I'm foregoing studying. I quit!.......until morning. I know--I have no backbone. Let's face it, kids, I talk a big game, but the only thing I follow through with is school, bills (most of the time), and listening to music. If I tell you I will check out *insert band or artist here* then I will listen to them. That's all I can guarantee.
I'm listening/semi-watching the Dresden Dolls most recent DVD, Live at the Roundhouse. It has a duet between them and the lead singer of The Red Paintings, Trash McSweeney. Both are revolutionary. I could go on for many days and pages about my love and devotion to the Dresden Dolls and Amanda fucking Palmer (solo), but tonight, I mean to write about the epic-ness of The Red Paintings.
The Red Paintings are a band out of Brisbane, Oz, and will make you laugh, cry and want to touch yourself. Or not really....not the last one, but it sounded good, right? Besides, they might cause that reaction. I don't know about your personal life, loves. Anyway, they successfully mix art, theatrics, costumes and music to create one big amalgam of mind-blowing sensations.
I recommend the Walls EP and Destroy the Robots EP. If you come to fancy those, then dish out the moolah for the LP. All their tracks are for individual sale on their website, which can be found here.
And since I can't keep it in anymore, go listen to "Delilah" by Dresden Dolls. It's amazing-well thought out, well-written, beautiful and simple.
If you're feeling really froggy, then go watch the eight-part video series by Amanda Palmer, lead singer and pianist for the Dresden Dolls. Just follow from this first part on to the second and third and so on.
I'm on a dramatic kick lately, so the next band I choose to blog about will probably be one that wears outrageous costumes and sings about boats and pirates. (I already know who I'm writing about, so I know for a fact that they sing about boats and pirates.) Kudos and a mix cd to anyone that can guess who it is....two words....initials are AP. And, no. It's not Amanda Palmer, who I will from now on abbreviate with AFP.
k
Wednesday, February 25, 2009
Thursday, February 19, 2009
Hopefully this will be a novel one day.
Rita and Fran would make a lovely story. Here's a taste of their friendship. Enjoy and leave con crit only. That means don't be a mean ass.
It had been a tiring day. The rest of the week was going to be hectic, it was only Tuesday, but it would hopefully be a good hectic. Like I-feel-like-I'm-in-a-bubbly-warm-whirlwind hectic.
I'm sure my hair would come out in a better state if I was caught in a whirlwind. For the first time since I was fifteen, I was sent to a professional hairdresser who thought putting multicolored streaks in my blonde hair would look 'edgy.' Because lead singers are supposed to be 'edgy.' Who knew? I guess my bandmates weren't allowed to be edgy. Poor them. They have hair that is not gay friendly. Also, I now have bangs that fall into my face every damn time I move. It's annoying as hell.
"I mean, how is that even a relevant question? 'Does your mother approve of your offensive tattoos?' "
"I don’t know, Fran. Maybe she was jealous of your pinup girl shooting at a man." My hair fell into my face, and I tried to tuck it behind my ear.
"Maybe she didn't appreciate your rad hair. Of course she liked it when you mocked her, who wouldn't, ya know?"
"Shut up, Fran."
"Respect your elder."
"Respect your lead singer."
"I can't respect anyone with hair that's gayer than I am."
"Shut up, Fran."
And all was right again. That's how it went with Fran and I. She was my friend. My accomplice, my sister. We were by blood too, since we both got in a bar fight, with other people, of course, when we were sixteen. It's a much better story than when boys cut their hands and hold them together to become blood brothers. She held her bloody knuckles to my bloody lip and we smiled while standing over the guys we fought.
I was the one that needed to be brought back down to earth most of the time, though. Not because the fame (tiny fame?) had gotten to my head, but because I just got caught up in life and in my head more often than the normal person.
She was the one that needed to take care of everyone because she is our band mother. Unless you count Erik, our manager. He is our band father and is more like a disciplinarian that only cares about making you a better person. 'If you just play some shows where you don't try to use sarcasm with a bunch of kids that won't get it and find it offensive while you find it amusing, I'm just saying that it might be nice to try. Or I could book you at another rich kid's birthday party.'
My bangs fell into my face again and I made a low, growling noise, followed by Fran huffing, grabbing a bobby pin out of the ash tray and tucking my hair out of my face. See? Just like a mommy.
"Hey, Rita?"
"Yeah?"
"Do you hope kids like our new album as much as I do? 'Cause, I'm trying the whole, 'I'm proud of it, so it doesn't matter if anyone else likes it' thing and I still want people to like it."
"I want people to like it too. Like when you make a new friend that you want your old friends to meet, but you get nervous that your old friends won't like them, and they'll get mad at you for it. But, then deep down you know your old friends so well that you know they'll like that new friend. Like…"
"I get it, Rita. Nice analogy, but focus on the traffic, please. You almost side-swiped that blue jeep."
"Yeah, well, yellow jeeps are better."
"Thanks. I miss my yellow jeep."
"Me too. That X-Ray Spex tape you made that got stuck in the tape player was awesome. Hey, do you think bobby pins lying around loose in the car would pose a hazard if we crashed?"
"Probably." She took the other three pins and put them in the glove box.
It had been a tiring day. The rest of the week was going to be hectic, it was only Tuesday, but it would hopefully be a good hectic. Like I-feel-like-I'm-in-a-bubbly-warm-whirlwind hectic.
I'm sure my hair would come out in a better state if I was caught in a whirlwind. For the first time since I was fifteen, I was sent to a professional hairdresser who thought putting multicolored streaks in my blonde hair would look 'edgy.' Because lead singers are supposed to be 'edgy.' Who knew? I guess my bandmates weren't allowed to be edgy. Poor them. They have hair that is not gay friendly. Also, I now have bangs that fall into my face every damn time I move. It's annoying as hell.
"I mean, how is that even a relevant question? 'Does your mother approve of your offensive tattoos?' "
"I don’t know, Fran. Maybe she was jealous of your pinup girl shooting at a man." My hair fell into my face, and I tried to tuck it behind my ear.
"Maybe she didn't appreciate your rad hair. Of course she liked it when you mocked her, who wouldn't, ya know?"
"Shut up, Fran."
"Respect your elder."
"Respect your lead singer."
"I can't respect anyone with hair that's gayer than I am."
"Shut up, Fran."
And all was right again. That's how it went with Fran and I. She was my friend. My accomplice, my sister. We were by blood too, since we both got in a bar fight, with other people, of course, when we were sixteen. It's a much better story than when boys cut their hands and hold them together to become blood brothers. She held her bloody knuckles to my bloody lip and we smiled while standing over the guys we fought.
I was the one that needed to be brought back down to earth most of the time, though. Not because the fame (tiny fame?) had gotten to my head, but because I just got caught up in life and in my head more often than the normal person.
She was the one that needed to take care of everyone because she is our band mother. Unless you count Erik, our manager. He is our band father and is more like a disciplinarian that only cares about making you a better person. 'If you just play some shows where you don't try to use sarcasm with a bunch of kids that won't get it and find it offensive while you find it amusing, I'm just saying that it might be nice to try. Or I could book you at another rich kid's birthday party.'
My bangs fell into my face again and I made a low, growling noise, followed by Fran huffing, grabbing a bobby pin out of the ash tray and tucking my hair out of my face. See? Just like a mommy.
"Hey, Rita?"
"Yeah?"
"Do you hope kids like our new album as much as I do? 'Cause, I'm trying the whole, 'I'm proud of it, so it doesn't matter if anyone else likes it' thing and I still want people to like it."
"I want people to like it too. Like when you make a new friend that you want your old friends to meet, but you get nervous that your old friends won't like them, and they'll get mad at you for it. But, then deep down you know your old friends so well that you know they'll like that new friend. Like…"
"I get it, Rita. Nice analogy, but focus on the traffic, please. You almost side-swiped that blue jeep."
"Yeah, well, yellow jeeps are better."
"Thanks. I miss my yellow jeep."
"Me too. That X-Ray Spex tape you made that got stuck in the tape player was awesome. Hey, do you think bobby pins lying around loose in the car would pose a hazard if we crashed?"
"Probably." She took the other three pins and put them in the glove box.
Tuesday, February 10, 2009
I miss the magic
I've been trying to finish up the fourth chapter in one of my stories, but the characters are just not cooperating. They suck at life right now, and I think I'm forcing it. I'm not sure how I want to get to the next integral part of the story. I'm not studying like I should be. Studying be damned. I hate academia. On Thursday, I could very well die a scholastic death and be done with it.
Probably not that extreme, but it will probably be bad. I need so much to have a break. Hopefully that will come in the form of Jason and V-day this weekend. Some red wine and lovin' couldn't hurt. Heh.
I'm tired. I just thought it was time to come back to this blog and post something. Maybe next time it will have more depth and less whining. And maybe a character development scene. Who knows.
k
Probably not that extreme, but it will probably be bad. I need so much to have a break. Hopefully that will come in the form of Jason and V-day this weekend. Some red wine and lovin' couldn't hurt. Heh.
I'm tired. I just thought it was time to come back to this blog and post something. Maybe next time it will have more depth and less whining. And maybe a character development scene. Who knows.
k
Wednesday, January 2, 2008
I've realized some things.
First of all, it's 2008 now. Wow. A whole 'nother year gone by. This year has been a lot of things for me. It's been exciting and wonderful, love-filled, tiring, terrifying, fulfilling, and many other words that don't mean a damn thing to anyone but me. That's why I'm writing this blog for me and no one else. I've started to do a lot of things for me and no one else. My writing, for example, has gotten to be a hell of a lot more honest than it's ever been before. Which is odd, considering the protagonist's point of view in which I'm writing is just about as opposite me as she can get. (I am also watching the Fiesta Bowl right now, and to the people that were all "WVU's gonna lose, blah, blah, lalalala..." IN YOUR FACES! WE ARE WINNING 41 TO 28 RIGHT NOW IN THE 4TH YOU JERKS!) I just bled on my computer. Having to check your blood sugar is such a bother when you already know it's low and need to eat something. (Sixty-five yard touchdown by Devine. How amazing. I'm basking in the glow from Arizona.) But, now my finger won't stop bleeding, so my 's' key is a little red.
I've just realized that I get to vote in the presidential election this year for the first time. I guess I need to pay more attention to the candidates now. I think Hillary Clinton is an evil robot. She just freaks me out. I'm a democrat, but I really don't like her. So, I guess I have successfully ruled out one candidate. (I love Schmitt, but his pseudo-hawk is ugly.)
I predict for 2008 that I will have a great year. I will continue to accept that I am drifting and do not know how my life will turn out. I will continue to be okay with that. I will make myself live it the best way I know how and I will kick school in the ass. I will be able to play some song really well on the guitar by this time next year. I will fall more in love with Jason even though that isn't hard for me to do. I fell hard for him from day one, and I never really stopped falling. I will be healthy and hopefully not have to take so many pills. I will FINISH a story. Short stories don't count. I will love and try to be a better person. Sometimes I hate who I am, and I want to make myself someone of whom I can be proud. And I WILL get my phoenix tattoo sometime this year. Maybe I'll get married. Who knows?
I got to see all of the fearsome foursome together today all at once. Even though we had to fight kids and babies and a dog and snow to do it. I hadn't seen Emily since Thanksgiving (wow, I didn't realize how long it had been), and that was awesome. I found someone that shares my love for Rambo movies, and she also happens to be the same one that shares my love for Rocky movies. I love my Babe. She's one of the people that help me to hold on daily, and she'll never notice or accept it.
Well, my lethargy is winning out, and the ball game has 1:56 left on the clock. I'm happy for my team. They couldn't beat Pitt (grrrr), and Rodriguez is an asshole, but they won tonight. Ahh, the simple pleasures of football. I am wrapped in my electric blanket, I took my four pills of the night, and I'm off to chemically-induced la-la land. Goodnight and merry new year. Life is good.
--Madame Twitch
I've just realized that I get to vote in the presidential election this year for the first time. I guess I need to pay more attention to the candidates now. I think Hillary Clinton is an evil robot. She just freaks me out. I'm a democrat, but I really don't like her. So, I guess I have successfully ruled out one candidate. (I love Schmitt, but his pseudo-hawk is ugly.)
I predict for 2008 that I will have a great year. I will continue to accept that I am drifting and do not know how my life will turn out. I will continue to be okay with that. I will make myself live it the best way I know how and I will kick school in the ass. I will be able to play some song really well on the guitar by this time next year. I will fall more in love with Jason even though that isn't hard for me to do. I fell hard for him from day one, and I never really stopped falling. I will be healthy and hopefully not have to take so many pills. I will FINISH a story. Short stories don't count. I will love and try to be a better person. Sometimes I hate who I am, and I want to make myself someone of whom I can be proud. And I WILL get my phoenix tattoo sometime this year. Maybe I'll get married. Who knows?
I got to see all of the fearsome foursome together today all at once. Even though we had to fight kids and babies and a dog and snow to do it. I hadn't seen Emily since Thanksgiving (wow, I didn't realize how long it had been), and that was awesome. I found someone that shares my love for Rambo movies, and she also happens to be the same one that shares my love for Rocky movies. I love my Babe. She's one of the people that help me to hold on daily, and she'll never notice or accept it.
Well, my lethargy is winning out, and the ball game has 1:56 left on the clock. I'm happy for my team. They couldn't beat Pitt (grrrr), and Rodriguez is an asshole, but they won tonight. Ahh, the simple pleasures of football. I am wrapped in my electric blanket, I took my four pills of the night, and I'm off to chemically-induced la-la land. Goodnight and merry new year. Life is good.
--Madame Twitch
Wednesday, December 5, 2007
High Stress, High Thoughts...
The word of the week: existentialism. Okay, I know that it's part of the name of a Straylight Run song, and not much more to most people my age, or at least not consciously, but after reading the play Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are Dead last week, the wheels in my head started cranking. If you haven't read it, it's a play from the Theatre of the Absurd, and follows along with Hamlet. Me? Not a big fan of Shakespeare....I know, I know. Please don't throw vegetables and other rank objects that will go splat and be generally messy. Call me cynical or sour or what have you, but I hate the whole premise of Romeo and Juliet. One cannot fall in love in a day. It's too unreal to think that a love that strong can grow in such a short amount of time. That's the exact reason that I hate Nicholas Sparks' novels....the notion of unattainable love. I am a hopeless romantic. The candles/tell me sweet things/love me forever/chivalrous et cetera type romance. Not the whole 'In the face of unsurmountable obstacles, they found a way to stay together and have hot, steamy sex everyday, and then something happened and they both died from heartache' love. I see a clear difference, but not many others do....whatever. Wow, quite the little invective, yeah?
Back to my original point, the Theatre of the Absurd is all about dropping characters into situations that are unfamiliar with little to no memory of who or what they are. They have to search within themselves to figure out what their purpose is, what they're meant to do in life. I can relate. I am striving to become a radiographer. But, I don't want to be defined by that. I don't really want to be defined by anything, but it's human nature to label and compartmentalize. If it's not able to be classified, then no one knows what to make of it. Rosencrantz and Guildenstern end up dead in Hamlet, as they do in Ros and Guil are Dead (like my abbreviations?), but they spend a lot of time using word games and misinterpretations to figure things out. Poor Ros gets reprimanded by Guil pretty regularly just for being himself, or figuring out how to be himself as the case may be, but both end up being okay with their fates. Which was frustrating to me. Being beheaded for transporting someone that is clever and misleading is not 'okay.' But if Hamlet was just executed when he's sent to London, I suppose there wouldn't be much of a storyline. I find Hamlet to be whiny, by the way. We covered the whole 'Shakespeare and I don't get along' thing, right? Oh, The Tempest....definitely a funny play, though. Not a damn clue about it, but intriguing nonetheless.
I just want to be multifaceted and hard to nail down when labeling. I have this (unrational?) fear of only doing one thing for the rest of my life. I also don't want to throw away my education when I decide to leave radiology in search of something new. If it was possible to get three majors in only four years, then I would definitely be an English/radiology/business major, but I barely have time to major in radiology with an English minor.
So, the question lingers--For what am I here? The age-old question of man. I don't know, maybe we're just supposed to make the best of what we get, but when we are able to dictate for what we are prepared, who really knows what it is they want to or are capable or reaching? Does anyone? I'm just tired of driving towards one goal, which takes up all of my time, while desperately wishing for time to fulfill other objectives to get to others goals. Like owning a record store. Or simply being a good influence on or mentor to kids (little intelligent mischievious nerdy heathens) like I was. I still need a mentor or someone to keep me from spinning off into oblivion, so that last one might take awhile. Like any of the others will not take awhile.
"Each exit is just an entrance to somewhere else."
Have a delicious breakfast in the morning!
--Madame Twitch
P.S. Listen to Against Me! New Wave is spectacular and capable of multiple, intensely explosive eargasms. Trust me. I'm all about musically-induced eargasms. They're awesome and stuff. Also, the song "Stop" goes along nicely with the theme of this post.
Back to my original point, the Theatre of the Absurd is all about dropping characters into situations that are unfamiliar with little to no memory of who or what they are. They have to search within themselves to figure out what their purpose is, what they're meant to do in life. I can relate. I am striving to become a radiographer. But, I don't want to be defined by that. I don't really want to be defined by anything, but it's human nature to label and compartmentalize. If it's not able to be classified, then no one knows what to make of it. Rosencrantz and Guildenstern end up dead in Hamlet, as they do in Ros and Guil are Dead (like my abbreviations?), but they spend a lot of time using word games and misinterpretations to figure things out. Poor Ros gets reprimanded by Guil pretty regularly just for being himself, or figuring out how to be himself as the case may be, but both end up being okay with their fates. Which was frustrating to me. Being beheaded for transporting someone that is clever and misleading is not 'okay.' But if Hamlet was just executed when he's sent to London, I suppose there wouldn't be much of a storyline. I find Hamlet to be whiny, by the way. We covered the whole 'Shakespeare and I don't get along' thing, right? Oh, The Tempest....definitely a funny play, though. Not a damn clue about it, but intriguing nonetheless.
I just want to be multifaceted and hard to nail down when labeling. I have this (unrational?) fear of only doing one thing for the rest of my life. I also don't want to throw away my education when I decide to leave radiology in search of something new. If it was possible to get three majors in only four years, then I would definitely be an English/radiology/business major, but I barely have time to major in radiology with an English minor.
So, the question lingers--For what am I here? The age-old question of man. I don't know, maybe we're just supposed to make the best of what we get, but when we are able to dictate for what we are prepared, who really knows what it is they want to or are capable or reaching? Does anyone? I'm just tired of driving towards one goal, which takes up all of my time, while desperately wishing for time to fulfill other objectives to get to others goals. Like owning a record store. Or simply being a good influence on or mentor to kids (little intelligent mischievious nerdy heathens) like I was. I still need a mentor or someone to keep me from spinning off into oblivion, so that last one might take awhile. Like any of the others will not take awhile.
"Each exit is just an entrance to somewhere else."
Have a delicious breakfast in the morning!
--Madame Twitch
P.S. Listen to Against Me! New Wave is spectacular and capable of multiple, intensely explosive eargasms. Trust me. I'm all about musically-induced eargasms. They're awesome and stuff. Also, the song "Stop" goes along nicely with the theme of this post.
The Decline of Family: An Observation
Open scene: A family of four enter a well-known fast food chain restaurant at six in the evening. The mother is on her cell phone discussing orthodontia for one of her children. The father is perusing the menu choices, ignoring his son's pleas for a "fish fillet." Pronounced the same way a certain Jimmy Buffet pronounces his last name. The mother is now raising her voice about the fact that her son needs braces very badly. "His teeth are as crooked as that Anna Nicole Smith!" Of course, not everyone is able to put down a dead celebrity. She is significantly wittier than most.
The father orders a number seven with regular fries instead of curly ones, and as he is preoccupied watching a rather young brunette that just entered the restaurant, he repeats his son's order to the letter. One "fish fillet," please. The teenaged cashier rolls her eyes and nods. No wonder no one can read correctly anymore. The mother is still on her phone, now speaking to the same poor person about her younger daughter's need for a pediatrician. The father turns to the mother and says, "What do you want?" in a less than friendly manner. She waves at him dismissively, murmuring something to the effect of, "I don't care. I'm not hungry." The man sighs and orders a regular roast beef and a Pepsi.
In the midst of their distractions, they forget to order anything for the young girl that is standing in the back and not making a peep. A future therapy case in the works, I'm sure. The woman, in the middle of a rant about "those quacks that touch children," turns around and gasps. "Greg, you didn't order anything for Clara, you idiot!" This is returned by a hasty, "Don't talk to me like that, Sara!" The little girl is still quiet. The father turns back to the stunned cashier and says, "I'll take a happy meal." He ignores the cashier, who informs him that they don't have happy meals, to watch the young brunette that was in line behind them. "Sir! We don't have happy meals here." "Fine, chicken tenders will work. And a diet pepsi." I guess he only allows his family to have pepsi products.
"Your total is $15.47." The girl skips over the ordinary, "Is that all for you today?" I don't blame her. He hands her some cash and receives his change, all the while sneaking glances over at his dark-headed eye candy. The brunette doesn't notice. She's watching the resident bad-boy at the deep-fryer. You know, tattoos, a couple piercings, a permanent scowl. Embodiment of a 'lifer' at this place--works there for his lifetime. Typical.
Back with our award-winning family, they have received their food and are now clamoring their way to a booth. The boy runs to the bathroom, his parents not batting an eye about it. Not that they really noticed anything around them through the whole eight minutes since they arrived. The little girl grabs her box of chicken tenders and begins to munch quietly on the end of one. The mother is still on her phone; "Sheila's boy got braces when he was nine. Brandon is ten." Notice that "Brandon" has not returned from the bathroom yet.
The father's phone rings, "Pour some sugar on me…" and he answers with a boisterous "Hey, man! What have you been up to?" The little girl has now stopped eating and is just sitting and staring at the table. "Yeah! I'd love to come to a poker night later." "He is just a little ball of energy lately. I can't shut him up for anything, not even his Xbox keeps him still anymore." The boy has still not returned. Miraculously, both hang up their cell phones at the same time. A few seconds pass before the mother looks around and notices that their party of four is now a party of three. "Greg, where's Brandon?" "I thought you were watching him." Back to his sandwich. The woman huffs and looks at her food. "I'm not hungry." "You never eat when we go eat, but you huff and moan about us not eating together. I have to eat when you do, but you never do when I want to. Here we are at a nice sit-down restaurant," which I remind you is part of a well-known chain of fast food joints, "and you are not eating again." A fight ensues quickly thereafter. The little girl is still staring at her half-eaten chicken tender.
The boy runs back to the table, but his arrival is not noticed by either of his parents, for they are still bickering over petty eating habits. The boy runs off once again in search of napkins and straws, which he announces quite loudly to the whole restaurant. His parents take no notice, again. The little girl picks up another chicken tender and proceeds to nibble on a new one. No one has opened her ketchup for her yet, either. She doesn't complain. The boy returns, once again, this time bearing a handful of napkins and straws each, and throws them in the middle of the table. "Brandon! Settle down, boy! You know better than that!" Obviously not. The little girl ceases nibbling and puts her chicken tender back down after two bites. "Clara, eat your dinner. I don't want you to be like your mother." Another bicker-fest proceeds.
The little boy continues to eat his and his sister's food. He is quite plump and she is quite tiny. I wonder why. The happy family finishes and throws their trash and the mother's extra food in the trash and noisily makes their way to the door. A faint voice can be heard from behind the first three. "I'm still hungry." No one notices. They file out and into their mini-van. The father puts the girl in a child seat while the mother answers her cell phone yet again. The little boy jumps over his sister and makes her scream by kicking her mid-jump. Again, no one notices. The van is put in reverse and the scene goes black.
The father orders a number seven with regular fries instead of curly ones, and as he is preoccupied watching a rather young brunette that just entered the restaurant, he repeats his son's order to the letter. One "fish fillet," please. The teenaged cashier rolls her eyes and nods. No wonder no one can read correctly anymore. The mother is still on her phone, now speaking to the same poor person about her younger daughter's need for a pediatrician. The father turns to the mother and says, "What do you want?" in a less than friendly manner. She waves at him dismissively, murmuring something to the effect of, "I don't care. I'm not hungry." The man sighs and orders a regular roast beef and a Pepsi.
In the midst of their distractions, they forget to order anything for the young girl that is standing in the back and not making a peep. A future therapy case in the works, I'm sure. The woman, in the middle of a rant about "those quacks that touch children," turns around and gasps. "Greg, you didn't order anything for Clara, you idiot!" This is returned by a hasty, "Don't talk to me like that, Sara!" The little girl is still quiet. The father turns back to the stunned cashier and says, "I'll take a happy meal." He ignores the cashier, who informs him that they don't have happy meals, to watch the young brunette that was in line behind them. "Sir! We don't have happy meals here." "Fine, chicken tenders will work. And a diet pepsi." I guess he only allows his family to have pepsi products.
"Your total is $15.47." The girl skips over the ordinary, "Is that all for you today?" I don't blame her. He hands her some cash and receives his change, all the while sneaking glances over at his dark-headed eye candy. The brunette doesn't notice. She's watching the resident bad-boy at the deep-fryer. You know, tattoos, a couple piercings, a permanent scowl. Embodiment of a 'lifer' at this place--works there for his lifetime. Typical.
Back with our award-winning family, they have received their food and are now clamoring their way to a booth. The boy runs to the bathroom, his parents not batting an eye about it. Not that they really noticed anything around them through the whole eight minutes since they arrived. The little girl grabs her box of chicken tenders and begins to munch quietly on the end of one. The mother is still on her phone; "Sheila's boy got braces when he was nine. Brandon is ten." Notice that "Brandon" has not returned from the bathroom yet.
The father's phone rings, "Pour some sugar on me…" and he answers with a boisterous "Hey, man! What have you been up to?" The little girl has now stopped eating and is just sitting and staring at the table. "Yeah! I'd love to come to a poker night later." "He is just a little ball of energy lately. I can't shut him up for anything, not even his Xbox keeps him still anymore." The boy has still not returned. Miraculously, both hang up their cell phones at the same time. A few seconds pass before the mother looks around and notices that their party of four is now a party of three. "Greg, where's Brandon?" "I thought you were watching him." Back to his sandwich. The woman huffs and looks at her food. "I'm not hungry." "You never eat when we go eat, but you huff and moan about us not eating together. I have to eat when you do, but you never do when I want to. Here we are at a nice sit-down restaurant," which I remind you is part of a well-known chain of fast food joints, "and you are not eating again." A fight ensues quickly thereafter. The little girl is still staring at her half-eaten chicken tender.
The boy runs back to the table, but his arrival is not noticed by either of his parents, for they are still bickering over petty eating habits. The boy runs off once again in search of napkins and straws, which he announces quite loudly to the whole restaurant. His parents take no notice, again. The little girl picks up another chicken tender and proceeds to nibble on a new one. No one has opened her ketchup for her yet, either. She doesn't complain. The boy returns, once again, this time bearing a handful of napkins and straws each, and throws them in the middle of the table. "Brandon! Settle down, boy! You know better than that!" Obviously not. The little girl ceases nibbling and puts her chicken tender back down after two bites. "Clara, eat your dinner. I don't want you to be like your mother." Another bicker-fest proceeds.
The little boy continues to eat his and his sister's food. He is quite plump and she is quite tiny. I wonder why. The happy family finishes and throws their trash and the mother's extra food in the trash and noisily makes their way to the door. A faint voice can be heard from behind the first three. "I'm still hungry." No one notices. They file out and into their mini-van. The father puts the girl in a child seat while the mother answers her cell phone yet again. The little boy jumps over his sister and makes her scream by kicking her mid-jump. Again, no one notices. The van is put in reverse and the scene goes black.
Cycles: A Short Story
I was watching her peripherally while we sat beside each other on the river bank. The water was rushing quickly, pulling our feet to the left and rubbing our cuffed pant legs on the clay and mud that formed our earthy seats. She was scanning the water for fish and other aquatic creatures that could thrive in freshwater.
I adored her for the innocence that she held. No one understood her like I did. The only ones that did understand her, barring me, were Mother Nature's creations. The trees swayed toward her when she passed. Angry and scared strays of all shapes and sizes would nuzzle their snouts on her legs during our daily jaunts down the street. She could catch skittish woodland creatures with ease. Her best friend was a sugar glider that was originally scheduled to die because it got involved in a fight with another sugar glider and lost. It was missing most of its fingers and toes. I wanted to name it Stumpy. She named it Champ.
The best part is that her little nine-year-old heart wasn't being facetious or ill-mannered in the least. She truly thought that he was a champion. He survived, and that made him extraordinary in her gleeful, young eyes. Champ spent most of his latent days clamped onto her shoulder to see a slightly taller world than he was used to. His handicaps left him with limited gliding abilities, which just showed how amazing he really was when he didn't give up life. It was a firm belief of the little girl's that animals could have the same emotions as humans.
A rainbow trout glided between river grasses and weeds, coming to a halt at her toes. Her toes were waving in the current gracefully, like a willow tree undulating and tickling the wind with its long, leaf-lined fingertips. The trout watched her toes in a trance, its mouth opening and closing, a trait I have never understood.
"When it opens its mouth, water goes in, and when its closes its mouth, water passes through the gills and oxygen is picked up and sent into the blood." She reads my mind sometimes. Intuition is what our mother calls it. I think it’s a sensitive sense of perception. There might not be a difference there, but I think there is. Either way, it's likely that she could pass a high-school freshman biology class as a fourth-grader. The kid gets giddy at the thought of nature books and manuals.
She smiled and wiggled her toes a bit, actually bringing the fish closer. If she could ever bring herself to hurt another living organism, she would be one hell of a fisherman. The fish would flock to her and all she would have to do is sit in a boat and be a buoy. She giggled airily as the fish's fins tickled the bottoms of her feet, in turn bringing a smile to my face. There are no laugh lines etched into my face from an overabundance of happiness, but when she's around, I find it easier to feel simple joy. She's a reminder of the things that are decent in the world. Innocence isn't completely lost, and that gives me hope.
The breeze found its way across the freckles on her nose brought out by the summer sun, her auburn waves swaying as if her head was underwater instead of her feet. The elegance and grace for which models would kill was instilled the tiny body sitting to my left. The one that would rather build a fence around a dandelion to protect it from stomping shoes rather than pick it and let it die. The girl was already a vegetarian.
She made me seem like an ogre in comparison, with my meat-eating and weed-crushing ways. Most people paled in contrast to her, though, when standing beside such a tender spirit. It was sad to think that she could become a self-conscious, boy-crazy teen in the coming years. She had such an old soul with naïve eyes as windows of which to peek. A rarely-seen combination. One that resulted in wisdom and maturity. Age didn't matter at all.
The fish swam away, turning its body back once, as if to say a bittersweet goodbye. I picked a daisy that was growing in the grass beside me and placed it in her hair behind her ear. She frowned and pulled it out, twirling it by the stem between her fingers.
"Its life span was already short." She let it plop in the river, even managing to give poise to throwing flowers. "Now, something will eat it and it will turn into fuel."
"It's a cycle, babe. Everything has a cycle."
"Even love."
I looked ahead at the rippling water, eventually closing my eyes and feeling a brush of rough fingertips on my arms. A touch that lingered, lousy with memories. Or maybe it was just the wafting breeze.
I could smell something sweet and familiar. Or maybe it was the honeysuckle reaching around a tree nearby.
I could hear a whisper right against my ear. Or maybe it was the rustling of the leaves in the trees bending to be closer to my pint-sized companion. She was, after all, like the sun. She was warm and possessed a gravity that pulled creatures, both human and animal, towards her. A dragonfly marked in turquoise and bright blue skidded across the surface of the water and flew a ring around her head. The perfect halo for such a girl.
"You're right. Love has a cycle, just like life."
"It pulls you in."
"Just like you do."
"I don't pull. I let things come."
"That doesn't always work."
"It only does when it needs to." She reached out and caught a maple leaf that was flying through the air, handing it to me by the stem. I spun it between my fingers, imitating her with the daisy. I dropped it in the water as well and watched it as is floated away. "Only when it needs to."
I adored her for the innocence that she held. No one understood her like I did. The only ones that did understand her, barring me, were Mother Nature's creations. The trees swayed toward her when she passed. Angry and scared strays of all shapes and sizes would nuzzle their snouts on her legs during our daily jaunts down the street. She could catch skittish woodland creatures with ease. Her best friend was a sugar glider that was originally scheduled to die because it got involved in a fight with another sugar glider and lost. It was missing most of its fingers and toes. I wanted to name it Stumpy. She named it Champ.
The best part is that her little nine-year-old heart wasn't being facetious or ill-mannered in the least. She truly thought that he was a champion. He survived, and that made him extraordinary in her gleeful, young eyes. Champ spent most of his latent days clamped onto her shoulder to see a slightly taller world than he was used to. His handicaps left him with limited gliding abilities, which just showed how amazing he really was when he didn't give up life. It was a firm belief of the little girl's that animals could have the same emotions as humans.
A rainbow trout glided between river grasses and weeds, coming to a halt at her toes. Her toes were waving in the current gracefully, like a willow tree undulating and tickling the wind with its long, leaf-lined fingertips. The trout watched her toes in a trance, its mouth opening and closing, a trait I have never understood.
"When it opens its mouth, water goes in, and when its closes its mouth, water passes through the gills and oxygen is picked up and sent into the blood." She reads my mind sometimes. Intuition is what our mother calls it. I think it’s a sensitive sense of perception. There might not be a difference there, but I think there is. Either way, it's likely that she could pass a high-school freshman biology class as a fourth-grader. The kid gets giddy at the thought of nature books and manuals.
She smiled and wiggled her toes a bit, actually bringing the fish closer. If she could ever bring herself to hurt another living organism, she would be one hell of a fisherman. The fish would flock to her and all she would have to do is sit in a boat and be a buoy. She giggled airily as the fish's fins tickled the bottoms of her feet, in turn bringing a smile to my face. There are no laugh lines etched into my face from an overabundance of happiness, but when she's around, I find it easier to feel simple joy. She's a reminder of the things that are decent in the world. Innocence isn't completely lost, and that gives me hope.
The breeze found its way across the freckles on her nose brought out by the summer sun, her auburn waves swaying as if her head was underwater instead of her feet. The elegance and grace for which models would kill was instilled the tiny body sitting to my left. The one that would rather build a fence around a dandelion to protect it from stomping shoes rather than pick it and let it die. The girl was already a vegetarian.
She made me seem like an ogre in comparison, with my meat-eating and weed-crushing ways. Most people paled in contrast to her, though, when standing beside such a tender spirit. It was sad to think that she could become a self-conscious, boy-crazy teen in the coming years. She had such an old soul with naïve eyes as windows of which to peek. A rarely-seen combination. One that resulted in wisdom and maturity. Age didn't matter at all.
The fish swam away, turning its body back once, as if to say a bittersweet goodbye. I picked a daisy that was growing in the grass beside me and placed it in her hair behind her ear. She frowned and pulled it out, twirling it by the stem between her fingers.
"Its life span was already short." She let it plop in the river, even managing to give poise to throwing flowers. "Now, something will eat it and it will turn into fuel."
"It's a cycle, babe. Everything has a cycle."
"Even love."
I looked ahead at the rippling water, eventually closing my eyes and feeling a brush of rough fingertips on my arms. A touch that lingered, lousy with memories. Or maybe it was just the wafting breeze.
I could smell something sweet and familiar. Or maybe it was the honeysuckle reaching around a tree nearby.
I could hear a whisper right against my ear. Or maybe it was the rustling of the leaves in the trees bending to be closer to my pint-sized companion. She was, after all, like the sun. She was warm and possessed a gravity that pulled creatures, both human and animal, towards her. A dragonfly marked in turquoise and bright blue skidded across the surface of the water and flew a ring around her head. The perfect halo for such a girl.
"You're right. Love has a cycle, just like life."
"It pulls you in."
"Just like you do."
"I don't pull. I let things come."
"That doesn't always work."
"It only does when it needs to." She reached out and caught a maple leaf that was flying through the air, handing it to me by the stem. I spun it between my fingers, imitating her with the daisy. I dropped it in the water as well and watched it as is floated away. "Only when it needs to."
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