Raw emotion

I am happily married, but I have never seen anything as beautiful as her.  When the hot, emotional tear swelled from her eyes and rolled across her walnut skin I was enchanted.  Don’t get me wrong, I love my husband, but when I saw the beauty of such natural and raw emotion I wanted nothing more than to take her into my arms and kiss her eyes and cheeks.  I wanted so badly to press her to me, feeling her sob in my comforting arms.  Instead I clumsily caught her tears with my chubby fingers and brushed the stray hairs from her face.  I guess this could be called motherly instinct, but she is older than I and it just feels so different.  I try not to give away my feelings and calmly wish her goodnight when it is time for her to go, but as she leaves I can’t help but wonder if she is thinking the same thing too.

Sigh

Today is one of those days where everything seems to rub me the wrong way.  My emotions are all over the place.  Honestly, I would relish a hot bubble bath and a good cry.  What do I have to cry about though?  Lately I have felt like such an automaton, storing away emotions and reactions to just get through the day and I feel as if that dam is hitting its limits.  The kid is screaming again after telling him no; double sigh. But I feel guilty and annoyed with myself for even being put out by this.  Does everyone have these bi-weekly slumps?  It’s weird because when I have all these emotions flooding my mind I feel like a different person a collage of personalities that spring on me every other second and I just want to feel like myself again.

Primary

Beat, beat
   yellow: despair
      I run, a coward

Hum, hum
   blue: tranquility
      A peace in a hue

Smack, smack
   red: assault
     An appetite unquenched

Shh, shh
   white: depravity
     Stark cold, rushing in

Wishing I Was an Indian Princess

Fifth grade.  I guess you could say I was average, although, like everyone else, I wished I was above average.  Most days though, I often felt less than average feeling inadequate as I compared my short frame to the other kids in my class that loomed and towered over me.  My long white-blonde hair was sensitive and rather than torture myself with pony-pails or other hair styles, my long hair often fell loose and ratty around my pudgy face.  I hadn’t thought much of it before, but now that my sister Sunshine was a middle schooler, she often informed me on how un-cool I actually was.  My sister liked to prove this by quickly pointing out my lack of friends.  I didn’t understand how my one best friend, Cassie, was not enough.  I began to question myself and what I was supposed to look like and be like. 

            I often talked of these new concerns with Cassie, but she would always reassure me by telling me Sunshine was just trying to be mean to me.  Cassie was the oldest child in her family and she told me how she would say similar things to her younger sister.  I thought Cassie knew it all; she always seemed to know what to say and had an answer for everything.  Cassie and I had known each other since second grade, and that’s like forever.  We were both excited that we were in the same class this year and spent every second we could together.  Although Cassie and I had a lot in common, she had a hard time with the fact that I hated to read.  She would often give me books and tell me to read them, but I felt that was a waste of time.  I would much rather be outside on my roller blades or riding my bike.  Cassie didn’t like sports and she often tried to convince me of the travelling possibilities that a book offered.  Whatever.  Despite this disagreement, we were still BFF (Best Friends Forever)!

            I was an okay student.  I did pretty well actually, well except for spelling and reading.  I knew how to read, and read well, but apparently I just wasn’t reading enough. My teacher was disappointed that I did not read although I could read advanced books and understand their meanings.  My teacher would often pull me aside and try and point out books she thought I would like, but I was never interested.  In fact, I actually got upset that people were trying to shove all of these books down my throat.  Apparently I wasn’t the only student with this dislike of books, and my teacher, Mrs. Wooldridge, said she was not going to give up on me or anyone else in the class.

            It was about half way through the year when Mrs. Wooldridge announced that since we had finished our math unit, we would now have an implemented reading time; and yes, I groaned at this.  She surprised us by saying that instead of us reading, she would read a book to us.  I guess that would be okay; after all, being read to is better that having to fill out math problems.  Mrs. Wooldridge continued to say that she would be reading Naya Nuki (Naya what)?  It was at this point that a huge smile crossed her worn, aged face as she announced that after we have read the book, the author himself would come and speak to us.  A buzz began to roll over the room.  I had never met an author before.  I was pretty excited, authors are famous aren’t they?  I have never met anyone famous before.  I guess this whole designated reading time wouldn’t be too bad after all.

            At first reading time bored me.  The book was about some Indian girl picking berries or something with her friend Sacagawea.  I had heard the name before, but it didn’t mean much.  In fact most of the time I just watched my teacher read.  I thought it amusing how her lips would curl over certain words.  Her eyebrows moved like caterpillars dancing whenever she got excited about what she was reading.  The wrinkles on her face lifted and sagged with each new expression.  To me that was way more interesting than picking berries.  I began to think about where I would ride my bike that afternoon when I heard Mrs. Wooldridge voice get louder and louder as she talked of an Indian attacking the girls picking berries and how they were pulled by their hair from their hiding spots and placed in front of their captors on their saddle. 

            I sat mesmerized as she talked of abuse, pilfering, and murder.  My heart thumped as she told the tale of the brave Naya Nuki, a girl my age, who bore this captivity and punishment.  I was upset when my teacher stopped so that we could go get lunch.  Something had happened that had never happened before.  I wanted her to keep reading.  I wanted to know if Naya Nuki would be able to escape the way she had been planning.  For the first time in my life, I cared about a character in a book as if she were my friend; as if she was me.  My mind raced around the story wondering if I would be able to get out of a camp in which I am being held captive.  Would I have been able to have stolen and hid the knife as well as Naya Nuki had? 

            I walked home imagining I was Naya Nuki and that I must hurry for the imaginary captor behind me might decide I was traveling too slow and leave me for dead among the wilderness; known to me as the empty playground.  I did my bathroom chore scrubbing and sweating as I cleaned the bathtub and toilet and thought of the torture I must endure before I too could plan and execute my escape.  I slept in my warm bed and thought what it must be like sleeping in a warm buffalo hide.  I went to sleep quickly dreaming out my adventures as an Indian princess.

            Before class started I talked with Cassie about the book and how wonderful the adventure was.  Although Cassie didn’t seem to appreciate the book nearly as much as I did, she was still excited to hear that I liked the book.  We talked about our wishes to be little Indian girls out among the thickets picking barriers and being captured by an enemy tribe.  We began to pick out the boys in our class who were mean to us and labeled them as our evil captors.  I had trouble focusing on school work that day as I waited, like Naya Nuki, to be reunited to the things I love.  Although Naya Nuki tried to get home, I waited as patiently as I could to continue on this new adventure with her.

            Finally, it was reading time again.  I ran to the blue plastic chair we sat around while Mrs. Wooldridge read and waited to begin my adventure again.  As Mrs. Wooldridge’s voice began, slow and raspy at first, but rising and growing with the story as it began.  I returned to the wilderness of Montana as Naya Nuki climbs the tree to escape the dangerous black bear that had smelled the food she was carrying.  I sit stiff as if I too might fall from the tree.  My heart pounds like the sound of the drums that welcome the adventurous traveler back into their folds, honoring with the name Naya Nuki: girl who ran.

            I sat mystified.  I was Naya Nuki.  I had made that travel with her and felt honored to have finished the book in one piece.  The long ratty blonde hair of mine in my eyes turned to the silky black hair of the Indian princess I was becoming.  My chubby short frame I knew would help hide and survive the long nights without food.  All of the sudden, the things that had been bothering me seemed to make me who I was.  I was an Indian princess and enjoyed the way I looked.  Cassie was my Sacagawea, honest and true in all that she was. 

            Now that we had finished the book, I looked forward to our meeting with the author.  I was told that if we bought the book he would even autograph it for us.  I was looking forward to getting an autograph, but I was more excited about owning a copy of the book. 

I was ecstatic when the day came to meet Kenneth Thommasa.  I walked excitedly to the library, where we were to meet him.  I hoped that he would notice how much like Naya Nuki I was, or felt I was.  We sat Indian-style on the floor as we listened to him tell us a little about the story I already knew so well.  He then said he was going to give a free book to the girl who looked most like Naya Nuki.  I felt sure I was going to get it, after all I was an Indian, who had survived all Naya Nuki had, or at least I felt that I was capable to do all that she had.  I waved my hand furiously with all the girls around me, begging that he chose me.

Needless to say I was devastated when he picked Christina.  I was angry.  Christina has a beautiful light brown skin, with long flowing black-brown hair and chocolate brown eyes.  She was already beautiful enough; she didn’t need a free book too.  I was sadly brought back to reality.  I realized my pale skin and yellow hair were not the adornments of a beautiful Indian girl.  Despite this sad reality, no one could take away my experience.  I had used my babysitting money and bought the book that had changed me. After buying the book, I walked timidly across the library and up to the author and watched as he signed my book: To Cherish, Kenneth Thommasa.

Mrs. Wooldridge didn’t give up on me.  She noticed my interest and found books that fit my liking.  I read Island of the Blue Dolphins, Mrs. Frisby and the Rats of NIHM, the whole Laura Ingles series, chocolate Fever, and many more.  I became an avid reader, reading everything I could get my hands on.  My favorite books were one of brave Indian girls, but I learned to appreciate most literature. 

Every time I walk into my library of a meager 500 plus books I can’t help but look at my signed copy of Naya Nuki and remember the adventure that changed my life.

A communal dance

Came across this in my journal. so I wrote it a while ago, but I still like it :)

The fire and wood connect like a newlywed couple on their first night.  The fire licks the wood, tempting it, testing it out.  It curls itself around the wood, hugging it and taking it in.  The wood cracks as the fire dances around it and I feel I shouldn’t watch as the wood begins to burn from the inside out.  The fire never stops as it moves over the wood, up and don they move, up and down I watch the flames flicker.  The wood takes the liquid movement of the fire and it seems as if they begin to move together, as one.  The woods hard brown skin is replaced with a soft gray, accepting each touch of flame.  The wood is transformed, never again to be the same.
 The fire’s energy if fading and the wood’s luster is dull: they collapse into one, putting each other out, leaving behind only the remnants of their night together.

Life as a metaphore

No matter how hard I clean

My life remains a dirty house.

I polish up on philosophy and history,

But there is always too much to polish.

I try to vacuum out the dirt,

But a curse word always lingers in my mind;

the same way dirt lingers in my couch.

I wash my experiences with optimism

Yet, like windows, I always seem to view the grime.

Just as a load of dirty dishes clutters my sink,

So do the hours of television clutter my mind.

An eternal process, cleaning.

                                                 Always cleaning, trying to make things shine.

Short story: A lose Tile

       Today is another day of work.  Today, tomorrow, last week, it doesn’t matter which day because every day is always the same.  I walk into the pitch black room and fumble for a light behind a stack of files.  The blast of cold air stings my face and the light now on, reflects off the white metal file cabinets, hurting my eyes.  I walk to the worn desk that had been faded by many years of use.  I place my lunch in the drawer that smells of old wood and stain; by noon the drawer will smell of my spaghetti lunch.  I grab a large stack of thin, somewhat translucent, yellow receipts and the faded file sorter.  I sit down at an old swivel chair that no longer swivels and begin the monotonous task of alphabetizing the stack of papers.  My fingers often slide right over the papers making it hard to grasp them enough to separate.  I often have to lick my fingers in order to separate the thin sheets, filling my mouth with the slight taste of paper.

            In hopes of drowning out the boredom I turn on the radio.  A familiar beat of the eighties fills the room.  I now file to the beat, listening to the sound the paper makes as it rubs across the page behind it creating an additional melody.  I work now in rhythm, almost escaping the tight room of five large isles filled with files, a windowless prison.

“Morning.”                                                                                                                             

My filing is interrupted as my co-worker Gary enters.  He walks looking as if he is hunched over, yet he is stiff as a board, slightly bent at the waist.  I watch him as he runs a hand over his buzz cut while at the same time placing his lunch in the same drawer as mine.  I guess now the drawer will smell of spaghetti and tuna.  I observe that once again he is in nice tan pants and a button up shirt that looks like all the other ones he owns.

“Morning” I reply, as I look again at the work in front of me.  Gary and I are decades apart in age, so we work quietly next to one another, without much to say, of course only making the day linger on all the more.  I try to ignore his lack of social skills as I once again return to my work.

As soon as I finish with my stack I am dismayed to find a new stack, freshly copied waiting for me at the door.  The pages are still warm and fill the room with the smell of paper and warm ink.  My fingers slide over the still warm pages, making it difficult to separate.  This stack I decide can wait to be alphabetized.

I begin to walk up and down the aisles placing the papers in the coinciding folder.  I think how this job could not get any duller when I hear loud crash two aisles over.  Gary is probably kicking the chair out of the way that I had left in the aisle.  I guess I should apologize for forgetting to do that before I went home yesterday.  I decide not to though; after all he has done the same thing to me.  I ignore his outburst and continue pacing the aisle, pulling out files, inserting a single sheet of paper, and re-inserting the file into its proper alphabetical place.

I finally finish my stack, a small accomplishment to have it done.  I look around and notice Gary has not alphabetized anything else.  I grow irritated at his increasingly slow pace and decide I should go ask him if there is anything I can do besides alphabetize.  Maybe I can offer to put things in their files and he can alphabetize.

“Gary” I call out now that I have a plan of action.  I wait a few seconds before I say his name louder.

“Gary” I repeat as I begin looking down the rows for him.  He better not still be mad about that chair, after all he has done the same thing to…

As I turn the corner my mind goes blank as I see Gary sprawled on the floor lying in a puddle of his own blood.  My first instinct is to scream, but I try to think of how a person should react.  I realize I should see if he is breathing.  I try to act on this thought but my feet are numb and heavy, unwilling to step forward.  I close my eyes to try and get the image out of my head.  I take a breath and step forward.  I open my eyes now and it seems as if my body has decided to take over for me.  My body seems to work of its own accord as I kneel down next to him and take his pulse.

He has a pulse but it is weak.  I survey the area around him and just now notice the ceiling tile lying scattered around his immobile body.  This wouldn’t seem like much except for the blood that pooled around his head.  His clean shirt and pants were spattered with the dark red color of his own life that I realize is slowly seeping out of him.  Such a thought panics me as I begin to look for the cut in order to stop the bleeding.  I place my hand on his head feeling the warm stickiness of his blood that now covers my hand.  It all seems surreal as I watch my now scarlet red hand move his hair and feel for a cut.  My fingers move over his head so smoothly it almost felt as If I were touching the warm papers freshly copied.  I have to close my eyes as the sight makes me sick.  I feel as my fingers move.  All I see is the blackness of my eyelids, but I finally feel a gash.  Somewhat relieved I have found it I quickly place my hand over the area and apply pressure. 

Trying to calm myself I survey the scene again and notice that he has bled enough that his shirt is now absorbing the blood.  It seems to be flowing everywhere; I can’t help but think that it is as multitudinous as the files in the room, surrounding me.

I know I need help and begin to scream.  I only pray someone can hear me over the thundering air conditioner.  I wait for help and watch his pale face hoping for any movement.  I imagine I see the flutter of an eyelash but I realize my eyes are once again closed and I can’t see anything.  Or at least I shouldn’t see anything, but even my eyelids seem to show me blood.  I scream for help again as panic grips me again.

I must have passed out because I awoke in an empty office covered in dry blood.  I had paramedics around me and an oxygen mask over my mouth.  I was instructed to breathe deeply, which I did.  I was told I was alright.

I knew I wasn’t when I looked down at my blood stained hands.  How could I be alright if I had Gary’s life on my hands?