This is a piece I wrote back in college. Rediscovered, tidied up and given some love! It's always been a story that I remembered writing but it's been many years since I've read it (9 years?!) I think it's one of my favorite pieces to this day. Thanks for reading! Hope you enjoy.
Donninger wore sunglasses as big as his head, bigger than his nose and elbows put together. It was like he was preparing for the sun to drop down from outer space to say hello, and he wanted to be able to look it in the eye when it did. The frames were silver, like the wings of an exotic bat and the lenses flashed blue then green then red as if they were reflecting the Christmas lights tacked to Jeffrey’s mother’s windows, the ones that lit up even in June and July. It was July, in fact, on this day, when he wore his sunglasses, fly-like eyes scanning the beach for his beautiful babe. He knew he would find her here, because they were all beautiful in their strappy bathing suits and fresh skin, gleaming with oils and sprinkled with sea salt. But they weren’t all his, unfortunately. And it was his loss, not theirs, he knew this. They weren’t missing anything not having him in their lives, because there wasn’t much to him that one would like besides his big silver specks. He didn’t have a real voice, and he didn’t have hairs on his chest. He gleamed in the sun, but it wasn’t oil on his skin, because he didn’t have skin either. He didn’t have a liver or toe nails. He had never experienced the strange sensation of vomiting, because he didn’t have a stomach and he didn’t eat. He never went to college, because he didn’t need to. All of the data he could ever want to know or need to know or could ever dream of knowing was born with him. Jeffrey had put it there.
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This is a blog post that I wrote for the fabulous folks at Dreamfarm Arts-Eco Village, a center for arts, education and eco living in southern Tasmania's Huon Valley. I had the privilege of staying here for a week and the honor of being the first writer in their creative residency program. It was a much needed escape from the hectic backpacker life and incredible setting to sit down and put some serious work time into my book project. Read on about my experience at this emerging powerhouse for creatives, and check them out online! "As a writer, aspiring novelist, and creator of things in general (business cards pending), I’ve spent much of my life dreaming about an elusive set of “perfect conditions” — the circumstances that would allow me to realize my full artistic potential, pumping out volumes of written work with ease, painting the world’s next great masterpiece in a single, sunny afternoon. (Creatives are an idealist bunch sometimes, aren’t they?)
Surely, if I could just remove the stress of work and financial obligations, free my time to do nothing but create, distance myself from technology and other distractions, throw myself into nature, out in the middle of nowhere — then, finally, I could access an infinite stream of creativity and inspiration, one that would allow me to produce the art that lies dormant in me. I knew it wouldn’t be easy, but I was sure it could be done..." Click here to read the rest of the post on the Dreamfarm website, and check out their Facebook page! Find the fire --
The flickering of life In the pit of your gut; And even though it will Burn the dry, dead earth Beneath your feet, Fan the flames -- Watch them clear the way For the emergence of New life out of ashes. Withstand the heat against Your face and Feel as — drip, drip -- Stagnancy and Years-old pain Melt away. Water with sweat, With tears of submission, A garden, a field, a forest Born of your potential Of your faith Of your courage to say: Yes, I am driven And Yes, I am the driver And Yes, I will live A life that honors The divinity in me, That reignites the embers Of exploding stars That have propelled me Into my very existence. I came across this snippet of something in one of many half-filled notebooks I have laying around. It's a good reminder of why I save them - because I don't remember writing it, but I like it quite a bit. It makes me wonder where my head was at, who I was then (very much a theme of this piece as well). From the sounds of it, I was at a dear friend Jamie's house prior to taking off to Thailand. And I was probably reading Watchmen at the time, because it's very cosmic. Thanks for reading! Hope it speaks something to you too. It was February, but it felt like summer. The sun kissed her skin in irregular pink patches. She used her hands to shield her eyes from the blaring star until, through the branches of a palm tree wavering above her, she stared directly into it. She grew blinder and blinder until she couldn’t anymore. She looked down at her black shirt watching the orange and purple remnants of the sun dance across her vision. Temporarily tattooed by that massive ball of fire in the sky. We all come from stars… And then we sit beneath one, for the remainder of our days, trying not to burn. What else is there to do? At the moment, she couldn’t think of anything. It was Wednesday, not that the names of the days matter much when their content is so consistently the same. This day, like all the other days that had come and gone since she arrived in Los Angeles, began with a solar stare-off. It would probably proceed into a sleepless nap on the couch in the living room, followed by a quiet and unimpressive meal thrown together with the groceries lingering in the kitchen from last week’s shopping. It sounds depressing, but to Jane it was anything but. It was exactly what she had been dreaming about all those years that comprised what now felt like a past life. A life of working and people and all the overwhelmingly intricate ways in which they tangled together and wrapped around her like a cocoon. Until she couldn’t see anymore and she couldn’t move. Until it felt like the air was gone and that life had ended, but Heaven would never appear before her. At that time, feeling alone and in the dark was quite terrifying. It was the opposite of what she wanted. But being alone in a crowd of people is very different from being alone with yourself, which she was now. Somehow, those moments of solitude are different. The silence of one’s own cocoon is not deafening but enlightening. As the voices and the motors and the howling of the world fades, a new dialogue begins to form internally. A dialogue with one’s self, past and present; with memories and dreams; with the various versions of ourselves that manifest throughout our existence. The muted hum of our sub-atomic energy vibrates in tune with the greater universe and all becomes one. Time does not cease to exist but instead reveals itself to us fully - not a solid line, but a geometrical masterpiece glimmering in the light of a trillion suns. What once was is now still and will forever be. Memories jut out in every direction, each snippet of reality an ever-looping remnant of glory. No indiscretion hidden or disgraced. No act of valor praised beyond the rest. The bigger picture is framed in unconditional love and progresses outward, forever. This was written as an assignment for a fiction writing course on Character and Voice from the University of Iowa. I've gotten some feedback from other participants already and know I have a bit of reworking to do - development, and oy, so many adjectives here! Would love some feedback, especially with regards to cutting back on descriptions where they come off as too heavy, and identifying holes/questions/inconsistencies in the character/voice. Thanks, guys!
As a younger girl, Arana would sit atop the roof of her father's tool shed, following the curves of the bulbous island with her eyes, as if she were tracing the thin, hopeful lines of a treasure map. She could sit this way and dream of what might be hiding beyond the pregnant horizon for hours, or until her mother returned from the hospital, intent on bathing and brushing the girl - an intention that on most days led to an argument and a licking, followed by streams of silent tears drip-dropping into the murky, gray water of the warm bath. On the evening her mother failed to return, Arana sat on the shed until the moon had traversed the entirety of the sky and fell back out of sight again. She had been so enthralled by the glistening of the cosmos, unremitting and seemingly hers, that she hadn't taken note of the passage of time or the unexpected bought of solitude, until the cry of a baby pierced the foggy air and interrupted Arana's blissful encounter with the night. A "Children's Story" using the words: flabbergasted, color, paper, broken, eloquent, rancid, lily, frothy, pink, jittery
Lily walked along the curve of a jungle path dreaming in color. The trees stood guard all around her, as far as she could see. They whispered stories of animals who, like monsters, waited in the shadows for an opportunity to eat--their favorite meal, a little girl, just like her. The thought made her jittery, but she feigned confidence as her father had taught her to, skipping along in a defiant act of courage. She was eloquent, for a 10-year-old, in a long, pink dress that snagged on the brush with every other step. She carried on this way in the direction of home for half an hour, until her legs tired and she sat down on the broken limb of a tree that seemed to have fallen for this very purpose. She held back a yawn with a sly smile, which she inherited from her mother. She sat thinking about the woman until she heard the cracking of footsteps on fallen sticks. My head floated in feverish clouds, while my body slumped heavy in the chair of a waiting room, the signs all in Thai. I was cold, too cold for Thailand, even on a rainy day. I watched the rainfall through the open doorway until I caught a young girl staring at me, peeking around a wall just beyond the door. Even as my eyes caught hers, she looked at me relentlessly, and I felt self-conscious. I felt so ill, and I’m sure I looked it. Hadn’t anyone taught her not to stare at people? I told myself to stop being sensitive; I always revert back to a child when I’m sick. I yearn for my mother; I crave grandma’s soup; I want to cuddle my Mickey Mouse doll, which I left back home for safekeeping. I want to be hugged.
I pleaded something to this effect with my eyes, and the girl looked away. I turned my attention back to the rain and wondered how long it would before they called me. I wondered how many people in this waiting room were here to see the doctor, and how many were here to see the dentist, and why they both shared this tiny clinic. I wondered why there were so many people in the waiting room when I arrived, just before five, when I was told the clinic wouldn’t open until five. I wondered if the doctor would speak English, and if not, if he would understand the Thai that I had been quietly rehearsing in my head since I left my apartment: Fever, kai. Three days, saam wan. Sore throat, jep kaw. Headache, buat hua. Very bad, mak mak! I wondered if the little paper card with the words I can’t read is really my insurance card, if these numbers are dates, and whether or not they’ve passed. I wondered why the receptionist, when she got up to let the little girl (I wondered if it was her daughter) into the bathroom, took off the pair of slippers she was wearing and put on another pair of slippers, and then switched them again when she came back. I wondered why the little girl, who looked at me with every pass, was unable to get into the bathroom on her own. I wondered how the cluster of motorbikes parked right outside the doorway on the sidewalk had gotten up there - the curb was high, and I couldn’t see a ramp or rock or brick in sight. I wondered how they’d get down. I wondered why the woman who had recently walked in and sat down got up and walked out just minutes later, without a word to anyone. She never did come back. Hungry, lusting for foods I've never heard of. Stomach rumbling at the smell of things foreign to me. I woke up crying, calling out a name I didn't recognize. I'm sorry, but I'm sure it wasn't yours. For a moment, it may have been, but my gut is a pit of quicksand, sucking down comforting yet confounding inclinations. That, you are. My heart is big and open - But maybe it's not. It's a two-way mirror, dodging penetration. It controls the switch that flips in me with the clacking of permanence. I felt it before I heard it; I listened to it before I told you it was there. Doubt and fear, they pull at it with fingers in a panic, but there isn't any use. I know this as truth by now. These are my inner workings, after all. As loud as you scream that you deserve to understand, I can't explain it clearly. A blueprint doesn't exist to navigate the depths of my perceptions. I have begged for one, filling pages with words like drops in the ocean, until I"m struggling to stay afloat. I've slinked beneath the bed on the edge of dreamless sleep, digging through the thoughts and things I've discarded there throughout the years. Grasping at memories until I find what lies at the bottom of the box, that moment of "Ah ha;" It lingers until it's gone like smoke, and whatever I discovered buried there, I may never know. Sometimes that's just how it's supposed to be. Other times it tortures me. Choppy like rough seas, grating my shells down into sand. These inner workings, turning and churning bits of star dust into everything I hope I am. .
In an act of self love, I give myself permission to:
- Rest as needed - Fail often - Feel lost - Have faith - Forgive myself - Forgive others - Be weird - Acknowledge weakness - Try new things - Be afraid - Face my fears - Be honest - Cry - Laugh at myself - Love - Dream - Celebrate successes - Be grateful to my body - Feel beautiful - Be vulnerable |
AuthorChicago-born citizen of the globe, rich in the things that really matter. Let's get weird. Categories
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