Tuesday, July 13, 2010
Saturday, April 24, 2010
to be continued....
i will start posting stuff when summer hits.......i'm really sorry everything has just been completely hectic.
and my legs feel like cannons right now b.c lizzy orr and just finished the half-marathon. bleh.
sorry about the inconsistency!
and my legs feel like cannons right now b.c lizzy orr and just finished the half-marathon. bleh.
sorry about the inconsistency!
Friday, March 26, 2010
regrets
my biggest regret about being 17.....
being born the same year as Miley Cyrus.
i can handle party in the u.s.a.
but not anything else.
being born the same year as Miley Cyrus.
i can handle party in the u.s.a.
but not anything else.
Monday, March 22, 2010
some fresh material....kind of
this is a short story I wrote about four months ago.....it is mediocre because it was written for English class. The assignment was to pull an object out of a bag and write a short story about it. I picked a small antique red bracelet. The names in the story don't reflect the actual people who have these names. I think we were in the hype and final stages of wedding plans so the two names just came to mind. enjoy if you can....sorry it's not a thought-provoking political piece.
“A Red Bracelet”
Horns blared, men shouted, women with orange faces strutted down the sidewalk calling their nannies to say, “My facial and massage ran over, I’m going to need you to go watch Charlie’s school play.” Sinful. Loud. Uncontrolled. The cacophony of New York- I was going to raise my child in this.
Growing up as an only child, I had known nothing about babies. I still know nothing about babies. So how, with all these distractions, was I- me, the man who swore never to have children- going to raise this child? Bitterness would fill my head as I would recollect the moment when Olivia told me she was pregnant. Her eyes were big and bright and bluer than usual. I thought she was going to tell me she had received a promotion at work. Boy, was I ever wrong.
“Andrew, I have some news. Some wonderful, wonderful news.”
A pause.
“Well go on, say it! You’ve got me on pins and needles!”
Sarcasm. I was full of it.
“We’re going to have to paint the spare room.”
Bewilderment.
“What do you mean by that?”
Another pause.
“It will have to be blue or pink.”
My color started to rise. Through clenched teeth,
“Why’s that?”
The dreaded words were completely drowned out except for two syllables: father.
I haven’t looked at my wife since that conversation. I’ve seen her, but I haven’t looked at her. And I hate my self everyday for it. I go to work thinking of her sea-blue eyes and miss her dreadfully. I remember the first time I ever saw those eyes. We were sophomores at NYU. I was an arrogant idiot and she was beautiful. She could have made the hubbub of New York stand still. Our Art History class was taking a small field trip to Central Park to contemplate the dynamics of nature, but I was only thinking of asking her out to dinner. So inched up behind her and said quietly, “My friend’s father owns this upscale restaurant up in Manhattan. Reservations are impossible and it would cost me a fortune, but I think I could squeeze you in. Would you like to go?”
She gazed at me with those eyes and said softly, “With who?”
“With me…”
“Oh, well I guess I could squeeze you in.”
A slap in the face. Exactly what I needed. I was in love.
We had dinner and my love grew. I knew I wanted to marry her within ten minutes. After she was done with her meal, she rested her hands on the table and I noticed a vintage, rose red bracelet around her left hand. It was the only piece of jewelry she was wearing. I asked where she got it. “It was my mother’s,” she replied, “My father gave it to her before the war and said, ‘That bracelet is as red as my heart, the heart that belongs to you.’ Only slightly romantic, but my mother loved it and wore it till she died. Then she gave it to me and I’m going to give it to the man who steals my heart.”
I received that bracelet exactly one year later. Even when we fought, I carried that bracelet as close to my heart as possible. But, for the past nine months, that precious red bracelet has resided in a desk drawer. Olivia’s heart resided in my desk drawer, collecting dust and sliding deeper and deeper into it’s dark corners.
Whenever I went home, all I saw was her swollen belly. Sometimes, when she thought I was asleep, I would hear her cry. I would hear her sob tears of remorse, whispering and harboring all the blame of my distance on herself. But never-not once- on the baby. I could not bring myself to comfort her. I hated myself. I loathed every moment of my existence. What I didn’t want to admit is that I loathed the baby. Every inch it grew drove miles between Olivia and me.
But that was yesterday, I thought as I sprinted through the dense crowd. I got the call at around 4 p.m. and at 4:30 I was halfway there. The time seemed to be ticking faster and the crowd seemed to be dawdling more than usual. I blazed through as fast as my overpriced loafers would carry me, clutching a crinkled brown bag to my chest, close to my heart. I was on my way to the hospital where I was going to be a…
My mind wasn’t working straight.
I sprinted through the ward doors, shoving the sleeves of a gown up my arms without stopping. Sounds of screaming women surrounded me and made me feel nauseous. I approached delivery room 433 and stopped for the first time since I had received the call. My hand quivered on the door handle and I heard yells within. I have abandoned her the past nine months, I thought to myself, I won’t let myself do that today, and I pushed the door open.
Three hours later, I sat on the edge of Olivia’s bed staring at the bundle of pink blankets in her arms. I wasn’t blinking and I don’t think I was breathing either. Olivia gazed at me, her eyes bluer than I’ve ever seen them, and whispered, “You have a daughter.” I reached for her hand and she willingly gave it. I think she had been ready to give it for the past nine months.
We sat there, in silence, for what seemed like forever. I finally pulled my hand away and reached into my inside jacket pocket and pulled out the red bracelet and clutched it to my heart. I pulled the crinkled brown bag out of my pocket and retrieved its contents: a small red bracelet, sized for only the smallest of wrists, and slipped it onto the right hand of my daughter. And she stared at me, for the first time, with big sea-blue eyes. I grabbed Olivia’s hand and I don’t know when or if I ever let go.
“A Red Bracelet”
Horns blared, men shouted, women with orange faces strutted down the sidewalk calling their nannies to say, “My facial and massage ran over, I’m going to need you to go watch Charlie’s school play.” Sinful. Loud. Uncontrolled. The cacophony of New York- I was going to raise my child in this.
Growing up as an only child, I had known nothing about babies. I still know nothing about babies. So how, with all these distractions, was I- me, the man who swore never to have children- going to raise this child? Bitterness would fill my head as I would recollect the moment when Olivia told me she was pregnant. Her eyes were big and bright and bluer than usual. I thought she was going to tell me she had received a promotion at work. Boy, was I ever wrong.
“Andrew, I have some news. Some wonderful, wonderful news.”
A pause.
“Well go on, say it! You’ve got me on pins and needles!”
Sarcasm. I was full of it.
“We’re going to have to paint the spare room.”
Bewilderment.
“What do you mean by that?”
Another pause.
“It will have to be blue or pink.”
My color started to rise. Through clenched teeth,
“Why’s that?”
The dreaded words were completely drowned out except for two syllables: father.
I haven’t looked at my wife since that conversation. I’ve seen her, but I haven’t looked at her. And I hate my self everyday for it. I go to work thinking of her sea-blue eyes and miss her dreadfully. I remember the first time I ever saw those eyes. We were sophomores at NYU. I was an arrogant idiot and she was beautiful. She could have made the hubbub of New York stand still. Our Art History class was taking a small field trip to Central Park to contemplate the dynamics of nature, but I was only thinking of asking her out to dinner. So inched up behind her and said quietly, “My friend’s father owns this upscale restaurant up in Manhattan. Reservations are impossible and it would cost me a fortune, but I think I could squeeze you in. Would you like to go?”
She gazed at me with those eyes and said softly, “With who?”
“With me…”
“Oh, well I guess I could squeeze you in.”
A slap in the face. Exactly what I needed. I was in love.
We had dinner and my love grew. I knew I wanted to marry her within ten minutes. After she was done with her meal, she rested her hands on the table and I noticed a vintage, rose red bracelet around her left hand. It was the only piece of jewelry she was wearing. I asked where she got it. “It was my mother’s,” she replied, “My father gave it to her before the war and said, ‘That bracelet is as red as my heart, the heart that belongs to you.’ Only slightly romantic, but my mother loved it and wore it till she died. Then she gave it to me and I’m going to give it to the man who steals my heart.”
I received that bracelet exactly one year later. Even when we fought, I carried that bracelet as close to my heart as possible. But, for the past nine months, that precious red bracelet has resided in a desk drawer. Olivia’s heart resided in my desk drawer, collecting dust and sliding deeper and deeper into it’s dark corners.
Whenever I went home, all I saw was her swollen belly. Sometimes, when she thought I was asleep, I would hear her cry. I would hear her sob tears of remorse, whispering and harboring all the blame of my distance on herself. But never-not once- on the baby. I could not bring myself to comfort her. I hated myself. I loathed every moment of my existence. What I didn’t want to admit is that I loathed the baby. Every inch it grew drove miles between Olivia and me.
But that was yesterday, I thought as I sprinted through the dense crowd. I got the call at around 4 p.m. and at 4:30 I was halfway there. The time seemed to be ticking faster and the crowd seemed to be dawdling more than usual. I blazed through as fast as my overpriced loafers would carry me, clutching a crinkled brown bag to my chest, close to my heart. I was on my way to the hospital where I was going to be a…
My mind wasn’t working straight.
I sprinted through the ward doors, shoving the sleeves of a gown up my arms without stopping. Sounds of screaming women surrounded me and made me feel nauseous. I approached delivery room 433 and stopped for the first time since I had received the call. My hand quivered on the door handle and I heard yells within. I have abandoned her the past nine months, I thought to myself, I won’t let myself do that today, and I pushed the door open.
Three hours later, I sat on the edge of Olivia’s bed staring at the bundle of pink blankets in her arms. I wasn’t blinking and I don’t think I was breathing either. Olivia gazed at me, her eyes bluer than I’ve ever seen them, and whispered, “You have a daughter.” I reached for her hand and she willingly gave it. I think she had been ready to give it for the past nine months.
We sat there, in silence, for what seemed like forever. I finally pulled my hand away and reached into my inside jacket pocket and pulled out the red bracelet and clutched it to my heart. I pulled the crinkled brown bag out of my pocket and retrieved its contents: a small red bracelet, sized for only the smallest of wrists, and slipped it onto the right hand of my daughter. And she stared at me, for the first time, with big sea-blue eyes. I grabbed Olivia’s hand and I don’t know when or if I ever let go.
Monday, March 1, 2010
....
I'm running the risk of sounding like a middle schooler that thinks she is good at poetry by posting this. This is a poem I wrote about a month and a half ago....I'm still hesitant about posting all this stuff. (This is a little quick post because I discovered I will probably have to write more lengthy pieces on the weekend)....I think I had had a bad day when I wrote this and was just hoping for something better to come.
Until I see the earthly lights
flicker into a dark entity,
Until I sit in the break of night,
wanting, longing I will be.
Until I see the streets
filled with all things new and free,
Until I've explored the splendor,
wanting, longing I will be.
Until I see the throne,
my Faith affirmed wholly,
Until I touch those scarred, clean hands,
wanting, longing I will be.
Until I meet that gaze,
so unknown yet so familiar to me,
Until I've met my amazing grace,
wanting, longing I will be.
Until my tears flow freely,
basking in my Salvation's glory,
Until I live forever under that miraculous glory,
ever wanting, ever longing I will be.
Until I see the earthly lights
flicker into a dark entity,
Until I sit in the break of night,
wanting, longing I will be.
Until I see the streets
filled with all things new and free,
Until I've explored the splendor,
wanting, longing I will be.
Until I see the throne,
my Faith affirmed wholly,
Until I touch those scarred, clean hands,
wanting, longing I will be.
Until I meet that gaze,
so unknown yet so familiar to me,
Until I've met my amazing grace,
wanting, longing I will be.
Until my tears flow freely,
basking in my Salvation's glory,
Until I live forever under that miraculous glory,
ever wanting, ever longing I will be.
Saturday, February 27, 2010
uvulas (uvulii?) are crucial to human existence
not really. just wanted to catch your attention.
This is not really an article just a clarification because I was curious, and Nathan listed as one of his many topics. I chose this one instead of "Swedish combined arms tactics in the 30 years war." It was a tough choice.
The uvula hangs down in the back of your throat, like a tear drop, and flaps up when you swallow to prevent food from going down the breathing passage incorrectly. Fascinated yet?
More relevantly, it is credited for helping singers produce vibrato. So Margaret's lovely voice would sound quite different without that uvula- you are pretty indebted to that uvula of yours Marge, so no hating.
The uvula is also blamed for snoring and sleep apnea. There is actually a a surgery called uvulopalatopharyngoplasty to remove the uvula and strengthen the muscles around it and open up more of an air passage. We got dad and granny scheduled for one next week. No no not really. Mom and dad's room wouldn't be complete without the finishing touch of dad's oxygen/gas mask snore machine.
I've never said the word uvula so much in my entire life.
This is not really an article just a clarification because I was curious, and Nathan listed as one of his many topics. I chose this one instead of "Swedish combined arms tactics in the 30 years war." It was a tough choice.
The uvula hangs down in the back of your throat, like a tear drop, and flaps up when you swallow to prevent food from going down the breathing passage incorrectly. Fascinated yet?
More relevantly, it is credited for helping singers produce vibrato. So Margaret's lovely voice would sound quite different without that uvula- you are pretty indebted to that uvula of yours Marge, so no hating.
The uvula is also blamed for snoring and sleep apnea. There is actually a a surgery called uvulopalatopharyngoplasty to remove the uvula and strengthen the muscles around it and open up more of an air passage. We got dad and granny scheduled for one next week. No no not really. Mom and dad's room wouldn't be complete without the finishing touch of dad's oxygen/gas mask snore machine.
I've never said the word uvula so much in my entire life.
hello world wide web, i'm holly
So I got sucked in too.
I am always very hesitant for people to read what I write.....I figured out that that mindset would not work if i wanted to be a writer. So I'm going out of my comfort zone. This will be such a good training tool, and I have already received many creative topics. I won't do many of them justice. I find that when there is a certain subject that I am wanting to write about I get overzealous and over-think something. Then when I write it out, it just looks like I am either trying rally hard to be deep on a level that no one can reach or I just do not know what I'm talking about.
I will try to write as often as I can, but school is pretty pressing right now. My English teachers (are off their rocker, which some of you can relate to) think that their class is reasonable. All of the topics presented to me are ones that I want to explore, and it will take me some time to formulate good essays/ articles/ whatnot.
I hope that through this blog, maturation can be seen through my writings- some of it will most likely sound like a 17-year-old seeing as, surprise!, I'm 17. I'm putting myself out there and, even though it's only to my family, it's still a little intimidating.
There's this quote by Joseph Heller (I've never read Catch 22) and he says: "Every writer I know has trouble writing."
I'm planning on having trouble, but that's why I'm depending on my excellent 17 person judges panel to steer me right.
I am always very hesitant for people to read what I write.....I figured out that that mindset would not work if i wanted to be a writer. So I'm going out of my comfort zone. This will be such a good training tool, and I have already received many creative topics. I won't do many of them justice. I find that when there is a certain subject that I am wanting to write about I get overzealous and over-think something. Then when I write it out, it just looks like I am either trying rally hard to be deep on a level that no one can reach or I just do not know what I'm talking about.
I will try to write as often as I can, but school is pretty pressing right now. My English teachers (are off their rocker, which some of you can relate to) think that their class is reasonable. All of the topics presented to me are ones that I want to explore, and it will take me some time to formulate good essays/ articles/ whatnot.
I hope that through this blog, maturation can be seen through my writings- some of it will most likely sound like a 17-year-old seeing as, surprise!, I'm 17. I'm putting myself out there and, even though it's only to my family, it's still a little intimidating.
There's this quote by Joseph Heller (I've never read Catch 22) and he says: "Every writer I know has trouble writing."
I'm planning on having trouble, but that's why I'm depending on my excellent 17 person judges panel to steer me right.
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