Sophie's Room

Sophie had to write a one page double spaced paper about her room. I told here I'd do it for her, but I guess she liked her version better. The following is an example of why you don't let me do your homework for you.



My Room:
The witch comes here at night. I’ve never figured out why, but I always supposed it was the shade of green on my walls—a toxic green. It’s the sort of green that you only find in nature when squash certain bugs. A shade of green that that is only slightly more vibrant than that color that can only be described as glow in the dark.

I remember the day I picked out that paint color: a wall of paint chips, a tidal wave of color, the visual definition of overwhelming. I was lost, eyes darting, seeking refuge somewhere—eyes praying for a place to rest, and when they found their solace, it was on a color that was anything but tranquil. Springy, youthful, pussy green.

She stares at the walls when she comes, that witch, and I…

… well, I stay in my bed, wedged into a little alcove, and burry myself under a blanket of flowers. On either side of me, a feel the threat of what might lurk in either closet. A wise witch never comes without backup. Never. I peer from under my blanket, steeling light from the aquarium that rests on the piano across from me. The Piano wedged between two portrait windows, is not feeling lonely tonight. Her Highness has taken residence on the piano bench, fingers resting silently on the piano keys, drawing life and absorbing every sound they dare not make. Even they are intimidated in her presence.

It howls on my left. In truth I know it is just the wind sneaking into my closet through my crack in the wall, but in her presence it seams like something more, and I don’t like it.

I turn my face away, and peak at the door on the right. Squeaky, obnoxious door. To it’s left I see my tall white dresser: drawers all in various phases of open, creating a perfect stairway to the top, for any small animal who might wish to burrow in the piles of junk atop the dresser— Ideal summit vacation, or so I’ve heard

The witch is staring out the window now, the one to the left of the piano. The one on the right offers no such view, it’s concealed by a new desk, complete with dry erase boards and magazine drawers. I will become a great writer here one day, assuming I stop eating my pencils. But, for now, I neither write nor eat pencils. I only hide beneath my blanket and stare at the toxic green walls.

Ode to Corky And His Dying Japanese Maple.

My bro was joking about sleeping next to his tree in the cold so it wouldn't have to die alone, so I wrote him this one.

Yes, I know most of my poems are absolutely ridiculous.

But they make me happy.


Ode to Corky And His Dying Japanese Maple.
Beneath the dying maple,
a boy... no, a man, lie weeping
clutching the trunk—
a last embrace,
a last farewell,
a last leaf poised to dry
a last tear.

4:30am-4:35am

from July 1, 2008. I decided to post it here because brett said it was his favorite. It may be ridiculous, but at least he knows I love him.


4:30am-4:35am


Oh Fair Fairest Brett-Brett
The dawn has not yet waked
I hear the wind, but feel it not,
the leaves cease not to quake

I ponder on thy absence
as the refrigerator snores
to the echo of an empty house
and all its empty drawers

No Brett Brett in my freezer.
No Brett Brett in the tub-
and no more Utah Truffles,
In which to drown my love.

No Brett Brett in the silence
or on the fresh Sponged walls
No Brett here to answer to
My Waking "Brett Brett?" calls.

Unwritten- the previous draft (P)

I woke up today
I saw things unsecured
teetering on a shelf above.
Things that, if fallen,
would still exist;
things that would need mending.


(changed a lot, didn't it :))

Unwritten (P)

So many things atrophy without commitment
like unfinished poetry, that lingers in drawers
—forgotten words on discolored receipts—
half written, half felt,
half embraced,
unperfected,
denied life,
denied commemoration.

Perceived Aberrations

Written by this method, as illustrated here.


Forward:

As the flirtatious sun teased of dawn
an unforgotten bike lie drowning in it's oil.
Here, a boy watched his aberrant reflection in the inky soup
considering the naive concept that, in looking, he himself had been altered.
A friendless rain drop rippled oil across the lips of vampiric Brett.

Backward:
A friendless rain drop rippled oil across the lips of vampiric Brett.
Considering the naive concept that (in looking) he himself had been altered,
here, a boy watched his aberrant reflection in the inky soup.
An unforgotten bike lie drowning in it's oil
as the flirtatious sun teased of dawn.

Movie Theatre (F/NF)

There were two things Kasey hated in movies, and this film had them both.

The subject of her current irritation was an in-car conversation. She couldn't stand to see the characters looking at each other and not the road, and so Kasey lowered her eyes, fixating on the skull-shaped bubblegum someone had left on the back a nearby the seat . She was often tempted to write the actors of these shows and politely suggest that they could increase the realism of their acting by looking at the road, but she never wrote such letters. Sending acting tips to actors would be rude and precocious, and Kasey was neither of these things. It was, in fact, this very characteristic that led Kasey to this moment.

She heard someone breathe beside her. It was a deep, wet breath, and was much closer to her right ear than was either necessary or desirable. She couldn't feel or smell the breath, and for that she was grateful. Turning her head slowly, so as to not attract the attention of her date, Kasey glared at the boy beside her. He was plump, and even in the darkness she could see the profile of his twisted teeth.

"Gross." She could not help thinking about it. She, herself, did not have perfect teeth, and she certainly didn't expect others too, but severely messed up teeth was the one physical attribute that bugged her, and bugged her this did. She returned her eyes to the screen.

She was not the type to go on a date with someone she disliked. However, this boy (in spite of his ravenous teeth) had so far fallen into the "neutral" category. It was her belief that one did not have to be attracted to someone to go out with them. Attraction could develop, and if a "neutral" boy asked, you should say yes at least once.

He did not know this, but this date had not gone well. She would not say yes a second time.

He had been leaning towards her the entire time—far more that was natural—and despite the fact that she had clearly retreated to the far side of her seat, he now leaned more, allowing his arm to fall onto her chair. It did not touch her. She'd have to remember to thank God for her small frame.

"Wow," she thought. "He really is oblivious to body language." This was the third time this evening he had invaded her personal space, and it was the third time he ignored the obviousness of her reactions. She pulled her feet up onto the tip of her seat, pressing her knees to her chin, and wrapped her arms around her legs.

"Are you cold?" His voice was hickish, and had no element of charm.

Kasey was quick. "No, I like to sit like this." This statement carried no tone of sarcasm, and was technically a fact. She did find that position comfortable, but she had not chosen it for it's coziness. She smiled as she pondered saying "I'm trying to stay away from you," instead. She often thought of the things she should have said after it was too late, but in the end it rarely mattered because, as stated, Kasey was not rude.

In actuality, she was a bit cold. Theaters always left her chilly, but she was far from admitting this to him. She would not take his jacket, and she would most certainly would not give him further excuse to further attempt snuggling with her.

Earlier on that date he kept poking her in her side while they walked to the theatre. She did not giggle, she did not smile, she did not flirt. She had crossed her arms and moved away. Oblivious then as he was in the theatre now, he had taken no notice of her body language and had kept trying to poke her.

Thad been the second instance of persistent personal space invasion on this date. It had also doubled as the point of the date in which she she changed her perception of him. He was no longer a dorky hick who acted a little odd socially because of his lack of self confidence. That would have been forgivable, but, as he continually poked, he had made the transformation into "creep."

Now as she sat curled on the far side of her seat, waiting for the film to end, Kacey was unaware that his creepiest transgression was yet to come. She was, however, completely aware that God had played the age old geenie trick on her: Be careful what you pray for.

"Just a date," she had pleaded. "All I want is to go on a date... it has been so long," and after much patience, He had given her precisely what she had prayed for—just a date. It was a date striped of all positive experience.

Next time, she realized, she would have to be more specific and pray for a good date.