(no subject)
One of the few things I've been able to accomplish over February break has been some writing. I have been trying to get my stories down on paper, and I bought a book called Your Life As Story, which has sparked several exercises which have proven useful in doing so. They are very rough first drafts, but I'm putting them here both for storage, but also to share them. Input (whether personal or professional) welcome.
One of the themes I'm exploring is the quest for approval.
#1. An exercise in recreating a childhood memory.
I am at Pa's pool, it is July. The air is heavy with the scent of hot dogs, hamburgers, watermelon and Potato Salad--both kinds, German and Traditional (Pa hates the vinegar in the German style my Mom always makes). I am playing in the pool with my cousin, Ricky. The water is just the right balance of comfortably warm and refreshingly cool. The pool's lining, with its 1970's geometric pattern in varying shades of blue , gives against my shriveled fingertips like the thick skin that forms on the surface of homemade custard.
In the yard behind us is the canopy tent beneath which all of the grownups sit on the extra-long, red, wooden picnic table that has hosted many such gatherings. Some of the adults are laughing and yelling to each other in the default Carey volume: extra loud. Others, like my mother, keep a watchful eye on the four children playing in the water.
Myself, I feel weightless and graceful as I skillfully dodge and maneuver around in the treacherous "deep-end" treading miles of pH balanced water. I am issued the standard grown-up warning: "Don't Run!" as I hop out of the pool, onto the cement patio and charge for the diving board.
The board is long, narrow, sterile-white, and its rough stucco texture prickles beneath the calloused, barefoot-since-May soles of my 9 year-old feet. I march confidently to the edge of the board. In one motion, I bend my knees, push off, spring upwards, tuck my calves up to meet the backs of my thighs, and plunge, spandex-clad backside first, into the water. Another perfect 10 cannon-ball.
I surface, my chlorine-bleached, greenish blond hair clinging to my skull and back. I look up to see who has witnessed my virtuoso display of diving excellence, only to realize that not only have my family members not stood to applaud my performance, but rather, nary a single gaze has strayed my direction.
"Mom!" I call, "Hey Mom! Hey! Auntie Jude! Hey! Pa! Did you see? Did you see my canon-ball??"
"Oh! Yeah! That was great, Baby-cakes!" Yells my grandfather over his shoulder.
"But you didn't even look!" I accuse.
"I did too!" He lies, "I saw the whole thing!"
Dejected, I am forced with the decision to accept his benevolent untruth, or challenge him further. I sigh in defeat. "Ohhhkaayy."
"Good job, Mand-- I saw it" consoles my cousin Ricky-- my closest-in-age partner in family crime.
"Thanks, Bud," I mutter.
I halfheartedly climb out of the pool again, in an attempt to rewind the clock just five minutes back to when I was still having fun. Only, this time, when I take the plunge, I go in pencil-dive style: straight, up and down, arms by my sides, creating only the most minimal splash.
#2
I am 13. I am sitting in a cluttered, moth-ball and vicks vapo-rub scented living room with mahogany colored paneling and beige shag carpeting. Every available millimeter of space is occupied by kitschy knick-knacks. Porcelain dolls with expressionless teal eyes and lacy frocks. Stuffed dalmations with red ribbon collars. Heart-shaped pillows adorned with threadbare kneedle-poing scenes.
I am seated on an upholstered, red plaid footstool with a rough, burlap-esque texture. Across from me sits 82 year old Dempsey Lumpkins, a man I met just yesterday. His face is long and gaunt, except for the bloodhound-like folds of rubbery skin that hang from his leukemia-ravaged frame. He is dressed in a navy and brown bathrobe, and his movements are slow and belabored.
Between us is checker-board. I make a move, giving little thought to strategy.
"Weelllpp, Ah don' know what yer fixin ta do with that thar move," he says in his still-remarkably-thick-despite-years-of-living-as-a-yankee Tenessee drawl.
In a single move, he captures 4 of my 5 remaining pieces. When the game ends, minutes later, he smiles at me humbly. For a moment, I feel something akin to fondness for this man. This stranger. My grandfather.
One of the themes I'm exploring is the quest for approval.
#1. An exercise in recreating a childhood memory.
I am at Pa's pool, it is July. The air is heavy with the scent of hot dogs, hamburgers, watermelon and Potato Salad--both kinds, German and Traditional (Pa hates the vinegar in the German style my Mom always makes). I am playing in the pool with my cousin, Ricky. The water is just the right balance of comfortably warm and refreshingly cool. The pool's lining, with its 1970's geometric pattern in varying shades of blue , gives against my shriveled fingertips like the thick skin that forms on the surface of homemade custard.
In the yard behind us is the canopy tent beneath which all of the grownups sit on the extra-long, red, wooden picnic table that has hosted many such gatherings. Some of the adults are laughing and yelling to each other in the default Carey volume: extra loud. Others, like my mother, keep a watchful eye on the four children playing in the water.
Myself, I feel weightless and graceful as I skillfully dodge and maneuver around in the treacherous "deep-end" treading miles of pH balanced water. I am issued the standard grown-up warning: "Don't Run!" as I hop out of the pool, onto the cement patio and charge for the diving board.
The board is long, narrow, sterile-white, and its rough stucco texture prickles beneath the calloused, barefoot-since-May soles of my 9 year-old feet. I march confidently to the edge of the board. In one motion, I bend my knees, push off, spring upwards, tuck my calves up to meet the backs of my thighs, and plunge, spandex-clad backside first, into the water. Another perfect 10 cannon-ball.
I surface, my chlorine-bleached, greenish blond hair clinging to my skull and back. I look up to see who has witnessed my virtuoso display of diving excellence, only to realize that not only have my family members not stood to applaud my performance, but rather, nary a single gaze has strayed my direction.
"Mom!" I call, "Hey Mom! Hey! Auntie Jude! Hey! Pa! Did you see? Did you see my canon-ball??"
"Oh! Yeah! That was great, Baby-cakes!" Yells my grandfather over his shoulder.
"But you didn't even look!" I accuse.
"I did too!" He lies, "I saw the whole thing!"
Dejected, I am forced with the decision to accept his benevolent untruth, or challenge him further. I sigh in defeat. "Ohhhkaayy."
"Good job, Mand-- I saw it" consoles my cousin Ricky-- my closest-in-age partner in family crime.
"Thanks, Bud," I mutter.
I halfheartedly climb out of the pool again, in an attempt to rewind the clock just five minutes back to when I was still having fun. Only, this time, when I take the plunge, I go in pencil-dive style: straight, up and down, arms by my sides, creating only the most minimal splash.
#2
I am 13. I am sitting in a cluttered, moth-ball and vicks vapo-rub scented living room with mahogany colored paneling and beige shag carpeting. Every available millimeter of space is occupied by kitschy knick-knacks. Porcelain dolls with expressionless teal eyes and lacy frocks. Stuffed dalmations with red ribbon collars. Heart-shaped pillows adorned with threadbare kneedle-poing scenes.
I am seated on an upholstered, red plaid footstool with a rough, burlap-esque texture. Across from me sits 82 year old Dempsey Lumpkins, a man I met just yesterday. His face is long and gaunt, except for the bloodhound-like folds of rubbery skin that hang from his leukemia-ravaged frame. He is dressed in a navy and brown bathrobe, and his movements are slow and belabored.
Between us is checker-board. I make a move, giving little thought to strategy.
"Weelllpp, Ah don' know what yer fixin ta do with that thar move," he says in his still-remarkably-thick-despite-years-of-living-as-a-yankee Tenessee drawl.
In a single move, he captures 4 of my 5 remaining pieces. When the game ends, minutes later, he smiles at me humbly. For a moment, I feel something akin to fondness for this man. This stranger. My grandfather.