screaming until the world fractures
and comes apart
(every seam breaks)
the dark leaks drips forces through the cracks
filling in
the low places, and rising
(the dark is rising)
higher
and colder than the ring of
shrieks on ice
(muffled like snowfall)
the breaking of this lost world
ends trembling
rimmed in dawn.
I'm out of practice at this writing thing. Severely. Also, it is a terrible, terrible idea to drink Coke just before bedtime. No trouble getting to sleep, but I dreamed all night and woke up drenched in sweat from a particularly nasty little nightmare. I blame the Coke.
Saturday, March 3, 2012
Friday, March 2, 2012
Soccer
I'm studying by the window. A girl from my class is on her lawn, just down the street, and she's kicking a soccer ball around. Bouncing it on her knees, practicing shots. She's probably on a study break. I wish I could go and join her, but I can't.
The problem isn't that I have too much to study, although that's certainly true. The real problem is me.
I loved being homeschooled. I never discovered it was a handicap until I went to academy during my junior year. You see, all the way thought eighth grade I had never played any games that involved a football, baseball, racquetball. I grew past the age where most people begin to learn how to kick a soccer ball, and then suddenly everybody knew what they were doing, and I didn't have the first clue. And then I was old enough that the gap between what I didn't know how to do, and what everyone else did, was huge. I could have fixed it, but I was afraid. Everybody else that played soccer at the academy had been going to a summer camps to prep for intramurals, and I had never so much as kicked a ball in my life. And the last thing a shy, insecure teenager in a strange school wants to do is to draw attention to a flaw. I couldn't do it.
I had the chance again to play intramurals in college, but I passed because I didn't know how. I refused to learn on a team with girls I didn't know, and so I missed my chance, simply because I fear ridicule. I am incredibly afraid of looking foolish, and it drives a great many of my actions.
So I watched the girl down the street, and remembered all those moments I'd felt inferior and worthless, not only because I can't play, but because I couldn't overcome my fear and learn. And I cried, because I'm tired of living that way. I don't know how to stop, but somehow it's suddenly very important that I do.
I'll figure it out. Somehow.
The problem isn't that I have too much to study, although that's certainly true. The real problem is me.
I loved being homeschooled. I never discovered it was a handicap until I went to academy during my junior year. You see, all the way thought eighth grade I had never played any games that involved a football, baseball, racquetball. I grew past the age where most people begin to learn how to kick a soccer ball, and then suddenly everybody knew what they were doing, and I didn't have the first clue. And then I was old enough that the gap between what I didn't know how to do, and what everyone else did, was huge. I could have fixed it, but I was afraid. Everybody else that played soccer at the academy had been going to a summer camps to prep for intramurals, and I had never so much as kicked a ball in my life. And the last thing a shy, insecure teenager in a strange school wants to do is to draw attention to a flaw. I couldn't do it.
I had the chance again to play intramurals in college, but I passed because I didn't know how. I refused to learn on a team with girls I didn't know, and so I missed my chance, simply because I fear ridicule. I am incredibly afraid of looking foolish, and it drives a great many of my actions.
So I watched the girl down the street, and remembered all those moments I'd felt inferior and worthless, not only because I can't play, but because I couldn't overcome my fear and learn. And I cried, because I'm tired of living that way. I don't know how to stop, but somehow it's suddenly very important that I do.
I'll figure it out. Somehow.
Thursday, February 9, 2012
Adrenaline
People like me probably shouldn't be allowed to control anything with wheels.
My boyfriend, however, thinks it's a good idea for me to learn this.
I agree.
My boyfriend, however, thinks it's a good idea for me to learn this.
I agree.
Usually, I'm cautious--irritatingly so. I run off the board at anything more than a 1 % grade--I complain that there are too many people (one, that is half a mile away), too many obstacles (a sign about 10 feet off to the side), or that the bumps in the sidewalk will make me fall (snails wouldn't notice these cracks). I even scream sometimes, an obvious sign that I probably shouldn't be doing what I'm doing.
But, it's fun. Incredibly so. And today, bookbag slung over my shoulder, I decided to follow Ryan down a way I shouldn't have. In retrospect, his "I'm going down this way, but you probably shouldn't" was most likely a dissuasion towards me following. But I was on a roll (literally), I was even carving (which I have issues with occasionally), and I didn't want to stop (I never do). So I used up my five-second bailout window with rationalizing and a transient bravado. After all, I'm invincible, right?
Well...no. I shot down into a parking lot, and there were ridges in the concrete and I nearly fell, so the valuable time I should have taken to carve and slow down, or stop altogether, was taken up by me trying to catch my balance. And then I was going too fast to stop, and I actually got scared. Really scared. I could see it ending very, very badly.
But I didn't count on Ryan. He caught me, and the longboard shot on and hit the wall, and I ended up in a little bit of a heap. No scratches, though, no cuts, no bruises. Just a lot of adrenaline. And a deeper appreciation for boys who move really, really fast.
I'm not sorry I did it. I'm tired of being too cautious to take risks, and if only for that reason, today was good for me. Keeps the heart rate going strong, you know. My hands are still shaking.
Tuesday, February 7, 2012
Grey
Religion class today was about personalities.
The professor chose seven of us to line up at the front (I never fidget when I'm nervous--too much attention towards breathing and watching the dozens of faces staring at me. It's fun, but nerve-wracking). She then told the class, "All right. I want you to arrange these people in this order--if you asked one of them to do something, and they said no, which would you quickly take at their word, and which would you ask again and again, eventually changing their answer?"
"Oh, Alyssa goes on the "No" end for sure!" I might have actually taken a step backwards--that's how shocked I was to hear my name. At any rate, half-dozen people voted to move me to the beginning. One girl, when pressed, said that I seemed firm and steady, just in the few conversations we've had, and that she couldn't see me changing my mind unless it was very, very important. Another said I have a backbone of steel, and the third just stated that I was stubborn.
Enough people agreed that, when the game was over, I was either the strongest or the most impossible, depending on your point of view. I don't think I disagree.
I've been tentatively skirting the edges of depression these past few weeks. I know what it feels like--I know it well enough to be wary and uneasy and worried. I can also see it affecting the way I relate to people, how I handle conflict and stress. Some days are better than others. Today isn't one of them.
I don't understand how this dichotomy works. How can I be both things, strong and weak, all at once? Intellectually I can see it, how it can be so, but when it's me it feels...wrong. Something is off. I am off. And yet I have every reason to be happy. I am happy--but right now, it feels fragile.
I hate this.
So, I'm going to counseling. Just left my name and number, which is a step, at least. And while today has been grey in a multiplicity of ways, at the moment, I feel...hopeful.
The professor chose seven of us to line up at the front (I never fidget when I'm nervous--too much attention towards breathing and watching the dozens of faces staring at me. It's fun, but nerve-wracking). She then told the class, "All right. I want you to arrange these people in this order--if you asked one of them to do something, and they said no, which would you quickly take at their word, and which would you ask again and again, eventually changing their answer?"
"Oh, Alyssa goes on the "No" end for sure!" I might have actually taken a step backwards--that's how shocked I was to hear my name. At any rate, half-dozen people voted to move me to the beginning. One girl, when pressed, said that I seemed firm and steady, just in the few conversations we've had, and that she couldn't see me changing my mind unless it was very, very important. Another said I have a backbone of steel, and the third just stated that I was stubborn.
Enough people agreed that, when the game was over, I was either the strongest or the most impossible, depending on your point of view. I don't think I disagree.
I've been tentatively skirting the edges of depression these past few weeks. I know what it feels like--I know it well enough to be wary and uneasy and worried. I can also see it affecting the way I relate to people, how I handle conflict and stress. Some days are better than others. Today isn't one of them.
I don't understand how this dichotomy works. How can I be both things, strong and weak, all at once? Intellectually I can see it, how it can be so, but when it's me it feels...wrong. Something is off. I am off. And yet I have every reason to be happy. I am happy--but right now, it feels fragile.
I hate this.
So, I'm going to counseling. Just left my name and number, which is a step, at least. And while today has been grey in a multiplicity of ways, at the moment, I feel...hopeful.
Monday, January 16, 2012
Galangal
Nothing is organized in a place like this. Twenty brands of noodles are piled on one shelf, no price tags anywhere--a dozen types of seaweed occupy the next aisle along with rows of hot sauce. There are products stuffed in every conceivable corner, even draped over the edge of the cash register. A small can of FriChik made a home next to freeze-dried sardines, just under the shelf of cans with a name I didn't recognize, a hysterical panda bear panicking on the label. Two ladies rapidly discuss something in a lilting language, while the asian man digging through the tomato bin is singing "Baby, It's Cold Outside."
I pick up yellow curry paste, several cans of coconut milk, tofu, and potatoes. This week begins my hopefully-a-bit-more-healthy regime, and I'm beginning with thai food and a two mile run, just for luck. When you consider that I define the last time I ran based on a period of years, it's a significant change.
I think it's going to be good.
The asian market is really exciting.
Sunday, January 1, 2012
Airport #1
On every world, wherever people are, in the deepest part of winter, at the exact midpoint, everybody stops and turns and hugs. As if to say, "Well done. Well done, everyone! We're halfway out of the dark." On Earth we call this Christmas. --Dr. Who
I'm in the exact same place I was the last time I wrote, except now I'm flying into the past, and my face is pointed west. Those three hours I gain--I wish there were a way to make them more useful, some brilliant act or thought that would leave me able to say, "I had three extra hours of life, and with them, I changed the world." Instead, I'll be thousands of feet in the air, most likely sleeping, probably drooling just a little. Oh, gosh, I hope not. But it could happen. Gross.
I'll be writing more later. Nothing like airports to bring forth large quantities of nothingness. Although, the last one was written in an airport, and I'm rather fond of it.
I'm in the exact same place I was the last time I wrote, except now I'm flying into the past, and my face is pointed west. Those three hours I gain--I wish there were a way to make them more useful, some brilliant act or thought that would leave me able to say, "I had three extra hours of life, and with them, I changed the world." Instead, I'll be thousands of feet in the air, most likely sleeping, probably drooling just a little. Oh, gosh, I hope not. But it could happen. Gross.
I'll be writing more later. Nothing like airports to bring forth large quantities of nothingness. Although, the last one was written in an airport, and I'm rather fond of it.
Friday, December 16, 2011
Flight
I rather feel like I'm living someone else's life.
I think I like this person, though. She's occasionally moody, sometimes uncertain, but always gleefully surprised by the good things that drift into her life...or come crashing in, dancing in, or walking in like they have always belonged. I've been told she's interesting. Good.
The quality of this post is going to be sketchy. This other person who I am is currently sitting in the airport. It's half past nine--there are two hours before my second flight takes off. I have another layover in Charlotte, NC, and then I'm with Mom, and Mandy, and home.
It's bewildering.
Am I really done with the first half of this year? Did I really survive this past test week? Am I actually going home for the first time in months? Twelve hours from now, will I be landing on the East Coast?
I can't quite process it.
But, I'm so glad.
Home.
I think I like this person, though. She's occasionally moody, sometimes uncertain, but always gleefully surprised by the good things that drift into her life...or come crashing in, dancing in, or walking in like they have always belonged. I've been told she's interesting. Good.
The quality of this post is going to be sketchy. This other person who I am is currently sitting in the airport. It's half past nine--there are two hours before my second flight takes off. I have another layover in Charlotte, NC, and then I'm with Mom, and Mandy, and home.
It's bewildering.
Am I really done with the first half of this year? Did I really survive this past test week? Am I actually going home for the first time in months? Twelve hours from now, will I be landing on the East Coast?
I can't quite process it.
But, I'm so glad.
Home.
Tuesday, December 13, 2011
Three lefts do a right make
I really like this picture. The colors just make me want to jump in, swirl them around, make things, play music. I guess that's a pretty good indicator that I mostly live in the right half of my brain, with occasional forays into the other side so that I can make sense of the world. I like the unexpected, the vibrant, the emotional side of life. It's all color and possibility, desire and laughter. Even the sad moments are washed in the darkest purple hues, like the sky just on the midnight edge of twilight. Oh, the structure of the left is comforting--it makes sense, helps me know where I am and where I'm going, and why. But I like scribbling over the black lines and filling in shades and adding texture to what is linear and concrete.
This week, I feel like medical school has forced me to live on the left side. And I hate it. Not the schooling itself--not what I'm learning--but the fact that I haven't found a way to make the intense days feel balanced. Instead, they are black and white words on a page, words without rhythm or rhyme, no music or flow, hour after endless hour. That's why I highlight so much, I think--trying to bring in color to make sense of patterns, to create a simple work of art that both halves can understand and, hopefully, commit to memory. Here's to hoping it works.
Jiminy
It was late. I had been in pajamas all day, studying and intermittantly wondering in despair if I was going to fail, and then being completely unconcerned at the thought that I might. I'd also been considering the advantages and disadvantages of using caffeine to keep myself awake--but that's a story for another time.
I'd decided to go to bed. Teeth brushed, fingers run through hair, face scrubbed. I've got my routine, you know, and I like it--mindless and relaxing. Sometimes I'll look down and noticed with pleased surprise that I've just trimmed my nails. When I get into the going-to-bed routine, things just happen, and I accept them thankfully.
Anyway, I digress. I'd just hung the towel back up on the rack when, suddenly, all hell broke loose above my head. It was something like what I imagine would happen if you turned a fleet of baboons loose in an elephant cage--a lot of thundering back and forth, high-pitched shrieking, things hitting walls. When Alex began to scream, I dashed towards the stairs, thinking, "Gotta be a cricket."
We don't do much unnecessary housekeeping, here. There are too many things to study--at least, it's a wonderful excuse. So the tiny little spiders that live in corners and around doorways have been hanging out and getting frisky, if you know what I mean--proliferating, replicating, reproducing, multiplying. Whatever makes you happy. It is a well-known fact that crickets eat little spiders (and when I say that, I mean that I made it up and thought it sounded good. Making the hypothesis fit the evidence). And so, as the spider population has exponentially multiplied, so have the crickets. I do kill them whenever I find them--bugs in general do not bother me (reference the spiders) but they sing at night and it irritates me. If one ever breaks into song and dance in my bedroom while I'm trying to sleep, I'm going to get all cytotoxic T-cell on his thorax. Anway. I digress again. When I last left off, I was dashing up the stairs, realizing that those screaming voices were all calling my name.
I pop through the door and, sure enough, mayhem. Steph is wildly waving a textbook as she jumps and screams, Alex is shouting at her to put it down because he paid for it and a $200 book is not for smashing insects, and Danielle is running back and forth, yelling something incomprehensible. Utter chaos.
I smashed the cricket. Took maybe four seconds.
Peace restored. I went to bed.
Yep. Swag.
(Swag being a term Steph keeps using. I don't actually know what it means, but I think it's somewhere around pretty awesome? Before living with Becca, and then in this house, I would never have thought that the ability to rid the world of a 2 cm bug constituted being "swag", but apparently it's a rare commodity. *Shrugs.* I do what I do.)
I'd decided to go to bed. Teeth brushed, fingers run through hair, face scrubbed. I've got my routine, you know, and I like it--mindless and relaxing. Sometimes I'll look down and noticed with pleased surprise that I've just trimmed my nails. When I get into the going-to-bed routine, things just happen, and I accept them thankfully.
Anyway, I digress. I'd just hung the towel back up on the rack when, suddenly, all hell broke loose above my head. It was something like what I imagine would happen if you turned a fleet of baboons loose in an elephant cage--a lot of thundering back and forth, high-pitched shrieking, things hitting walls. When Alex began to scream, I dashed towards the stairs, thinking, "Gotta be a cricket."
We don't do much unnecessary housekeeping, here. There are too many things to study--at least, it's a wonderful excuse. So the tiny little spiders that live in corners and around doorways have been hanging out and getting frisky, if you know what I mean--proliferating, replicating, reproducing, multiplying. Whatever makes you happy. It is a well-known fact that crickets eat little spiders (and when I say that, I mean that I made it up and thought it sounded good. Making the hypothesis fit the evidence). And so, as the spider population has exponentially multiplied, so have the crickets. I do kill them whenever I find them--bugs in general do not bother me (reference the spiders) but they sing at night and it irritates me. If one ever breaks into song and dance in my bedroom while I'm trying to sleep, I'm going to get all cytotoxic T-cell on his thorax. Anway. I digress again. When I last left off, I was dashing up the stairs, realizing that those screaming voices were all calling my name.
I pop through the door and, sure enough, mayhem. Steph is wildly waving a textbook as she jumps and screams, Alex is shouting at her to put it down because he paid for it and a $200 book is not for smashing insects, and Danielle is running back and forth, yelling something incomprehensible. Utter chaos.
I smashed the cricket. Took maybe four seconds.
Peace restored. I went to bed.
Yep. Swag.
(Swag being a term Steph keeps using. I don't actually know what it means, but I think it's somewhere around pretty awesome? Before living with Becca, and then in this house, I would never have thought that the ability to rid the world of a 2 cm bug constituted being "swag", but apparently it's a rare commodity. *Shrugs.* I do what I do.)
Friday, December 9, 2011
Wild catch
I haven't been angry in such a long time. Not truly angry. No rage, no slow burning that flares up into a wildfire without warning. There aren't many things in my life that can set this off--and the ones I know, I take care to avoid. With my temper, it's important.
Why is it happening now? I don't understand.
One of our professors has done a mediocre job, I believe, in presenting his information. His lectures are vague and his powerpoints are the only study material he provides--and they're mostly pictures, a presentation ripped from another school. Even when I take notes, it's difficult to go back and decipher what he intended us to take away--oh, the concepts are clear enough, but the details? So I decided to come to the review this morning instead of studying, hoping rather strongly that it would be useful, and give me a clearer picture of what we're to be tested on in a few days.
It's worthless. Apparently, he's been letting questions pile up in his email, and now he's answering them--even the ones that don't pertain. I listened to his several-minute explanation of an obscure point, only to follow up with, "But you don't need to worry about this. It's not going to show up on the test."
Rage. I was so surprised that I only managed to catch it with the tips of my fingers before it flared up into something uncontrollable.
I don't know why.
Perhaps it is because time is slipping away from me now--and he's wasting it. I'm caught between feeling like I should stay in case something useful happens--but I have to study--I don't know what to do.
I shouldn't be angry over this. I should just...study.
Why is it happening now? I don't understand.
One of our professors has done a mediocre job, I believe, in presenting his information. His lectures are vague and his powerpoints are the only study material he provides--and they're mostly pictures, a presentation ripped from another school. Even when I take notes, it's difficult to go back and decipher what he intended us to take away--oh, the concepts are clear enough, but the details? So I decided to come to the review this morning instead of studying, hoping rather strongly that it would be useful, and give me a clearer picture of what we're to be tested on in a few days.
It's worthless. Apparently, he's been letting questions pile up in his email, and now he's answering them--even the ones that don't pertain. I listened to his several-minute explanation of an obscure point, only to follow up with, "But you don't need to worry about this. It's not going to show up on the test."
Rage. I was so surprised that I only managed to catch it with the tips of my fingers before it flared up into something uncontrollable.
I don't know why.
Perhaps it is because time is slipping away from me now--and he's wasting it. I'm caught between feeling like I should stay in case something useful happens--but I have to study--I don't know what to do.
I shouldn't be angry over this. I should just...study.
Tuesday, December 6, 2011
Catching up
This is just a quick update on my life. I don't have time for anything good, exciting, or creative--actually, I take that back. Here's something I sketched in between Immuno lectures. One out of three, possibly.
Breathing out ghosts, and crunching in leaves
Watching the ice tracing lace on the trees
Seeing light in the dark, cast through windows on snow
Watching the flakes fill up tracks as we go
Rewriting the world that we all thought we knew
Winter softly descends as I stand here with you.
Now that that's out of the way, we've already established I have no time. Also, I am sick. It was just a cold, and then I was getting betterish, and now...worse. No fun, because tomorrow starts my up-at-half-past-four, study every possible spare minute pre-test week marathon. And I've already gone through two boxes of tissues. Somebody, please, shoot me...
On a better and brighter note, for those of you who don't know, I am somebody's girlfriend, quite a wonderful somebody, in my humble opinion, and I have been so for...one month and one day and three hours, seven minutes... Not that I'm counting, of course. But even so. And he brought me these amazing little clementine-like oranges, except they're sweeter...I might get sick more often. Agh, it sounds so unimportant, putting it like that...but he's...important. Very much so. I'm quite pleased. No, that doesn't cover it either. I'm...obviously unable to put into words how much it means to me. I need to sleep, perhaps.
Also, my mother and little sister have discovered skype, and it's wonderful. I can't wait to go home for Christmas.
Goodnight, moon.
Tuesday, November 29, 2011
Want and Need
I don't know how old she was. Late twenties, early thirties. She didn't smile once in the few moments I watched her, and she leaned against the Wal-Mart sign like it was the only thing she trusted in the world to not give out from under her at any moment. My car was stopped only three feet from her scuffed shoes, but she never really looked up.
Then again, neither did I.
I didn't know what to do. I had no money. In situations like this, it's easiest just to ignore the humanity separated from you by a sheet of glass and a lifetime of choices. Some of the choices were yours. Most weren't. She and I were so close, and a continent apart.
Suddenly, I wanted to roll down the window and say hi, break the barrier of silent judgement. I wanted to ask if she was hungry, if I could take her somewhere and feed her. If she had a cat. If she needed a place to stay. What her story was. Maybe just give her my number in case she needed someone to call and had no one else. Perhaps it was a crazy decision--but most of my life has been rational. Too rational. And this felt right.
I should have acted faster. The resolution had just formed when the car horn blared behind me, and I realized that the light was green and I was the target of half a dozen impatient drivers, strung out behind me in an irritated line. I hit the gas without thinking and began to move.
Her eyes darted up at the noise and met mine. There wasn't any mystical connection there--they were just tired eyes. But she was a person, and I drove away from her, and I didn't have to.
I don't know how to explain this, exactly. I didn't want to help her out of a guilt complex, because she has less than I do. I didn't feel like I owed her anything. I just...wanted to. Because she needed it, and because I could. Because I am sick of being focused on myself.
And I drove away. But there will be a next time. It won't be quite the same--different person, different circumstance, different story. Maybe it will be in a library instead of a street corner. Perhaps a coffee shop, or a strange place where I'm not supposed to be.
I hope I'm ready for it.
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