The light was off and the door was closed. So explain one thing to me: how are you justified in getting snippy when you are crushed in the door when I open it? What makes you think that I am at fault? There was no malicious plot to smash your face against the wooden bathroom cupboards. You claim you were just removing items. Why in darkness? Why with the door closed? Indicate your presence woman! And next time, don't get snottily in my face, give me your death glare and say 'Whatever" in that TONE when I try to apologize. Get off your freakin' high horse. You are not perfection on earth missy, and you have no right to continue chipping away at my self worth in your subtle way. Stop pouting when I leave a pan to soak in the sink, don't fold my jacket when it is left on the floor. I am not some miscreant child! That square footage of space on the floor would have been cleaned after I finish finals, you wannabe OCD freak. Don't even pretend you have these complexes, we all know you don't. You just like to call attention to your aspirations in medicine, always following a cleanliness diatribe with some back up tidbit you learned in class. You love finding ways to put me down so you can remain firm in your conviction that I am a heathen sinner bound for Hell and you are the embodiment of righteousness. Well I can't wait until you are judged. Or have you not come across Matthew 7:1 in all your extensive scripture study? For shame.

To Whom It May Concern

Dear Left Nostril,
I do not know why you decided to be stuffy today.
Why you decided to make my breathing

rag ged
and
un even.

Just know this:
You're on thin ice.
Ice as thin as that gentle film
obstructing my airway.

In the Future...

For a long time, I thought that once I finished Creative Writing, I'd just delete this blog. I'd remain unattached and cool, just posting things required for class, things that had none of my heart and soul in them.

I thought wrong.

The first week of class, I stated on here that I had lost my creative soul, that I had lost the ability to write fancifully. One of the possible reasons I cited was the fact that I wasn't writing stories or poems for classes, so I didn't feel prompted to write them at all. Well, I want that to change.

Although my creativity has been rusty, it slowly loosened up this semester. I want to continue to let it thrive. I want to encourage the free flow of creativity, the creation of stories and characters and words strung together in new ways. I want this to live on.

So I am keeping Mandatory Musings. I want it to be my little corner of the world wide web. I want it to be the place I can post things with no bearing in real life, things born of imagination.

Maybe this won't work like I want it to. Hopefully it will.

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Me For Comes Death

The man turned his head and died.

He felt his body move and stiffen. His veins burned and froze, hot and cold battling in his blood for dominance. A hurricane spread through him as he fought one last, clung to life.

The needle burst through skin and membrane, and he went limp. All was futility.

It got closer, the black gloved fist stabbing blindly as he scrambled to get away.

He looked in panic at the object in the intruders hands—there was a glistening syringe, the only point of light in the otherwise dark room. The irony was as intense as the fear that possessed him.

A dark-clothed man stood just within the doorway. He spoke, in a low voice that slid like a snakes. “Hello Frank. It’s time.” The man inched—no, glided—closer to the hospital bed.

Suddenly, the doorknob turned. He tried to push the summons button, fear encompassing his being. There was no response. He tried to turn on the light. Blackness pervaded the room.

He sighed. They would never understand. Settling back into the flat scratchy pillow, he tried to stay alert, always keeping one eye open. Vigilant. The quiet sounds of night invaded his brain, each one a mountain of noise.

The nurse tightened her lips and resolvedly tucked in his bed covers. “Stop that, Mr. Settebello. I won’t hear anything more about this. Now take your meds…” He swallowed a few pills. “…and go to sleep. Your body needs to heal. Those should relax you and get rid of most of the pain. Good night.”

“I’m telling you, they are going to come back and finish the job!” He struggled to grasp the edge of the bed and push himself up. “I need protection! Please… I don’t want to die.”

“Don’t worry, you’re being taken care of. No one is trying to hurt you, we’re trying to make you better.” The nurse patted his hand gently. “The best thing for you now is rest.”

He had to warn them. He had to do something. He turned to the woman. “Help. I need help.” He gasped for air, the sudden rush of wind slicing his lungs like a knife. “They’re… they’re trying to kill me. Help me.”

To his relief, a nurse entered, with a jug of water and tiny cup full of medicine. She bustled around the room, checking his stats and adjusting bed sheets. She smiled at him. He felt like he could confide in her. He needed to confide in her.

Before he knew it, he was in the room. Doctors came and went, cleaning him up, adjusting bandages and putting things in IV’s. They swirled around him, getting less and less frequent as the hours wore on. Before too long, he was alone. And terrified.

At the sight of his broken body, the staff mobilized into action. They moved him carefully, taking into account his many breaks and bruises, mopping up the thick clots of blood that congealed on his face and arms.

The man stumbled through the sliding hospital doors, limping his way to the front desk, where four women in pale scrubs sat asking questions and writing down answers. Pushing aside a large woman, he stood weakly in front of one them. “My name is Frank Settebello.” He made a quick, whistling inhalation of breath and tried to hold his side. “I need help.”

Cyberspace

Meaningless words hurled into the void
Restless thoughts in the technological emptiness
Are you there?
Can you hear me?
They shout to no one. All alone
in the grand chasm that is earth.
What is the use of observations, reviews,
personal revelations and enlightenments?
Is anybody listening?

Driving

The flashlight flickered off trunks and branches as she moved through the trees. Every now and then something would glimmer in the gleam of the light, and she'd drop to her knees and skim the grass with her hands, grasping at twigs and fallen leaves. It had to be here! It just had to. And then it happened. A soft glisten on something definitely not natural. Sara felt her hand close around the thin chain as she held the found object up to the beam of light. There it was. A simple necklace, with a small silver medallion on the end, etched with a few letters.

He gave her a necklace on their one month anniversary. Chris was the most gentle boy she had ever dated. Sara knew they were going to be together forever.

If Chris ever found out she had been here ... best not to think of what he'd do. She left the woods and got in her car. He'd freak. Especially if she knew Nate had been with her. "Nate" she sighed exasperatedly. Just then, a tap sounded at her window. Well then. Speak of the devil and he shall appear. Sara rolled down her window.

"Nate? What are you doing here?"

He shrugged, looking at her with eyes that worshiped her very soul. "Nothing much, just walking around. Thinking." His gaze became more intense. "Mostly about you."

Sara decided to ignore that last part and reached over to unlock the passenger side door. "Here, get in. I'll give you a ride home."

Nate climbed in, and Sara started the car, turning onto the road. They had only gone a few feet before Nate started speaking again. "Sara, you need to know something. That was a dream come true for me. I mean, you have no idea how hard it's been just being your friend all these years. I mean, I've loved you for..."

At the mention of the word 'love', Sara momentarily swerved into the other lane. Luckily it was late and they were in the heart of suburbia cul-de-sac land, so no one was harmed.

She punched the radio on, trying to prevent any more conversation with the soothing effects of music. Usually Weezer would be a good thing, but as soon as she heard "Falling For You" Sara knew she was doomed.

Playing chess in the summer grass, sharing headphones and laughing over her hopeless strategy as he checked her in three moves... Sara pulled into Nate's driveway and parked, the song the only noise in the stillness of the night. The car stayed put, and in that moment Sara moved on.

Character Sketch: Melvin

His name was Melvin. He was 22, and addicted to cleaning his satchel. Every morning he'd carefully load it with pens and pencils, highlighters and post-its, gently lowering his laptop into the specified slot and filling space with notebooks and required texts. Every evening, he'd take these things out, placing them neatly on his desk. Then the pockets would be vacuumed, cleared of crumbs and papers that were usually nonexistent. Finally, he'd polish the brown leather exterior, lovingly caressing it with a soft cloth, buffing scratches with small, circular motions. His older brother Barry had taught him this technique years ago, when Melvin was just 18 and Barry was a worldly 21. It was one of many bonding experiences from their youth.

Melvin never spoke to Barry anymore, not since Barry had moved to Florida and taken that job with NASA. It was difficult to lose contact as Barry was all Melvin had. Their dad had walked out on them over a decade ago, an event that hadn't happened soon enough. When Melvin heard of his death last year, he couldn't muster any emotional response, let alone sorrow. His fathers departure had changed his mother. She turned into a dryer sheet, soft and pliable, clinging to her boys for approval. Melvin tried to support her, but his efforts left him tired and frustrated.

He felt the same way now, as he struggled with his law texts. He read the assigned claim aloud. His voice was low and gravelly, surprising people who judged his tall thin frame as a typical 'geek', not a body capable of this Clint Eastwood worthy tone. It was a voice now pinched with tenseness as he read the next paragraph. It was his one dream: to become a lawyer, to help others and enrich the world. He knew this calling came with a negative stigma, but truly believed he could contribute to the erasure of such views, restoring truth and justice to the world. Melvin would be a modern day super hero, if only he could figure out his homework.

Leftovers

"By the hammer of Thor!" I cursed as the agent handed me a lease. When Melvin said he wanted to rent a duplex, I imagined a nice starter home. Neighbors we would share plum cakes and friendly gossip about the window washers with. It was going to be yellow with white trim, picket fences and perpetually blue skies. What it was not supposed to be was this gray shack, complete with squeaky hinges and trash on the dirt yard/driveway, and those wild hippies next door causing everything to be misted with a fine veil of patchouli stink. I refuse to live in such conditions.

Estatic Ekphrastic

A myriad of actions, once
acknowledgment, once
shame, now
acceptance.
Head tilted back, allowing
covenantal wisps wash o'er me.
Cleansing, blocking tongues of torment.

I stand purified, anew for an instant,
but am among the few.
Some refuse the gift, red flames
licking round their heads, wreathed in the glow
of former ills, unrepentant.
Others turn away, unwilling to forgive the past
adopting rosy hues as home.

Soothed, enlightened, I am
rescued from dark chasms gnash and roar,
trembling with anxiety, constant vile reminders.
And then your purest tones ring through,
magnanimous, leaving me relieved.

Dig List

I've been knock out, drop dead sick for the past week, and it's tough. To survive, I have had to focus on the little things that make me happy so that the intense misery of the torso and throat don't take over and drown me. Yesterday, these things hit me left and right, so I felt inspired to make a list of what is bringing me sunshine right now. I owe these things my sanity.

1. Clean Sheets. Even though doing laundry at my apartment is a pain, I suffered through expensive and mostly faulty machines and did it today. And oh were the payoffs sweet. There is nothing better then clean sheets, unless that is clean, germ-free sheets. Along with being smooth and fresh smelling, my current sheets have the bonus of NOT being a hive of infestation. I already feel about ten times healthier, and slept better last night than I have for a week. Viva Tide! And, in keeping with the current topic,

2. Dry Jeans. The dryers at my complex are the most hit and miss things in the world. I've tried to memorize which ones work well, but their pattern is one of complete randomness. I always put my darks in with a little prayer that this time will be magical, this time they will come out appropriately dry and that I won't have to hang shirts and pants over the backs of chairs. I need the comfort that only a pair of washer-dried pants can give! Plus, that feeling when you bury your face in a steaming batch of laundry straight from the dryer is pure heaven.

3. Favorites From the Past. Because I've been too exhausted and ill to do anything energetic (or productive), I've been entertaining myself with lots and lots of movies. In selecting my films, I revisited several that I loved when they came out, but that I haven't seen in years. Watching Finding Forrester reminded me of how much Sean Connery rocks (and how creepy Anna Paquin is) and that writing is a sacred art, The Emperor's Club showed me that I view Kevin Kline in a very different, more comedic light than when I first saw it, and Peter Jackson's King Kong was still too long but lots of fun, even if Naomi Watts sad, soulful gazes do get tiring after a while.

4. Rogue Wave. Maybe I'm just missing Heroes, but I haven't been able to stop listening to their song "Eyes". With the right blend of lyric and music, nothing else has really been able to capture my mood and calm me like this. Even though it's not really what the song is about, the tone is perfectly bittersweet, and a great soundtrack to my longing for good health and a return to the norm.

5. Radiohead's In Rainbows. I have actually been addicted to this one for a while. Radiohead is almost always a top quality band, and their latest album is no exception. Thom Yorke's vocals are eerily compelling, and it's hard not to get lost in them. I'd highly, HIGHLY recommend getting the bonus disc version and then checking out "4 Minute Warning" and "Last Flowers", while my absolute favorite from the original disc is "House of Cards".

6. Essays and Poems by Emerson. R. W. Emerson has always been an inspiration to me, and going back and reading some of my favorite essays by him has been incredible. I don't know how he does it, but each and every line is packed with profound truth. His treatise on Self-Reliance is the most uplifting piece of writing on this earth, and after reading it you will never feel so confident in your life.

7. Freaks and Geeks. The internet in my apartment is even more haywire and tricky than the machines in the laundry room, but whenever I can get a signal I've been watching this sadly short-lived TV series. Set in the early eighties, this classic comedy focuses on two groups. First we have the "freaks", with ex-brainiac Lindsay Weir ingratiating herself into the presence of seasoned rock-loving stoners (none other than James Franco, Seth Rogen, and Jason Segal before they made it big). Next are the "geeks", with a trio of delightful socially awkward, Caddyshack quoting misfits who have seen Star Wars at least 27 times. I cannot even begin to describe the brilliance of this show. It has the best soundtrack ever (the theme song is "Bad Reputation" by Joan Jett! Come on), and is full of moments that ARE your family, or your high school experience, but in ways where you can laugh at it. See it. You won't be sorry.

Home?

The house where I was born stands as a barely recalled memory. True, I spent the first thirteen years of my life there, but in my mind I can no longer navigate the hallways, mark every door, and map out the stairways and kitchen. The stories are still in existence, fresh as when they happen. Pain still comes when I hear about falling through the railing and down the stairs, comfort enters when I tell about the cozy little reading nook where I spent hours upon hours. But the specifics are gone. There is no color to the carpet, no style to the cabinets. Just my childhood, wisping through the trees out back, lounging in the basement, and gazing longingly through the window above the garage, left behind and lonely.

The Lost Chapter Seven Exercise

On The Beatles
On Where to Find Good Online TV
On the Nature of the British Invasion
On the Lost American Dream
On Pop Art
On Symbolism in Film

On Scientific Method
On Math
On Appendectomies
On Britney Spears
On Lectures
On Ceiling Fans

On My Own
On Top
On the Double
On or Off
On ...tologically Speaking
On to It

On Appendectomies
On Indonesian Foreign Policy
On Quasars
On Being an Accountant
On The Average Life Span of an Aardvark
On How Electricity Really Works

Sick

Aching limbs and torso, shortness of breath. Extreme exhaustion, too tired to move or work. I lay in bed, trying to summon up enough energy to reach for my bottled water or ringing phone. Unable to stretch across the gap between my resting place and the desktop, I give up. At that moment, the coughs come. Hacking through my being, wracking my frame with spasms of torture, reverberating through lungs that refuse to expand for air. They continue until panic sets in, and I cannot rest until they stop and I gasp for breath. My head tips back, and I sigh in exasperation. Pneumonia sucks.

Instant Poetry

Alrighty folks, here is the original poem I wrote in class last time.

Aloof and curious, laughing quickly by,
the corridors of choices that she'd face.
A step in the hallway, a door softly creaking
revealing a rose, whose melting colors trace
yet soon will die, its gentle stem brown streaking.
Hark, a sigh!
But not in disappointment, but in joy.
Enriched by music, enriched by love, enriched by life.
They say a rolling stone won't gather, but annoy
the nesting birds, wings textured shelters from from their strife.

And now, revised.

The corridors of choices that were there
Show a rose, whose blending colors meld.
Hark, an exhalation of breath!
Fed by music, fed by love, fed more by life,
The birds at home have feathered wings that shelter.
Exclaiming traveling stones do not collect any moss
and there is no sad, but an increase of happiness
All plants will expire, the seasons ever changing
A noise in the hallway, a doors quiet squeaking
Cold and inquisitive, fast chuckling at the world.

Tattoo

At once a devout monk, and now
in profile view,
a man, a waterfall, a barren desert with a lone cactus
standing against a sunburst
which stretches and morphs into
an omnipotent eye.

Further along, across the elbow and into the forearm,
black and red swirls shift upwards, into smoke
dancing in the lights of pink and blue.
Dancing to the rhythm of his guitar, swaying
near the ceiling, to his sweet serenade.

My feet on concrete ground, the atmosphere envelops me.
Our hands touch, but I don't think of you.
I am transported to a past time, where another
stood beside me, and different music played in the air.

Baking Soda and Vinegar

'Baking Soda. Just look at it there, so smug with it's white powdery form. So you get used in cooking often. Who cares? I get used almost as much. And for more important things too. You couldn't dye Easter eggs without me. So why does Baking Soda get all the credit?'

Vinegar smoldered in his jealous thoughts. 'Baking Soda is just BS. Ha! It actually is! Great! But seriously. Some condiments just don't deserve the status they get.' He sauntered over to where Baking Soda was gossiping with her cousin, Baking Powder. Their idle chatter died down as he got closer, his acidic vibes souring the air. "Hey Baking Soda. I got a bone to pick with you."

Baking Powder backed off and called to the other ingredients in the shelf, until Baking Soda and Vinegar were surrounded by a bunch of bored baking goods looking for some action. Vinegar went on.

"You've been strutting around here with your little attitude too long. What makes you so great? What do you bring to the table!?! You're not even used in large amounts!!! YOU ARE NO BETTER THAN ME!!!!"

With each statement, Vinegar stepped closer and closer to Baking Soda. He trembled in anger, liquid sloshing near his open top and threatening explosion with each step. Thankfully, before it got too volcanic, Baking Soda finally spoke.

"Vinegar, why are you doing this? Don't you know I've always been jealous of you? Sure, you need me for delicious cookies or pie crust, but your savory contributions are truly enviable. With oil, you make Italian bread shine! And vinaigrettes serve as a low fat and delicious alternative to traditional salad dressings. Vinegar, believe me when I say, you are a king among foodstuffs."

Vinegar pondered this, softening as the praise sunk into his sloshy depths. "Baking Soda, I have sorely misjudged you. I beg your forgiveness. I was jealous of everything about you, from your clean fresh appearance to your solid form. I swear I shall never make such errors again."

Baking Soda smiled and graciously accepted the apology, then trotted off to resume her conversation with Baking Powder. The circle of food dissipated as the chance for a fight diminished, and all in the cupboard was restored.

King Arthur and his Knights of the Round Table

The book was hard bound in purple and creaked when it opened. One long ribbon trailed from the back, matching the regal hue of the cover. The front was adorned with a small print of a lone castle, surrounded by the title in engraved gold lettering. Once inside, I was lost in the tales of chivalry, perfectly accompanied by the stark black and white pictures of lords and ladies in court and knights in elaborate armor resting under trees or jousting in mighty combat. The images, stark in color and rich in design, made the tale more real, acted as characters on a stage.

My high school graduation, I could not stop twirling, holding the fabric from the black and white dress in my hands. The intricate floral patterns on the edges transported me to those days curled up in the corner of my room, dreaming of defeating dragons or witches, breaking spells and protecting the land. As I received my diploma, my so called "Beardsley" dress gave me that connection with childhood and made me realize how much I'd changed while staying true to my character.

At BYU, sitting through class after class of art history, I learn more about Aubrey Beardsley and the art nouveau he helped established. Seeing slide after slide of memories from childhood, I realize that some things will never leave, but can and will endure.

Facts: The Peacock Skirt by Aubrey Beardsley, a conniving lady (Morgause?), an innocent youth, a plot, mind-blowing awesome detail throughout the work.

Why Creativity? Why Writing?

My decision to take Creative Writing had been festering since high school, but burst into a necessary task last semester. The more specific situation that brought about this change can be read here, but the short version is that I realized after years of writing nothing but analytical essays, my artistic soul had been sapped. I could not write anything fanciful, anything beautiful (unless you count in-depth technical comparisons as beautiful).

There was a need for a change. And that is why I am in this class. I want to recapture the thrill of constructing a sentence that makes people sigh from its glory. I want to think in imaginative terms. Most of all, after years of living without it, I want my writing mojo back!

Floridian Nights

Whenever I talk about my first memory to my siblings, they laugh and laugh until John, the second youngest (next to me) points and laughs, mocking how I couldn't possibly remember the vacation to Florida. But he is wrong. So very, very wrong. I might not recall every small, mundane detail of the trip to Orlando and the campground we apparently stayed at, but I definitely remember the rainstorm.



Back then the eighties were still in full swing, even though the nineties were coming into their own. I was little enough to need a stroller or someone to carry me in order to move around, and when we went to Disneyworld the stroller was the chosen vessel for smallish Cat.

Even though Florida is supposed to be the land of sunshine, oranges, and old people, we only found two out of the three on our visit. As we tried to enjoy a simple tourist day at the Happiest Place on Earth, giant drops of wetness began to fall while the sky turned an ominous gray, with electric flashes that were soon all around us and far too close for comfort. My mother was soon consumed with panic, and began to run for shelter, pushing my stroller haphazardly as she jumped at every lightning bolt and yelled at my siblings to hurry up before they were electrocuted. We weren't dressed for such monsoon weather, so we ran to get something to protect us from the elements, stopping at a small semi-covered shack.

I am the youngest, and as such have always demanded attention. This was no different when I was a baby, and I distinctly remember screaming that under NO circumstances would I be content to stay in the restrictive stroller when we were at a stop. My frazzled mother could not handle my infant whining and set me on the counter, where I had a great view of the merchandise and a great vantage point for grabbing key rings and bracelets. My mom ignored me and quickly purchased several bright yellow Disney ponchos to protect her brood from the rain, figuring that if the smiling image of Mickey on the fronts didn't protect us from the oncoming lightning, then nothing would.