i've already been here (30-day writing challenge: day four)

(yes, I skipped day three. I can't find the inspiration for that topic right now, sorry.)

How do you look for something to help you see when you can't see?

People always ask me, "What does it look like?" How do you explain? What can I say that will make you understand something that is so inherently personal?

I see shapes. I see blocks and blobs of color. If you've ever watched an Animal Planet show that depicts how a cat or a dog is supposed to see the world, it's kind of like that. But less focused. There are no solid outlines, there is no definition. If things are small enough and far enough away, sometimes they just cease to exist. Especially words. Words are usually tiny, and always very dependant on definition. So if I can't see the definition, they just aren't there.

The blurriness causes my brain has this strange disconnect. If I can't see, I must look blurry to other people. But putting my glasses on doesn't affect how defined I am.

I went to the eye doctor with my mom in 7th grade, after I was having problems reading the chalk writing on the blackboard from the back of the classroom. I had my appointment, picked out frames and we waited while they fit the lenses.

I didn't really understand what had happened until we walked outside and looked around. I said, "woah" and my mom laughed.

"The trees have leaves on them!"

Maybe that's how I should describe it. Without my glasses, the tops of trees are green blobs. Like a little kid, drawing a tree. A brown trunk with a green cloud, floating on top.

With them, there are leaves.

(day four prompt: a pair of eyeglasses)

i am holding half an acre

Earlier I was thinking about crying (see the first post for today for reference,) and then I was reading someone else's blog about being inappropriately overemotional during media events (I'm probably the only person EVER who may or may not have cried during Ice Princess when her Mom actually did show up to see her skate. Actually, I may be the only person who has actually seen Ice Princess.) But that got me started thinking about crying while reading.

I haven't cried over a book in a long time. I think it's because with all the different kinds of medias, and with the way that I learn best -- which neither visually nor auditorily, has put me in a position to enjoy books superficially. I love reading. I love getting lost in the story, I love the characters (especially thinking about the characters as if I was one of them) and I especially love re-reading my favorites until I could basically recite them back to you word for word.

But I remember reading 'Where the Red Fern Grows' when I was younger (spoilers soon, so if you plan on reading this and don't know the story, you might want to stop reading.) Sometime between 1st and 5th grade, because we were still living in Gunter. Probably 4th grade, if I had to guess? Anyway, I was nearing the end of the book, so I was sitting in the living room in our high-backed courduroy chair while my mom cooked dinner. I have a very specific memory (which are hard for me to hold onto a lot of the time) of getting to the part where one of the dogs -- the one that has been mauled by a mountain lion, I believe -- dies. I was not a crier as a kid, but I remember putting down the book and just bawling. I cried my way into the kitchen where my Mom was and I explained what was going on, to which she replied, "But why are you crying?"

It was the first time I can remember connecting with a story line so fully and emotionally. Ultimately, my response was that the author made it feel like they were my dogs. I was living through the pain.

Isn't that what every author wants? It's certainly what I want when I write. It's what writing (and really media) is about -- connections. To your life and circumstances, to someone you know. To make you think outside the box, to someone else's circumstances. Sure, there are artists and authors who say they don't do it for other people, and some of them probably don't. But here in the blog world, I think what we really crave, is connection.

We were watching the first couple episodes of Season 6 of House last night, and his psychiatrist said, "Isolation breeds depression." It isn't a revelation, or any new piece of information, but it made me feel more ok about being sad while isolated.

You can't force relationships, all you can do is reach out.

p.s. I'm working my way through the entire Animorphs series, which I read most of when I was in middle school. They are the most ridiculous things in the whole world, but I'm so entertained. I just want to keep gobbling them up!

all the little ants go marching (30-day writing challenge: day two)

Together, but not together, and she is fresh out of ideas.

“So we’re dating, but…we’re not saying that we’re dating?” She asks, brows furrowing as she tries to understand. “I don’t get it. What’s the point?”

He has been gazing – no, not gazing, staring – at her for the past few minutes, silently, though the look in his eyes screams of distance. Her eyes find familiarity in his face as he searches for an answer. There’s a loose curl hanging in front of the barely noticeable scar on his forehead. Unthinkingly, she reaches out to tuck it back. He doesn’t move away, but he doesn’t react, either.

“I love you.”

As if that’s his answer.

She frowns. Not out of sadness or disgust, but confusion. Well, mostly confusion.

“But you love her, too.”

It’s not a question, but a statement, and his eyes shift away for the first time since he finished the phone call. He shrugs, looking somehow defeated and combative at the same time. “I love a lot of people.”

“Well, so do I,” She replies, trying desperately not to hiss the words through her teeth. “but I don’t tell them. I don’t talk to them that way. Not like that.”  

The last three thoughts come out more quickly, more jumbled, than she had meant. With more intensity than she had anticipated. She sighs, trying to gather her thoughts and her breath. She realizes that her fists are clenched at her sides, so she slowly unclenches them, trying to make the motions seem involuntary. Not that he believes that they are, but she might trick herself into believing they are.

“It’s complicated. You know that, I told you that.”

He’s trying to explain, in his own way. He doesn’t want to hurt her, but now he’s too scared of his own emotions to look her in the eye. He’s afraid she’ll see what he’s thinking. Not that he doesn’t care, but that he cares too much. He can’t give himself away like she can – like she has. He admires her for that, but he’s starting to think that it won’t be enough. It won’t ever be enough.

There’s a long silence before either of them speak. Before either of them move again.

“Ok.” She says, finally breaking the silence. “Ok.”

His head jerks up sharply, and he looks at her, searching for any hint of reserve. “Ok?”

She nods – maybe a little too enthusiastically -- forcing her mouth into an awkward smile, trying to shake off the tension still gripping her shoulders. And she thinks to herself, If you can be that way, so can I.

(day two prompt: a couple)

you're what we were (30-day writing challenge)

Staring up at the ceiling, her mind makes up scenarios.

The camera angle widens; the shot becomes clearer, zooming out to reveal the sides of a vintage, claw-foot tub. The shower curtain wraps around the outside, dark and red, filtering crimson light over her catatonic stare. Cut to a shot looking up, watching the water fall from the showerhead. It pans down, past her feet, resting above the spigot. Past her knees, bruised and discolored...

She blinks a few times, wiping her eyes with her fingertips to clear the water from her lashes as she sits up. Wrapping her arms around her knees, she sits with her back to the water, letting the beads of scaldingly hot water pummel her skin. The heat dries her out, makes her itchy later, but the all-inclusive warmth is worth it, in the moment.

Her eyes close and she leans against the side of the tub, letting her head fall forward. The water rushes down over the top of her head, forcing her hair to clump and fall, hanging like curtains on either side of her face. The water makes it dark and heavy. She disappears into the sound of the falling water. It's soothing, like rain, but also loud and tumultuous. Like a storm or a waterfall. It's white noise, and it drowns out everything else so that for a while, she can just...be. Existence is enough.

She doesn't have to please anyone. She doesn't have to listen to anyone; she doesn't even have to deal with her own thoughts. It's enough, just like this. It's enough, just to forget.

{via}

(day one prompt: something you love)

30-Day Writing Challenge

This is something I've been thinking about for a while -- a way to spark creativity. I used to write constantly. I would fill yellow legal notepads full of science fiction and fantasy, colored with a bits of things I knew and things I wished I knew. And when all else failed, I would write - backwards - the name of everyone I knew. Classmates, teachers, friends, celebrities, family. It's ridiculous, but it filled the time.

So here's a challenge: thirty days of stories. Borrowed from here, for all to see. Let's do it.

1. Something you love.
2. A couple.
3. Write about something ugly — war, fear, hate, cruelty — but find the beauty (silver lining) in it.
4. A pair of eyeglasses.
5. Something historical.
6. Family.
7. A pet who is loved.
8. Something personal.
9. A love poem!
10. Something you hate.
11. An adventure!
12. A favorite memory…
13. “Remember that time when…”
14. Friends.
15. A happy ending.
16. A goodbye.
17. Write about your early memories of faith, religion, or spirituality; yours or someone else’s.
18. Describe a “first” (first apartment, first kiss, first time driving a car, first lie, first big success, first roller coaster ride, first time in this setting).
19. Write about one (or both) of your parents. Start with “I was born…”
20. A short fanfic.
21. Something erotic.
22. Something irritating.
23. An argument.
24. An important conversation, in the style of a movie script.
25. Describe a significant place, allowing the details to reveal why the place matters. Describe it from a tree or rooftop or from a hawk’s point of view. Describe it from the height of a dog or a turtle.
26. Yourself.
27. Write about your first name—why you were given it, what associations or stories are attached to it, what you think or know it means. Do the same for your last name. Given the chance, what name would you give yourself?
28. A suicide note.
29. An idea.
30. Choose a photograph from a published collection of black-and-whites, of humans in uncertain conditions. Write the story of one of the individuals or one of the groupings.

i have something to share with you

Below this paragraph there is some text. About a thousand words, to be exact. It's something I've worked on, little by little, since sometime in December. I guess technically right now it's a short story, but I wouldn't mind getting some feedback on it. This would be the prologue, if I were to continue with it. It has some inspiration in other stories I've read, maybe movies I've seen, of various genres. If y'all wouldn't mind reading it, and maybe commenting or e-mailing watcha think. Would you want to read more?
(as a sidenote: it has basically no editing. This is just me, my ideas and spell-check, hanging out.)

People are like doorways.

Not in the cliché, windows are the eyes to the soul, sometimes I feel like people look right through me, I see dead people kind of way. For me, some people are doorways. I can see into them. Into their past, into their memories. I can’t read their minds or anything, but in a split second, I know everything they know about themselves...and probably some things they’ve forgotten. Or chosen to forget.

I met Elise the day after I turned twelve, when her family moved into the house across the street from me. She was a year older than I was, but we became inseparable almost immediately. From the moment I met her, I knew I understood her differently than everyone else. I could see into her past, her memories. I understood why she was who she was, without having to ask or learn. I understood the reason to her thinking, the logic behind her problem solving.

What was strange about our whole friendship wasn’t so much that I understood her so well. As kids, you don’t question why your friends are your friends, you simply enjoy playing together. But Elise and I looked and acted so much alike, people assumed we were sisters. We both              had pale skin and the same strangely colored blue-green eyes with golden rings circling the pupil. We both cut our pale, thin blonde hair in a blunt, to-the-shoulders style (though if this was true when we first met, or evolved over time as a ploy to make it harder for people to tell us apart, it’s hard to remember, now.) We were asked on a regular basis if we were twins, where our mother was, if we bought matching clothes. Any time we were asked these questions, we would look at each other and giggle uncontrollably. It was fun having a twin. Fun being able to fool people, to be interchangeable. Every once and a while, we were even able to fool our parents, if we were far enough away or our backs were turned.

The summer after my  first year of high school, Elise met a boy. I knew it would happen sooner or later, and had tried to prepare myself for it, but the reality of our newly separated lives came crashing down on me one Wednesday night, during a particularly bad thunderstorm. Elise and I had a system – when it was storming, she would come over and we would hide out in the basement, eating popcorn, watching  ‘The American President,’ painting our toenails and generally being girly. If the lights went out, we would build a tent of blankets, cushions and chairs to hide out in. Lit only by an old camping lantern, we would tell ghost stories, or tell each other our innermost secrets and desires. Of course, I already knew everything Elise had to tell me, just by looking at her, but that didn’t change the solemnity with which we exchanged these little tidbits of information. And of course, she didn’t know anything of what I was going to tell her, so the mood of the exchange always hinged on her reactions to my secrets. She always had the appropriate reaction, gasping or laughing at the right times in the anecdotes, as though the secrets were a well-rehearsed play, and there was a full house for the performance. I could only hope my reactions were as appropriate as the ones she offered.

                This Wednesday, however, the storm had been in full swing for two hours before I worked up the nerve to run over to her house to see what was wrong. She answered the door, looking breathless and slightly flustered.

                “Kerrigan?”

                “I…uhm…I thought you would come over?” I asked, feeling suddenly out of place and very embarrassed at running through the rain to stand on her doorstep. Elise’s eyes flashed in realization, and she took a deep breath, managing to look both angry and apologetic in the same instance.

                “Craig’s here. I’m sorry, I forgot to tell you, but…we’re just kind of hanging out. I guess I forgot about the storm thing.”

                There it was. The storm thing. All of a sudden, it sounded so trivial, unworthy of her time. I could feel my cheeks flushing, and I shrugged, turning to the side to try and hide some of the hurt that I knew she would be able to see in my eyes.  I’m sure she could see it anyway. She always did have a knack for empathy.          

                “Oh. That’s ok, I just wanted to make sure you were ok. So I’ll just head back.” I don’t think I managed to sound as nonchalant as I’d hoped.

                “No, you should stay.” Elise said, frowning slightly, and opening the door wider. The sentiment was genuine, but I could see the wheels turning in her head as to how to rectify the situation, without doing any lasting damage. “We were just going to watch a movie or something. I’m sure Craig wouldn’t care.”

                Despite the look on her face, my anger got the best of me, and I heard myself say ‘Yeah, ok, definitely,’ and stepping across the threshold, into the foyer. Elise looked surprised, though the look faded quickly, and led the way downstairs to the den. Craig was sitting on the couch, and looked at me wordlessly as we entered.

                “Ker’s going to watch with us.” Elise told him, her tone flat and emotionless. Craig immediately looked as uncomfortable as I felt. He looked up at me, and as our eyes locked, I knew everything. It rushed over me, a wave of emotions and words, all tangled together, seamless and more intense than anything I had ever felt from Elise. It stopped me in my tracks, and I felt myself sliding backwards into a chair Elise managed to scoot under me before I completely collapsed.

                I still don’t remember much of the rest of that night. Or the next few weeks. I have vague, fleeting memories of violent emotions – anger, lust, love, rage. Of Craig sitting with me, trying to explain to Elise. Trying to find the right words, and failing. It hurt to see the tears sitting in the corners of her pale eyes.

In the end, we stopped being friends that night. She transferred to a private school, on the other side of town. I watched her move away to college from my bedroom window. After that, she was gone. Almost as if she had ceased to exist. Like a candle, that’s reached the end of its wick.

(all of this is copyright to ME and if you steal it, i'll find you and make you sad. or something like that. just don't steal it.)

click through for picture credit

Thanks!

-C