Emerging

I have emerged from a rather deep writer's pit and have thus begun my fictional short story. After a few misfired attempts, I have begun the story of Stevie. Stevie, at five feet even and 96 pounds, is convinced he may very well never have a girlfriend. Realizing he will probably wind up a loser, he sets out to change his life with three goals: 1) Become the nicest guy ever. 2) Become the most honest guy ever. 3) Bulk up. The story begins as sort of the humorous ways Stevie's life changes because of these three goals. In the midst of being the nicest guy ever, he winds up befriending the new girl. The new girl struggles with anorexia, and I think she just might die in the end.

The questions left swirling around in my strange little mind are such: What is the climax? How is the friendship between Stevie and the anorexic developed? What strain does anorexia have on a friendship? Can being the most honest guy ever be a bad thing? What is the anorexic girl's name? How does the story end? Is there a relationship of more than friendship between Stevie and the anorexic? What is the general point of it? And can I tell this story adequately as a "short story?"

So, it still needs work, but I am just excited by how Stevie's voice came out and how the writing is flowing. And I find the beginnings to be mildly humorous (it will be left to find out if anyone else agrees).

Fiction...

Dear little blog,
I wish I had something to say to you. I'm working on a fiction piece now. We always hear about single teenage moms, but what about a single teenage dad? I'm sort of working off of that idea. Any suggestions?

Courtship, One Week

Ice Cream, Salsa Dancing, A Haunted House, and Monty Python on a Thursday
The random nature of the date seems to characterize the boy himself. He is charming, in a goofy sort of way. He throws his hands about when he talks and he smiles a great deal-- a very handsome smile indeed. Bubble gum ice cream is his preferred flavor and it suits him. He is quite horribly inept at salsa dancing, but his determination to conquer despite his lack of natural talent is humorously endearing. He is not particularly tall, but such a detail can be forgiven due to his strong build. There is something wonderfully sweet about the role of protector he assumes in the course of an excursion through a haunted house. And, later, he laughs deeply at the humor of Monty Python. Much can be said about a person who appreciates such humor.

To The Theater, Monday Night
How shall we describe him? He wears glasses and parts his hair like a middle aged businessman. His wardrobe contains of a plethora of sweaters and sensible shoes. He is not the sort of boy you'd call by a pet name, or even an abbreviated version of his given name. There is something very proper and sagacious about him. You could safely trust him to be duly responsible. It must also be said of him that he treated her like a lady, he had a good sense of humor, and he made an excellent companion to the theater. It must also be noted that the occasion of the theater was not an explicitly stated date, though the boy most nearly asked for a proper date at the end of the evening. And she most nearly flirted with him.

The Date That Has Not Yet Occurred That She Hopes Someday Will
She does not ask for perfection, just a good man with a nice smile. He finds her funny and he can easily draw a laugh from her. She trusts him to be an honest and sincere man, one with unquestioned and confident standards. He opens doors for her and treats her like a lady. His looks are flawed, for whose isn't, but she finds him handsome nonetheless. The conversation flows easily between them, not necessarily because the wealth of common interests but more so because of the common interest in one another. The date goes very well indeed. She hopes he will ask for another. And he does.

National Geographic #45

Based upon the work of James P. Blair's 1987 photograph of the Albert Schweitzer Clinic in Deschappelles, Central Haiti.

Albert Schweitzer Clinic, Deschappelles, Central Haiti
Valerie Owens

She is seated in the corner,
in a wooden chair,
with a purse strap hung over the back,
facing a faded white wall.
There are posters
tacked against the peeling paint.
I wonder
if the images of mothers
and healthy babies
and good feeding
mean anything to her.
I look at the baby on her own lap,
brown and chubby,
but quiet-- too quiet.
Her yellow dress,
trimmed in black,
is clean,
as is her broad rimmed straw hat,
trimmed in red.
Her body is seated towards the wall,
but her face,
solemn and brown,
is turned away.
She is looking off to where no one else can see
I feel hopelessly inadequate
for I don't think
there is a camera in all the world
to capture
the pleading,
the longing,
the weariness,
in those dark, dark eyes.

National Geographic #25

A few days ago in Creative Writing, we perused an art exhibit, National Geographic's In Focus. It was my third or fourth time wandering through the exhibit. The photographs of sharp eyes and curious expressions of people long past draw me in. I am filled with an unsatisfiable curiosity for these people, immortalized in a moment.

I would like to write about photograph #25, Esther Bubley's 1943, Waiting Room, Greyhound Bus Terminal, New York City. The picture depicts a weary mother waiting for the bus on a wooden pew. There is a slumbering baby on her lap and a toddler at her side. The toddler is clutching her mother's purse and looking upward.

What is this mother waiting for? I should like to tell the story of the first trip she took, five years earlier. The first time she was proud, defiant, and young. She was going home to tell her parents she was determined to marry a man she loved, despite their objections. The first time, harsh words were said and she was sent away told never to come back as long as she loved the man. She married the man and never did return. Now, five years later, she is wiser and wearier. The man has left her. Her parents were right after all. There is no money. She needs to feed her children. There is no work, either. This is the 1940's, and she, a black, single mother, is in the most unfortunate of situations. Today she must swallow her pride and admit she was wrong. Today she is going home to beg for help from her parents. She has dressed her children-- and herself-- in their best clothes. She has practiced the scene a thousand times over in the mirror and still has no idea what to say. The bus is late, and so they wait. Her mind is heavy with thoughts of what is to come.

Torn

They bulldozed House #19 yesterday. I watched it all happen; the steely claws of the bulldozer tearing away at the walls, the brick chimney crumbling to the ground, the dust flying up from the wreckage. The place was dilapidated wreck, an eyesore, a hazard. And yet, I was sorry to see it tumble. Such mystery and wonder the abandoned little house held for me.

I close my eyes and try to imagine it in better days. Years ago, when the paint was fresh and the lawn was green, someone must have called it home. I picture a family. I see an aproned mother at the porch, a father-- tie loosened after a long day of work-- playing with his boys on the lawn. There is a dog in the picture, like Lassie of course. Neighbors walk by, waving as they pass. I wonder where they have all gone and how many years has it been.

Who has let the house fall away with the years? Is there anyone shedding quiet tears over old memories at the sight of the wreckage? I should have liked to have wandered through the home and listen to the quiet echos of the past and imagine what purpose and memory each room held. So much I would have liked to have known... But, the home is gone and with it a great deal of curious mystery. I must say, I was sorry to see it go.

Photography by Valerie Owens

Humbled

I apologize to any artists whose work I posted without permission. I have since edited the blog and hope no offense was caused. Thank you for the feedback. Unless noted otherwise, all photographic work posted will be that of my own.

Tired

Tired. Very, very tired. I intended to post the plans for a story based upon the National Geographic portrait, Ester Bubley 1943, Waiting Room, Greyhound Bus Terminal, New York City. Gorgeous portrait. Goggle it. Other news. House #19 across the street was torn down today. I'd like to post pictures of that and try to express in words why exactly an event so unrelated to my life would trouble me so, even if I'm not sure why it did. I also went to my first poetry reading tonight and it put me in the mood to write poetry. There are a great deal many poems within that are begging to be written. And a trip to the library today where I picked up books I won't have the time to read. It has been quite the day things to be read, written, heard, and seen. So much I'd like to say, but oh I'm so very, very tired. Soon.

Guest

Last night, I slept at home, in my old bedroom, for the first time since I went away to college. It was much unchanged. Porcelain dolls and music boxes of childhood still decorated the shelves. The piles of my books and CD's were just as I left them. From the coat hook hung dried corsages from formals long ago and leis from graduation and even a few childish medals from elementary school days. The same pictures I'd selected were still upon the walls. And yet, the room was oddly sparse and devoid of so much of what made it mine, even though I couldn't pinpoint just what that was. In my own bed that night, the dark outlines of the room were well known to me. The hum of the fan was the same. Even the gentle creaks and groans of the house were not unfamilar. And yet... It was as though I was a guest. Who was the child whose stuffed animals lay haphazardly in the closet and whose dolls sat upon the shelf? Who was this girl who loved soft blues and pinks and chose the billowy blue curtains? Who was it who loved all those books and listened to all that music? Who was the young woman who wore the corsages that hung on the coat hook and prom dresses in the closet? Who was she? Was she still me? I hadn't realized just how long I'd been away.

Autumn Sunrise

There were joggers out this morning. I could see them slipping up and down the winding campus paths, autumn's leaves crunching beneath their feet. The sunrise glowed soft and pink above them. There were joggers out this morning. I could see them through the gym window, where I sat upon an exercise bike; the hamster at the wheel. It was my first time in gym. Normally, I'd be one of the runners, out there in the dawn, cool October air against their faces. Today, however, I sat, legs pumping fruitlessly. I watched the other gym members, faces sweaty and focused. They didn't seem bothered by what we are missing. Why am I? I paid twenty dollars to be a gym member, and I get a sports channel on mute. They run for free, and they get the autumn sunrise.Photograph by Valerie Owens