you view this positively or negatively?
7. Did you ever view music or music culture as a form of rebellion or identity?
8. Do you have any other stories or memories involving music which you think are pertinent?  

We acknowledge that there are many generalizations and stereotypes surrounding music and the effect it has on people. If you believe that this survey perpetuates these stereotypes, we would greatly appreciate being refuted! Please share thoughts, anecdotes, banter, and witticisms.