(This is the beginning of a much longer story I'm writing. I'm going to post it in parts as I write it.)
Mariana’s hair was wild, and with one look you knew she was a child of the sea. When the sun set and she scrambled up the steep staircases that lead to her home, her mother would lovingly scold her as she pulled shells and bits of seaweed out of her daughters dark matted curls.
Her mother, Aliana, was a fisherman’s wife: small and round as a pearl, with a slight bow to her back and calloused hands from a life spent cleaning her husband’s catch. Her eyes were starting to wrinkle at the corners, but her hair shone black like an opal caught from the greatest depths of the Pacific. She had given birth to five children, but now she only had Mariana.
Their city was a menagerie of brightly painted houses, perched precariously on a hillside above the sea. The streets followed no system of order. To foreign merchants and sailors, who docked there before their final destination, the criss-crossed labyrinth of alleys and byways lead to more than one of them getting lost and left behind. The city was full of these men. Their drunken antics kept Mariana up at night, and Aliana would curse them under her breath in a language indigenous to her country. She blamed them for the trash and sin that had begun to pollute her city.
Her husband, Alberto Giron, felt the same way about the foreigners. He was a man who spent his life in the lonely expanse of the Pacific. He spent eight days a month with his family, mostly pacing though the narrow city streets attempting to reacquaint himself with the stability of land. Tall and rail thin, he walked like a ghost, running his fingertips along the stone walls. The neighbors whispered that he was an ahogado, drowned by sadness.
But most of the time, it was only Aliana and Mariana filling the small cramped house with songs and the sweet smell of mote.
Aliana woke up that morning, alarmed. She sat straight up in bed, startling Mariana, who was asleep next to her. She had been dreaming, a horrible nightmare filled with smoke and she blinked and shook her head several times, trying to shake the clouds from her eyes.
“Mama?” Marianna questioned.
“Oh darling, it’s nothing.” Aliana cooed, ignoring the persistent feeling of anxiety and began her morning routine. The one she had followed every morning since she had married Alberto. She dressed herself and Mariana, they walked together down to the well, where they greeted the other mothers and pumped water. They walked back to the house, hand in hand, where Aliana began cooking rice and beans and Mariana swept the spiders out from their hiding places. The house was simple, one room with four walls and a stone floor. The bed they shared sat in one corner. A wooden frame covered by a thin mattress and a thread barren patchwork quilt. A small (adjective) stone oven squatted in the opposite corner, and a small window above it overlooked the harbor. The other two walls were decorated with knickknacks that Mariana had picked up from the beach.
Aliana stirred the rice slowly, starring out the window as a large clipper ship pulled up to the coast. The routine was calming her down, but she still had an unexplainable feeling of anxiety. What had her dream been?
Saturday, September 25, 2010
Tuesday, July 13, 2010
being realistic.
School was not how Erin expected to spend her summer. She told me so, one humid night in my backyard. We had ignored the dirty plastic chairs in favor of the grass, stretching out on our backs and observing the stars above. Erin was wearing my favorite of her summer dresses: white with thin straps and a skirt that framed her hips and swayed rhythmically as she walked. Under the full moon it glowed as if it was lit by fireflies.
She had spent the dreary Oregon winter days dreaming of tanning, bike rides, barbeques and a possible summer romance with the dark haired boy that lived down the street. My heart tightened and stomach dropped at this last bit, but I just smiled and assured her that I'm sure he liked her too. How could he not? She sat up and lit a cigarette, what does it matter anyway? She asked me, her thin lips pulling hard on the marlboro. I won't have time to find out.
Erin's mother had insisted on summer school. She needed to graduate on time, she refused to pay for a fifth year of school because she had fucked around. Fucked around was how her mother had said it, hissed it through the phone. I had heard it, Erin put them on speaker phone so I could. She had failed a few classes the year before. After she turned 21 she was never able to turn down the opportunity to go to the bars. I could picture her mother's face on the other end of the phone: thin and tight lipped, skin stretched tightly to hide the wrinkles that she had gained through three divorces. Bleached hair cropped into a perfect bob. Thick black eyeliner painted menacingly across her eyelids. Erin was the opposite of her uptight mother. Where her mother was rail thin and meticulously manicured, Erin curved and bounced, even her chocolate hair twisting in directions she couldn't control.
So, instead of chasing that neighbor, she was locked inside a dark brick building from 8 am to 4 pm studying accounting and economics with an old professor that smelled like moth balls. Only able to catch glimpses of the summer rays through the small windows. She felt like a prisoner. You're so lucky Dan, she said, tossing her cigarette butt into the grass. No school, no job, endless hours to enjoy the sun.
Yes, endless hours. I had graduated with my degree in economics. I was stuck in this dead end college town until I found a job somewhere else, until I found anything anywhere else really. Endless hours to sit in my house and reread Sarte and wait for Erin to finish class. Everyday I left my house at 3:45 so I could be outside waiting for her exactly three minutes before she finished class. She usually stormed out of the building, dark hair billowing behind her like a storm cloud, only a so happy to get the fuck out of there as a greeting. I always worried if I wasn't there exactly on time she would leave without me, and then what would I do?
I'm not that lucky, I said to her, sitting up and reaching for my beer. I get sorta bored now that my roommates have moved out and the city is so quiet. She just shook her head, hair undulating down her back. Dan, you're being ridiculous. While you're sitting around moping like an antisocial loser, I'm plugging numbers and listening to my professor drone on about sunk costs. Everyday all day. I know we've been friends for years, but no one feels bad for you here. She pulled out another cigarette and lit it. I can help you, I responded lamely, I did major in economics you know. I know you can, you always have. Sorry I called you antisocial. It's just...sometimes I feel like you need more friends. Maybe a girlfriend! Oh a girlfriend would be great for you.
I stared blankly up at the sky and heard her lay softly back down next to me. Even without looking at her I knew she was picking at her fingernail polish, a habit she had gotten into only recently. I knew she had painted them salmon even though she wanted coral, knew she would bite of tips of her beautiful nails after she had fully picked off the polish. Knew she would want a snack later of a peanut butter and honey sandwich. I knew she would be bored of star gazing in five minutes. I knew tomorrow, despite it all, I would be waiting outside of the big brick building three minutes before four.
So, she said, breaking my train of thought. You really think he likes me?
She had spent the dreary Oregon winter days dreaming of tanning, bike rides, barbeques and a possible summer romance with the dark haired boy that lived down the street. My heart tightened and stomach dropped at this last bit, but I just smiled and assured her that I'm sure he liked her too. How could he not? She sat up and lit a cigarette, what does it matter anyway? She asked me, her thin lips pulling hard on the marlboro. I won't have time to find out.
Erin's mother had insisted on summer school. She needed to graduate on time, she refused to pay for a fifth year of school because she had fucked around. Fucked around was how her mother had said it, hissed it through the phone. I had heard it, Erin put them on speaker phone so I could. She had failed a few classes the year before. After she turned 21 she was never able to turn down the opportunity to go to the bars. I could picture her mother's face on the other end of the phone: thin and tight lipped, skin stretched tightly to hide the wrinkles that she had gained through three divorces. Bleached hair cropped into a perfect bob. Thick black eyeliner painted menacingly across her eyelids. Erin was the opposite of her uptight mother. Where her mother was rail thin and meticulously manicured, Erin curved and bounced, even her chocolate hair twisting in directions she couldn't control.
So, instead of chasing that neighbor, she was locked inside a dark brick building from 8 am to 4 pm studying accounting and economics with an old professor that smelled like moth balls. Only able to catch glimpses of the summer rays through the small windows. She felt like a prisoner. You're so lucky Dan, she said, tossing her cigarette butt into the grass. No school, no job, endless hours to enjoy the sun.
Yes, endless hours. I had graduated with my degree in economics. I was stuck in this dead end college town until I found a job somewhere else, until I found anything anywhere else really. Endless hours to sit in my house and reread Sarte and wait for Erin to finish class. Everyday I left my house at 3:45 so I could be outside waiting for her exactly three minutes before she finished class. She usually stormed out of the building, dark hair billowing behind her like a storm cloud, only a so happy to get the fuck out of there as a greeting. I always worried if I wasn't there exactly on time she would leave without me, and then what would I do?
I'm not that lucky, I said to her, sitting up and reaching for my beer. I get sorta bored now that my roommates have moved out and the city is so quiet. She just shook her head, hair undulating down her back. Dan, you're being ridiculous. While you're sitting around moping like an antisocial loser, I'm plugging numbers and listening to my professor drone on about sunk costs. Everyday all day. I know we've been friends for years, but no one feels bad for you here. She pulled out another cigarette and lit it. I can help you, I responded lamely, I did major in economics you know. I know you can, you always have. Sorry I called you antisocial. It's just...sometimes I feel like you need more friends. Maybe a girlfriend! Oh a girlfriend would be great for you.
I stared blankly up at the sky and heard her lay softly back down next to me. Even without looking at her I knew she was picking at her fingernail polish, a habit she had gotten into only recently. I knew she had painted them salmon even though she wanted coral, knew she would bite of tips of her beautiful nails after she had fully picked off the polish. Knew she would want a snack later of a peanut butter and honey sandwich. I knew she would be bored of star gazing in five minutes. I knew tomorrow, despite it all, I would be waiting outside of the big brick building three minutes before four.
So, she said, breaking my train of thought. You really think he likes me?
Sunday, April 11, 2010
For My Travel Partners
"We sleep on the grass, homeless in a country that is ours for only a handful more days.
We wash our faces. We brush our teeth in bus station bathrooms, stealing bits of toilet paper to have for when there is none.
We know the rhythm now. The outfits to wear in case the bus is too cold or too hot. I pop Benadryl and Tylenol to induce the sleep that alludes me on these long trips. The other two sleep whenever possible, curling into balls, but I am never quite able to do this. There is some part of me that's afraid of missing out, of missing an experience, a moment.
It's getting close to ending now. In a week I'll be home and thousands of miles away from here. Will I be happy, will I be sad? If I'm happy does it mean that I didn't make the most of my time here?"
(I'm writing an article that requires me to go back through my journal and find quotes and pieces of information that I meticulously collected and stored in a battered 250 page moleskin. I am missing those days today.)
Friday, April 2, 2010
Eyes
This is how I saw it, all in the eyes.
At some point, the words we were saying became meaningless and our communication became based in the occipital. Long stares and belated eye contact were all cryptic signals in our language. Avoidance born in down turned eyelashes and longing in one up and broken glances.
A wink and I was dunked in ice water. Gasping, starving for air and only tasting the salty, cold sea. A hint of a smile in those mahogany eyes and I knew. And he knew.
When I thought back, I realized we had always spoken this way. What was it that we couldn't say? Couldn't verbalize? Or what was it that I was afraid to hear?
While we spoke in the normal rhythm to friends and family, to each other the cadence of our eyes was a second language. Something brighter and darker, heavier and lighter, paradox upon paradox of meaning without definition.
But I knew in the war torn part of myself that it was not a language, only a filler for for something we were both searching for. And the haunting seconds where I was lost in another sense was only seconds.
And the sooner I broke the stare, the better.
At some point, the words we were saying became meaningless and our communication became based in the occipital. Long stares and belated eye contact were all cryptic signals in our language. Avoidance born in down turned eyelashes and longing in one up and broken glances.
A wink and I was dunked in ice water. Gasping, starving for air and only tasting the salty, cold sea. A hint of a smile in those mahogany eyes and I knew. And he knew.
When I thought back, I realized we had always spoken this way. What was it that we couldn't say? Couldn't verbalize? Or what was it that I was afraid to hear?
While we spoke in the normal rhythm to friends and family, to each other the cadence of our eyes was a second language. Something brighter and darker, heavier and lighter, paradox upon paradox of meaning without definition.
But I knew in the war torn part of myself that it was not a language, only a filler for for something we were both searching for. And the haunting seconds where I was lost in another sense was only seconds.
And the sooner I broke the stare, the better.
Breathing Room
Mrs. Stewart's purse felt extra heavy today. The Italian leather strap was digging into her left shoulder and as she shifted it, she wondered why it wasn't stronger after nursing three babies, carrying three screaming toddlers and now lugging all three of their soccer gear to practice.
She grudgingly went through her mental checklist. Blackberry. Check. Adderall for Chloe and Dylan. Check. Jesus she needed to get that perscription refilled. Glue for Marie's science project. Check. Book on Menopause for sister. Check. Extra tie for Mark because he had spilled coffee on his this morning. Check.
What could be so heavy? The triplets were fighting in the back of her car now, and she suddenly realized she'd been sitting inert in the drivers seat, ignoring the screams of protests of her children still locked in the car. She hit the button on her door, and the van door slid silently open, the triplets tumbling out and leaving Mrs. Stewart in silence as they raced towards the soccer field. Her eyes darting quickly left and right, she jerked her bag off her shoulder and popped open the little orange plastic container. Yes, she thought, she would need to get another perscription.
She grudgingly went through her mental checklist. Blackberry. Check. Adderall for Chloe and Dylan. Check. Jesus she needed to get that perscription refilled. Glue for Marie's science project. Check. Book on Menopause for sister. Check. Extra tie for Mark because he had spilled coffee on his this morning. Check.
What could be so heavy? The triplets were fighting in the back of her car now, and she suddenly realized she'd been sitting inert in the drivers seat, ignoring the screams of protests of her children still locked in the car. She hit the button on her door, and the van door slid silently open, the triplets tumbling out and leaving Mrs. Stewart in silence as they raced towards the soccer field. Her eyes darting quickly left and right, she jerked her bag off her shoulder and popped open the little orange plastic container. Yes, she thought, she would need to get another perscription.
Thursday, April 1, 2010
Tuesday, March 30, 2010
Friday, March 26, 2010
First day of Spring
"Watch out for the Asians," Darius boomed at us, "They like to steal the oranges."
We looked at each other quizzically. The three of us were decked out: hair nets, plastic aprons, plastic gloves and black shirts that said "ALTERNATIVE SPRING BREAK 2010" across the chest. We had white name tags, and I had added a heart to the end of my name which sort of made it look like my name was "Lizzied". It was seven in the morning.
"They like...to steal oranges?" Lexi, my friend and co-volunteer asked. I eyed the pot of coffee behind her, wondering if taking a cup of coffee from the homeless made me a terrible person.
"Yea. Just tell them, ONLY TWO." Darius was 6 foot 6, with a thin silver chain that hung leisurely around his thick, dark neck. He was built like a tank, and his black sweats were stretched tight over his gigantic back. . He was the body guard and self proclaimed "captain" of the Coffee Room in Glide Memorial Church.
We were at Glide to help serve breakfast. This incredible organization serves 3 hot meals a day to 800 homeless around the Tenderloin District in San Francisco. For one of our Alternative Spring Break volunteer opportunities, we had dragged our college selves out of bed before the sun-and before the hostel coffee pot- to work. The Coffee Room was reserved for families, seniors and disabled people and I had signed on for that team in the hope of striking up some conversations. But so far, all I had gotten was a half sentence about citrus and thievery.
Ten minutes later the tables began filling with people. Men, women, children, a few dogs attached to wheelchairs. As people sat down, we raced back and forth from the kitchen carrying trays of grits, eggs, sausage and oranges, all the while Darius yelling, "Feed HER!" "More sugar over THERE!" " Hot COFFEE!" I was sweating. I ducked behind the counter for a sip of water just as a tiny, white-haired, Asian woman hobbled in with a flower print walker and a pink coat. She slowly wandered through the tables, blocking people and ignoring shouts as she poked feet with her walker and kicked chairs with her slippered toes.
"Sit DOWN" Darius boomed at her. She ignored him, face crinkled into a half smile.
"Sit DOWN Ma'am. I ain't doin this today." She grinned a gap toothed smile, still moving through the tables and toward-I suddenly realized- me.
"Ma'am you have got to SIT DOWN. I'mma tired of this! SIT DOWN." Darius raced to where she was, an NBA giant leaping across the floor.
She reached me, and I also realized too late (lack of caffeine) the large bowl of oranges. Darius lunged and grabbed the bowl.
The woman's smile dropped. Her drawn in eyebrows nearly flew off her forehead as she spun around
to face Darius, her head barely above his waist. She opened her mouth and let out a stream of Chinese that sounded like a pissed off guinea pig.
"I ain't doin this!" Darius growled back. "You know the rules. TWO ORANGES."
She squeaked and he rumbled, the mouse and the elephant, back and forth, until finally she gave him a withering look and sat down, waiting for one of us to bring her a tray.
As she ate, Darius went back to his corner to yell demands at us. "More ice WATER!" "Hurry and get MORE trays!" The little woman just sat quietly and ate, and then stood up to leave.
As I watched her leave I wondered about her past. What had brought her here? Did she have children? Why was she homeless? As I stood pondering these questions, watching her slowly manuever back through the table and knocking everybody as she went, I noticed her jacket pocket had an odd, round shape to it.
"Gotta watch out for those Asians," Darius mumbled in the corner, "They just love to steal them oranges."
We looked at each other quizzically. The three of us were decked out: hair nets, plastic aprons, plastic gloves and black shirts that said "ALTERNATIVE SPRING BREAK 2010" across the chest. We had white name tags, and I had added a heart to the end of my name which sort of made it look like my name was "Lizzied". It was seven in the morning.
"They like...to steal oranges?" Lexi, my friend and co-volunteer asked. I eyed the pot of coffee behind her, wondering if taking a cup of coffee from the homeless made me a terrible person.
"Yea. Just tell them, ONLY TWO." Darius was 6 foot 6, with a thin silver chain that hung leisurely around his thick, dark neck. He was built like a tank, and his black sweats were stretched tight over his gigantic back. . He was the body guard and self proclaimed "captain" of the Coffee Room in Glide Memorial Church.
We were at Glide to help serve breakfast. This incredible organization serves 3 hot meals a day to 800 homeless around the Tenderloin District in San Francisco. For one of our Alternative Spring Break volunteer opportunities, we had dragged our college selves out of bed before the sun-and before the hostel coffee pot- to work. The Coffee Room was reserved for families, seniors and disabled people and I had signed on for that team in the hope of striking up some conversations. But so far, all I had gotten was a half sentence about citrus and thievery.
Ten minutes later the tables began filling with people. Men, women, children, a few dogs attached to wheelchairs. As people sat down, we raced back and forth from the kitchen carrying trays of grits, eggs, sausage and oranges, all the while Darius yelling, "Feed HER!" "More sugar over THERE!" " Hot COFFEE!" I was sweating. I ducked behind the counter for a sip of water just as a tiny, white-haired, Asian woman hobbled in with a flower print walker and a pink coat. She slowly wandered through the tables, blocking people and ignoring shouts as she poked feet with her walker and kicked chairs with her slippered toes.
"Sit DOWN" Darius boomed at her. She ignored him, face crinkled into a half smile.
"Sit DOWN Ma'am. I ain't doin this today." She grinned a gap toothed smile, still moving through the tables and toward-I suddenly realized- me.
"Ma'am you have got to SIT DOWN. I'mma tired of this! SIT DOWN." Darius raced to where she was, an NBA giant leaping across the floor.
She reached me, and I also realized too late (lack of caffeine) the large bowl of oranges. Darius lunged and grabbed the bowl.
The woman's smile dropped. Her drawn in eyebrows nearly flew off her forehead as she spun around
to face Darius, her head barely above his waist. She opened her mouth and let out a stream of Chinese that sounded like a pissed off guinea pig.
"I ain't doin this!" Darius growled back. "You know the rules. TWO ORANGES."
She squeaked and he rumbled, the mouse and the elephant, back and forth, until finally she gave him a withering look and sat down, waiting for one of us to bring her a tray.
As she ate, Darius went back to his corner to yell demands at us. "More ice WATER!" "Hurry and get MORE trays!" The little woman just sat quietly and ate, and then stood up to leave.
As I watched her leave I wondered about her past. What had brought her here? Did she have children? Why was she homeless? As I stood pondering these questions, watching her slowly manuever back through the table and knocking everybody as she went, I noticed her jacket pocket had an odd, round shape to it.
"Gotta watch out for those Asians," Darius mumbled in the corner, "They just love to steal them oranges."
Saturday, February 27, 2010
Earthquakes
The sky is clear today. It’s one of those perfect Oregon winter mornings, when Mother Nature scrapes away the cloud layer and the sky looks brand new again. As the train rolls by, the valley is a book I have read too many times.
My heart, that which was born in this state and has been nurtured, broken, and repaired in this state has left me. Fled south, a monarch searching for mangrove trees.
An earthquake has hit Chile. A massive, 8.8 earthquake. I have friends in Chile. In Valparaiso. In Viña del Mar. I have rubbed my hands along the spray paint covered walls of that beautiful beach town, hummed Neruda under my breath on the sands of Con Con , eaten Mote with indigenous street vendors in the back alleys of Santiago. While Argentina was allusive, a lover that haunted my dreams and stole away from me at night, Chile wrapped me in the mystery of the Andes and promised eternal love. Seduction came in the words of Isabel Allende, the rhythm of Chilean Castellano, and the knowledge that my time there was fleeting, a shooting star across the black South American sky.
And now…
To imagine Santiago wounded. To imagine the Chileans, as the BBC described them, “sobbing in the streets”. What logic is there in earthquakes? What justice in 250,000 dead Haitians? 700 dead Chileans? Our world is turning on us, don’t you see?
The Cascades stand rock solid outside of the glass. The sky is tranquil in the lazy morning sunlight and cows doze quietly in their pastures. I keep closing my eyes and hoping, praying, that when I open them I won’t be looking at trees barren from the harsh grasp of winter. Maybe if I wish hard enough, I can be back there. In the arms of Chile.
My heart, that which was born in this state and has been nurtured, broken, and repaired in this state has left me. Fled south, a monarch searching for mangrove trees.
An earthquake has hit Chile. A massive, 8.8 earthquake. I have friends in Chile. In Valparaiso. In Viña del Mar. I have rubbed my hands along the spray paint covered walls of that beautiful beach town, hummed Neruda under my breath on the sands of Con Con , eaten Mote with indigenous street vendors in the back alleys of Santiago. While Argentina was allusive, a lover that haunted my dreams and stole away from me at night, Chile wrapped me in the mystery of the Andes and promised eternal love. Seduction came in the words of Isabel Allende, the rhythm of Chilean Castellano, and the knowledge that my time there was fleeting, a shooting star across the black South American sky.
And now…
To imagine Santiago wounded. To imagine the Chileans, as the BBC described them, “sobbing in the streets”. What logic is there in earthquakes? What justice in 250,000 dead Haitians? 700 dead Chileans? Our world is turning on us, don’t you see?
The Cascades stand rock solid outside of the glass. The sky is tranquil in the lazy morning sunlight and cows doze quietly in their pastures. I keep closing my eyes and hoping, praying, that when I open them I won’t be looking at trees barren from the harsh grasp of winter. Maybe if I wish hard enough, I can be back there. In the arms of Chile.
Monday, February 22, 2010
Running Away
The Oregon Coast has secrets. Of that Anna was sure. As she drove along the endless miles of twisted, one-lane roads, she couldn’t help but peer into the impenetrable forest of evergreens and wonder what they were hiding.
She was headed towards a dumpy, wind worn, two-bedroom beach house that sat 50 yards off of the rocky shore. She had found it on craigslist, posted by an elderly couple whose only child had moved herself and their grandchild to the east coast, leaving them with a family beach house and no family. With no desire to live on the Oregon Coast in the frigid Northwest winter, they had posted a desperate ad describing the house as a “cozy, bright, lived in beach cottage, fully furnished, with two bedrooms, one bathroom and a studio loft. Perfect for a winter getaway from the hustle and bustle of city life!”
Anna should have asked what "lived in" meant, or exactly how "fully furnished" the house was. But, to be honest, she had stopped reading and started packing when she read "studio loft".
She had not told her boyfriend, Jon, about her plan to flee to the coast. He wouldn’t understand, she was sure. Anna was sure about many things, actually. She was sure that Jon didn’t really love her. That her one eyed blue heeler mix, Tanya, had a kindness greater than any human being. She was sure that she had been followed by a ghost since she was five. She was sure that smelling lavender could cure headaches, insomnia and impotence and that painting the spirits she saw at night was her greatest calling in life.
The night before her lease began, Anna slid out of the bed she shared with Jon in Beaverton. The city was an industrial suburb of Portland that grew like a malignant tumor, eating up fields and pastures and spitting out Taco Bells and dirty beige apartment buildings that sickened Anna and made it hard for her to breathe. She quietly collected her few things from his apartment, packed them into her small lavender suitcase, clipped Tanya to her leash, and slipped out the door. She left no note, no explanation, only whispering a sad goodbye to the spirits she had met there.
The night air bit through Anna’s pajamas and she shivered as she opened the door of her 1990 convertible Chevy Lebaron. Tanya hopped in the back obediently, giving Anna’s face a singular comforting lick before she shut the door again. Without a glance back toward the apartment and her sleeping boyfriend; she, Tanya and the ghost fled to the coast.
She was headed towards a dumpy, wind worn, two-bedroom beach house that sat 50 yards off of the rocky shore. She had found it on craigslist, posted by an elderly couple whose only child had moved herself and their grandchild to the east coast, leaving them with a family beach house and no family. With no desire to live on the Oregon Coast in the frigid Northwest winter, they had posted a desperate ad describing the house as a “cozy, bright, lived in beach cottage, fully furnished, with two bedrooms, one bathroom and a studio loft. Perfect for a winter getaway from the hustle and bustle of city life!”
Anna should have asked what "lived in" meant, or exactly how "fully furnished" the house was. But, to be honest, she had stopped reading and started packing when she read "studio loft".
She had not told her boyfriend, Jon, about her plan to flee to the coast. He wouldn’t understand, she was sure. Anna was sure about many things, actually. She was sure that Jon didn’t really love her. That her one eyed blue heeler mix, Tanya, had a kindness greater than any human being. She was sure that she had been followed by a ghost since she was five. She was sure that smelling lavender could cure headaches, insomnia and impotence and that painting the spirits she saw at night was her greatest calling in life.
The night before her lease began, Anna slid out of the bed she shared with Jon in Beaverton. The city was an industrial suburb of Portland that grew like a malignant tumor, eating up fields and pastures and spitting out Taco Bells and dirty beige apartment buildings that sickened Anna and made it hard for her to breathe. She quietly collected her few things from his apartment, packed them into her small lavender suitcase, clipped Tanya to her leash, and slipped out the door. She left no note, no explanation, only whispering a sad goodbye to the spirits she had met there.
The night air bit through Anna’s pajamas and she shivered as she opened the door of her 1990 convertible Chevy Lebaron. Tanya hopped in the back obediently, giving Anna’s face a singular comforting lick before she shut the door again. Without a glance back toward the apartment and her sleeping boyfriend; she, Tanya and the ghost fled to the coast.
Monday, February 8, 2010
Running
Elizabeth Jane Prendergast fell down a staircase in 1988 and never walked again.
(But this entry will not be about an absence of steps)
Exactly a year later, I was born, and became an Elizabeth J too.
My childhood is sprinkled with the sound of her hundred silver bracelets tinkling as she wheeled through her house, painting rocks and writing poetry together under the company of a millions stars, comparing her light strawberry hair to my auburn curls, and..oh...I'm starting to forget.
On a horrible day when I was 17, I lost her. We all lost her. And since then, I haven't stopped running.
She was my namesake. The only other member of the family with red hair. And with every step I take, I feel like I am redeeming her in some way. Making up for the fact that she spent my whole life sitting. It's something in my head, a way of dealing with the fact that she wasn't at my graduation, didn't see her third grandchild born, won't be at my wedding. And so, I run. And I run far. Last May I ran a marathon. Last year I ran over six hundred miles. Yesterday I ran ten miles. This week, I will run thirty. I run distances that don't make sense, that are almost masochistic. Sometimes, I can't eat for a day after I run because my body is at such a high level of distress. I run when I'm exhausted, sick, hung over. Marathon training is a mess of ice, Advil and self doubt.
But within all that pain, there is a tiny piece of hope.
I will take every step she never had the chance too. I will make up for the miles that were robbed from her. Maybe it is crazy; but this...this is why I run.
(But this entry will not be about an absence of steps)
Exactly a year later, I was born, and became an Elizabeth J too.
My childhood is sprinkled with the sound of her hundred silver bracelets tinkling as she wheeled through her house, painting rocks and writing poetry together under the company of a millions stars, comparing her light strawberry hair to my auburn curls, and..oh...I'm starting to forget.
On a horrible day when I was 17, I lost her. We all lost her. And since then, I haven't stopped running.
She was my namesake. The only other member of the family with red hair. And with every step I take, I feel like I am redeeming her in some way. Making up for the fact that she spent my whole life sitting. It's something in my head, a way of dealing with the fact that she wasn't at my graduation, didn't see her third grandchild born, won't be at my wedding. And so, I run. And I run far. Last May I ran a marathon. Last year I ran over six hundred miles. Yesterday I ran ten miles. This week, I will run thirty. I run distances that don't make sense, that are almost masochistic. Sometimes, I can't eat for a day after I run because my body is at such a high level of distress. I run when I'm exhausted, sick, hung over. Marathon training is a mess of ice, Advil and self doubt.
But within all that pain, there is a tiny piece of hope.
I will take every step she never had the chance too. I will make up for the miles that were robbed from her. Maybe it is crazy; but this...this is why I run.
Sunday, February 7, 2010
Candles
Mama loved candles. If you woulda come to our house back in '65, you'd a seen exactly how far her craziness with those little wax statues went. They was everywhere. On the table, on the counter, around the sink, above the toilet, on top of the TV, in the bookshelves... hell she even put them near where the dog ate. Oh, and they were all different types too. Long ones, short ones, fat ones. She really loved those skinny ones that come in the glass bottles and have weird saints and stuff on the front. You know what I'm talkin' bout? With Mary and baby Jesus and...uh...other people I should recognize after spending all those years kneeling and asking for forgiveness. Thinkin bout it, that's probably why Mama always loved those candles. Reminded her of church. Though why she'd want to bring that cold, dark place back to our house I don't know. Sometimes, if me or Jimmy was acting up real bad, she would light ten candles, for the 10 commandments, and make us sit and recite the Lord's Prayer until the house went dark. The wax would slide down the walls but Mama would just keep watchin' and listenin', makin sure we never skipped any parts. I'd be right tired by the time we finally finished. The next day we'd have to use our pocket money to go out and buy candles to replace the ones we'd burned.
Lookin' back, it's no surprise what happened. I done told her. I done told her to clean the wax off the floor. All I know is one morning Jimmy and I got on the bus and when we got home, the only thing left were some scorched glass bottles.
Lookin' back, it's no surprise what happened. I done told her. I done told her to clean the wax off the floor. All I know is one morning Jimmy and I got on the bus and when we got home, the only thing left were some scorched glass bottles.
Thursday, February 4, 2010
Shooting stars
Marie had never seen a shooting star.
She had heard of them, in the thick bound books she would read at night, and how they granted wishes. And she had a wish she wanted granted more than anything in her whole life.
After dinner she would spend hours, face pressed up against the glass, staring out at the absent ocean sky. Sometimes, if she had washed the dishes and daddy wasn't too tired, he would walk her down the steep concretes steps to the beach front, where they would sit on the sand. Daddy would set down his old black radio and tune it just right, until the soft whispering of sea captains accompanied them.
"Hear that Marie?" He would say, his eyes closed, softening the wrinkles around his eyes.
"Backing wind.." a ghostly voice murmured "19 knots.."
"Good night to be on the ocean." He would say to himself, and Marie wondered how he could understand these haunting phrases of men he didn't know, when she was sitting right in front of him.
Often times, exhausted from her sky search, she would fall asleep on the cold, sticky sand and wake up in her own bed, grains still stuck between her tiny fingers and toes.
One night, as winter turned to spring, and the nights became warmer, Marie and her daddy sat watching the blackness and listening to static. She had been waiting for a shooting star for months now, but every time daddy saw one, Marie missed it. She wondered if they even existed, or if the books and daddy had been lying about them too.
She looked up at the sky. The limitless black ceiling that framed her world, full of tiny immobile light.
"Daddy, what makes shooting stars so special?"
He paused, placing his rough hand on hers.
"Oh honey, they're not actually stars. Just pieces of leftover rock falling into the atmosphere and burning up. Then they're gone. They're special because they exist only for a second."
Leftover. Burning. Dying. Disappeared. She knew what that meant. She knew what gone meant. She knew that "gone" meant an empty chair at the dinner table, Daddy's hair going gray, adults sneaking glances at her and hushed conversations in the living room. She knew that gone meant black, and an ache in her little chest that kept her up at night.
Why would someone wish on something dying? Her eyelashes glistened with tears, and in that moment, Marie decided that she didn't believe in shooting stars. There was nothing special about existing for only a second, because behind you there was only emptiness.
So for the rest of the night- Daddy quietly at her side- she looked at every glistening, stable star in the sky and whispered:
"I wish for mama back."
She had heard of them, in the thick bound books she would read at night, and how they granted wishes. And she had a wish she wanted granted more than anything in her whole life.
After dinner she would spend hours, face pressed up against the glass, staring out at the absent ocean sky. Sometimes, if she had washed the dishes and daddy wasn't too tired, he would walk her down the steep concretes steps to the beach front, where they would sit on the sand. Daddy would set down his old black radio and tune it just right, until the soft whispering of sea captains accompanied them.
"Hear that Marie?" He would say, his eyes closed, softening the wrinkles around his eyes.
"Backing wind.." a ghostly voice murmured "19 knots.."
"Good night to be on the ocean." He would say to himself, and Marie wondered how he could understand these haunting phrases of men he didn't know, when she was sitting right in front of him.
Often times, exhausted from her sky search, she would fall asleep on the cold, sticky sand and wake up in her own bed, grains still stuck between her tiny fingers and toes.
One night, as winter turned to spring, and the nights became warmer, Marie and her daddy sat watching the blackness and listening to static. She had been waiting for a shooting star for months now, but every time daddy saw one, Marie missed it. She wondered if they even existed, or if the books and daddy had been lying about them too.
She looked up at the sky. The limitless black ceiling that framed her world, full of tiny immobile light.
"Daddy, what makes shooting stars so special?"
He paused, placing his rough hand on hers.
"Oh honey, they're not actually stars. Just pieces of leftover rock falling into the atmosphere and burning up. Then they're gone. They're special because they exist only for a second."
Leftover. Burning. Dying. Disappeared. She knew what that meant. She knew what gone meant. She knew that "gone" meant an empty chair at the dinner table, Daddy's hair going gray, adults sneaking glances at her and hushed conversations in the living room. She knew that gone meant black, and an ache in her little chest that kept her up at night.
Why would someone wish on something dying? Her eyelashes glistened with tears, and in that moment, Marie decided that she didn't believe in shooting stars. There was nothing special about existing for only a second, because behind you there was only emptiness.
So for the rest of the night- Daddy quietly at her side- she looked at every glistening, stable star in the sky and whispered:
"I wish for mama back."
Wednesday, February 3, 2010
Villains
He shouldn't have been a villain. That was never the plan.
He was supposed to be the knight, the fairytale, my neoplatonic other half, the Eros to my Aphrodite. Hercules. Sampson. The light to where I was dark. The answer to all my god damn questions.
And he was, for a time. We were selfish in our all consuming, magical, centuries-old Love. That is, until our meshed dreams began to unravel. We looked at each other and realized we had misread our pounding hearts and dizzy minds. He changed, his light eyes going dark, his half smile a grimace, his words poison to my dying heart.
And I, enraged and hateful, broke down my statues of the gods with sledgehammers and stories. Practically shouted his infidelities and lies to anyone who would listen, cried until rivers flooded and my very own light eyes went dark, my smile cracked and broken.
Which makes me wonder: Maybe, in the stories I spun and the enlarged, bloated truths I spoke-- I created a Villain. Maybe in my attempt to destroy him in vindication for my battle wounds, I became the Villain.
He was supposed to be the knight, the fairytale, my neoplatonic other half, the Eros to my Aphrodite. Hercules. Sampson. The light to where I was dark. The answer to all my god damn questions.
And he was, for a time. We were selfish in our all consuming, magical, centuries-old Love. That is, until our meshed dreams began to unravel. We looked at each other and realized we had misread our pounding hearts and dizzy minds. He changed, his light eyes going dark, his half smile a grimace, his words poison to my dying heart.
And I, enraged and hateful, broke down my statues of the gods with sledgehammers and stories. Practically shouted his infidelities and lies to anyone who would listen, cried until rivers flooded and my very own light eyes went dark, my smile cracked and broken.
Which makes me wonder: Maybe, in the stories I spun and the enlarged, bloated truths I spoke-- I created a Villain. Maybe in my attempt to destroy him in vindication for my battle wounds, I became the Villain.
Tuesday, February 2, 2010
Taking Notes
"Todas íbamos a ser reinas,
De cuatro reinos sobre el mar:
Rosalía con Efigenia
Y Lucila con Soledad
En el valle de Elqui, ceñido
De cien montañas o de más
Que como ofrendas o tributos
Arden en rojo azafrán "
-Gabriela Mistra "Todas íbamos a ser reinas"
“En el valle de Elqui, ceñido/ De cien montañas o de más” es una referencia a su pueblo, Montegrande. Montegrande es un pueblo en la mitad de los Andes en Chile. Chile es un país que está construyendo de los Andes, las montañas son una parte fundamental de su país natal, y la imagen de el valle de Elqui que está ubicada dentro de ellas pone el énfasis en la naturaleza de Chile. El segunda parte del estrofa tiene otro tono, “Que como ofrendas o tributos/ Arden en rojo azafrán” que significa que las montañas son volcanes también, son violentas, son peligrosos. Mientras las montañas puedan protegerlas también puedan destruirlas. Es un tono lleno de violencia, una referencia a la instabilidad de la vida y también de la políticas en Chile. “Ofrendas o tributos/Arden en rojo azafrán” puede ser una referencia a la iglesia, a catolicismo y el tributo de la sangre de Jesús Cristo y su muerte. Catolicismo es el religión mas popular en Chile y su influencia está sentido en todo los aspectos de la vida y en la poesía de Mistral.
(Midterms on the brain. These are notes on my 5 page paper for Spanish 437 due on Thursday. Real inspiration will show up again soon.)
De cuatro reinos sobre el mar:
Rosalía con Efigenia
Y Lucila con Soledad
En el valle de Elqui, ceñido
De cien montañas o de más
Que como ofrendas o tributos
Arden en rojo azafrán "
-Gabriela Mistra "Todas íbamos a ser reinas"
“En el valle de Elqui, ceñido/ De cien montañas o de más” es una referencia a su pueblo, Montegrande. Montegrande es un pueblo en la mitad de los Andes en Chile. Chile es un país que está construyendo de los Andes, las montañas son una parte fundamental de su país natal, y la imagen de el valle de Elqui que está ubicada dentro de ellas pone el énfasis en la naturaleza de Chile. El segunda parte del estrofa tiene otro tono, “Que como ofrendas o tributos/ Arden en rojo azafrán” que significa que las montañas son volcanes también, son violentas, son peligrosos. Mientras las montañas puedan protegerlas también puedan destruirlas. Es un tono lleno de violencia, una referencia a la instabilidad de la vida y también de la políticas en Chile. “Ofrendas o tributos/Arden en rojo azafrán” puede ser una referencia a la iglesia, a catolicismo y el tributo de la sangre de Jesús Cristo y su muerte. Catolicismo es el religión mas popular en Chile y su influencia está sentido en todo los aspectos de la vida y en la poesía de Mistral.
(Midterms on the brain. These are notes on my 5 page paper for Spanish 437 due on Thursday. Real inspiration will show up again soon.)
Monday, February 1, 2010
Grilled Cheese
It started Senior Year, when days were long and the future was a distant blur that really didn't have anything to do with us. Did it?
We were restless, thinking we were ready to Get The Hell Out. In an attempt to break the monotony, we organized GCW.
From the back of our Senior Class President's pickup, we grilled cheese sandwiches at lunch in the parking lot. We called it 'Grilled Cheese Wednesdays' and talk of the event would begin Monday, wondering if anyone would bring tomato soup or cookies to share. The bell would ring for lunch and we would race out to Jake's truck, calling "Me next!" as he stood hunched over his camping stove, flipping white bread and singing along to Weezer, until the bread bled golden from the butter and cheese.
It was a time when "we" was clearly defined. Before we broke out and nearly drowned in the tides of college, trying to define ourselves without the others. It was a hard first year without our community, our ritual days where we would return to class with grease on our hands and "Buddy Holly" still ringing in our ears.
But somehow we managed. And now I can't help but remember with GWC with a twinge of nostalgia, and wonder if we really understood that those days were the last of their kind. A beautiful testiment to our love for each other, and the end of an era.
Funny how a sandwich can make you feel so many things.
We were restless, thinking we were ready to Get The Hell Out. In an attempt to break the monotony, we organized GCW.
From the back of our Senior Class President's pickup, we grilled cheese sandwiches at lunch in the parking lot. We called it 'Grilled Cheese Wednesdays' and talk of the event would begin Monday, wondering if anyone would bring tomato soup or cookies to share. The bell would ring for lunch and we would race out to Jake's truck, calling "Me next!" as he stood hunched over his camping stove, flipping white bread and singing along to Weezer, until the bread bled golden from the butter and cheese.
It was a time when "we" was clearly defined. Before we broke out and nearly drowned in the tides of college, trying to define ourselves without the others. It was a hard first year without our community, our ritual days where we would return to class with grease on our hands and "Buddy Holly" still ringing in our ears.
But somehow we managed. And now I can't help but remember with GWC with a twinge of nostalgia, and wonder if we really understood that those days were the last of their kind. A beautiful testiment to our love for each other, and the end of an era.
Funny how a sandwich can make you feel so many things.
Sunday, January 31, 2010
Paint
Benjamin believed passionately and wholeheartedly in the power of red paint on a white background.
His mother believed in patience, a time out, and a fresh coat of white paint to cover up the terrible twos.
His mother believed in patience, a time out, and a fresh coat of white paint to cover up the terrible twos.
Saturday, January 30, 2010
A new theme
So, this blog has been sitting here since December, rather neglected, because I hated my original premise and was totally uninspired by the thought of writing more about "real college life". I have to live my real college life everyday, why would I want to spend my extra time blogging about it?
So instead of writing about Eugene, U of O and all the things that go on here ( and an attempt to break from my sentence structure beginning with "So") I'm going to write a leaf a day.
A leaf? Lizzie, what is that? You ask concerningly, wondering if you should call me and see if my international studies major and propensity to run too many miles is pushing me to the limits of sanity. Well dear friend and reader, I suscribe to a tumblr account (writeoneleaf.tumblr.com) that gives a writing prompt a day and encourages you to write whatever length: a sentence, a paragraph, a page about the topic. It's an attempt to force me to write, to expand my portfolio, and have something to show when I apply to my creative writing program next year.
The writing will be a mix of fiction and creative non fiction, poetry and just a general mixing of styles to see which works the best for me. Since this is going to involve so much experimentation, please give me your opinions, feedback, ideas, commentary...everything. I would absolutely love it.
So instead of writing about Eugene, U of O and all the things that go on here ( and an attempt to break from my sentence structure beginning with "So") I'm going to write a leaf a day.
A leaf? Lizzie, what is that? You ask concerningly, wondering if you should call me and see if my international studies major and propensity to run too many miles is pushing me to the limits of sanity. Well dear friend and reader, I suscribe to a tumblr account (writeoneleaf.tumblr.com) that gives a writing prompt a day and encourages you to write whatever length: a sentence, a paragraph, a page about the topic. It's an attempt to force me to write, to expand my portfolio, and have something to show when I apply to my creative writing program next year.
The writing will be a mix of fiction and creative non fiction, poetry and just a general mixing of styles to see which works the best for me. Since this is going to involve so much experimentation, please give me your opinions, feedback, ideas, commentary...everything. I would absolutely love it.
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