As I flop belly-down on my bed after a day of scribbling illegible notes and stealing glances at the back of Thane’s head, I notice the framed photo resting on my bedside table. Staring back at me are a bleach-blonde woman with my nose, a tall, wiry man with my eyes, a six-year-old with a bowl hair cut and no front teeth, and myself, during the awkward years. I try to remember the events of that dreaded picture day, where I awoke with my very first zit, and my father made burnt chocolate chip pancakes for breakfast. Every year we had family picture day, a time for matching collared shirts, battles with combs and cowlicks, and blasting musical soundtracks in the car. Even though we had a few more picture years with dad after this one, this portrait is my favorite. Partially because it was taken before I got braces, but also because it was the day that our tire blew out on the way home and dad taught me how to change it. He purposely smeared grease across my cheeks and had my mother take a picture of the two of us (she was prepared at ALL times for a Kodak moment) because he said that he was so proud to have a daughter who could do what many adults couldn’t do. I try not to miss him too much, because when I do, the bitterness that I couldn’t relinquish to time begins to rise like a swelling tide within me.
Almost every day we find something to be angry about, whether it’s a haywire computer, a bad driver, a foolish friend, or a politician. Just like skydivers become addicted to the adrenaline rush, we become junkies of justified grievances but demand that others calmly dismiss any faux pas of our own. However, it wasn’t until my father’s death that I truly understood what anger was in its purest form. It’s a concoction of the most potent kind: a mix of sorrow, surprise, disgust, and loathing. Like liquor it burns your throat and blurs your inhibitions. You have no room for rational thought because hatred is a kin to love and they both tint your view with the fire of passion; without love, you only have apathy.
When your father’s a police officer, you accept that there is risk involved, but you never once think that he might not come home today. It’s amazing how one gesture as small as flipping a switch and turning on your siren can seal a fate that affects so many. It was 2:45 AM and he was pulling over a speeder. He didn’t expect that the driver was a gang member with a blood alcohol content well over the legal limit. Nor did he know that this young man simply didn’t have the money for a ticket because he’d spent it all on ammunition for the concealed weapon inside his jacket. With his history of assault and battery, as well as possession of narcotics, killing a cop was just icing on the judicial cake. But even knowing that he is spending life without parole in a place where you drop your soap at your own risk, I realized for the first time that justice doesn’t exist. True justice should even the scales and make everything fair. But how was it fair that someone who had wasted his life got the opportunity to live, while someone who drank in every moment and laughed with his whole heart was robbed of tomorrow?
I feel the brand of hypocrisy every time I nod along with an anecdote on forgiveness, or discuss having tolerance for others’ imperfections. But no matter how hard we try to shun it, hypocrisy surrounds us. A human is lawfully entitled to live, but only if they exist outside of the womb. We fight for freedom and then use that freedom to destroy ourselves. Gear for a trip up Mount Everest with no oxygen: $1200. A shot of heroin: $100. A human life: priceless. All life should be reverenced, but only when it’s convenient for us.
Monday, November 19, 2007
Tuesday, November 13, 2007
Chapter 1
I guess this is chapter 1 of my short story that I've been working on for almost a year now. (Can short stories have chapters?) As you can see, it takes me a while to be satisfied enough with my ideas and then write them down. Also, my ideas come sporadically, so I don't write in chronological order. Therefore, I have to fill in gaps between passages I've written. Even though no one will ever read this, and I don't want the added pressure of finishing my story before I'm ready, I'm posting this online anyway, just because I can.
"PERSISTENCE"
CHAPTER 1
I’m convinced that persistence is a virtue. Perhaps not one recognized by organized religion, but rather, a quality admired by many that I struggle penitently to master. Sometimes I feel as if I should apologize for just giving up too easily. Like when I quit piano because I hated practicing, or art lessons because I said my hand cramped too much, or karate because the uniforms made my hips look big. I would ease my guilt by convincing myself that I just wasn’t meant to do any of those things. But was I running away from the calluses and devoted hours of hard work? Or was it something else?
Some people say we run away from failure, others claim it’s success that frightens us. But what if it’s neither? Maybe I ran away because I wasn’t sure how I wanted to be defined. Did I want to be known for my lithe fingers, artistic vision, or killer roundhouse kick? If I added a piece of something onto myself, would it replace another important part of me? Anything I could do well, such as write, prepare a fierce soufflé, or master any foreign language, I kept as quiet as possible so as not to create any ripples in my social standing. I just wanted to be Zoë, the girl with the funny name. I was comfortable with that because there were no surprises, no requests for a special performance or poetry reading. But that fear bled into every other aspect of my life, ironing out any chance of having a great story to tell. And that’s all I wanted in the end, a great story. Forgive me Thomas Edison, Martin Luther King, Jr., and Marie Curie, for I have sinned.
As hard as I try, I can’t stop watching Thane while he waits in line for a latte, his girlfriend dangling from his arm and looking like she’s just strolled off Mount Olympus. Her hair might as well be woven from pure gold, and her skin, airbrushed by the hand of God, radiates perfection. As she stands there in a miniskirt that probably fit her in the fifth grade (and actually reached her knees then), I wonder if reading her a passage from Tolstoy would make her head explode. Well, one can dream. Why is it so easy to hate someone because they’re beautiful?
Like a supermodel that deprecatingly smiles back at you from a magazine, seeing her makes me consider my own physical faults and shortcomings. I contemplate my medium-brown hair and its half-wavy, half straight texture, never having made up its mind what it would be. Some faint Irish freckles pepper my face, which I’ll admit, I actually like. However, my eyes are a dull hazel and my nose has a slight bump along its ridge. My ears are much too small for my head and I am by no means petite. I am of medium build, more so in the hip and lower stomach region, with a modest chest that is disproportionate to the rest of my body.
Physically, she is unfairly blessed. However, looks fade much faster than the mind does, and it is this thought that keeps me from wishing her imminent demise. Watching the wrinkles slowly etch their way across her face and the grey hairs fight their way through her bleach blonde hair dye is a much slower torture. However, as I think about it, I don’t feel as much enmity for her as I do pity. Does she enjoy knowing more about Prada than the current unrest in the Middle East? If ignorance really is bliss, then she’s a walking cliché. The only time she appeared disappointed about something was when she found a split end.
I wonder if Thane finds her personality even remotely attractive, or if her lips are better suited in kissing him rather than talking. Upon first glance, one would believe that he is simply a vapid shell as well who isn’t attracted to someone with a personality because he doesn’t have one himself. However, listening to his anecdotes on Caravaggio’s innovative use of chiaroscuro, it becomes obvious that he knows his passion and would not spend his afternoons texting friends about the newest YouTube video. Perhaps it’s wishful thinking, but I could swear that he sometimes looks through her and not at her.
The day I discovered Thane, I was late for my Literature class because my alarm clock had struck a deal with fate and decided not to bellow my wake up call. With my chestnut hair tied back in a taught bun, still wet from my hastened shower, I decided to catch my breath outside the door before entering the classroom. Just as I was about to reach for the knob, a larger, masculine hand beat me to the punch. I looked up only to have my lungs stop mid-breath. His black hair consisted of perfect waves with some slight bed head mixed in. He was about four inches taller than me with skin that probably stays tan year-round and a soccer player’s medium build. However, the feature that sent me straight into cardiac arrest was his green eyes. It wasn’t a particularly bright green, but rather a subtle hue that starkly contrasted his dark locks and olive skin. He paused, looking at me with the expectation that I would follow, but then allowed the door to finally shut after my lengthy and humiliating hesitation. The sound of the door closing jolted me back to consciousness and I quietly snuck into the classroom, head bowed. I sat in the last row as the instructor introduced the course and I scanned the auditorium for him.
The girl next to me with braces had to tap, no, jab me on the shoulder three times in order to get my attention so I would take the stack of syllabi from her hand. When I looked back at his seat again I nearly died a second time. He was looking directly at me. His eyes, however, didn’t linger, and he quickly returned to conversing with the red head beside him. He must have turned towards me because he could feel two clueless doe eyes burning into the back of his beautiful skull. The only burning I ever feel around him is in my cheeks.
It’s funny that they refer to it as falling in love, as if you’ve just been broadsided and didn’t see it coming. But, who’s ever heard of someone accidentally falling off a cliff? You can see it coming from a mile away. First, it starts with that unexplained flicker in your stomach that manifests itself in their presence and whenever their name is mentioned. Then, instead of sprinting headlong in the opposite direction, you make every excuse to be wherever you know they’ll be. You don’t fall in love, you step into it. Falling implies a descent that either never ends or leads to an eventual collision. A step, however, begins a journey.
Watching him now, I can see that cliff ahead. But I’m not turning around.
"PERSISTENCE"
CHAPTER 1
I’m convinced that persistence is a virtue. Perhaps not one recognized by organized religion, but rather, a quality admired by many that I struggle penitently to master. Sometimes I feel as if I should apologize for just giving up too easily. Like when I quit piano because I hated practicing, or art lessons because I said my hand cramped too much, or karate because the uniforms made my hips look big. I would ease my guilt by convincing myself that I just wasn’t meant to do any of those things. But was I running away from the calluses and devoted hours of hard work? Or was it something else?
Some people say we run away from failure, others claim it’s success that frightens us. But what if it’s neither? Maybe I ran away because I wasn’t sure how I wanted to be defined. Did I want to be known for my lithe fingers, artistic vision, or killer roundhouse kick? If I added a piece of something onto myself, would it replace another important part of me? Anything I could do well, such as write, prepare a fierce soufflé, or master any foreign language, I kept as quiet as possible so as not to create any ripples in my social standing. I just wanted to be Zoë, the girl with the funny name. I was comfortable with that because there were no surprises, no requests for a special performance or poetry reading. But that fear bled into every other aspect of my life, ironing out any chance of having a great story to tell. And that’s all I wanted in the end, a great story. Forgive me Thomas Edison, Martin Luther King, Jr., and Marie Curie, for I have sinned.
As hard as I try, I can’t stop watching Thane while he waits in line for a latte, his girlfriend dangling from his arm and looking like she’s just strolled off Mount Olympus. Her hair might as well be woven from pure gold, and her skin, airbrushed by the hand of God, radiates perfection. As she stands there in a miniskirt that probably fit her in the fifth grade (and actually reached her knees then), I wonder if reading her a passage from Tolstoy would make her head explode. Well, one can dream. Why is it so easy to hate someone because they’re beautiful?
Like a supermodel that deprecatingly smiles back at you from a magazine, seeing her makes me consider my own physical faults and shortcomings. I contemplate my medium-brown hair and its half-wavy, half straight texture, never having made up its mind what it would be. Some faint Irish freckles pepper my face, which I’ll admit, I actually like. However, my eyes are a dull hazel and my nose has a slight bump along its ridge. My ears are much too small for my head and I am by no means petite. I am of medium build, more so in the hip and lower stomach region, with a modest chest that is disproportionate to the rest of my body.
Physically, she is unfairly blessed. However, looks fade much faster than the mind does, and it is this thought that keeps me from wishing her imminent demise. Watching the wrinkles slowly etch their way across her face and the grey hairs fight their way through her bleach blonde hair dye is a much slower torture. However, as I think about it, I don’t feel as much enmity for her as I do pity. Does she enjoy knowing more about Prada than the current unrest in the Middle East? If ignorance really is bliss, then she’s a walking cliché. The only time she appeared disappointed about something was when she found a split end.
I wonder if Thane finds her personality even remotely attractive, or if her lips are better suited in kissing him rather than talking. Upon first glance, one would believe that he is simply a vapid shell as well who isn’t attracted to someone with a personality because he doesn’t have one himself. However, listening to his anecdotes on Caravaggio’s innovative use of chiaroscuro, it becomes obvious that he knows his passion and would not spend his afternoons texting friends about the newest YouTube video. Perhaps it’s wishful thinking, but I could swear that he sometimes looks through her and not at her.
The day I discovered Thane, I was late for my Literature class because my alarm clock had struck a deal with fate and decided not to bellow my wake up call. With my chestnut hair tied back in a taught bun, still wet from my hastened shower, I decided to catch my breath outside the door before entering the classroom. Just as I was about to reach for the knob, a larger, masculine hand beat me to the punch. I looked up only to have my lungs stop mid-breath. His black hair consisted of perfect waves with some slight bed head mixed in. He was about four inches taller than me with skin that probably stays tan year-round and a soccer player’s medium build. However, the feature that sent me straight into cardiac arrest was his green eyes. It wasn’t a particularly bright green, but rather a subtle hue that starkly contrasted his dark locks and olive skin. He paused, looking at me with the expectation that I would follow, but then allowed the door to finally shut after my lengthy and humiliating hesitation. The sound of the door closing jolted me back to consciousness and I quietly snuck into the classroom, head bowed. I sat in the last row as the instructor introduced the course and I scanned the auditorium for him.
The girl next to me with braces had to tap, no, jab me on the shoulder three times in order to get my attention so I would take the stack of syllabi from her hand. When I looked back at his seat again I nearly died a second time. He was looking directly at me. His eyes, however, didn’t linger, and he quickly returned to conversing with the red head beside him. He must have turned towards me because he could feel two clueless doe eyes burning into the back of his beautiful skull. The only burning I ever feel around him is in my cheeks.
It’s funny that they refer to it as falling in love, as if you’ve just been broadsided and didn’t see it coming. But, who’s ever heard of someone accidentally falling off a cliff? You can see it coming from a mile away. First, it starts with that unexplained flicker in your stomach that manifests itself in their presence and whenever their name is mentioned. Then, instead of sprinting headlong in the opposite direction, you make every excuse to be wherever you know they’ll be. You don’t fall in love, you step into it. Falling implies a descent that either never ends or leads to an eventual collision. A step, however, begins a journey.
Watching him now, I can see that cliff ahead. But I’m not turning around.
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