Anticipation

Anticipation is the greatest moment. Better than the action itself, better than the aftermath. You can have a million scenarios, you can have perfection in any way you dream it can play out, riding high on adrenaline  and excitement. In anticipation, one can revel and delight for hours, compared to the ultimate blip of disappointment built up to be so much more. Anticipation is the building, the imagination, the moment where everything is possible. But on so many levels, it's the farthest from reality.

Choices

I wish now that I had been rejected. What an easy answer, what a solid "no." No choices. No expectations.
 
On some level, I knew I had to go. I had to leave. Or I'd be cursing myself now, cursing myself for never knowing anything, never doing anything, never trying. But now I'm trying. And it's one of the hardest things I've done. And I'm scared.

I'm scared now of expectations, and success and failure, scared of ambition, and the novelty of it all. And I wish for rejection.

Mimic Poem

To the reader who suggested mimic poems, thank you. I had fun.
I hated the idea at first. Why steal writing so blatantly?
But its interesting to steal a voice, and try to talk in it, to feel out their words and phrasing, and become more aware of your own.

Oh, and Phenomenal Woman was simply to see if I could change the  meaning of a poem, not some deep traumatic self consciousness. Thanks!

Mimic Poem: Phenomenal Woman

Other women giggle, judgment in their eyes.
I'm not cute or built to suit a fashion model's size
But if I try to teach them,
They think I'm telling lies.
I say,
It's not about makeup
Or the clothes we wear,
The friends that we have or
How we do our hair.
I'm just a woman
Uncomfortably.
Uncomfortable woman,
That's me.

If I walk into a party,
My heartbeat will speed up,
A flower on the wall,
Ignored by
Lovesick pups.
No one ever would ever see me,
Behind my plastic cup.
I think,
How desperate are we,
For attention of boys
To wear such short dresses,
And dance to loud noise.
I'm a woman
Uncomfortable.
Uncomfortable woman,
That's me.

Lovers are meant for others,
Prettier, not me.
I cannot try
They don't know why
I'm such a mystery.
When I try to show them
I know just what they'll see.
Just the,
Frizz in my hair,
The flaws on my face,
The lack of my breasts,
The fat on my waist.
I'm a woman
Uncomfortably.
Uncomfortable woman,
That's me.

Can't you understand
This pressure to be perfect
Hurts the girls like me.
Self confidence wrecked,
So much effort lost
In the mirrors that reflect.
I see,
The pale untanned,
The stubby bitten nails,
The brown of my eyes,
Clothes bought on sales,
'Cause I'm a woman
Uncomfortably.
Uncomfortable woman,
That's me



NOW GO READ MAYA ANGELOU

Mimic Poem: Grasshopper

                                                             r-e-t-h-o-b-r  o-h

                                                                   who

                                                             a)s i w(at)ch

                      gathershimselfinprepa 

                                                          REHTBOR

                                                                                ration  (and-

                                                               Ju

                                                  M!p

                                                    s         lanDInG 

                                     oTerHbR                            !onThE

                                                                                fl(cou)y(ch)ing.

                          ,brother;

Irene

It's a rocking, a vibration, as though the garage door is opening. All of the garage doors. At once. I pause, and lift my fingers off the keyboard for a moment, hovering off the desk, but I still feel myself shaking. I stand, and pull back the gauzy curtain to peek outside for a cause, perhaps unexpected yard work of neighbors. Nothing. I let the sheer fabric flutter closed. The chair in the corner catches my attention, a rocking chair, an old birthday present, currently used as a makeshift coat hanger. The strap of a dark grey messenger bag is slung across the back, and the bag shakes gently as the entire chair rocks back and forth. I stare at it, but I'm still without any real explanation for it. Moderately annoyed at the interruption, I sit and resume my writing, and make a mental note to blog later about how easy it is to ignore some phenomenon for the mundane, how set we are in our ways, and how determined we are to ignore anything magical. But then, as quickly as it came, it stops, and I freeze again, struck by the reality of it. It happened, didn't it? I couldn't have imagined it.

I ran downstairs quickly, and asked everyone in the house. Did you feel it? Did you feel that? The house, it shook. They look at me, and break into laughter. No, of course not. Of course not. And then I'm crazy.

But I wasn't crazy. I was right. My phone lit up with the same question I'd been asking, and I was validated. My friend grumbled about it. "Now this is all anyone will talk about for days," he moped, "no body got hurt, but you won't hear about anything important until this entire thing blows over."

He was right, in the first bit of his prediction. Facebook and Twitter flooded with bits and pieces blown out of proportion. From victorious declarations of survival, to threats of more of God's wrath. But at the same time, I'm pleased. Of course you won't hear of anything else important, but why isn't this important? The usual garble is meaningless as well, teenage angst and celebrity obsession. But this, an earthquake, however minor, is something. The planet, solid rock tore beneath us. It ripped, scraped, and shook land for miles.

The speculation over Irene is overblown (pun) as well. At worst, category one. Some rain. Some wind. But now, how can I help not being excited? As I type now, the gutter complains noisily outside, and I wish for something. For excitement. For something important.

Resemblance

Movies make me sad, tearing into secrets I didn't know I had. The actor's profile and stuttering strikes a particular note. There's a friend onscreen instead, and I miss him. I feel hollower for being reminded what I'm missing.

The hollowness makes me feel delicate, as though one more crack could send me crying, so I get up, and walk to the kitchen, shuffling gently, through glazed eyes. Absentmindedly, I grab the refrigerator door, but  don't open it. I wrap my fingers around the cool handle, and lean my forehead against it. I ache.  

Maguire

For the first time, I find myself itching for a pencil while I read, as though my rambling thoughts are somehow worth recording. Then again, reactions to Gregory Maguire are always nothing less than orgasmic. His writing is beautiful and intricate, and I delight in pulling it apart. I savor the delicious bits of description, of a nougat white against rain soaked black. I wonder how often his inspiration is visibly and immaturely woven to mine.

NYC

     Every sidewalk sparkles. Under all the tar and gum and dirt and grime, it sparkles. Deep in the cement, there are small flecks that seem to shimmer, like the heart of the city itself. With every step into the smoggy cold air, I love this city.

     At night, I stare out the window. The sky is a sickly grey, lit by the waste below. As I drift off, the blinking lights in the skyline of the people that never sleep all start to look like little stars, and sleep takes me to fuzzy memories of a different sky, with different stars.

Airport

An elderly couple sits at a food court table in the middle of the airport. Impatient people drag their luggage to their respective concourses, grumbling at delays, but the pair seems lost in their own world. They sit across from each other, holding hands over the scratched plastic table. Heads bowed, they mouth words in unison.

Oddly enough, their prayer isn't cheapened by the unopened styrofoam packages of tasteless food on their table. In a world of chaos, they seem to have found what matters. I watch them as I eat, and catch my mother watching them too. When she thinks I'm not looking, she starts to cry.