Oh hey, didn't see you there. I guess I haven't written a blog in a while. Tisk Tisk. The past couple of weeks were kinda crazy but it's settled down quite a bit now. I had finals week to worry about and moving to do. I'm staying in the same apartment complex for summer and fall semester and I wanted a change so I moved all my junk upstairs. We have 6 people in our apartment, which isn't unusual for fall but it is for summer. We all get along really well though and I like all of them. Everyone is a little different but we mesh well together. Even though it's just the very first week of summer, we've already accomplished a lot, including errand running, canal swimming, tie-dyeing, wackee 6 playing, and Davi and I discovered the tanning bed. We actually did it for the second time yesterday. She stayed in for 15 minutes and got this nice little tan and I stayed in for 6 and got this nice little...red. I guess you could call it a burn. I look darker because of the slight redness, so it's not so red that you can tell it's a burn. I am afeared that once the red goes away, however, that I will just go back to normal white. I'm sure some of you are thinking "Jessi, you are going to get skin cancer. Don't go tanning ever again." and to you I say "I know, I know. I'm a doctor too." I'm being careful. It's amusing to be white sometimes but during the summer I can literally blind people with how very pasty I really am. Why couldn't I have just been born back in the day when curly dark hair and fair skin was the thing? Maybe I'll just go live in Thailand. They bleach their skin to get it whiter.
Anywho, I don't really have any super cool writing to share with you. I did write a poem for class but I pretty much hate writing poetry 1) because it always ends up sounding dumb and 2) because I'm not good at it and, if you remember, I don't like trying to do things I'm not good at. I can write funny poetry but when things start getting serious, I run away. Perhaps just for kicks I'll stick my poem on the end of this blog. In the mean time, I would like to point out the stark reality of the possibility of falling in love with fictional characters. It *is* possible. I know you're wondering if this is an autobiography. Well it's not, exactly. If you look around you at all the Twilight fan-girls and Harry Potter nuts, you will see that what I'm saying is true. You can fall in love with someone who doesn't exist. Take Finn from Glee, for example. They tell you his story. They develop his character. You see him in the show about as much as you would see him in real life if you were a member of their little fictional world. You could, very plausibly, develop feelings for him because you feel like you know him. You are in love with Finn (not Cory Monteith, who is a real person, but his *fictional* character, Finn). That's what the producers and directors and authors want! They want you to have feelings for these people who don't exist so you'll become invested in what their doing. If you're reading a book and you don't care whether the main character gets the girl or dies a horrible, painful death, you wont read it again and you'll probably tell your friends to come to a book burning party with you. It's a cruel reality, really. Lonely girls left and right are dreaming of what their lives would be like if they could only have Edward Cullen or Harry Potter or Finn or whatshisface from whatever he's from. Just throwin that out there.
Poem. I hate it. The end.
Ivory Octopus
Piano girl,
and her cello boy;
a melodious duet.
The piano and the cello
unite in stunning perfection.
Her hands dance wildly across the keyboard,
striving to keep pace with the music
like an ivory octopus
darting across
an acrylic ocean floor,
tentacles surging
with the waves of the song,
left and right
so fast you can’t believe
they’re only hands.
The audience listens
on the edge of their seats
while the melody lifts them
on an atmospheric chariot
into a place between here and there.
Streams of musical air
float all around
and lift them up
through the ceiling.
The room is empty.
Only the piano and the cello remain,
communing together
in an endless dimension
where music is the only language.
Wednesday, July 27, 2011
Saturday, July 2, 2011
Fashion Oracle
I finished writing Merriam and Ernest! Perhaps I'll give it a different name now that it's done. I don't know and for some reason I'm really picky about who I let read it. I think only 2 people aside from me have read the entire finished thing. Maybe I'll get over that because I think it's pretty cool; much more interesting when you get the whole thing, rather than just the end.
On an unrelated note I would just like to add that it feels like summer in Rexburg. We've had an accumulation of gorgeous days this week and I want the 7 week break to begin right *now*.
On a second unrelated note, I have to train a yearling for my Animal Handling class. We have 3 weeks to get them up to par (easily caught and saddled, let you clean all 4 feet, yada yada) and, quite honestly, I'm a little nervous. One of our mares is really sweet. She's a red roan and she already lets you touch her legs and stuff. The black mare is a turd. She pins her ears back every time you even try to get near her. I want to name them Strawberry Avalanche and Kamikaze (See what you've done to me?? You know who you are...) I'm probably going to die. It sounds really cool though, right? Not the dying thing. The training thing.
This week's writing is brought to you by...Zebra cakes. They're so good, I could eat 50 in one sitting. In fact, I could probably live off of Zebra Cakes and sour Gummy worms for the rest of my life. Anyway, I wrote this last year in my ACC class thingy (that's Austin Community College for you non-Texans). We were learning about satire and I think it was that we got extra credit if we wrote one. Maybe. I don't remember. So, without further ado, here it is:
Beauty has been one of society’s greatest obsessions since the dawn of time. Everyone wants to be in on the newest fashions or have the most contemporary hairstyles; some even spend thousands of dollars a year on cosmetics and designer clothing. Recent breakthroughs in medicine and technology have even allowed people to alter their physical appearance through cosmetic surgeries. Civilization’s most recent fad is the result of one such breakthrough. This new sensation is feeding the appetites of some of Hollywood’s biggest stars, as well as many of our own humble citizens. Scientists have successfully begun giving people what they want: Third Eye.
Third Eye, in addition to being the new favorite accessory of thousands, has become a beacon in the fashion industry of all that is and all that is yet to come. In order to obtain this superb seer stone, surgeons simply remove a small portion of the skull, which acts as an additional socket. They then cut out a tiny fraction of the brain, but this piece is “insignificant,” says Dr. Lou D Cruss. “Humans hardly use that section anymore.” Surgeons then take the eye from a saline solution and “pop” it right into the newly carved socket. Daily upkeep includes nothing more than specially prescribed eye-drops a few times each day.
“I love it,” says one happy receiver of this fashion forward fad. “I’ve never seen anything quite like it.”
Another fashionista says of the ornament:
“It’s great how they let you pick the eye color. You can match it to your own, or choose that color you’ve always wanted.”
Although vision is not yet available with Third Eye, advances in science are not far behind the people’s demands. Scientists are working with a newly assembled research organization called ‘Let There Be Sight!’ in order to accomplish their goal of granting vision to those with Third Eye.
To those critics of Third Eye, Dr. Cruss says this: “It’s just like getting a tattoo. It’s a way for people to express themselves and if others can’t see that, they aren’t going to fit in with our ever changing society.” Dr. Cruss has also made it clear to critics and fans alike that anyone who changes their mind about Third Eye can always have it removed and the gap closed up.
There are hardly any consequences to speak of and the possibilities are endless with Third Eye. Call your local plastic surgeon and get yours today!
P.S. Guess what the frontal lobe is used for
On an unrelated note I would just like to add that it feels like summer in Rexburg. We've had an accumulation of gorgeous days this week and I want the 7 week break to begin right *now*.
On a second unrelated note, I have to train a yearling for my Animal Handling class. We have 3 weeks to get them up to par (easily caught and saddled, let you clean all 4 feet, yada yada) and, quite honestly, I'm a little nervous. One of our mares is really sweet. She's a red roan and she already lets you touch her legs and stuff. The black mare is a turd. She pins her ears back every time you even try to get near her. I want to name them Strawberry Avalanche and Kamikaze (See what you've done to me?? You know who you are...) I'm probably going to die. It sounds really cool though, right? Not the dying thing. The training thing.
This week's writing is brought to you by...Zebra cakes. They're so good, I could eat 50 in one sitting. In fact, I could probably live off of Zebra Cakes and sour Gummy worms for the rest of my life. Anyway, I wrote this last year in my ACC class thingy (that's Austin Community College for you non-Texans). We were learning about satire and I think it was that we got extra credit if we wrote one. Maybe. I don't remember. So, without further ado, here it is:
Beauty has been one of society’s greatest obsessions since the dawn of time. Everyone wants to be in on the newest fashions or have the most contemporary hairstyles; some even spend thousands of dollars a year on cosmetics and designer clothing. Recent breakthroughs in medicine and technology have even allowed people to alter their physical appearance through cosmetic surgeries. Civilization’s most recent fad is the result of one such breakthrough. This new sensation is feeding the appetites of some of Hollywood’s biggest stars, as well as many of our own humble citizens. Scientists have successfully begun giving people what they want: Third Eye.
Third Eye, in addition to being the new favorite accessory of thousands, has become a beacon in the fashion industry of all that is and all that is yet to come. In order to obtain this superb seer stone, surgeons simply remove a small portion of the skull, which acts as an additional socket. They then cut out a tiny fraction of the brain, but this piece is “insignificant,” says Dr. Lou D Cruss. “Humans hardly use that section anymore.” Surgeons then take the eye from a saline solution and “pop” it right into the newly carved socket. Daily upkeep includes nothing more than specially prescribed eye-drops a few times each day.
“I love it,” says one happy receiver of this fashion forward fad. “I’ve never seen anything quite like it.”
Another fashionista says of the ornament:
“It’s great how they let you pick the eye color. You can match it to your own, or choose that color you’ve always wanted.”
Although vision is not yet available with Third Eye, advances in science are not far behind the people’s demands. Scientists are working with a newly assembled research organization called ‘Let There Be Sight!’ in order to accomplish their goal of granting vision to those with Third Eye.
To those critics of Third Eye, Dr. Cruss says this: “It’s just like getting a tattoo. It’s a way for people to express themselves and if others can’t see that, they aren’t going to fit in with our ever changing society.” Dr. Cruss has also made it clear to critics and fans alike that anyone who changes their mind about Third Eye can always have it removed and the gap closed up.
There are hardly any consequences to speak of and the possibilities are endless with Third Eye. Call your local plastic surgeon and get yours today!
P.S. Guess what the frontal lobe is used for
Thursday, June 16, 2011
Merriam and Ernest...and Jessi
I know I mentioned this last week, but I'm going to encourage you again to read and follow this blog!! : http://jaylienielson.blogspot.com/
If you're wondering "What the heck am I supposed to do about this, Jess? I don't even know this girl." let me just tell you. She loves reading messages that people send her and I think it would be really cool if, whoever you are out there, you sent her a message on this website for her to read : http://www.teamjaylie.org/
It doesn't matter if you know her or not. Some words of love and encouragement can really go a long way. It just breaks my heart to know that someone so young has to go through something that even some adults don't make it through.
"And he took their little children, one by one, and blessed them, and prayed unto the Father for them. And when he had done this he wept again" 3 Nephi 17:21-22
On another, less important note, I am bubbling over with joy. The first reason for this, I can't disclose. Not yet, anyway. It's a surprise and I don't want to ruin it...but I'm just so dang excited about it [:
The second reason is that this has been a wonderful week. I have the absolute best friends anyone could ever hope for and they all make me really happy. I don't know what I'd do without them.
Third, tomorrow is Friday. Need I say more?
Anyway, here is the end of something I've been working on. I have the beginning done but for some reason I decided to write the end before the middle. I posted the first couple sentences on facebook a few weeks ago when I was just starting and since then, it's been quite a development.
Empty. Lonely, forlorn, deserted, lost, vacant, abandoned, empty. Merriam looks up at the ceiling and sees nothing. She looks at the floor and sees nothing. She looks at the walls, the furniture, the rooms, the door. She looks at everything and sees nothing. ‘What have I done?’ She thinks. Where she once had only a tiny pebble, an enormous stone now lay. It grew and grew and grew until it sank to the bottom of her heart, and there it resides. It weighs her down with sadness and regret. She hasn’t seen anyone for days. She hasn’t spoken for days. She is disgusted by her reflection and by the sound of her own voice. ‘Ernest.’ A new tear dances down her cheek, like an ice skater gliding across a bed of frozen flowers. When her eyes close, his face appears and she flings them open again with a whimper. Broken. Nothing will ever fix him. Empty. Nothing will ever fix her.
“Merriam…” She hears her name whispered through the stagnant air. She opens her eyes. “Merriam.” the soft voice says again. The ugly word pierces the silence like a pin through a child’s skin. Merriam catches a sultry glint of light out of the corner of her eye. She turns her head and her eyes rest upon an object lying on the kitchen counter. She takes a sharp breath and her jaw tightens. “Merriam, I’ve missed your touch” the thing says to her. She flinches away in disgust. “What is that face for? We’re friends, remember? I can help you.” She blinks in bewilderment. Silence. “You can?” She croaks. “I can.” Says the voice. She reaches out her hand and wraps her fingers slowly around the handle of a very sinister looking carving knife.
She brings the knife to her lips and presses them against the cool metal. It sighs at her touch. The Sigh travels in through her mouth and wraps around her lungs and the base of her brain. She feels alive. So alive. Colors swirl past her vision; smells, feelings, sounds, all so vivid. She can see Ernest again, and he is beckoning to her. She can feel the tender brush of his fingertips against her skin and the hair rises on her arms. She stands in bewilderment for a moment before the knife moves, almost of its own accord, from her lips to her chest. She feels the tip of it pressing on her through her blouse. Fear and doubt start to creep into her mind but The Sigh chokes it out before it can take root. Hands on the knife. Knife on her chest.
Fingers on the handle of the cab.
If you're wondering "What the heck am I supposed to do about this, Jess? I don't even know this girl." let me just tell you. She loves reading messages that people send her and I think it would be really cool if, whoever you are out there, you sent her a message on this website for her to read : http://www.teamjaylie.org/
It doesn't matter if you know her or not. Some words of love and encouragement can really go a long way. It just breaks my heart to know that someone so young has to go through something that even some adults don't make it through.
"And he took their little children, one by one, and blessed them, and prayed unto the Father for them. And when he had done this he wept again" 3 Nephi 17:21-22
On another, less important note, I am bubbling over with joy. The first reason for this, I can't disclose. Not yet, anyway. It's a surprise and I don't want to ruin it...but I'm just so dang excited about it [:
The second reason is that this has been a wonderful week. I have the absolute best friends anyone could ever hope for and they all make me really happy. I don't know what I'd do without them.
Third, tomorrow is Friday. Need I say more?
Anyway, here is the end of something I've been working on. I have the beginning done but for some reason I decided to write the end before the middle. I posted the first couple sentences on facebook a few weeks ago when I was just starting and since then, it's been quite a development.
Empty. Lonely, forlorn, deserted, lost, vacant, abandoned, empty. Merriam looks up at the ceiling and sees nothing. She looks at the floor and sees nothing. She looks at the walls, the furniture, the rooms, the door. She looks at everything and sees nothing. ‘What have I done?’ She thinks. Where she once had only a tiny pebble, an enormous stone now lay. It grew and grew and grew until it sank to the bottom of her heart, and there it resides. It weighs her down with sadness and regret. She hasn’t seen anyone for days. She hasn’t spoken for days. She is disgusted by her reflection and by the sound of her own voice. ‘Ernest.’ A new tear dances down her cheek, like an ice skater gliding across a bed of frozen flowers. When her eyes close, his face appears and she flings them open again with a whimper. Broken. Nothing will ever fix him. Empty. Nothing will ever fix her.
“Merriam…” She hears her name whispered through the stagnant air. She opens her eyes. “Merriam.” the soft voice says again. The ugly word pierces the silence like a pin through a child’s skin. Merriam catches a sultry glint of light out of the corner of her eye. She turns her head and her eyes rest upon an object lying on the kitchen counter. She takes a sharp breath and her jaw tightens. “Merriam, I’ve missed your touch” the thing says to her. She flinches away in disgust. “What is that face for? We’re friends, remember? I can help you.” She blinks in bewilderment. Silence. “You can?” She croaks. “I can.” Says the voice. She reaches out her hand and wraps her fingers slowly around the handle of a very sinister looking carving knife.
She brings the knife to her lips and presses them against the cool metal. It sighs at her touch. The Sigh travels in through her mouth and wraps around her lungs and the base of her brain. She feels alive. So alive. Colors swirl past her vision; smells, feelings, sounds, all so vivid. She can see Ernest again, and he is beckoning to her. She can feel the tender brush of his fingertips against her skin and the hair rises on her arms. She stands in bewilderment for a moment before the knife moves, almost of its own accord, from her lips to her chest. She feels the tip of it pressing on her through her blouse. Fear and doubt start to creep into her mind but The Sigh chokes it out before it can take root. Hands on the knife. Knife on her chest.
Fingers on the handle of the cab.
Thursday, June 9, 2011
Arizona (and some other random thoughts)
So, it's about time for another post. I'm gonna stick my writing on the end but first, I want to talk about some stuff. First of all, there is this ADORABLE 5 year old girl from back home who has this horrible horrible cancer and it just breaks my heart. She's only 5, for goodness sake. Please read her story and give her your love and support, even if you don't know her. Pray for her and her family. She is being so strong through all of this and I know I probably wouldn't be. She's such an inspiration to me. I know there are more important things going on in the world than me and my issues. Reading the blog about her story has really made a huge impact on my life and the way I see the world. Just take the time to read some of it and get to know her a little better. She will inspire you too.
http://jaylienielson.blogspot.com/
And here is her website:
http://www.teamjaylie.org/
Now, I know this is super random when compared to my other blog entries but...I had the craziest day today. It was full of awkward rapture, particularly tonight (Oh my gosh...I should be doing my homework right now!!). Bree, Andrew, Gabe, and I made scavenger hunts for each other of crazy things to do on campus (we had to either take a picture of it or film it) and HOLY cheese. One of ours was something like "Film-Frantically search for your lost pet snake in the library" and it...it was hilarious. I had a good number of the people in the library believing I actually lost a live snake. I even laughed just now thinking about how funny it was. It was SO fantastic. I'll have to do that again in the future [:
Anyway. This feels rather insignificant after the 2 things I just typed but here you go anyway.
Write about a scene, first from far away, then closer, then closer.
The hot, Arizona desert stretches out as far as the eye can see and either direction seems like a hopeless quest for life. The cacti dance across the ocean of dust and sing to each other while the small plants that litter the ground rush to stay out of their way. The unassailable sun beats down on every living creature in sight, forcing them underground or into their prickly homes. Everything seems to slow down, or stop altogether. Arizona is a drop of water hanging off the edge of a branch in the morning light, never falling; condemned to hang for eternity.
After hours of searching, a small town is discovered. Neighborhoods and markets seem out of place in such a climate but the enduring character of the people keep the place alive. Tourists also wander the area; little ants on the burning sidewalk, scrambling to escape the blaze of a magnifying glass. They never come prepared enough. A few miles away, gunfire sounds through the motionless air. The hum of spurs echo through the ground and pull its victims back in time to the Old West. Saloons and markets, gunslingers and horses. Even the very spirit of the place seems ancient, as if a timeless bubble surrounds the entire park.
Eight miles to the east, a house sits on a grassless plot of land. Rocks cover the yard, as if trying to prove themselves better than any blade of green could ever hope to be. The house is small, and a brand new family of 4 sits inside; father, mother, sister, brother. Not including the garage, the house is only 4 rooms. On the counter, in the same spot each night, a pot of beans cooks. The children play on the musty floor. Not a care in the world troubles their young minds. Father stands at the window and dreams of something better for his family. Mother tells him, and perhaps herself, that they have everything they need. They have each other.
The scorching sun smiles on the family.
http://jaylienielson.blogspot.com/
And here is her website:
http://www.teamjaylie.org/
Now, I know this is super random when compared to my other blog entries but...I had the craziest day today. It was full of awkward rapture, particularly tonight (Oh my gosh...I should be doing my homework right now!!). Bree, Andrew, Gabe, and I made scavenger hunts for each other of crazy things to do on campus (we had to either take a picture of it or film it) and HOLY cheese. One of ours was something like "Film-Frantically search for your lost pet snake in the library" and it...it was hilarious. I had a good number of the people in the library believing I actually lost a live snake. I even laughed just now thinking about how funny it was. It was SO fantastic. I'll have to do that again in the future [:
Anyway. This feels rather insignificant after the 2 things I just typed but here you go anyway.
Write about a scene, first from far away, then closer, then closer.
The hot, Arizona desert stretches out as far as the eye can see and either direction seems like a hopeless quest for life. The cacti dance across the ocean of dust and sing to each other while the small plants that litter the ground rush to stay out of their way. The unassailable sun beats down on every living creature in sight, forcing them underground or into their prickly homes. Everything seems to slow down, or stop altogether. Arizona is a drop of water hanging off the edge of a branch in the morning light, never falling; condemned to hang for eternity.
After hours of searching, a small town is discovered. Neighborhoods and markets seem out of place in such a climate but the enduring character of the people keep the place alive. Tourists also wander the area; little ants on the burning sidewalk, scrambling to escape the blaze of a magnifying glass. They never come prepared enough. A few miles away, gunfire sounds through the motionless air. The hum of spurs echo through the ground and pull its victims back in time to the Old West. Saloons and markets, gunslingers and horses. Even the very spirit of the place seems ancient, as if a timeless bubble surrounds the entire park.
Eight miles to the east, a house sits on a grassless plot of land. Rocks cover the yard, as if trying to prove themselves better than any blade of green could ever hope to be. The house is small, and a brand new family of 4 sits inside; father, mother, sister, brother. Not including the garage, the house is only 4 rooms. On the counter, in the same spot each night, a pot of beans cooks. The children play on the musty floor. Not a care in the world troubles their young minds. Father stands at the window and dreams of something better for his family. Mother tells him, and perhaps herself, that they have everything they need. They have each other.
The scorching sun smiles on the family.
Thursday, June 2, 2011
Alphabet Soup.
Something a little lighter for the nice readers, yes? Yes...
I am, in no way, suggesting that this story is at all exceptional or attention grabbing, or even the least bit interesting...but it was fun to write. The parameters: Write a 26 sentence story where each sentence starts with a letter of the alphabet in order from A to Z, and kill off your main character.
Albert Bevo.
Born and raised in Austin Texas.
Could he ride the bull?
Darn tootin, he could.
Every morning from 6am to 11pm he was out there practicing; ridin until he couldn’t feel his body from the waist down.
Fame and fortune was all he wanted and he would practice until he was the best there ever was.
Gambling with his life was something he’d grown used to over the years and he didn’t know if he could ever do anything different…until Mary Beth.
He was riding the bull one day when, on second 7, his eyes caught those of his rodeo angel.
In a white skirt and cowgirl boots, with her hair done up all purdy and red lipstick plastered all over her lips, she was the juiciest thing he’d ever seen.
Just as he was about to make it into the qualifying round of his first big-time rodeo, he flew off that bull at second 7.
Kind and generous, warm and inviting; he knew Mary Beth was the best thing to ever happen to him.
Lord knew he loved ridin that bull, but something about this cowgirl princess had him whipped like a track dog.
Many a night the two topics would battle it out in his mind for the last thought before sleep overtook him, but when he awoke in the morning he could never recall which had won.
No two things could ever matter more to anyone.
One day, though, his Mary Beth dropped some bad news on his cowboy head.
“Pregnant”, she said.
“Quit that rodeo-ing and help me care for God’s gift to us.”
Rodeo was his first true love and reality struck Albert in the face at that moment.
Simply choosing to quit ridin those bulls was, well…not so simple.
Thoughts troubled him for minutes and hours and days and weeks and months until, finally, Mary Beth said she was leaving if he didn’t quit the rodeo.
Unbelievable, unthinkable, unimaginable; unexpectedly, Albert’s life was torn apart.
Volatile in her pregnant state, Mary Beth knew Albert would never choose her over his real passion for those 8 seconds, so she picked up her bags and left him to his livestock.
Without her in his life, Albert was crushed and empty.
Xanthic visions of her hair danced across his eyes every time he let them close; he never thought he could miss a woman as bad as he missed his Mary Beth.
Yesterday was his last rodeo.
Zealously he took that rope in his right hand, raised his left, and rode until the hooves met his throat.
...Alphabet soup!!!! :D
I am, in no way, suggesting that this story is at all exceptional or attention grabbing, or even the least bit interesting...but it was fun to write. The parameters: Write a 26 sentence story where each sentence starts with a letter of the alphabet in order from A to Z, and kill off your main character.
Albert Bevo.
Born and raised in Austin Texas.
Could he ride the bull?
Darn tootin, he could.
Every morning from 6am to 11pm he was out there practicing; ridin until he couldn’t feel his body from the waist down.
Fame and fortune was all he wanted and he would practice until he was the best there ever was.
Gambling with his life was something he’d grown used to over the years and he didn’t know if he could ever do anything different…until Mary Beth.
He was riding the bull one day when, on second 7, his eyes caught those of his rodeo angel.
In a white skirt and cowgirl boots, with her hair done up all purdy and red lipstick plastered all over her lips, she was the juiciest thing he’d ever seen.
Just as he was about to make it into the qualifying round of his first big-time rodeo, he flew off that bull at second 7.
Kind and generous, warm and inviting; he knew Mary Beth was the best thing to ever happen to him.
Lord knew he loved ridin that bull, but something about this cowgirl princess had him whipped like a track dog.
Many a night the two topics would battle it out in his mind for the last thought before sleep overtook him, but when he awoke in the morning he could never recall which had won.
No two things could ever matter more to anyone.
One day, though, his Mary Beth dropped some bad news on his cowboy head.
“Pregnant”, she said.
“Quit that rodeo-ing and help me care for God’s gift to us.”
Rodeo was his first true love and reality struck Albert in the face at that moment.
Simply choosing to quit ridin those bulls was, well…not so simple.
Thoughts troubled him for minutes and hours and days and weeks and months until, finally, Mary Beth said she was leaving if he didn’t quit the rodeo.
Unbelievable, unthinkable, unimaginable; unexpectedly, Albert’s life was torn apart.
Volatile in her pregnant state, Mary Beth knew Albert would never choose her over his real passion for those 8 seconds, so she picked up her bags and left him to his livestock.
Without her in his life, Albert was crushed and empty.
Xanthic visions of her hair danced across his eyes every time he let them close; he never thought he could miss a woman as bad as he missed his Mary Beth.
Yesterday was his last rodeo.
Zealously he took that rope in his right hand, raised his left, and rode until the hooves met his throat.
...Alphabet soup!!!! :D
Monday, May 23, 2011
Ghandi and Stalin
Oh...just another 30 minute creative writing segment. This time we had to--- I don't know how to describe what we did. I literally just typed 4 different explanations and they were all confusing. He numbered us off. I was a 1 so I had to pick 2 historical characters that would never get along. I chose Ghandi and Joseph Stalin. Person 2 and 3 on either side of me had to give me a setting and a place, as weird as that sounds. Person 2 said "survival in chaotic world after nuclear attack" and Person 3 said "Boat" and we had to incorporate these 3 random things into a story. We all had different elements because we were all sitting next to different people...does that make sense??? Haha I hope so. Anyway, here it is:
The air around them is silent. The only noises that can be heard are the soft undulations of the waves against the side of the boat and the distant cries of motherless children and hungry parents. Stalin tried to brush the grime off his jacket but it only got worse when the dirt from his hand joined with the dirt on his sleeve.
“How did I get stuck on here with you?” Stalin snapped. The man was sitting cross-legged on the deck of the small boat, wearing only a robe. He doesn’t answer. “Of all people in the world…” Stalin mumbled under his breath. The man sighed and opened his eyes.
“Perhaps you should try meditation” Ghandi whispered playfully. Stalin indignantly turns his head and looks out across the sea. He watches the smoke and dust floating around what was once Europe. The land, now desolate, appeared to be stained with the blood of unnumbered bodies of his countrymen. It was this same scene all over the world. There was no where to run. No where to go. No where to hide. The only refuge he could find was the boat and even this wasn’t exactly a refuge. The old man was getting on his last nerve and, heaven help him, he was about to strangle this dirty scrawny person.
“Is there any food on this ship?” Stalin asked desperately. Ghandi merely smiled. He knew he was going to die but unlike Stalin, he could accept it. Besides, fasting was second nature to him and he was accustomed to going many days without eating. In this, his final moments, he didn’t yearn for food as his shipmate did. He yearned only for God.
Stalin looked around the boat for something clean to sit on. His suit had been brand new and freshly pressed when the sirens began to blare. He thought it was a fluke but as he looked to the skies, he saw them; little bullets raining from the heavens. They grew larger and larger and he knew what they meant, but he refused to accept the inevitable. He ran toward the sea, thinking it was his only escape. No one else was on the beach. All others sought shelter in their homes, with their families in this time of dire straits. He had no family; no friends. He never had. Those people who had his blood in their veins were unworthy of such an honor. He eliminated them all. The End was here, and everyone was just going to sit around and watch it happen, like dogs being whipped by their masters. But no. He wasn’t going to go like this. Not Joseph Stalin. He had glanced out across the waters just as he heard the first distant boom of nuclear missiles crashing to the ground. He remembered the way his eyes had fixed upon one lonely boat out on the water and he ran to it, his heart racing. What did he expect to find on that ship? Shelter? surely, and saftey? yes. Food? Perhaps. Somewhere inside him he hoped for a way out. If he survived this, he could rule the entire *world*. All knees would bow to him; “Praise Stalin, who conquered death. Praise Stalin who conquered all!” He closed his eyes and saw them all, the thousands and thousands of followers he would have when this war was over…and then his day dream abruptly ended. He took a breath and inhaled the smell of burning flesh and death. Such a natural, good smell... until it occurred to him that soon it would be his own flesh.
There you have it. I don't really think I like this one so much. I don't know why. Obviously it isn't done. I wrote a little more from Ghandi's point of view but I figured this was enough. I know there are issues with the past and present tense sprinkled throughout, so if I ever decide to like this story I'll have to play around with it some more to get that fixed. *Sigh* Better things to come.
The air around them is silent. The only noises that can be heard are the soft undulations of the waves against the side of the boat and the distant cries of motherless children and hungry parents. Stalin tried to brush the grime off his jacket but it only got worse when the dirt from his hand joined with the dirt on his sleeve.
“How did I get stuck on here with you?” Stalin snapped. The man was sitting cross-legged on the deck of the small boat, wearing only a robe. He doesn’t answer. “Of all people in the world…” Stalin mumbled under his breath. The man sighed and opened his eyes.
“Perhaps you should try meditation” Ghandi whispered playfully. Stalin indignantly turns his head and looks out across the sea. He watches the smoke and dust floating around what was once Europe. The land, now desolate, appeared to be stained with the blood of unnumbered bodies of his countrymen. It was this same scene all over the world. There was no where to run. No where to go. No where to hide. The only refuge he could find was the boat and even this wasn’t exactly a refuge. The old man was getting on his last nerve and, heaven help him, he was about to strangle this dirty scrawny person.
“Is there any food on this ship?” Stalin asked desperately. Ghandi merely smiled. He knew he was going to die but unlike Stalin, he could accept it. Besides, fasting was second nature to him and he was accustomed to going many days without eating. In this, his final moments, he didn’t yearn for food as his shipmate did. He yearned only for God.
Stalin looked around the boat for something clean to sit on. His suit had been brand new and freshly pressed when the sirens began to blare. He thought it was a fluke but as he looked to the skies, he saw them; little bullets raining from the heavens. They grew larger and larger and he knew what they meant, but he refused to accept the inevitable. He ran toward the sea, thinking it was his only escape. No one else was on the beach. All others sought shelter in their homes, with their families in this time of dire straits. He had no family; no friends. He never had. Those people who had his blood in their veins were unworthy of such an honor. He eliminated them all. The End was here, and everyone was just going to sit around and watch it happen, like dogs being whipped by their masters. But no. He wasn’t going to go like this. Not Joseph Stalin. He had glanced out across the waters just as he heard the first distant boom of nuclear missiles crashing to the ground. He remembered the way his eyes had fixed upon one lonely boat out on the water and he ran to it, his heart racing. What did he expect to find on that ship? Shelter? surely, and saftey? yes. Food? Perhaps. Somewhere inside him he hoped for a way out. If he survived this, he could rule the entire *world*. All knees would bow to him; “Praise Stalin, who conquered death. Praise Stalin who conquered all!” He closed his eyes and saw them all, the thousands and thousands of followers he would have when this war was over…and then his day dream abruptly ended. He took a breath and inhaled the smell of burning flesh and death. Such a natural, good smell... until it occurred to him that soon it would be his own flesh.
There you have it. I don't really think I like this one so much. I don't know why. Obviously it isn't done. I wrote a little more from Ghandi's point of view but I figured this was enough. I know there are issues with the past and present tense sprinkled throughout, so if I ever decide to like this story I'll have to play around with it some more to get that fixed. *Sigh* Better things to come.
Thursday, May 19, 2011
Person, Place, and Thing
Here's how it's gonna go. I tell you the background, show you the piece, and you comment. Easy, right? Let's try.
For class, the Professor gives us a kind of prompt or exercise and we write for 45 minutes on that prompt or on our own thing. This particular prompt required us to write a monologue based on a person and an inanimate object. We wrote a description of a person and then we got up from our seats and went to someone else's computer to give them a description of a place and repeated the process for a thing. When we were writing each description, we couldn't see the other two aspects of the setting so if I'm describing a place for the person to my right, I can't see what person they created for themselves. Interesting, no?
Person: Tall, lanky male with blond hair and very pale skin. Dark circles under his eyes to the point where he looks like a walking dead man. Wears all black, tight fitting clothes and a necklace with a guitar pick on it.
Place: The place in a green garden, it is spring time and the flowers are just beginning to bud and bloom. It is mid morning and the dew has mostly evaporated, but the smell of damp is still present. You find yourself in the middle next to a weeping willow and a small steel bench decorated with roses.
Thing: A worn old box of matches. Not the big boxes you can buy at the store but a small yellow one. Only a small number of wooden matches remain inside and the aged box makes you wonder if they’ll even strike. Some grains of sand have gotten inside the box telling a story of where it might have come from. The name of the brand is worn off.
I’ve always tried to imagine what it would be like to be stranded on a desert island with only one flimsy box of matches. I picture the sun gleaming off my skin, burning it to a crisp and scrambling to find shelter or food or anything that might keep me alive. It’s always been in the back of my mind; one of my biggest fears really. I never thought it would happen…well, I suppose it hasn’t. I’m not exactly stranded on a desert island. Stranded with a box of matches…in a secret garden. I can’t even be sure the matches inside work. I never saw this one coming. I’ve never prepared myself for something like this. I am literally trapped in this garden with nothing but the clothes on my back and a small box of matches. The box has a little sand in it, as if I’m being taunted by some unseen force; as if someone is saying to me “Desert Island Lawrence Lawrence Lawrence Lawrence
*Lawrence Lawrence
Burn it to the ground.
*He throws the match into the grass and the entire garden goes up in flames.*
Wednesday, May 18, 2011
The Very First Entry of This Blog.
Well, this is new. I've never blogged about anything. It might be a waste of time because I doubt anyone will read it...I'll read it. I guess that's what really counts. My bishop told me to get a hobby and so here I am, and perhaps this will be a great source of stress relief to me. Painting, writing, reading...and dogs. Those are my favorite things! And of course, my friends. But there are some things painting, writing, reading, and dogs can do for you that friends cant. Try one of them, and you'll see what I mean.
Anywho, I think what I want to do with this here blog is put my writing on it. Whoever reads it, I ask that you tell me what you think. What do you like? What do you not like? What was good and what can I do better? Is it a good idea or a flop? Stuff like that. I kind of don't like sharing. It makes me feel...pretentious. But how else will I improve if I never show anyone what I write? Some of it is kinda weird, I think. There are two things I'm working on that...well I have no idea where they came from. The things I think about on a daily basis and the things that come out in my writing are, at times, completely opposite.
So. I'll post every time I get something finished (or at least finished enough to share). Judge my writing, not me, and please enjoy.
Anywho, I think what I want to do with this here blog is put my writing on it. Whoever reads it, I ask that you tell me what you think. What do you like? What do you not like? What was good and what can I do better? Is it a good idea or a flop? Stuff like that. I kind of don't like sharing. It makes me feel...pretentious. But how else will I improve if I never show anyone what I write? Some of it is kinda weird, I think. There are two things I'm working on that...well I have no idea where they came from. The things I think about on a daily basis and the things that come out in my writing are, at times, completely opposite.
So. I'll post every time I get something finished (or at least finished enough to share). Judge my writing, not me, and please enjoy.
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