46. Where do you go to escape?

This topic actually couldn’t be more fitting for my life right now. It wasn’t until I asked myself this question that I realized it was really what I was doing though.

I can always tell when I am really getting stressed or overwhelmed. The number of pagers I consume goes up. It’s not the same as pleasure reading. It becomes a stress induced mania. I don’t even have to find the book addicting. I can actually find it innately flawed. All the same, I’ll find myself reading for hours on end, even when I don’t have the time to spare, just to be somewhere else for a little while.

At the moment I’m reading Empress by Karen Miller. I’ve found countless typos. The prose is rushed and undescriptive. I’m constantly wondering at the motivations of the characters. That isn’t to say it’s a bad book. It has more to do with myself and my sudden urge to be overly critical. Yet for all these things I take issue with, I’m somewhere around page four hundred after five busy days.

I’ve done this before. The last time I can remember myself reading with such fury was during my student teaching. I devoured every last book I could find. It take much more than an interesting cover to get my into the book. I’d walk up an down the dinky local library rescuing books no one had touched in years for my mind to eat. I’ve forgotten half of the books I read in that time, but the worlds stay with me as vivid as ever. Then, I was running from what I already knew about myself, but hadn’t decided to admit to knowing. Deep down I knew that the degree I was about to go work for two years to get was not what I really wanted from y life. So instead of practicing and making myself into the musician I “should” have been, I read.

I realize now that the decision to set myself up for failure would have no real bearing on the outcome. I never did get to go to grad school for that degree I realize now I didn’t want, but I’m getting off track. Instead of running from what I know but don’t want to admit, I’m now running from the implications of the massive life change I’ve decided to make. I’m running from the fact that I’m having to wait for it to happen.

Each world, well crafted or otherwise, that I can drop my restless mind into is a sanctuary from all of the constant responsibilities swirling around me threatening to drown me at any moment. It might not be healthy, or maybe it is. I guess having a bad book habit is better than I bad drinking habit.

Just like being an addict though it begins to cut into my normal life. Instead of working I think about that world. I think about those characters. I get very cranky if I don’t get to visit them. My husband has a hard time peeling me out of bed during the weekends because of this. As of late, it’s been even worse.

I suppose I feel that when this real world gets to hard to bear that living in another of someone else’s creation can make it easier if only for a little while. I’m sorry to be rambling. I try to stay away from that as much as I can, but in this case it’s because my mind is a tightly wound ball of yarn. Pull on one string and your likely to upset another.

Where do you go when you need to escape? What do you do?

More house selling/moving to another country fun

After deciding that I would wait until next week to do my physical for the JET prgoram, I figured, yay, I can just go home. Not so says the universe. I am home, in a way. The problem is that I cannot get into my home.

Earlier today we had the appraiser come to give us a final price for the house. Fingers crossed, I’m hoping that he appraises it for what we sold it for. We’d like to make a little bit of money. Every little bit helps.

The problem is that when the appraiser left not only did he lock the inside garage door, which we never lock, but he also took the box key and did something with it. I have no way of knowing if he left it on the counter or took it for some reason. All I do know is that the key, the only other extra key to the house by the way, is inaccessible to me. This means that I am sitting outside on my back patio listening to my cat crying to get outside as I type this. My dogs are just going to have to keep holding their little fuzzy legs together a little bit longer.

Where is your husband you ask? He is at a meeting at his school and won’t be leaving for another few minutes. Then it will take him twenty long minutes to get here, depending on the traffic.

Such is life. I’m actually quite amused about it. Shouganai.

45. A tree from the point of view of one of its leaves.

Honestly I’m stealing this idea from my husband. He thought it would be interesting to write the leaves with a sort of big brother perspective about the branches. I liked it so here we go.

I am subservient to the branch. Where it goes; I go. It’s always watching me, controlling me. I want to know what goes in in the below land.

Waving above I can see the strange things below. They seemed interested when I was just a bug, but now they don’t notice me. Apparently I’ve grown to mean less as I’ve gotten bigger.

It was nice when I was a bud. There was room to see the sky. The branch didn’t seem so in charge then. Then, all I wanted was to push through the thick shell of my bud. The sunlight and sky waited to keep me warm and help me grow. The branch supported me and kept me safe.

When my leg grew, everything else became awkward. It was then that I truly realized that I was stuck. I waved and pulled. I wanted to fly with the breeze that pulled me into it’s whirling dance.

The branch always held me down. It kept me stuck ruthlessly in place. No matter how much I wanted to dance and wave upon the wind I could not. Now I am crowded together with thousands more like myself. Their minds are quiet. They don’t see what the branch has done to us. They don’t see that we are prisoners to it.

We bathe ourselves in the sun only to feed it. Like a leech, it feeds of off the power only we can provide and for what? Sometimes when the day is slow I can feel the fluids within me moving into and out of it. It always needs more from me.

I wonder what the motivation is of such a creature. Why would it need all of us? What does it intend to use us for? Is thisall it will use us for.

I know that I can’t bear to be a part of such a thing anymore. I ache to dance on the wind and see what the creatures are below. What purpose do they serve? More than that I want to see what else could be out there for something like me. How can I make this happen? What would it take to free me from the branch?

A breeze comes. It tugs and I tug with it. I pull into the wind and feel a tear. Success!

Breeze after breeze comes, and I tear a little more with each passing gust. Then I am hanging by a thread. The barest breath of air will be enough to set me free. I wait hanging but it doesn’t come for the longest time.

I hear it before I feel it; the breeze that will set me free from my keeper. I lean into the breeze. It doesn’t take much, and I am free.

Swaying, lilting, floating, I waver toward the below land. I feel excitement course through my leafy veins. Freedom. I am free from my branching oppressor. The wind tosses me dancing through the blue and white of the sky. Nothing could be better than this moment.

Then I settle onto the black river of the below. It is solid. I did not expect that. I thought that it would flow like it looks. From down here the sky looks no different. I lift, push against the ground.

Nothing happens. I want to weep. I am trapped again. More than that something strange is happening. I feel unusual.

The realization hits me. I am dying. I was trapped against the tree because it needed me. What I did not know is that I needed it as well. Without it I will not be able to grow. Without it I am one of the dead brown things scattered along the black path. They crackle and rustle but they no longer think or breath in the sunlight.

The end of my freedom looms before me. I look up into the darkening sky and think of the clouds and the wind. The breeze catches me, and I am lifted away, another dead leaf in the wind. I fade, twisting and turning, a dancer disappearing into the blue of the vibrant sky. The edges of me brown and curl up, and then I know no more.

I’ll be honest; I’m still not quite happy with this ending. I wanted to make it somehow more poetic and slightly longer. I hate it when you can feel the writing in your head, but you can’t find the words to embody them. Don’t you?

44. Describe a room in your house

Since I’m in the process of selling my house right now, I figured now would be a good time to talk about this room. I’m feeling very nostalgic about it and a little bit like I’m going to miss it.

Pleasant pale green walls reflect the light through the one long window, softly. White shelves crawl asymmetrically across the walls. Books tumble or stand tight where they have been packed together by a thirsty mind.

A few have thrown themselves across the bed below. They’ve buried themselves deeply into the plush, golden beigey comforter. Indentations have run together where a devoted reader has switched positions. Comfort changes when you’re too caught up in another world to stop.

Along the other wall two white tables stretch. Notebooks, pens, and paper spill across them in a tumble of half remembered ideas and projects. Blots of inch scratch the surface of a half neglected paper towel. Beside it, a prized creamy white and gold fountain pen rests inches from it’s ink bottle.

Various pieces of whimsical art rest against the wall smiling inspiration down where words are want to pour. A list, blotted with red ink, stares down at the seat of the author with all the things to say except for said.

This is how the room was at it’s most inspiring. The image of it being so still remains. Now the books have been stacked randomly across the tables. They are ready for a new home, to feed a new hungry mind. Papers and projects have all been sorted through. Some will go half way around the world. Some worlds are so well made that they deserve to travel so that others might get to know them. Others will wait until they can again be taken up.

Change takes with it the cleanly peace of a place, but with it comes momentum and hope for the future. Where once there was a motionless place of peace there is promise of newer things. The emptiness of an emptying house fills quickly with the promise of all the new things waiting in days ahead. Where space is made something always comes to fill it.

43. Five things that always get you into trouble

Again sorry for my slow posting. This whole moving to a foreign country thing is a bit time consuming. I’m also not exactly sure how I’m going to make it through the next two and a half months with exploding from the excitement. For crying out loud, I get to be in Tokyo on my birthday. It’s a literal dream come true.

These are not in the order of severity; just the order that the occurred to me in.

1. Procrastination

I often refer to myself as a procrastinating perfectionist. This means that, while I have the grandest of ideas and intentions, I often come up short. I get distracted by a plethora of other things. Often this means I don’t finish things when I should. Perhaps that’s part of the reason I’m forcing myself to do this blog post today. If I continue to put it off, then I may never finish it.

I’ve often had moments where I’ve been fascinated with things only to have my interest peter out. It’s real ongoing struggle.

2. Going one step to far

This particular problem often lends itself to my greatest talent. My greatest talent is stopping any conversation dead. You know that silence when everyone stares at you in disbelief? That silence that says what the hell is wrong with you? This particular problem always causes me to have that stare leveled at me. I often look at the line, laugh, and leap miles to the other side of it. It’s never really inappropriate just strange, or it only makes sense to me.

3. Being overly self confident

I have, throughout the years, prided myself on being a very independent, well informed individual. I was also raised to like myself and not worry about who am I and what that means. In my experience this can be threatening to others. Couple this with wanting to make my own mistakes and the confidence to just figure stuff out and you end up with a recipe for disaster. Last year I ended up alienating a whole bunch of people at my work place because they didn’t feel like I valued their help or opinions. I’m unfortunately oblivious to the effect my own personality has on other people. I was just trying to do my thing and keep afloat. Very problematic.

4. Not knowing when to ask for help

This comes close on the heels of number three. I like to do things on my own. I even usually manage to figure things out without help. This makes it just that much harder to ask for it when I really need it. I’m also really good at coping which means I often don’t realize that I’m over burdened until it’s too late. I’ve had to learn to let a few things go and get over not being able to do everything on my own this year. I still hate asking for help, but at least now I know to do it.

5. Assuming people won’t be assholes

Last but certainly not least. I really like to think the best of people. I know that there are jerks out there. I’m a teacher; I see the souless before they get old enough to really effect people. Generally I like to think that people are good until proven assholes. Unfortunately, it’s not always safe to assume that people are anything other than what they are. To often I’ve gotten myself into trouble just for my inability to be devious or play the game. I like to do my work, get it done, and go home. The rest tends to escape me in the worst ways. You’ve got to learn who’s ass to kiss and who you need to make feel good about themselves. The lack of self confidence in others means that you sometimes need to spend time making sure they associate you with feeling good about themselves. If you don’t then they don’t think well of you when it really counts.

41. Write down everything you can remember about your algebra teacher.

Mrs. Hedge was a shining beacon of intellectuality. She embodied the best kind of strict and kind nature. She never gave up, but she never took your crap either.

I remember that she had a mole of some kind very prominently on her face. I don’t believe I ever heard someone make mention of it though. She was the kind of woman that so embodied her profession that to make fun of her just would have been a complete waste of time. Generally I remember everyone liking her. My friends in particular were fans because they were all in the advanced math classes where I was not.

Before I joined the quiz bowl, she was just another math teacher. Math was not my strong suit. This didn’t exactly make us enemies, but it didn’t exactly make me friendly toward her either. She was the type with long graying brown hair that was always back in a ponytail. She always had a pant suit of some kind. I don’t remember her wearing skirts all that often. In short her love was math and teaching it. Nothing else mattered. Looks weren’t really important to me, but you notice those sorts of things. In an odd way I think I respected her for it.

Where I did get to know Mrs. Hedge was quiz bowl. She was an avid lover of high school children asking questions no high school student should need to know. We even went to states because of it.

At first she wasn’t sure of me. I’ll admit it, I was a bit of a flake. My brain only functioned for music, and then really only to help myself. That’s why she kept me on the junior varsity team, yes we were awesome enough to have two, until my senior year.

I’m not sure when it have happened, but I’d learned to crave her approval. After an invitational at a career center in the middle of nowhere, she’d decided that I was ready to be one of the leaders. The details escape me. We went, we didn’t win, but I felt good about it. It inadvertently lead to a separate experience crucial to my understand of both myself and other people. I’d thank her for inviting me to the opportunity if I could.

40. She was a fat woman whose eating habits were dainty. There was a check for $13,612 in her purse, not made out to her, but, you know. She was good at figuring these things out. Start with her hair.

Somehow Tildie had gotten the idea that a chignon was what respectable women did with their hair. Fifty years ago or in an upwardly mobile circle she might even have been correct, but the way she wore it was all wrong.
Instead of sweeping gracefully back, it pulled the flabby folds of her concealer caked face back so severely that old timey school teachers might have been jealous.

It wasn’t clear if she was one of those women who had once been pretty but let herself go or if she’d always been the same. What was clear was that she thought she was hot shit in that way that only some big women can.

Tildie stretched an arm into the air. Her dimpled elbow bent only slightly as her immaculate red fingernails clawed at the air. The waiter deflated when he caught sight of her.

“Something else I can get you ma’am,” he inquired though the spotless plate was answer enough.

“I’d really just love a slice a chocolate cheese cake if you would.” She talked to him, but she only had eyes for the dessert cart.

“Coming right up.” The waiter turned and sought a compatriot with disbelieving eyes. He mouthed the word four to the other waiter before ducking into the kitchen. Eyebrows shot toward the ceiling. Silently, so as not to make the customers aware, the news spread around the dining room. The fat lady at table six was on her fourth plate.

The cream colored slice was delivered with practiced ease. With some fascination the waiters noticed that Tildie didn’t dive in. She waited. Her fingers considered the fresh silver fork before picking it up. Her knuckles bent gracefully along the swooping metal. The tines sliced free the tiniest piece of cheesecake anyone had ever attempted to eat. It floated toward her waiting mouth on the gentle winds of desire for creamy sweet things.

She considered the taste of the bite. She considered the origin of the eggs and the graham crackers in the crust. She considered each swirl of chocolate as she came to it. Once everything had been considered and swallowed, the fork was replaced on the table. The napkin was rescued from her voluminous lap so that it could be tapped first to one side of her face then the other. Never mind that there was nothing there.

Tildie placed the cream colored linen napkin beside the plate and raised her hand. Waiters everywhere in the well lit, luscious dining room took notice. Her own waiter was there only moments after her hand had been raised. Someone this odd deserved to be paid attention to.

“Is it not to your liking madam?” The waiter couldn’t even begin to guess at the complaint, not after everything else had disappeared so quickly.

“I’d simply like the bill please. I am quite stuffed.” Tildie smiled, and then forgot the waiter was even there. The poor man stared at the cake with it’s minuscule bite. He couldn’t respond. He returned with the check and placed it quietly at her other elbow.

Tildie produced a purse which, next to any other woman, would have looked large. She produced a wallet and dug through it for a few bills. They went down onto the tray, and before they had even had a chance to settle, she was up with surprising speed. It was a graceful sort of speed, but still uncharacteristic next to the slowness of her meal.

Shouts went up in the dining room as she stepped out onto the casino floor, but she’d already managed to lose herself in the slot machines. All she needed to do now was find an atm and she’d be all set. One that allowed deposits. It’s Vegas surely that wouldn’t be too difficult to find. Once she’d managed to cash that check she’d found, she’d be able to pay back anything she’d not managed to pay back already. Well, only if she got caught that was. Ellen Feldrich surely wouldn’t mind footing the bill. She didn’t even know she was supposed to get this money.

39. Rewrite a piece of your own writing in one-syllable words.

I have to say that I ended up having a lot of fun with this. It’s a little less descriptive than it started out, but I kind of like the over all new style. I had to work out a few things to keep it from turning into something completely ridiculous, but in the end I liked how it turned out. I’ll have to post the original some time.

“Take my arm,” Li said. Dim light shone off blood drip plate. A broke and torn arm took the wrist with a tug.

“Stand my kin. We have more to slay. You can’t stop now.”

“Hah! I’d not lay down my sword not while there are still some left to show the way.” Li laughed as he pried a thumb in the red gash in his arm. “This is a mere scratch. Wait, there is more that I will hand out this day. Tie it, so that I might staunch the flow. I grow a taste for more war.” Byr’s face split with a smile that showed aged and stained teeth. He drew a clean shirt from the pack at his back and tore a few strips free. With ease, he wound the strips and bound the wound. He made a snug bow at the top of Li’s arm.What clean strips were left went back in the depths of his pack.

“Come my sword arm yearns to hear the clash of steel,” Byr growled. Li’s brow rose. Teeth showed white next to the gore left on his face. His nut brown eyes seemed to spark. They looked to the fray soon to be joined. Deep black hair damp with sweat fell lank and dirt caked in his face.

As one, the two strode, but a walk soon turned to a sprint of fierce joy. Swords and steel clashed. Blood flew till all you knew was the foe in front of you and the friend at your back. Byr roared. Li echoed his call. Their cries could just be heard in the din of steel on steel. Soon they were lost in the sea of blood and torn cloaks.

As the sea shifts and flows, so too did the surge of thick forms. Waves of men crashed on the rocks made by their foes. Where Li and Byr moved a path was cleared so that more could fall in to pick up the slack. Soon few were left to stand in their way. Those who were left tried to take what men they could with them.

Li and Byr stood back to back with smiles still spread through gore soaked beards. The five left still meant to fight. As one, they whirled and turned with quick blades. Li’s blade cut down two men as Byr’s put an end to a third. A tired arm and mind left space for a sword to break Byr’s guard. The cold steel, blunt from use, cleaved the skin of his neck. Li yelled, the smile torn free by rage, and spun his broad sword in ire at the chance loss. The two men left fell in fonts of blood in heaps at his feet.

“Praise to thee,” Li spoke. Through his pain Byr smiled though he could not speak. “You go to a place made for the man who dies in such a fight. Would that I could join you, but God wills that I fight a new day.”

Byr’s head dipped. His hand shook. He made a fist of his hand, and with the last of his strength brought it to his chest. When it thumped down, it stayed put. Eyes that did not see stared up to the sky. Li closed the eyes of his friend.

Li stood straight and took in the war torn field in front of him. Crows had moved in on those who could not move. Moans and pleas for help came from those not as well trained as the men in his squad. At the top of the hill, two cloaked men topped the rise. Both had cloaks drawn to hide their heads, but Li knew them all the same. The two monks charged with the pure needs of his squad had lived to watch them fight yet again.

“Well it seems it was not yet your turn to join the dead in their sweet bliss,” the first monk said. He flung his hands out from his full sleeves and pulled down the deep hood.

“So it would seem. It’s a sign that I have yet to earn all the deaths set for me by our Lord.” Li grinned and wiped his sword free of blood on the clothes of a man had no need to care for such things. The tall monk dropped his hood as well.

“You are the last.” This monk Li did not know. A proud laugh ripped from Li’s throat.

“That is so.” He shoved the blade home into the sheath at his back.

“We feel that you may be too good for our squad,” The first monk, Jul, told him with false grief. Li’s sword stayed though his hand found the hilt. Jul slid a swift blade through the gap in Li’s plate. His face was a mask of rage and awe as he dropped to his knees.

“Why?” he asked as blood poured from the wound in his side. The two monks watched. No care seemed to be spared for the soon to be dead man.

“With you, and those like you gone, our real work can start. Take that soul with you into what comes with death. Let it get in the way of what goes on there. We do not need it here.” The pair of monks turned their backs and made their way up the hill.

“When we get back you will write up the news and share it with our chief. The last Soul Knight has been brought to an end. In this land at least, we are free to start our work to rule over those souls who would be ruled.”

 

38. A time you made someone cry

I started out with one idea, but then I changed my mind. I’d almost forgotten about this.

 

I’d be lying if I said I was popular. I’m not sure who actually is in middle school. It’s certainly a select type of person. I certainly did not belong to that mold.

I was awkward, chubby, unaware that I should certain things like wear a bra, and I had more self confidence than I had any right to. The last part was my true failing. Let’s face it not many people at the age of twelve or thirteen can say they like themselves.

I really liked myself so much that it drove other people crazy. Kids who lack self confidence want to quash any self esteem they see. The mere existence of it drives them crazy.

You have probably figured out by now that I was teased mercilessly. There are plenty of stories I could tell, but one in particular has always confused me. To this day I still don’t really understand what happened.

There was a very popular, pretty girl named Sara. She was the only Asian at our school, I grew up in a hick town, and I thought she was so pretty. I was that Japan loving anime watching nerd and still am. I wanted so badly to be a pretty Asian. Unfortunately, I was tall, blond, and blue eyed. I know  you can feel sorry for me later.

She was never particularly nice to me. In fact in many ways she liked to point out the ways that I failed at being a girl. When I started growing leg hair, she noticed. When I started to actually need a bra, she noticed. She also noticed that I had no clue about makeup and sought to remedy this short coming on at least one occasion.

I wanted to be friends with her because that’s what you do when someone torments you in middle school. You automatically want them to like you because obviously they don’t. Eventually I got over this and even got a bit angry.

My anger came to a head at a school dance. I had found, or rather I should say my mother had found, an awesome maroon dress complete with shawl to wear to the dance. At that point in time, seventh grade I think, I hadn’t had much cause to think of myself as pretty. That night I did, and I decided that I was going to show Sara up but good.

All of us girls were gathered in the bathroom to check our faces again for the hundredth time. Sara was to far away to talk to, so I followed her across the hall into the gym where the pictures were being taken.

I strutted right up to her, and before I had a chance to say anything she complimented me. I was baffled. I stood there in confusion.

I don’t remember what I said, but the next thing that happened was that she burst into tears. She stormed off and ran into the bathroom. It was the most bizarre thing. Now, knowing myself at the time, I was capable of saying something revenge like, but I don’t think that was the case. I remember saying something like well look at me don’t I dress up nice or something inane. Perhaps I just didn’t realize I was being cutting. Well as you can imagine her friends gave me the stink eye and stormed off too to do damage control.

A sense of shame and guilt washed over me. I, the constant victim, had made someone cry. I felt awful. I think I went in and tried to apologize, but none of it made sense. I didn’t know at the time, and still don’t, what I said to make her cry in the first place. I wish I knew. I wish I remembered. Sometimes life is funny like that. Maybe if I saw her and asked she would remember. Maybe I was some horrible bully that night and didn’t realize it. I hope not.

37. Write about one thing on the list to the left. (My last post)

In the book this is right next to the list I posted on Monday. I chose one of the things from that list to write about today.

The clock stared with evil white eyes. It knew. It mocked my ability to do math with swiftly moving hours and minutes.

You could get four hours if you fell asleep now it seemed to say. I tossed. I adjusted the pillows and blankets. The sheet was uneven again. At some point it had shifted. Now the edge was running up the middle of my leg. In desperation, I turned away from the glaring clock. Now the corner of my fuzzy top blanket was in the center of my chest. The offending thief was sleeping soundly keeping it all to himself.

Stop thinking! I ordered myself to no avail. Thoughts bombarded me. My brain would be quiet, expectant, and then I’d be thinking again. It always happened before I knew. I’d be thinking before I even realized that I was thinking. My brain suddenly was it’s own animal with free will to go along.

I stared at the ceiling above me. I knew that I’d never fall asleep that way, but whenever my eyes closed the thoughts would come back again.

Beside me the form of my sleeping husband taunted me. He puffed air out from between his lips and then smacked them in satisfaction.

Curiosity struck. White eyes reflected their gaze cruelly on the white ceiling. They called. Look at me. The space between my shoulder blades itched. With a huff of irritation, I turned over to my other side again.

I nearly groaned aloud. Thirty minutes were gone. Now I was down to three and a half hours.

Ok thoughts have your way with my. They came and left me flustered. They wouldn’t be ignored.

My eyes snapped open. A hand was reaching across. It turned the white eyes closer to the bed. Twenty minutes until the shrill call of the morning beast. When had I fallen asleep?

Beep! Beep! Beep!

Why are you always the most ready to fall back to sleep right before you have to get up?