My eyes are dry, as I refuse to blink, waiting to see her face walk through the doors labeled "international arrivals" and smile back at me. As my mind raced with horrific images of plummeting planes and burning bodies, she walked around the corner. Her eyes were red and puffy, and I was sure she had been crying all the way from Italy. She fell into my arms, relying on me to hold her tired frame. She smelled the same as she had 7 months earlier and since we were back together, everything was ok.
I'm in a bright pink room. It looks like the inside of a stomach, but fruitier. The floor is bright, sickening green. There are no doors. How did I get in here, I wonder? There are people in masks swarming around the small space. I'm not wearing a mask. Why? I turn around to see a man, his mask black and gold with a huge beak, standing over me. He begins to lean down, and a loud beeping noise pierces the room. It's completely empty. I am alone with the siren noises. I start to walk toward the doorless wall, and my eyes flicker open. The gray ceiling is nearly invisible in the dark. The red numbers on the clock read 5:30 AM. The other two are just beginning to stir. I drag myself out of the sleeping bag situated on the hard floor, and whack the alarm clock until it shuts up. Fuck this, I want to sleep.
I know that feeling when you're heart is about to burst. You are unable to contain it, the joy that rushes through you. To me, all intense emotion comes through as tears. I cry when I'm happy, like I cried big, ugly, sniffling tears when the protagonist found his father in the movie. I cry when I'm angry at my parents for being close minded or argumentative. I cry when I'm too tired to say anything more. I cry when I feel hopeless and when I feel hopeful. I say all of this and it feels like a lot, but in fact I don't actually cry that much. When I do, it's short and utilitarian. I hate to bottle up emotions and almost always say what I think. Crying is natural, I don't care who you are or how strong or how proper. You feel things. And if you don't you're missing out, because nothing beats being so happy to see someone that you can't show it all in a smile. You can't have highs without lows. The sadness is just as beautiful, in a way, because while it hurts it means that we're alive and reacting and human.
I haven't seen Jessie since I was 9 years old. Of course, I've noticed him on street corners and lurking inside his depressed shadow, but I haven't really been looking. When I was nine years old, I saw the abandonment and loneliness and hunger beneath his eyes. I saw the boots without bootstraps and the little boy waiting for someone to take him home. But after a while, all I wanted to see was a violent, mercurial object that I could blame.
This past year Jessie has been haunting me, because suddenly I am in his skin, walking down his path. Perhaps it is guilt, or maybe I have just grown up. So when I saw him slumped on a stoop one damp summer day, grinning, cigarette perched behind ear and surrounded by boys, I was filled with euphoria. He had found a home. Maybe not a physical one, but at least now he had people to turn to. Now, I could possibly stop feeling guilty. Maybe, if Jessie turned out okay, I would be okay, too.
Emily this beautiful! It is relatable and well written. I love how you write about yourself by telling a story about jesse. It is vivid and enticing! awesome!! <3
When I was ten, I had an utter obsession with those rubber balls that were translucent and came from the machines that you put a quarter in and turned the giant, germy metal knob and one came out. There was one of those machines in an Aubuchon Hardware not too far from my house. My mom's best friend, Michelle, was dedicated to my happiness. One day, she was staying over and asked what I wanted to do. Not being ashamed of asking, I told her I wanted 100 rubber balls. She laughed, and said get in the car. We stopped at the bank, and pulled up to the window. She told the woman she wanted twenty dollars in quarters. With a weird look on her face, the teller agreed and we were on our way to Aubuchon. 100 rubber balls later, we were back on my street when Michelle asked me what I wanted to with them. I laughed hysterically and told her I wanted to roll all of them down the hill on my street. The balls were then all placed into a bucket and we went outside. The balls flew through the air and bounced and rolled and I thought it was the funniest thing I had ever seen. We could not find all of them after.
Sun shines down onto the grassy field as we frolic. It is third grade, and we do not have a care in the world. We have no ball, no organized game, and somehow we still manage to find joy in the waving tall grass. The imagination of that age is something I think everyone dreams of returning to.
I'm sitting in the smaller of two gyms. This is the room where you can buy food and drink during dances, where you came to rest up if you had been dancing too much or too heavily, which I did sometimes. But here I was just sitting with some dude pals, drinking pepsi, waiting for a better song than Taylor Swift or Justin Bieber to come on. A better song than either of those artists could really just be white noise. But that's me. Anyway, I was sitting there, great big grin on my face. The kind of grin you get when you see a flower, and its the most beautiful flower you've ever seen, and then you realize she's your flower and you're her admirer, and you belong to each other like bonded molecules. Such was my feeling, as I looked across the room at her. She was in line to get something to eat, shifting her weight side to side, smooth hair fluttering at the slightest movement. In an hour or two she'll be shifting her weight side to side, except on the dancefloor, and rhythmically to Stairway To Heaven, and best of all she'll be doing this with me.
"YEAAAAAAAAAH!" this kid yells out on the field. A thing of beauteous luck had just taken place on the soft and soggy pitch. A break-away and carry perhaps 30 yards down the left wing, then a chip shot over the goalkeeper. Nothin' but (side) net. He doesn't even try to conceal a grin, jogging eagerly towards his teammates for the "you just scored a goal, bro" embrace. The sweat streams down his face and has wetted his hair into thin bits. But he doesn't care. The time on the not-so-Jumbo-Tron reads 4:07 minutes, the score 1-0. He knows the game is over, he helped get the "W" for his team.
Dusk brings the sun to no more than a blurred, vague memory. Up 4-0, nothing to it, but that’s malarkey, its been a good run, and its been coming. From the right flank, Paul plays a high lofted ball into the box perfect distance from the keeper and the penalty spot, easy header for Cutler. He takes it, just wide, but a deflection on its way out, corner. Paul offers me his place on the far post; he’s tired, and gangly legs barely keep him standing. I’m also not doing so well. The rough turf field makes quick movement of slow plays, and amplifies the pressure on stiff joints. Clancy runs across to take the corner. It’s low, poor by his standards. I run across goal to the near post, salvia drips from the corners of mouth, as my mouth guard’s sharpen edges dig into my gums. I go to flick the ball on to Suja, but I’m pulled by panicked ginger arms, which sparks a flurry of pushes and kicks; one of which is mine, as I try desperately to get anything on the ball. The outside of my left—whiff… the ball moves past the arch of my legs… the inside heal of my right—one bounce, outcome unknown. My head shakes, my ass to the ground. I peak my head up to find the contorted grins of half-dozen teammates. “What… oh shit I scored.”
Being exhausted feels like having a backpack filled with rocks. It’s a useless deadweight unless you have a reason for being exhausted. Luckily for me, that bag of rocks is a new Lady Gaga album. She made headlines yesterday, “BREAKING: Lady Gaga dresses up as a Chicken McNugget in promotion of her new song GYPSY.” I wrote that. And although tired beyond belief, I feel a sense of satisfaction from the promise that the fandom would spread love with ARTPOP. It is a good fatigue, a fatigue of guarantees. This exhaustion is not meaningless rocks on my back, it is the weight of too much joy.
Nothing's getting done and the screen is boring a hole into my brain, so I do the only logical thing for someone with essays to write and math homework to do and a latin test the next day: I go to sleep. I revel in the joy of freeing my body and mind from the worldly constraints of toil and lay my head against the pillow. Stretched out here, I can almost imagine that I won't have to wake up in the cold darkness to finish my homework.
My eyes are dry, as I refuse to blink, waiting to see her face walk through the doors labeled "international arrivals" and smile back at me. As my mind raced with horrific images of plummeting planes and burning bodies, she walked around the corner. Her eyes were red and puffy, and I was sure she had been crying all the way from Italy. She fell into my arms, relying on me to hold her tired frame. She smelled the same as she had 7 months earlier and since we were back together, everything was ok.
ReplyDeleteI'm in a bright pink room. It looks like the inside of a stomach, but fruitier. The floor is bright, sickening green. There are no doors. How did I get in here, I wonder? There are people in masks swarming around the small space. I'm not wearing a mask. Why? I turn around to see a man, his mask black and gold with a huge beak, standing over me. He begins to lean down, and a loud beeping noise pierces the room. It's completely empty. I am alone with the siren noises. I start to walk toward the doorless wall, and my eyes flicker open. The gray ceiling is nearly invisible in the dark. The red numbers on the clock read 5:30 AM. The other two are just beginning to stir. I drag myself out of the sleeping bag situated on the hard floor, and whack the alarm clock until it shuts up. Fuck this, I want to sleep.
ReplyDeleteI know that feeling when you're heart is about to burst. You are unable to contain it, the joy that rushes through you. To me, all intense emotion comes through as tears. I cry when I'm happy, like I cried big, ugly, sniffling tears when the protagonist found his father in the movie. I cry when I'm angry at my parents for being close minded or argumentative. I cry when I'm too tired to say anything more. I cry when I feel hopeless and when I feel hopeful. I say all of this and it feels like a lot, but in fact I don't actually cry that much. When I do, it's short and utilitarian. I hate to bottle up emotions and almost always say what I think. Crying is natural, I don't care who you are or how strong or how proper. You feel things. And if you don't you're missing out, because nothing beats being so happy to see someone that you can't show it all in a smile. You can't have highs without lows. The sadness is just as beautiful, in a way, because while it hurts it means that we're alive and reacting and human.
ReplyDeleteI haven't seen Jessie since I was 9 years old. Of course, I've noticed him on street corners and lurking inside his depressed shadow, but I haven't really been looking. When I was nine years old, I saw the abandonment and loneliness and hunger beneath his eyes. I saw the boots without bootstraps and the little boy waiting for someone to take him home. But after a while, all I wanted to see was a violent, mercurial object that I could blame.
ReplyDeleteThis past year Jessie has been haunting me, because suddenly I am in his skin, walking down his path. Perhaps it is guilt, or maybe I have just grown up. So when I saw him slumped on a stoop one damp summer day, grinning, cigarette perched behind ear and surrounded by boys, I was filled with euphoria. He had found a home. Maybe not a physical one, but at least now he had people to turn to. Now, I could possibly stop feeling guilty. Maybe, if Jessie turned out okay, I would be okay, too.
Emily this beautiful! It is relatable and well written. I love how you write about yourself by telling a story about jesse. It is vivid and enticing! awesome!! <3
DeleteWhen I was ten, I had an utter obsession with those rubber balls that were translucent and came from the machines that you put a quarter in and turned the giant, germy metal knob and one came out. There was one of those machines in an Aubuchon Hardware not too far from my house. My mom's best friend, Michelle, was dedicated to my happiness. One day, she was staying over and asked what I wanted to do. Not being ashamed of asking, I told her I wanted 100 rubber balls. She laughed, and said get in the car. We stopped at the bank, and pulled up to the window. She told the woman she wanted twenty dollars in quarters. With a weird look on her face, the teller agreed and we were on our way to Aubuchon. 100 rubber balls later, we were back on my street when Michelle asked me what I wanted to with them. I laughed hysterically and told her I wanted to roll all of them down the hill on my street. The balls were then all placed into a bucket and we went outside. The balls flew through the air and bounced and rolled and I thought it was the funniest thing I had ever seen. We could not find all of them after.
ReplyDeleteSun shines down onto the grassy field as we frolic. It is third grade, and we do not have a care in the world. We have no ball, no organized game, and somehow we still manage to find joy in the waving tall grass. The imagination of that age is something I think everyone dreams of returning to.
ReplyDeleteI'm sitting in the smaller of two gyms. This is the room where you can buy food and drink during dances, where you came to rest up if you had been dancing too much or too heavily, which I did sometimes. But here I was just sitting with some dude pals, drinking pepsi, waiting for a better song than Taylor Swift or Justin Bieber to come on. A better song than either of those artists could really just be white noise. But that's me. Anyway, I was sitting there, great big grin on my face. The kind of grin you get when you see a flower, and its the most beautiful flower you've ever seen, and then you realize she's your flower and you're her admirer, and you belong to each other like bonded molecules. Such was my feeling, as I looked across the room at her. She was in line to get something to eat, shifting her weight side to side, smooth hair fluttering at the slightest movement. In an hour or two she'll be shifting her weight side to side, except on the dancefloor, and rhythmically to Stairway To Heaven, and best of all she'll be doing this with me.
ReplyDelete"YEAAAAAAAAAH!" this kid yells out on the field. A thing of beauteous luck had just taken place on the soft and soggy pitch. A break-away and carry perhaps 30 yards down the left wing, then a chip shot over the goalkeeper. Nothin' but (side) net. He doesn't even try to conceal a grin, jogging eagerly towards his teammates for the "you just scored a goal, bro" embrace. The sweat streams down his face and has wetted his hair into thin bits. But he doesn't care. The time on the not-so-Jumbo-Tron reads 4:07 minutes, the score 1-0. He knows the game is over, he helped get the "W" for his team.
ReplyDeleteDusk brings the sun to no more than a blurred, vague memory. Up 4-0, nothing to it, but that’s malarkey, its been a good run, and its been coming. From the right flank, Paul plays a high lofted ball into the box perfect distance from the keeper and the penalty spot, easy header for Cutler. He takes it, just wide, but a deflection on its way out, corner. Paul offers me his place on the far post; he’s tired, and gangly legs barely keep him standing. I’m also not doing so well. The rough turf field makes quick movement of slow plays, and amplifies the pressure on stiff joints. Clancy runs across to take the corner. It’s low, poor by his standards. I run across goal to the near post, salvia drips from the corners of mouth, as my mouth guard’s sharpen edges dig into my gums. I go to flick the ball on to Suja, but I’m pulled by panicked ginger arms, which sparks a flurry of pushes and kicks; one of which is mine, as I try desperately to get anything on the ball. The outside of my left—whiff… the ball moves past the arch of my legs… the inside heal of my right—one bounce, outcome unknown. My head shakes, my ass to the ground. I peak my head up to find the contorted grins of half-dozen teammates. “What… oh shit I scored.”
ReplyDeleteBeing exhausted feels like having a backpack filled with rocks. It’s a useless deadweight unless you have a reason for being exhausted. Luckily for me, that bag of rocks is a new Lady Gaga album. She made headlines yesterday, “BREAKING: Lady Gaga dresses up as a Chicken McNugget in promotion of her new song GYPSY.” I wrote that. And although tired beyond belief, I feel a sense of satisfaction from the promise that the fandom would spread love with ARTPOP. It is a good fatigue, a fatigue of guarantees. This exhaustion is not meaningless rocks on my back, it is the weight of too much joy.
ReplyDeleteNothing's getting done and the screen is boring a hole into my brain, so I do the only logical thing for someone with essays to write and math homework to do and a latin test the next day: I go to sleep. I revel in the joy of freeing my body and mind from the worldly constraints of toil and lay my head against the pillow. Stretched out here, I can almost imagine that I won't have to wake up in the cold darkness to finish my homework.
ReplyDelete