I wrote this essay for some school assignment once and was pleasantly surprised at how it came out. FYI - it is pretty much written in stream-of-consciousness.
A school yard. Children. Little redhead in Osh Kosh B’gosh. Superman Backpacks. Crossing guard with the nice smile. A big STOP sign. Fast cars and loud horns. The little first-graders giggle and skip toward the road. A slow boy hurries gleefully toward the nice lady. Dad’s weekend. He’s waiting for me. Gotta hurry. Dad’s weekend.
Little Aaron runs and runs. His brother, Andy far ahead. Andy, perfect little boy. Blonde, tall, strong, smart – fast. Andy runs and runs – stops – at the curb. Aaron runs and runs and runs and runs. One small step. A horn. Andy yells, the little redhead girl cries. The nice crossing guard gasps – runs.
The businessman gets out of his fancy car. So sorry – he’s so sorry. I was late he says – very important meeting – so sorry. Little Aaron won’t wake up. Andy – is he asleep? Crossing guard – I don’t know. Red lights, blue lights – a stretcher. Dad holds Andy. Mom cries. Dad’s pretty wife holds little sister – Melissa. She is crying.
Little Aaron won’t wake up. Not for another four months. Four months of doctors and jello and hospital chairs, big words. Cerebral. Non-responsive. Stability. Comatose. Melissa cries a lot.
Mom blames Dad and his pretty wife. She is called Mom, too. She smiles a lot. Old Mom doesn’t smile – she cries and yells. Dad is sad. Melissa cries. Andy brings Aaron G.I. Joes. New Mom explains – he can’t play now. Andy – I won’t play with Melissa – she eats them. New Mom smiles.
Four months.
Comatose.
Non-responsive.
Little Aaron is awake.
Therapy – Brain damage.
Retarded.
Retarded. Such a strange word. We use it every day. Don’t be a retard! That’s retarded. Out of context. Wrong. Fear. Prejudice. FEAR.
Six years later – Me. Aaron is “mentally handicapped.” Politically correct. Whatever – he’s retarded. Like a child with facial hair. Naïve, innocent. He has the mind of a six-year-old. In 24 years he has only aged six years. He is twelve years past his life expectancy and he is getting worse. He has seizures a lot and gets sick real easy. He’s thirty years old and can’t live alone. Andy is twenty-nine, married to a Southern Belle, 3 beautiful kids, and a house payment. Melissa is twenty-five, married to her high-school sweetheart, two cute kids, and a house payment.
Aaron was engaged once – Jennie. He’ll always be single. He gets up at 5:00 every morning, works 8-10, development group until 3, TV, empty the dishwasher, TV. There is never any change.
People are afraid of him – teens mostly. They laugh at him – they’re scared. Aaron knows everyone in town. He is the smartest guy I know. He once told me that strangers were only friends he hadn’t met yet. He isn’t afraid to be himself in public – with everyone. He is fiercely loyal and will never say a negative word about anyone. Everyone loves Aaron and he has friends everywhere. Aaron freely gives compliments and tells me I’m always beautiful – he says I don’t need makeup because I’m already beautiful. I am so lucky to have Aaron.
People feel sorry for me that I have to deal with Aaron and my life is so hard – just put him in a home somewhere. NO! He is a blessing. I wish you had an Aaron. You’re the one missing out. Handicap isn’t contagious, but his love is.
We should all be like Aaron. He leaves people better than he found them. He feels no hate toward the businessman. He has freely forgiven him. Do we forgive as easily? No – we hold a grudge.
Different is GOOD. If we didn’t have people like Aaron, who would we learn from? There would be no one to remind us of simple kindnesses, pure love. Those who are different are to be treasured and loved – they are the reality, and we are fake.
Saturday, April 11, 2009
Poplar Lane
As soon as I posted my last blurp I found my other story. This is just a teaser:
Towering aspens quivered in the summer breeze, their colorful leaves dancing to a whispered song winding through the trees. Walking down the lane I could hear each tree beckon me. This place always sent a chill up my spine. With every passing tree, my willpower wore down. I had been told never, ever, under any circumstances to go into the forest, for therein lived a man who was said to be a murderer. But such a beautiful forest could not be dangerous, I reasoned. Maybe I’ll just go in for a moment. I don’t have to be home for another half of an hour. Fifteen minutes, just a little walk and besides, no one really lives there.
Walking through the woods I felt the simple beauty of the delicate aspens and the towering giant oak trees. How could anyone be scared of such a quiet place? After my first adventure it became a daily routine and most days I ate my lunch under the shade of the larger aspens. Weeks later I was walking through the trees and heard a twig snap behind me. When I turned around I saw an elegant young woman standing behind me. He stood easily a whole head above me. Studying him quickly from had to toe, I noticed he was sturdily built with a trim waist and broad shoulders, covered by khaki breeches and knee-high leather riding boots. His vest was burgundy velvet layered under a fitted overcoat made of navy blue brocade finished with a crisp white cravat. His chiseled body was distinguishable even under his regal garb.
“Pardon me, Miss, have you seen my horse?”
I answered, my mouth gaping. “Um, no, I haven’t.”
“Blast it all. He seems to have run off while I slept.”
He ceased his turning and searching to stand, tall and elegant, staring at me with wide eyes and furrowed brows.
“May I inquire as to your name, Miss?”
Remembering my manners, I closed my mouth. “Yes, my name is Catherine.”
“Just Catherine?”
“Oh no, Catherine Mandelstam.”
“Catherine Dominique Mandelstam.”
“Yes, how did you know my name?” I asked.
His face turned pale and his eyes glazed over.
“Sir are you all right?” I inquired.
Coming to his senses, he started and stared at me with unabashed interest.
“Sir, are you all right?” I questioned him again and touched his arm.
He jumped as if I’d burned him.
“Please excuse me, Miss,” he said.
With these last harsh words he turned on his heel and strode off. Dumbfounded, I scurried after him hollering, “Hey, where are you going?”
He didn’t stop but instead started running toward the edge of the wood across a meadow and into a small shed. Finally the porch of the old moss-covered shack and opened the door.
Inside were several small windows and a door on the opposite end. The rickety shelves held glass beakers full of strange liquids and an odd array of items. Ignoring these I proceeded to open the door. But halfway open an overwhelming dizziness washed over me. My knees gave out and I fell onto the grass outside the shanty, the blue sky covered by a different man staring at me.
“Are you all right?” he questioned.
Unable to answer, I slipped into the blackness flying at me.
Towering aspens quivered in the summer breeze, their colorful leaves dancing to a whispered song winding through the trees. Walking down the lane I could hear each tree beckon me. This place always sent a chill up my spine. With every passing tree, my willpower wore down. I had been told never, ever, under any circumstances to go into the forest, for therein lived a man who was said to be a murderer. But such a beautiful forest could not be dangerous, I reasoned. Maybe I’ll just go in for a moment. I don’t have to be home for another half of an hour. Fifteen minutes, just a little walk and besides, no one really lives there.
Walking through the woods I felt the simple beauty of the delicate aspens and the towering giant oak trees. How could anyone be scared of such a quiet place? After my first adventure it became a daily routine and most days I ate my lunch under the shade of the larger aspens. Weeks later I was walking through the trees and heard a twig snap behind me. When I turned around I saw an elegant young woman standing behind me. He stood easily a whole head above me. Studying him quickly from had to toe, I noticed he was sturdily built with a trim waist and broad shoulders, covered by khaki breeches and knee-high leather riding boots. His vest was burgundy velvet layered under a fitted overcoat made of navy blue brocade finished with a crisp white cravat. His chiseled body was distinguishable even under his regal garb.
“Pardon me, Miss, have you seen my horse?”
I answered, my mouth gaping. “Um, no, I haven’t.”
“Blast it all. He seems to have run off while I slept.”
He ceased his turning and searching to stand, tall and elegant, staring at me with wide eyes and furrowed brows.
“May I inquire as to your name, Miss?”
Remembering my manners, I closed my mouth. “Yes, my name is Catherine.”
“Just Catherine?”
“Oh no, Catherine Mandelstam.”
“Catherine Dominique Mandelstam.”
“Yes, how did you know my name?” I asked.
His face turned pale and his eyes glazed over.
“Sir are you all right?” I inquired.
Coming to his senses, he started and stared at me with unabashed interest.
“Sir, are you all right?” I questioned him again and touched his arm.
He jumped as if I’d burned him.
“Please excuse me, Miss,” he said.
With these last harsh words he turned on his heel and strode off. Dumbfounded, I scurried after him hollering, “Hey, where are you going?”
He didn’t stop but instead started running toward the edge of the wood across a meadow and into a small shed. Finally the porch of the old moss-covered shack and opened the door.
Inside were several small windows and a door on the opposite end. The rickety shelves held glass beakers full of strange liquids and an odd array of items. Ignoring these I proceeded to open the door. But halfway open an overwhelming dizziness washed over me. My knees gave out and I fell onto the grass outside the shanty, the blue sky covered by a different man staring at me.
“Are you all right?” he questioned.
Unable to answer, I slipped into the blackness flying at me.
Floppy Disk
So after the first writer's meeting I went to last week (we really need to think of a snappy name, ladies) I went searching for a floppy disk (ancient technology, I know) containing pretty much all the writing I have done in my lifetime. I took it to the computer help desk and they were able to get the files off the floppy and onto my portable hard drive! I don't have much content there and my most complete story is still MIA, but hopefully I will find it. It's about time travel...
Essay Introduction
I had to write a research paper on the British Neoclassic/Romantic author of my choice for my British Literature class last semester, and I chose Jane Austen. Really, who the heck else would I choose? I absolutely love Jane Austen. I did an entire project on her, so if I get it back from my professor I will post some pictures of what I did. For the introduction our professor wanted to know why we chose our specific author. Here's my intro.
Sometimes our hearts are touched and our souls set aflame without explanation. We connect with something, or someone, or a place, and our souls stir. We are captivated. We long to stay. But we must go. It is the very act of leaving that instills within us a desire to return as often as possible to relive the emotions experienced upon a previous visit. Sometimes those feelings do not return. They were a healing breeze across our consciousness, but it will not be the same. It will not be the same because we change.
Have you ever met someone that seemed to complete you? Someone who knew what you felt and were able to explain it to you? Someone who can finish your sentences and knows how to make you laugh when your world crumbles into nothing in your hands? I have. She is a wood nymph, a dream brought into my reality. She is as free as the wind, but grounded, like emerald seagrass in a violent storm. She is a tease, a flirt. Her words can cut like a dagger, or heal the most broken of hearts. She is a nurturer, a healer, a guider of lost souls. She doesn’t judge. She loves without condition. She freely gives her heart to those around her, and loves them even after they break it. She is feisty. She loves a challenge. She is stubborn. She must have her way, but, given enough time, she eventually comes around. She is dignified and ridiculous. She is silly. She is a joyful giggle on a warm summer breeze. For now, she is my other half. She is called Carlie. She is my sister.
There is another that brings my deepest emotions for this hummingbird I love. She is called Jane. Jane was an author – an author of beauty and the sublime. She was an author of realism and honesty. She was funny. She was sarcastically critical. Jane had a sister. Jane’s sister was beautiful, kind, gentle, affectionate, devoted, tender, content, and supportive. Jane and her sister were rarely parted. When they were apart letters were exchanged often. Jane died in her sister’s arms. Neither ever married despite their fair countenances. The love and devotion of these two sisters who lived so long ago reminds me of my sister and me.
Jane watched the people around her, and so do I. I am a "connoisseur of human folly" much like Elizabeth Bennett. She used familiar people from her life to create her characters. These amalgamations are astonishingly true to life and move from one of her works to another. She captures these people with humor and honesty. She does not make them seem perfect. Even her most beloved characters are flawed and commit error. But instead of berating the human race she laughs at their folly and presents it as inescapable. Jane always added a character meant to be laughed at. Mr. Collins is the first which comes to mind. He is so awkward and so unaware of his deficiencies one cannot help but laugh at him.
The women in Jane’s stories are strong, intelligent, socially independent whom en. They are not financially independent as society did not allow such a thing, but they were capable of rational thought and great emotional insight. They were genteel and fresh. They enjoyed society and did not hide indoors. Excepting Miss Bates in Emma there were no spinsters. Even the sickly Miss Anne de Bourgh was married by the end of Pride & Prejudice. They were healthy and robust and often took long walks hrough the beautiful English countryside. These were all activities and characteristics of the author and her circle rendered in fiction. The images in her works are elegant and refined. They are grace ful and poised. They are images of days long gone which cannot be recovered. This is why we love them. We cannot have them and so we love them.
I am intrigued at the life Jane led and her courage to defy social convention and live her life as she saw fit. She did not marry, but instead chose to write and use her wonderful skills to better the lives of others.
Jane created dashing men. Chivalrous men. Gorgeous men. These men are classic and dreamy. Perhaps Jane was unable to find a man to equal those she created. Perhaps she did not care to try. In either case, she stirs strong emotions – love, hate, jealousy, wonder, yearning, shock, joy, merriment, and most especially satisfaction. Satisfaction that all can end well and everyone is in their rightful place. This is why I love Jane Austen.
Sometimes our hearts are touched and our souls set aflame without explanation. We connect with something, or someone, or a place, and our souls stir. We are captivated. We long to stay. But we must go. It is the very act of leaving that instills within us a desire to return as often as possible to relive the emotions experienced upon a previous visit. Sometimes those feelings do not return. They were a healing breeze across our consciousness, but it will not be the same. It will not be the same because we change.
Have you ever met someone that seemed to complete you? Someone who knew what you felt and were able to explain it to you? Someone who can finish your sentences and knows how to make you laugh when your world crumbles into nothing in your hands? I have. She is a wood nymph, a dream brought into my reality. She is as free as the wind, but grounded, like emerald seagrass in a violent storm. She is a tease, a flirt. Her words can cut like a dagger, or heal the most broken of hearts. She is a nurturer, a healer, a guider of lost souls. She doesn’t judge. She loves without condition. She freely gives her heart to those around her, and loves them even after they break it. She is feisty. She loves a challenge. She is stubborn. She must have her way, but, given enough time, she eventually comes around. She is dignified and ridiculous. She is silly. She is a joyful giggle on a warm summer breeze. For now, she is my other half. She is called Carlie. She is my sister.
There is another that brings my deepest emotions for this hummingbird I love. She is called Jane. Jane was an author – an author of beauty and the sublime. She was an author of realism and honesty. She was funny. She was sarcastically critical. Jane had a sister. Jane’s sister was beautiful, kind, gentle, affectionate, devoted, tender, content, and supportive. Jane and her sister were rarely parted. When they were apart letters were exchanged often. Jane died in her sister’s arms. Neither ever married despite their fair countenances. The love and devotion of these two sisters who lived so long ago reminds me of my sister and me.
Jane watched the people around her, and so do I. I am a "connoisseur of human folly" much like Elizabeth Bennett. She used familiar people from her life to create her characters. These amalgamations are astonishingly true to life and move from one of her works to another. She captures these people with humor and honesty. She does not make them seem perfect. Even her most beloved characters are flawed and commit error. But instead of berating the human race she laughs at their folly and presents it as inescapable. Jane always added a character meant to be laughed at. Mr. Collins is the first which comes to mind. He is so awkward and so unaware of his deficiencies one cannot help but laugh at him.
The women in Jane’s stories are strong, intelligent, socially independent whom en. They are not financially independent as society did not allow such a thing, but they were capable of rational thought and great emotional insight. They were genteel and fresh. They enjoyed society and did not hide indoors. Excepting Miss Bates in Emma there were no spinsters. Even the sickly Miss Anne de Bourgh was married by the end of Pride & Prejudice. They were healthy and robust and often took long walks hrough the beautiful English countryside. These were all activities and characteristics of the author and her circle rendered in fiction. The images in her works are elegant and refined. They are grace ful and poised. They are images of days long gone which cannot be recovered. This is why we love them. We cannot have them and so we love them.
I am intrigued at the life Jane led and her courage to defy social convention and live her life as she saw fit. She did not marry, but instead chose to write and use her wonderful skills to better the lives of others.
Jane created dashing men. Chivalrous men. Gorgeous men. These men are classic and dreamy. Perhaps Jane was unable to find a man to equal those she created. Perhaps she did not care to try. In either case, she stirs strong emotions – love, hate, jealousy, wonder, yearning, shock, joy, merriment, and most especially satisfaction. Satisfaction that all can end well and everyone is in their rightful place. This is why I love Jane Austen.
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