The bus to yoga shudders to life. You can probably hear it for miles away, it’s so loud. It hisses and burbles toward my Tuesday/Friday sanctuary. I sit on the plastic leather seat and look out the window as we drive off. Bus 16 is my favorite because the seats are softer. They sort of hug you as the bus carries you off into Portland. It’s not as much an athletic class as a ritual. For four years I’ve been doing this, and I’m not about to stop now. I see trees and buildings pass, the same familiar trees and buildings I see every Tuesday and Friday. “This time is just for you.” Jennifer said to me the first day of class. “Use it to your advantage, use it to relax, use it to energize, the time is yours.” I’ve learned a lot about myself from that class, such as, I often cross my legs and put my head down. I avoid eye contact, but when I try to describe a person, I always start with their eyes. I can name almost anyone’s eye color. I’ve also learned that I often bottle up my emotions and then let them come pouring out in a deluge every Thursday night. As we round the corner into downtown Portland, I try to get my mind in the right place. Into the zen, into the mat, into the pose, into the life. Namaste.
Dad makes us get out of the car on route 77 and walk home. He’s just in one of those moods, I guess. Jake and I were being wise guys in the dusty green backseat, fiddling with our seat belt holders and snapping at each other. So we get out, and the car drives off slowly, going below the speed limit. But the night is nice, and if I didn’t feel so worried about Dad, I wouldn’t mind the walk. The kind of warm breeze that seems like it’s sent from heaven glides through. Jake grabs my forearm, his impatient fingers gripping at the pull of my pink skin. He pulls me along, giving me an Indian sunburn worse than the one's Jack Tierney gives at recess. Jake says I should be thankful because he is trying to get me home in time to have apple pie. And so he runs, and I am dragged behind. We are going 5 miles an hour, and the cars are going fifty. The occasional driver peers over their shoulder at the two children dashing along the white shoulder line. We seem so far away. At home, Dad doesn't look any happier, so I just go to bed. Tomorrow will be a clean slate for all of us.
I don't like to let people look through my ipod. The feedback is often something along the lines of "you listen to tHEM?" "Oh, this isn't bad!" "Shit Lexie, pick a genre." I like to think I have a very scattered music taste. 80's metal is probably my favorite type, overall, but I only listen to it if I'm in a very specific mood. Different genres fit different moods. Musicals are good for boredom - I like Chicago, Mamma Mia, and Sweeney Todd. Gorillaz and Eminem help me focus on essays. Dubstep and Disney make good background noise for more hands-on projects. The DANGANRONPA soundtrack is good for math and science homework, and Attack on Titan and Free soundtracks are morning music. Mika is good for waking up to. Terrible pop music is my favorite to drive to. Screamo is best enjoyed in the late afternoon.
The colorfully vandalized ramp is cold against my back, as the rising sun has not yet lent its warmth to the hard concrete. We are all passed out on our own slab of concrete, in some variation of the fetal position. I use my board as a pillow, but god damn is it uncomfortable. As the sun begins to rise so begins the hum of a summer morning, with its buzzing mosquitoes and welcoming warm breeze. I am suddenly awoken by the rustling of the high fields surrounding the park - a pretty bizarre place for a skatepark, don't you think? - and don't quite remember where I am, or why I am here. Then it hits me: You stayed awake all night with your friends and proceeded to walk over to the skatepark. At 5 in the morning. You're an idiot, dude.
It was december 21st, the longest day of the year. The four Millard cousins marched out of the front door and down the bike path. Before the fence but after the tunnel lied a patch of beaten down sea dunes. Clumsily we fought our way through the thick grasses until we reached our destination, the secret beach. This was where we spent as much time as possible, avoiding cooking for thanksgiving and spring cleaning. It was ours and ours alone. Until, this fateful day in december introduced a new member to a secret clan. The tide was out and so we walked quite easily over the once water filled section of the beach. We continued playing the marching game and singing disney songs as we made our way down the beach. As an hour ticked by quickly the tide rose and rose behind our oblivious backs. When we arrived back at the place we had crossed so easily just an hour before we found ourselves distanced from the shore by 6 feet of chilling december ocean water.
I looked down, dizzyingly, seeing a shadowy ground feet and feet below. It seemed to shimmer like a mirage, too far away to really seem real. I looked up at the sky, and it seemed closer than before, like if I stood on the ends of my sneakers and reached, blue-black would smudge on the ends of my fingers like paint. I wanted to lay back and stare, but I couldn’t move. The top of the Rock was a treetop, tapering and pointy, with nowhere to go. As my heart slowed and faded into the silence, my muscles stopping shaking and my head cleared. I stared straight ahead into the dark trees, squinting like my mother did in the morning, trying to see. But there were only trees. Cecil was gone. He’d been there when I started to climb, I reasoned. He must have been here somewhere. I carefully pivoted around in a circle, watching the ground and surrounding trees for movement. There was none, and I was alone. Entirely. Random prickles of feeling tickled down my back, feeling like tiny little bugs that were out to get me. I squirmed in my perch. When I assessed the ground, it seemed too far away. Far enough away that I would never jump, that I would need a parachute or else I would be smushed like a bug under a sneaker, sprawled and splayed with oozing guts that someone would scrape off with a stick. I tried to regain my realism. I mentally measured the distance from the tree across to my precarious holding, and then compared. I made the feet shrink in my head. No, not thirty, twenty, not twenty ten. I forced my self to consider the small amount of time it had taken me to climb. Not long, maybe two minutes. My stomach turned at the amount of time it would take me to fall. I took one more deep breath, and clenched my shaking fingers into fists. Against my better judgment, I closed my eyes. I jumped. I flew. I hit the ground.
There once was this time I was up until ten o' clock doing nothing but watching anime. One specific week day where I had come home from school rather late, ate dinner, worked out, and then disregarded homework for the pleasure of viewing Japanese animated motion pictures. Actually it was yesterday, I had come home and worked out because I felt a nagging need to as it had been several days too many since the last time I pumped iron. Ok I lied, this was today, but I very well did clanged together metal for the purpose of recreation. And the part about watching anime was very well still true, except I only stopped watching half an hour ago.
“Thanks man,” I yelled this over my shoulder as I saddled up to the bike. “I needed it!” The bike was shaky, like a horse whose day had been in another time. I was not overly concerned; I felt happy to be able to be a part of the revival of the garage monster, taking a longing look at the broken pieces of yesterdays life. In a passing thought that can only be attributed to irrational youth, I asked the bike to tell me the stories of its own youth. To take me back to the days when it ran free and fast, burning down the streets with vigor. Together, we tried to recall these times, pretend for a moment that so many years had not gone by the wayside. I stood up straight, and began violently shifting my weight; left, right, left, right. The bike tore down the street as the eternal sun shone down.
Max, this is a great piece. I think everyone can relate to the old thing that represents the past or childhood to them. Furthermore, you do a great job of inserting real feeling into the reader with your word choice such as "together we tried to... pretend for a moment that so many years had not gone by the wayside."
I was reduced to the back seat of course, because my mother insisted on the front seat. With the massive pitcher of hot chocolate cradled between my knees, I watched my breath fog the window beside me. I pressed my cheek against it, feeling the cold against my rosy skin. I drew snowmen on the glass, knowing full well it would irritate my father the next morning when my fingerprints would still be visible. We drove slowly through the center of town, passing through deering oaks first. The lights that hung in the trees twinkled like a blanket of stars that had been draped over the branches. I smiled to myself, noticing that this was the first time I had actually been happy in a while.
Lovely piece Avelena! I enjoyed the atmosphere of winter and the holidays you made. "...feeling the cold against my rosy skin" was quite a good phrase for imagery. Also, I LOVED the sentence, "The lights that hung in the trees twinkled like a blanket of stars that had been draped over the branches." Very nice, very comforting and relaxing
The bus to yoga shudders to life. You can probably hear it for miles away, it’s so loud. It hisses and burbles toward my Tuesday/Friday sanctuary. I sit on the plastic leather seat and look out the window as we drive off. Bus 16 is my favorite because the seats are softer. They sort of hug you as the bus carries you off into Portland. It’s not as much an athletic class as a ritual. For four years I’ve been doing this, and I’m not about to stop now. I see trees and buildings pass, the same familiar trees and buildings I see every Tuesday and Friday.
ReplyDelete“This time is just for you.” Jennifer said to me the first day of class. “Use it to your advantage, use it to relax, use it to energize, the time is yours.”
I’ve learned a lot about myself from that class, such as, I often cross my legs and put my head down. I avoid eye contact, but when I try to describe a person, I always start with their eyes. I can name almost anyone’s eye color. I’ve also learned that I often bottle up my emotions and then let them come pouring out in a deluge every Thursday night. As we round the corner into downtown Portland, I try to get my mind in the right place. Into the zen, into the mat, into the pose, into the life. Namaste.
Dad makes us get out of the car on route 77 and walk home. He’s just in one of those moods, I guess. Jake and I were being wise guys in the dusty green backseat, fiddling with our seat belt holders and snapping at each other. So we get out, and the car drives off slowly, going below the speed limit. But the night is nice, and if I didn’t feel so worried about Dad, I wouldn’t mind the walk. The kind of warm breeze that seems like it’s sent from heaven glides through. Jake grabs my forearm, his impatient fingers gripping at the pull of my pink skin. He pulls me along, giving me an Indian sunburn worse than the one's Jack Tierney gives at recess. Jake says I should be thankful because he is trying to get me home in time to have apple pie. And so he runs, and I am dragged behind. We are going 5 miles an hour, and the cars are going fifty. The occasional driver peers over their shoulder at the two children dashing along the white shoulder line. We seem so far away. At home, Dad doesn't look any happier, so I just go to bed. Tomorrow will be a clean slate for all of us.
ReplyDeleteI don't like to let people look through my ipod. The feedback is often something along the lines of "you listen to tHEM?" "Oh, this isn't bad!" "Shit Lexie, pick a genre." I like to think I have a very scattered music taste. 80's metal is probably my favorite type, overall, but I only listen to it if I'm in a very specific mood. Different genres fit different moods. Musicals are good for boredom - I like Chicago, Mamma Mia, and Sweeney Todd. Gorillaz and Eminem help me focus on essays. Dubstep and Disney make good background noise for more hands-on projects. The DANGANRONPA soundtrack is good for math and science homework, and Attack on Titan and Free soundtracks are morning music. Mika is good for waking up to. Terrible pop music is my favorite to drive to. Screamo is best enjoyed in the late afternoon.
ReplyDeleteThe colorfully vandalized ramp is cold against my back, as the rising sun has not yet lent its warmth to the hard concrete. We are all passed out on our own slab of concrete, in some variation of the fetal position. I use my board as a pillow, but god damn is it uncomfortable. As the sun begins to rise so begins the hum of a summer morning, with its buzzing mosquitoes and welcoming warm breeze. I am suddenly awoken by the rustling of the high fields surrounding the park - a pretty bizarre place for a skatepark, don't you think? - and don't quite remember where I am, or why I am here. Then it hits me: You stayed awake all night with your friends and proceeded to walk over to the skatepark. At 5 in the morning. You're an idiot, dude.
ReplyDeleteIt was december 21st, the longest day of the year. The four Millard cousins marched out of the front door and down the bike path. Before the fence but after the tunnel lied a patch of beaten down sea dunes. Clumsily we fought our way through the thick grasses until we reached our destination, the secret beach. This was where we spent as much time as possible, avoiding cooking for thanksgiving and spring cleaning. It was ours and ours alone. Until, this fateful day in december introduced a new member to a secret clan. The tide was out and so we walked quite easily over the once water filled section of the beach. We continued playing the marching game and singing disney songs as we made our way down the beach. As an hour ticked by quickly the tide rose and rose behind our oblivious backs. When we arrived back at the place we had crossed so easily just an hour before we found ourselves distanced from the shore by 6 feet of chilling december ocean water.
ReplyDeleteI looked down, dizzyingly, seeing a shadowy ground feet and feet below. It seemed to shimmer like a mirage, too far away to really seem real. I looked up at the sky, and it seemed closer than before, like if I stood on the ends of my sneakers and reached, blue-black would smudge on the ends of my fingers like paint. I wanted to lay back and stare, but I couldn’t move. The top of the Rock was a treetop, tapering and pointy, with nowhere to go. As my heart slowed and faded into the silence, my muscles stopping shaking and my head cleared. I stared straight ahead into the dark trees, squinting like my mother did in the morning, trying to see. But there were only trees.
ReplyDeleteCecil was gone.
He’d been there when I started to climb, I reasoned. He must have been here somewhere. I carefully pivoted around in a circle, watching the ground and surrounding trees for movement. There was none, and I was alone. Entirely. Random prickles of feeling tickled down my back, feeling like tiny little bugs that were out to get me. I squirmed in my perch.
When I assessed the ground, it seemed too far away. Far enough away that I would never jump, that I would need a parachute or else I would be smushed like a bug under a sneaker, sprawled and splayed with oozing guts that someone would scrape off with a stick. I tried to regain my realism. I mentally measured the distance from the tree across to my precarious holding, and then compared. I made the feet shrink in my head. No, not thirty, twenty, not twenty ten. I forced my self to consider the small amount of time it had taken me to climb. Not long, maybe two minutes. My stomach turned at the amount of time it would take me to fall.
I took one more deep breath, and clenched my shaking fingers into fists. Against my better judgment, I closed my eyes.
I jumped. I flew. I hit the ground.
There once was this time I was up until ten o' clock doing nothing but watching anime. One specific week day where I had come home from school rather late, ate dinner, worked out, and then disregarded homework for the pleasure of viewing Japanese animated motion pictures. Actually it was yesterday, I had come home and worked out because I felt a nagging need to as it had been several days too many since the last time I pumped iron. Ok I lied, this was today, but I very well did clanged together metal for the purpose of recreation. And the part about watching anime was very well still true, except I only stopped watching half an hour ago.
ReplyDelete“Thanks man,” I yelled this over my shoulder as I saddled up to the bike. “I needed it!”
ReplyDeleteThe bike was shaky, like a horse whose day had been in another time. I was not overly concerned; I felt happy to be able to be a part of the revival of the garage monster, taking a longing look at the broken pieces of yesterdays life. In a passing thought that can only be attributed to irrational youth, I asked the bike to tell me the stories of its own youth. To take me back to the days when it ran free and fast, burning down the streets with vigor. Together, we tried to recall these times, pretend for a moment that so many years had not gone by the wayside. I stood up straight, and began violently shifting my weight; left, right, left, right. The bike tore down the street as the eternal sun shone down.
Max, this is a great piece. I think everyone can relate to the old thing that represents the past or childhood to them. Furthermore, you do a great job of inserting real feeling into the reader with your word choice such as "together we tried to... pretend for a moment that so many years had not gone by the wayside."
DeleteI was reduced to the back seat of course, because my mother insisted on the front seat. With the massive pitcher of hot chocolate cradled between my knees, I watched my breath fog the window beside me. I pressed my cheek against it, feeling the cold against my rosy skin. I drew snowmen on the glass, knowing full well it would irritate my father the next morning when my fingerprints would still be visible. We drove slowly through the center of town, passing through deering oaks first. The lights that hung in the trees twinkled like a blanket of stars that had been draped over the branches. I smiled to myself, noticing that this was the first time I had actually been happy in a while.
ReplyDeleteLovely piece Avelena! I enjoyed the atmosphere of winter and the holidays you made. "...feeling the cold against my rosy skin" was quite a good phrase for imagery. Also, I LOVED the sentence, "The lights that hung in the trees twinkled like a blanket of stars that had been draped over the branches." Very nice, very comforting and relaxing
Delete