Monday, March 3, 2014

1.6.5 She got out of the car…


She got out of the car…

Slowly, watching her step to avoid the ice and puddles of slush that were omnipresent. She pulled up her hood and adjusted her scarf to guard against the biting wind. She gazed at the sky, resenting the washed out blue-grey, so pale that it almost seemed to reflect the endless snow around her.

She trudged carefully along the sheet of ice that served as a path to the low brick building in the distance. She grumbled under her breath, resenting those waiting in warm cars. She made it to the building as the bell rang and was immediately engulfed in a rushing river of children bundled in hats, scarves, gloves. Thick coats. Boots. She scanned the crowd while bouncing lightly on the balls of her feet. It was much colder standing still, in the path of the wind tearing around the building.


There! His bright blue eyes and tousled blond hair caught her eye, and she rolled her eyes as she noted that he hadn’t bothered to zip up his coat, or put on gloves or a hat. She sighed, then smiled as the boy spotter her and ran, grinning, right into her arms, already chattering away about his day at school.

1.6.3 The house we lived in…


The house we lived in…

Was a home once. A little strange perhaps, but it was my home, my place. It was full once, of light and laughter and music and cooking smells.

And then it stopped. There were no sounds except shouting and sobbing. And slamming doors. Things didn’t fit the way they once had, and everything felt like it was falling apart.

Everything fell apart.

Then she moved out, and he packed his things. And I cried alone on the floor in an empty, darkened room with bits of paper and string stuck to the carpet, feeling helpless and furious, and embarrassed and destitute. Because it was all over.


It ended with a quiet departure. It ended with a mercilessly scrubbed house where no trace of them remained. It wasn’t our home. It was never my home again.

1.6.2 There was something about the way he…


There was something about the way his eyes met mine, in the way he smiled at me. I don’t know if it was his physical beauty or his soulful eyes, or even the slightest quirk of his lips in one side of his smile that promised such sensual experiences. I was enthralled by the deep wells of his eyes, hypnotized by his body moving together with mine on the dance floor to the pounding heartbeat of deafening music. His lips met mine, and then possessed them in this passionate embrace. Intoxicated by the smoky taste of him, by the tug of teeth on my lower lip, igniting the embers of intrigue into a flame of desire.

1.6.1 This Journal is...


This Journal is…


A project. A goal. A beginning. I have to be able to dedicate time to writing and developing my skills. To eventually write a novel. Or three. Even if they’re never published, even if no one likes them. Even if Matt thinks that they’re garbage. I believe that this journal can serve as a marker, a starting line, a jumping off point for my inner creative spirit. Crochet is a physical exercise of expression, but I want to build something more ethereal with words, and this is where I’m starting from. And I will not allow myself to turn back.

1.1.12 Dream


Dream

I had a dream that I can’t remember anymore. It was so vivid and colorful, full of ferocity, heartache, tragedy. I wish I could remember it because it would make a wonderful story, one that I could write and develop and study until I captured the essence of the dream, and found the story that I’m meant to tell.
It’s happened before, the dreams, not the storytelling. This was all long before writing became a goal, a hazy, fanciful flirtation that has now developed into a fully blown rose, serious and sensual.
Goals always seemed like such dry, practical, unimaginative things to me, so imagine my delight in discovering that they can be fantastic and wonderful in the truest meanings of the words.

Alas, it faded too quickly for me to capture, too quickly for me to even consider jotting it down. And now I must wait until it visits my dreams again.

1.1.6 Fantasy Conversation with Jesus Christ


Fantasy Conversation with Jesus Christ

“Jesus, tell me how you do it? How do you forgive and forget so readily? How do you walk on water and calm storms? I would like to know.”

“Well, I trust the people who need to be trusted in order to be validated as human beings to turn their lives around. I show them kindness so that they may learn from my example and treat others in a Godly manner. I forgive and try to forget, but let’s face it, I’m God, I’m infallible, so of course I really do remember what happened. I just choose to believe that they never betrayed my trust.”

“That’s deep.”

“Not Really. It’s basic innocence. Take abused children for instance. They still love and trust their parents for years, until they learn all that they have been cheated out of: stability, safety, love, respect, growth. It’s terribly sad.”

“I agree. And what about the miraculous things? How do you do them?”

“I am the Son of God. I whisper to the storm and it stops to hear my words, for I created storms. I walk on water because the water longs to tough the feet of its master.”

“Wouldn’t you fall in and sink to the bottom?”


“No. Creation was made to uphold the Creator. Sinking would be undignified.”

1.1.5 A Letter I'll Never Write

12/25/13

JR and DO,

It’s been a year since my last letter to you. I don’t regret not speaking to either of you, and I wish that I thought about you less than I do. I wish sometimes that I had never experienced this entire relatioinship, including when I still loved you, J., and when you were one of my best friends, D. I often wish that I could extract you both completely from my mind.

D., after I found out that you’d been sleeping with my fiancĂ© for the better part of a year, I saw red. I am happy and deeply in love, and it still makes me fiercely angry to think of my own obliviousness and your clear betrayal. Especially after all we’d been through.

J., I wanted to tell you that you are a child, ignorant, and clearly too blind to know when you have a good thing. I stopped loving you a long time ago. Before we ever decided to get married. Before we moved in together. I had convinced myself that I’d never get anyone who was really good to me, who really loved me, so I stayed with you when I shouldn’t have. I never told you, but when I was 16 you got me pregnant, and I lost the baby, and I hate you for being so irresponsible because you were almost 20 and you should have known better. That’s when I stopped loving you. The rest of the time was an experiment in power and control and manipulation, and using you to meet my sexual needs.


So fuck you both.

Victoria Ann

1.1.4 Longings


Longings

Perhaps one of the deepest longings I have is to be a mother someday. I would love to be one now, although I know it wouldn’t be practical. Practicality be damned!

Oh who am I kidding? We all know I my never get to have my dream of a half dozen rug rats running tame through my home, making messes, creating masterpieces, pulling their sisters’ hair, laughing, shouting, screaming, joking, imagining. That’s one of the reasons I want kids, and a bunch of them. I want the noise and the wild, and the fierce love that is synonymous with family in my mind.

I desperately desire the opportunity to create a new person, and to help shape them for the world that should exist. Yes, I want to raise idealistic, kind, children for a world that is becoming increasingly hostile. I don’t know that my love, my soul mate, will allow this to happen. God must have a great sense of irony, to give me an amazing, funny, articulate man who is everything I could ever want, but who doesn’t really like kids or want to reproduce.


We talk about it, and he really believes that he can contribute nothing positive, genetically speaking, to a child. He says he will be alright with one child, but he would prefer to adopt or use a sperm donor, and while adoption is a noble thing, I can’t help but feel that he’s missing my point: I want to have a child with him. I want to come together and grow a new person who is a little like both of us, and raise him or her to be a better person than we are.

1.1.2 Overheard Concersation


Overheard Conversation

“That’s why I prefer to hire younger sitters.” “I agree! They actually play with the kids instead of setting them in front of the TV and play with their phones.” “Yeah, it’s a shame.”

This conversation took place while I was at one of Anna’s field hockey practices between two of the moms who thought that I couldn’t hear them. Yes, they were talking about me. And although I made no outward sign, I was fuming. One of them had just gotten there, 40 minutes into practice, and I had just given Tommy  my phone to play puzzle games on. In the previous 40 minutes, we read a book, practiced math, played soccer, and colored, thank you very much. And it was really the cherry on the cake when this same mom turned around and told an entire team of nine year old girls that winning was the only thing that mattered. The other mom had another child there, playing with her phone too. For the entire hour and a half practice.


And people wonder what’s wrong with kids these days. Clue: It’s the parents.

1.1.1 Observation


Observation

“Jeshica cahn oo come stahr da compooter fo me?” Tommy asked.

I sighed loudly. Without even looking I know he’s put something in his mouth. Again. I wonder what it is this time. So far this week I’ve made him spit out contraband candy, a rubber wristband, a marble, and Angry Birds toy, and a hanger. Yes, a clothes hanger, the cheap metal bent into almost unrecognizable contortions, his mouth. WHY??? Why would a six year old boy who’s never had any oral fixation suddenly start putting random nonfood items in his mouth? Is it a cry for attention, like his sister’s static cling habt? How can I get him to stop without criminalizing the action and therefore making it a more desirable pastime for a young boy? Help!

1.2.3 Things People Have Said to Me


Things People Have Said to Me
-          You are F***ing Brilliant.
-          I love you.
-          Why you no Amurica?
-          You’re the best Jessica ever.
-          Suck it up.
-          I don’t have anything to give you except spit.
-          If you’re going to make a mistake, make it a loud one.
-          I love articulate people.
-          I am cold, but that jacket is hideous. I’d rather freeze than touch it.
-          What song do you want to dance to at our wedding?
-          I’ll always be your little kid.

-          I love watching the kids run and jump on you after school. You can tell they love you. Good job.

1.2.8 List of Things to Make Lists Of


List of Things to Make Lists Of
-          homework
-          chores
-          groceries
-          Christmas gifts
-          Crafts to make
-          Email lists
-          Wish lists
-          Book lists
-          Goal lists
-          To Do lists


1.2.7 What to Take on a Journey


What to Take on a Journey
-          underwear
-          hoodie
-          Tylenol
-          Pillows
-          Blanket
-          Flip flops
-          Cute shoes
-          Tennis shoes
-          Jeans
-          Bras
-          Toothpaste
-          Hairbrush
-          Hair ties
-          Tablet
-          Phone
-          Chargers
-          Hair clips
-          Wallet

-          Socks