SoDashing90's Xanga

The Jogger

Sat, 07 Nov 2009 14:46:04 GMT

Another segment of "Bus Stop Sketches" that I got back from my professor a couple days ago...

It wasn’t supposed to rain today. The forecast said partially cloudy skies and only a 30% chance of rain, which wasn’t enough to bring on this downpour. Really? Of all days, it had to rain today. It was just his luck.

The jogger was soaked. If you rubbed him up against a huge bar of soap, he could probably wash your dishes with his body instead of using a sponge. His jogging suit held enough water that he could probably wash a couple hundred dishes before he needed to go out in the rain again. And all he’d have to do then would be walk to the corner and back and he’d be just as soaked, ready for another hundred dishes.

It had to be today. Start on a Monday, he told himself. Monday would be the start of his new lifestyle. His wife was skeptical. Waking up at four in the morning and going out jogging did not sound like something he would do just to kick off a new lifestyle, and she would personally like to see if he could pull it off. So she was at home.

He had been doing well, keeping up his own pace, wheezing a little, but surviving. He was three miles away from home when the skies decided to let loose. The droplets divebombed straight down, tablespoon sized globs of misery for the jogger. And the puddles appeared with the rain, soggy sinkholes of disaster, soaking his sneakers through to the socks. And if he broke a sweat, he couldn’t tell since his clothes stuck to his skin from the dripping wet.

Even now, as he calmly surrendered to the elements, the jogger stood in the rain. There was something bigger out there. Something that didn’t want him to go out jogging today. Was it God? The jogger doubted that God really cared about his jogging when He had more important things to deal with, like monsoons or hurricanes or some other natural disaster. Then again, the 30% chance of rain changing into an all out storm might have more significance to it than the idiocy of the weather man.

Maybe this was the beginning of a conversion from being an indifferent Catholic to true, authentic Catholicism. Maybe he would join the priesthood, or donate all his savings to a Jesuit college preparatory high school. Or maybe he would start going to mass every Sunday, send his kids to CCD, take Communion, go to Confession. Maybe he would sell all his old records at a church rummage sale to benefit children with AIDS in Africa, or learn how to bake so he could sell cookies and cakes at a bake sale.

Who was he kidding? Realizing God’s power because it rained while he went out jogging? Talk about mundane, God undermining a man’s attempt at a change in lifestyle. It was more likely that the weather man was an idiot.

The Art Teacher

Tue, 20 Oct 2009 23:22:39 GMT

Part of a piece titled "Bus Stop Sketches" I'm writing for my Writing Fiction class:

Standing next to the wall of the bus shelter, the art teacher felt sandwiched in. He pressed himself up against the wall so that he could keep out of the downpour just beyond his toes. One false step backwards and he stepped on the edge of someone’s coat. A gruff growl from the corner of the bus shelter told the art teacher to move up half a step. Letting out a nervous laugh, he glanced towards the old woman he had surrendered his seat to. She looked immensely pleased with herself, shaking open a copy of the same newspaper he had glanced at back at his apartment.

He had sunken as low as he could possibly go. Right there in the center of the singles ads was his. Short. To the point. As a result of some cruel cosmic sense of humor, his ad had ended up wedged between the “affectionate romantic” and the “attractive farmer.” There it was, “Art Instructor, Chicago resident, slim, 6’, 150 lbs, brown hair and eyes, interested in meeting Female, 30-35.” Looking at it, he saw every short-coming in the hastily written ad. First, there was nothing about his personality. Second, he hadn’t indicated what kind of female he wanted to meet. For all anybody knew, he was interested in meeting a female lemur. The least he could have done was specify the species.

No doubt the old woman was looking at the singles ads and had just picked out his as the most likely candidate for her Friday night entertainment rather than Bingo. That would be just his luck. Sure, whoever snapped her up was probably picking up a catch. She was…charming, probably. Behind the glasses, she was a vixen, to be sure. Not his type, but who was he to be picky?

He shoved his hands into his pockets, hiding the closely bitten fingernails. If only he hadn’t watched Rear Window last night. He had seen it at least eighty times and he still bit his nails to the quick every time he watched a Hitchcock film. Why hadn’t he advertised that he was a Jimmy Stewart looking for his Grace Kelly in his ad? Because he hadn’t thought of that. It had been sort of a spontaneous decision, and Harold didn’t usually do “spontaneous”. He had been at the post office already, mailing a package to his mother, and the singles ad had caught his eye, so he had stuffed a scrap of paper with his ad on it in an envelope, slapped a stamp on it and mailed it right then and there. He had forgotten about it until it had shown up in the newspaper this morning.

Harold’s mother was back in Philadelphia and her birthday had just passed, hence the package. He had sent her a book. He always sent her books. This one, he had stuffed with little drawings he had done throughout the year that reminded him of her. There was one of a zebra next to a flower twice its size, a comic about procrastination, all sorts of things that were sure to make his mother laugh, if not today then tomorrow.

The singles ad would probably make her laugh too.

But why had he written “slim”? And six foot, was he really six foot? Did it matter? He might as well just face it, no one was going to call.

And then the phone in his pocket buzzed. And the art teacher froze.

Well this is anti-climactic...

Sun, 18 Oct 2009 16:41:29 GMT

So Wednesday I talked to one of the people who workshopped my story all that time ago. He's the one in charge of this online literary magazine the workshop's for. I basically told him that the whole process of workshopping my story destroyed me. "Self-esteem pretty much tanked." Pointing out that there wasn't anything to say about the other stories we looked at, I asked him if he knew what that said to me. He was observant and tactful in replying, "That those two were better, but that's not what that means!"

It's not?

Apparently not.

It means that there was nothing to be said. It means that my story was good. It was a good concept, and it was /worth/ critiquing. /Worth/ talking about. /Worth/ changing and /worth/ keeping. That the comparison to "The Yellow Wallpaper" wasn't meant to make my story look inferior, it was meant as a compliment. That the other stories were pure fluff and there wasn't much that you could change to make them /better/.

Even though degrading the work of others shouldn't make me feel better about my own work, it kinda did. So I stood there singing in my head, "I can write, I can write, I can write!" Part of me wanted to let out a sigh of relief over having my skill verbally validated, but I'm pretty sure this guy would have asked me for an explanation for that and I can't explain /that/ big, long issue.

I'm not saying everything I write is gold.
I'm not saying that I'm going to go back and re-write that fountain pen story right away.
I'm not saying that I'm going to get pompous and big-headed about my writing.

I'm saying that it feels really good to know that I impressed someone. It's good to know that I can write something of worth, I have that ability. Je peux le faire. Vraiment. :^)

Never Knew...

Thu, 24 Sep 2009 13:39:15 GMT

So yesterday I got a story of mine workshopped. And as this Xanga has become a venue for me to complain and/or revel in happiness, I'm sitting here typing instead of doing what homework I have. I blame it on the fact that I left my real journal at home. Oh well.
Anyway. Story. Workshop. To explain my story, I just want to say that I wrote it last semester for my Creative Writing class. It involves an evil fountain pen, and it's semi-inspired by the story called "The Red Shoes." If anyone's read it, you know where the story goes. If you haven't, read it.
But at this workshop, I told the group to do their worst. I could handle it. "Bring it on" and all that. But with all the tearing apart they did of my story, it looks to me that not very much of it was good at all. I mean, based on what they told me, there's so much to change that very little aside from my main character's name is worth keeping. And in the end I was thanked for being so good with taking all their criticism, and I'm thinking to myself, "Oh, yeah, I was good now, but wait a couple days and I'll be calling you names and ranting to my roommates about you." Don't get me wrong, I'm glad that I did it. I'm glad I actually showed a group my story, I'm glad that they took their pens to it and slashed it open. It's just frustrating that there's so much to change. I mean, that's partially (well, mostly) my own fault, and I shouldn't expect it to be perfect, but the fact that I thought it was "okay" before and it was reduced to "meh" in the opinions of the people I showed it to.

Apparently my metaphors are colorful and memorable, but don't work in the context of /this/ story.
Apparently I'm rushing too much. Which I knew.
Apparently I use the passive voice. But how else am I supposed to convey the past before the story when I'm already writing in the past tense?
Apparently I'm using third person omniscient. And that's...bad?
Apparently $3.50 is too cheap for a fountain pen bought at an antique shop.
Apparently I'm wordy.

Can we take a moment and stroke my ego? Maybe? Can we pause this sadistic "critique" and tell me /one/ thing that I did well. /One/ thing that worked for my story. /One/ thing that I can and should keep, for sure.

Apparently I said that she liked Colin Firth and Pride and Prejudice. Which is a cool parallel to her liking a fountain pen and an old phone. Old-fashioned things.

And that was an accident.

Random Drivel --- Wish I Were a Poet

Sun, 13 Sep 2009 03:01:08 GMT

Disclaimer: This is random.

Write me a poem of bird's wings and flighty things.
Of cigarette ash and a sugar crash.
Of button moons and sequined skies,
reds and blues and colored dyes.
Write me a poem I can sing and say.
Let me swing and sway.
Write me a poem about you and me.
Of sky and sea.
Of all that will never be.

Find me a brick wall

Wed, 02 Sep 2009 12:36:12 GMT

Would you please direct me to a brick wall that I can bang my head up against? This week, being the second week of school has decided to compound every commitment and obligation I have on campus and make things a little less than completely manageable. Unfortunately I've found a way to juggle everything this week, and in doing so, my stupid self interpreted this shaky balance as, "Oh, of course I can pick up more!" Of course there are some obligations that I've always had, obligations like family and friends. That's just a reality of being a social human being. Unfortunately.

But there are some obligations that just seem to come out of nowhere, just peek out from around the corner and then coming up to tackle me and scream in my ear, "Don't forget about ME!" Things like one-on-ones. Seriously? If these one-on-ones can be used for me to vent my stress, then yes, I will make time for them. Otherwise, are they really necessary? Please tell me how I can do all this. Please help me.

And the most heart-breaking realization that I've made is that all of these obligations are important to me. Even the new ones, I still feel dedicated to them. I still love them, even though we're in a somewhat abusive relationship in which I'm being beaten and flogged. But the thing about abusive relationships is that the abused member of the relationship somehow finds a way to blame the abuse on themselves. "I must deserve this." Along those lines. And it's true. "No, it's fine, I've got it. It's my own fault that I'm over-whelmed, I just need to figure some things out and it'll be fine."

Looking on the somewhat (not really) bright side, I just keep thinking that this is a wonderful learning experience. Here I am learning what I can handle, and what I can't. How much I can handle and how I handle it, if at all. How I react to stress. And that reaction is gloom and doom, slouching around, cursing the heavens and going home to curl up and cry a little. It's great, really. I feel like the epitome of a drama queen as I do it, but then I justify it. I deserve this. I have the right to cry. The right to feel over-whelmed. The right to crack under pressure. Because if I get through it, it'll be all the better.

Henry Gilbert

Mon, 24 Aug 2009 13:47:57 GMT

Henry Gilbert was nothing extraordinary. In fact, one might argue that he was everything that was dull and mundane. But let’s not flatter ourselves. Henry Gilbert owned exactly one pair of dress shoes which he wore to the office ever day, and he prayed he would never walk a hole in their soles. He was the type of man who wore solid ties, but never in too bold a color, so he didn’t call attention to himself.

As he bustled around his meticulously neat apartment, he found himself muttering under his breath which was altogether too interesting to be ordinary.

“Now where did I leave those socks…” he asked in a voice barely louder than a whisper, as if frightened that someone would hear him.

The bed room was in a state of uproar that was foreign to Henry Gilbert’s apartment, and most prominent in the scene of chaos was an open suitcase, half-packed.

“Ah ha!” he shouted in triumph before hastily covering his mouth with the gray argyle socks he had just discovered under a laundry basket. The socks were launched into the suitcase, and before Henry Gilbert could resume packing, the same graying, coffee-stained scrap of paper caught his eye. It sat on the bed, next to the open suitcase, unassuming and innocent, with scribbles covering its surface. Henry Gilbert picked up the scrap of paper with a reverence seen before only in a religious setting. He could easily comprehend the otherwise illegible hand (as it was his own) as notes scrawled while listening to the telephone call that had prompted his packing.

“The moon,” he whispered, a smile playing across his lips as he slammed his suitcase shut.

I'm a Ravenpuff!

Sat, 01 Aug 2009 18:04:36 GMT

My Ideas Are a Little Fuzzy...

Mon, 20 Jul 2009 14:56:40 GMT

As Brianna sat at her desk, a nimiety of pom-poms rolled and butted themselves up against the legs of her chair and somersaulted around her bare toes. Each had a distinctly different color, some of the deepest blood red, and some of the brightest clearest cream, and they all squeaked as they rolled about, vying for the typing girl's attention. But all were just that little bit too fuzzy.

"No, none of you are nearly clear enough, can you just leave me alone? Find a shoebox to trap yourselves in or something," Brianna muttered, squinting at the bright screen of the laptop before her. But there was one pom-pom that resembled a fuzzed out tennis ball that kept butting itself up against Brianna's big toe, until she had grab it to stop the fuzzy mass from propelling itself at her foot.

Brianna groaned outwardly and opened a notebook. Placing the pom-pom onto the open page, Brianna closed the notebook and stepped on it, causing a squeal to escape from the inner pages of the notebook that sounded like the air being let out of a balloon. All that without leaving her desk chair. With a disgruntled grimace on her face, Brianna picked up the notebook and opened it to the page where the pom-pom had been. On the page were three lines worth of sentences, none of them what she would call "good," all in her own painfully neat scrawl.

"Do you really want to go through that?" Brianna addressed the pom-poms still jostling for a new attack on her chair legs and ankles. "Wait until you've grown and cleared up a bit." But none of the pom-poms seemed the listen, they just kept hurling themselves at her toes.

Whose fault is it?

Fri, 17 Jul 2009 01:51:08 GMT

"But it isn't my fault,
I was given those beans!
You persuaded me to trade away
My cow for beans!
And without those beans
There'd have been no stalk
To get up to the Giants
In the first place!"
- "Your Fault" from Into the Woods

Why is it that we always find a way to blame ourselves for everything that's going on in our lives, but we fail to take responsibility for the things that really are our fault? I didn't finish my homework, well that's obviously the fault of FOX because they were running a two hour premiere of House M.D. I lost my job, well that's obviously the fault of my boss who's a vampire anyway. It's raining? Well, that's my fault. Global warming? Yup, me again. Swine flu, bird flu, scarlet fever, Black Death? All me.

Okay, maybe that's a little ridiculous. Maybe. But if you're not blaming yourself for the world issues of the day, are you taking the blame for anything? Maybe we're all chronically allergic to blame somehow. Just the very thought of taking the blame for something is like a permanent hive that just itches like crazy. Can we just think about that for a second? Alright, House M.D. is really important. As is family game night. And tiddlywinks. But if you didn't finish your homework, just admit it, or deal with not having it done in class. Whatever. Admitting that we did something stupid is a part of admitting our humanity. Mistakes are the essence of our humanity, and sometimes blame is an added bonus that comes with a mistake.

But alright, I understand, it's hard to admit when we were wrong. It's hard to take blame, and it's hard to admit that we're only human. I propose a solution. Why don't we just blame nargles? It works for Luna Lovegood in Harry Potter, so why not real life? Swine flu? It was nargles. Global warming? The nargles are partying too hard, heating up the Earth. And that unfinished homework? The nargles stole all the pens in the house.

Problem solved.