amusing diversions take2

wed, thurs, fri all together

2004-12-10T13:11:00.000-05:00

Wednesday December 8th, 2004

Things have gone about as well as expected. Matt and I showed up at 3:00 on Monday, only to find out that the landlord was not in. He left a note saying that he had something come up and could we come back tomorrow morning at 8. There were several moments of panic, during which we had to talk to my father about whether matt could be late to work the next day, but luckily he didn’t mind. I’m not so sure about how Chris and Tony are feeling about this new experiment in living on our own however.

The apartment is very nice, with two bedrooms just as advertised. Instead of the more popular one bedroom and large closet that most apartments turn out to be. There will be massive re-decorating required… but at least the walls are white. One of the last apartments we looked at was butter-yellow, and it looked dirty. There are just some colors that refuse to look clean no matter how hard you work at it. And no wallpaper thank goodness. Wallpaper is evil. I’ll have to get mom in to check it out, but I’m already slating a couple color palette options. One of the windows is this huge wide thing though, I’m not sure where one could find a long enough scarf valance. Maybe we’ll end up making one. Oh well, back to work on film class.

Thursday December 9th, 2004

Took mom over to see the apartment today. She is in love with the hardwood floors. We did a little preliminary work on where the furniture should go. After checking out the windows, which are quite large if lacking any kind of pleasant view, mom told me about this window art stuff she had seen at home depot. She likes nothing more than a good shopping trip. A half hour later we were in home depot. The window art is from artscapes, and it works like a window cling with no adhesives. They really are quite beautiful, and I think it will be a big boost on how the rooms look. There is nothing like a set of perfect window treatments to make a room come together. I detest mini-blinds, and she knows it. I’ve spent the last six or seven years with colorful blankets over my windows to block out the sun and the outside world, but these window films will be a heck of a lot more polished looking.

We also started looking for a little two-seater bistro style table, but were not successful. One of the major downsides to living in Maine is the lack of nearby shopping. Lucky for me that dad owns a furniture store. I’m sure he’ll be able to locate something in the next couple months. Not to mention that now that we have the room dimensions mom and I can go pick out our area rug that we’re getting as a Christmas present. Who ever would have thought I’d get to the point where an area rug was an exciting Christmas gift?

Friday December 10th, 2004

Called the phone company today. The guy must have been from New York, his accent was so thick I had to make him repeat things over and over. After half an hour I finally managed to get set up for phone service. It’s my first phone line, and that’s weirdly exciting. The bill is going to be like $45 a month, I couldn’t believe it. Local phone service apparently has gotten a lot more expensive then when I was a kid. The good news is that we’ll have call waiting, I can’t stand not having call waiting. Also, the guy set it up so we should be able to talk to matt’s family in the boondocks without acquiring charges.

Grammy Jo is sending not-so-subtle hints that she is not going to back down on wanting to help us move. She sent an extended-family-wide email about how I had said there wasn’t anything for her to do just yet. I can’t get matt to help me pack the bedroom up, let alone start moving furniture. I sent back what I hope was a suitably chagrined and soothing email. Mother and Vanessa are still waiting in the eves too… I need to get this ball a-rolling before my indignant family takes matters into their own hands.

monday dec 6

2004-12-06T13:54:00.000-05:00

We are supposed to be going to check out our apartment this afternoon. I, of course, forgot to have mom help me transfer money from the savings account for the sec dep and first month rent checks. I feel like such a dolt. I spent all weekend reminding myself that it was important to get that done before we went to see the landlord today. Hopefully the bank will finish getting the other checks through from the current to available balance before the checks clear. Takes like 7 days for a personal check to clear and I can have mom help me tonight after she gets home... so hopefully everything will be just fine and dandy. Pregnancy makes me even more neurotic then normal. I've got to start packing up the clothes and what have you. The baby clothes are packed, as are all accessories for the baby. Kitchen stuff is packed, furniture picked out (for the most part anyway). Dad wants to tear out the carpet, and put down hardwood in the living room, which logically means redecorating totally in his mind. Works out for me cause he offered all the living room furniture for matt and I. The leather couch is so much better than the one we originally planned on using. I'm still very disturbed over the idea of living alone together. Matt and I have never lived alone together. First we had friends living with us, and since before we were married we've been living with my parents. It's a scary thought, what in gods names will we do with each other all the time? Mom and dad aren't as thrilled as I thought they would be either. When dad heard that we'd decided to move out he looked like someone batted him over the head with a two by four. My brother is moving to florida, and we're moving out... must be a big change for them too. Once I see the place I'll have to go to dad's store and pick out a rug, he wants to give us an area rug to go with the living room stuff. And I'll have to make some decisions on where everything is going to live once it's moved in. Mom and aunt Vanessa are frothing at the mouth to get in there and organize everything. Updates shall be forth coming.

Myself as a writer, Retrospect

2004-12-06T13:18:00.000-05:00

Well, having made it through these last sixteen weeks I have to say either pregnancy is affecting my mind more than I thought, or my ‘creative’ muscles need a lot for flexing and exercise then they have been getting. Description and humor seem to be strong points, or maybe better put as crutches. Every time I attempted to break out of those two areas significantly things either came to disaster or they crept straight back in. I noticed I had a hard time moving outside of a tight focus on my own life. Bigger ideas or parallels eluded me. I think that might be just a phase though, because most of the time I remember teachers complaining that I couldn’t focus, couldn’t personalize.

Dialogue is still very difficult for me. I have an extremely hard time getting something that sounds anything like a real conversation down on paper. It’s also a problem when I’m reading though, it seems like so often the dialogue in books is rushed, and that six comments back and forth have taken an hour or more. If these published authors can’t get it right, how can I possibly? But I am sidetracked. I also have a great reluctance to curse when writing. I can’t decide whether this is a failing or not.

I tend to write a full piece quickly with minimal editing. I would rather scrap large chunks of work than edit them into something else. That I am sure is a failing at least in part. I find though that a lot of the time when I attempt to edit something it comes out much worse than when I just snap things off. I am hyper sensitive to the thoughts and comments of others when it comes to writing. I enjoy being under pressure to produce, I think it makes for better work. I don’t feel that a great deal has changed about my writing over the course of the semester. I do feel that I got a much more focused idea of some style strengths, like humor, and weaknesses than before.

Comments on ENG 162

2004-12-06T13:05:00.000-05:00

Looking at myself as a student I think that perhaps it would be best if I took writing classes in the flesh so to speak. As much as I prefer the web format, it does not make me perform and push myself in the way that a live class does, in respect to writing that is. I get a lot out of direct interaction with teachers and classmates when it comes to creative pursuits.

As a writer, I feel that I have failed to produce to the level that I am able, though I did like several pieces I did for this class. There is some kind of mental block for me when I think about non-fiction… I even tried reading several non-fiction but novel-esque books, but was unable to lift the injunction. My block kept me from really embracing the assignments in a whole-hearted manner. It seemed like the only two options were to write something backed with a lot of research (something I only tried once or twice), or something directly to do with my life. This isn’t true really, but for some reason I can’t get my head around writing anything else.

All in all I found the class really interesting. It opened a lot of new doors for me thought-wise, though I am sure it will take me a long time to assimilate this new knowledge. Real life does not have to be as boring as it generally appears, and a lot of the same things that work in fiction can be applied to non. I’m grateful for the others who took this class at the same time. I can’t recall how many weeks it took reading someone else’s responses to a theme or prompt before I felt I had a good idea of what was wanted by them. Perhaps some sort of monthly meeting could be set up for students who would like to attend and get some live feedback… that might be my only suggestion, though I know Mr. Goldfine you tend to be a more hands-off kind of teacher. Two weeks left… homestretch here we come.

Theme week 14

2004-12-03T13:59:00.000-05:00

PETS

I am the great pet loser. I have had five rabbits, two ducks, one gerbil, two hamsters, two abortive attempts at dog ownership, and six fish. They all died of natural but extremely unusual circumstances, save the dogs and ducks which may still be alive for all I know. If there was a little pet graveyard for the ones I’ve lost, it would be a little square of grass with tiny rounded headstones.

Here lies Shera, a good rabbit who liked to be hooked to a leash and play with basketballs. Died 1987 of old age.

Here lies Jenny, a rabbit who thought she was a cat and would only eat cat food. She used a litter box. Killed in a fight with Digger 1989.

Here lies Digger, the wild rabbit the neighbors all got together to catch and put in our rabbit pen when we were on vacation in Disney. (they thought jenny had gotten out) Killed in a fight with Jenny 1989.

Here lies Wesley and Buttercup, both female rabbits but my brother really wanted a boy one. May you be rest in peace. Died after an attack by a red-eyed, black vampire cat, 1991.

Here lies Crystal and Teddy, a worthy hamster and gerbil pair. You came together and didn’t last long when the other died. 1991.

Here lies Alex, the hamster who went into spontaneous hibernation for three weeks and we almost buried you alive. 1994.

Here lay my fish, none of you survived a week once we got you home, after two attempts, mom said no more fish.

For those who have no headstone, a little memorial would be set up, cause hey, they’re bound to die sometime before I do.

For Silsby the mutt-mix puppy, my first attempt at dog-owning. You were terribly abused when you came to us, and hated men. You ended up biting my brother in the eye when he tried to take a slice of pizza away from you. I hope you found a good home.

For Pepe the pedigree Toy Poodle, you were a good if incredibly stupid dog. You escaped the house through a bathroom window and kept the neighbors terrified and stuck in their house for five hours until we got home. I hope you found a good home.

For Thing One and Thing Two, or The Boys, my mallard ducks. I’m glad you learned to fly, even though Thing Two flew away. The homeless man at the 7-11 found you after you’d had your bill run over. He happened to show you to my cousins, who showed their father, who bought you from the homeless man and brought you home. After a vet visit and several weeks of recovery, we found a nice man with a country house and female ducks for you to go live with.

It was not then, overly surprising that several years went by in which we had no pets at the house. Finally, when we moved to the house on Kenduskeag Ave, mom started looking for puppies again. Eventually we ended up with Tika, who has been the family pet now for seven years.

Theme week 13

2004-11-26T13:54:00.000-05:00

this was inspired by one of this weeks prompts... it turned out too long for me to feel comfortable with it on the class blog so here goes:

56. "There are eight million stories in the Naked City... this has been one of them.”

Veazie is a nice little town. It’s about one mile long by one mile wide. There is only one little convience store to service it. The houses are all settled back from the road with perfectly manicured lawns. There are two separate cemetaries at least partially within the boarder, and it keeps things in perspective. The people are friendly, and many are older. There aren’t a lot of wild parties going on there, unlike Orono just up the road a couple miles where the college is. All and all it’s like a little suburban slice of heaven… except for the crazy rabid police officers.

On one memorable occasion I was driving through town at about ten o’clock at night. It was winter, and as a result it had been pitch black outside since about five pm. I was minding my own business, going two miles under the speed limit up state street. A car squealed it’s tires pulling out behind me, it flipped on the high beams. The car gunned the engine and settled in about an inch from my bumper. I was blinded by the lights. Heart pumping with fearful adrenaline I cut through the yellow light ahead of me, swinging on to Chase Rd in an effort to escape the lunitic behind me. As soon as I did, pop, on came the blue lights. The officer pulled me over to give me a warning about going through yellow lights. I was just happy he wasn’t an axe murderer who planned to kill me after running me off the road.

My favorite memory however, is the time I forgot my license. I had made it about two hundred feet up the road when I figured out my wallet was still at the house. I turned around. About thirty feet from the driveway, on go the blue lighte behind me. I pulled over. The officer came up the the window, asking for lisence and registration. I explained the situation, pointing out the second driveway from where we were all sitting. He grunted, then looked at the other passangers. He then asked if he could search my car.

Confused by what he could possibly hope to find in the car I agreed. Matt, Jeremy and Ben, who were also in the car all piled out. I had been getting ready for bed when the guys wanted a ride to the store, so I was standing there in a tank top and pj bottoms in the snow. He then asked to search each of us. I raised my arms, and noting the lack of pockets, he let me alone. He searched the guys. Then he turned to the car. I will never forget what he asked me, “So, hiding any drugs, or bombs in the car ma’am?” He flicked his flashlight on the backseat, “have you got any Tali-ban in here?” he looked everyone over with a gimlet eye. I was too shocked at that moment, but later I would almost die laughing over it. “No sir.” I told him. He eventually let us go without even looking in the trunk.

So, should it be a dark night, or even a bright day, I would suggest staying as far away from Veazie as possible. The town reminds me of all those stories you hear about people living in small towns in the desert. Where the sherrif thinks it’s still the wild west. You may think me paranoid but, whether it is sheer boredom or a pyschotic sense of duty the Veazie police are out to get you.

theme/prompt #2 week 12 - Tika

2004-11-22T10:59:00.000-05:00

Theme/prompt #2 week 12 - Tika

Pet me, pet me, pet me, pet me, pant pant pant, man, it’s hard to say that when you’re jumping up and down. And I’ve got a ways to jump. It’s not like I’m as big as Nash next door you know! I only weigh seven pounds and am eight inches at the shoulder. I should be getting way more credit for the jumping height I can get. Hell, I should be an all-star doggie basketball player!
Hey, wait, where are you going? You forgot the milkbone! I always get a milkbone when I come inside. Sheesh, she’s gone, well, let’s go try that tall guy instead. Hey you! No good. Maybe if I stand on his foot…. Success! You, I need my bone! Ah, I like this one. He’s so smart and easily trained compared to the rest of my humans. Crunch, crunch… Ooo, itchy. Owe! Wish someone would remember to clip my nails in between grooming visits.
They’re going to sit down in the couch, I can get to the couch. Ramming speed boys! “Oof, hey Tika relax a little okay pretty girl? You don’t have to play flying projectile every time someone sits down.” Oh yes, pet me, pet me, pet me…. In a few minutes I’ll go grab the Skippy and we can play fetch together and, and… Okay, well, maybe just a little nap first.

theme/prompt week 12 #1 erin's room

2004-11-20T10:01:00.000-05:00

Upstairs, a wreck of a room lays waiting for the owner to return. Shirts in various sizes, torn jeans, soda bottles in drifts against the furniture. The dog has taken to using the carpet as her personal litter box. The bed is beautiful. It should be, he got it from his father’s furniture store. Pale oak with a satin sheen, it catches up sunlight like honey. Dust covers the top edges now, covers the bare slats that used to hold the mattress. Two empty cups sit on top of the headboard. The insides are irrevocably stained by the soda left to evaporate within them.
The teak wall unit, a collection of drawers and cupboards and such that stack nearly to the ceiling, sit in disarray. Some of the doors hang half-open, spilling their contents into the mess on the floor. They too are covered with dust. No one comes in here since he left. The old big-screen TV with a crack down the plastic that protects the screen dominates one corner. Old video games and a water fountain he borrowed from his sister sit along the top. A testament to childhood abandoned.
Above the mess, perhaps the filth in this room which no one has had the heart to dismantle is the air of desertion. Like an old house that has not been lived in for years the air is close and stale. The sunlight through the windows has that odd golden color that dust in the air gives it. The whole room looks like a tornado touched down within whirling and shredding and destroying. Perhaps a tornado it was, though of a more human nature. Anger leaves much the same destruction behind it. The door leading in stays closed. No one will venture past until he once again returns home.

theme week 11- Mildred

2004-11-15T18:16:00.000-05:00

The average nurse aid in the United States makes $6.65 an hour caring for elderly patients in a nursing home. According to the University of California, any nurse-aid who is in charge of the bulk of feeding, bathing, and other general care duties should be in charge of only three patients during meals and no more than six between meals. However, in many facilities a nurse-aid is in charge of fifteen patients at a time, or sometimes as many as thirty. Even more grim, the New York State attorney found that 25% of nursing home aids who are prosecuted for abusing residents had some kind of prior record. In a 1994 survey it was found that about 5% of the nurse aids on file with state regulators had a criminal record involving violence or theft. In these over-crowded positions where stress is high and thanks low, perhaps we can sympathize with how things get overlooked. Maybe even we can understand petty abuses of their generally incompetent patients. Understand yes, but accept never.
Walking down the hallway the smell of overheated bodies and antiseptic is overwhelming. It doesn’t quite drown out the underlying odor of urine and sickness though. My head is dizzy by the time we reach Mildred’s room. I wonder if she will remember who I am today.
43% of people who turned 65 in 1990 will enter a nursing home at some time in their life. Only one in eleven of these will spend more than five years in one. The New England Journal of Medicine states that 52% of all women and 33% of men who are now 65 will spend their last years in a nursing home. Those who are 85 and older have only a six percent average chance of dying in their own bed, with the familiar sights and sounds of their lives around them.
I grab a seat in one of the caned chairs. Laura, another teacher who lived with Mildred until she died eleven years ago, made this chair. She was so much fun when we were kids. I feel a mild rush of guilt, knowing that in my secret heart I wish it had been Mildred, not Laura who died. Mildred knows me today, but she can’t remember whether her mother is alive or not. Mom is trying to explain that her mother died a long time ago, before any of us here in the room were born in fact. It doesn’t seem to be having any effect. She can’t hear us anymore, anything you want to communicate must be written down in large letters on one of those white erasable boards.
There are approximately 1,813,665 total beds in nursing homes in the United States of America in 16,995 facilities. There are about 107 beds in the average facility, with an 83% occupancy rate. Seven percent of nursing homes are run by the government, 25% by non-prophet agencies and a staggering 66% by for profit agencies/corporations. On average there are about 53 total direct care staff per facility. Two-thirds of all nursing home residents have no living family, and 70% of all patients are women. The median age at death is about 73.2 years for men and 79.7 for women.
During Mildred’s lifetime teachers could not get married or they would lose their jobs. She shows no particular sorrow at this, we are her family now. She started teaching at eighteen years of age, and is in possession of a lifetime teaching certificate, concepts that would bring horror to the face of any school administrator in the world today. She lived through the introduction of indoor plumbing, the Depression, the civil rights movement, and many other things that seem ancient history to one born in the 1980s like myself. She is a member of MENSA, that group only those in the top two percent of IQ scores may belong to.
Eight years ago my mother finally convinced her that she was unable to live alone. Still lively in her mind, she was upset but agreed that it was time to do something other than just an emergency medical button. In home heath care proved an unimaginable nightmare. People stole from her, others kept trying to force her to change her will, some were completely unreliable about showing up. The last resort was moving her into the nursing home. It wouldn’t be that bad, we all thought. At least she would have someone to talk to during the day.
Now she can’t get out of her wheelchair. She never got the opportunity to go walking, and so now she can’t. She can’t go to the bathroom by herself, can’t bathe herself anymore. Her handwriting, once beautiful cursive is a cramped squiggly line even she can’t read. Her hearing is completely gone, her muscles evaporated. Her lower legs are red and swollen from sitting, with dark angry-looking veins all up and down them. She cannot remember who we are all the time now, nor can she remember for more than a minute or two what the conversation she is having is about. She suffers from paranoia and depression, for which she is medicated heavily.
This once-vibrant woman, so smart and sharp witted she could talk anyone in the room in circles, is now a husk of what she was. Part of it is, of course that she is 93 years old. Anyone is lucky who makes it to that age. However, I am convinced that the sterile environment of the nursing home has eroded that woman whom I love much faster than time itself would have done it. Incompetence, proven over these eight years, mixed with high turnover has been alarming. Mildred is so used to that environment now though that we dare not try to move her to a different facility, nor have we found a reliable source for in-home full time care.
With an aching heart I get up and kiss her papery cheek as we all get ready to leave. She smells a little of talc powder. It’s a good smell, a clean one in this evil soup. Her eyes are tearing, but otherwise flat. I can’t tell if it’s us in particular she grieves or just that she’ll be left alone in this place for the rest of the day. For a second as she hugs my brother Erin I swear I catch a glimpse of the old sparkle that used to liven her eyes, but then it’s gone. Back through the putrid corridor and out into the parking lot. I take a deep breath of the freezing January air. We will be back next week.

****statistics found at http://beoutrageous.com/IYP/death.htm and http://www.efmoody.com/longterm/nursingstatistics.html****

week ten theme comments

2004-11-07T16:41:00.000-05:00

I wondered if this is, well, ironic enough to qualify for the prompt. I find the whole idea of the way matt and I ended up married ironic compared to the way I imagined it happening when I met the guy who was going to be my husband. The writing itself is not given to irony though... is this acceptable to you?

week ten theme - the story of us

2004-11-07T16:40:00.000-05:00

The Story of Us

A hand stuck inside a guy’s pants is a pretty memorable way of saying “nice to meet you.” The first time I remember meeting my husband Matt was at our friend Kris’s house. He was standing next to me, blocking off the view of the kitchen, so I stuck my hand out to push him back. Unfortunately Matt had a bad habit of wearing jeans that were missing various vital bits… such as the crotch. My hand went straight through one of these gaping holes and I ended up pushing him back via his underwear. I was mortified, he was amused.

The first time my husband remembers meeting me was rather different, and also about six months earlier. During the last few months of my short high school career, I had taken to eating lunch in one of the art rooms. My friend Ben always used to come and eat with me. I had a huge crush on him at the time. I was not, then, in a position to notice the fact that both Kris and Matt often had lunch with us. Matt, in the way of teenage boys, claims not so much that he remembers me, as particular parts of my anatomy of which he was very fond.

Our next colossal mix of signals came one day when my friend David moved back from Florida. I had a crush on Matt, but he had never shown any interest. So, not being one to let something like that get me down, I started flirting with Dave. In Kris’s bedroom I was hanging out with a bunch of the guys. Matt claims he was thinking furiously about how to get rid of the crowd so he could “make his move”. I am not, even now, exactly sure what that implies. I would have picked Matt over Dave in a heartbeat, but Dave wasn’t intimidated by an audience, so we started dating.

Regardless of all this, some months later Matt and I did get around to dating one another. It was something of a comedy of errors however, watching us try to do anything physical about it. There were a miraculous number of things that kept us from much more then the occasional chaste peck. One particular time we had finally worked up the considerable nerve making out required back then, and Kris called to us that his mother was driving up. It turned out that Kris’s mom, June, had only thought Matt’s mom was arriving, and so we all ended up sitting in the front yard for an hour waiting for her. Matt was livid. Three months later we broke up because Matt felt that everyone was convinced we were going to get married. Things were getting too serious too fast, he said. I had thought that maybe I loved him, but I put it firmly aside. I have never been a believer in letting a man break your heart.

I dated Steven, a worldly man eight years my senior who lived on Long Island in New York. I was convinced I had found my mate, that this guy was the one to marry. I had always generally viewed men as stepping stones of experience for when I found the correct mate. Matt, unbeknownst to me or anyone but Kris became steadily more depressed about it. I moved in with Kris and Matt. It was supposed to be temporary until Steven was ready for me to move in with him in New York a few months later. Matt and I were sleeping in the same room, but otherwise I largely discounted his presence. It was my friend Ben who eventually took me aside one day and screamed till he was blue in the face about how I was such a terrible and cruel person for hurting Matt the way I was. Couldn’t I tell how upset he was all the time? I had no idea was he was talking about.

Filled with righteous indignation I decided I’d show him. I confronted Matt, and asked him to tell the other guys that he didn’t care to get them off my back. There was, apparently, one major flaw in this strategy. He did care. He asked me to stay with him in Maine instead of moving to New York. Shocked beyond words, I agreed. I mean, he was so miserable! A few weeks later, the old feelings I had for Matt were strong again. I told Steven I wasn’t coming. Less then two years later, Matt and I were married. It wasn’t exactly the smooth, sweep-you-off-your-feet, whirlwind of romance that I’d always hoped for, but hey, it works for us.

theme eight option two - reading

2004-10-29T15:25:00.000-05:00

Education is the key to moving upward in life. A college degree can often provide the difference between being low income and moving into the middle class. One skill in particular however is paramount to ensuring your success in secondary education. Reading. When I hear or read about someone who managed to graduate from high school and is still unable to read I am shocked to my core. It’s not just the outrage that they slipped through the cracks, but genuine pity for what they have missed out on.
I love to read. I read four to six hours out of every day. I despise television, and have since I was a kid. Mom and dad used to allow my brother and I one or two hours of tv on the weekends, but not more then that. I feel that this restriction, coupled with my mother’s love of reading is what shaped my attitude today. I prefer science fiction or fantasy but will read just about anything I get my hands on. It is such a source of joy and contentment for me I can’t imagine doing without it.
My reading chair is oversized and overstuffed. The very print on the upholstery is of old fashioned leather-bound books. One the side table next to the chair is always at least one (and usually several) stacks of books. They are split into have read and must read piles that only I can tell apart. The whole house is full of books. They cover shelves and tables, line bookcases and are occasionally piled on the floor until new space can be found. I feel such pity for those who don’t enjoy reading as I do. There is nothing to match it for the ability to escape the mundane aspects of life.

sandcastle - theme 9

2004-10-29T15:05:00.000-05:00

The sand on the beach is fine and soft
My feet sink in and leave prints behind.

Sitting in wet hours go by
Righteous labor keeps me from noticing the sunburn
Buckets overturned, hands become sculptor’s tools
Saturate the ground before it will hold the moat.

The castle is majestic, my parents tell me
It raises in towers and battlements and spires
The moat keeps draining away, but that’s alright
The drawbridge keeps disintegrating anyway.

The sun gets lower and the light turns gold
The water sparkles like a fortune in gems
Time to go home.
I look along the beach, my footprints are gone
Erased utterly beneath the tide.

I feel a slight sinking in my heart
Knowing my castle, for all its height and engineering
Is no match for time and tide.
But childhood is not meant for sadness
And a promise of ice cream before dinner
Is all it takes to bring back my smile.

theme week eight

2004-10-22T15:00:00.000-05:00

Death has always held the highest level of fascination, even obsession for me. Death, the great equalizer, death, the last experience any living thing ever has. Some find death cruel, and some soothing. Some rage against it, some accept, and some left behind die of the broken heart it leaves. It is the opposite of birth, the event that, in the end, makes life most precious. Life is finite, and no one can escape it.
I think this particular obsession has often shocked and distressed people. Some it made angry or made them think I was callous. This is not the case. I was born with eleven living biological grandparents. I now have three. I lost a seven year old cousin when I was nine. That same year I lost an ‘adopted’ grandmother. Last year I lost a child. Hardly a six month period passes in my life when someone important to me has not died. I feel their loss keenly, and though time makes the edge of it blur, it does not go away.
Some have died peacefully, as most of my older relatives did. Some though, have not. Tyler, my cousin, died a rather violent death of internal hemorrhage. Just a few weeks ago a friend of the family died of stage four lung cancer. So it is not a lack of respect for grief and pain that causes this interest. I do not have strong belief of what happens when someone dies. I know it is generally comforting to most people to believe in heaven and hell or such things but such reassurances aren’t for me. I don’t know what happens, but somehow it does not matter. They are no longer here with me, and yet not gone.
Death makes life worthwhile. Death is what humbles us all in the end. No one may stand before it and come out unchanged. Is it a wonder that it can fascinate to the point of distraction? It hurts, it is unfair, unchangeable. It leaves gaps in the lives of the rest of us. It is not evil however. It is natural, and an integral part of the identity of the human race. To be aware that at some point your life will be over can be a very powerful motivation indeed. So grieve, it is only right, when death comes to call. Yet be aware that this powerful force is something we all face, and if you look in your heart you must know those who die are not in fact gone.

self-comments on week seven

2004-10-17T19:15:00.000-05:00

I don't know about the theme piece for week seven. I know we were meant to go from small to large, but I wonder if I kept trying to shrink it downwards again through the whole piece? Is this along the lines of what you meant by expand? I would be happy to give it another go if it's majorly off.

Also, one of my prompt pieces this week... the William Blake one, worries me. I didn't notice while writing/editting until just now when I re-read it... but does it cross too far across the fiction line?

thanks - elm

theme 7

2004-10-17T19:14:00.000-05:00

At seven o’clock this evening there was a scramble to find out where my father was. There was a football game on and we eventually found him tucked into my Aunt Vanessa’s basement staring raptly at the plasma screen television. Mom asked when he was coming home, and he begged to be given a few more minutes to see the end of the game. Mom said that would be fine but that he would have to hurry down to Hamden afterwards. Sunday night is Pat’s Pizza night at my house, come hell, high water, or football games.
There are about a billion family traditions one must observe after becoming part of my family. Every Christmas, for example, I attend four separate family gatherings, without counting the one with my husband’s family. These gatherings are at the same time every year and woe to the person who is late attending. Christmas Eve is reserved for the women of the family to make cinnamon rolls. The day after Christmas is also reserved, for a large en masse shopping trip. Every holiday has a designated place of celebration as well as required foods. Lobster at the Fourth, Broccoli casserole at Thanksgiving, cinnamon rolls for Christmas and a specific cake for every birthday.
There are other more intimate traditions, more along the line of Pat’s Pizza Sunday. Like group apple picking every fall, even though all of the apples never get used and we have to throw them away by the end of the winter. The weekly fight over groceries is also a common ritual. Mom likes to forget to grocery shop. Or, she likes to buy odd groceries that don’t get eaten. So, I make her a list every week of the things the house needs. She then manages to forget or lose it (usually on purpose) when it’s time for her to go to the store. This creates a small scuffle, ending with my going with her to the store. Could she just say that she wanted me to go with her? Of course, but it wouldn’t be nearly so much fun for either of us.
Family traditions and more common everyday rituals are the glue that hold us together. My family is the most important thing in my life. They are my source of strength and contentment. Each little habit can become integral to knowing you are deep within the bosom of peace. Indeed, I noted to my brother the other day, who was trying to explain the fact that he was angry, that only someone in my family would have gone about explaining in quite the same fashion. He used nine different synonyms for anger during his explanation. If that isn’t a direct hold-over from mom’s days of vocabulary improvement I don’t know what is. The rhythms of family life are what make blood thicker than water.

Theme six piece

2004-10-09T15:36:00.000-05:00

I read a line once that has haunted me ever since. When I read it was like a lightning bolt going through me. “Four am knows all my secrets.” I am a night owl, and the early hours of morning bring me to a place where time seems to stop. Everything around me is still and silent, the world sits in unmoving darkness. Seconds elongate and deep thoughts are the general order of business. Normally it is a time of great peace. It’s the time when I start to unwind and get ready to sleep.
Lately it has been a tortuous time. Pregnancy is not the soothing miracle it was last time. Instead I find myself lying awake at night, praying for the baby to kick me so I will know it is alright. The clean white walls look like a hospital. The harsh florescent light I require to keep monsters at bay leave me washed out. It hurts my tired eyes. The night is confining. My husband’s gentle breathing leaves me enraged. There is no one to soothe me, no one to chase away the fear that those dark hours bring.
The stains in the carpet from long ago mishaps with India ink are like sinkholes to another world. The piles of books mock me. There is no peaceful reading in this place anymore. Clothes lying about taunt me with there untidy appearance. I have gotten so I cannot abide a lack of order. It’s as if by controlling and perfecting my environment I can make sure everything is alright this time. Time stretches without end. I cannot call the doctor, what could they do? At twenty weeks even if something did go wrong they would be powerless to stop it. What is familiar becomes distorted, somehow evil in its everyday sameness. My sanctuary is a prison of fear that will not be stilled.
Then, after endless changes of position, shakes and pokes, a feeble kick. A plea from the baby to leave it the hell alone so it can go back to sleep. In a moment everything returns to how it should be. Nervous sweat dries, my heart beat slows. My room is once again a bastion of strength and calm. Sleep will come to me now, but I know that tomorrow night will be the same.

Theme 5 piece

2004-10-09T15:35:00.000-05:00

Some people are granted certain abilities in life. I would no go so far as to call them super powers, but occasionally they can seem that way. I have seen men and women with the power to talk a crowd in a frenzy that will do anything for them. I have heard of incredible feats of strength or compassion with which ordinary people changed the world around them. I too, possess something of an inborn skill. Is it anything as flashy as what I’ve just mentioned? I don’t think so. I have the power to put anything and anyone to sleep. My parents were the first to notice. It was the way I had with my little brother.
Erin had just had one of his fits in a restaurant. Mom always got even more upset about it when he did it in public. Erin was what you might call a hyperactive child, though they didn’t do much about it when I was a kid. He would scream or cry until he turned purple, refusing to breath. If Mom and I were unsuccessful at calming him at this point (which we usually weren’t) he would then pass out from lack of air. Mom would scoop him up in a panic and rush to get his head under a faucet to make him start breathing again. The pediatrician claimed he would start breathing on his own at some point after he passed out, but Mom didn’t find that very comforting.
We were riding home and he was staring out the window, trying to burn down the country side with the sheer force of his will. Erin’s nickname was Damian. He didn’t get that by being the nicest or easiest of little kids. At two he could scare off kids and adults alike with one of those burning looks. I started to hum. It did not take long. He was exhausted after such a show. He looked around at me, eyes still trying to drill holes in everything they touched. I unbuckled my seat belt and slid up next to him. I started stroking his wispy white-blond hair. In a few minutes he decided that this was better than envisioning the world crushed at his feet.
He sighed. Babies, even their breath smells like heaven. His eyes turned their normal flawless blue, precious jewels against his white skin. “Sing Erk-a” he told me. I sang, still stroking his hair gently. In minutes he would be sleeping soundly, and would stay that way till we got home. When he woke it would be with that natural tendency of children to wake happy with life. I heard Mom and Dad breath a sigh of relief. Even as a three year old Erin had gotten to the point where he would take an olive branch from me much more easily then them. It was something we did whenever we took a car ride of any length. Erin would eventually ask me to sing, or I just would, and he would fall into a coma.
There were many other uses for this talent down the line. Mostly in the service of very tired people who had just had their first infant. My Aunt Beth actually drove forty five minutes each way to pick me up so I could put her kid to sleep on one particularly bad night. My favorite person to use the trick on though, has always been Erin. He came home the other night with a broken heart over a girl he’s been dating for over a year. I stroked his knee and calf for about ten minutes before he fell into a deep sleep. Still works after all these years.

note on theme 5

2004-10-09T15:33:00.000-05:00

I noticed today when I went to put up my week six theme piece that my theme 5 piece was no where to be found. I did attempt to post it last friday, but it's not here. Thank you teachers of computer class who drill in the idea of saving all work in at least two places. I'll try reposting now.

theme 4 - mother and best friend

2004-09-25T13:33:00.000-05:00

The wall flanking the staircase rattles under the force of impact. Bang, bang, bang, bang, bang. Cracking open one eyelid I send a prayer that the heavens open and smite down all of those evil morning people. After waiting a moment to be sure that this wish will not be granted I drag myself out of bed. Downstairs mother is bustling about, her smile bright as the sun. Though on the one hand I feel like beaning her over the head with one of her ivy plants, I can’t help but be amused and comforted at her unchanging nature.
Mom is a teacher, and she’s crazy about making sure everyone around her continues their education until death prevents more. This value comes from living in a family of five girls. Her mother instilled them all with the desperate need not to be dependent on anyone for anything, particularly a man. I spent my childhood doing school work and then extra lessons at home from my parents. She also inspired the love of reading that keeps my glued to a book at least four hours a day.
Mom is the family caretaker. Not just for my own family, but the sprawling extended one. There is nothing my family likes more than to pick up other people to bring into the fold, and mom is our matriarch. She has spent considerable time grooming me to take over this position when I get old enough; or when she gets old enough. She’s a control freak in all things, and we love her for it.
Mother is perhaps best described as vivacious. She is anything but dull. Still head-turning after getting both kids to college age, she captures a room in an instant. Like a force of nature she swirls through life, dragging all along behind her willing or no. She’s difficult and moody, a bit hard of hearing and full of life. I always thought that people who said their mother was their best friend were a little soft in the attic. Now that I’ve gained the moderate insight of a twenty one year old, I see exactly what they mean.

theme 3- example take on conversation with self

2004-09-19T23:07:00.000-05:00

At night, florescent lights reflect off the window panes in the mudroom. You can’t see out unless you put your nose against the pane of glass, which anyone who’s seen a horror movie knows is a completely idiotic thing to do. Proud in my lack of idiocy, I stand several feet behind the door, stalemated. It is light enough outside to see, but not to read. Reading is my tool to distract myself from what else might be sharing the night air. In my left hand a book is held open with three fingers and a thumb, the other finger being too involved with holding my lighter. In the right a cigarette held between first and second finger, leaving the majority of the hand free to turn the knob.
I really need to smoke.
Mmmphm.
There is nothing out there.
Well, nothing you can’t outrun anyway….. hopefully.
There are no such things as zombies.
Mmmphm. Why don’t you turn out the light so you can see outside?
You know I have to have that light so I can read.
Yes because reading is going to offer so much protection.
Now look here, there is paranoid and there is paranoid. You had best get a grip on yourself.
Paranoid is better then… hey, what are you doing?
The door somehow always manages to squeak. How can a house less then six years old make so much noise? I worry for a moment about waking my parents. The punishment for that would likely make me wish it had only been zombies or killer clowns from outer space, for example. The night closes around me, and I have a moment of peace.
That’s nice.
Mmm, yes indeed.
A snick, and a flame blooms from the lighter. Deep breath.

**note, this was one of about twenty abortive attempts at various prompts. When I became positive that the patient was dead with no hope of revival, I let it go. So forgive the left in space ending there...

theme 3

2004-09-19T23:01:00.000-05:00

okay, obviously from my incredibly late posting this week I am showing this is not a strong point for me. It's not the setting that's the problem, but the dialogue. Whenever I attempt to write dialogue it's like a black hole opened up and swallowed anything good about the piece. This has been happening with EVERYTHING I've written this week. Which is amusing considering that I've written more this week than in months put together. Please pardon the paltry things I've ended up posting. It was like nails on chalkboard putting them up their, choosing them out of the general dross churned out over the course of the week. I am also attempting re-writes on the Erin thing, and that is acutally coming okay, if not totally ready for unveiling. Well, I suppose that is enough ranting about my parallyzation over this weeks prompts. Just don't think I don't know that those pieces are sad pathetic creatures.

theme2 My Brother

2004-09-10T19:36:00.000-05:00

Big blue eyes and white blond hair… His skin stayed the perfect translucent color of a baby’s until he was nearly five years old. My mother tells me that when she went to the hospital to have him, I stood in the doorway behind them and informed her they needn’t come home without a brother. She was mildly alarmed at this, as 19 years ago, the sonograms were not really clear enough to distinguish sex. Lucky for all involved, he was indeed a boy. I remember when he was four, and he scratched his cornea. He had to wear this horrid flesh-colored eye patch taped to his head. I was on a hunt for purple tootsie pops. They were his favorite, and I gave him every single one. I think mom was worried I’d managed to rot his teeth out by the time they got the patch off him.
He was loud, and so angry, so very angry. He had this way of tilting his head down and glaring at you from under perfect white eyebrows. The startling deep blue of his eyes did not hinder him from pouring such a murderous rage through them that you were sure he was trying to figure out how to kill you with one look. Mom called him Hell Spawn, or Damian, with greatest affection. Paradoxically, he would hug you so tight sometimes that I was sure he would break my ribs; exclaiming that he loved you the whole time. He was fierce in his emotion, no matter what it was.
He is still that way, but mostly grown now. Grown up and away. He got older, got his own friends, started to lie to everyone about everything… even me. He is still full of anger. Though I hope that somewhere in there is the boy I remember. Almost every time I see him, he tries to break my heart in two, never suspecting. My parents finally threw him out of the house a couple weeks ago. I didn’t sleep for a week. He wasn’t home for his birthday… there was no ice cream cake or family pictures. My husband doesn’t understand it, why I torture myself over him. How can I explain? His siblings are all at least eight years his junior. He never experienced what it was like to grow up as two halves of a whole. My mother always used to tell us, face all serious and stern, all you have is each other. When your father and I are gone, there will always be the two of you. I am waiting, I am hoping. Someday he will return to me, the boy I grew up with. My brother.

theme 2, comments on my journal style

2004-09-10T19:16:00.000-05:00

When journaling, I seem to like to get a snapshot of what is happening with everyone in my life at that moment in time. It is my place to vent, which I have already mentioned. Erin, mom, dad, and Matt are almost always included in the daily entries. I used to be mostly concerned with the thoughts and emotions of the day, but as I get older I find less to put down about that. Abstract thoughts are far less interesting than making sure I remember everything that has happened. Partly I think this has to do with forgetting things. Before I had lived for such a short time that everything in my life was an easily-accessible memory. Now, at the ripe old age of 21 I am starting to forget things. Friends or family remind me of something that happened years ago, or months (or days) and I wouldn’t have remembered at all if they hadn’t mentioned it. That scares me. I don’t want to lose a single thing. Pack rat nature does that to you. My journal writing is always in the form of a letter. It’s not an open to whom it may concern letter, either. There has always been an identifiable if nebulous presence that I am writing to. I’ve also noticed that I seem to do best if I write when I am tired. The events of the day seem to wash out of me and into the pen so much easier that way. I never do journal entries on the computer unless there is absolutely no other choice. It just doesn’t feel the same as a pen and fresh sheet of college ruled paper.

my personal tale of woe regarding 162 startup

2004-09-08T23:48:00.000-05:00

Most of the problem was that I couldn't get anyone in the admission's office to talk to me. I realize that everyone is swamped at the beginning of the fall semester, so I started calling random numbers when no one in the office had called me back the monday class started. I think I left three voicemails on Monday. Waited Tues. Left five or six on Wed. I think it was Thursday that I finally got a secretary in the Dean of Students deparment to pick up the phone. They put me in touch with someone in the admissions office. They then gave me the faculty email address which, though wrong, luckily was not unanticipated. Having set out to create my blog I spent a large amount of time picking out the domain name and template and so on and so forth, feeling perfection would soothe the anxiety of being behind. There was a glitch when it was going through the "creating your blog" sequence, but then it popped up fine under my name when I signed on to the blogger service. I began posting away, but unfortunately was not bright enough to save a copy of the posts on the harddrive instead of only the server. The blog would not come up when I used the URL, but I figured it was just a server delay. I believe the next three days I continued this path, still thinking it was a server error. When it still wouldn't come up by Sunday I was in a panic. I created a new blog, but unfortunately when I tried to go in and retrieve my posts... they had disappeared into cyberspace. Links for them were present, but I only got an error when I clicked on them. So, I started over, typed up a couple excerpts, and hoped like crazy I wouldn't dig myself such a hole that I'd failed the class already. Please excuse the bleating, I WAS terribly anxious about the whole thing but that's no excuse to talk your ear off... so to speak. (or write, whatever) I'm not sure this would be helpful for other students other than a warning that if it doesn't come up on the server after 24 hours, you're best off starting over again. Maybe web class people should leave a contact note in the bookstore for when people pick up their texts... cause admissions wasn't a lot of help.

appendix to about the author

2004-09-08T23:40:00.000-05:00

Mmm, yes. Reading over my about the author post I see there are some very specific gaps. So here we go: My name is Erika McLean. I'm 21 years of age, live in Bangor, Maine, and am married to a wonderful man named Matthew McLean. (No, I did not marry my cousin. He took my name, neat huh? You don't even want to know what his name used to be.) Let's see... I'm best at half-finishing my constant stream of artsy little projects and at taking the occasional class. So far everytime I have tried to enroll in a program it has been an instant crash and burn. I am hoping to change that next fall. I am four months pregnant and due in the spring. Everyone under the sun (including the doc) thinks it will be a boy, though there is no way to tell for sure until next month. thank you

theme 2 unpacking the journal

2004-09-07T14:37:00.000-05:00

initial thoughts - I have been keeping a journal for years now. I've always found it to be an extremely useful processing tool. Mad at someone? Rail them out in your writing. Waxing on a crush? Parents unfair cruel fascists? Same thing. It's a great place to vent and be yourself. Not to mention that you can go back years later and look at what an amusing person you were back then. It's just as good as a snapshot for catching memories. Personally, I think even better. I'll try a little unpacking later. I just wanted to take a moment to exault the journal itself.

theme 1 (week one journal entries)

2004-09-07T14:23:00.000-05:00

These are excerpts from my normal long-hand journal for the first week of class, because I hadn’t yet figured out how to get the web class up and running.

August 30th 2004

My brother is not here for us to have his birthday party. He was an idiot and got himself kicked out two days ago. It makes me so mad/frust/sad cause he just won’t get a clue about things. I had to go get his car out of the impound cause he got his license suspended on top of everything else. And he STILL keeps asking for the freaking punching bag. I’ll have to call him later and wish him a happy birthday. Hopefully I’ll feel less guilty about everything afterward.

Sept 1st 2004

Mom is back to school as of today. Weird that they are starting before Labor Day. They almost never do that in Bangor. I am having a heck of a time trying to get anyone to tell me how to access my web class. I’ve called like five people over there and not only can I not get a real person, no one will call me back! I had my first intro to film class tonight. It was terrible. We had to watch Goodfellas. Who wants to watch a movie about idiots killing each other and stealing things? I had many hopes for this class. I thought maybe we’d do film genres and what makes a good film within that genre. Or maybe different kinds of film-making, animation, regular, on scene vs blue screen etc. Boy was I hoping for too much apparently. Matt says his college comp went fine. He has intro to soc tomorrow. I hope things continue to be fine. I remember how freaky those first classes were.

Sept 4th 2004

Saturday. That completes another week on the preggo calander. We’re sixteen weeks as of today. I have to call the doctor on tues to find out when my next appointment is. I lost the little card again. I’ve got to remember to call Kris, he must be feeling terribly unloved. It’s Matt’s grandfather’s birthday on Monday, I have to go get a present. Maybe slippers? Maybe gloves or a shirt, I don’t know I’ll have to talk to him first. At least I’m not in charge of providing the cake. The only sugarless cake I have a recipe for is cheesecake, and I don’t know how well that would go over. No word from Erin today. I hope he’s okay. Maybe I should buy the stupid punching bag. I yelled at mom today at dinner. She kept pushing the VJ thing again. I’ve told her over and over that we can’t use that cause it was supposed to be Vanessa’s nickname. She doesn’t seem to want to remember that. I was really angry, but was that any excuse?? I feel terrible. Now I’m going to have to make myself get up at the crack of dawn to go with her to get groceries. Guilt is extremely annoying.

Sept 6th 2004

Labor Day weekend’s almost over. I didn’t make it to Nan’s house for the party, but I did secure the gift and talked to them on the phone. I feel wretched. Being pregnant makes my allergies like ten times worse and they won’t let me take anything. Oh well. Matt’s mom asked straight out to come to a sonogram. That made me ask mom if I would be morally remiss in not letting her come now. She said yes. Dammit. Like I don’t have enough problems. I asked mom if she asked straight out about coming into the delivery room if I’d have to say yes to that too. She’s mentioned it to matt again. Mom said no thank god. I’m going to have to move to Abudaby to get away from our families. Matt brought home a piece of cake for me. He said his grandfather wouldn’t let him leave without it. I really love his grandparents… they’re so awesome. I hope grammie jo is doing well on her trip. I wish she’d call someone to tell us they got there alright. Oh well, I’ve got to get some sleep. Mom’s going to leave at like 7 am. Night.

Myself as a Writer

2004-09-05T01:39:00.001-05:00

Grand ambitions are an integral part of writing for me. Unfortunately grand ambitions often leave me overwhelmed or dissatisfied with everything that I write. I have that debilitating complex common to anyone who attempts an artistic outlet wherein my delicate ego is always being crushed or soaring all out of proportion. This is exhausting and frequently causes me to abandon the whole idea of writing for weeks at a time. Until the muse’s parti-colored little minions grab hold and drag me to the nearest writing instrument anyway. Editing is a weak point for me. I am confronted with either far too many things I am convinced need to be changed, or else I am an immovable object about changing anything. Words are my greatest love, so while the grammar occasionally suffers in my pieces, the vocabulary remains more pleasant. Fiction is the realm that I have always chosen to work with, but I have a feeling that creative non-fiction may yet prove to be its downfall. I try very hard to be open-minded to comments. This is not always successful, but hey, no one’s perfect.

About the Author

2004-09-05T01:39:00.000-05:00

As Austin would say, “Allow myself to introduce… myself.” Falling somewhere between the quiet one in all black that you know is destined for serial-killer-dom and the blushing naïve girl who’s so straight laced you feel dirty whenever they look at you, I am an interesting mix of contradictions provided by eccentric parents. Originally suited and on track for some form of terribly complicated theoretical mathematics or genetic research, somewhere in my teens I was bitten by the most evil of bugs. Teenage angst mixed with a liberal dose of “artistic talent”. I do not mean that in a flattering way. Having survived against all perceived odds to my twenty first birthday, I find myself married and four months pregnant. While this has managed to put my feet much more solidly in the straight laced side of the spectrum, it had not unfortunately managed to cure that singular thrill that come only from creation of something. I am quite ruined for any normal and worth while pursuit of a weekly paycheck, and so I find myself here. I hope you enjoy anything you may read here in my humble corner of the internet. Please feel free to comment, reactions are always welcome.

Success on take 2

2004-09-05T01:17:00.000-05:00

Ha Ha! Success!
At one point I would have said I was very good with computers, but now I realize that I was obviously suffering from some sort of grandiose visions. However, though late I have now managed to create a workable blog. Hurray for the team!