Tuesday, November 29, 2005

Prompt Reaction # 11

If you don’t believe I’m leaving, you can count the days that I’m gone.

To Whom It May Concern:

This is a letter; my farewell, my goodbye, my apologies. In the final words of Kurt Cobain, “What else should I be? All apologies… What else should I say?” I don’t know where I should be right now, in the beginning, or in the end. There is nothing here or there, or anywhere, for me to hook my fingers under and pull. My keys are out of tune, my frets are worn down, and my voice is cracked and dry. For a long time now there has been a leakage in the pipes, frayed ends, and loose knots. I guess you could say my knots have been untied. Maybe you don’t see where I’m coming from, but that doesn’t matter anymore, does it? It’s my ending, my future, or lack, should I say. Don’t make it about you again, because this is the last memory you’ll have with me. Let’s try and make it a good one.
There were times I’ve hated you, times I wanted nothing more than to see ahead, and never look at you or that house again, but there’s love underneath those broken stitches, a love very strong, and very loyal. You are mine, and you always will be, and I’ve always been yours, but there comes a time when you have to let your loves ones go. I’m not yours to hold and hover over anymore, I’m free, and freedom isn’t as easy as I wanted it to be. There were times I wanted nothing more than a comfort from you, a hug, and smile, a conversation. I guess you could say a greeting card makes up for the affection you don’t know how to give.
I never wrote this to make you feel any guilt or shame, you are the most I ever wanted, I’m lucky I have what I do. So here is my “thank-you”, for all that you have done to make my life easier than yours has ever been. Thank you for tucking me in when I was little, and for the anise in my tea. Thanks for Lyla, and for Patch. I know they were a pain in the ass. Thank you for the giant apples at school, and for girl scouts. Thanks for water-fights in the rain, and thanks for the fairy walks in the woods. Thank you for mocking me when I sang Christmas songs in the shower, and thank you for shielding me in the second grade. Thanks for prom, and for the cabinet full of spaghetti. Thank you for the strength, and for all of the weird, cherished memories.
For all the thanks I could ever give, there would never be enough to let you know I appreciate all that you have done, no matter how selfish I appear to be. I love you very much, but how could you have not known that something was wrong?

If you don’t believe I’m leaving, Mother, than you can count the days that I’m gone.

Always and Eternal,
Kasey

P.S.
I’ve memorized the dimples and cracks in my ceiling, and the holes in the wall have become my monument, all apologies. I’ve grown to know that view, the maple and the telephone lines, sitting in the window, held up with a stick, The cobwebs in the corner were always destroyed, all apologies. I’ve seen the fibers of my pillowcase drenched in saline, memorized the blue and gold, and still managed to come down for supper. I never washed the dish I used; I just threw it in the sink, all apologies. I’ve yelled and screamed to an infant’s smile, and ruined her fun, all apologies. I’ve stepped over clutter, and let the trash pile on, and discovered the dog had shit on the floor. I didn’t clean up the mess and you cried… all apologies.

I came home from school on time, and you always knew where I was. I took care of the animals and the kids, and made sure dinner was cooked. I made sure she got her bath, and went to bed on time, and the corner was my attempt to keep her in line, all apologies. I struggled with school, but picked up the slack, and I made sure that the house was decent when you came back. I didn’t fuss when he was here, but when he was, I took a break, all apologies. I followed the rules, day in and day out, threw away my summertime, so she could go out.


I gave you all I had to give, and still you were not satisfied… All apologies.

Prompt Reaction # 10

The key is in the lock, but I can’t turn it.

I step out the front door- The wind is blowing its icy gusts in my face, but still I hold tight my coat and, sinking my ears into the scarf wrapped around my neck, close the door behind me and walk out to my car. The wind is fierce and gives all it’s might to topple me over and sweep me away, but I fight it. Pushing my way through its strength, I manage to get to the car door. My hair is whipping to and fro, lashing at my eyes so as to prevent me from finding anything. The wind is using my own hair as a weapon to throw me off course. I find my keys, and they are much too heavy for the wind to blow away, but the ice makes them cold and they rustle a little in my hands. I find the key to open the doors and slide it through the lock, it won’t turn. The ice has made it through to the locking mechanisms. He’s smart, but not too smart for me. I pull out my lock de-icer and slide it into the lock. I can feel it warm up beautifully in my hands, a weapon I never thought would come of use, now has a special place on my keychain. Once the lock has warmed to the touch, I slide the key in once again and turn, and smile as the lock gives way. I lower myself into the front seat, and throw my belongings in the passenger side, ready to take the journey of a lifetime. The wind once again tries to prevent me from shutting the door, but with two hands I manage to pull it shut. I can hear the wind howl and cry outside of the glass and metal that is my car, and as if it has given up, dies down to a whisper, a breeze. With a smile I reach for my keys again, and look outside, and observe the ice on the windows. I slide the key into the lock once again, and think “I’ve beaten you, I’m going to leave and there’s nothing you can do to stop me!” I go to turn the key, but to my utter dismay, it won’t budge. I look at the lock to see if that, too, has frozen, but it has not. Something wasn’t right; this can’t happen. I thought I had won! I try to turn the key once more, but to no avail. I was stuck, stuck in a vehicle that won’t even move. The cold is starting to take its hold on the car, framing the glass of all the windows and star-like shapes. That’s how it tricks you; it uses beauty as a mask, when it’s really a monster; a cruel, harsh, brutal killer. It kills everything, the cold. It kills the earth and the sun and the heart. I’ve slid my key into the lock, but I can’t get my mind to turn.

Monday, November 21, 2005

Process Essay

Sometimes humans are defined as tool-using animals. Tools can say a lot…

I lift my brush and smear its strings across a blank canvas and feel a rush of emotion escape me. I look at bold magenta line, shining and wet, glittering across the white surface and see… anger.

Another brush is lifted and I dip it into blue acrylics, and slash a bold line of cornflower blue under the previous angry line, and this is thinner, more delicate. I look at its wet, glittering presence and see… sorrow.

I lift a palette knife and dip it into a bright, sunshine yellow, and strike points and shards of glass onto the canvas. Bright rays of a mustard sun overlap and blend into the lines and I see… hope.

I find a sponge, just an ordinary kitchen sponge, and cut it to pieces, jagged and raw with no defined shape, and I dip them into red, orange, and green. One by one I blot them in crazed clouds and blotches, all layered atop one another intermixed and dark, and I see… confusion.

Now there’s another brush, but it’s large, and almost overwhelming, and dripping with a dark, menacing green, like a treacherous forest. I do not touch the canvas with this one, but I make motions to slash the canvas to pieces with the brush, and on the canvas the dark paint splatters, across all of the colours I’ve placed so carefully before. Over the canvas are pools and spikes of something, and I see… hate.

Something small is between my fingers, a finer brush, dipped in black. In cursive I scrawl “I’m sorry, I’m sorry” over and over, across everything, across it all. The words blend in, they are barely visible, but still, I see… regret.

Now one final brush, but it’s not a brush, it’s my hand. Each finger is dipped in every colour, and ready to spread a spectrum across my heart. Gently I trace my fingertips on all the remaining space, all the places that were never filled, and color brightens up all that lonely white, and I see… love.

One final tool, and it’s vital, and simple. A water bottle, tainted with turpentine. I twist the nozzle to “ON”, and spray, starting at the top. The chemicals drip down, and the droplets carry the paint to the floor, all the colours taken down and blended into one. One puddle, one problem, one ending, in a bucket, mopped up and dirty. I look up at the grey, tinted canvas and I see… A Clean Slate.

All of these tools are in my own space, the brushes, the canvas, and even the turpentine. I have all of these art supplies in a very large box, which takes up half my closet space. All of these tools were used, all these colours, and all of these emotions. But there comes a time when I need to put that box away, and use the few tools that can never be locked up, and those are… my fear, my judgment, my mind, and my heart.

Prompt Reaction # 9

see this link... >>painting<<

Saturday, November 19, 2005

Prompt Reaction # 8

Loosely holding hands, not even aware of doing so, but, still, skin touching skin...

The night air is crisp, cold... I can see my breath coming out in white clouds before my face. It's hard to take deep breaths, it's that kind of cold. When I breathe through my nose it tickles, freezing the hairs to little icicles, causing me to automatically rub it; perhaps some element of friction will create enough heat to stop the itch. I can't quite feel my fingers on the inside, though I'm wearing gloves, and my ears are starting to turn the color of a wild strawberry crayola, that sick, false pink, which, by the way, looks nothing like a wild strawberry. Wild strawberries are a dark, almost blood-red; claret. The wind is blowing fiercely, giving way to icy crystals, laying their blanket across the quiet ground. It blisters my cheeks, causes my eyes to tear, and freezes those stinging droplets to my temples and eyelashes. I was a fool to come out here and wait, my hair was wet, and is now frozen solid, like an icy wig atop my head, and these jeans were not made for winter weather. I'm wearing socks and boots, but I can still feel the cold in the bones of my toes. What am I waiting for? I thought if I came out here into the cold, I'd remember and appreciate the warmth I have much better. A memory sits behind my eyes of a warmth so soft and gentle, a warmth so simple and pure that it's almost painful to remember.

As our feet crunched over dead leaves and moss, our voices bounced across the cedar trees even though they were shy and quiet sounds. It was the first time we had ever been alone together. We ran into the woods and ended up in places I'd never seen before. I was wearing my favourite pair of Doc Martens, about 5 or 6 years old and they were still as good as new. They were worn and cracked, as leather can get, but the soles were still there, and not a single hole was in sight, not a single stitch out of place. I followed him through the mud and dirt and all other elements of earth and we sat under a pine, and the sun sparkled through the needles onto the dark soil crunched up by our heels. I remember saying something silly, and throwing my watch, approxiamately 8 feet down the hill, and declaring that I didn't want to know what time it was. It was a strange but incredibly important thing to do, because in a way, it defined everything that we are. When we were done sitting under this tree, we walked farther and deeper into parts of these woods I'd never been, though I'd lived here for a few years, and reached a large stone in the middle of a small clearing. We sat down on it, and I pulled the elastic out of his long, dark hair. It was one of the very first times I'd gotten to see it that way, and I had never really felt it. I remember that sharp intake through my nostrils as the fragrance of those dark waves made there way towards me, and for a moment I thought I had gotten hit in the face. For the first time, I gently pulled my fingertips through those curls, and it was like combing them through silk. The ends were cool, but I could feel the heat of his head warming my hands. I remember the quiet sighs that escaped my lips when I pushed that hair aside, as my hands gently caressed the nape of his neck, and his collarbones. It wasn't something ordinary, it was a dance, and the floor was alive and created a rhythm unknown to time and space. He had told me of the pain he endures everyday, torture amongst those he loves and not a thing done to change the circumstances. At those moments I felt admiration for his loyalties, despite the woe they brought to him. His muscles were knots, day in and day out, and not a thing could be done but sleep the pain away. They weren't just knots and aches, but were mountains, needles in haystacks, and had never once been touched. Now, as we all know, if a knot is left alone, it can almost never be untangled, and these knots won't ever be the soft and pliable muscles they are supposed to be. however, I made my first attempt to let them loose, and lifted his shirt over his head, revealing plains of gold and crimson, and a territory I'd never passed on in all my life. I let my palms rest on the skin between his shoulder blades, and listened to his silent tears. For a moment I was afraid to touch him, afraid to knead the pain away, but I did it nonetheless. I pushed and pulled and untangled those knots as much as I ever could do, until it was nearly dark, and time to go. We stood up from that place and brushed the dirt and leaves from our clothes, and walked away from the one spot, that we haven't been able to find, to this day. As we walked, I felt warm and secure, and almost like I had accomplished something, within myself, and made a place somewhere in his broken heart. The road became cold and the sky, dark and sprinkled with stars as we made our way back home, and we were loosely holding hands, unaware of doing so, but still, skin touching skin, so familiar though I had never done it before.

Monday, November 07, 2005

Contrast Essay

In many families, they say that the apple never falls far from the tree. "Like mother, like daughter", they say. My mother and I are both women, and by that, we have a lot in common, but boy are we different. I can't think of one person who differs from me the most, aside from my sister, but that's beside the point.

My mother got good grades, and graduated high school. She has a stable job, and a stable household. She has a happy family and the full train of pets to go with it. She's a happy person. I didn't get very good grades in school because I refused to do my homework (until my senior year). I was bored stiff. I knew all this stuff. Why did I need to do my homework? I have a job at Wal-mart, and a pet fish, a betta, named Llewellyn. But... I'm not a happy person. My mother and I are so different. We look different, act different, and even love different. We’re two big knots in a tangled ball of yarn.

See, there are a few things that my mother and I really don't have in common, and one of those things, is our ability to nurture. Don't get me wrong, my mom did a great job in ensuring that I had food, and clothing, and a roof over my head, but she's not so good at the loving; the hugs and kisses part. She's a great provider, and I know she loves me with all her heart, but I definitely didn't get my heart from her. I love to take care of the people I love, making sure they have Band-Aids, and warm sweaters and blankets, and I always worry my socks off into oblivion. During a great deal of my childhood, I walked to school in a snowstorm, and had to scramble all around the house to find a Band-Aid. Sometimes my mom overlooked those things, but she always made sure we had medicine for when we got sick- plenty of Luden's cough drops those are the best, and anise (licorice plant extract), to put in our hot tea.

Another difference my mother and I have is our interests. My mother likes to go out with friends, and sit at a bar. She's also a smoker and drinks a glass of wine every night, for a healthy heart. She works most of the time, so I never really see her much. We both like to read, I know that for sure, but I'm into music, and she... isn't. I like to play music and write music, and just be the music, but my mom is so passive about it all. I also like art, but I haven't once seen her pick up a paint brush or a camera. She used to draw when I was little, but I haven't seen any of that lately. I don't like to drink, and I definitely don't like my job, and I hate cigarettes. She told me once, that if she could do anything in the whole world, if she didn't have kids, she would take pictures of animals in the Outback. When she said that, she reminded me a lot of myself. I love animals, and I love photography, but I also love having family, and it seems to me that sometimes she resents that.

The biggest difference, that my mother and I really have, is our looks. I don't think I look anything like my mom, at all. Sometimes people say we are alike, but I don't see it. I have dark, straight, ash brown hair, and she has dirty blonde curly hair. I'm short, about 5'4", and she's tall, at 5'9". I have smaller breasts, and straighter, squarer teeth, and my skin is very pale, while hers is pinkish, and tans very easily. Our faces! Our faces are completely different! She has very thin lips, while mine are fuller, and her nose is long and pointed, while mine is rounder, and buttoned; but we both have terrible pores.

Through all of these differences, there is so much in common. We are more different than we are similar, but sometimes it's hard for me to think that way. Though we are on the same train, we're on opposite sides of the track.

Friday, November 04, 2005

Freestyle # 8

There is something... something brewing among the darkness and it feels like, nothing. I'm a little confused and unaware, but I'm really starting to enjoy it. Is this what they call blissfully ignorant? But I am completely aware of everything around me, I just choose not to react to a good portion of it. So, I guess that mean I am passive. I'm feeling a lot less tired now and a lot more optimistic, I feel as though I have the situation under control, or rather, like I can deal with everything that happens. I don't feel the need for pain, nor substance, but I am still insecure. Another ladder, another step.

Wednesday, November 02, 2005

Prompt Reaction # 7

Dump the trash bin on the floor, pull on your rubber gloves, and start hunting for the truth that only your throwaways know.

Down in the dark caverns of polystyrene and plastic, there are many little secrets, all tucked conveniently between wastepaper and remnants of stale potato chips. There's a lie or two, thrown in the hands of an innocent child, to play checkers or cards, no scissors, no glue. There's an insult, a threat, to a girl I once knew, whose mother is mine, and whose father is not, a half-family, half-harmless, half-hearted dislike. In the far, far corner are a few crumbs of resentment, thrown in the cradle of the innocent child, and to the mother who gave her affection I never had. A drop of blood, pooling from past sorrows and blades, lies between a few pieces of molded popcorn, and threatens to contaminate the untold. Here lies a sticky mass of confusion, tangled in mats of hair and chewing gum, laced with strange thoughts and the occasional false smile, often tainted with a salty tear behind the curtains. Stuck to the very bottom is my self-esteem. Fragments of a pretty reflection taped together pathetically with a bit of a kiss, and maybe a compliment or two from someone who really didn't care. And last but not least, there is my sanity, a toxic chemical placed in a plastic bag, along with rubber gloves, a q-tip, and evaporated bits of rubbing alcohol. All of these dangerous bits of garbage, thrown into a compacter and smushed to bits, leaving me with nothing but... guilt.