Upon the noon bell did I wake
The lark did nothing for my sake
I opened up my eyes as wide
As two huge bowls of glassy skies
I swung my legs over the side
And as I dropped, I roared I cried
Two thousand feet did I descend
My fears and frights I tried to tend
When finally my feet hit ground
I swore I’d never let her down
I tend to lose hope really easily.
I applied for a job I really wanted for creative writing, and I’ve been trying to keep in touch with the company over the course of the last month and a half. I haven’t heard anything back, after leaving two probably annoying voice mails. I met one of the employees at the job fair the other day, and we were in touch via email, and he really encouraged me in terms of the job possibility.
Anyway, my coworker who I work with on the school newspaper got a call for an interview on Thursday and guess who didn’t. Me. Marie, if you’re reading this, I love you. No hard feelings. (:
I just don’t understand why they didn’t even call me. I write creatively. I’m witty. I’m motivated. Can’t you at least give me a chance? I’ve left you two voice mails, and you can’t even call me back to say, “I’m sorry. You’re not the person we’re looking for.”? I get it. It’s reality. It’s the job world. But that doesn’t make it right. Seriously though, I get it. Don’t try to lecture me, Conscience.
I’m so happy for my friend, Marie, but I’m just bummed. It’s my first “rejection” (I guess technically they could still call me, but yeah, no…) and it’s hit hard. I suppose, though, I’m more angry then sad. I can’t even get an interview? I must really suck.
It’s SNOWING. And the campus yard people (whatever they are called) are plowing the sidewalks right outside my window, and I’m pissed because they are completely tainting the ethereal beauty of the new fallen snow. On the bright side, I don’t have class tomorrow.
Additionally: I got Mongolian Grille for the, maybe, I think, fifth time (?) this week,… and it’s only Tuesday. AND I applied for a job after college writing stories about people with diseases. Fingers crossed. Apparently they send their employees to Switzerland, which is SO cool, but it kinda makes me anxious. I hate being stuck on planes… because what if I have an anxiety attack? What if I throw up (which I have done before)? What if I can’t breathe? What if I die? These are the thoughts that run through my head.
I guess I need to face my fears, or I’ll never make it far in life.
Does anyone else get anxious on planes?
Guess who got a job?! ME! I did. I got a job. I mean, I already kinda have a job as the Lifestyle Editor for my college newspaper (toot, toot), but I got another job! More money! I always need more money! So, yes, I am now employed with Forever 21… and the best part is… I GET DISCOUNTS!
I’m clearly in it for aaallll the right reasons.
Also, you should know: I am sitting on the toilet right now blogging. Yes, I just peed, and I’m still sitting here, blogging. That’s how dedicated I am. *cough* you didn’t blog last week, Steph *cough* Excuse me, left hemisphere (of the brain) clearly delusional? I did blog. I blogged all day. I blogged all night. I blogged in my sleep. I blog. You blog. We all blog to blog.
I really need to shut up. I try not to get too annoying in these posts, but my inner obnoxious always ends up coming out. Now I know who I truly am, and frankly my dear, I’m disappointed.
I feel like I’m pregnant. Not with child. (Don’t freak out, Mom). But there comes a time in every writer’s life when their creative energy is flowing much more profusely than normal. Let’s call it the “Creative Period.” Wow, you guys. That’s clever. I just realized how clever that is NOW after typing it out. What I was trying to do was compare it to a women’s menstrual cycle, but like “Creative Period” makes sense too…
So,
Currently I am on my Creative Period. Stories, scenarios, characters keep popping in and out of my head but too fast for me to grab on to. I’m inspired, but uninspired. It’s like I’m waiting for the right thought/idea to come along. I feel… important, or… I don’t know, influential and giddy. I see a story in everything. I want everyone’s story told, even the one’s I make up in my head. Especially those. Because who’s is gonna hear them if you don’t tell them aloud?
That’s the great thing about storytelling. They pass on from generation to generation. They exhaust our hearts and our minds. They fill us with hope, love, pain, and encourage our imagination.
I wish I knew how to express my thoughts in words, but no language can ever suffice.
Okay guys…
Here is my New Year’s Resolution. I am going to blog AT LEAST twice a week…every week. Committing myself to daily blogging unmotivates me so much so that my rebellious alter ego purposely distracts me with some other menial task just to keep me from keeping my promise to my wonderful blogging followers.
Have you ever wanted to sound like a writer but after trying your best to concoct a perfect sentence you find the operation to be utterly hopeless? I believe I’m providing an example now. Just reread the last few sentences and witness this conundrum at work. Easily you will be able to tell how desperate I am to sound like a writer. I may be proposing this in jest (what a medieval word – makes me sound cultured, doesn’t it?) but it’s a serious problem for me, and frequently discourages my sensitive ego.
So… in order to give my life a sense of meaning as a writer, I WILL NOT fail at blogging AT LEAST twice a week. I MUST PREVAIL. Plus, if you are following me, you deserve my time, and I deserve to give my time, because my time is worth giving (yeah, keep telling yourself that, Steph). LOVE MEEEE.
But, like, I don’t write everyday. Writers tell writers they must write everyday in order to be a good writer. Am I bad writer because I don’t write everyday? Must I write everyday to be a good writer? Will not writing everyday make me into a bad writer? Or are there more like me – writers who don’t write?
See… I write when I feel inspired, which is rarely. Take my blog for instance. I used to post on here everyday because I was excited about it. Now, I only post when I acquire the energy to open up my computer, sign on, and move my fingers in rapid succession to express my true inner feelings and ponderings.
Someone justify my feelings of doubt. Someone make me feel a little bit less alone. ‘Cause being alone is so uninspiring.
Short guys creep me out, and not just short guys, but short guys who think they are tall. I know they didn’t choose to look like a midget, but just the fact that when I stand next to them I’m practically a skyscraper… it’s just a bit unsettling. I realize I’m tall for a girl (at 5’8”) but how can that five feet five inches standing in front of you make you want to rip your panties off. Well, it doesn’t make me want to. It makes me want to put an extra set on.
Look, guys are supposed to be taller than girls. It’s just how it’s supposed to be. Where in our line of evolution did men suddenly lose five inches? I don’t hate short guys. Let me clarify. I just hate when their height is like this weird white elephant in the room and they pretend it’s not a fact. Make fun of yourself or something. YOU’RE SO SHORT! It’s not normal. Stop trying to act tall. I mean… I’m all for self-confidance, but I’m not for acting like someone you’re not. Shoot, my ears stick out. I look like Dumbo. I’ll accept it. I may look like a white elephant, but I try to avoid them at all costs.
God, I sound harsh. Case in point: Short guys creep me out, and I’m tall.
The wall sparkles with Christmas lights too eager to wait three months. Vanilla floats through the air, curling the edges of the posters littering the white, plaster walls. Cheap blue carpet crunches with added pressure, and the bed looks inviting. A heavy down comforter lays like a blue slug atop the memory foam mattress. If only the slug would open its mouth and swallow you up, then you’d be happy. The switch flicks the light on, the lamp beside the bed. A soft glow hardly illuminates the room, casting about a warm caramel hue, in contrast with the cool air blowing from the air conditioner, like ice cream. You slip your tongue out of your mouth, looking for the sweet taste of sundae syrup. It’s practically there. It’s a comfortable room, you think. You could live here, you say aloud. Voices echo outside, shouting happy exclamations about class and sports and all those things separate from you and this room. A painting of a dancer before a brown backdrop hangs above the bed. She reaches up her arms, tilting her head back. She has no face.
A wooden desk sits at the opposite wall, bare with the exception of a white Apple computer. You pull the purple rolling chair from its home under the desk, and sit down. Smiling, you open up your computer and begin to type.
200 years pass.
You cough out the dust from your mouth. This place hasn’t been lived in for years, you think to yourself. Small particles of dirt and dust cover every inch of the room. Well, it’s not really a room. It’s more of a three-sided cave. The fourth wall opens to a barren field, surrounded by other white broken down buildings. The place is desolate. You tread carefully into the room, vigilant for broken glass or important items. The tip of something blue sticks out from the dust mud. It’s drowning. You pull on it, unsettling more dust that makes you cough. You shake away the age, and find a ratted-out, old comforter. All the feathers have come out, leaving it limp and lifeless. It’s dead, like everything else here, you think. The air smells of old age, and decay. Green mold grows in the corners of the wall and ceiling. Sunlight streams into the room, scaring away the shadows. It’s a welcome glow, like caramel, choked by dust. If only you could taste it. You plummet your hand into a mountain of dead wood, and rusty medal. Holding up the object buried beneath the folds of time, you blow your hot breath against it. Maybe you shouldn’t have done that. It’s old, after all.
She has no mouth, this girl looking at you now. She has no nose, no eyes, no ears, nor wrinkles. She is obviously young. She has arms, which she lifts above her head with grace. Chocolate runs down the painting in streaks, mixing into her pale white face. You wipe away the remaining dust, and stare at it a while. So light for something so old. Suddenly, you know it’s time to leave. You look back at the room one last time, taste the air, cough, then close the door with the no-faced girl tucked under your arm.
So, I wrote this for a Creative Non-Fiction class. It’s about a symbolic object in my life, so I wrote about my baby blanket. Enjoy (:
It’s been twenty-one years since I arrived shiny, and wailing into this place we call life. Afraid and small, I gazed upon my young mother with new eyes. Shy and hopeful, my mother whispered I love you’s in my ear, knowing one day I wouldn’t be so tiny and infant-like. One day I’d inevitably have to move out, start a family, or have children. All these things she saw before her eyes as I begun to stop crying to wonder at the stillness flowing through me as the beautiful woman held me so close to her chest.
A blanket was given to me on the first day in my new home. Soft, warm, and colored with a faded rainbow pattern. As I fell asleep in my own room, in my own crib, in my own home, I squeezed the “bankey” against my chest, just as my mother had done with me in the hospital, and sighed as the anxious tears finally began to ebb.
There is hardly a memory of my childhood I can remember without my blanket. Every night before letting my eyes close, I’d press my blanket to my face, and smile into it, feeling lucky to have such a friend.
It’s been twenty-one years, and I still cling to the soft fabric of my “bankey.” As I look back, I wonder how I could have let time go by so fast. I notice the wrinkles around my mother’s eyes, the grey in her curly hair, and the faint lines around her mouth from making smiling her life-long career. It’s then I question the value of life. Through the years, my blanket has aged. The soft pastel colors have all blended into white. Even the orange stains from spilled food have faded. I often find soft orphan pieces of thread and string haphazardly settled on my bed, or clinging to my shirt as our enemy time takes its toll.
I know I will have to put it away one day, separate myself from its security, but for now, I’ll keep holding on to it. Tattered, ratty, smelly, and tear-soaked it may be. It may not look like much at all. But when I hold it, caress it against my cheek, breathe in the musty scent of my family house, I can picture life as a child, my mother’s smile, and the warm place I will always call home.
sincerelystephanie.org 