Ineloquent.

This one's for Sartre and Kundera.

2011-11-14T20:37:00.000-05:00

Snapshot of a recent morning. (The words, not the image.)

"The morning light smelled like stale coffee and last night's cigarettes. It was bright and cold the way it is on those beautiful, gray autumn days, the kind where mid-morning lasts until dark, which always comes too soon. Nothing had changed and yet, somehow, she knew everything was different."

I've always found mornings - or perhaps more accurately, wakings - ethereally beautiful. The world is incandescent and for one perfect moment you're neither here nor there. Then wakefulness overtakes you and the feeling of expansiveness, of nothingness and everythingness all at once, comes crashing down on the shore of reality, pulling wistfully back out into the sea of possibility until that next instant of time and light and being.

2011-10-09T17:24:00.000-04:00

I must be the world's worst blogger. I worry when I can't write and lately I haven't been able to. But I did this (hint: look at my wrist) and it makes me happy -

End times.

2011-05-20T19:09:00.004-04:00

I wonder how many more people - educated, agnostic people - are sitting around right now wondering exactly the same thing I am...

WHAT IF IT REALLY DOES END TOMORROW?!

Changes.

2011-05-12T11:42:00.000-04:00

I'm going to miss everything about this apartment.

2010-08-10T11:17:00.003-04:00

This is a fantastic article.

My dad, a decided Moderate who calls himself a Conservative and occasionally displays more than a bit of his father's old school bigotry, would have nasty things to say about it. For sure, it's a Liberal-biased, mass media, opinion account of what's going on. But the news is an impossible concept anyway - nothing that's reported to us by humans is going to be bias free. No opinion issued by a judge of any level is going to be bias free. Nothing that any human has ever processed or thought about or passed on or written or read or participated in or...you get the idea...is going to be bias free. It's just not possible. The point is that there are more than two sides to everything and each person with their unique experiences and intelligence levels and all those other things that create our points of view will see them differently. And yet, we've simplified our political system into Us and Them. And that's how people are looking at these decisions - there are the voters in California (well, only a little over 50%, but that's all it takes) and then there's this activist judge who's overruling them. There's the legislature in Arizona whose job it is to pass laws and then there's this other activist judge who's overruling them.

Take a deep breath. Put down your pitchforks and your bullhorns. Drop your pointing fingers to your side. Come down from your soapboxes. Our system was always designed to have safeguards against the whims of the majority; to be slow and inefficient so that minority rights (which later turned out to often be civil rights) would be protected from the tyranny of the majority. It was designed with full acknowledgement that it simply governed too many diverse people to expect agreement and majority rule to be the best option 100% of the time (and this was back when it was still a small country and there were slaves...how have we become less progressive?). These judges may be activists like the article says. But what they're really doing is recognizing that fear and bigotry and lack of understanding have made it so that we're no longer free.

T. I. Double-guh. Er.

2010-04-14T22:45:00.001-04:00

I. WANT. ONE.

Dear Hipsters.

2010-02-16T22:45:00.002-05:00

Major disappointment.

2010-01-19T22:09:00.002-05:00

It's my second week of law school. Yay? More to come later, I'm sure. For now, however, I have this to offer - a brief and open letter to all Business Information Technology majors.

Congratulations! You've chosen to major in Business Information Technology. You're officially majoring in Computer Science Light with a side of Communications. Basically, you're an overachieving sorority girl. You say you've got good grades? That's fantastic! You're what we like to call "business school smart." A chimpanzee could do your work and get roughly the same marks (they're just so personable, don't you think?). Talking to you, we can hear the popped collar in your voice, sense the labrador-like need to impress (luckily for the cute lab, he routinely does impress us!).

So please, in the future, keep your opinions on Linux or cloud computing to yourself, that's for the real computer scientists and computer engineers. Keep your thoughts on personal success to yourself too, you're clearly not an expert. And next time, consider going for your associate's and an IT certification - it'll save you a lot of money and a lot more embarrassment.

Love,

The World

Wounded.

2009-12-09T01:33:00.003-05:00

Whoever said scars are just tattoos with better stories either had a really awesome story or no scars at all.

For my dear old alma mater.

2009-09-29T01:13:00.002-04:00

I can never resist having my say when it comes to my dear old high school. Washingtonian magazine has put out an article about TJ in its October issue. Let me preface this by saying that I have not read the article (it isn't available online) but it is reported to be positive. This is in response to the comments left on the magazine's websites and the various criticisms I've heard over the years. It is by no means my full opinion, it's just a little bit of what I feel is necessary for the world to know.

I loved TJ more than I could possibly explain to someone who has never walked through the decrepit hallways to see all of the books, sports equipment and backpacks on top of unlocked, rarely used lockers. I can't explain to you why the racial make-up of each entering class, so often cited by TJ’s many opponents, devalues the rich intellectual diversity found there. I can’t explain to you how gratifying it is to put TJ on my resume, 5 years later, and have prospective employers and grad schools be impressed. What I can explain, however, is that when I went to TJ I was a teenager. I skipped class. I stressed about homecoming dresses. I cried about boys. I played sports. I quit sports. I joined clubs. I quit clubs. I despised math homework. I just had a longer bus ride than my friends who were doing the same things. The most well-rounded, level-headed students I’ve ever met came out of TJ - as have some of the laziest and some of the craziest. TJ has its overachievers. It has its underachievers. More than anything, however, it has a group of bright, intellectually curious kids who managed to avoid the "school hating" phenomenon common among 14-year-olds the world over and who push themselves exactly as hard as they need to in order to become the people they want to be. Sometimes that means being a published researcher at the age of 16 and the first student to ever graduate with an undergraduate degree in 1 year, sometimes it means doing the bare minimum to graduate and joining an outdoor adventure group that treks all over the world, but usually it means doing homework and taking tests and stressing about being a teenager exactly like everyone else.

The city that never sleeps.

2009-07-09T17:40:00.004-04:00

Ironic. This town makes me sleepy but I can't sleep here. It's dreary and quiet and familiar. It's also empty and lonely. My bed here is too big for just me.

In the city that never sleeps, where I want to stay up until 6 am and drink and laugh and enjoy life and love, I sleep like a baby.

His eyes did that unfair smoldering thing again.

2009-06-09T14:36:00.003-04:00

So I've been writing a lot recently. I guess that's what happens when my brain has nothing else to do. If I continue to write like this, I hope I never get a job. Anyway, as I was rereading some of my thoughts that I'd put into a notebook quickly, I came across this description. Gushy? Yes. Accurate? Absolutely. It made me blush.

I stared back into his eyes, the steel blue color of the ocean after a summer storm, calm but intense. The smile lines on both sides of his thin-lipped mouth deepened as he smiled at me. His slightly crooked nose was a little large and he had a dimple in his chin. Both suited his face perfectly. Two days worth of scruff, reddish, not mousy like his short hair, defined his angular, strong jaw and the smile crinkled his high, round cheekbones. It was in that moment, as he reached up to brush the hair out of my face and a sort of wistful look clouded his smile, that I decided he was beautiful.

Winter hymnal.

2009-06-01T21:02:00.003-04:00

And cue summer of boredom.

Sing me anything.

2009-04-06T23:40:00.000-04:00

There's a bird that sings outside my window. He sings no matter the time or weather. At noon on a sunny day, he's there singing. At 3 AM in the middle of a storm, he can be heard between gusts of wind and the pelt of raindrops.

I wish I were that bird. He cannot be deterred from singing.

It's beautiful.

that's the way we get by.

2009-02-11T20:45:00.016-05:00

February 10th, 2009 was one of those perfect days of existence that couldn't possibly be summed up in words.

2008-11-06T00:31:00.006-05:00

Two days ago, we elected the first black president of the United States.

Barack Hussein Obama, president-elect, is the very personification of the American Dream. A dream many thought dead or unrealizable or fabricated. Born to a white mother from Kansas and a black father from Kenya, he was raised in a single parent home on food stamps. He spent time abroad, learning in schools that did not separate church from education or the state like we do in this country and he managed to get into the nation's top schools, becoming a Harvard-graduate lawyer. Harvard is how he met his wife and mentor, with whom he has two beautiful daughters. A few years ago, he popped up on the national scene by becoming the very promising junior senator from Illinois. As all good stories must, his story has a downside. On November 3rd, the eve of the most historic election in the history of the United States, his grandmother died after a long battle with cancer. Less than 24 hours before people would flood the polls to decide whether or not her grandson would become this nation's first black president, she finally let go. Perhaps it was her confidence in him or perhaps it was her fear that she would not be able to stand the disappointment of a loss. No matter the reason, it is a tragic footnote to the otherwise perfect American story that belongs to our president-elect.

All of this, however, is not what I wanted to write about. What I wanted to say was that finally, after 8 years of increasingly Orwellian rhetoric, fear, hatred and ignorance, there is hope. Some people refuse to see it. Their blinders are caused by everything from immaturity to opposing opinions to sheer contrariness. But it is evident in some of the simplest of images. Jesse Jackson crying at Obama's acceptance speech. Jackson, a man who was standing next to Martin Luther King, Jr. when he was shot, probably never thought he would see this in his lifetime. My professor, who happens to have been a prominent student leader in the anti-apartheid movement in South Africa, equated my generation voting for Obama with his one and only voting experience - when he got to vote for Nelson Mandela in 1994. My parents, one from the tail end of the Baby Boomers and one born the same year as the president-elect, voted with their children (one a college student and one a middle school student) in mind, with the future in mind. Professors, members of various generations and with diverse educational and political experiences, are expressing a hope and a confidence in the political process that's been missing from academia and, indeed, the population as a whole, for quite some time. I, a politically active, college-age American female who was born with a heart defect that required surgery when I was 3-years-old and who would have had quite a hard time achieving what I have in most other countries of the world, love my country for the very first time.

I have been grateful for being an American, I have been proud of being an American and I have even quite liked being an American. But for the very first time ever, I truly love this country and what it is about the stand for.

I am proud of my friends, my family, my state and my country for making history. We didn't make history just to say that we did it. We made history by simply standing up for something in which and someone in whom we believed. We made history by bringing our voices together to say, "We have had enough of the fear. We have had enough of the deception. We have had enough of the ignorance and blindness. We have had enough of this war. We have had enough of this destruction of the economy and of our environment. We have had enough of giving up our constitutional rights. We have had enough." This makes me proud because of how vitally important it is that the first time America votes for a black man for president, it's not because he is black but because he stands for what we want in these next 4 years and for what we want to be as a people and as a nation and because he was truly the best man for the job.

Thank you, my fellow Americans, for restoring my hope and my faith in this great country of ours

Fine again.

2008-08-19T23:37:00.003-04:00

I can't explain what happened. Language is insufficient.

The nearest I can get to explaining it is that my heart was empty and discovered that there was so much room in it so it began taking things in. It filled and filled until it was brimming and it burst, but didn't empty. It sent an electric current through the rest of my body and my mind saw what it had been missing. I'm left a sort of peace and intensity - it feels as if I am filled with music and beauty and wonder and philosophy and art.

Sing it soft in my ear.

2008-07-02T20:22:00.003-04:00

Today, as I was slogging through the mostly boring world of edublogs, I realized that I am the world's worst blogger. These people who have nothing better to write about than education (and this in the month of July, when normal schools aren't even in session) manage to post routinely and I can go months without uttering a word. I'm fairly certain no strangers read this blog, but I do feel like it's reached a point where even my friends are going to give up on me.

That having been said, I have nothing profound, beautiful or creative to write today. Depressing, I know. All I know is that it's my 10 month-iversary today and I'm still disgustingly happy and in love. My latest foray into the twisted and predictably unpredictable world of Chuck Palahniuk was disappointing at best and so far the best thing I've read this summer is a teen fantasy series less creative and less involved than Harry Potter (which I love, don't get me wrong). I can't stop listening to Goodbye Blues, even though I've recently acquired excellent music from Metric, Tristan Prettyman, and Stars. The music makes me want to write, my work schedule makes me want to sleep. Apparently sleeping is a much more powerful human drive than creativity. Makes sense evolutionarily, I guess. Regardless, this post is to ensure you (Paul, Chris, Cameron) that I'm still alive, just not particularly inspired by this summer and its dreary routine. In a couple weeks I'll be heading to the beach, hopefully that will be more fruitful. Or perhaps I'll just sleep some more...

is gonna be alright.

2008-04-06T20:20:00.005-04:00

We'll always have Paris.

2008-03-11T22:15:00.002-04:00

Another story was due today in creative writing. This time I had to actually write one, I didn't have the option of recycling. I'm not sure how I feel about it. Maybe you'll have more definitive feelings.

The day I met her, I sat in the coffee shop on the corner like always. I watched each and every person who passed by the window look from the girl on my left [Jul. 14, 1998 – Jan. 20, 2034; car accident] to the man on my right [Feb. 28, 1975 – May 18, 2017; shot by his ex-wife]. It was May 16, 2017 and no one looked straight at me. No one ever looked straight at me. When I couldn’t stand being ignored through the window anymore, I proceeded down 5th Avenue. I always walked down 5th in the morning when I was in that city. I passed a hot dog vendor [Mar. 11, 1943 – Mar. 11, 2028; natural causes] and a falafel purveyor [Sept. 7, 1956 – Oct. 30, 2017; stabbed by a mugger] both of whom managed to miss my attempts to buy their wares. That’s when I looked up and saw her. Rather, she saw me.
She stopped and stared straight at me. For the first time in the entirety of existence, someone held my gaze for over half a minute. Also for the first time, I didn’t immediately see a set of two dates when I looked at her face. I looked deep into those aquamarine eyes, drowning in them. She had no beginning and no end. I must have looked puzzled because she smiled and winked. I continued to stand stock-still, paralyzed by the color of her eyes. Never before had I met someone with no beginning and no end. It made me uneasy and, for a moment, a little depressed.
My desire to find out about the beautiful stranger over whom I had no power became, right in that moment, uncontrollable. I refused to break eye contact, for fear that I had invented the whole thing and she wasn’t real. It was she who came up to me.
“Hi, stranger,” she said in that way actresses do when they address an old acquaintance in a film. I blinked.
“Which one are you?” she asked, tilting her head slightly to the side. I melted.
“The dark one,” she chimed. It wasn’t a question.
Her voice was liquid and soft and washed over me like summer rain. I remained standing in my trance while she smiled sweetly into my silence. My voice was like gravel when it finally came out. I’m not sure how long it had been since I’d last spoken.
“Not the dark one,” I croaked, “the pale one.”
At that, her eyes widened. Her effortless calm faltered for a fraction of a second and a cloud passed over the sun.
“A heavy hitter,” she smiled. I couldn’t tell if everyone was staring at her because she was bewitching or because she appeared to be talking to herself. That’s when I noticed that everyone seemed to see me too. Who was this woman with her Mediterranean eyes and the ability to make people see me?
“Who are you?” I asked, much less eloquently than she would have. She simply smiled, her dimples creasing her soft cheeks.
“I,” she mused, tilting her head to one side again, “am the only one who can make people see you and not fear you.”
“Everyone fears me,” I retorted, but I knew I was wrong.
“Oh, of course they do,” she cooed like a mother appeasing a child. Then she looked over her shoulder at something I had obviously missed and giggled like a schoolgirl. She turned back to me and her turquoise eyes flashed. She grabbed my hand and began pulling me towards whatever she had seen. My first instinct would have been to pull away but the touch of her hand was light and warm. It made colors brighter and noises softer. She was running quicker than I had expected of someone so delicate, pulling me on towards whatever had caught her attention. Things began to whirl and mix together and still she gained speed. Soon, I couldn’t see anything but a dizzying rush of colors. I closed my eyes and when I opened them, I was standing on the Champs-Elysées. I knew now why she had no beginning and no end.
“This is my favorite city,” she sighed, “and one you’re no stranger to either, if I remember my history correctly.” She winked. Something gave me the impression that she remembered her history impeccably.
Twirling on her heel, she frolicked down the street. Men and women alike stopped to stare at her brilliant smile. Her face was stunning, like something out of the Louvre, and she moved with a grace unparalleled by anything mortal. I followed her reluctantly, embarrassedly staring at the ground when people tried to make eye contact with me. Never before had I had to worry about eye contact. It made me uneasy.
She absentmindedly danced all the way to the end of the street before realizing that I was abashed. Pouting exquisitely, she once again grabbed my hand.
“Look,” she said, pointing with her other hand at the Eiffel Tower, “we’re going up there.”
“Aren’t you worried someone will jump?” I asked, looking suspiciously at the tall metal tower.
“From la Tour Eiffel? On such a beautiful day as this? Non!” she said in a perfect French accent. She tugged on my hand once more and the comfort of her grip made me follow and forget my apprehension. I looked from one face to another, all smiling after she passed. A baker [Oct. 5th, 1945 – Dec. 26th, 2023; lung cancer] even smiled at me. Immediately after, he began to cough.
Once at the top of the Tower, she sighed and leaned over the railing. People who had been taking pictures of the city now abandoned their landscapes to take surreptitious photos of the perfect figure elegantly taking in the sights. I stood back from the edge, watching her more than the city. She seemed lost in the sights but I saw that her eyes were closed. Those magnificent eyes were blocked from my sight so I began to notice the rest of her. She was tall but delicate and her face was like something sculpted in marble. Her lips were full and pouty and her eyes almond shaped. Her nose was straight and fine and her chin perfectly angled. The color of her hair was like a caricature – it was too bright and too auburn to actually exist. She was dressed like something out of the 1940’s but it suited her, showing off her curves and height. While I was staring, I realized she was staring back at me.
“Did you know your eyes were green?” she asked.
“No,” I replied, a little shyly. No one had ever noticed that my eyes were green and I hadn’t looked in a mirror in years.
“Come on,” she said playfully and grabbed my hand once more. Her comment about my eyes and the renewed pressure of her hand on mine made me forget everything. We descended in the elevator and were unleashed on Paris. We rode the carousel by the bottom of the Tower and bought crêpes from a street vendor whose dates I failed to note. She then demanded that I ride on the upper deck of a double-decker sightseeing bus so I could see the Arc de Triomphe, several opera houses, Notre Dame, the Louvre, and Sacre Cœur. Paris whisked by and her laugh tinkled like a small bell at the sights and sounds of her favorite city. I decided I rather liked Paris too; anything that she liked so much couldn’t be bad.
We disembarked near the river. She continued to pull me around by my hand but I wasn’t hesitant anymore. We wandered through the streets and I wondered where she was leading me, but wasn’t curious enough to push for an answer. All I wanted was to be led around by her warm touch and dazzling eyes. She stopped at a small café on the corner of a street whose name I didn’t know.
“Lunch?” she asked. Her head tilted towards the café and I couldn’t refuse. We sat outside while a man brought us menus.
“So,” she said and looked suddenly very serious, “how do you like Paris?” She was asking me in a mock-serious tone like a detective on a TV show and there was a smile in her eyes. I laughed a rare laugh and looked up into her unbelievable face.
“I think I like it rather a lot,” I said sincerely.
“Good,” she said as if some matter had been settled, “it is, after all, my favorite.”
“Garçon!” she called politely. The waiter rushed over immediately, unable to control the obvious enthusiasm with which he was going to serve this wonderful creature.
“Deux cafés, s’il vous plait,” she chimed in perfect French. The waiter looked taken aback for a second and then noticed me for what seemed like the first time. I attempted a smile but it made him start and bustle off towards the kitchen.
“You really shouldn’t go around scaring people,” she admonished.
“I didn’t mea-” I began to retort but she laughed and I saw that she had been joking.
“So, art for this afternoon?” she asked. It wasn’t really a question but a warning of what I should be prepared for. I simply nodded.
The waiter came back with the coffee and I let her order lunch, which turned out to be simple ham sandwiches with cheese and egg. We ate and I watched her look around. Everything she looked at became a little more vibrant and when she tilted her head in just the right way, the sun became a little brighter. She smiled when she finished and put her hand on my knee. My stomach fluttered and my throat tightened.
“The Louvre,” she said matter-of-factly.
We rode the Métro to the center of the city and stood before the glass pyramid in front of the old castle. I couldn’t help but notice how pretty it was. We toured the long halls with the gilded frames and painted ceilings. Everywhere we went, people still turned their cameras away from the artwork to photograph her instead. She led me towards La Jaconde to gape with the tourists.
“She’s green,” she noted interestedly, “like your eyes.”
“I like this one because neither of us is in it,” I thought out loud.
“But you’re wrong,” she said and smiled a little half smile. It mirrored the one in the painting and I saw that I was wrong. She was in the painting after all.
“We’re everywhere,” she said and guided me away from the portrait. We wandered more, through sculpture gardens where she stood at every turn and medieval paintings where I presided over every scene. For hours we explored the art.
“Almost dinner time,” she mused once when we were looking at a painting of fruit, “I think I’d like room service.” She turned her head suddenly in my direction and the look in her eye made the Louvre melt away. I wanted room service too.
We left and the museum and took the Métro to an old hotel in Montmartre. The artist’s square bustled as we passed through but I only had eyes for her. She winked at the concierge on the way in, and he smiled dreamily at her, doing nothing to prevent her going to a room without a key or reservation. Up four flights of stairs she led me and I began to be afraid that she would go up more when she opened the door to the hallway and pointed to the suite at the end. She then stood back and serenely waited for me to lead the way. Before our trip, I would have turned on the spot and left her disappointed but the crêpes, the coffee, the Eiffel Tower, the art, her eyes, and Paris had changed something in me. This time, I grabbed her hand.
I shut the door behind her and she walked to the center of the room where the light from the setting sun outside the window fell in a warm pool. She stood in its center and began to undress. Her clothes piled up on the floor around her and she kicked off her pumps last. She looked up at me and, for the first time, looked a little shy. All I could do was stare. Her body was perfect to match her face. Dimpled in all the right places, thin but curvy, with legs forever. It was like looking at one of the sculptures from the Louvre.
Bashfully, I began to remove my clothes. I knew I wasn’t ugly, but I also knew that nothing in the world could compare to the goddess standing in front of me. I hastily threw my clothes in a bundle near the door as she lay down on the bed. I’d known a few women before her, but they’d all had a beginning and an end and none was perfect. She was. I followed her onto the bed and she locked her fingers around the back of my neck. Those Neptune blue eyes looked into mine and I was lost.
When I woke up in the mid-afternoon, I found a single, full, red rose blossom on the pillow next to mine. The blossom still couldn’t mask her scent; it lingered over everything in the room. Beneath the petals was a note imploring me to watch the evening news. I sat up and looked around, she was gone. I felt a slight pull in my chest and a small emptiness that I hadn’t noticed before. I looked at my watch and decided I had two hours until the news so I went back to sleep.
At 6 o’clock, I turned on the television in the room and sat back curiously. According to a very astonished looking news anchor, it appeared that no one had died in Paris for a period of 24 hours now. I sat up a little straighter. I clicked through the channels, looking for international news. The BBC informed me that it also appeared no one had died in London or, indeed, the whole of England, in the past 24 hours.
I got dressed and left the hotel; I knew no one would notice my leaving. The concierge [Apr. 27th, 1987 – June 13th, 2047; heart attack] looked up briefly when I opened the door but saw nothing. I took off running down the street as fast as I could and the colors began to whirl around me, though not as brightly as when she had led me. I went to New York first, where I also found that, miraculously, no one had died for a day. Washington, D.C., LA, Baghdad, Rome, Istanbul, Prague, Athens, Bangkok, Bombay, Chicago, Seoul, Dubai, Tokyo, Beijing, Tehran, Cairo, Sydney, New Delhi, Jerusalem, Moscow, Madrid, Santiago, Berlin – all the same. No one had died for 24 hours.
I began to panic. The world was in chaos. Transfusions were being given to patients who continued to hemorrhage but refused to die, car accidents were sending victims to emergency rooms with massive internal injuries, no treatment options, and no way out. Attempted suicides failed and murders now had first hand witnesses. People who were supposed to drown were being washed up on shore with water in their lungs and no oxygen in their brains, but a beating heart nonetheless. It was a disaster and I was the only one who could begin putting it right.

* * *
That day was 600 years ago and had been long in coming. We see each other now from time to time, when our visits coincide. She makes my job harder and I make hers easier. If her gift lasted forever, it would drive a person crazy, but it sucks to be the one who has to take it away. So remember, when you see the girl with the seawater eyes and the sunshine smile, embrace her. She has only light to give you. But when you see me, the tall stranger with the celadon eyes, be not afraid. I have only relief to give you.

Every little thing

2008-03-11T22:07:00.003-04:00

So after April 16th I knew I wanted to do something so that I could remember but also so that I could heal. On the 17th, my dad got the VT ribbon tattooed on his arm. I really like it, but I kept having doubts. Anything that permanent shouldn't come with that many doubts. I didn't want to be asked awkward questions or draw unnecessary attention for the rest of my life. Instead I put off the tattoo idea. Until September 6th. Dave Matthews and friends came for the Concert for Virginia Tech. Dave and his band played a 2 hour set that was amazing - he definitely lived up to all the hype. We'd been back in school for a few weeks and things were definitely weird. In fact, things stayed weird for that entire semester. But there was a moment, one perfect moment, where nothing mattered. The band began playing the Bob Marley song Three Little Birds and, of course, Lane Stadium sang along to the "don't worry about a thing, 'cause every little thing is going to be alright" part. The band stopped playing and stepped back but the students continued to sing. It was the single most poignant and unifying moment of being back in school after the 16th and the odd summer that followed. I will never forget that moment as long as I live.

That's how I decided what my tattoo would be. Three little birds. I can't wait.

Thicker than water

2008-02-04T16:41:00.001-05:00

I have another story due today in creative writing. I'm lazy and don't feel like being creative, so I'm going to have a story that I wrote a while ago be critiqued. I've had it read and edited before, but it's still unpublished and, therefore, still in progress. Here it is:

Thicker Than Water

Samantha got up and stumbled towards the sound of the ringing telephone. In the dim, green, summer-morning light, she stubbed her toe on a pile of shoes and slammed her elbow into the wall with a hollow thud, making her coffee-colored hair fall into her face in waves. She stopped for a moment, nursing her injuries, and strained for the sound of the phone. That call was important and she knew it, but she was glad she’d missed it. Crawling back onto her bed, she was careful not to disturb her boyfriend, but she knew he was already awake. She rolled onto her back and waited for a moment.
“Let me see your forehead,” he said into the pillow, “it isn’t bleeding, is it?”
“It wasn’t my forehead,” she responded, examining her toe, which was purple and bleeding, “it was my elbow.”
Brian rolled over and looked at her, she’d shoved her hair behind her ears and had her chin resting on her knee. She was picking intently at her wounded toe.
“You’re so clumsy,” he sighed, but smiled at her anyway. She tried to smile back but it turned into a wince, her toe was really hurt.
“Broken?” he asked.
“Hope not,” she replied.
“Who called?” he finally asked. She knew he’d say it, but she wasn’t prepared for it. She gulped and looked up, her pale green eyes finding his warm brown ones. He knew the answer but wanted her to say it; it’s more real when you say it out loud. Instead, she closed her eyes and fell back on the bed, studying the lines in the ceiling of their old apartment.
“You know she needs you,” Brian said, attempting nonchalance and achieving something more closely resembling exasperation.
“She never has before,” Samantha snapped back. She regretted it immediately but couldn’t’ take it back now. She fiddled with the faded blue bedspread and avoided eye contact with Brian. Her little sister, Melissa, had practically run her our of the house when their father died and now that their mother was gone too, she had turned back to Samantha for support. Samantha had always been resentful towards her sister and she wasn’t about to start comforting her, she’d even missed her mother’s wake.
The phone rang again and this time Brian hopped out of bed and stepped lithely over the various piles of shoes and CD’s and books lying on the hardwood floor of the bedroom and disappeared into the living room to answer the phone. Samantha bit her lip and squeezed her eyes shut, hoping he wouldn’t tell Melissa she was here and available to talk.
“Oh, hey,” came Brian’s voice from the living room, “I didn’t know there was even going to be a practice today.” Samantha breathed a sigh of relief; it was just someone from Brian’s band, not her sister. She looked around the room; the light was becoming brighter and it fell on her piles of clothes and papers all over the floor and on Brian’s bass and amp tucked into the corner. She liked her new life and she didn’t need her sister. Why should he sister, who’d always been so in charge, so full of it, need her? She thought about this until Brian reappeared in the door. He looked troubled.
“I thought that was Melissa again,” he said, his eyebrows furrowing, “I was finally going to make you face her.”
“I’m glad it wasn’t her,” said Samantha and she meant it. She gingerly dropped her feet to the floor and stood. She walked past Brian in the door and he kissed her on the forehead and she smiled in spite of herself.
“I’m gonna make pancakes, want some?” she asked. She didn’t want to go to work, so she was going to put it off for as long as possible. He gave her a look, indicating that he knew she was stalling.
“Don’t you think you should go to work?” he said, a slight smirk on his face. She threw her hands up in defeat and walked back into the bedroom to get dressed. The telephone rang again and he heart leapt into her throat. She swallowed to keep it down and tried in vain to hear the conversation through the closed door. Brian answered it but she couldn’t tell who it was on the other end. He didn’t come to get her, though, so she finished pulling on her worn jeans and shoved her feet into some ragged old flip-flops. She was standing at the bathroom sink, examining her nose, when Brian came in.
“Who was that?” she asked, turning to meet his eyes.
“That was Max again. I was right, there isn’t any practice today,” he said and laughed at how tragically unorganized their friends were. Samantha laughed too, and felt a little better; maybe Melissa would give up and leave her in peace.
“Alright, I’m headed out,” she said, grabbing her keys and cell phone from the sink, “I’ll call you after work.” She kissed him on the cheek and he patted her on the shoulder as she walked down the hall.
Opening the door, she got a face full of warm, mid-morning sun. Blinking, her hand went to the outside pocket of her bag for her sunglasses but she decided against them; she enjoyed the sensation against her cheeks and nose. Squinting into the sun, she got into her beat-up old car and turned the key. It took three tries to get the engine going, but she was lucky; yesterday it had taken her five tries. The radio played her favorite music a little too loud as she drove down the sunlit streets of LA. All of her worries were gone, and she didn’t even react when he phone rang. She picked it up and turned down her music, which was still too loud to hear the person on the other line.
“Hello?!” she said loudly over her music, “that you, Brian?”
“Sam?” came the voice on the other end. Samantha’s heart stopped and she nearly ran the yellow light she was coming to. She stopped in time and fumbled with the knob on her CD player, eventually pushing it in and turning it off altogether.
“Mel?” she finally choked out. The person behind her honked but she stayed stopped at the green light. She hadn’t heard her sister’s voice in three years but that, unmistakably, was who it was. Her car finally rolled forward as she regained control of her body. Her knuckles turned white on the steering wheel as she gripped it, not knowing what she could say to Melissa. She’d been close with her dad but Melissa hadn’t and when he died, Melissa hadn’t allowed her to stay and help take care of their mother. Samantha hadn’t wasted one second flying all the way across the country and establishing a new life, choosing to forget her past rather than dwell on it. Samantha wasn’t compassionate enough for Mom, Melissa had said. For that, Samantha couldn’t forgive her sister. She’d just accepted their father’s death and continued right on caring for their sick mother, no mourning, no grief, nothing. Samantha knew their mother was dying slowly from cancer, but at least she knew she was going to die, it was nothing like their father’s death.
“I know I shouldn’t have intruded like this,” came Melissa’s mock apologetic voice, “but I thought you should know that mom’s funeral is this weekend…I sent you two plane tickets, did you get them?”
“How did you get this number?” Samantha finally spluttered. Melissa explained how she’s talked to Brian that morning and he’d given her Samantha’s number and she’d felt bad about making him do it, but Samantha was no longer listening. She was furious with Brian and no longer remembered that she was going to work. She arrived at her office and stared up at the building, confused. She couldn’t remember the drive there or why she was here on this beautiful summer day. All she knew was that she had to go home; there was something important there, Brian, he was important because he ruined her life. Breathing deeply, she calmed herself and headed into the office. The newsroom was full as always but she pushed through to the back where the Op-Ed writers got to sit, aloof, in their offices and write about their passions and concerns. She’d only been writing for the LA Times for three months but already had five columns published. This morning, she would focus all of her rage into her column and produce a masterpiece her boss wouldn’t dare leave out of the paper.
But her day at work was terrible and she couldn’t get anything written. She drank too much coffee and shook all day long, not able to decide whether she wanted her sweatshirt on or off. At lunch, she walked to the nearest music store and wandered around aimlessly, missing the time she was supposed to be back, and getting in trouble with her boss. Every time a phone rang, her hands stopped working and her heart beat furiously in her ears. Melissa couldn’t call her at work, she thought, but then again, she wasn’t supposed to call her on her cell phone either.
Driving home, her cell phone vibrated gently against her leg. She’d turned off the ringer but it still made her jump. This time, she picked up and carefully examined the caller ID, not wanting to be caught off-guard again. It said ‘home’ and she knew it was Brian. He had the plane tickets, she thought, they came in the mail today and he has them and he wants me to go. She put the phone back down on the seat and ignored the three more times it rang. Pulling into the parking lot of their apartments, Samantha waited in the car a good, long time, she didn’t want to be angry with Brian; she hated being angry with Brian. It was Melissa that did it, she reminded herself, Melissa called me today and made my day bad. She rested her head on the steering wheel and he brown hair fell around her face. There came a knock on the window.
“Hey, you,” it was Brian, he’d evidently seen her pull up, “did you get my message?”
Samantha sat up and looked at him. His hair was darker than usual in the deep pink of the setting sun and it made his face look different, or maybe it was the expression. She studies it for a moment and decided it was worry.
“I’m sorry. I had a bad day at work,” she said, intentionally softening her voice and leaving out her sister.
“I called you. I couldn’t decided what to have for dinner,” he said, and then half-smiled.
“Let me guess, Chinese?” she said, catching on.
“What else?”
“I think you bleed soy sauce,” she said, but she already felt better. He was just looking out for her, even if he hadn’t done the right thing. Samantha let herself be, more or less, pulled out of the car and led into the apartment. She flopped on the couch and kicked her flip-flops over the side onto another pile of shoes. Brian brought her a plate of fried rice, iced tea, and mail. She set the mail aside and ate slowly, knowing that he was waiting for her to finish.
“You’re the world’s slowest eater,” he finally said, “would you just look at the mail? There’s something there from Melissa.”
“I know,” she said, still refusing to look at the pile of envelopes next to her, “plane tickets.” She couldn’t say any more without getting angry so she sat back and sipped her tea instead.
“You should go,” said Brian. Samantha could sense him brace himself for the fight but, quite to his surprise and hers, she just looked up at him. He looked worried and confused, she wasn’t entirely sure she knew what her face was saying to him. She hoped he’d feel bad for pushing her, but she didn’t mean to worry him.
“I know,” she finally said and looked down. She picked up the envelope with the plane tickets and slit it open with her finger. The tickets dropped onto her lap and she looked at them.
“We have to leave tomorrow,” she said, “I guess I should call work.”
“I should call the guys,” said Brian. Both of them looked at the phone, but not one picked it up. Instead, they let it sit there and went into the bedroom to pack. During the day, Brian had picked up their assorted piles and the hardwood floor was relatively clean. His instruments still stood in the corner, but now her papers were on the desk next to the bed and he shoes had been put on the closet floor. Still, Samantha walked carefully across the floor until the light had been turned on; he toe was still swollen. She opened the dresser and grabbed jeans and t-shirts for both of them and threw them on the bed. Brian walked to the closet and pulled out his suit and a long black skirt.
“You have a shirt to go with this?” he asked, gesturing to the skirt he held in his left hand.
“Yeah, check the other side,” said Samantha, she was sure there was a shirt to go with that skirt; she’d worn it to her dad’s funeral. Brian found it and their garment bag and began to pack them. Samantha pulled an old suitcase out from under their bed and threw in underwear and flip-flops, followed by their jeans and t-shirts. She slammed the top shut unceremoniously and propped the suitcase up against the wall next to the bedroom door. Brian laid the garment bag on top of it and looked at her.
“You look tired,” he said. She thought for a minute and decided he was right. She was tired.
“I think I’m just gonna get in bed,” she said and started to take off her clothes. He threw some pajamas at her as she walked towards the bathroom to brush her teeth. He changed too and got in bed. She came back in and crawled into bed next to him.
“’Night,” he said and kissed her. He reached over her and turned off the light on her bedside table.
Samantha lay there in the cool dark and thought about her flight to DC tomorrow. She hated flying and she hated DC, she hated funerals and she hated her sister. Why was she doing this? These thoughts were running through her head as she drifted off to sleep with Brian snoring softly beside her. It felt like she’d been asleep for two minutes when Brian gently shook her awake. Groggily, she looked up at him; he was already dressed for the flight.
“Get up, sleepyhead,” he said, “we’ve got a plane to catch.”
She shook her head and rubbed her eyes; she’d never been so tired in her whole life. She rolled onto her stomach and buried her face in her pillow.
“I don’t want to go anymore,” she mumbled. Brian grabbed her feet and slid her off the bed, onto the floor.
“Get dressed, come on,” he said, no longer playful. She pulled on the first jeans she found, which turned out to be Brian’s, but she didn’t care. She stuck her feet into flip-flops and found a clean shirt in the dresser. When he head popped out of the neck hole, Brian’s face was there. He kissed her and handed her a cup of coffee.
“You’re gonna need that,” he said, “you’re not sleeping on the plane, I’ll be bored.”
“Thanks,” she said and grabbed the cup. They walked out to the car and loaded their luggage.
“Ready?” asked Brian.
“No,” she said and climbed into the passenger’s side of the car. She blinked into the early sunlight and though about how she’d enjoyed it so much yesterday. Today she wished she had her sunglasses. Brian climbed in and started the car; it took four tries. They drove to the airport and Samantha was sure he talked the whole way she just didn’t know what he’d said.
The airport was relatively uneventful. The helpful staff tried to lose the luggage and then tried to navigate them to the wrong terminal, but they got on the stuffy, oppressive plane anyway. They were sitting near the front and Samantha had a window seat. She and Brian and talked about nothing in particular until take-off. They waited carefully avoiding the subject of her sister. The six-hour flight went by more quickly than she thought it would have but it was still dinnertime when they reached DC. They stayed in a hotel close to the airport; Samantha wouldn’t even call her sister to tell her that she was there.
“So what do you guys have to eat around here?” said Brian, trying to incite a little playfulness in Samantha.
“Same stuff we have back home,” said Samantha, “except there’s more pizza, a lot more pizza.” It was strange; she no longer thought of DC as home, it had been relocated clear across the country. She looked at Brian and he looked disappointed.
“I guess I could take you to this pizza place I used to love when I was a kid,” she said, feeling guilty for being in such a bad mood. Brian perked up and she felt better. This didn’t have to be such a horrible experience after all. They went to the lobby and rented a car, which Brian refused to drive.
“I don’t know my way around,” he said. Reluctantly, Samantha took the keys and started the car. It only took one turn. She drove through Northern Virginia and into Arlington to a little pizza place called Mario’s. Memories flooded back to her as she drove past places from when she was a kid. Metro stations, roads, schools, neighborhoods, everything she remembered from when she was a kid. Nothing she wanted to remember as an adult.
“They have the best pizza ever,” she said, “but it’s so greasy.” She laughed, remembering how much her dad used to love that place, and how he knew every guy that worked behind the counter. They ordered and ate and Brian agreed that it was the best pizza he’d ever had.
“I’ll drive back, if you want me to,” said Brian. Samantha thought for a minute.
“Sure, just don’t get us lost,” she said and threw him the keys.
They did, indeed, get lost on the way back, ending up in downtown DC. She didn’t know how anyone could do that, they wanted to go further into Virginia and Brian had gotten them stuck in DC. They pulled over on Constitution Avenue to switch drivers.
“How’d you manage this one?” she asked, she smiled at him to reassure him that she wasn’t mad.
“I’ve never seen the monuments and stuff at night,” he said and looked down the Mall in wonder at the lights. Samantha looked up at him and realized how different DC really was from LA. It only made her wish she were home a little more. Brian must have seen her face fall.
“C’mon,” he said and got into the car. Samantha looked up at the monuments again, too, secretly hating them. They drove back in silence mostly, Brian tried to turn on the radio but Samantha turned it off. By the time they reached the hotel, it was nearly midnight.
“I’m so tired. We have to be there at ten in the morning tomorrow,” she said and hopped into bed. Brian joined her and they fell asleep. Samantha slept fitfully and woke several times. She hadn’t seen her sister in years, and she couldn’t bring herself to think about her mother. Had she wanted Samantha there before she died? Or was she ok with just Melissa? Samantha couldn’t decide which would be worse. Samantha wondered and the sun began to rise in the window of the hotel, sending in gray light. The light here is always so gray, she thought. Brian stirred beside her.
“What time is it?” he asked, he rubbing his eyes and ran his finger through his hair.
“8:30,” she replied, “I guess we should get up and get ready.”
They roused themselves and prepared for the funeral. Decked out in black, they went back down to the rental car. Samantha made Brian and this time he didn’t get lost; they made it to the church in record time. Samantha got out onto the steps of the small Catholic church in Falls Church where, as a kid, she sat to watch the Memorial Day parade. She looked up at it and her courage failed. Instead of going in, she sat on the step and looked around at all the things that were so familiar that felt so wrong. She heard the huge oak doors of the church creak open and two voices talking, one familiar and one not. Melissa was coming out of the church and she didn’t have time to go anywhere. She realized then that Melissa and Brian had never met. Brian had been in LA when Samantha got there, they met through some mutual friends. She looked up at Brian, hoping her panic wasn’t too evident, and he gave her a look of reassuring support then turned his focus on the church doors.
“The priest just came out of the church,” he said. Samantha figured that must have been the unfamiliar voice. Melissa had always gone to church but Samantha never really had any interest. She and her father were alike in that respect, he would be ashamed that this funeral was being held in a Catholic church.
“Maybe you should go introduce yourself to him?” came Brian’s voice, intruding upon her thoughts. It wasn’t a suggestion, she noticed, but a question. He was just as unsure of himself as she was of herself. That thought comforted her a little and she stood up. Once up, she couldn’t decide what to do, so she remained. She noticed Brian looking at her with interest and that the voices had stopped. She hadn’t heard the doors close and assumed they would be left open until everyone had arrived. Afraid of what she might find, she stepped down off the stairs and turned around. Melissa was in the door alone and was looking at Brian in an odd way. She hadn’t seemed to notice Samantha yet. Samantha registered how much they looked alike, though Melissa was shorter and her eyes were blue.
“She looks a lot like you,” whispered Brian. Samantha knew he must have figured out who it was in the door. Melissa hadn’t heard his whisper and continued to look at Brian as if he didn’t belong. Samantha felt invisible. She stepped back so a tree blocked her view of Melissa. Brian went to pull her out from behind it but Melissa’s voice floated down from the top of the hill.
“Are you here for my mother’s funeral?” she asked. Brian turned to Samantha and gave her a meaningful look; she shrugged and retreated farther into the tree’s shadow.
“Yeah, I am,” he called, turning towards the church and abandoning Samantha. She leaned against the trunk and sighed.
“Do I know you?” said Melissa; her voice was a lot closer now.
“Sort of…” was Brian’s response. Samantha could tell her was torn between telling her who he was and betraying Samantha and letting Samantha stay hidden behind the tree. She also knew Melissa wouldn’t like that answer.
“Sort of?” there was a note of derision in Melissa’s voice that Samantha knew so well. She scoffed inwardly at that tone. She was only a year older than Melissa, making Melissa 20-years-old. No twenty-something should have that kind of tone of voice mastered, thought Samantha.
“Well, we’ve spoken on the phone,” he said. Samantha’s eyes went wide and her jaw dropped in disbelief. He was going to give her away! She started to get angry with him again and hated herself for it; it was Melissa’s fault, “my name’s Brian.”
“Oh!” now Melissa’s voice was fake and bubbly, too nice to be real, “Samantha’s boyfriend! I’ve never met you before. Sorry about that.” She paused and Samantha knew she was searching around for some sign of her.
“Where’s Samantha?” she finally asked. Samantha stopped breathing and waited. A breeze rustled the leaves above her but the two behind the tree remained silent.
“She took a little walk to clear her head,” said Brian and she let out the air she’d been holding in, “she’s nervous about being back.”
“Well, I’d like to see her,” Melissa said, Samantha noticed that the sincerity of the statement betrayed her genuine disappointment that Samantha wasn’t there. She still couldn’t bring herself to leave the shelter of the tree’s shade.
“Well, she’ll be at the funeral,” said Brian.
“Speaking of which, I have to go. It was nice to have met you finally,” said Melissa.
“Yeah, you too,” said Brian. Samantha listened but couldn’t hear anything else, she closed her eyes and leaned her head against the tree, wishing she didn’t have to go to the funeral and hating herself for not having the courage to come out from behind the tree. She felt someone else lean against the tree beside her and jumped. Opening her eyes, she saw Brian.
“She’s really not so bad,” he said and she could tell he didn’t really think that.
“She’s kinda mean,” she said, “I should have warned you. Did you hear the way she said ‘sort of?’? Where does she come off speaking to people like that?” Her anger was rising a little and edged her voice. She tried to swallow it back down but it was still there. Brian reached over and grabbed her hand to calm her down and she leaned her head onto his shoulder.
“Can we just go to the cemetery and meet them there?” she asked and Brian nodded. He checked around the tree and gave her the all clear to get in the car. They drove to the cemetery and passed more familiar, wrong things on the way. She watched them parade by her window and couldn’t bring herself to tear her eyes away. Brian tried to say something once but she pretended like she didn’t hear him. They got lost on the way and she had to direct him there, but they made it. Samantha checked her watch.
“The funeral started 20 minutes ago,” she said and looked out the windshield.
“How long before they’ll get here then?” asked Brian.
“No idea,” she said.
“I’ll stay with the car and wait for them,” he said. She was grateful to be left alone. She got out and wandered through the headstones. Samantha knew where he mother’s plot was but she walked instead to her father’s.
She sat with her hands in her lap, playing idly with the folds of her long, black skirt. She was cross-legged on the grave and she stared at the clover that crept along the base of the headstone. Her eyes scanned her father’s name and filled with tears but she blinked furiously to keep them from falling down her cheeks. She sat and sat, losing track of time and oblivious to new noise in the cemetery. She felt bad that couldn’t get up and go to her mother’s plot, she felt bad that her sister had really sounded like she wanted to see her and she wasn’t going to be able to. Samantha sat and thought a felt sorry, sorry for her father, sorry for her mother, sorry for her sister, and sorry for herself. She thought about Brian and LA and home and about DC and all of the strange, familiar things here. The tears escaped and rolled down her face and the tip of her nose turned red. She suddenly felt a hand on her shoulder and she reached for it, expecting to find Brian’s calloused and worn fingers but instead finding the smooth, soft ones that belonged to Melissa. She held it tightly anyway.
“I loved Mom,” said Samantha. Her voice was wet and quivered.
“I loved Dad,” said Melissa. And at that moment she knew Melissa never meant to hurt her the way she did and that she’d go home to LA and she’d start writing her next column and she’d be happy, but she’d never again become paralyzed at the sound of a ringing phone.

2008-01-27T13:55:00.000-05:00

2008 showed promise. It was going to be much better than 2007. We had all the world to gain and little left to lose. And yet, in under a month, 2008 has taken from us yet again.

When I first met Nicole Lee, I was jealous. I'd seen her around, she dated a Hillcrest boy and went to high school with another, and I noticed the way everyone lit up when she came in. I never saw anything but a smile on her face. I saw how everything got a little more energetic when she was there. We weren't friends at first. She was the kind of girl that other girls had to come around to - she was more fun than you and you knew it, but she was too sweet and too good for you to dislike her for too long. Besides that, she befriended my boyfriend. They were two peas in a pod - vibrant, friendly, outgoing, attractive. They both seemed to have endless hours to devote to other people, making me wonder if they ever had time to themselves. That's where my jealousy came from. Sure, I knew about the pretty, vivacious girl that hung around with the freshmen. I just didn't want her to be the pretty, vivacious girl my boyfriend hung around with. So, in true girl fashion, I wanted to get to know her. What I didn't expect was the person I found. She was all of those things I said - fun, funny, cute, warm, giving. But she was more than that. She was the kind of person who brought a group together. Her smile was contagious and when we had parties, I hoped the Hillcrest freshmen would bring her. She was their spirit. All of this and she was never full of herself. She had fun and didn't care what she looked like doing it. She was never afraid to ask for advice or help.

Nicole, I had just begun getting to know you and I regret that I won't get to know more. The way you affected those around you speaks volumes about your good nature and sparkling personality. You will be truly missed by those closest to you, those who were close to them, and those who were just beginning to get to know you.

Two kinds of love

2008-01-22T00:58:00.000-05:00

I'm finally taking another creative writing class. The focus is on fiction, which is what I prefer to write. Our first assignment is due tomorrow. The idea is similar to that of an art school - but instead of going to a gallery and drawing the works of art in our sketchbooks, we were asked to read a short story and write one in the same style. Our two choices were a story by Ann Beattie and "Hills Like White Elephants" by Ernest Hemingway. Anyone who knows me knows that Hemingway and I are not the best of friends. That being the case, I chose to fashion my story after his work. Partially for the challenge and partially because writing dialogue is something I've been told I can do. The story is called "Two Kinds of Love", tentatively, and has not been edited. Here it is:

I was reading my book for the second time that afternoon. That's how I read; quickly first, then slowly. The pair walked in sometime during the seventh chapter, but I didn't notice them at first. I noticed them when I looked up to start on my third cup of coffee. I first looked at the building across the street, like I always do. It looks like a courthouse, stately and white. It's part of the college that makes this backwater hole a town, a women's college. He was sitting with her to his left, resolutely looking anywhere but at her face. She stared straight at him with the same kind of stubbornness. They had to be father and daughter.
"No, you don't!" he said, louder than I would have in such a public place.
"I do."
"I'm telling you, you don't. I know more about it than you do, I've had 32 more years of experience than you."
"What does that have to do with anything? You and Mom divorced when I was 12."
He blanched and almost looked her in the face. Recovering, he stared at the same building I had been.
"I knew sending you away to college was a bad idea."
"Yes, because it was college that made me fall in love," she scoffed.
"You would never have gotten the idea into your head if you hadn't come here!"
He gestured at the building as if it were something filthy and guilty of a terrible crime. I had now set down my book entirely, in favor of my coffee. The day was fair but a storm was coming in. You could tell by the uneasiness of the breeze and the half-hearted way the birds searched for crumbs on the sidewalk. The girl looked up at the building too, just as a class let out.
"I'm taking you home with me and there will be no more talk of this."
"Talk of what? You say 'this' like it's a dirty word. I only said I was in love. I thought love was a good thing."
"I told you, it isn't love."
"It's more love than whatever you had with Mom."
She crossed her arms and pouted. He grunted and turned his face farther from hers.
"I'm against this for a good reason and you know it."
"Like what? Give me one good reason."
"It's not right."
"It makes you uncomfortable."
"No."
"Yes."
"Are we going to order lunch?"
He suddenly looked into her face. She picked up a menu and thumbed through without reading.
"I know what I want, we come here all the time."
"What's good then?"
"The tuna."
"Then two tuna sandwiches?" She nodded and called the waitress over to order.
"Anything to drink?" the waitress asked.
"Water," said the girl.
"Coffee," said the father.
The waitress turned to put in the order and the father considered his daughter while she considered the table.
"Perhaps if you would just meet – “
"No."
"Why not? Maybe you would like each other. Maybe you'd really get along."
"I don't think so."
"How can you know? How can you know that it isn't love and that it isn't right until you've seen for yourself?"
"Because I know."
“You don’t.”
“When does this semester end? How soon can you transfer schools?”
“All of the deadlines for transfer applications have passed. Besides, I like it here, I don’t want to transfer.”
“You will anyway.”
“No I won’t.”
“You will if I say you will. How are you going to pay your tuition if I don’t pay it for you?"
“Scholarships, grants, loans – any number of ways,” she spat back, “I don’t need your help anymore. I’m an adult.”
“So you would choose this relationship and this school over me?”
“If you refuse to see me happy, then yes. I choose happiness over misery.”
She smiled a forced smile at the waitress who had just brought the sandwiches and drinks. The waitress sat them down and the father stared at his coffee as if he was considering drowning himself in the mug.
“Will that be all for today?” asked the waitress a little too politely. It was obvious she could feel the tension between the two.
“Yes, thank you,” replied the girl. Her father still seemed to be contemplating breathing coffee into his lungs.
“Are you ok?” she asked him.
Outside, the rain started to fall from the clouds that the awkward breeze had brought and I drained the last bit of my coffee.

Some lines should never be crossed

2007-11-26T18:31:00.001-05:00

The following is a letter to the editor of the Cavalier Daily.

To Whom It May Concern:

Each year, the Hokies and the Hoos duke it out on the football field for the Commonwealth Cup. This year was special for two specific reasons. First, it was the most important game we’d played in years; it was the game that decided the ACC Coastal Division champion, both teams were ranked, and a trip to Jacksonville was at stake. It was also the first time the two had met on the field since the tragedy at Virginia Tech on April 16th. As a Hokie, I was touched by the outpouring of support we received from all of the schools in the Commonwealth but particularly by that of UVA. Between the fact that UVA opened up its website to the Virginia Tech news after our servers crashed on the 16th and the Hoos for Hokies campaign, I was proud that the two rivals realized that what we have is really more of a sibling rivalry than anything substantive. We can point fingers and be mean all we want, but when it comes down to it, we’re here for each other as students, as Virginians, as people. That’s why I had such a hard time at the game this past Saturday. I was honored by the continued support – the moment of silence, the VT patch on the Virginia Pride banner, and the invitation for the Marching Virginians and President Steger to join in the halftime celebration. I was, however, a little disappointed by the fans. Of course things are going to get a little ugly, it’s a college football rivalry. But that’s just it, it’s football. Of course I expect the nasty comments about our players and coaches, and even the occasional snide remark about making minimum wage, roasting turkeys, and tipping cows. What I wasn’t prepared for, however, were the signs of disrespect toward the students, President Steger, and UVA’s own demonstrations of support. From comments about the VT being added to the Virginia Pride banner like, “Why is that VT on there, take it off!” to booing Steger and the Hokies United flag, to just generally inappropriate and tasteless comments such as, “I wish Cho had killed all you G-- d--- Hokies,” the fans crossed a line that was inappropriate even for a heated college football rivalry atmosphere. Some of my best friends go to UVA and we traded insults but in the end, we’re friends and we keep our animosity contained within the realm of football. I did experience some fan support – after the game, we encountered a pair of UVA alumni who were very friendly. They shook hands, gave hugs and congratulations, and were willing to put aside any differences to be friendly to visitors. Perhaps it is a bit much to ask that everyone be as nice as those two fans were, but I don’t feel that I and my fellow Hokies would be unjustified in asking for that support that we’ve had these past seven and a half months to continue, even when football is concerned.

At the whim of a hat

2007-08-12T16:30:00.000-04:00

I met a man once who changed my life. I didn’t know it at the time and he certainly never knew it. I wondered whenever I thought about our meeting if he remembered me too. I like to think that he did, but you never know in this world.

I was sitting on the hood of my car while steam poured from underneath. It was the June of the summer in which I turned 19 and my car had finally overheated, something it had been threatening to do for weeks. I pulled over in a parking lot and my car finally died in the fire lane, right in front of a gym. The volunteer fire squad was helpfully just finishing their workout and helped me to push my car a little farther out of the way (it being stuck in the fire lane and all). I kid you not, I was sitting on my car all damsel-in-distress like and out comes the damn fire squad.

I met many more people coming in and out of the gym that day. One was an elegant looking older man. He was coming out of the gym, and had the air of someone who had worked out and stayed fit his entire life. He was friendly and said something to everyone who was in his vicinity when he came out. When he saw me, he stopped and put his gym bag down. He smiled broadly and walked all around my car, his smile growing brighter every minute. I just watched, wondering what on earth he was about to say to me. He asked me some questions, my name, had I seen Harold and Maude, why did I drive the hearse? There wasn’t anything remarkable about his questions; they were the standard ones I got from everyone who wasn’t afraid of my car.

What left the lasting impression was what he said when he left. He smiled, held out his hand for me to shake, and simply said, “I’m glad to have met you.” He had a satisfied look on his face and nodded to himself, smiling. He walked away then and I thought about what he’d said. I got back to worrying about my situation and almost forgot the elegant old man with the warm smile whose life I had made a little better. Now, when I wonder things like, “what am I good for?”, “will I ever do anything that ends up being worth all of this trouble?”, and “is life always this hard?” I also think about the old man whose life had to have been full and whose demeanor indicated accomplishment and experience and how an 18-year-old girl, sitting on the hood of her aging car on the first 95-degree day of a rather unremarkable summer, impressed him.

Time and tide, love, time and tide

2007-08-10T18:11:00.001-04:00

All I've done this summer that's worth mentioning is read. Ever since I was a little kid, I loved summer because of the time I had to myself. As much as I love school and going back to school, that eventually wears on me just as the end of summer does. What gets me through it are the books I read and things I learn. In the summer, my life is filled with a different kind of thought and feeling than during the school year. It's a kind of imaginative wishfulness that magnifies all of my emotions, from romanticism to meanness. In the summer I fall more deeply in love with those I care about and become more intensely disillusioned with the things that make me angry.

Perhaps the state in which I am when I read a book or see a movie determines how I remember it later and how it affects me. I know there are a lot of people that don't read and a lot more who simply watch movies for entertainment. While it may sound a bit presumptuous, I've always thought that I was affected rather differently by stories than those around me. My father is the same way and he gets the same kinds of reactions from people that I do when we speak without first being careful to not sound too weird. Even those who know me best aren't allowed to read most of what I write (and, believe me, it will never find its way onto this blog either). On the occasions when I do tell someone the truth about how I feel about something I get one of two standard reactions: a laugh and the assertion that I'm weird or misunderstanding and a refusal to accept my view.

I realized today that my favorite stories are the ones in which those who belong together do not end up together. Stories I love and you all know, such as Harry Potter and The Nightmare Before Christmas, take a backseat to those that I will never stop loving. Edward Scissorhands, Dune, the His Dark Materials trilogy, the real Little Mermaid fairytale, the Rose Elf fairytale, Hamlet, Romeo & Juliet and so many others will be my favorites for as long as I live. These stories have an astonishing power that not many others have. Everytime I read or watch them, I feel a different way. One time I might cry, the next laugh, the next sink into a depression, and yet another time I might get some strange motivation to go out and do things.

The common link in those stories is their fairytale-like nature. There are undercurrents to the obvious story that have more meaning and implication than just the words or pictures themselves. There is a journey, there are lessons learned, there is a clear hero and a distinct bad guy. Above all, there is an earth-shaking, time-ending love. The hero or heroine feels a love that, whether unrequited or returned with the same passion and fervor, they can never truly be free of nor can they ever truly feel the fullness of. The lovers, at the culmination of these stories, never end up together in a satisfactory way (though their love never wanes).

I wonder often if my fascination with unsatisfactory but final endings to the world's greatest romances has made me cynical about my own heart.

And again, Amy learns that she slept through all the good parts

2007-08-09T16:43:00.000-04:00

My roommates know me better than most human beings on this planet. In fact, it could probably be said rather confidently that they know me a little too well

What proof do I have?

I think the following pictures tell a little story that some of you may find a bit frightening...

That poor doll, currently an effigy of someone you all know well and despise thoroughly, was a present from my roommates for my birthday. Now do you see what I mean? *grin*

Am I living it right?

2007-08-06T00:43:00.000-04:00

In light of Jerry's comment, I've reconsidered my inconsistent color description.

"...she held her full, tea rose-colored lips in the half-grimace of anticipation."

Writing aside, it seems that I've once again hit one of those odd streaks of awful luck. I hit them every once in a while and do things like step on rakes, break my nose, and total my car. This particular strain of bad luck, however, doesn't seem to want to show off like others. It seems content with low but constant levels of misery. Everything from losing my two closest friends to what seems to be each other, to the strangest, most random, and most unlikely scheduling conflict possible. I'm almost afraid to get in my car, seeing as how these things usually include some costly car repair. Regardless, I'm bored being miserable and I can't wait for everyone to get back. Ever since I was a little kid, the start of school has been a relief. The anarchic monotony of the summer, where nothing happens but only because it doesn't have to, ends and something solid and comforting returns. Not the routine of school, that's never better than summer, but having something to do and something to actively avoid brings with it a motivation to be alive and not boring that the end of summer always seems to lack.

So here I am, a summer baby in every way possible, wishing desperately for an end to this summer, an end to this boredom and, hopefully, an end to the incredibly selfish and immature behavior that seems to be the cause of this sinister and creeping bad luck.

All things go, all things go

2007-07-30T21:40:00.001-04:00

So creative writing is one of my minors. More than that, it's one of my passions. I'm not very good at it, but alas, that's usually how these things go. However, if I'm ever going to pursue writing of any kind, I should probably get over my intense insecurities. By putting short pieces of writing up here, I'm risking the chance of someone reading it (though I doubt many people read this) and slowly chipping away at my inability to have anyone read my work.

It was hot, that was all she could wrap her brain around. It was hot and she felt sticky. She held her arms loose at her sides and kept her hands stiff to keep her fingers from sticking together. There was more than just heat in the air though, and she could smell it. No one knew when she figured out that she didn't quite belong but they all knew how.

For generations, her village had been peopled by gentle, kind farmers. Very few visitors ever came and when they left, all they could remark on was how pleasant everyone had been. Everyone living there now had blue eyes. An opaque, aqua blue that made them look as if they had been made of some polished stone. There hadn't been another eye color in the village since anyone could remember.

She stood there now, staring down the lane with her intense brown eyes. Her straw colored hair fell thick and damp from the humidity down past her shoulders and onto her chest. Freckles stood out on her nose and cheeks and forehead and she held her full, mauve lips in the half-grimace of anticipation. The sun smiled down with its unrelenting heat and her eyes twinkled with intelligence and something that flickered and danced and laughed. She shifted slightly on legs a little too long for her height. Any casual passersby at that moment would have remarked on how beautiful she was.

And we've got everybody singing

2007-05-19T19:16:00.000-04:00

I'm alive, just so you know. I haven't been able to write and I haven't been able to think or breathe or move or scream or smile or laugh or cry or love, but I've been able to lose. I think maybe now I'm done losing and I'm back to living.

You can't spell your first name with the null set

2007-04-10T12:45:00.000-04:00

The Religious Right gets up on its moral high horse and judges. Newt Gingrich judges (and cheats on his wife), Rush Limbaugh judges (and does drugs), and Jerry Falwell judges (and believes in segregation and that feminists caused September 11th). These people judge me because I don't believe in God, male dominance, and homophobia.

Now, how these people can remain the Religious "Right" is something I just can't wrap my head around. I understand (and disagree with) where they get their views on abortion and homosexuality. What I don't understand is how they can still call themselves good Christians when they use those beliefs to judge and persecute their fellow human beings. Moreover, I can't understand how these people can deign to be more morally outraged by men who love other men and women who cannot yet love a child than by the immense poverty in the world. Isn't that a part of their religion too? Or is my idea of a Christ who taught the value of tolerance, love, and helping those around you completely wrong? The "right" in this country does not tolerate, love, or attempt to help those who have less than they do.

People ask me all the time about my lack of belief in God. I refuse to believe in the Judeo-Christian God because I will not have faith in a being whose name is invoked by those who espouse so much hate and misery and intolerance. They say God and suicide bombers say Allah but they all mean the same thing. You realize you all believe in the same damn god, right?

And here's my last problem. You cannot let religion dictate legislation. Morals, perhaps, but not religion. Some of you just did that sharp intake of breath that's half gasp of indignation and half sigh of condemnation. "Oh my god, Amy, you can't legislate morals!" I know, dipshit, that's not what I said. I said sometimes you can allow morals to dictate legislation. First of all, it's the other way around and second of all, it's why it's illegal to murder or rape. Isn't a more liberal (in the sense you're all thinking, not the actual sense) approach to legislation a better one? If more is allowed, then people are freer to make their own decisions. Those who disagree with abortion or gay marriage for religious reasons want to make both of them illegal but here's the deal - not everyone sees problems with those two issues. There aren't just two sides to these issues either, there are several. The laws should reflect that by allowing for choice. I know that has come to be a "bad word" in the abortion debate, but it just makes sense, people. If the law allows for choice, then those who disagree with abortions can choose not to have them and those who are victims of rape or have life-threatening conditions can choose to have them. Likewise, those who disagree with gay marriages can choose not to have them or attend them or even like them and those who agree can choose to the opposite. Choice is not a dirty word.

Sometimes we're just too smart for our own good, but others...

2007-04-05T12:07:00.000-04:00

The notion of an omnibenevolent, omniscient, omnipresent, and omnipotent God is one of the most common in philosophy and religion. Many people have brought the following challenge: how can God be all-good and all-knowing and still have created Lucifer (with the knowledge that he would fall)?

That argument is intriguing. To add to it, take a look at Leibniz. He says, more or less, that all of the things that happen to us and others during our lives is a part of our essence. That means it was a part of Judas' very nature, his very existence, to betray Jesus. Now, some say that the death of Jesus was necessary, but that only adds to the point. How can an all-good and all-knowing being set in motion events that are going to end in betrayal and violent death?

I trusted the government. Now my dick glows in the dark.

2007-04-04T23:10:00.000-04:00

So, I've been working on some posts recently, but something just happened that has put all of my other rants and thoughts on hold.

So...Jess and I were watching Lost earlier and the local news came on. Let me tell you briefly about how wonderful Roanoke local news is; people run their vehicles into buildings with astonishing frequency around here. Really, how do you do that? That takes a region full of really fucking stupid drivers. Now, to illustrate this theory: In Campbell County today, deputies became engaged in a high speed pursuit of a woman. Ms. Heather Bush's car was parked in the middle of a pizza restaurant's parking lot sometime around 2 am. Deputies began questioning Ms. Bush and she took off. They proceeded to chase her, calling for back-up. Deputy Jason Lee Saunders, 24, attempted to join the chase. Speeding toward the chase, he lost control of his car and hit several trees in a fatal accident. This story, while sad, illustrates a series of very poor driving choices. First, don't drive away from the cops, asshat. Second, don't chase her, dipshits. Both of these decisions are incredibly dangerous, incredibly ill-advised, and incredibly stupid.

But that's not even my point. No, now Ms. Bush is being charged with second degree murder. Second degree fucking murder! Am I the only person who sees a problem with this? Now, they aren't entirely crazy. There is a Virginia statute that allows for the prosecution of someone who, in the commission of a felony, causes the accidental or unpredictable death of someone else. I don't even necessarily take issue with this law. It certainly has dangerous implications, but its heart is in the right place. In this case, however, I refuse to accept the validity of its application. Heather Bush was not committing a felony when she was parked in the parking lot at 2 am. The cops responded to a "suspicious person" which, in itself, is not something for which you can be charged. Her felony occurs in her evasion of the police. However, this law is usually applied in cases where a direct action of the felon causes the accidental death. For example, had she accidentally struck a pedestrian while fleeing from police it could be applied, or if she had wrecked her car and killed her passenger. Or another example, stolen from CSI, someone fires a gun and accidentally hits someone blocks away, killing them. These are accidental murders caused by the commission of a felony. She however, had no direct contact with the deputy who was killed. This is where it gets to be a little bit more complicated. Hot pursuit would qualify as direct contact, and being a member of a high speed chase is considered hot pursuit. Deputy Saunders, however, was not in hot pursuit. He was merely on his way to joining the chase; he was not yet a part of it. This is an outrageous case being used to counteract all of the recent litigation about the danger involved in high speed chases and their tendency to end in use of excessive force. Most of you will remember my weeks of indignation from the end of last semester when I wrote a case brief on one such case. I have a feeling we'll see this or something similar in the Supreme Court or, at the very least, the state Supreme Court.

Oh, and just for added bullshittiness - some douchebag in Richmond proposed that the legislature adjourn in memory of Deputy Saunders and the House unanimously voted for the measure.

Once again Amy learns to swallow the water and not breathe it in...

2007-04-01T01:53:00.000-04:00

Science is to us what the myths were to the Ancient Greeks and the Bible was to early (and some contemporary) Christians. It is simply our way of explaining the world around us. Originally, all of the separate fields that make up the genera "science" belonged to philosophy. As we progressed and became more technical, refined, and observant (the last of which we could really stand to have back), the physical sciences branched out. They became our precious biology and chemistry and physics. All, however, serve the exact same purpose as Zeus and Athena and Jesus and Mohamed.

That is not to say that science is just as much an attempt at validation as its predecessors. Certainly, or so it seems, we've found a much more accurate way to interpret our world than ever before. I believe in evolution and understand why and how the world functions (as much as anyone with a comparable education). Science, however, is simply a product of the real power of the world. Science explains how the moon affects the tides and what makes meteors into shooting stars. I even know why the sky is blue and what makes the sunset change colors. All of these things, however, possess a certain level of beauty, eloquence, and emotion - a level of power - that we will never explain away. This power comes not from God or an intelligent designer but from the mere function of the world and the puzzle-like fit of everything in its place.

This belief is why I appreciate art, music, and good writing. When those things are truly good, they possess a certain amount of the natural beauty of the world. They simply are. Sometimes we just need to be.

On why Amy should never be given unlimited access to a camera...

2007-03-30T14:50:00.000-04:00

So I'm stealing an idea each from my two best friends here at school and combining them. It's not plagiarism, I swear. I've realized recently that I write quite a lot and I take quite a few pictures. Lindsey, the cooler, smarter, shorter version of me writes a lot too, that's why she has a blog. Jess, the diminutive, creative genius that lives in the next room over (and will continue to do so even when I move into an apartment in just a few weeks) takes a lot of pictures, that's why she has a blog. I do both, I've just always been a little more shy about it than this. I guess we all have to come out of our shells eventually, right? It's part of growing up.

So this must be what all the cool kids are doing. If it is, then I want in, and if it isn't well...I was never that cool anyway.

I've discovered recently that taking pictures is fun. Actually, I think I already knew that, I just never had a Macbook Pro before. Now, unfortunately for the rest of the world, I can take pictures of myself whenever I please. It's not pretty. Want to see what happens?

Boredom.

Ennui.

Dreariness.

Restiveness.

Monotony.

All of these things result in the above consequences.