The sun and I play peak-a-boo as it slowly dips beneath the fuzzy horizon miles across the lake. Evening has arrived, cool sand cradles my body and the night air freshens. Quickly, every drop of humidity is stung away by the night's crisp chill. I rise from the sand. Wipe away the sand stuck to my bare thighs and slip on my sandals. The mosquitoes had arrived.
My head hit the ground hard, colliding against the dirt and coming to a rest there, my body too stunned to lift it. I lay there for a few moments, my arm pinned at a strange angle under my chest. Using my free arm, I managed to push my torso up and stagger to my feet. The world was spinning and my eyes couldn’t come to focus. The trees, the flowers, the horses, were all blurs, glinting with a golden light from the blazing sun. I heard a few panicked voices in the distance, jolting my senses awake. A sharp pain lanced through the arm I’d landed on, startling me into full consciousness. I glanced down to a grisly, unnatural sight - my forearm was bent just below the elbow, coming to a 45-degree angle in a place that definitely shouldn’t bend. Looking at it, the pain grew much worse. It felt like hundreds of needles were sinking their way into my skin, sliding in further the longer that I looked. I was surprised that the bright, cherry red blood hadn’t made its appearance. I tried to move my fingers; they twitched feebly like the legs of a dying animal. What was worse, I couldn’t even feel them moving.
My hands utterly shook as I approached the stage. It was not the first time I had been on this stage, nor would it be the last. In fact, it was just the very beginning of what will become a grueling three month process of putting on a show, and auditions were just the first hurdle. It is when one is most vulnerable; willing to open themselves up to a panel of people, waiting to judge them. The page trembled in my hands, which were turning more and more white by the second, and the words began to change. They turned into blurred, floating phrases, some screaming into my head, "Are you good enough for this?", some wrapping their inky bodies across my shoulders and whispering, "Do you really think you're better than she is?" I spoke, and listened to my voice. I sounded more confident than I felt. The girl speaking was sure of what she was saying, undaunted by the countless eyes she knew were staring her down, waiting for her to fail, not the girl I knew I was in that moment; small, scared, and shaking. The sigh of relief when finishing rushed through my body like a tsunami.
It feels like an ungodly time to be awake on a Sunday morning. I pull out my phone. The time reads 8:45 am. I lace up the cleats methodically, my hands a blur as I tie them as tightly as they will go. The ground is soft under my soles, and the dew-covered grass yields easily to my metal cleats. The familiar sound of ball-on-leather echoes across the field. Thwat, thwat, thwat. We throw a small, white ball through the air -warming up. For a second, as I run my fingers across the ball's surface, it feels soft, and smooth, but the sensation is immediately interrupted as my fingertips discover the red seams-their small, but rugged edges jutting abruptly from the white leather surface.
It's hard to fall asleep on a parc bench. Cradling my heavy, pale figure, wrapped in 3 layers of rainjackets, the stack of decomposed wood does its best to bend around my soft frame. Clenching my lids closed, I see noisy darkness.
I think I hear Sarah calling from behind me. She has to pee.
The printing shop acorss the street doesn't like loiterers like us. The gaunt secratary, pinching her penciled-in brows and wrinkling her yellow nose, jumbles a few words into a sentence. I think her medical condition of permanantley pissed off syndrome causes her to talk like a teething 1 year old. We decipher them into: "No-you-cannot-use-our-bathroom-You-must-go-or-I-am-calling-the-police."
Backs turn; we exit. I guess Sarah will just go in the woods, again.
I've never been to Texas before. It seems to me like an obscure place, standing in the shadow of much more alluring locations such as Paris, or Japan, or Italy. I'd love to go to Japan. But I didn't go to Japan. No not for the weekend of July Fourth, not for four days of exciting conventions, friendly hotels, interesting costumed people, and internet celebrities. I didn't go to Japan for a convention hosted by my favorite youtube channel, but I did go to Texas for that same reason. Into a metal bird with two friends, I flew to New Jersey then to Texas, all to see my favorite gaming company and youtube channel, Roosterteeth. To Texas I flew through the open skies, hurling between heaven above and cotton candy grown below. Or broad, open planes of cotton it seemed as well. In any which case, below me was a soft, white landscape I could just jump on and maybe experience a ground soft as a pillow. But that's unlikely. Clouds are not solid enough, I'll just be sky diving and then sky dying. But it was the thought that counted. I never tested my theory of the solidity of the clouds before me, but that was ok. After six hours of sitting in a seat in a big, metal bird the iron avian finally reached Texas, and finally did it set its sights upon the landing strip, finally it swooped down ever so gently to rest its wings, for it had done quite a flight. Down we went, lower and lower, steeper and steeper, but of course turning up enough so we wouldn't dive into the ground, and closer the landing wheels came to the landing strip, until finally contact was made. I believe the wheels were quite as surprised as the pavement to be making contact with each other, as the plane stuttered and shook in a manner akin to a man told that he had a brother, and that the brother still ate elmer's glue.
Even though it’s dark out, it’s hot. Walking down the sidewalk feels like swimming through a swimming pool heated to ninety degrees, the moisture sticks to my skin and holds on, even as I shed as many layers of clothing as I can. People say the city is quiet at night, but they just aren’t listening hard enough. There is always the sound of cars driving down Danforth street, and the sound of straggling tourists finding their way back to hotels and young people, like ourselves, wandering aimlessly, nowhere to go, but nowhere to be. The noise is soothing, like the soft music in my ears when I fall asleep. I say I’m not tired but I feel the desire to shut my eyes pull at the edges of my mind, gently at first, and then harder. I ignore it, and allow the peace of the night to become fuel. The sky is light as well, although I can imagine what the stars must look like, hidden behind a cloak of light pollution and the faintest coating of clouds. The moon is clear, and one of those nights when it's rather unremarkable, because it’s not the luminous and full globe and not the textured sliver that the dreamworks fisherman sits on. It glows faintly, and I watch it, and I feel a little like a want to cry.
Blank, nothing to write about. Kinda like last night, but this time writing about what I'm doing now shows a lack of creativity; rather than... well I suppose there is no rather than. Its too late. The exterior darkness envelops my homestead while I attempt to squeeze, or force some ounce of perfection and brilliance from my mind. I'm short inspiration at the moment. My mind resembles an excessively dried sponge, or a junky short his fix. The world around me grows darker, but this ok, I am ok. For it is now discernible that the appearance of the morning dew will coincide with clarity, and bring an end to the obscurity of night. Wow that was too much, well over the top. Poor ending I'd say, but this isn't much better.
During the Great Bahamian Twilight, usually three things are sure to happen. Firstly, the sun sets in flare of echoing colors, collapsing to its knees onto the horizon as it falls prey to the moon's chilling burn. Whether from pleasure or toil- its optic cries deluge out into the sky in a passionate scream of light, only to disappear beneath the Earth. Second, my star appears. Maraqq, its disk of stellar debris accentuating the flicker and silver shine of the star. This has always been my star, a familiar reminder that I am not alone amongst the empty millions surrounding me. Last, the wind hastens its way around the birches of the island and chases away the hot Bahamian air, leaving the night with a dark, frigid atmosphere. It is the end to the Great Bahamian Twilight, the final step on the island's journey to darkness. The "coal wind" only lasts a few moments, then it departs... and night has arisen.
It's easy to think of exhaustion as simply a lack of energy, a feeling of emptiness induced by the steady degradation of verve. I think that true exhaustion is a feeling all its own. Exhaustion is not the absence of energy, but rather the presence of a certain numbness of the limbs, loss of dexterity and balance. Exhaustion tends to make me feel as though all the blood in my body has sudddenly increased in volume such that my skin feels taught with the strain of keeping it contained. Each heartbeat threatens to pop the delicate membrane of my skin.
Twinkling stars shine down. They are geometric: triangles, squares and Ursa Majors abound. The shimmering duality of the sky reveals itself at times like this. It is a dark-hued fresco etched on an expansive chapel ceiling. It is what we on Earth can muster as a passing glance at the true picture of where, who and what we are. Both truths live and breath in a fleeting glimpse above.
The sun and I play peak-a-boo as it slowly dips beneath the fuzzy horizon miles across the lake. Evening has arrived, cool sand cradles my body and the night air freshens. Quickly, every drop of humidity is stung away by the night's crisp chill. I rise from the sand. Wipe away the sand stuck to my bare thighs and slip on my sandals. The mosquitoes had arrived.
ReplyDeleteMy head hit the ground hard, colliding against the dirt and coming to a rest there, my body too stunned to lift it. I lay there for a few moments, my arm pinned at a strange angle under my chest. Using my free arm, I managed to push my torso up and stagger to my feet. The world was spinning and my eyes couldn’t come to focus. The trees, the flowers, the horses, were all blurs, glinting with a golden light from the blazing sun. I heard a few panicked voices in the distance, jolting my senses awake. A sharp pain lanced through the arm I’d landed on, startling me into full consciousness. I glanced down to a grisly, unnatural sight - my forearm was bent just below the elbow, coming to a 45-degree angle in a place that definitely shouldn’t bend. Looking at it, the pain grew much worse. It felt like hundreds of needles were sinking their way into my skin, sliding in further the longer that I looked. I was surprised that the bright, cherry red blood hadn’t made its appearance. I tried to move my fingers; they twitched feebly like the legs of a dying animal. What was worse, I couldn’t even feel them moving.
ReplyDeleteMy hands utterly shook as I approached the stage. It was not the first time I had been on this stage, nor would it be the last. In fact, it was just the very beginning of what will become a grueling three month process of putting on a show, and auditions were just the first hurdle. It is when one is most vulnerable; willing to open themselves up to a panel of people, waiting to judge them. The page trembled in my hands, which were turning more and more white by the second, and the words began to change. They turned into blurred, floating phrases, some screaming into my head, "Are you good enough for this?", some wrapping their inky bodies across my shoulders and whispering, "Do you really think you're better than she is?" I spoke, and listened to my voice. I sounded more confident than I felt. The girl speaking was sure of what she was saying, undaunted by the countless eyes she knew were staring her down, waiting for her to fail, not the girl I knew I was in that moment; small, scared, and shaking. The sigh of relief when finishing rushed through my body like a tsunami.
ReplyDeleteIt feels like an ungodly time to be awake on a Sunday morning. I pull out my phone. The time reads 8:45 am. I lace up the cleats methodically, my hands a blur as I tie them as tightly as they will go. The ground is soft under my soles, and the dew-covered grass yields easily to my metal cleats. The familiar sound of ball-on-leather echoes across the field. Thwat, thwat, thwat. We throw a small, white ball through the air -warming up. For a second, as I run my fingers across the ball's surface, it feels soft, and smooth, but the sensation is immediately interrupted as my fingertips discover the red seams-their small, but rugged edges jutting abruptly from the white leather surface.
ReplyDeleteIt's hard to fall asleep on a parc bench.
ReplyDeleteCradling my heavy, pale figure, wrapped in 3 layers of rainjackets, the stack of decomposed wood does its best to bend around my soft frame. Clenching my lids closed, I see noisy darkness.
I think I hear Sarah calling from behind me. She has to pee.
The printing shop acorss the street doesn't like loiterers like us. The gaunt secratary, pinching her penciled-in brows and wrinkling her yellow nose, jumbles a few words into a sentence. I think her medical condition of permanantley pissed off syndrome causes her to talk like a teething 1 year old. We decipher them into: "No-you-cannot-use-our-bathroom-You-must-go-or-I-am-calling-the-police."
Backs turn; we exit. I guess Sarah will just go in the woods, again.
I've never been to Texas before. It seems to me like an obscure place, standing in the shadow of much more alluring locations such as Paris, or Japan, or Italy. I'd love to go to Japan. But I didn't go to Japan. No not for the weekend of July Fourth, not for four days of exciting conventions, friendly hotels, interesting costumed people, and internet celebrities. I didn't go to Japan for a convention hosted by my favorite youtube channel, but I did go to Texas for that same reason. Into a metal bird with two friends, I flew to New Jersey then to Texas, all to see my favorite gaming company and youtube channel, Roosterteeth. To Texas I flew through the open skies, hurling between heaven above and cotton candy grown below. Or broad, open planes of cotton it seemed as well. In any which case, below me was a soft, white landscape I could just jump on and maybe experience a ground soft as a pillow. But that's unlikely. Clouds are not solid enough, I'll just be sky diving and then sky dying. But it was the thought that counted. I never tested my theory of the solidity of the clouds before me, but that was ok. After six hours of sitting in a seat in a big, metal bird the iron avian finally reached Texas, and finally did it set its sights upon the landing strip, finally it swooped down ever so gently to rest its wings, for it had done quite a flight. Down we went, lower and lower, steeper and steeper, but of course turning up enough so we wouldn't dive into the ground, and closer the landing wheels came to the landing strip, until finally contact was made. I believe the wheels were quite as surprised as the pavement to be making contact with each other, as the plane stuttered and shook in a manner akin to a man told that he had a brother, and that the brother still ate elmer's glue.
ReplyDeleteThis comment has been removed by the author.
ReplyDeleteEven though it’s dark out, it’s hot. Walking down the sidewalk feels like swimming through a swimming pool heated to ninety degrees, the moisture sticks to my skin and holds on, even as I shed as many layers of clothing as I can. People say the city is quiet at night, but they just aren’t listening hard enough. There is always the sound of cars driving down Danforth street, and the sound of straggling tourists finding their way back to hotels and young people, like ourselves, wandering aimlessly, nowhere to go, but nowhere to be. The noise is soothing, like the soft music in my ears when I fall asleep. I say I’m not tired but I feel the desire to shut my eyes pull at the edges of my mind, gently at first, and then harder. I ignore it, and allow the peace of the night to become fuel.
ReplyDeleteThe sky is light as well, although I can imagine what the stars must look like, hidden behind a cloak of light pollution and the faintest coating of clouds. The moon is clear, and one of those nights when it's rather unremarkable, because it’s not the luminous and full globe and not the textured sliver that the dreamworks fisherman sits on. It glows faintly, and I watch it, and I feel a little like a want to cry.
Blank, nothing to write about. Kinda like last night, but this time writing about what I'm doing now shows a lack of creativity; rather than... well I suppose there is no rather than. Its too late. The exterior darkness envelops my homestead while I attempt to squeeze, or force some ounce of perfection and brilliance from my mind. I'm short inspiration at the moment. My mind resembles an excessively dried sponge, or a junky short his fix. The world around me grows darker, but this ok, I am ok. For it is now discernible that the appearance of the morning dew will coincide with clarity, and bring an end to the obscurity of night. Wow that was too much, well over the top. Poor ending I'd say, but this isn't much better.
ReplyDeleteDuring the Great Bahamian Twilight, usually three things are sure to happen. Firstly, the sun sets in flare of echoing colors, collapsing to its knees onto the horizon as it falls prey to the moon's chilling burn. Whether from pleasure or toil- its optic cries deluge out into the sky in a passionate scream of light, only to disappear beneath the Earth. Second, my star appears. Maraqq, its disk of stellar debris accentuating the flicker and silver shine of the star. This has always been my star, a familiar reminder that I am not alone amongst the empty millions surrounding me. Last, the wind hastens its way around the birches of the island and chases away the hot Bahamian air, leaving the night with a dark, frigid atmosphere. It is the end to the Great Bahamian Twilight, the final step on the island's journey to darkness. The "coal wind" only lasts a few moments, then it departs... and night has arisen.
ReplyDeleteIt's easy to think of exhaustion as simply a lack of energy, a feeling of emptiness induced by the steady degradation of verve. I think that true exhaustion is a feeling all its own. Exhaustion is not the absence of energy, but rather the presence of a certain numbness of the limbs, loss of dexterity and balance. Exhaustion tends to make me feel as though all the blood in my body has sudddenly increased in volume such that my skin feels taught with the strain of keeping it contained. Each heartbeat threatens to pop the delicate membrane of my skin.
ReplyDeleteTwinkling stars shine down. They are geometric: triangles, squares and Ursa Majors abound. The shimmering duality of the sky reveals itself at times like this. It is a dark-hued fresco etched on an expansive chapel ceiling. It is what we on Earth can muster as a passing glance at the true picture of where, who and what we are. Both truths live and breath in a fleeting glimpse above.
ReplyDelete