1.30

I found a blog today.

It is written by a woman who is quite attractive (I have always thought so [it's her hands, they're delicate and almost see-through like a watercolor or fine porcelain]) and who is surprisingly (I don't know why I assumed otherwise) verbally capable. She said "(She got accepted to a grad school, so . . .) I told my mum that now I can go drink and debauch without fear, and she gave me the gimlet eye. I have to practice that--it's very quellingly effective."

Gimlet?

I read seven or eight of her blogposts. I tried to pick the ones that were interesting. Most of them were very.

She's too old and she's about to graduate. (May)

I sat there, looking at her flash fiction for creative writing (about her sexual fear of a man late at night) and wishing that I could invite her to read my blog or meet me in person or judge me and find me lacking so that I could have an actual, solid reason why I wasn't marrying her on the spot. I paused right before I made that decision and chose no.

Why do I always choose no?

1.29

(Chris pointed out that lots of what we [my friends and I] do is just vague sentences, no dialog. So I'm going to fix that.)

"Look, if you want to come by, that's fine. I'll be studying, but we can hang out."

"I'm sorry. You're not my priority."

"The time I give you is so hard to carve out! And then when you finally get it, it's like it's not enough! I don't even meet with most of my friends once a week, and you demand more than that?"

"Ugh, just . . . trust me. I'm doing the best I can."

Hebrews 3:

7 Therefore, as the Holy Spirit says, “Oh, that today you would listen as he speaks!

13 But exhort one another each day, as long as it is called “Today,” that none of you may become hardened by sin’s deception.

1.28b

"The only REAL big problem I have with being forced into making the first move is that it lulls my girlfriends into a sense of complacency. If it doesn't work, it's not their fault. If we aren't having any fun, it's not because of them. If we aren't dynamite, they point fingers."

The man in the other booth waved his hands a little too frenetically as his friend tried to move coffee out of the way.

"Just for a while, I would like to have a woman who suggests dates we can go on, who vehemently takes a stand on something she likes and tries to include me in it, who will confront me with the facts if something goes wrong. Someone who lives. Someone who is vibrant and alive.

Just for a while, I would like a partner, and not a sponge. Then I can die happy and alone."

Rachel peeked over the top of her newspaper and stared quietly at the end of a dying conversation. She tried to speak up but her words died before they formed.

"I'm not a sponge."

He left ten minutes later and she added it to the list of things she regretted.

1.28

He grips his shoes and shuffles himself forward to the edge of the seat. He sets his shoes on the ground and sits up slowly. His toes grope for the shoes and finally reach their destination. He doesn't look down. He can't look at his feet while he puts shoes on. He just can't.

Once, he signed up for a soccer team and took thirty minutes to put on his shoes for the first game. He was too nervous and the shoes were too tight.

He never played again.

For his wedding, he put the wrong shoe on twice in a row, and dissolved in fits of nervous laughter. He took his shoes off and got married in socks.

He had been to job interviews wearing mismatched shoes.

He once put the tongue of the shoe underneath his foot and couldn't figure it out for ten minutes.

Once he got married, however, all his problems stopped. His wife bought him twenty identical slippers. No left, no right, no tongue, no laces, no problems.

11.25

Insight for those who don't have it:

(This isn't technically creative, but writeresses read my blog and I have no other way to communicate this very important facet of maleness [SIDE NOTE: NOT ALL DUDES, JUST THE ONES WHO DON'T NEED YOUR PANTS OFF])

She wasn't ever much. Her hair isn't the right color (too light) and her skin isn't the right shade with her hair (too similar). Her face isn't the right shape (too square) and her breasts aren't the right size (too small) because she's not the right height for them (too tall). Her hands and her smile and her ears are just off. Her laugh and her stare and her gait are not right. She's not what I wanted.

But we got talking, and we had a coffee, and three dates later, we realized we clicked on the emotional/personal checklist that every person prepares.

We dated for a year and a half and I loved her hair and her skin and her face and her breasts and her height and her hands and smile and ears and laughandstareandgait. She was just what I wanted.

Now she's gone, I feel like I've been thrown back into a pool after swimming in a fishbowl. Every girl with a square face, or skin too similar to her hair tone, or eyes that are just like hers makes me quiver. I shudder and strain. I act nonchalant but I stare. I'm slowly rehabilitating myself back out of her. I'm slowly letting other women into my dreams.

What was once my blessing is now my prison: I can only see her.

11.24

Her sides heaved deeply and were layered with sweat and hair. Her hooves beat a steady rhythm despite the rugged terrain. Her nostrils flared, ears swung, eyes rolled, looking for danger.

He dozed, rocking back and forth on her back.

1.22b

WRITING PROMPT: If you had 60 seconds to convince a stranger to not commit suicide, what would you say?

(Is lying okay?)

I know we don't know each other, but I know where you are. I have stood on that edge and asked myself what you're asking right now. I stepped down. I don't have all the answers, but I do know this: if you jump now, you're giving them the last bit of you. They can take only so much: they can't take your power of choice. You're human. You're alive. As long as you have that, things can only go up.

I'm not better, I'm not perfect, things are still crap. But I'm alive and I'm finally finding the things I'm happy about.

(I think lying is okay. I'm not sure I could effectively convince someone on a ledge in that amount of time without a half lie. Hm. God will provide, I guess.)

1.22

My chest feels like there are weights hanging off of my insides. The chains are invisible and are made of disappointment, so they're impossible to break. I tried to pull them off with cheap happiness from the dollar store but the happiness broke. I was so tired I slept for six hours in the afternoon and now I'm tired again.

Being sick sucks.

1.20

Joe shakes his head at me. "Don't you say that. I hate it when you say that."
"Well, don't give me an opportunity to say it, and I won't! When I ask you to do something, I expect it to happen sometime."
"Look, I'm doing my best."
I pause here. I'm debating whether I should say "Do better," or "Your best isn't good enough." I decide on silence and a stern shake of my head.
"Doris, I hate when you do this to me. It hurts when you don't accept me."
Here's my queue. I have nothing good to say to this, so my recourse is to turn around and walk away. I can hear him cussing in the living room. Let him stew. Let him consider his stupid mistake. Let him fix his idiocy.

I can hear Joe angrily slamming the door and driving away. Coward.

1.19b

Literary History

Robby Van Arsdale

19 January 2011

When I was four, my mother looked at me and said to herself “If this kid doesn't stop bouncing, I will probably never finish the laundry.” So she did the best thing anyone has ever done for me: she taught me how to read. I'm sure her main aim was to find a way to make me sit down for a solid five-minute span. First, she taught me my alphabet, which led to a spelling of my name. This knowledge I used to carve my name into the wood paneling on the side of the counter. Finally, I started reading short “how to read” books. I remember only one specifically. It involved a complex plot by a cat to steal the king's girl, or some such irrationality. I enjoyed my books immensely. Mom could bring them in the car and I would shut up and let Dad drive.

When I finally got to the stage in school in which my peers were learning to read, I was already proficient. I remember only one book from this time period. While my classmates were sounding out “dog” and “cat” and “butter,” I read a book about a man in Mexico who found an ash-cone volcano had grown in his field overnight. That book has stuck with me. I have always wanted an ash-cone volcano in my backyard.

The next books I read were the Mossflower series by Brian Jaques. I enjoyed the harrowing tales of adventure and triumph. As his characters were animals, I learned to mistrust foxes, weasels, and rats, and appreciate mice, moles, and otters. I now think the otters are the best “fish” in the Chattanooga aquarium. After Mossflower, I continued through many adventure books. The Hobbit by J.R.R. Tolkien is the only other book that stands out from this period. My sister protested that I was too young to read it, but I knew otherwise. I loved it.

At about this stage in my life, my mother's careful plan started to backfire As I was capable of chores, I always had a ready supply of things to do around the house. However, my books got in the way. Mom had a running joke that my name was “Robrob” because I never, ever responded the first time. I was extremely difficult to rouse, as I had a unique ability to focus on one thing, and only one thing, completely. It was possible that I could have read through a burglary, or a tornado, or some other occurrence.

In high school, I read many books that I still love, such as Ender's Game, Wicked, Dune, The Lord of the Rings, and Mere Christianity. However, my math teacher introduced me to the last epic which I will discuss. Robert Jordan has achieved a status in modern literature which is to be feared. His book, the Wheel of Time, turned into The Eye of the World, which turned into a trilogy, which turned into twelve books, which somehow attracted a prequel. As he was working on the twelfth book, he passed away. His legacy was handed to a man named Brandon Sanderson. The twelfth book which he wrote became so massive in the effort to wrap up the series that it became three. After fourteen books and a prequel, not a one under 600 pages, I can say that Robert Jordan has written more words that I have read than any other author on earth besides perhaps God.

In college, I have discovered that perhaps my causal reading has left some holes in my classical education. I have begun to fill those holes by reading Shakespeare, Wilde, Hawthorne, Twain, and others. Recently, I discovered Faulkner as my favorite author. If I could choose an author to emulate, it would be a hard choice, but Faulkner would prevail.

All of my reading has caused me to become an appreciable writer. I am able to draw on my memory of stories and use the words and phrases I know. More than that, however, it has given me a solid knowledge of what good writing is, and how to explain it. I have digested such a massive amount of verbiage, I am able to distinguish between good and bad writing. This will is immensely helpful in my profession as an explainer of good and bad writing.

Finally, reading has always been a passion of mine. There is no feeling like finding a book I want to read until the earth stops spinning. This is excellent, because it is hard for a claustrophobic person to lead a caving expedition, just like it is hard for a book hater to teach books.

1.19

She was trapped by encircling arms, vines, and torchlight.

The crowds of her neighbors were utterly silent. Miko's slow drumbeat in the back of the mob gave slow, steady rhythm to the proceedings. Old Stregh in front of her took wizened hands and rubbed paint on the girl's lithe limbs. The ceremonial red paint dripped from her fingertips and spattered on the ground. Then Stregh covered her breasts with blue, and her face with orange. Eventually, the girl looked like a feather. Stregh paused and looked the girl directly in her eyes. The old woman and the young girl connected, as humans, for the last time. Stregh's face drained of all emotion, and she threw her hand in the air. Miko's drumbeat stilled, and all of the girl's neighbors slowly stomped as one, continuing the beat in Miko's absence.

The girl glanced around. No one met her eyes. No one even looked at her. She was no longer human. She was transcendent, different, separate. It was lonely.

The crowd moved forward to the edge of the schism in the rock. Three lonely birds took off and flew overhead, circling slowly. The girl took a step forward.

She was trapped by duty, fraternity, and love.

The mob fell utterly silent. The only sounds were the whistle of the wind and the distant breaking call of seabirds. She took a deep breath, and afraid to look back, pause, or think, she tossed herself off the edge. The villagers as one called the name of the mountain god and threw their hands in the air. She had seen the whole ceremony seventeen times before. Her father would go back to their home and put red paint on their doorway to represent that their house had been honored in the ceremony. Her brother would go fishing the next day to provide for the village. Her lover Thon would soon go before the old men to prove his worth and become a man. And she wouldn't get to see any of it. She was honored.

As she fell, she thought of her village, and her island, and of her mountain god, and by the time she hit the bottom, she was no longer trapped.

She had been given the power of choice, and she chose her destiny. It is not so strange that she should consider herself free.

1.18b

[calm down, Janelle. Sherlock will return.]

I love sneezing. Knowing that I can produce hurricane-force winds, even for so brief a time, is gratifying. I like the feel of my whole body's tenseness, on the edge of a sneeze, which explodes out into wet, sticky conclusion all over my elbow.

1.18

He was always hanging out in the doorways to bigger rooms. If he stood just right, people wouldn't feel uncomfortable squeezing past him, and he could look like he knew why he was there.

He never made eye contact; not since Maria died. That dog had meant the world to him and now he wasn't sure he could see people's eyes and not see the man who killed Maria. So he stood in doorways and didn't look in people's eyes.

He never looked, but he could always pick out an attractive woman as she walked by. They have just the right mix of speed and calm in their gait. And they always slid by as far away as they could in the doorway. When a whole string went through, they would go single-file. And the smell--a perfect mixture of scent and freshness. Attractive women all smelled the same, no matter what the name of their perfume said. They weren't worth looking at; they reminded him of Maria.

He never looked, but he could tell which men were at the top of their social groups. They led, not just metaphorically, but physically. A group always crystallizes when trapped in an awkward doorway with a man standing in it. The whole mass slows, but one man does not pause his gait. As they see his confidence, they all speed up. Those are usually the doctors, the wrestlers, the hunters, the engineers. They outshine their trucking-burger flipping-construction working friends. They all weren't worth looking at; they reminded him of Maria.

He never looked, but he could always tell. Finally, he stood in enough doorways to identify the whole of the human race by not looking at them. So he stopped. He started walking through doorways, becoming one of the mass. Then one day, it happened.

A woman was standing in a doorway which he was about to pass through. He walked past her like a businessman. She didn't look at him. So he walked past her like a seamstress. She didn't look at him. So he walked past her like a landscape artist. She didn't look at him. So he walked past her like a baker. She didn't look at him. So he walked past her like himself and she looked at him.

He raised his eyes for the first time, looked a person straight in the face, and said four words. "Maria, I missed you." And he ran away.

1.14

(my "daily" stuff is just spot-on)

It burns because it quite crackle obviously doesn't fit. Tear my skin is two sizes too small and it crack hurts to wear. Word to the split wise: when you wash your skin, don't put it in the dryer.

1.12

"No, no. I'm okay."

"Really, it's fine. Remember that time in Spanish class? I was fine then, too. You just . . ."

"No, it's just that you tend to not believe me."

"Not all the time, just when I say that I'm fine."

"I'm fine."

"Really, truly."

"I have this one piece of advice: next time you're worried about taking her out on a date, forget about me. Focus on having a good time. I know we're friends, and bros before hoes and all that, but seriously. You deserve a good thing."

His roommate could only hear half of the conversation. But it sounded like breaking, rending, and shattering.

::

"I just wanted to check, to really make sure."

"I just what? Tend to overlook you? That's what I'm trying to not do."

"What? Since when?"

" . . . so are you fine?"

"Really, truly?"

"Well, okay. I just know that you guys were tight and it ended badly. I didn't want to stick my nose where it doesn't belong . . ."

"Man, if you say it's okay, then it's okay. And thanks for being so cool."

His new girlfriend could only hear half of the conversation. But it sounded like hope, light, and an escape hatch.

1.11

[I suck at this. I'm avoiding it, for some reason which probably isn't good enough.]

I fell down and scraped the end of my knee off. My jeans were fine, but I bled underneath. The skin had been torn and the flesh exposed. It took a month to heal, and during that time, I was afraid of infection.

I still have the scar.

When I wish I had never fallen, I try to remember that the scar tissue strengthens the skin. If I fall again, it won't tear. I won't bleed. The scar will protect me. I try to remember that sometimes scarring is good.

Still, I hate scars.

1.6

I get so angry when I don't move. It's like all the fire from my dissatisfaction builds up inside my bones all day. As soon as I forget to move, my blood stops flowing and cleaning the anger away. The dark, messy, gelatinous ooze seeps out of my bones and into my flesh, and crawls its way to my heart and squeezes.

I haven't moved all day. I'm angry at everything. I'm angry at school for alternately making me work and for not giving me enough to do. I'm angry at my friends for not abandoning schoolwork and finding fun things for me to do. I'm angry at my ex's sister, because her face came up on facebook once. I'm angry at the top drawer of my desk, because I don't want to deal with its contents.

Slowly, the ooze will make it to my brain, and nothing will cure me then. I have therefore made plans to play racketball with Josh this evening. I will update if it cures me. Otherwise, get ready for some slavering, misanthropist posts.

1.5

I bit off all I can chew. I tore off more and stuffed it in my pocket. I left the rest for someone else. I ate and ate and swallowed my grief. Gone.

Now I walk back, and the remnant is waiting, but I am full. I want no more of the sadness and unhappiness. I no longer want to spice my life with anger, fear, or loneliness.

And yet, I pick up my sorrow and chew again, hoping to reach the end.

1.4

I am turning slowly. I promise I am. Really. I just have to . . . move . . . just my shoulder. A slight turn to one side or the other, to give my head an added inch or two so I can see behind myself.

Well, I give up. They say "hindsight is 20/20," but the past is very hard to see.

1.2

[I don't know what's so hard about three sentences.]

Rory cried.

(because)

Daniella left.

(when)

Trent asked.