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.
Friday, March 26, 2010
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.
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