I have seen her around campus and she seems sad. No, not sad so much as shut. She reminds me of this locked door in my apartment building. It's not a beautiful door. No neon signs demanding attention or decadent flourishes flirting with my eyes. Just a banal pastel rectangle rising erect by the recycling. I've tried opening the enigmatic entryway but it's always locked and I have no idea what's behind it. Storage? Corpses? A lifetime supply of chocolate? Waldo? I don't know. And that makes me notice it more than the doors I walk through thirty times a day.
Now here I sit in the UC with a chorus of college voices pervading the air and this girl-door is cracking open. Her words invite me to peek behind that solemn facade that has taunted me for so long. Like a Western tourist sneaking into Mecca, I'm going to slide into the maze of her mind. But don't worry, sweet reader! The cacaphony of the crowd is my invisibilty cloak; I sneak around unnoticed.
Let me describe to you what I know so far about this sulking creature of mystery whose presence so bewilders me. Her stand looks like a stoop. Her sit seems like a squat. Long black hair strings down her cheeks like stern curtains. She seldom speaks, but when words do march out of her mouth, they are brief and frugal. Her body has always reminded me of Saturn, not because of its girth, but because it seeths a kind of self-reliance. And I could easily imagine a ring of ice particles encircling her.
Oh, how those first impressions strip away as I hunch in the cafeteria and study this girl in her natural habitat! But let me snip short my rhapsodizing. Now, my scholarly reader, I will silence my biases. Like a rational anthropologist or psychologist or lifeologist, I will remove myself from the scene. I will present you with the simple, essential ingredients and see what delicious conclusions your minds bake with them:
She towers above her table of friends with her hip jutted out. Slicked back in a stylish pony tail, her black hair no longer divides her face from the world, but beckons admiration. The gaggle of friends below her all look like a strange blend of geek and gypsy. Only a few of them speak directly to her, but the others stop babbling every few seconds and eagerly glance at her.
"Oh my god, isn't it like Ash Wednesday or something?" blurts a girl with greasy blue hair and a black sweatshirt. The ripples of chattering at the table fade.
"Yeah it is." Mystery Girl twists her keys between the crevices of her fingers.
"Are there like church services or something here?"
"Yeah there are church services here. But I was sick on Sunday so I forgot to go to them."
"Is the church here any good?"
"Yeah I just didn't want to got to church cuz I was sick. Christians have bad immune systems." As she speaks, she traces the outside curve of her thigh with the keys. "Oh my god so like the funniest thing happened last week. Me and a bunch of the lacrosse players were working out and watching TV. And you know how you don't want to change the channel when you're working out?" Blue Sweatshirt girl blinks in agreement. "Well this evangelical thing came on which was all like 'Jesus bled for you blah blah blah' and ever since then I started calling Gatorade Jesus Juice." Giggles billow through the crowd. "And now I'm always like 'want some Jesus Juice?' when we work out."
Blue Hair Girl adjusts her brown hat that pleads for attention. "Are you like really religious?"
"I'm Catholic and Pagan which makes life interesting." She cocks her other hip out and shifts her weight. "Christmas is fun cuz I get to go to church services and solstice parties. It was like really awkward one time cuz my friend had this Christmas party. I was all like 'uh-no-can't go you're party's on solstice." A rich laughter gushes from her lips.
"HOLY SHIT I FINALLY FINISHED THE LAST LEVEL!" A puffy face erupts from behind the labtop next to Blue Hair Girl. The others at the table look fairly amused. Sucked back into reality, the computer boy greets Mystery Girl, who rewards him with a half-smile.
"You religious too?" She brushes across his whole body with her eyes.
He fingers the rims of his glasses. "Yeah. There's this math demon that sits on my shoulder and makes me worship him."
"I see."
"He's always like 'is there really such thing as infinity' and-"
"What does the math devil look like?"
"Thin. Emaciated."
"Interesting."
"You're like really good at math, huh?" Bursts Blue Haired Girl, gazing at Mystery Girl.
"She's a Math troll!" Computer Boy howls at his own joke before anyone else has the chance.
"It's my major. I have to rock at something." Her chin elevates a little, elongating her wide white neck.
"OH MY GOD! One of my friends is engaged!" Computer Boy's beady eyes expand like black holes.
"So what. All my friends from high school are either pregnant, engaged, or dead." Her keys jingle as she speaks. "Do you facebook stalk your girlfriend?"
"No I don't." His face looks liquidy like yogurt, and screams for the supportive structure of glasses to keep it from gushing onto the floor.
"I stalk you girlfriend on facebook. She's hot." She smirks and angles her head towards him. "Well I have homework to do. Au revoir!" She sachets out the door, snaps it open, and enters the night.
My eyes watch the blackness envelop her figure. More than ever, she is a mystery to me. I have discovered that behind that locked door there is not a mere room but an entire complicated, nuanced country. And I will always be a stranger there.
Wednesday, February 25, 2009
Wednesday, February 18, 2009
Knees In Need
Once upon a childhood, my knees swallowed the luminous sunshine and inhaled the tangy odor of freshly mowed lawn. Ruddy and unwashed, the slim bends in my legs proudly sported the glowing green of grass stains and the brooding brown of wet earth. Occasionally, slashes of red or violet bruises would erupt. A rebellious branch might whip one as I scrambled up the mulberry tree in my front yard. Or a bothered wasp might sting one as I sank into a stretch of daisies. And bulbous rocks frequently ripped them apart. My knees didn’t mind these tastes of pain. My knees talked with nature constantly, and these brushes of blood were simply some of the more solemn conversations.
I rejoiced in my jolly joints and all they could do for me. With their help, I was a princess crawling away from a Cyclops or a sorrowfully short dwarf. They hung upside down from sturdy tree branches in the morning, and crouched behind the rose bush when my Dad called me in for dinner.
My knees enjoyed flocks of friends besides me. Amber snails slimed across them while eying the rest of me with suspicious tentacles. Silver rolly-poleys tickled them with whispy legs before curling into a ball and rolling down my leg.Even my neighbor's chocolate labrador bounded across the yard and kissed them. Blushing pink with the pleasure from all this company, my knees let the rays of sunlight catch their scattered strands of blond and illuminated like gold.
I look at my knees now. They are chalky white and naked. Their days are no longer spent sprawled among my backyard’s tangled mass of grass and flowers. A foot above concrete or carpet, my clean knees sit idly for hours. They no longer feel like a part of my body. They feel like at tool. A service device. They bend to transport me. They fold to exercise me. They connect to support the rest of my body. They do their job efficiently enough. But they still long for the sloppy embrace of the snail and the creamy taste of mud. My brain tells me I have vastly improved in the last ten years. But my knees, silent and mournful, shake in disagreement.
I rejoiced in my jolly joints and all they could do for me. With their help, I was a princess crawling away from a Cyclops or a sorrowfully short dwarf. They hung upside down from sturdy tree branches in the morning, and crouched behind the rose bush when my Dad called me in for dinner.
My knees enjoyed flocks of friends besides me. Amber snails slimed across them while eying the rest of me with suspicious tentacles. Silver rolly-poleys tickled them with whispy legs before curling into a ball and rolling down my leg.Even my neighbor's chocolate labrador bounded across the yard and kissed them. Blushing pink with the pleasure from all this company, my knees let the rays of sunlight catch their scattered strands of blond and illuminated like gold.
I look at my knees now. They are chalky white and naked. Their days are no longer spent sprawled among my backyard’s tangled mass of grass and flowers. A foot above concrete or carpet, my clean knees sit idly for hours. They no longer feel like a part of my body. They feel like at tool. A service device. They bend to transport me. They fold to exercise me. They connect to support the rest of my body. They do their job efficiently enough. But they still long for the sloppy embrace of the snail and the creamy taste of mud. My brain tells me I have vastly improved in the last ten years. But my knees, silent and mournful, shake in disagreement.
Wednesday, February 11, 2009
The One Minute I Most Regret
"Are you sure?" I ask. He sinks into a chair, his face hard, cold, and flawless like a diamond.
Silence descends.
I'm shaking my bones are quaking like the spiney tree branches outside my window he doesn't want me I know it he doesn't want me. I'm running, racing through a labyrinth of memories looking for an escape clawing at the walls. The first time I saw him, ridiculously rolling by our door in a swivel chair with those luscious golden curls. "What a clown" I thought. "What a boy." And here that boy sits with the power of a man, ten men, a congress of giants. I'm hurting I think my muscles may be wilting inside me and I think I'm crying. I must hold it in and swallow it and try to seem serene like he looks. He sits frigidly emotionless as marble. Even sitting there flipping my heart in his fingers like it's a tarnished penny he is still beautiful. I should have seen it coming should have analyzed the signs. When he told me he sympathized with the Great Gatsby who liked the idea of a girl better than the reality. When winter's first snowflakes tumbled from the sky and he called my roommate instead of me. When he bolted out of the room while watching Inherit the Wind with me last night. Maybe he'll take it back erase all of this maybe we'll wipe away whatever he hates in me and it will be okay it will all be okay. No it won't. It will not be okay. I'm hurting. He will always hurt me. All those moments those subtle insults and poisonous rejections. Hot fury broiling in my chest. I know I'm letting him hurt me. He relishes power like a flea thrives on blood. I have to stop giving it to him. I have to open my mouth right now and tell him to get the fuck out of my room or I will throw him out by his deceptive blond tendrils.
My lips part. They hover open for a moment, then clasp shut again.
"I'm sure" he states blankly. "It's over." He wrenches the door open, slides out, and shuts it.
Silence descends.
I'm shaking my bones are quaking like the spiney tree branches outside my window he doesn't want me I know it he doesn't want me. I'm running, racing through a labyrinth of memories looking for an escape clawing at the walls. The first time I saw him, ridiculously rolling by our door in a swivel chair with those luscious golden curls. "What a clown" I thought. "What a boy." And here that boy sits with the power of a man, ten men, a congress of giants. I'm hurting I think my muscles may be wilting inside me and I think I'm crying. I must hold it in and swallow it and try to seem serene like he looks. He sits frigidly emotionless as marble. Even sitting there flipping my heart in his fingers like it's a tarnished penny he is still beautiful. I should have seen it coming should have analyzed the signs. When he told me he sympathized with the Great Gatsby who liked the idea of a girl better than the reality. When winter's first snowflakes tumbled from the sky and he called my roommate instead of me. When he bolted out of the room while watching Inherit the Wind with me last night. Maybe he'll take it back erase all of this maybe we'll wipe away whatever he hates in me and it will be okay it will all be okay. No it won't. It will not be okay. I'm hurting. He will always hurt me. All those moments those subtle insults and poisonous rejections. Hot fury broiling in my chest. I know I'm letting him hurt me. He relishes power like a flea thrives on blood. I have to stop giving it to him. I have to open my mouth right now and tell him to get the fuck out of my room or I will throw him out by his deceptive blond tendrils.
My lips part. They hover open for a moment, then clasp shut again.
"I'm sure" he states blankly. "It's over." He wrenches the door open, slides out, and shuts it.
Tuesday, February 3, 2009
Hi, I'm makes-out-with-slugs
Okay, I suppose the term make-out is a blatant exaggeration. There was no tongue involved. Although, come to think of it, I've always thought my tongue resembled a wet pink slug. Perhaps my slimy mollusk companion would have preferred that oral muscle to my chapped ten-year-old lips.
Anyways, my brief and sticky affair commenced on a hot day in May at the insistence of my camp counselors. They claimed it was sacred camp tradition, and I dared not defy the khaki-covered demi-gods. What child would disobey such magnificent heralders of knowledge? Heralders of knowledge. HA. I bet they were nothing but a rag-tag batch of pimply teenagers trying to flesh out their college applications. My adult cynacism mocks my childhood reverence.
I was not the only girl who shared an intimate moment with the slick yellow slug. A line of the most audacious campers formed, eager to prove their fearless gusto.
I can't help but wonder now, what if that slug felt seriously molested? What if (s)he lived in a constant fear of intimacy until (s)he died? What if the kissing incident caused such keeen mental distress, (s)he commit suicide by rolling in someone's salty lunch? After all, as hermaphrodites who are phallically shaped, I'm sure slugs already struggle with gender identity issues. Add unconcensual physical contact with multiple individuals... who knows what neurosis that poor slug suffered. Safe to say, if God proves to be a mollusk, I will burn in Hell forever.
Then again, perhaps my insecurity is distorting my ideas. Maybe that meager mollusk's confidence was in shambles before our one-moment-stand, and the kiss was a catalyst for spectacular emotional metamorphosis. Maybe its slug parents never cuddled it as a mucus-like baby. Maybe it's single foot wasn't as long and muscular as the other slug's. Perhaps our tender embrace empowered that slug forever, inspiring it to start a slug charity that aid other differently-abled creatures!
The whole situation demonstrates to me the hopeless poignancy of interaction. Whether it is a kiss with a slug or a fight with friend, I hate how the ripples of our actions are impossible to know. We are all but grains of sand, able to see and affect only the few grains scattered around us, forced to remain ignorant of the entire beach. I don't believe in an afterlife, but I desperately wish I did so I could one day know my modest role in this baffling universe. And, of course, so I could make sure my ex slug-friend is okay.
Anyways, my brief and sticky affair commenced on a hot day in May at the insistence of my camp counselors. They claimed it was sacred camp tradition, and I dared not defy the khaki-covered demi-gods. What child would disobey such magnificent heralders of knowledge? Heralders of knowledge. HA. I bet they were nothing but a rag-tag batch of pimply teenagers trying to flesh out their college applications. My adult cynacism mocks my childhood reverence.
I was not the only girl who shared an intimate moment with the slick yellow slug. A line of the most audacious campers formed, eager to prove their fearless gusto.
I can't help but wonder now, what if that slug felt seriously molested? What if (s)he lived in a constant fear of intimacy until (s)he died? What if the kissing incident caused such keeen mental distress, (s)he commit suicide by rolling in someone's salty lunch? After all, as hermaphrodites who are phallically shaped, I'm sure slugs already struggle with gender identity issues. Add unconcensual physical contact with multiple individuals... who knows what neurosis that poor slug suffered. Safe to say, if God proves to be a mollusk, I will burn in Hell forever.
Then again, perhaps my insecurity is distorting my ideas. Maybe that meager mollusk's confidence was in shambles before our one-moment-stand, and the kiss was a catalyst for spectacular emotional metamorphosis. Maybe its slug parents never cuddled it as a mucus-like baby. Maybe it's single foot wasn't as long and muscular as the other slug's. Perhaps our tender embrace empowered that slug forever, inspiring it to start a slug charity that aid other differently-abled creatures!
The whole situation demonstrates to me the hopeless poignancy of interaction. Whether it is a kiss with a slug or a fight with friend, I hate how the ripples of our actions are impossible to know. We are all but grains of sand, able to see and affect only the few grains scattered around us, forced to remain ignorant of the entire beach. I don't believe in an afterlife, but I desperately wish I did so I could one day know my modest role in this baffling universe. And, of course, so I could make sure my ex slug-friend is okay.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)